Lieutenant Merrill sat before him, hardy and decked in Macy’s fare. His medals and epaulets were pinned to his cheap, business suit, and he had attempted to slick back his withered, white hair. Situated at the mahogany desk in his office at CBS, Merrill twiddled his fingers somewhat, rubbed his chin much, and wore the strange complacency of a man who prided himself on expressing bad news so well that he might no longer feel even the briefest twinge of remorse or compassion. Crushing a fellow was business as usual. Merrill may as well have been a world league wrestler, waiting in the ring. There was an opponent, after all.
Emery’s presence was tacit. The reason he had been called to the office was one of clipping an errant hair after an established cut. The orders were in, had been decided without him, and were quite settled. Emery suspected the news the very moment he had received the memo summoning him. He sat in the office before Bernie Dozier’s boss. It was telling that Bernie had not been asked to take part.
“Is this what I think it is?” he questioned, tired.
“Son, that depends on what you think it is,” Merrill said, his pistol laying in plain view on the desk.
“Terry Nichols, right? The big man is swinging his dick around, and so we’re cancelled. Again.”
“That’s not the tone I’d use, private, but affirmative; it’s a cancel,” Merrill said.
“Then Bernie should be here, too.”
“No, Bernard Dozier is oblivious and I’ve stripped him of rank. I know him too well and I don’t feel like putting up with his squealing. This is your squad on the skids, so you’re the man I’m talking to. Tried to call Rowe, but couldn’t get ahold of him. I meant for you both to be here.”
“No one can ever get ahold of Rowe. He does nothing and he’s a liability. You should discharge him, dishonorably.”
“I have, he just hasn’t heard about it yet because he doesn’t answer his damn phone.”
“You know, this last year, I actually started to admire you a little,” Emery admitted, “because you kept giving Bernie the benefit of the doubt, and I thought the network had come around. I thought you actually believed in the show.”
“That was silly of you, but thanks.”
“Do we at least get to air the full season? It’s shot and edited. We worked hard.”
“Yes, I know. And I’ve had a lot of faith in it, private. The others, however… Well, it’s something like this: Command wants to be done with The Other Side. They just don’t want it anymore. Especially General Nichols. You’re not a productive squad, and they’ve decided to ground you.”
“When, sir?”
“About three hours ago.”
“You mean nothing airs after tonight’s episode?”
“We’ve lost this skirmish beyond expected casualty. They’ve already replaced tonight’s episode with some sort of Christmas caper. Tis the season, and all. The commercials are running with it even now, soldier. We’ve been cut off from supplies and our horses have starved. The war is over. We have neither won nor lost; we are but survivors without map or home. The important thing now is to figure out how to tell our men.”
“They’ll be remiss,” Emery muttered.
“Make certain you salute every last man, Asher. The women, too. The grunts and captains, every member of your squad. All. And with nobility. Don’t be stingy with the chevrons and medals. And do it with respect; even the teamsters who just came on for the first time today. You salute and salute again until your arm feels to fall off.”
“I see.”
“Now go to it. If you see Bule Rowe, you tell that AWOL fuck to get his lazy, craven ass in here. And don’t tell him he’s being discharged. I want to do that.”
Todd Hargens, Buck Mifflin, Belmont and Moffat, Nina, Ted Williams, all the actors, the curse of the second director’s assistant and all the replacements over the five seasons, Charlie Houghton, the guest writers, Dozier, Rowe… so many more. He dreaded the notion of giving bad news, and of giving sudden, awkward goodbyes, but perhaps these things were needed. They bore more weight than his dread. Emery stood before the network executive, pondering what else he might say, and if there was anything that could be done beyond exiting as a stray.
“Your uh, your wings are showing,” Emery said. Merrill paused at this and then craned his head around, seeing the large, veiny wings that had protruded from his back. Bored, he briefly fluttered them. This gave off a fanning, papery sound that made Emery’s ears seem to vibrate. Merrill returned his attention to the writer.
“So they are.”
