They Shoot Canoes, Don't They? by Patrick F. McManus

Author:Patrick F. McManus
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 2012-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

And Now Stay Tuned for “The Camp Chef”

A friend of mine, Fred Flim, is a television producer, and at lunch a while back I suggested to him that what the tube needs now is a show about camp cookery. Scarcely able to conceal his enthusiasm for such a show, Fred pretended to be totally absorbed in an effort to suck the pimento out of a martini olive.

“Great concept, hunh?” I said.

“Fantastic,” Fred said. “Hey, man, can you believe those Yankees! What a team! After those first two games, I would have …”

“You really like the idea that much?” I said, almost overcome by excitement. “You’re not just putting me on? Wow! I hope you’re not just saying this because we’re such good friends.”

Fred turned serious, his gravity only slightly lessened by his having clenched a large, pitless green olive grotesquely in his eye. “May I have this dance, Miss?” he asked me, hunching his neck down into his shoulders and reaching out with two bread sticks protruding from his sleeves. People who are not friends of Fred’s often have difficulty telling when he’s being serious.

I chuckled appreciatively at his little performance and told him that it reminded me of the time his wife thought he was on a three-day fishing trip with me but wasn’t and what a kick she’d get out of the story.

Fred plucked the olive from his eye and put the bread sticks back in their basket. “What are you thinking of calling this show of yours?” he asked.

“‘The Camp Chef,’” I replied. “It will be kind of an outdoorsie ‘The French Chef ’but with me as the star instead of Julia Child.”

“Fantastic,” he said. “Really fantastic. It sort of gets a person right here.”

“How come there?”

“Well, I was never very knowledgeable about anatomy. Tell you what, you work up a script and get the necessary props together and be down at the studio at ten sharp Monday morning and we’ll shoot a pilot of ‘The Camp Chef.’”

“Fantastic!” I said, just to show Fred I was already picking up on the technical jargon.

“By the way,” he said, “you don’t happen to know any reliable hit men, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I replied. “Anyway, the hit-man concept has been worked to death on television. I’d scrap that idea if I were you.”

Fred smiled thinly and drummed his fingers on the table. I could tell he was already calculating the Nielsen ratings on “The Camp Chef.”

I was a little late getting to the studio on Monday. For some unknown reason, my brakes failed just as I was approaching the steep, winding stretch of highway between my home and the television studio. The mechanic at the garage said it looked as if my brake line had been sabotaged, but I told him that was ridiculous. Then, while I was hoofing back to the house to get my camper truck, some idiot in a big black sedan nearly ran over me—twice!—which was odd, since I was walking across a cow pasture at the time.

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