Some Faces in the Crowd (3 page)

Lonesome branched out from sanitation problems to advice on rent controls and diplomatic appointments. And became not only a political pundit but a good Samaritan. He built up a little department for himself called “My Brother’s Keeper.” During the four and one-half minutes for BK, as we called it, he would appeal for some personal cause. For instance, a little boy was dying in Meridian, Wisconsin, and his blood wasn’t one of the two usual types. Lonesome told the story with all the stops out and asked for blood. Half an hour after the broadcast there had been nearly a thousand calls from all over the United States. That’s what they call penetration. Lonesome was just lousy with penetration. A widow in New Jersey with nine kids had her house burn down and Lonesome asked for the dough to rebuild it. “Nobody send more’n a buck,” he said. “It’s us ordinary folks got to do this thing.” Us ordinary folks threw in about twice as much as they needed to replace the house. Lonesome thought up a gimmick for that, too. He organized the Lonesome Rhodes Foundation. Anything over the amount he asked for specific cases went into the pot. It was a tax-exempt setup and some big names kicked in, some out of pure generosity, I suppose, and maybe some for the publicity value of having Lonesome say, “Thank you Oscar Zilch, you’re good people,” over the air. The foundation became kind of an obsession with Lonesome. To listen to him you would have thought that no other charities and no other humanitarianism was being perpetrated in America. Celebrities who, for one reason or another, failed to come through for the foundation became the targets of public and private abuse from Lonesome Rhodes. He would do everything from questioning the legitimacy of their birth to hinting at their involvement in the latest Communist spy ring. BK and the foundation did some good, I will admit, but at no small cost to those of us around him who had to put up with the emotional wear and tear of his playing God in a hair shirt.

It was about this time, near the end of his second twenty-six weeks, that Lonesome took his first fling into international politics. Until now he had contented himself with just telling us how to solve our domestic problems. But suddenly—I think it was from getting indigestion after eating some tainted shrimps in a Chinese restaurant—he went global. He warned the Chinese that if they didn’t stop messing around with us in Korea he’d stop sending his shirts out to a Chinese laundry. Back in Riddle there was a Chinaboy who aimed to marry into Grandpaw Bascom’s side of the family, he said. Grandpaw told the Chinese he couldn’t marry in until he went ’n cut off his pigtail. The Chinaboy said Hokay and went out to the barn and cut off the tail of Grandpaw’s favorite hawg. “That’s why I sez even when ya think ya got an agreement, never trust a Chinaman,” Lonesome said.

I tried to tell Lonesome I thought the story was pretty irresponsible, when we were still trying to work out a truce that would save American lives. But darned if a couple of senators didn’t write in and congratulate Lonesome for his brilliantly witty analysis of “our naive if not criminally mistaken foreign policy.” Lonesome was invited to address Veterans United and the Daughters of the Constitution and to write a daily column of political jokes for a national syndicate. I don’t know how many thousands wrote in after that Riddle Chinaboy joke telling Lonesome he was right and that we should break off negotiations in Korea and that this country would be a sight better off if we had a level-headed, plain-talkin’ fella like Lonesome Rhodes as Secretary of State.

I tried to tell him, “Lonesome, you’re fine as long as you gag your way through Old Smoky and tell your jokes about Cousin Abernathy in Riddle. But don’t you think before you go handing out pronouncements on China that you should know just a little bit about what you’re talking about?”

In the voice of the people, Lonesome said, “The people never know. The people is as mule-stupid as I am. We jest feel what’s right.”

I made a futile effort to explain: he was no more the voice of the people than I was, with my corrupted Vassar accent. In the sheep’s clothing of rural Americana, he was a shrewd businessman with a sharp eye on the main chance. He was a complicated human being, an intensely self-centered one, who chose to wear the mask of the stumbling, bumbling, good-natured, “Shucks-folks-you-know-more-about-this-stuff-’n-I-do” oaf.

Like the time Lonesome made a really fine, moving talk about the noble institution of marriage. He had been singing “The Weaver’s Song” and he cut into that tender ballad to ask everyone who might be contemplating divorce to try just a little harder to see the other side of the argument. “Never leave a first love just to have the last word,” he murmured to the accompaniment of a few soft chords on that makeshift guitar. The response was fantastic. Some five thousand couples wrote in to tell Lonesome they were “reconsidering” and he promised the reconciled couple who wrote the best letter on why they made up that he would have them on his program and blow them to a whirlwind week-end in Chicago (“Second Honeymoon”) at his own expense (tax deductible). Easy for him to say. I had to read, sort out and grade the darn letters. Such drool you never heard. Lonesome was described as a cross between the Lord Jesus and Santa Claus with the better features of both. Lonesome was getting so benevolent it was coming out his ears.

