Chapter Five

he alarm goes off at 6:30, because I want to be up and at 'em and ready to skin 'em on the big day of the press conference. I assume it's another hot sunny day in Las Vegas, but it's impossible to tell from looking outside, since the hotel has rigged up some kind of exterior arrangement of blue neon lighting around all the windows that seeps into the room day and night simulating a perpetual twilight, a concession to gamblers, somebody told me, who don't want to be reminded that they have been up all night at their chores.

I bump into Morrie on the breakfast line, who tells me that Diana is catching a little extra sack time, information he has gathered, he says, by a phone call to her room. "Poor kid," he says. "I guess she's all tuckered out."

Poor kid, probably from admiring herself all night in the ceiling mirror. Morrie looks terrible, downtrodden and sad, but he makes no mention of the events of last evening. During breakfast he keeps glancing around the room nervously, hunching his shoulders and exhibiting a slight tic in his neck I have never noticed before. Finally, over coffee, he says, "Sorry about last night. Your ear looks terrible."

It feels terrible, but it will be all right. It is red and swollen, but I can hear all right, I don't have a headache, and the skin isn't broken. So I assume eventually it will recede back to something like normal.

Morrie and I share a cab together to the Convention Center, arriving at about eight, just as the first visitors to our concession already are beginning to drop in for free coffee at our air-conditioned refreshment bar. The air conditioning is a blessing, since the desert sun is as hot as an oven, even at this early hour. Outside in the heat, Tony Passanante and his sales force are stationed at the various exhibit booths that line the main mall.

In the executive offices, I find Dr. Feigenweiser conferring with Shatsie, who is on the phone to Germany where it is two o'clock in the afternoon. Dr. Feigenweiser is cordial, but hardly genial. I show him the press kits with his treatise included, and he is pleased. The plan is for the press to arrive at about noon. After Diana checks them in at a reception desk, they will take chairs at the cafe tables in the piazza, and I will greet them from a podium next to a long table behind which will be seated Dr. Feigenweiser, Frank, Morrie and Tony. Dr. Feigenweiser and I, without going into the events of last night, agree that Tony and Morrie should be seated at opposite ends of the table.

"Vill Mowwie go gwazy again?" Dr. Feigenweiser asks.

"No," I say. "He was provoked."

My part of the day's activities is all set, with very little for me to do from now until noon, when the press is scheduled to arrive. I had intended simply to distribute the press kits, then ask Morrie to give a brief demonstration of the Hand-Arbiter, using a prop, take a few questions, then call a halt to the business part of the meeting, and invite everyone to sit down and enjoy a "picnic lunch box" of pate, cold shrimps, a pimento and avocado salad, and a pastry for dessert. White wine (which, diplomatically, I deferred to Morrie to select—a modest Sancerre), and, finally, a cup of coffee, will send them on their way with a warm glow and a press kit full of information about Hand-Arbiter to copy from back at their offices and print verbatim in the next month's issuance of their magazines. Dr. Feigenweiser's interjection, of course, will alter this schedule, with him making the major presentation, for twenty-five minutes, after which the Foreign Legionnaires will shake rub- ber hands all around, and then offer their palms for close inspection and fondling by the press, a bit of business that I have the feeling may turn everybody off from portions of the cold pimento and avocado salad. Anyway, that's a few hours away.