“Mr. Merrill—”
“That would be ‘Lieutenant’, private.”
“No, sir. It would not. I believe I am done with you,” Emery said. The confederate executive stared at him a moment, designing response. Emery stood, lifting the Colt from atop the desk and, with a moment of steadying and certainty, he fired the weapon, killing his commanding officer and abandoning his service to the War Department. High treason. Emery gave a final salute and set himself at ease. In a moment, the gun was gone. His hand was empty.
“I’ll go find Bernie, I suppose.”
CUT TO:
INT. BERNIE DOZIER’S OFFICE - AFTERNOON
A mid-sized office on the second floor, overlooking a parking lot. The office is untidy, and there is a dead potted plant in the corner.
EMERY and BERNIE are both present. EMERY leans against a wall of the second story office as BERNIE sits at his desk with a telephone receiver to his ear. Smoke lingers in the air.
ECU on BERNIE’s face, the awkwardness of momentary shame.
BERNIE:
All right. Thank you. No, it’s clear. Look I’ll- just give me some time. I’ll call back. I gotta think. Yeah, bye.
(hangs up)
So, it’s bad. Nothing they can do on our behalf. They don’t want to touch this. Fucking Nichols has spoken and... that prick has never liked us. They shouldn’t have called you in without me. I needed to be there.
EMERY:
(sighing)
We did everything he wanted, and then some. Still pushed us over the cliff. It was the hour time-slot, I think. Broke the camel’s back.
BERNIE:
I guess there’s nothing else to say, Em. We’re fired. We’re both fired. You and me. Rowe. Your writers. Everybody. Right now, and that’s it.
ZOOM TO:
The cigarette. The cigarette burning into its yellow filter. The yellow filter to his mouth. The stinking moment to his nerve. He exhaled but air through his grimace. Slowly, Emery snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. He then reached into his pocket for another cigarette, stopped, and shook his hand a moment, staving off the intensity of his anger. He had suspected something bad was going to happen when the network had shortened the season to eleven episodes. He had thought the diminished episode roster was due to the longer format, to keep the same budget, but he should have known another cancellation was en route.
“How pissed off are you? At me, I mean,” Dozier asked.
“Not very. It’s all right, Bernie. I more want to yell at myself than you.”
“Neh, I’d deserve it more.”
“No, I know you put in a lot of effort these last two seasons.”
“Sure.”
“And I know your ass was on the line here, this time, so... are you really off the network now? All the way out?”
“Well, I gambled and I lost. They want me to finish out the holidays, first. Catch up and finalize everything for our show and get all the rights contracted away into the void. You know, get everyone paid and settled and mop up the floor. I’ll be unemployed just in time for the New Year. But I saved. I’m okay for now.”
“What about Rowe?”
“Rowe’s an old boy. Been around town a few times. You know how those guys do things. He’ll never struggle for work, or do much of any, but I think he actually wants to retire. He’s talked about it a few times. He’s tired, and I can’t blame him. Your apprentice there, Belmont, he was approached by two other shows this year. He declined, of course, but now that we’re getting the guillotine, well, Larry has options. Moffat, too.”
“Larry does all right by The Gentleman alone. They’ve made him a staff-writer. His bills are fine. What about Buck?”
“No idea. I know over the summer he signed a deal to direct a picture with MGM. It’s for sometime next year. Asked me to co-produce, but I just didn’t have the capital. Maybe now he can focus on it more.”
“And then there’s me.”
“Right,” Dozier said in a nod.
“What about me?”
“Well, remember The Turquoise Chain? What you said in the closer? Something like ‘Man makes his destiny with wit and work, and when those-’”
“‘-and when these will not suffice, he falls on that great muse of the ages: Luck,’” Emery finished, sour.
“Yeah, that one stuck with me, I guess. I think it summarizes the both of us pretty well right now.”
“Luck, huh?”
“Sure, wouldn’t you like some? Good time for it to show up.”
“I’ll take that you remembered that line from Turquoise as a compliment. It’s a shame no one will ever see that episode.”
