Showbiz, and More

Allan Boone's Wargon

Description

This novella, poetry and these short stories cover the entire range of human emotion.

The novella, Showbiz, tells the story of an unusual man's great achievements and reach for an ideal, only to have everything he is and has accomplished defeated by the nature of his inner being and those who prey on it. His close friend experiences, in tandem, his own fulfillment and loss. Both are engulfed by the shallowness and cynicism of politics.

The poems — the 150 sonnets of Affairs — deal with yearning, love, illusion and despair; they are a human cry against the complexities and restrictions of the real world.

The short tales of Three Stories are tender and dark, observing the hopes and brutalities of men and women.

Sujets

• History
• Histoire
• Holocaust

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780986567162
• Langue: English

Extrait

SHOWBIZ,
AND MORE
 


 
 
ALSO BY ALLAN WARGON
MY SISTER, MY BRIDE
A poetic novel in appreciation of the Song of Songs
DAVID
A biographical novel of the biblical King David
NIA
A love story
 


 
 
SHOWBIZ,
AND MORE
_________________________________
ALLAN WARGON
 
 

PIED PIPER
BOOKS
 


 
Copyright © 2012 Allan Wargon
Excerpts from this publication may be reproduced under licence from Access Copyright, or with the express written permission of Pied Piper Books, or as permitted by law. A reviewer may quote brief passages in a review. Otherwise all rights are reserved and no part or all of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, except as specifically authorized.
Copyright is registered with the Library of Congress and the Canadian Intellectual Property Office
Showbiz, and More / Allan Wargon.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9865-6716-2
Front cover by Sholom Wargon and Simon Jacob
Published in eBook format by Pied Piper Books
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 


 
 
This work is dedicated to all readers.
May they long prevail.
 