Now, at 8:30, three aides, or usherettes, show up, and are briefed by Shatsie in her office. These are local Vegas girls whom we rent from an agency to stand around in hot pants with farmer-in-the dell suspenders over tee shirts and wearing straw hats. On the front of the tee shirts, in and out of the valleys, you can make out the company's name, PRO-TEC. Since one of the major objects of an exposition of this kind is to attract sales leads, the girls have as their assignment to direct any visitors to our area toward a table with a giant glass bowl on it into which they are invited to drop their name, address, affiliation, and an indication of whether or not they want to receive sales literature and a sales call follow-up. (They'll get the sales literature whether they say they want it or not.) Every day at the hour of noon, one of the girls will draw a slip from the glass bowl, and read the name of a winner over the public address system, winners being entitled to a two- week vacation for two to Hawaii, or a free prosthetic device of their choice. These prosthetic devices are not cheap, so anyone with a leg missing, or whatever, might very well choose the plastic replacement, at least such is the thinking of our leader, Frank, whose brainchild this lottery drawing is. Of course, there are a lot of distributors and dealers here at the exposition, and if a guy has already been to Hawaii and doesn't want to go again, even if his own limbs are all intact, he might choose the prosthetic device which he could then sell through his outlet back home and use the money from the sale for a trip to Paris for two weeks. So maybe Frank knows what he's doing, at that. At first, Frank just wanted to offer the prosthetic device, but Tony, I think it was, persuaded him to offer the trip to Hawaii as an alternative, in case the winner didn't want the inconvenience of carrying a plastic leg home with him on the plane. Actually, this drawing is rather generous, at least in comparison with what other exhibitors are offering, things like free fountain pens and pocket calculators. The Krauts have arranged for the Pro-Tec barrage balloon overhead to circle around trailing a banner reading: "BIG PRIZES AT PRO- TEC." This, it is anticipated, will stimulate traffic to our exhibit area.

It looks as though everything is under control; the food is scheduled to arrive from a concessionaire at 11:45, with a crew of waitresses in white uniforms to serve it. I step outside, and except for my throbbing ear, feel fairly comfortable with myself. The sky is deep blue, the sun high, and I raise my face to catch a few minutes of the last rays of summer and perhaps darken my complexion just slightly so that when I return home to Connecticut everyone who sees me will think I am a playboy who vacations all summer, or at the least, a world traveler moving through romantic places. As I look upward, the barrage balloon floats before my eyes, with its trailer: "BIG PRICES AT PRO-TEC." A nice promotional touch. We have completely dominated the competition at this exposition. Big PRICES! What the hell is going on?! PRIZES, for Christ sake!

I scurry into the executive suite and interrupt Shatsie dialing Germany again. "Shatsie! Shatsie! Hold the phone!" I bawl at her. She hangs up.

"Who ordered the sign on the barrage balloon?"

"I did," she says, a look of pride crowding aside her normally depraved expression.

"It says, 'Big prices.'"

"Ja," she says. "Zat's vot I told zem—big pwi-ces."

"Prizes! Shatsie! Prizes!"

"Oh! Mit an 's'."

"Mit a 'z'!"

"Mit a 'z'," Shatsie says. "So ve spell it wight now." And she goes for the phone again.

For the rest of the morning, traffic at the Pro-Tec exhibit is heavy. Tony and his men are busy waving plastic arms and hearts at holiday-spirited groups of distributors and dealers who have come to our area to check out the latest developments in prosthetics while helping themselves to free coffee and Danish pastries and enjoying the air- conditioned comfort of our sultan's tent. Our farmerette hostesses don't let them escape without getting their entries into the daily raffle.

At 11:30, Frank arrives in a taxi, accompanied by Diana. (She sure manages to be in the right place always at the right time.) When Frank walks down the center mall of the exhibit area, it's a little like a general inspecting the troops. Everyone stands just a little straighter, except the Vegas farmerette hostesses who try to interest him in taking a chance on a trip to Hawaii.

I encounter him at the entrance to the circus tent, as I have just finished setting up the speaker's table and tested the microphone.

"Good morning, Frank."

"Wha hoppen to y'ear?" he says.

"Oh? Oh, my ear? Oh, ho. That's a story."

"You guys do too much drinkin'. We're not out here ta play. We're here ta do a job."

"Everything's all set, Frank."

"It better be." And he moves on inside.

"He's cute," Diana says to me. And then adds, "How's Morrie?"

"He's fine. For a guy that didn't sleep much last night."

"What do you mean, didn't sleep much?" She glares at me, the crease between her eyes deepening for a moment, looking as though it will cleave her head.

