He pretended to be still more deeply outraged. "There you are! A
perfect Wylie situation. God, what an imposter! Not one lovely
girl--but two--are sent on silver salvers. You entertain them. You get
all the social opprobrium and none of the benefits. What confidence can
youth have in you, after a trick like that? Here you are--the last hope
for phallic worship in a dying world. The man with the one message that
makes sense. Either the boys get their breeches back--and do things to
make the dames respect 'em--or Nature will throw us out of the party.
You proclaim it with your foghorn and you play it on your xylophone.
But when it gets right down to the bedrocking--what do you do? You
personally, Mr. Prophet? Welsh! Walk out on the act!"
"Times are changing," I told him. "Phallic worship? Can you build
good rituals around our businessmen? A healthy restoration of
phallic worship would ruin the profitable activities of every vested
institution in the land, from its banks to its churches. People
wouldn't even care if the trains ran on time, any more. Think of that!"
Dave was leering at me pensively. "By God. It might be the thing to
revive Hollywood."
"Yeah," I said. "You open with a prologue that shows modern psychology
has found the roots of love in our love lives. Then you fade to the
American Home, where a Husband is trying to figure out how to arouse
or enchant or even slightly interest one Beautiful Blonde Mother. She
is rushing about the house swatting her children for bringing home a
magazine full of art studies. Her husband tries to slip his arm around
her--but she knows he is suffering from neurotic hay fever, makes his
living by manufacturing second-rate household appliances which he sells
owing to better advertising, is afraid of his stockholders, never had
the earning capacity of Joe Benson or Harvey Tekker or Don Oaker,
and is scared of her, besides. Great subject for phallic worship! We
fade to a contented pagan maiden in the South Sea Isles--ukeleles and
moonlight--"
"And the MPPA comes in and tosses out the film! It's a conspiracy!" he
said in a Durantean tone.
"You guys have worked out the vein--that's all. There can't be any
more very interesting movies till there's a new public attitude about
life. You've got to where there's no permissible area that you haven't
canvassed a hundred times. The new pictures are all remakes. People
get sick of such things. Jam yesterday, today and tomorrow is as bad
as none today. All the movies are self-plagiarisms. I even went to one
with Ricky this summer."
"We're grateful."
"Remember the _Three Little Pigs_--and the song about the 'Big Bad
Wolf' that people sang to kid themselves in the Depression?"
"I remember."
"So all right. We went to see this movie--and we also saw a remake
of the Little Pigs. Same story. Same art. Same theme song. At the
finale, the new inspiration is this: the wolf pops down the chimney of
the little pig in the brick house--hind end first. And the pig fills
a caldron with turpentine. The wolf lands in same--and the picture
irises down on the wolf roaring away, his hind legs held high, his
turpentined anus dragging, his forelegs pulling--like any dog. Now--I
was brought up to believe that you can't tell the same joke twice. And
I was also taught that putting turps on animals' rears was sadistic.
I still think it is. And I think it's too vulgar a way to try for a
laugh--cruelty to animals aside. That, my boy, is truly obscene--the
dying effort of a perishing industry. Fortunately--television is coming
in--and it will be far more vulgar. Television will really speed up the
fertile necessity of a great change in this disgraceful Western world.
Right?"
"Right," said Dave. "I saw that short. I psychologically snapped my
_petits fours_." He looked at me for a while. "Phil--why'd you call me
over here, this morning?"
Karl came with the gin and tea. I signed. He went.
Dave's question startled me. I suddenly saw it from his angle. I'd
allowed him to skip--or postpone--an important conference because
(I'd said) my nephew was on an emotional binge and I needed aid. Dave
would know that, all else being equal and normal, I could handle my
nephew. He'd know that, barring some editorial crisis, the cutting of
a serial wasn't so important I couldn't set it aside for a day or so
to row a relative through the waters of a soul-struggle. He'd know,
by my cursory attention to Paul--and by the way my talk had slatted
around--that I had more on my mind than Paul's problem. So he had
realized--and I had not--that I'd decided to call in a friend--for
myself.
"I need a good lawyer," I said.
"Oh--oh!"
I looked at him cross-eyed. "What an evil mind you have! I keep my
accounts and the tax people are not particularly interested in me.
No brunette has letters of mine and is asking for a thousand bucks.
Nobody is suing me for plagiarism. I just noticed a little nuisance in
the back of my throat the other day and went over to see Tom and had a
biopsy--and I want my affairs in order."