“For now. Maybe they’ll toss it on the air during a slow week sometime, or feed it to the reruns in a year or two.”
“But not us.”
“Yeah, not us. I’m sorry, Em.”
Beth would be quiet for a time. Despite that Emery would feel much guilt, this was canon for her. In those periods of Emery’s unrest and fidgety, occupational scouring, she had always become quiet, attempting to leave him be, to let him focus on his task. It was a necessary, loving sort of abandonment, and unavoidable. There was an unfortunate paradox there, however. Those spans of time in which he was most lost were the same spans in which he needed her most. His love for her was keen, but his mood and activity could be exasperating to her, and he knew this. Emery was too much, too often. It was somewhat the narrative of his life.
He accepted the quiet, the distance she kept when he was in the midst of certain failures. She kept her opinion on the matter to herself. There was a little shame in Emery over this. He would see it happen again, and would try to make the best of it, to throw himself into his work with vehemence, which would only distance him from her the more. She had been through as much as Emery. The pending, second lawsuit from Banry, a thing that had probably served as a catalyst in getting the show cancelled, was draining him of cheer by the day, and Beth seemed distant herself. Perhaps it did not need to be this way. The show was cancelled, but this time, the cancellation was a true grave. It was over. Moving on from this ending, together, might be exactly what the Ashers needed. He had a time slot in his heart that was now vacant, and he so wanted his family to get in there, to nest and dig deep, and quickly. Perhaps it was time to make that happen. Emery hadn’t touched his wife in months.
The sentimental served him no purpose. He needed to possess himself, take his dismissal and return it with action. He needed to make good. Living full measure meant the complete cease of whining and flowery emotion. It meant finding the reality of a thing and lording over it. Being a man who remains warm to family, like his father had been. Emery made a quiet vow not to be dismal in his home this time around. He did not want to rerun the foul mood and disparate complaint of the previous cancellations. These were poltergeists that had several times descended upon his household, and he would not numb his home with such gloominess again. This cancellation was permanent, and he would come out of it a good husband and father, not an alien with whom his family would struggle to interact. He would get moving quickly and keep her love very close to him. His goal was manifest: Love and be loved. Keep the veil of setback and his crawling, sinewy doubt from setting their awful roots in his home. Beth and the girls deserved better.
“Listen, Bernie. Everyone’s off for the holiday. Let’s give ‘em Christmas, then give the word a day or so after,” Emery advised.
“Fine by me. So long as everyone knows by the 28th. We don’t want anyone on the crew showin’ up to a condemned set and throwing a panic.”
The matter of Emery’s reputation was a different struggle, and he had yet to find a resolve in the matter. Orson Banry was a vengeful man. Emery’s name had been tarnished unduly, but the public, no matter how much they liked or disliked someone, never thought much about the undue. The information they had to decipher on most matters was deciphered for them, and often in an exacerbating, sensational way. Many had listened, in late November, to the string of words on the news: “Other Side host Emery Asher has once again found himself in hot water after further complaints of plagiarism.” The term ‘complaint’ was often used instead of ‘claim’. The two words had different meanings. You could claim you had been wronged, and maybe you had, or maybe you had not, but a complaint usually only surfaced after a wrongdoing. The word ‘complaints’ in the broadcast about Emery’s legal trouble, aside from being unduly plural, gave the connotation that someone was complaining about his chicanery, not simply alleging there may or may not have been any. This swayed the public a bit, just enough to make suspicion from scruple. One was far more damaging than the other.
All of Los Angeles had read the headline: “Plagiarism Not Confined to This World, Can Exist on Other Side.” This condemned Emery as being guilty long before the lawsuit concluded. A headline stating that plagiarism can exist on his show meant there was little question. ‘Can’ inferred a result, as if the tests were in, and plagiarism had been detected. Emery was being called a thief, even though the article’s headline was a summation of Orson Banry’s contention. The safe subjectiveness of ‘can’ kept the headline in the clear, but the damage was done. Headlines were the compass for a reader’s opinion. They were brazen and clear and considered by many, dangerously, to be infallible summaries.
