The Second Half of the Double Feature, page 15
The following is the only existing material from an unfinished novel Charles Willeford ultimately abandoned in 1975:
The First Five in Line . . .
PART ONE
“Them that dies’ll be the lucky ones.”
—Long John Silver
MEMO: (Confidential)
FROM: Doremus Jessup, Vice-President for Programming, NBN
TO: Russell Haxby, Director of Creative and Special Programs
SUBJECT: “The First Five in Line. . .”
Dear Russ, this is .merely an informal memo, on the eve of your departure for Miami, to wish you Godspeed and to mention some other assorted shit that has been on my mind.
I’m not, for example, satisfied with the program title, even though, at the present moment, it seems to fit, in an honest way, with the theme and projected format. The ellipsis following the title implies that others will eventually join the line and that this experiment is only the beginning of a long line of various titillating programs to attract more jaded viewers, but I’m still not certain whether the ellipsis is a valid addition or not. Do not waver in your thoughts for a better alternate title. We (the Board and I) are very receptive to a title change, and you should submit periodic alternates right up until deadline.
The Board is quite excited about the entire concept. In ancient Rome it was possible for theatergoers to see actual fornication onstage (including rapes), actual crucifixions and ritual murders (usually with unwilling Xian actors), and it does not seem unlikely to me that, in the not so distant future, we shall see planned murders on our home screens as well as the unplanned, i.e., Ruby shooting Oswald, the colonel shooting the prisoner in Saigon, the female newscaster’s on-the-air suicide in Sarasota, etc. And NBN may very well start the trend with our innovative TFFIL. . . The design is already apparent, with from 30 to 35 simulated murders per night on the tube, as if every network were preparing the viewer’s minds for the real thing. The latest estimates indicate that the average viewer, by the time he reaches 65, will have seen 400,000 simulated murders and maimings on TV, discounting the murders and maimings he also has seen in movies. I saw the handwriting on the bloody wall as far back as The Execution of Private Slovik. The huge audience for this show was predicated on the sure knowledge that Slovik would, indeed, be executed before the end of the program. Such knowledge was foreshadowed by the revealing title, even for those viewers unfamiliar with Huie’s book. That’s one of the reasons I’m not too happy with The First Five in Line. . . as a title. In line for what? a viewer may very well ask, so keep thinking about an alternative.
But I also agree with you that real TV murders must be led up to gradually, if we are ever to see them at all. To jump right in with them without prolonged and careful audience preparation, even though the actors—victim and killer—were to sign releases, would still not absolve the network from the many legal problems that would surround such programs, at least initially. When the time is right, we shall have them, of course, and it will always be in keeping for NBN to pioneer in the most dramatic and exciting programming we can provide for our loyal viewers. As a possible title, however, just off the top of my head, for such a show in the distant future, what about Involuntary Departures?
But back to The First Five in Line. . . : The Board concluded that it must run for the full thirteen (13) weeks, not for just the six (6) weeks you and I had planned. This means, Russell, that you’re going to have to come up with a good many innovative ideas to stretch out the series and without any watering down of the entertainment values. Suspense, of course, is the key— but then I don’t need to tell you how to do your job. Money is no problem; don’t worry about the money. We will have the sponsors, all right; and it will also mean extra money for the five volunteers even though they are not to know about any money in advance, which would screw up the statistical nature of the selection, as you know. At any rate, the go-go decision for a full 13 weeks puts us right up in there in the Emmy running for a new series, whereas a six-week miniseries would not. And I think we do have a No. One Emmy idea.
You will have to handle Harry Thead, the station manager of WOOZ, with kid gloves— a last minute reminder of this requirement. The program idea was his in the first place, which is why we have to originate from Miami instead of St. Louis, even though the latter was a much better location demographically-wise. But Harry Thead had no objections to you as the overall creative director, just so long as he could play an active behind-the-scenes part in the production. He wants the series credits, which he needs, and you may tell him that he will be on the credits network-wide as “Associate Producer for Miami.” The credit is rather meaningless, but it will look good on the crawl, and I think he’ll be happy with the title. The main thing is to keep Harry Thead informed at all times of what you are doing, so that he’ll have the right answers for the WOOZ owners. You could also use Harry as your coordinator with the Miami office of Baumgarten, Bates and Williams, who will handle the national advertising. They are also very excited about the commercial possibilities.