SHOWBIZ
 

1
F or the first time with Chip I felt afraid. His anger was so unexpected. I stared at him from the doorway, down the long mahogany slab. As his desk it was kept at coffee-table height, then raised by a hidden hoist for Board meetings. He had The Bulletin open before him; other dailies lay spread on the polished wood. Having those reporters in for a drink had been my doing. Had been, I had thought, my success. And it had seemed to have gone smoothly, until this thunder descended. The normally bright blue eyes, cupid-pink skin, silver hair were all scowling dark.
It says I was drinking!
It says, I replied as evenly as I could that you had a glass in your hand as you talked. What’s wrong with that?
My mother might see it.
*
Dusk settled like a noose. It was a Lilly night, but I had to stay. I had just finished my urgent tasks when Chip and Terry looked in, as they often did when they worked late. And asked if I’d like to go to dinner. I had already cancelled Lil, so I willingly accepted.
We crossed Broadway and walked the few bleak blocks uptown. The buildings, now virtually deserted, loomed in the damp fog. The pavement was dank, cold. Terry’s heels made even clicks on the concrete. She clung to Chip’s arm, and tucked in the silk scarf at her throat. It was good to see the lights of Laurent’s.
Inside all was warm, burnished, bustling.
Ah, monsieur Hope! sang the delighted maître d’, as if he hadn’t seen Chip for weeks. Terry had told me they’d been there two nights before. Their no-reservation regrets were smilingly waived, and the majordomo scurried to get us seated and served.
Terry sniffed hungrily at a luscious word painting of duck in aspic, boned, stuffed and pressed, but mock-heroically bit her lip and settled for sole à la normande . Chip ordered filet mignon , medium rare. And his usual hearts of lettuce salad, which was the Laurent’s fancy name for half a small iceberg sprinkled with lemon and placed cut side up in a silver .dish. I, ever the non-paying guest, asked for a mushroom omelet.
Behind the waiter came the grizzled wine steward. Chip said Let’s have a bottle of your best red, unless — he turned to Terry — you’d rather have white with your fish . . .
She raised a nay-saying chin, displaying her smooth neck. Around the low scoop of her purple frock an orange edge vamped her auburn hair. No one in the office said Terry’s outfits might be a bit sensual for a secretary. Everyone liked her. Or pretended to — no one wanted to incur Chip’s displeasure. Terry was not only the dressiest of the women but also, at first glance, the most feminine.
The steward said We have a very good Margaux, or — he made a kissing gesture with his fingers — a Lafite-Rothschild. But it’s a bit more expensive .
Yeah, Chip said nodding with a grin it would be.
I knew he was only being funny. Our employees, particularly the production staff in New Jersey, were a United Nations. At other times, when he’d said things like they wouldn’t Jew us, or he’s hymie , I silently understood it was just the prevailing culture talking. But this time that snide reference to Jewishness riled me. I could feel myself reddening. Maybe it was the build-up of such remarks, or delayed reaction from that earlier bizarre scolding. After the steward had turned away I burst out with Do you realize what you just said?
Terry looked up sharply . Iz, Chip didn’t mean . . .
I know. But stereotypes hurt. And lead to the gas chambers.
Chip raised an eyebrow. And looking at his handsome face and figure, in the flawless pin-striped suit, he was so perfect . . . I regretted my assault. It’s okay. You’re not alone I said . The world simply doesn’t like Jews. They’ve never forgiven us for inventing God.
Oh, come on! Terry said. There were gods before Jews.
Of course I replied, becoming even more heated. But the imaginative leap from that to a single, invisible, omnipotent, universal God was new. Besides, Jews have always been disturbing. A handful of people in population terms, yet we’ve shaken the world over and over again: Moses, Jesus, Marx, Freud, Einstein . . .
But not you Terry said . You weren’t there. You didn’t do those things.
No. You’re right. I’m only a hack journalist. Or I was. Now I don’t know what I am.
Chip continued to gaze at me. You’re my friend he said.
*
Abruptly, without knocking, Sandy swept in, wafting ahead a breeze of perfumed air. I lifted a paper fallen from my desk. His eyes were glinting. In his thick Hungarian accent he said Ve got to raise the share price!
Done I said, wondering what this was about. We have that liquid waste thing. But it still needs state approval —
Never mind. Dis can’t wait. You’ll do it? And he was off, his scent trailing. Sandy was always improving his image, with small success. Clothes never sat well on him. Shirts at odds with jackets. Ties too loud or dull. But his round moist face was totally vigilant.
Sandy was clever, very clever. Chip had found him working as a bookkeeper on a dam project in Idaho, and had brought him along. Now Sandy was the chief financial officer.
*
We held the new press conference in the top-floor auditorium. It had rows of red padded seats, and a projection booth at the back. On the front screen was an artist’s rendering of the liquid waste plant, dominating the room. Along the auditorium’s inside wall were tables that our girls had spread with white cloths and an inviting array of cups, spoons, carafes, colored napkins and plates of food.
There was a good turnout of environmental and financial columnists, and general reporters. Some flocked to the coffee and goodies. Others spurned the snacks and sat waiting with their notebooks and recorders. I introduced Chip. He recognized a few of the news people and greeted them charmingly. Then he spoke about our joint venture with the Alabama firm. It would supply its know-how for cleaning liquid industrial waste. We would build the plant and operate the facility. Filth in and drinkable water out.
The story was well featured in all the major papers. Height was a public company, and our stock rose more than two dollars.
*
The following Sunday I finally found out what was going on. The sky over the Park was brilliant with promise. Morning clouds were in full retreat. Chip had invited me to his swank apartment. It was supposed to be Terry’s, but he paid the rent. For appearances he had a smaller one on the floor above, for which the company paid. Officially it was for any out-of-town executive, like Chip. But he hardly ever used it, nor did anyone else.
*
We have a chance, Chip said to change the basis on which we work. Big as we are, we’ve always had to wait hat in hand on the client. Now we intend to take over Favorable Finance. They have a big pile of cash and twenty-one branches across the country .
The background to this, Chip explained, was that the idle grandson of Favorable’s founder, having spent all his inherited funds, was ready to sell the 40 percent of the shares he still held. And other major shareholders were willing to part with another 19 percent. All, of course, for the right price. Sandy was negotiating that now. Helped by Peter Noel, the president of a small company of planners that Height had bought a year ago. Peter, pretty much a playboy, had heard of the Favorable possibility on the cocktail circuit.
But isn’t that . . . I began.
Out of our line? Well, Chip said when I was selling peaches back in the Pittsburgh Saturday market, the women would pinch them and tell me they’re not ripe, or too ripe, or this and that. I had to learn just to smile and take the money. Essentially, we still do that at Height. But think, if we had our own money — think of all the great things we could do!
Chip’s smile was boyish, eager. He meant what he said, which was thrilling. It opened a whole new world. Yet I was momentarily arrested by the peaches. Peaches? I hadn’t heard of that before. It reinforced the feeling I’d always had about Chip: that he’d never been motivated solely by money. He’d bought Height with rare daring from an indifferent California conglomerate by persuading six of his fellow staff engineers to mortgage their homes and borrow whatever they could. Those six became the vice-presidents. Together with Chip they made up the Board. Now everyone called them The Silver Seven.
We have to keep this very quiet Chip said . The bargaining is delicate. It could backfire on the Street. You’ll write the press releases. They’ll have to be exactly timed.
I said I’d be honored. It was the biggest thing that had happened since I’d joined Height. Which, formally, had been only a few weeks before. For the first three months I’d insisted on just trying the job, with only m