The Wisdom of Perversity Read Free Page B

canal of his spine, sliding toward an embarrassing crack in his bedrock.
    â€œGet up!” Klein yanked him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, look what you did!”
    Brian reached around with his left hand, halting the descent of the damp soil at the small of his back, aware his clean shirt must be ruined. “I know,” a miserable Brian conceded.
    Klein pointed at the green carpet. “You stained Johnny’s rug.”
    Now Brian saw his saturated shirt had left a brown smudge. Horrified, he dropped to his knees, trying to soak up the moist residue with the palms of his hands, mumbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”
    â€œCut that out. You’re making it worse.” Klein tugged him off the set onto the bare stage. He let go to fish out a silver money clip from his pocket, peel off a twenty-dollar bill—a wonderfully large sum to Brian—and handed it to Sam. “Go to building services. Ask for Fred. Give him this to clean it up. Pronto. Before Props sees it.” He leaned close to Sam. “Don’t say the boys were in here. Got it? Say you knocked it over. I’ll protect you. Understood?”
    Sam nodded solemnly.
    Klein said, “Move it,” to Jeff and retook Brian’s hand to pull him clear of the scene. Fast. The rainbow curtain and the shadows of backstage went by in a blur of shame. They burst through the metal door into the fluorescent hallway, decorated by warnings that now seemed to have been well thought out. A mortified Brian concurred wholeheartedly with the wisdom of the signs— AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY; NBC EMPLOYEES ONLY —and especially with that vaguest yet most profound distinction of all— TALENT ONLY . Brian agreed he should have been kept out.
    Richard turned a corner into what looked to Brian like a submarine: a narrow, windowless gunmetal hall lined with doors, each fitted with a glass porthole. He hopped on tippy toe to peek into them as they rushed past the rooms. He was able to see only a blur of sleek electronic equipment.
    â€œHey, Dick,” a fat man in a T-shirt called from the open door of a room they whooshed by. “Who you got with you? New VPs of programming?” His laughter followed them around a corner.
    Jeff stopped dead in his tracks.
    Klein poked him in the back. “Keep moving.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Jeff barked.
    Brian looked at what his best friend had spotted. Behind a plate-glass wall there was a nearly empty white room: no chairs or desk, only a single machine rising from the floor, like Manhattan bedrock erupting through the building.
    â€œThat’s Grace,” Richard said. He put the flat of his right palm on Jeff’s skull and urged him forward. “Keep moving.”
    Jeff allowed his head to flop forward, but the rest of his body did not move. His head snapped back. “What’s Grace?”
    â€œKeep moving and I’ll tell you.” Klein pushed Jeff’s skull again.
    Jeff planted his feet. “What’s it do?”
    Brian moved beside Jeff to study this marvel. Tiny yellow, red, and white lights flashed throughout the breadth of the mechanism; switches flipped up and down, recording tape snaked through heads—a miniature world of ceaseless activity.
    â€œGrace is on all the time. She checks every word spoken live over the air. Now move it.” With a stiffened index finger he poked Jeff hard in the back.
    Jeff stumbled forward two steps, then dug in his heels. “Checks for what?”
    â€œI’ll tell you later.” Klein poked him again, even harder. “Move it.”
    Jeff did a one eighty, asking as he turned, “Checks what?” He braked by splaying his feet, wedging them against the wall as he faced Klein.
    â€œTo catch curse words,” Klein snapped. “All words go through Grace. There’s a five-second delay between what someone says in the studios and its going out over the air. Grace can