Q & A Read online

  Contents

  Q and A

  Copyright © 2020 M. Allen Cunningham. All rights reserved.

  Author’s Note

  Quote

  A VERY YOUNG MEDIUM

  APPLAUSE

  FIFTEEN MILLION

  OTHER CONSIDERATIONS

  THE NEW REAL

  ROLL TAPE

  TODAY

  THE BLOW-UP

  GLASS

  ENTR’ACTE:

  THE CAMERA EYE,

  EPILOGUE

  NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Q and A

  M. Allen Cunningham

  Regal House Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 M. Allen Cunningham. All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh, NC 27612

  All rights reserved

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030576

  ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030583

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020930423

  All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

  Interior and cover design by Lafayette and Greene

  lafayetteandgreene.com

  Cover images © by Nathan Shields

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Author’s Note

  Q and A is inspired by events of sixty years ago and today.

  It’s a true story, but many details have been changed and each character is an act of the imagination.

  Quote

  The camera was a man-eating monster.

  —Jack Benny

  Q:

  Mr. Winfeld, what is fame?

  A:

  I think the definition, sir, is “well-knownness,”

  or something of that nature.

  Q:

  Is fame not the sum total of the misunderstandings

  that accrue around a person?

  A:

  Yes, exactly, sir. I would agree with that

  definition one hundred percent. In my own

  experience, sir, that definition would

  prove very true.

  Q:

  You’ve been misunderstood?

  A:

  I’ve been…Can I say it this way: I’ve been misrepresented.

  You ask me about fame, sir. What is fame but a sort of

  falseness, a performance? I’ve been doing a kind of performance,

  you might say, a misrepresentation the likes of

  a paid actor, as I believe I said before.

  Q:

  Performing, as you say you were—

  may I ask, Mr. Winfeld, what was it

  about you, then, that failed

  to be put across?

  A:

  Oh, well, sir, far too many things. Far too

  many things to name here, right now. I mean

  we would need a very long time to go into

  the matter, wouldn’t we? I might just make one

  comment about that: for instance point out

  that a person—on that little screen, a

  person is necessarily a rather flat image.

  Q:

  Flat, as opposed to three-dimensional?

  A:

  Yes sir, and 3-D glasses would not

  help with the kind of flatness I mean.

  I’m not referring to the technology

  of it, in other words.

  Q:

  You mean to say, then, that

  the screen itself flattens—

  A:

  I mean to say, for the purposes—

  and these would not be my purposes,

  personally, but for purposes of the TV

  screen, flatness is desirable.

  It plays best.

  Q:

  And Mr. Winfeld, in your judgment of the

  events with which these proceedings have

  been concerned, why did things happen

  in the way that they happened? In other

  words, for what reason, in your judgment,

  do we expect or demand not only

  a winner, but a winner who will

  “take all,” as they say?

  A:

  Well, sir, you could look at it the other way. You

  could say, at least in my opinion you could, that

  as much as a winner what we need and

  require is that somebody lose and lose badly.

  Q:

  And in your judgment, Mr. Winfeld, must

  television become the lottery system it

  appears to have become now?

  A:

  I wouldn’t say, sir, what television should or

  shouldn’t be. I only have my own experience.

  My experience, however, is that Americans

  love the big win—but just as much, we

  can’t help ourselves from wanting

  to watch a big loss. Or can’t turn

  our eyes away, I should say.

  Q:

  Mr. Winfeld, do we risk, more and more,

  seeing the price of everything and the value

  of nothing?

  A:

  I believe, if I’m remembering correctly here,

  that those words were somebody’s

  definition of cynicism, sir.

  Do we risk cynicism?

  Sure. I’d say yes.

  No question.

  Q:

  Is the TV screen to blame?

  Is the screen destined to make cynics of us all?

  A:

  Well, certainly television is training us to

  lump together things that aren’t

  related, naturally speaking—or to mistake

  one thing for another.

  Q:

  What kinds of things?

  A:

  Knowledge and money, for one.

  But answers are something we

  like very much, aren’t they? That’s

  what was happening on the screen

  all the time, wasn’t it?—I mean winning

  big thanks to having the answers. I mean, you’re

  asking me for answers right now.

  I’m no different. I love knowing

  an answer to something,

  I’ll admit it.1*

  1.

  A VERY YOUNG MEDIUM

  September/October 1956

  SIDNEY

  Mint & Greenmarch Productions, Inc.

