Chapter Twenty-Two

I kept myself to myself despite Lauren’s several attempts to engage me in conversation with fellow guests. A part of me suspected I was still in fairly deep trouble so that my instinct was to maintain a low profile. It was a fairly lunatic instinct, given that I was about to go on national television under my own name - and in one of the most popular shows on the airwaves - but it was my instinct and I was stuck with it.

As Lauren promised, the monstrous wall monitor flashed briefly, then sprang to life in time to fill the room with what I took to be the Johnny Carson signature tune, but actually turned out to be the latest jingle for Dr Pepper. But the commercials finished eventually and I found myself watching a man with the build of a wrestler (and the voice of a referee) announce, “Ladeeeees and gennelmen, heeeeeeeeeeeeeer’s.... Johnny!!!”

“Do you think I might have a burbon?” I asked Lauren in my best British accent.

One of my fellow guests, a female academic with blue rinsed hair, twittered, “Oh, I do love that Ed McMahon. Honest to Godfrey, Johnny Carson would be nothing without him.” She was widely ignored. Everybody in the room seemed to be hypnotised by the screen.

Lauren was locked into immobility as she considered my request. I could understand her problem. I was obviously outside my ten-minute time-limit, but as against that I might well be the sort who would make a fuss if refused, despite the British accent. I waited patiently, not much bothered which way her decision went. Eventually she said, “Yes, of course.” I suspect her tiredness simply got the better of her.

I’ve noticed that while it’s difficult to persuade Americans to cave in about anything, when they do cave in they tend to cave in completely. Thus it was no surprise to find that the burbon Lauren handed me was a triple, diluted with nothing more substantial than ice. I sipped it gratefully, feeling liquid warmth trickle into that body area the Japanese call the hara, then spread out to induce a profound sensation of well-being and relaxation. In less than five minutes, my reservations about appearing on the show had disappeared. I was destined to be a sensation. I would talk memorably with wit on any subject Johnny Carson cared to introduce.

At the moment, on the huge screen, Johnny was introducing a young man with long blond hair and a karate headband who argued that the Hippie Movement was neither defunct nor in decline, but merely regrouping for its final assault on the Military-Industrial Complex. Believe it or not, this was the first time I’d heard the term Military-Industrial Complex and I was suitably impressed. Rather more so than with the young man who seemed wholly irrational. But then I drank more burbon and thought who was I to talk?

A red phone rang on one of the coffee tables and Lauren hurried to answer it. It was a one-sided conversation for she said nothing more than “Yes.” But when she hung up, she came over to tell me quietly, “They’ve moved you up a slot. You’re on after the next commercials.” She eyed my empty glass, seemed about to offer a refill, then clearly decided against it.

“Any chance of another?” I asked promptly.

She gave me her old familiar exhausted smile. “I’m afraid they don’t allow - “ She stopped. “Oh, what the hell - you’re going to need it.”

The barman was actually called Leroy, a name I’d firmly believed to be a Hollywood fiction. When Lauren gave him the nod, he slid the open bottle along the counter the way they do in Western movies. I caught it inexpertly, but at least none spilled, and helped myself to a generous libation. “Dulls the pain,” said Leroy, grinning.

It became a bit fuddled immediately after that. The next thing I remember clearly was being introduced to somebody called Doc Severensen who assured me Johnny was in ‘great form’ and I was going to have a ‘wonderful time’. I would be, he insisted, ‘great - just great!” Then I was walking into the studio to a burst of applause that would have been overblown if I’d changed into Jane Fonda.

I couldn’t see the studio audience. For some reason they’d lowered the house lights like a live theatre and put a spot on the chair where I was supposed to sit. I could hardly even see Johnny, who was installed behind a sort of desk, the way David Letterman sits today. A second spot picked me up and guided me to the seat. As it did so, the applause actually increased, intermixed with laughter. I suspect that if the burbon hadn’t dulled my critical faculties, I’d have been asking questions by that stage.

But as it was, Johnny Carson was walking round his desk, his hand outstretched, a broad grin on his face. “Here he is, Ladies and Gentlemen - the lucky guy I’ve been telling you about. Hands up all you fellas out there who envy him?”

Envy? What on earth had Martha told him about me? But he was making a big play of squinting into the darkened studio, something which the audience found hilarious. Johnny waved his hand in mock exasperation. “Aw, what the heck, I can’t see a thing in here!” More laughter, rising to the sort of crescendo I associated with the Phil Silvers Show. “Hey, Ed,” Johnny called to someone in the gloom beyond the cameras, “Can’t you do something about the lights?” More merriment, but then he was shaking my hand and smiling like a benign uncle and saying, “Really nice to meet you, John. Take a seat, take a seat. We’re dying to hear you tell us all about it.”

I sat to a mixture of laughter and renewed applause. The burbon had died abruptly and I was wondering what the hell was going on.

“John,” Johnny said, “let’s take this from the beginning. You’re English, of course.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been in America... how long?”

My mind went a blank. It was a simple enough question, but I couldn’t remember the answer. It seemed like forever. “Couple of weeks,” I muttered, hoping it might be near enough.

It seemed to satisfy Johnny Carson who’d obviously only asked it to lead into something else. He was grinning broadly now. “And, John... John, I want you to be really frank and open -” He seemed to be having trouble with his breathing. “I mean, we can take it over here. So tell us, as an Englishman, have you seen any interesting sights since you came over?”

For some reason it brought the house down and I had to wait until the audience settled before I answered. Eventually I said, “Well, I haven’t got round to looking at the Grand Canyon yet -”

That brought the house down as well, so much so I had to stop and wait. There was somebody out there in the darkness who sounded as if he was having a heart attack and several women were braying like donkeys. When it wound down, I finished my sentence, “ - but there are some beautiful things in Washington and even here in New -” They wouldn’t let me finish. They were howling with glee. I looked at Johnny in the hope he might let me in on the joke, but he seemed to be having trouble controlling himself as well. I felt myself frown and saw the camera lens rotate for a close-up.

“John -” Johnny said, then stopped. “John -” he tried again. He stood up and it was clear he was having trouble controlling his laughter. “John, I’m sorry. I guess we should let you in on the joke.”

“I should be delighted if you would,” I told him in my best English accent and that sent the audience off again.

“Will we tell him?” Johnny asked.

“Yes!” the audience roared.

“Will we show him?” Johnny asked, milking it.

“YES!!!” roared the audience even more loudly.

“Give us some lights here, Ed!” Johnny called.

I had not the slightest idea what to expect as the lights came up. I swivelled in my chair to look at the audience. And at that exact moment, despite the best efforts of Marian, Martha and Beth, it happened again. I plunged into another of my damn hallucinations. The first three rows of the audience were stark naked.