Chapter One

"I don't know why you listen to that stupid radio program. Philo Beenapper is a geek and it's dumb for you to listen to him." Kurt Moline's criticism rained on his wife like rancid dishwater.

Griselda glared back. "That's neither fair nor kind. He has the most interesting program on the radio and I am learning a lot from it. So what if he interviews people who are eccentric?"

"Eccentric is just a fancy word for geek, and he's the geekest."

"That’s a terrible thing to say! I find the man and what he says very stimulating."

"He's such a big star his program is five minutes long."

"It's not how long the show is on that counts, it's all the outrageous things people say. It’s interesting! It's broadcast live with no rehearsal, no coaching the audience. Besides, sometimes it's ten or fifteen minutes. It's exciting because you never know what will happen next."

"It's so silly, that after it's over you still don't know what happened."

"You just be ready to hush your mouth when it comes on." She adjusted the tuning knob a third time.

~

Eighteen miles from the Moline's apartment in suburban Chicago, Philo Beenapper waved his pass card to the usher at the press gate of Wrigley Field, entered, and joined the Cubs fans surging in to watch their team play baseball. He found an eddy of calm at the edge of the milling fans on the walkway around the second deck and unzipped the heavy nylon equipment bag hanging from his shoulder. After connecting the microphone to the transmitter that would relay his signal to the control room of radio station KLOG, he hooked on his earpiece and dialed in the audio engineer at the station. Everything worked.

In eight minutes Philo would be cued for his spot, "The Live Wire Show." This talk show, five to ten minutes long, was inserted for variety into the afternoon wasteland of "Melody Mel's Musical Medleys." The show was Philo's first in his short career and had been on for seven months. He hoped it would lead to full-time on the air and lift him out of his primary job at KLOG, selling advertising.

He bought a hot dog. People trusted a man who was eating more readily than they trusted someone who had a lean and hungry look, didn't they? Julius Caesar had said something about that, or was it Shakespeare? And hot dogs are good—reason enough for Beenapper, a pragmatist.

He attacked the hot dog like a beaver with a chain saw, savoring the excitement of the crowd, eager for the high-wire suspense that spontaneous interviewing brought him. He sucked the last stub of weeny from the bun, crumpled the scraps and paper, and tossed the bundle toward a waste can. The wad caromed off the edge and landed nearby in an elaborate picnic basket held by a stern looking woman in an ornate navy blue dress who stood at attention as if guarding the entrance to the women's rest room.

Beenapper quickly turned, moseyed innocently in the other direction and bought a hot dog to hold for effect. The audio engineer's tiny voice in his ear signalled a countdown and he began his program.

"This is 'The Live Wire Show' with Philo Beenapper. Today I'm at wonderful Wrigley Field where baseball fever is in the air this beautiful afternoon. The stands are filled with excited Cubs fans. The smells of peanuts and people are in the air; it's hot dog time, and mustard and ketchup from mine are dripping onto my shoes. It's a super crowd today and we're all having a great time! Let's talk to one of these fine fans!"

He approached a gangly young man who was wearing striped shorts, sandals, and a florid Hawaiian shirt.

"Excuse me, friend. I'm Philo Beenapper, with a question for my radio audience. Please tell me: What's the meaning of life?"

The man's eyes darted nervously from Philo to the microphone and then around the crowd, in front and behind.

"We're on the radio?"

"Yes we are."

"Hi, mom!"

"And your name is?"

"I'm Arlo Doorwax. You sure we're on the radio?"

"Yes we are, asking the question . . ."

"Hi, mom!" Arlo licked mustard from his fingers and wiped them on a nine-inch fuscia orchid on the flank of his shirt.

Patiently, Philo repeated, "I'm asking the question: What's the meaning of life?"

"Easy! Life is baseball and hot dogs, the American flag, and Mom. Hi, Mom! I'm on the radio!"

"Baseball, the flag, and Mom."

Arlo scratched his orchid and smiled, his teeth the color of the mustard crust that framed his lips. That's right."

"Anything else?"

"In the winter, hockey. Hockey and hot dogs, the American flag, and Mom. That's enough to satisfy anyone."

"Please explain."

It was the first time in his life he had been in the role of teacher. He looked through the crowd that milled around them. No one was watching but he felt like a celebrity. He elaborated. "Hockey and baseball—that’s good times, right? The flag is freedom, so we can have good times, right? And Mom!" He paused for a moment. "Say! You sure we're on the radio?"

"Yes we are."

"Hey!" Panic inflamed his voice. "How do we know if Mom's listening?"

"There isn't any way we can know that, Mr. Doorwax."

"I gotta find out!" He whirled toward the exit, his flailing arm lobbing a bystander's box of popcorn over the railing where it rained onto the crowd below. Fleeing, Arlo Doorwax shouted, "See you later, Mr. Beeslapper."

Beenapper watched the young man dash toward the exit and thoughtfully said, "Let's see—freedom to have good times, and Mom. Well, I'm in favor of each of those, but the list doesn't seem quite complete. "Let's find another person to talk with. How do you do, madam. I'm Philo Beenapper, on the radio asking: What's the meaning of life? Would you please tell us your name?"

The woman wore a flowing silver-gray dress of a lavish fabric unknown to the practical Beenapper. The dress was of formal cut, long, with sequin and brocade trim around the wrists and hem. He assumed that people who followed fashion trends would identify the exclusive designer who had created it. The subtleties were lost on Philo but he knew money when he saw it.

The woman replied, regally, "I'm Miss Libby LaTransit."