The words spun and turned and created little vortexes into which his name was pulled and dirtied on many levels. Why would the public be duped by such an obvious ploy of sensationalism and semi-conscious slander? Orson Banry was angry, yes, but was mostly just drumming up attention for himself. He truly thought Emery had stolen material from him. Emery found it surprising that so many seemed to be falling for the claim. Perhaps this preyed upon the same process by which children so easily believed in the existence of a fat, red-suited man that could fly and who did so for the express purpose of giving them gifts for mere good behavior. There were certain manners and habits of humanity that gave rise to outlandish myths, and these myths, as ugly and sordid as they could be, had an aptitude for creating things both beautiful and wondrous. All that was needed was rumor, and all rumor needed to gain societal strength was repetition. The more talk a thing was given, the more believable that thing became, and a sensational story was always given talk. It was the creator of legend and mass suspicion. It made Other Side tales and paranoia. Repetition of the fantastic was the varnish in a campaigning politician’s trunk of tricks, and it could be enlightening or condemning.
The public heard and read these statements, this talk, and the damage was done in the mere existence of nouns in proximity of one another: Other Side, Asher, Plagiarism. If you heard them enough, the words became common together, and empowered one another. If you read them enough, the words were an equal and acceptable alternate to truth. The final cancellation had come almost in unison with these headlines and broadcasts. Many people surmised these to be purposely correlated. The rumor surfaced that he had been fired, and his show shut down, because he stole from others.
Dozier lifted a flask from his desk drawer and, wiggling it back and forth to indicate little whiskey was left, spoke with finality.
“Say our goodbyes to the show?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t mind saying those, sure,” Emery responded. Dozier uncapped, took a swig, and handed the last of the whiskey to Emery. For a moment, Bernie grimaced and clutched at his stomach.
“God... I hate ‘em. I really hate ‘em. Rest of that whiskey is yours.”
“Still with the ulcers?”
“Yeah. Miserable trouble. Never goes away, you know.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“They’re a problem, but honestly, they’re the least of mine right now. The big one is just that I’m impotent here,” Dozier said then, “I can’t do anything more. But you… truth is, if you get to your typewriter, like you do, and Rowe follows suit, there’s maybe a chance you could pull another Asher miracle and get your show-”
“No. No, I don’t want it anymore. Too much betrayal in the workings. Maybe not in the personal way, but just as cruel. Or at least, after the fact. And too much destruction, Bernie. This… this all just gets our hopes up and then pulls our guts out. It’s too unfair and… there’s so much pressure.”
“I get you there.”
“And it just keeps turning on you and you can only handle so much before that wears you down,” Emery said.
“Yeah, I feel pretty worn down about now,” Dozier agreed. Emery lifted the flask and drained the remaining whiskey, little more than a shot. The goodbye was finalized in a sort of alcoholic tradition. The anti-toast.
“We should just let it die,” Emery said.
The ex-executive producer and once-avid network man sat behind his desk, nodding with a touch of misery, though some resolve.
“All right. I don’t blame you for that at all,” he said.
“You know,” Emery added, “I uh, have it on good faith that you keep a different bottle in your bottom drawer, something real top shelf, for special visits. That true, Bernard?” Dozier chuckled at this.
“Eh, yes and no. It’s in the bottom drawer, sure. Pint of vodka. It’s Victor, nothin’ special. Certainly not top shelf. I actually keep the cheaper shit for myself, not the good stuff.” Emery’s mouth curled.
“You drink that straight?” he asked.
“A little, here and there. Chase with Bromo. I can’t, most days. And only my aunt calls me Bernard, Em.”
“Well, screw it. What say you and I drink it?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. All of it.” Dozier thought this over a moment before opening the drawer.
“That’s an idea. Not sure if I like it much, but I’m willing to get behind it, for now. You’ll be drinking more than I will. I’m out of Bromo.”