Forty-eight hours after Lonesome had come out unequivocally for marital bliss I was in my apartment working through the pile-up of letters when the phone rang. It was a woman I had never heard of before who said her name was Mrs. Rhodes. “Lonesome’s mother?” I asked in my sweetest maybe-daughter-in-law-to-beish voice. “No, his wife,” was the answer. “I wanna see you.”

I must admit I was a little curious to see her, too.

She was about forty, in the process of getting fat, but you could see that she had been attractive once in a showy, third-rate way. Being a snob by instinct and a democrat by conviction, I tried to reject the word “coarse.” But it hung over us like a low fog dampening our conversation.

“So you’re Lonesome’s new tootsie,” she opened. “Well I hope you have more luck keeping him home than I did.”

“I am simply a business associate and personal friend of Mr. Rhodes,” I said, cool, collected and unconvincing.

“Come off it, miss,” she said. “The floor manager on your program is my brother-in-law’s first cousin. He writes me what’s been going on.”

“I must say that it is gracious of you to inform me that Mr. Rhodes is married,” I said. “I think he might have done me the courtesy of telling me himself.”

“Mr. Rhodes never did nobody no courtesies,” said Mrs. Rhodes. “If you want my opinion, Mr. Rhodes is a no-good bastard.”

“I have no doubt your opinion is based on considerable experience,” I said.

“Not only is Mr. Rhodes a bastard,” Mrs. Rhodes went on, “Mr. Rhodes is a crazy bastard. A psycho-something or other. His skull thumper told me.”

“Skull thumper?”

“His mind doctor,” she explained. With her index finger she described a series of sympathetic circles against her temple. “Bells in the batfry.”

“I see. And may I ask just exactly what is the purpose of your visit?”

“Get Larry to shell out three thousand a month and I’ll divorce him. Otherwise I not only won’t divorce him, I’ll make it plenty hot for the both of you.”

“I am not engaged to your husband,” I said. “I mean I—I suggest you discuss this matter between yourselves.”

“Larry thinks he has to have every broad he sees,” said Mrs. Rhodes. “And as soon as he has ’em he calls ’em tramps and leaves ’em for something new. It’s part of his psycho-something or other.”

“A very interesting diagnosis,” I said, thanking my little stars I had never succumbed to the jovial, overgrown lap-dog passes of Lonesome Larry. “But I still suggest this is a matter between you and Mr. Rhodes.”

“He’s a two-timing no-goodnick,” she said. “I caught him red-handed with my best girl friend. He broke my jaw.”

“It seems to be working quite effectively now,” I said, and showed the lady to the door.

I don’t know why, it didn’t really concern me except that Mrs. Rhodes’ husband had proposed to me and I was curious, which Mr. Webster defines as habitually inquisitive. I called him at the Ambassador and told him I had something on my mind. “Marshy, come on over,” he boomed. “Come over an’ have a drink an’ hear the good news. You’ll be proud of me.”

“You,” I said. “You hypocrite. You pious bigmouth. You oracle, you.”

“Marshy,” he said, and he tried to laugh it away. He could commit murder with that haw-haw-haw and everybody would think he was being a laugh riot. “You just need a drink, Marshy honey.”

“Something is cockeyed wrong with the world,” I said.

“Why for? Why for, my lovely marshmallow?”

“The way people listen to you,” I said. “The way they believe you. It’s fake, it’s mirrors, it’s false bottoms. You and your Cadillacs and your Grandpaw Bascom. A man of the people. My derrière.”

“Marshy,” he said, “you’re tired, you’ve been working too hard. You need a vacation. We’ll go to Sea Island.”

“Damn it, we’re not a
we,”
I said. “I hate you, hate what you stand for.”

“What do you stand for?” he said, and the easy laughter was gone from his voice now.

“I—I don’t know. Something better. Something true somewhere. I can’t explain it very well. All I know is I hate phonies, sham is for the birds.”

“Take it easy, Marshy. You’re the boss. I carry the ball but you call the signals, you know that. Now just come over and relax with some of this good Irish drinking whiskey. Let Uncle Lonesome put a friendly arm around you and tell you how rich an’ pretty you’re gonna be.”