Harry Thead did not have to come to us with his idea, even though WOOZ is an affiliate. He could have run the show as a local Miami show, which would have blown the idea for the network. So we have a lot to thank Harry Thead for. When he asks questions, answer them; he’s behind us and the new program 110%, and he respects your creative genius.
I wish you had been present when I sold the idea to the Board. I won’t bore you with it except to say that some of the reactionary reactions were predictable, ranging as they did from pretended shock to forced indignation; but we soon settled into the specifics, and your overall tentative plan (except for the addition of another seven weeks, which reveals their true enthusiasm) was accepted in toto without any major modifications. Mr. Braden, who was in favor of Miami over St. Louis all along, pointed out that the high crime rate in Miami has prepared the local audience there for violence better than St. Louis (excepting East St. Louis, naturally). St. Louis is quite religious-oriented, as Mr. Braden mentioned, whereas Miami has only a few organized religious groups, i.e., Hare Krishna, Unitarian, and a few other sects. The former isn’t taken seriously in Dade and Broward counties, and the latter discredited itself with Miami businessmen several years ago when they—the Unitarians—protested putting up a cross on the courthouse lawn at Christmastime.
Another update factor, which comes as good news from a statistical standpoint: Unemployment in Miami has increased 3.7% since Harry Thead’s original demographic study which, in turn, increases the predictable volunteers in Miami from 6.9 to 7.1. If I was apprehensive about anything, it was the 6.9 predictability; but the larger range to 7.1 insures the required five volunteers. (The new 7.1 figure includes the overlap into Broward County as well as Dade County.)
You, your staff, and the five volunteers, when you have them, will all stay at the Los Pinos Motel. The third floor on the wing facing the bay has been reserved, as well as the third floor conference room. The motel is less than three blocks away from the 89th Street Causeway location of WOOZ. Billy Elkhart, the unit manager, is already down there, of course, and he has everything under control including rental cars. Phone him before you leave Kennedy, and he’ll pick you up at the Miami airport.
One last item, and it is not unimportant: Harry Thead is a Freemason, with all 32 degrees. Before you leave the city, pick up a blue stone Mason ring (blue is the 4th degree, I think) and wear it while you’re down there. Stop by Continuity and ask Jim Preston (I know he’s a Mason) to teach you the secret handshake that they use. It will help you to gain rapport with Harry Thead (call it insurance), even though he’ll be cooperative anyway.
From time to time, send me tape cassettes about your progress and don’t worry about the budget. Simply tell Billy Elkhart what you need and let him worry about the budget. He has the habit of thrift anyway, and if he goes over, it’ll be his ass not yours. You have enough pressure creative-wise; I don’t want you worrying about money. The First Five in Line. . . is undoubtedly the greatest concept for a television series ever to hit the air in modern times, Russell, and we (the Board and I) have every confidence in you as the creative force behind it.
Good luck, and Godspeed!
ls/DJ
VIOLETTE WINTERS
Ms. Violette Winters, 36, had short, slightly bowed legs, a ridiculously wide pelvis and tiny, narrow, hurting feet. She wore size 5-AAA shoes—slit at the big toe with a razor blade to relieve the pressure on her bunions—usually nurse-white with rippled rubber soles, and cotton support hose. So far she did not have varicose veins, but she lived in dread of their purplish emergence, and she hoped that the white cotton support hose would hold them in abeyance for as long as possible; but she was fully aware that varicose veins were the eventual reward of the full-time professional waitress. Violette’s broad, blubbery hips and thick thighs—even with her girdle stretched over them—were mushy to the touch, and she bruised easily without healing quickly. Her ankles and calves, however, were trim. In her low-heeled white nurse’s shoes, she was 5’4” but appeared to be taller because of her narrow-waisted torso, petite breasts (with inverted nipples), long neck and the huge mass of curly marmalade hair, which she wore with a rat piled high on top of her head. When she worked her hair was covered by a black, cobwebby net, which darkened her curls to an off-shade of dried blood. Her cerulean eyes were deep-set, well-guarded by knobby, bony brows and thick brown eyebrows. Any time a male got within seven feet of her person, her eyes narrowed to oriental dimensions. Her face had been pretty when she was a young girl, and she would have been handsome still if it were not for the harsh frown lines across her broad forehead and the deeply grooved diagonals that ran from the wings of her nose to the corners of her turned down mouth. Her retrousse nose was splattered with tiny pointillist freckles.