And so the temporarily useless men had mild swigs from the pint and talked out a few details regarding the cancellation and their personal lives. The major rights to the show were still possessed by Emery, but now that the show was dead, and considering he did not want to attempt reviving it, he might sell off those rights to CBS and be done with it entirely. They would likely pay him a decent sum, and they could archive the show and possibly push it to reruns eventually. That could be future money and Emery would get a piece of it. The show was now a carcass, and it needed to be mummified a certain way if it was going to be preserved and seen again. Emery might need the money in the years to come, and CBS might be more inclined to give the show subsequent airings if they owned it outright. The network would likely own the show and all things Other Side soon enough. Dozier mentioned going up north to visit his sisters in a week, in time for New Years, and of spending Christmas with a woman he had been seeing, and who he seemed particularly fond of keeping quietly to himself.
“Bernie, I’m not judging, but... you’re divorcing, right?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Then I gotta ask... why the other girls? I know you’ve got a wife at home, and if there’s no divorce, what’s the story?” Bernie thought about this a moment before choosing to answer.
“Doesn’t like me.”
“Your wife?”
“Yeah. Estelle has never liked me. Not even when we got engaged.”
“That’s terrible. Was there a baby on the way, then?”
“That’s the story. We didn’t even know each other, really. But she lost it pretty late, and... Damn, this is getting a little personal.”
“No problem, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Naw, it’s... sort of nice to tell somebody about it.”
“Well, if you’d like to talk, I have two ears.”
“By the time that happened, with losin’ the baby, we were married and she’s... very Catholic.”
“I see. That’s a difficult position.”
“She doesn’t mind when I see other women because then I leave her alone.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s wonderful, actually. For a long time, there were no other women, just Estelle and I, and like I said, she’s never liked me. So... we don’t really fool around together more than maybe once every couple of years. Hardly ever. It’s funny. That’s the only time I feel like I’m cheating. When I’m, you know, being with Estelle. So, it’s complex, but it’s real simple. I’m married and I’m single. Best or worst of both worlds, I suppose. Estelle would see other men if she were bolder. I wouldn’t blame her. It’d be good for her, I think, because I’m not so great and nobody should be stuck like that, you know, but that’s not really her way of thinking.”
“I’m sorry, Bernie. I didn’t know your home life was so... abstract. Marriage has been much better at my house.”
“Good. Hold on to that. When something goes right, you have to keep it close and be worth it. You uh, got any plans for Christmas? I’m changing the subject, here.” Emery smiled at this.
“Yeah, a few plans. Beth and I are going to see Bing Crosby at the Coconut Grove tomorrow night, and my oldest is helping with makeup for a play at her school early in the day on Christmas Eve. My shopping list is a daddy’s list, and I am necessarily au curant with the season. And,as always, my birthday falls on Christmas, so I get to celebrate these two things in one mode. I’ve got four busy days to go.”
“That’s a curse. Buddy of mine had his birthday and his wedding anniversary both on Thanksgiving. The priest and the pilgrims two took away all his thunder.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“You a big giver on Christmas?” Bernie asked. Emery grunted.
“To a fault. We’ll have a nice day with the kids, is the thing, and I prefer to spoil people on the day. Enjoy it all and have the day out, which the nature of it. And then I’ll likely spend the late night at my desk with a bottle of correction fluid. With persistence, I’ll be able to stimulate the new pilot I have to start soon. Christmas or not, and birthday be damned, I’m in a serious bind if I don’t find something soon. I’ll probably start something tonight.”
“Tonight, huh? That’s getting back on the horse quick, even for you.”
“Shows don’t write themselves. If I’m gonna have to pitch something in the near future, I’d better have a story to two, and figure out what I’m pitching.”
“You know, it’s true what they say about you, Asher. It’s all true: You are indeed television’s last angry young man.”
“I’ll be forty in less than a week. I’m not so young anymore, or angry.”
“Oh, then let me welcome you aboard the middle-aged train. You’re somewhat late. You can pick up your ulcers at the baggage check.”