"That's a beautiful name, Miss LaTransit. Our question today is: What is the meaning of life?"

"The meaning of life? I can answer that, good sir. Life has meaning if you have enough money to be free. I'm not going to say anything about my own money, but it takes a lot of money to be free, and believe me, whoo!, I'm free! Why, look. Right here with me is my social secretary, my personal attendant, and three of my friends. The chauffeur is waiting in the limousine."

"I see."

"We are free to do anything we please. Today we are slumming. It can be entertaining to see how the masses amuse themselves, but I must say, some of the behavior here is absolutely primitive. Some despicable thug hurled an awful piece of garbage into our picnic basket, even as my attendant, Miss Pincers stood holding it. But," her voice took sudden gaiety, "we shall just rise above such adversity, won't we, children." They nodded, mechanically, with numb smiles. Miss LaTransit continued. "We can do anything we wish: slumming at the baseball park if the whim strikes us, shopping for art in the best galleries, opera, ballet, receptions at the embassy, sponsorship of museums."

"It's obvious that you are a woman of culture."

"All except my pearls!" She laughed a shrill whoo! whoo! whoo! that might have come from the sound track of a jungle movie. "The pearls are natural!" She leaned close to the microphone and whispered confidentially, "That's better, you know."

"Folks, Miss LaTransit is wearing what have to be the most amazing ropes of pearls I've ever seen—five or six long . . ."

She interrupted with urgency. "Six!"

"Six long loops, and they are beautiful!"

"Thank you." He moved a bit closer, peering at them, and said, with genuine concern, "Just a bit of mustard on one, I see."

She flapped her arms in the air, perhaps imitating the jungle bird that her laugh parodied, and shrieked, "Oh, my, that's awful! I can't stay! Summon my chauffeur, quickly! Come, my dearies! We must be off to the jewelers, at once!"

Philo watched his second guest leave prematurely and told his radio audience, "She and her retinue are leaving in haste. That's regrettable. I would like to have heard more from her about her freedom, but," he paused for effect, "maybe she said it all." In his ear the engineer told him to keep rolling so Philo continued. "We have more time. Let's see if we can talk with this youngster over here."

He approached a boy who was wearing a Cubs tee shirt, a replica batting helmet, and holding a pennant. His father stood behind him. Philo squatted before him and said, "Young man, I'm Philo Beenapper, and I'm doing a radio program right now. What's your name?"

"Robby Joe Danforth."

"How old are you Robby?"

"Five."

"Would you like to talk on the radio?"

"Yes."

"Robby, I'd like you to answer a question for our radio listeners. The question is: What is life?"

"Life is being alive."

"Great answer, Robby, so here's another question: What is life for?"

"It is for doing things that are good."

"Tell me what's good. Give me a f'r instance."

"Pay attention to your parents. Don't play in the street. Share. Be nice to people."

"I like that list. Anything else?"

"Be like Jesus."

"Be like Jesus. Robby Joe, age five, says the meaning of life is to be like Jesus. That's quite an opinion for a young man of five. Thank you, Robby Joe, for being on my show. Well . . . what do you folks think? He stood and checked his watch. The engineer's voice in his ear said "One more quick one."

As Philo moved toward the cluster of people around the concession stand he heard someone shouting to him. "Wait! Radio man! Wait!"

He turned in time to collide with Arlo Doorwax. Gamely, Philo said, "Friends, the crashing noise you just heard was not the collapse of the upper deck, but the exuberant return of our friend Arlo Doorwax. If I can extract the microphone that is impaled in my chest we'll talk with him. Hello again, good buddy."

"Whoa!" Arlo panted. "'Whoa!' I said to myself, 'I just thought of something!'"

"And what did you think of?"

"I said to myself, 'If you go home now, Arlo, you'll miss the ball game.'"

"You were right about that."

"Besides, it's more fun to be here. Like I said, fun is the name of the game."

"Are we having fun yet?"

"I'm having fun. Here I have fun."

"Some places not?"

"My job. Work is a four-letter word!"

"How would you change your job if you could?"

"Have a different boss. Boss: another four-letter word."

"Something isn't right there."

"He treats me like dirt. Dirt: another . . ."

"You want respect?"

"Yeah."

"Want to put respect on your list with fun?"

"Yeah. It's hard to have fun if you don't get respect from somebodies."

"I agree."

"It's like, hey, if there ain't nobody what respects ya, it’s hard to respect yourself."

"In that case, fun might not be fun; it wouldn't be enough."

"Yeah, I guess even when fun is fun, it ain't enough."

"Words of wisdom from Mr. Arlo Doorwax. Thank you. And what do you think, listener? Well, folks, it's time to go. Listen again tomorrow when I'll be somewhere in our great city, talking to great people about great ideas. Until then, this is Philo Beenapper and 'The Live Wire Show,' waving goodbye from Wrigley Field."

~

Griselda turned off the radio with a sigh of infatuation, turned to Kurt and said, "See? Wasn't that fascinating? How can he find such interesting people?"

"I have to hand it to him," Kurt drawled gruffly, "in this Harley Doorknob character he found a bigger geek than himself."

"That's not nice! You have to let people be themselves, not call them names like geek. That's a four letter word."

The reply was low-pitched and slow. "Whoopee. You learned to count. You're almost smart enough to be on the show with your Barney Floorwax."

She turned away from her husband and stared, unseeing, at the wall. Quietly she said, "I'm smart enough to think about the meaning of my life. Right now, it doesn't mean very much." Kurt walked silently away.

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