Violette always moved swiftly at her tasks around the restaurants where she worked—rarely made a mistake in addition—and her large white fluttering hands could deftly carry up to six cups of coffee on saucers without spilling a drop. A highly skilled waitress, when the time came for her to quit a job, every manager she had ever worked for regretted her departure. By all rights Violette should have made more money in tips than the other waitresses, if efficiency was a factor, but she was the kind of woman (and men knew this, as if by instinct) who would accept a miserly ten percent tip without making a fuss. Shrewder middle-aged men, after taking a sharp look at her, left no tip at all. As a consequence, she made much less in tips than the other waitresses.
At this midway point in her life—which frequently, at thirty-six, seems even more than a midway point to women than it does to men—Violette had had three husbands so far. By her standards, by anyone’s standards, they had been losers to a man.
Her first husband, Tommy, was the same boy she went steady with all of the way through junior and senior high in Greenwood, Mississippi. They had moved in with Tommy’s parents after getting married upon graduation from high school but, three months later, Tommy left Greenwood with a carnival that was passing through town, and no one had ever heard from him again. Two years after his departure, Violette got a divorce after giving Tommy notice in the classified section of the Greenwood paper for three weeks in a row.
At that time and in a less than liberal region, it had been embarrassing for a divorced woman to live in Greenwood, so Violette added the extra “te” to her name and moved to Memphis. She obtained a job as a roller-skating carhop at the Witch Stand.
After only three months on the job she was hit by a red M.G. that pulled into the lot at 55 miles per hour. Even so she would have been able to dodge the M.G. okay, the manager told the police (Violette was a terrific skater), but she had tried to save a tray full of cheeseburgers, double fries and two double choc-malts at the same time she tried to make good her escape from the vehicle.
During her stay in the hospital, Violette fell in love with an alcoholic named Bubba Winters who was recovering from double pneumonia. Bubba had passed out in a cold rain down by the levee and had almost died from exposure before being discovered by an early morning fisherman. They were married two days after their release from the hospital, and Violette went back to work—this time as a waitress at the Blue Goose Cafe—still wearing a cast on her left leg. She had to pay off both hospital bills and support them both as well, because Bubba’s old boss at the Regroovy Tire Center claimed that Bubba, with his weak chest and all, wasn’t strong enough to change tires all day.
To show her love for Bubba, Violette tried to drink with him at night when her work day was over, but she didn’t have the head for it. Bubba, who had learned to drink in the Marines where he had served three years out of his four-year hitch in Olongapo on Luzon, had a great capacity for gin. In addition to ugly hangovers, Violette awoke one morning to discover that she had a tattoo on her right forearm, a tattoo she had assented to woozily the night before to show her devotion to Bubba. In addition to a tiny red heart pierced with a dark blue dagger, there was a stern motto in blue block letters below the heart: DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR. The twin to Violette’s tattoo—although it was slightly larger, both heart and lettering—was on Bubba’s right forearm and had been there since his first overnight pass to San Diego from Boot Camp. Somehow the tattoo looked right on Bubba, but it looked a little funny on Violette’s forearm; and because the Blue Goose patrons made remarks about it all the time, she was forced to wear long-sleeved blouses to work. She never drank again.