"Restless, you know."

"Oh."

The food arrives, as scheduled, at 11:45. My press guys, loyal bunch that they are, and hungry, start arriving just before noon. We have plenty of food. There is a slight delay of the press conference while we wait for one of the farmerettes to pull the name of today's winner of the trip to Hawaii.

"Mr. and Mrs. Aldo Bellagamba!" she calls out. I am not even surprised. A little hurt, perhaps, that Aldo and Loretta didn't bother to took me up and say hello. The press people have been touring the convention area since nine o'clock, and already their briefcases are full of press releases which they have picked up. They have the whole afternoon and evening and two more days of this, so they are glad enough to be seated and ready for lunch. Scattered amongst them as inconspicuously as possible are the ten Krauts in navy blazers and gray flannels who will rise at the end of Dr. Feigenweiser's presentation, and shake hands with the journalist of their choice, and then offer a close-up individualized working demonstration of how the Hand-Arbiter works.

I know these press people, and am comfortable and informal with them. Even the guys I don't know I greet familiarly, so that Frank, who is watching me closely, probably to discern any signs of lapsing dignity, will get the impression that my press contacts are indispensable to the company's success.

"Hey, Joe! Good to see you, buddy!" Reading the name "Joseph Meechum" on the lapel of one fellow I have never before seen in my life.

"Is this the Sport Supporter press luncheon?" Mr. Meechum asks in a loud voice. Sport Supporter, our major competitor.

"Sh-h-h-h-h! Not so loud. Yes, it is, Joe. Sit right down. You'll have the opportunity in a few minutes of meeting the president of our company!"

I tell Diana to get the guy aside, and run his ass the hell off the premises.

"Language!" she says.

With everyone seated, I greet the press corps in a casual kind of way, but with a dignified presentation, sort of the way a professional toastmaster might do it, not neglecting to underline the main point that in the press kits laid out on the tables at their various places they will be able to read about a prosthetic device that is "light years ahead of anything the industry has yet devised."

"And here to describe the background connected with the development of Pro- Tec's new Hand-Arbiter prosthetic device is the inventor himself, Dr. Wolfgang Feigenweiser!"

It is incredible to me to hear Dr. Feigenweiser speaking now, in his German accent, which somehow seems twice as impermeable as in normal conversation. With medical references to metatarsals and femurs and occipital regions, the press guys after the first five minutes are growing restive. Larry Hopkins, Editor-in-Chief of The American Review, who is generally acknowledged as the dean of the prosthetic device journalists, sets what I suddenly have a premonition may turn out to be an unfortunate example by rising from his seat at about eight minutes into Feigenweiser's dissertation and slipping over to me.

"Good meeting," he says out of the side of his mouth. "I got all your stuff " He pats the kit of press material. "I'll do a nice job for you in the next issue."

"Gee, thanks, Larry. Aren't you going to stay for lunch?"

"I'd like to, really. But the Sport Supporter guys are having an affair in five minutes. I promised I'd show up."

"Oh, well. Sure. I understand. Thanks for coming by, Larry." I am still shaking his hand goodbye, when Fred Payntor, Managing Editor of Precision Prosthetics, comes at me from the other side.

"Good meeting," he says out of the side of his mouth. "I got all your stuff " He pats the kit of press material. "I'll do a nice job for you in the next issue."

"Gee, thanks, Fred. Aren't you going to stay for lunch?"

"I'd like to, really. But the Sport Supporter guys are having an affair in five minutes. I promised I'd show up."

"Oh, well. Sure. I understand. Thanks for coming by, Fred."

Two guys are standing next to me, the editor and the publisher of Prosthetic Technology, with the same story as the others.

Feigenwelser has fifteen minutes more to go, and the editors of my three top magazines of the industry have walked out. Surveying the room, I can see others in the audience, looking about them, vying to see who will be the next to rise and come over without appearing too unseemly about it.

Joe Meechum, the guy whom I did not know when I greeted him familiarly a few minutes before, is the next to approach me.