Emery left the office after relieving Dozier of near half the pint’s content. Bernie had only two small sips and had needed to cease drinking. The warmth in Emery’s gut was now matched by the sting in his mind over the third and final cancellation. The weariness in his bones and temper, a thing that had become overwhelming in the last two years, was thankfully dissipating. It was over, really. He was screwed, but also free. There was a certain sense of liberation that Emery felt over the show being fastened into the electric chair and given its final moment to ride out the lightning. With this relief, however, was a dastardly sense of loss, and a sharp point in his heart regarding his ability to write. He had begun to feel the weight of the production as more than simple pressure, but a sort of death knell, and while this was now behind him, for better or worse, he could not but feel he had failed to navigate the realm of television, for once.
It seemed simple enough that a crew party would in order, a fun, drunken, energetic, and then sad and somber and resigned party. This would have to come soon, but the holiday would make that difficult. Perhaps just after.
Larry had missed his chance for an Emmy, which was a shame, and Moffat’s side-project scripts had petered out with little luck. Emery’s family was at home, the three girls, but his family was on set, all the busy hands and personnel. He had warmth in him when hearing the word ‘crew’. It no longer meant the conglomeration of various workers to get a job done. It had a familial tone to him now, a sense of fellowship. It was Buck spreading the flu to everyone on the damn set, season one. It was all the gabbing about what a legendary prick Lance Mayor had been during the shoot of the episode he starred in, season three. It was signing Nina’s cast after she fell down an embankment while shooting three short scenes in San Francisco. It was even the bruise on Emery’s head from Todd’s drop of the boom mic, three times in one day, late in the previous season. These goodbyes were necessary for Emery as much as they were for anyone else. Goodbyes were the way things died, and without them, death lingered beyond its use. He would let them have Christmas, and inform everyone of the cancellation soon after. He would throw a party for all.
Emery reached his car and, knowing the coldness December had likely placed inside, decided not to drive just yet. He would leave the car in the lot for an hour or so and work off the drunkenness he had taken on in Bernie’s soon-to-be empty office. Fuzzed in vodka, Emery set out for a chilled walk through the studio neighborhood, and perhaps beyond. He had studio chores extant for the coming week, but after the frayed ends had been clipped, he might not visit Television City for some time, or plausibly ever again. The future was gray and fastened to the brutish ballast of his past awards and punches.
The evening air codded his lungs in a blanket of smoke as he walked. He felt briefly to be less a celebrity and more a patent citizen. This was an unexpected modification, but being tossed out on one’s ear was an accountable diminisher of a man’s mood. The outskirts of Television City were less clean, and the priority of this area was more in league with taverns and small businesses, some of which catered to the nearby studios while others seemed more propped in the general. This was one of the muddled, high-contrast berths in which Los Angeles television and her cameras met the rest of the world, a hasty rampart between the makers and the watchers. Emery felt as if he had been achromatized, much alike with the drab weather in which he now walked. His mood was the sort of beast that carried a flag, proud of its potency. No walk would sate it. He needed to feel sorry for himself, just a little, and reflect until the thing slept. To bring himself up, Emery would have to paddle through the recent months and put labels on all the little mistakes.
The bars were scattered here and there, but in his buzzed state, he kept clear of them. Arriving home drunk would displease Beth, and embarrass him in front of the girls, who were now old enough to judge Emery’s drinking somewhat accurately, especially Rebecca. She was running for her junior high’s presidency, a campaign that indulged Emery’s heart much, despite that Rebecca's school would likely intervene and obstruct, being that she was not male. Long ago, Emery had been the president of his own middle school. Those days were more than gone; they were jurassic in age. They had not only passed, but had been shattered and crushed to cinders by the weight of world war and a hearty career brimming with hazard, grand achievement, failure, and spans of ill-being. The only nanny that could keep those young memories sharp was a racy and energetic ego.