When Bubba’s unemployment checks ran out, and Violette was unable to keep him in gin because of the exorbitant doctor and hospital bills, so did Bubba. When Violette finished paying off her debts, she moved to Jacksonville, Florida. She didn’t want to risk the possibility that Bubba might come back to Memphis.
Violette retained Bubba’s surname, however, after divorcing her third husband—a civil service warehouseman (G-S 3) in the Jacksonville Naval District—because she had never gotten around to divorcing Bubba Winters before she married him. The warehouseman, Gunter Ffaas, who didn’t drink or smoke, was a compulsive gambler. Every two weeks, when he got paid, he lost his money in the regular warehouse crap game before coming home to Violette. Violette, who worked as a waitress at Smitty’s Beef House in downtown Jax, rarely had two dimes to rub together all of the time she was illegally married to warehouseman Haas.
One night—a pay night—after Haas had lost all of his pay, he brought three of his fellow warehousemen home with him at 1:00 A.M. to show them Violette’s tattoo. Unbelievers, they had foolishly bet Haas five bucks apiece that his wife did not have a tattoo on her forearm. She showed them the tattoo so Haas could collect his winnings, but the next day she had left Haas and Jacksonville for Miami on the Greyhound bus. Except for his low I.Q. and penchant for gambling, Haas hadn’t been a bad husband, as husbands go; but the insensitivity to her person in bringing three men into her bedroom, and her with just a nighty on, had been too much for her. Besides, as she wrote her married sister back in Greenwood, “we were only married in name only. Legally, I’m still married to Mr. Winters, even though I’ll never love anyone as much as I loved Tommy.”
Three sorry marriages to three losers had made Violette wary of romance. She suspected, wisely, that she could fall in love again and that she was susceptible to losers. So she solved her problem by staying away from men altogether except in line of duty as a waitress. Gradually, week by week, Violette was finally building a little nest egg for herself, depositing ten dollars of her tips each week in the First Federal Savings Bank & Trust Company of Miami.
In Miami Violette had found a job almost immediately in the El Quatro Lounge and Restaurant on the Tamiami Trail (Eighth Street). Because of its peculiar hours (it opened at 4:00 A.M. and closed at noon), the El Quatro attracted a unique clientele. The first arrivals, at 4:00 A.M., were mostly drunks who came from other bars or party diehards who had decided to carry on the party elsewhere. By 6:00 A.M. another group arrived, mostly hard-working construction workers who liked steak and eggs for breakfast. There were also large breakfast wedding parties two or three mornings a week. By 10:30 A.M., a good many secretaries arrived in twos and threes to eat early lunches. They would be needed to answer the telephones in their offices during the noon hour when their bosses went out for longer and much more leisurely martini lunches. As a consequence, Violette worked hard at the El Quatro and never quite got accustomed to the hours.
Violette rented a room with a private bath from a Cuban family on Second Street. She said very little to the members of the Duarte family because they made it a practice—a dying stab at the preservation of their culture—to only speak Spanish at home. Violette did not sleep very well, that is for any prolonged stretch at a time. The family was noisy, but that wouldn’t have bothered her much; it was the peculiar working hours. Exhausted by the time she arrived home at 1:00 P.M., she napped fitfully, off and on, and watched television until it was time to go to work again. She ate two meals at El Quatro and rarely fixed anything to eat on the hotplate she had in her room. She ate a good deal of candy between meals, mostly Brach’s chocolate-covered peanut clusters and chocolate-covered almonds.
On her day off (Monday), she took the bus to Key Biscayne and rented a cabana at Crandon Park. She would wander around the zoo, sit in the shade of her cabana looking at the muddy sea, and browse idly through the magazines she brought along. Her favorite magazines were Cosmopolitan and Ingenue, with Modern Romances a close third. She also subscribed to The Enquirer, but she read that at home. On these lazy off-days, Violette almost forgot sometimes that she was a waitress, but she always remembered to pick up her clean uniforms for the week on her way home.
Violette hated being a waitress, but she knew there wasn’t anything she could do about it because of her astrological sign. She had read it in the Miami News when she checked her daily horoscope on her birthday: “An Aries born on this date will be a good waitress.”
