The Ravine (21 page)

“Didn’t you already read this one?”

“Yeah. It was good.”

“Oh.” Then silence, for Veronica could speak silence.

“Why? You don’t think I should throw it out, do you?”

“Well, you’ve already read it.”

Oh, but wait, here come the boxes of papers—yellow second sheets, coffee-stained and ash-flecked.

“What’s all that, Phil?”

“That? That’s my, my,
work.
My plays.”

“Oh.” Silence.

“You know, all the various drafts. And all the plays I’ve started and bogged down in.”

“Why do you keep them?”

“Because I might finish them one day.”

“Oh.”

I haven’t yet, as you know. At the time Ronnie became pregnant I was finishing a play entitled
Low Man
, which was kind of my take on
Death of a Salesman.
Loman, you see, although my title referred to
the low man on a totem pole. It was quite a bit like David Mamet’s
Glengarry Glen Ross
, which it predates (I point out hastily) by a couple of years. Except that I did not understand that world as well as Mamet, and my dramatic sense is not as strong as his, and my dialogue isn’t as good. The only aspect in which my play may have the edge is that I have a woman in
Low Man
, the young dogsbody who files papers and fetches coffee. It was a good part, written with Veronica Lear in mind, although by the time the play was actually in production, her stomach was ballooning (as were her breasts, in a manner that still makes my heart ache) and the part went instead to a newcomer, fresh out of the academy, named Paula Beecher. Paula, as you may know, went on to play Harriet in
Padre
, a sad piece of syn-chronicity that has plagued me for years. Not that there was ever anything inappropriate with our relationship—she’s happily married, Paula is, although never to the same person for more than two years in a row—but as far as Ronnie is concerned, Paula was the career-ender. In Ronnie’s mind, it’s almost as though Paula were waiting in the wings, and the instant Ronnie’s pregnancy became visible, she rushed onstage and shoved my wife into the shadows. I should therefore harbour resentment against Ms. Beecher, which I clearly don’t, or else why would I cast her in
Padre?
—another bone for the pile.

Low Man
didn’t fare very well. The Toronto reviewers could sense
Glengarry Glen Ross
in the futuristic ether; they knew there was a good play somewhere in the material, but they were unified in their opinion that I hadn’t written it. I’d had failures before, and I was fairly thick-skinned. (For one thing, the criticism gave me an excuse for flamboyant drunkenness; for another, I think deep down I agreed with it.) But the meagreness of the royalty cheques suddenly became significant. How was I going to support a wife and a child on the backs of a handful of theatregoers? In my memory, I was pondering that question when the telephone rang.

“Mr. McQuigge? William Beckett.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you’d care to go along to lunch.”

I went along to lunch, but Beckett didn’t actually eat anything; instead, he watched me eat my club sandwich with a certain revolted fascination. And I’ll mention that in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never ever witnessed him eat. So, although Beckett demurs and protests, there is evidence that he truly is Beelzebub, Overlord of Darkness.

“Television,” he told me, “is a river of money into which we must jump.”

“That sounds good,” I agreed.

“I’ve been green-lit on
Sneaks”
he told me, not concerned with the look of bafflement that washed across my face. “A series of some little charm and vast amounts of twaddle. The premise? Simplicity itself. Two cat burglars, a man and a woman, lark about cat burgling. They once were married, have now separated, but need the other’s skill in order to successfully ply their larcenous trade. He is possessed of wondrous fingertips, you see, and can open any safe. She is superbly athletic and can gain entry to any loft or aerie. So they continue to work together, although they bicker and argue constantly. Does this appeal to you?”

“Um … does
what
appeal to me?”

“The notion.”

“Well, um, do they argue and bicker while they’re cat burgling?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“But isn’t the point of cat burglary to be as quiet as possible?”

“Mmm. Quite. But we don’t worry about such things inside the box. For one thing, Philip, there is no such creature as a cat burglar. There are great heaving louts who smash out windows, take what they believe they can pawn, make themselves a sandwich and defecate
on the carpeting for good measure. So don’t worry about the bickering. For another thing, that’s precisely the point, that’s the premise, that’s the brand, because every week our heroes, through their bickering, awaken the inhabitants. They thus become involved in other lives.”

“I get it. I guess.”

“I am in the process of assembling the writing team. And I am offering you the position of story editor.”

“Sorry, I’m a playwright.”

I didn’t really say that. I wonder how my life might have unfolded had I said that. I might be sitting in a little cabin right now, my writing place; through the window I can see the big house; Ronnie is tending to her flowers; the children are playing in the garden. But what I said was, “How much would that pay?” and the answer was totally mind-boggling—at least, I allowed my mind to be boggled because 1) I had a pregnant partner and 2) perhaps it was my destiny. “You are entering another dimension of time and space …”

Ronnie’s reaction to news of my employment was complex and rather more muted than I might have foreseen. She twisted her mouth way off to the side of her face, something she does when perplexed or involved in cogitation. “Sounds kind of like a dumb show,” she adjudged. “Maybe there’s a part for me.” She was not feeling very good about herself right then. Her body was exploding with fat and hormones, after all. I remember that around this time we went shopping for maternity dresses (her regular wardrobe now confined to storage containers) and she tossed the store’s offerings into the air, disdainful of all the pastels. “Don’t you have anything that’s like, you know,
black?”
she demanded of the salesgirl.