As a child, sharing his birthday with Christmas had been little trouble. He was raised Jewish, and the Christmas holiday, so revered by his classmates, was but a comma in the span of his school year. He had enjoyed the good feel of this holiday, though had not been allowed by the doctrine of his religion to celebrate it. Beth had changed so many things in his life, or else he had changed so much for her. A Unitarian, though admittedly quite fallen, he could both study and celebrate this holiday with whatever abandon he felt to uphold, and there was much of it. He loved Christmas. The children looked forward to it with more emphasis than they did most things, even their own birthdays. Emery had come to do the same.
The German tradition of the tree was a pleasant one, and adorning it with small trinkets and baubles was a fastidious sort of fun. For Emery, the silly (but almost necessary) recitation of A Visit from St. Nicholas, as well as the singing of various carols, was a touch too heartwarming and overly sentimental. There was an odd, potent sort of nostalgia involved for others, however, and he had no real right to judge what made them so happy in the otherwise awful bleakness of December. A small group of people celebrating in an odd way could be looked upon as asinine or abnormal, but when the whole damn town did it, there was reason to use the word “magic” in all of the Christmas ads and billboards. That sensation of the otherworldly, in the cheery phantasms of generosity and celebration, conjured moods and could alter one’s stock among others. Christmas and America seemed to operate in a fitting arrangement, and there was, due to the popularity of Santa Claus stories and legend-based traditions, an element of fantasy in the very air. There was magic enough to warrant the term.
Rebecca’s school was putting on A Christmas Carol. Emery had always enjoyed this story, even though his daughter was only working backstage in the production. The purchasing of presents was a thrill, and knowing there were two wrapped boxes addressed to him, then sitting beneath the needle-laden tree, captured him into the general melee of the season with relish. One of them looked like a box of typewriter ribbons. The shape was a match for his brand.
In four days, he would sit at the base of the tree, unemployed, and admire his girls as they opened the gifts settled there. He would open his few gifts and try not to think about his inurned show. He would focus on his daughters, on his wife, these remaining reasons for being who he was and for continuing, for having a heart.
Beth would be so pleased with what he had found for her. It was wrapped and now nestled against the few other presents at the base of the tree. Through Buck Mifflin, he had gained knowledge of a used-bookstore owner in the San Fernando Valley who had a glass case full of exorbitantly rare books. Emery had driven there with Larry nearly three weeks ago on a Christmas mission, and he had succeeded. Beth would find wrapped in dainty paper the hardbound, first-edition Collected Works of John Keats, nearly sixty years old and in wondrous condition. Though she had not mentioned Keats in nearly ten years, he remembered a scathing conversation back in college when she had castigated Emery’s abundant praise of Whitman, and proceeded then to declare irishman Keats one of the greatest poets to have ever walked the Earth. It was their first real argument, short and inconsequent as it had been. The book would be a nice gift that would, after initial reception, direct her back to their earlier days, even for a moment. She would adore the book, he thought, and it was this sense of pleasing others that Emery would rely on to get him through the season, until he could find work again.
Emery was also four days from his 40th birthday, and already had been put through more than one meat-grinder, more than one unsettling sprint through the minefield of television. This was more than most endured in a lifetime. The trick was to keep moving, to sprint more when tired than when energetic, to burst his lungs streaking ahead where other runners tired and fell to gasps. He needed to move and jump when the explosions came, keep his head above his feet and get to secure ground. This was with the typewriter, a simple device that let him tap into his very joy with a tale. The clacks and worn keys were busy ants before a busy man with all the world between. He was self-appointed in his art, and he loved it, after all.
In an hour, his walk having left behind those occasional bumbles of misbalance, Emery caught sight of a small figurine in the window of a pawn shop. He entered the shop and relieved the object from the narrow shelf, bringing it to the counter. The object would be another small gift to place under the tree, wrapped in whatever paper he chose. This was more of a blind gift. He knew she enjoyed figurines, but had no idea if this one was anything she might enjoy. He was making a stab in the holiday dark because the item was pretty and Beth was pretty. That was all. He felt sneaky, which was a better sensation than what he could have been feeling. It was while counting the money before the pawn broker that he was recognized, and consequently, shocked.