  667 Madison Ave.

  New York, NY

 
Sept. 27, 1956

  To whom it may concern,

  I watched the broadcast of your new quiz program last week and I write to request a chance to try out for the show. I am an ex-GI and a student at CCNY. I happen to have thousands of odd and obscure facts and many facets of general information at my fingertips. People have always told me I must have a photographic memory. My uncle likes to call me a “walking encyclopedia.” So, I believe I would do well on your program. I could try out anytime.

  Sincerely,

  Sidney Winfeld

  Queens, NY

  “How would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  The TV man leans back in Sidney’s sofa, his silky blue suitjacket parted to reveal pinstripe and glistening shirtbuttons. He’s not an ostentatious fellow this Mr. Greenmarch isn’t, but TV means money, and good taste is important as Sidney can appreciate.

  On the coffee table Greenmarch’s fine leather attaché case lies open, the test question cards loosely stacked beside it. Already Sidney knew the answers to all but a few, and those he didn’t know he’s now got stored away, can all but read the cards already in his mind.

  Q:

  For nine points, who was Samuel Morse’s early partner in the development of the telegraph, and what were the words of their first telegraphic transmission?

  A:

  The partner was Alfred Vail, and contrary to popular belief their first telegram was not “What hath God wrought,” which came later, their first telegram was the words “A patient waiter is no loser.”

  That one Sidney knew, had stuck in his memory ever since he first heard it years ago, maybe cause Sidney himself is patient like that, not so lucky as some maybe but willing to patiently wait kind of on the sly and not miss an opportunity once it knocks. Leaning back, Greenmarch gave him a pleased little smile. Then without even clearing his throat the TV man said it, said, “How would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  He isn’t joking and Sidney knows it, but what a question, and how do you answer except to laugh in the face of luck itself because after all Mr. Greenmarch knows these aren’t the usual—how to put it—terms of discourse for Sidney or for that matter anybody in Sidney’s postal code.

  So Sidney laughs. He laughs and watches the weird brightening of the TV man’s eyes, and laughing Sidney answers: “Who wouldn’t!”

  Next thing, they’re in the back bedroom and the TV man is shuffling through the shirts in Sidney’s closet, shirts which none of them are in snappy shape. His back to Sidney he’s like a man in an assembly plant, hands moving in the hangers, head jerking left right left. He murmurs, grunts dissatisfaction. The closet’s odor seeps out as the shirts and jackets sway: musty, sweat-locked. A second-hand shop, this whole place.

  “Here,” says Mr. Greenmarch, and out comes the maroon jacket, Sidney’s late father-in-law’s double-breasted. How many ring-studded handshakes did that suit bring old Josef Winks? How many stockholder meetings did Josef show up in those flared lapels, sucking down smoke after smoke at the head of the table? Sidney tried it on exactly once, night of the man’s funeral, then into the closet. Bernice wouldn’t hear of selling it.

  “No, no. Much too large,” Sidney says. “Isn’t even mine.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a costume. Let me see you in it.”

  The shoulders float beyond Sidney’s frame and give the effect, he knows, of shrinking his head.

  Mr. Greenmarch eyes him like a tailor. “No, it’s good. It’s good.” Sticks his nose in the closet again. “And this.” He passes Sidney a pale blue shirt, shirt which the frayed collar means it’s only for weekends now.

  “But Mister Greenmarch—”

  “It’s Ray, please. And I’d like to call you Sid. Can I call you Sid?”

  “Sure. Fine.” Though even to Bernice he’s Sidney. “But Ray, you know, I could get another suit.” For a chance like this they can afford it.

  “Don’t do that,” says the TV man. “It’s a costume, like I said. Trust me. This is my job, OK? I create people. We don’t want you, we want the television you, understand? College student, GI, scraping by in Queens until, gee whiz, here comes the opportunity of a lifetime—to show the whole country right through their televisions just what you’re made of! Now, is this your watch?”

  Greenmarch swipes it from the dresser top and gives it a look and Sidney thinks but how he is a college student and a GI and how he does call this Forest Hills stoop his home…

  Greenmarch holds the watch to one ear. “Good golly but it’s loud!”

  “Well, ain’t Army issue.”

  “No, it’s perfect.” And taking Sidney’s wrist in hand the TV man pushes the watch on. “Couldn’t be better. The mike’ll hear every tick, enhance the tension, you see.”

  And now Sidney feels it: the TV man coming here, the questions and answers, the clarity of Greenmarch’s directions—here, right here in the back bedroom of some lousy little duplex, a fella’s getting remade.