"Good meeting," he says out of the side of his mouth. "I got all your stuff." He pats the kit of press material. "I'll do a nice job for you in the next issue."

"Gee, thanks, Joe. Aren't you going to stay for lunch?"

"I'd like to, really. But the Pro-Tec guys are having an affair in five minutes. I promised I'd show up."

I've got to get Feigenwelser to cut his speech short before they all leave. I slip away from another reporter whom I see coming at me with regrets, and make my way up to the head table. I tiptoe around behind the Pro-Tec management people, trying to demonstrate that if I am not invisible, at least I am respectful. Out in the audience, two more journalists have moved to the back, and are waving at me, as they leave. I wave back, as Frank revolves his head on his neck in my direction, and glares at me. I sit down in an empty chair near Feigenweiser, and give him a little tap on the shoulder, as he drones on. But either he is so deep in concentration over his text that he is oblivious to all else, or his shoulder is made of some kind of artificial material that doesn't respond to the touch. He does not pause.

"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s-t-t-t-t-t, Dr. Feigenweiser," I hiss at him.

"Quiet!" I hear behind me. It is Frank, looking as though he is about to get up from his seat and give me a dignified belt in the mouth.

There is nothing to do. Feigenweiser drones on. My press guys keep slinking out the back, looking up at the last minute, and making little A-OK signs with thumb and fore- finger, or waving good-bye. One guy tosses me a kiss. Not so with Mary Deegan, Managing Editor of Arms, Legs, Etc. She waits to catch my eye, then rolls her eyes heavenward, as if commiserating with me, and turns and flees.

I sit with the others, as Feigenweiser, after close to twenty-five minutes, finally grinds to the end of his paper. "I zink zat gifs evwybody a pwetty gut picture of Hand- Arbeiter," he says, reaching for a glass of water, "zo I vill now ask now my associates in ze audience to wise und ingwoduce zemselves to you, und you can ask zem anyzing you vish. "

At that point, the entire audience that remains seated in front of us rises, there being no journalists left among them, only the ten Krauts, who after a moment of looking consternated, turn to each other, and shake hands genially.

"I hope you will all stay for lunch," I say quickly, and slink away from the table to the men's room, both to be alone for a moment to think, and to wait until the nausea passes.

There is nothing to think about, except that probably I will be blamed for not tying the journalists to the tables, and the nausea does pass, so I go out to face the music.

"How did zey like my pwesentation?" Dr. Feigenweiser asks, intercepting me quickly.

"Not bad, Doctor. Not bad. I think we'll get good press coverage." Which is the truth. Though I will never have credibility with any of my contacts again.

"Gut," he says, adding, "Frank is looking for you."

I don't want to see Frank, but, of course, there is no avoiding him. He is seated at a table with a plate already in front of him, chewing on a shrimp, and brandishing a glass of Diet Pepsi in one hand.

"Wha' hoppened?" he growls at me.

"Everybody had all the material they needed. We'll get good press coverage, Frank."

"Wha'd dey all walk out fa?"

Guess, you asshole! I almost say it, but thinking of my family, my company pension investiture (due not until another six months) I manage instead to smile thinly. "Sport Supporter was holding a press conference simultaneously, Frank. The guys came to ours first as a courtesy to me, then felt they had to go over there."

"Oh? Okay. Siddown and eat."

And that's the end of it. My part of the conference is over. I can catch a jet out that afternoon, comfortable in the knowledge that Feigenweiser will go back to Germany and tell everyone that they loved his presentation in Vegas; Frank is reasonably satisfied that we have held a successful press conference; Pro-Tec will get the publicity that the journalists promised; Tony will get his blow job; Morrie will have had two nights with Diana; and I go home with a cauliflower ear to see my dear wife and find out if there is news of how my son is doing at his prep school. These thoughts all occur as my mind races forward to the next step in my life, which will occur in my 51st year, because today, I suddenly remember, is my 50th birthday.

© Robert Riche