“Henry Asher, right?” Emery glanced up quickly upon hearing the name of his father.
“What?”
“From The Other Side. You’re Henry Asher.” Understanding crept through him: The similarity of sound, of names, on the tip of someone’s brain.
“Uh yes, that’s right, friend,” he said, imagining himself as his father.
“I love the show. Was that everything?” Yes, that was everything. The show was now in the past. He stood in a pawn shop, perhaps symbolically. He was without job and now rummaged in his mind for ways to clean himself, to maintain his artistic hygiene, though not monetarily; he needed to handle himself spiritually, emotionally, and with as little damage as possible.
“Yes, that’s all,” he said of the figurine.
“It’s a cute one. For the missus?”
“It is, yes.”
“Ah, good man. You got a great show, Mr. Asher. Never miss it. Tonight, right?”
“Uh, yes. Tonight. Eight sharp,” Emery lied. At eight p.m. on CBS, people would discover that The Other Side was not airing, and that it had been replaced with The CBS Fantasy Night, a one-hour show that would exhibit some new animated thing about Rudolph the Reindeer designed to giddy up the kids, followed with carols by The Ben Carlson Singers. One could be sure these productions would be chocked with commercial breaks to tease out various products from all the major retail players that sought to create a public acquaintance with Christmas. Some of these products, like Vesper Soda, sought to align themselves with purchasers in a way that might make the soda seem like religious tradition. Airing the special was a smart move on the network’s part.
When confronted with Christmas, fans of The Other Side would temporarily forget the show they had come to admire, especially with excited kids to contend with, and by the time these fans realized the full cancellation, in the weeks to come, their attention would be drained from the holiday, itself, and the energetic fizz of a new year. After this, there would be nothing that could be done but whine, and CBS would have finalized their decision on another show to take up the slack of the time slot. The network would have easier sailing with the cancellation, thanks to the holidays. They did not want another round of Emery’s righteous campaigning and complaint.
“Well, all right. Tonight it is. I’ll see ya on the Other Side, then.”
“Sure thing,” Emery said, smiling and weak. The broker counted and then deposited the money in his register and began writing out the receipt.
“I hope the missus smiles when she opens it,” he said when done, handing over the figurine without bag, along with the hastily scrawled receipt. Emery wanted to cry, but then changed his mind and did not. He wanted to tell the man to shut his mouth. He wanted less to occur than what did. He wanted more to happen than could happen. For the moment, he wanted to be sober and go home.
“Uh, thanks. I think she will,” he said with a false cheer. As the writer reached the door, the pawn-broker added another sentiment to the mire of emotion in Emery’s mind.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Asher.”
The air was cold and evening was approaching. He could feel the slight perturbation in his knee as he walked. The injury was long gone, but cold weather could return an amount of brief agitation to the knee. Emery made the long walk to his car, faster as he went, and started the engine. After warming up for a few minutes, he pulled out of the lot. His body was a stinking sort of entity that exuded smoke, sweat, and the fumes of cheap vodka. He would go home and bathe, eat, and then settle in to watch television with his girls. After the daughters were in bed, he would tell Beth about the cancellation. It was a cold night and there was more than one form of weather encroaching on the Asher home, but the night could have been worse. Tomorrow, he would take the family out for a day of fun and frivolity.
A week later, after the goodbye party with crew and with Emery giving much thought to the future, the network did choose to go back on a particular resolve. They chose to let the remaining episodes of the fifth season reach the air according to schedule, minus the episode that would have gone out during the Christmas week. The show being aired to its completion pleased Emery and the now ex-crew, but the airing of the remaining season was done more to sate sponsors who had invested in the episodes and requested air-time, than to keep alive a thing they now saw as dead matter. A brief change in the credit animations allowed the final episode to air with a dedication to Solomon Jamison. The opposite to crashing a wine bottle against the bow of a new, seaworthy craft, this dedication to Sol and the last authentic run of the credits were, for the most part, the true chiseling of an epitaph over the resting place of things that had once lived well.