  “Now Sid, we’d like you to go on air in tomorrow night’s program. Can you manage that? Good. Can you report to my office at one-thirty? We’ll go over the show, you’ll have it all down pat. You’ll take nine points, then a second nine for eighteen and stop the game there while you’re in the lead. We’ll walk through it tomorrow. But listen, I want you to get your hair cut. Ask them for a whitewall, understand? Tell them you need to look like a marine. Oh, you’ll do fine, Sid. You’ll win right through. Just play ball with us, kid, and you’ll have that prize money.”

  He’s gathered up his things, Greenmarch has, and he’s making his way out and all the way behind him Sidney’s ears are aglow and he’s putting in, “Sure, sure, you can count on me, Ray, will do” and such like, and just as they reach the door in comes Bernice.

  “Good evening,” says Greenmarch, smooth as his suit sleeves. “I believe you’re Mrs. Winfeld.”

  “Honey,” says Sidney, “honey, this is Mister Raymond Greenmarch from NBC. The man I told you about.”

  “Your husband has some good news,” says the TV man with a smile, sliding out. But he stops on the stoop. “Oh Sid, one last question. You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

  “Me? Nope.”

  “Good. We put you in a booth, you know. Feels a little like a telephone booth. And it’s hot in there.”

  “Fine, Ray, fine!”

  “Very nice to meet you,” blurts Bernice, though Greenmarch is down the steps already. “Gee, Sidney, now he’s a pretty sharp dresser! What’s all this about—a booth, did he say?”

  “I’m on tomorrow,” says Sidney.

  “What? Tomorrow?”

  “They’re giving me a chance, Bernice. Our chance.”

  “The quiz show?”

  “This is it, honey. This is our start.”

  “All you have to do is answer the questions?”

  “The real start for me and you.”

  “What’s that jacket, Sidney?”

  “Gimme a kiss, honey, come here. Then I’m going to the barbers.”

  Nine o’clock on Wednesday October seventeenth and Sidney is live in the box in Studio 6-B —‘isolation booth,’ it’s called, but it’s a box—Klieg lights turned up to blind and roast, the glass before him all glare, and the piped-in voice of Fred Mint coming through the headset tinny and histrionic like some phone operator jumped-up on Benzedrine, that or too much Geritol —America’s Number One Tonic!—and out in the black past Fred Mint’s podium the rows of the studio audience pitch upward to the control booth also black, and up there is Greenmarch, invisible, unheard, but working the levers—

  “Now Sid,” says Mint’s voice in his ears, “you have nine points. I am going to turn your headset and microphone off, and I’ll be back to you in just a minute”—then click the voice becomes a series of muffled tones as the hunched shoulders i
n Mint’s serge jacket turn while he addresses Sidney’s opponent, and the fan is off and Sidney, alone, is panting in the box—isolation booth—with sweat cascading from his white-walled temples, down the back of his neck, down his sides underneath the dark red flanks of Josef Winks’s oversized suitjacket, and though he’s live and traveling right this minute to living rooms in (as Greenmarch says) every market across the country, the face out there is sweat-filmed and bloodless in black-and-white, the hair is all wrong, and it isn’t Sidney Winfeld at all, and meanwhile here in the flesh behind every one of those screens, right here in Studio 6-B behind the blinding glare in his glass box, Sidney’s on his own, unhearing and unheard, breathing heavily and pouring out sweat, alone in his own light, and in the void darkness where the audience should be there’s only the weak mirroring of the booth’s glass, an image of a man in earphones and a bulky red suit, a see-through man standing in a bright blank space, waiting, just waiting to say, “Nine please, Mister Mint, I’ll try for nine,” the way he’s practiced.

  “Now friends,” says Fred Mint, his gray face smiling as the camera moves trustingly closer, “have you been slowing down, feeling tired and run down, especially after a cold, flu, or a sore throat or virus? Well, your trouble may be due to what the doctors call iron deficiency anemia, a very fancy term for what we call tired blood. Check with your doctor, and to feel stronger fast, take geritol. In just twenty-four hours, Geritol iron is in your bloodstream carrying strength and energy to every part of your body. Just two tablespoons of liquid Geritol or two of the Geritol tablets contain twice the iron in a pound of calves’ liver. So remember, if tired blood is your problem, take either the good-tasting liquid Geritol or the handy Geritol tablet, and take them every day, and believe me you’ll feel stronger—and mighty fast too: within seven days or you’ll get your money back.”

  CONTROL

  The studio audience applauds and a little fanfare of woodwinds and kettledrums is heard.

  —Give me Camera One—

  As Fred Mint spirits away his bottle of Geritol, cut to the full set in its silvery monochrome: Sid Winfeld in his soundproof booth at right, Maurice Pelubet in his booth at left, Fred Mint and podium at the center.