da-Da-da ... and the large, rolling voice of Ed
McMahon cried enthusiastically: 'From Los Angeles,
entertainment capital of the world, it's The Tonight Show, live,
with Johnny Carson! Tonight, Johnny's guests are actress Cybill
Shepherd of Moonlighting!' Excited applause from the audience.
'Magician Doug Henning!' Even louder applause from the
audience. 'Pee Wee Herman!' A fresh wave of applause, this time
including hoots of joy from Pee Wee's rooting section. 'From
Germany, the Flying Schnauzers, the world's only canine
acrobats!' Increased applause, with a mixture of laughter from the
audience. 'Not to mention Doc Severinsen, the world's only Flying
Bandleader, and his canine band!'
The band members not playing horns obediently barked. The
audience laughed harder, applauded harder.
In the control room of Studio C, no one was laughing.
A man in a loud sport-coat with a shock of curly black hair was
standing in the wings, idly snapping his fingers and looking across
the stage at Ed, but that was all.
The director signaled for Number Two Cam's medium shot on Ed
for the umpty-umptieth time, and there was Ed on the ON
SCREEN monitors. He barely heard someone mutter, 'Where the
hell is he?' before Ed's rolling tones announced, also for the
umpty-umptieth time: 'And now heeeere's JOHNNY!'
Wild applause from the audience.
'Camera Three,' the director snapped.
'But there's only that-'
'Camera Three, goddammit!'
Camera Three came up on the ON SCREEN monitor, showing
every TV director's private nightmare, a dismally empty stage ...
and then someone, some stranger, was striding confidently into
that empty space, just as if he had every right in the world to be
there, filling it with unquestionable presence, charm, and authority.
But, whoever he was, he was most definitely not Johnny Carson.
Nor was it any of the other familiar faces TV and studio audiences
had grown used to during Johnny's absences. This man was taller
than Johnny, and instead of the familiar silver hair, there was a
luxuriant cap of almost Pan-like black curls. The stranger's hair
was so black that in places it seemed to glow almost blue, like
Superman's hair in the comic-books. The sport-coat he wore was
not quite loud enough to put him in the Pleesda-Meetcha-Is-This-
The-Missus? car salesman category, but Carson would not have
touched it with a twelve-foot pole.
The audience applause continued, but it first seemed to grow
slightly bewildered, and then clearly began to thin.
'What the fuck's going on?' someone in the control room asked.
The director simply watched, mesmerized.
Instead of the familiar swing of the invisible golf-club, punctuated
by a drum-riff and high-spirited hoots of approval from the studio
audience, this dark-haired, broad-shouldered, loud-jacketed,
unknown gentleman began to move his hands up and down, eyes