I shall be brief about my career in the television bidna. (
Why start now
, I can hear you demanding, as if you had all been sleeping with John Hooper, as I suspect Ronnie has. The only reason I have for
thinking my wife may
not
have been sleeping with Hooper is every bit as sickening as the notion that she has; she has a boyfriend. Ronnie still has plans to take this Mexican vacation with her young Kerwin, the priapic philosophy student. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though; I have a few travel plans of my own. Or rather, in conjunction with my brother.) (Oh, oh, getting back to that, there is a grand literary sense in which you
have
all been sleeping with Snooty Hooper, commingling with him on some infinite intellectual mattress, because his book
Baxter
is setting sales records all across this grand nation. The Giller Prize announcement will be made in a few days. If I were smart, I’d find some bespectacled bookie and put a lot of money down on Hooper, but I, even I, yes it’s true, despite all odds and against all rational thinking, even I have my pride.) All right, my television career, my curriculum vitae: the show
Sneaks
was something of a hit, due mostly to the chemistry between the two leads, Gart Sweeney and Thea King. (Off-camera, of course, the two could not abide each other.) I was Story Editor for one season, Executive Story Editor for the next, Co-Producer for the third, and then William Beckett launched another series, the ambitious but ultimately abysmal
Poe.
(The premise of
Poe
is odd for television, and pure William Beckett. The series supposes that, when not scribbling poetry and short stories, Edgar Allan Poe becomes involved, on a weekly basis, in mysteries and intrigues, which he solves using his massive intellect and vast amounts of laudanum. That show was scuppered by a failure to cast the leading role properly; Larry Boyle was pudgy and a little silly-looking, and no amount of dark makeup could lend a sinister aspect to his mien.) Anyway, when Beckett left
Sneaks
to start
Poe
, he appointed me his successor as show-runner. This was a stroke of some luck (I guess) because a) there was oodles more money, b) the show was already running pretty smoothly and c) because of the Byzantine intricacies of the Canadian television
funding system, the fourth season of
Sneaks
was always understood to be its last, so I was placed in a fail-safe position. In point of fact, I didn’t run
Sneaks
at all well, but I made it through the season and earned my stripes, as it were.

Meanwhile, another star was in ascendancy. Edward Milligan, as hard as this may be to credit, began his career on the stage in his native Calgary. He was in exactly one play, David Mamet’s
American Buffalo
, filling the smallish role of Bobby. In the audience one night was the American film director Joel Schumacher, and I have no idea what he was doing in Calgary, let alone in that theatre, but he rushed backstage as soon as the curtain came down and offered Milligan the lead in his next movie. That movie never got financed, but by the time it didn’t get financed Milligan was already in Hollywood. He spent a few years there, getting small parts in some good pictures, larger ones in some stinkers, and although by American standards his career came a cropper, up north here the industry developed a certain pride in him. So a call was put out to his agent—
Come back home, Edward Milligan, and you can star in your own television show.

And another call was placed to yours truly:
Develop a show for Edward Milligan.

The two of us were brought together over lunch. Carla Dowbiggin was there, as well as Bill Veerstuck (the network’s head of development) and some guy named Jimmy. I didn’t know who the hell Jimmy was, and I’m not certain that Carla or Bill did either, and it is possible that he was simply some enterprising scalawag who managed to cadge a free meal.

Milligan was late, what else, so I spent an hour spinning my wheels and trotting out various half-baked pitches, because, really, when I sat down at the table, I had no ideas for a television series.
I did have, back home, a four-year-old and a newly pregnant wife, so I was plenty desperate. “How about a medical show?” I wondered aloud. “Milligan plays a doctor. Um, a young intern. Kind of like Dr. Kildare, but, um … hey, why don’t we redo
Dr. Kildare?
You know, that could work. It was a very popular show. Or Ben Casey. Or, I know, Milligan could play a young intern in a
psychiatric hospital.
Yeah, yeah. And every week, he becomes involved with another patient, not
involved
involved, you know, but, um…”

Milligan entered the restaurant, looked around, saw us and smiled. He approached the table eagerly. Introductions were made, and as I shook his hand, I noted that he had a certain raffish quality. “You know what?” I said as we all sat back down. “I do have one idea that might work.”

“Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Mister Peter Paul Mendicott?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but I was told I might reach him at this number.”

“You might. But that isn’t what you asked. You asked if you were speaking to the man.”

“Right. Is Mr. Mendicott there?”

“Of course he’s here.”

“Mm-hmm. And, um, may I please speak to him?”

“No.”

“Our conversation isn’t going well, is it?”

“Pee-Pee doesn’t exactly speak. You can’t smoke roll-your-owns all your life and expect to
speak
at his age. I mean, he is hooked up to so much breathing apparatus that I spend half my day just trying to
locate him. He’s about twelve pounds of wrinkles and he communicates mostly through faint wheezes and huge blasting farts.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to, I don’t know,
pry
, but are you a man or a woman?”

“I get that a lot.”

“It’s hard to tell just from your voice.”

“I am aware.”

“So, ah …?”

“Here’s the thing. Until we proceed further in this conversation, I can’t see how it makes any difference.”

“Fair enough. Right. Well, here’s the thing. My name is Phil McQuigge.”

“Phil fucking McQuigge?”

“Er, yes.”

“Executive Producer and, nyah-nyah, creator
of Padre?”

“Um … formerly those things. At present I am a novelist.”

“Hold on. I’ll get Pee-Pee.”

“I thought he couldn’t speak.”

“He can
listen.
I can put on the speakerphone and he can listen to whatever it is you have to say.”

“Is Pee-Pee, Mr. Mendicott, aware of the television show
Padre?”

“What the fuck do you think has kept him alive for the past couple of years?”

“I don’t get you. And before you explain, I really need to know now if I’m speaking to a man or a woman.”

“Are those my only two choices?”