Well, I went over. I tell you I wasn’t in love with the man, just involved with him in some perverse professional way. He wasn’t alone, he was with Tommy de Palma. De Palma was one of those advertising-agency boys. Bright. Quick. Immaculate. In the next life he’ll make a good pilot fish for sharks. I don’t mean to go into de Palma but I can’t resist one short take: he’s the kind of fellow who attaches himself to a celebrity, acts the part of the responsible friend, solemnly warns he is going to tell the truth even if it hurts, and then plays back in slightly off-beat fashion all the things the great one wants to hear. Essentially it’s a business relationship, but it poses as rather an intense personal friendship. Tommy de Palma, the account executive who handled the Lonesome Rhodes-Peerless account, was now Lonesome’s best friend.

Tidings of great commercial joy were being toasted with that bottle of Jameson’s.

“Marshy, the busher days are over, we’re moving in on the big stuff. New York! New York! Big frog in big pond department.”

The plan had size, all right. Lonesome was going to do two different big shows, the ballad-singing “Arkansas Traveler” thing, and a biweekly news commentary to be called “The Cracker Barrel,” Lonesome Rhodes the hayseed philosopher jest talkin’ things over with his Cousin Abernathy, his Grandpaw Bascom and his Aunt Lucy-belle. “We’ll chew up everything from the UN to tax evasion and back to Riddle,” Lonesome said. “And we’ll make a lousy fortune, Marshy girl. We ain’t a-goin’ t’ work through no advertisin’ agency, neither. Why give them 15 per cent of five G’s a week? We’ll be our own advertising agency. Tommy here’ll head it up for me. It’s gonna be Rhodes, de Palma and Coulihan. We’re partners, Marshy. Put ’er there, pardner. You’ll be drawing five hundred a week for openers.”

“What have you boys been smoking?” I said.

“It’s a shoo-in, Marcia.” De Palma took over in that sure, slick, black-knit-tie, bright-young-senior way he had. You could see him being the most enterprising prexy the Psi U’s ever had. “Lonesome is the biggest thing in home entertainment today. His Nielsen is seventeen point nine. His penetration is …”

“Marshy,” Lonesome said. “In three years I’m going to be a lousy millionaire. I’m going to have half a dozen cars. I’ll have two hundred suits. I’ll have a private railroad car and a yacht, maybe a plane and a big place in the country. And I’ll tell the people what to eat and who to help and what to think.”

“The most authentic voice of the people since Will Rogers,” said Tommy de Palma.

“Bigger’n Rogers,” Lonesome said. “I got more mediums to be big on. The biggest.”

“The greatest,” said Tommy de Palma.

“And without you, Marshy,” Lonesome said, “—and that’s the reason I wanted you to come over—without you, why kid myself?—I’d still be a bum.”

“Let’s face it,” I said. “With me you’re still a bum. A bum with a corny magic touch. A bum with money.”

“I do a lot of good,” Lonesome said. “The charities. The BK. I’m gonna start plugging a Lonesome Rhodes Summer Camp for poor city kids. Before I’m through with ’em every sucker in the country is gonna love me.”

“Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t love you,” I said.

“That bag,” he said. “That bad dream. My nemesis. She just called me.”

“Some simple soul,” I said. “Some spokesman for the good family life. Next time you propose to anybody you might consider getting unmarried first.”

“Marshy, so help me God, I got a divorce in Mexico, but the judge got indicted for fraud, so my ex claims it didn’t take. Now she thinks she’s got a gun at my head. Well, OK, I’ll give ’er her stinkin’ three thousand a month—anything to get her off my neck. I’m nuts about you, Marshy. I can’t live without you.”

“On the cigar-box guitar it might sound good,” I said.

De Palma rose, straightened his creases and said, “Gotta run, kiddies. Early-morning golf game with Mr. Peerless himself. Here’s a good-night drink to Rhodes, de Palma and Coulihan. Dat’s how dynasties are born.”

Lonesome and I did a little Indian wrestling on the couch. It’s a good thing I have muscles from my tennis days.

“Larry,” I said, “the marriage department is one of the things I never fool with. Next thing you know we’re all in one great mess. Bad for us, and not too healthy for Rhodes, de Palma and Coulihan, either.”

“Then you’re comin’ along?”

Well, I suppose I was. If a girl is going in for careers she might as well make it a good one. It looked as if I had found a home with Lonesome Rhodes, Inc.

“Thanks, Marshy,” Lonesome said. “I wouldn’t tell this to anybody else, but sometimes early in the morning I get kind of scared, Marsh. Sure, I wanna be a success. I got the gimmees just about as bad as anybody, but, shucks, I never figgered on anything like this. The number-one rating and the column and the comic strip and the Grand-paw Bascom dolls and Lonesome Rhodes drinks this and smokes that and everybody hangin’ on my opinion of how t’ bring back the good ol’ hundred-cent dollar. It’s enough t’ scare a fella.”