Rivethead - Ben Hamper [100]
I drove downtown and waited for Bernstein in the lobby of the Hyatt. He came down the elevator carrying a large duffel bag. He looked more like a paratrooper than an influential television producer. “Ben Hamper?” he asked.
“Um, yes,” I answered, fumbling to light another cigarette.
“Let's find a restaurant. We can talk over lunch.”
We took a table over in the corner of this glitzy eatery on the main floor of the Hyatt. There were plenty of plants and too much sunlight. I felt exposed and nervous. Bernstein sat across from me in total silence. I stared out the window at the derelicts who were trooping by on the Saginaw Street bridge. I wondered how I was doing so far.
Finally, Bernstein spoke. He asked if I would describe some of the recent subject matter contained in my Rivethead column.
I mentioned such things as GM's deceptive Quality humbug, their annoying habit of promoting only suck-asses and snitches, their reliance on childish propaganda gimmicks and their southbound extermination scheme. I mentioned the Howie Makem farce and the brainwashing message boards.
Bernstein's face became visibly red. “I'm telling you right now,” he huffed, “I didn't come all the way out here to do an anti-GM piece. I have no axe to grind with those people.”
“Well, if you read the Wall Street Journal story, you had to know I took the view of an assembly worker. What did you think I was writing about? The glorious advent of robotics?”
“I'm just explaining that I have no interest in doing a rip job on General Motors.”
“Fine,” I said, “let's talk about something else.”
We sat there for several minutes without speaking. Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Here he represented the most popular muck-slingin’ television mouthpiece in all America and he seemed to be taking the stance that GM was some sort of hands-off sacred cow. The thought occurred to me that GM was probably their leading sponsor, their most consistent meal ticket.
Our conversation resumed, a confrontational tone firmly implanted:
“If you're such a popular writer in this town, how come no one has come over to greet you?”
“I can only assume they're intimidated by the presence of such an esteemed visitor.”
“Do your columns elicit any reaction from your co-workers?”
“In most cases, mainly laughter.”
“Then you are an ENTERTAINER!”
“Aren't all writers?”
“From what you were saying a minute ago, I was under the impression that there was some type of social significance to your writing.”
Outside the window, a vagrant was pushing an old shopping cart across the bridge. I looked at him closely. He seemed utterly content. There was no hint of anger or discord. There was no sign of crossfire. There wasn't much of anything. I swelled with a sudden sense of envy.
The interview was headed nowhere. It seemed increasingly evident that, besides his producer's title, Joel Bernstein was sworn to another duty—to run interference for the impending spine-removal tactics of a Mike Wallace or an Ed Bradley. If you managed to weather his test run, perhaps they would fly in the heavy artillery and your mama would get to see you squirm in prime time.
I knew I'd failed the test run when Bernstein pointed out my obvious discomfort with simple conversation. It was true. Talking with people that I really didn't know tended to make my insides twist and shout. Maybe that's why I had taken up typing.
“How would you handle it if Harry Reasoner was sitting in my place and the camera was rolling in on you?” the producer demanded.
By this point, I'd ceased to give a shit. “I'd make sure that I was drunk,” I replied.
Bernstein almost flew out of his chair. “NOT ON 60 MINUTES YOU WON'T!”
So be it. To be honest,