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Must be real busy not to give the publisher what he’s looking for. Where’s wrestling, Doug?”
    “It’s in the paper. I see you’re running wrestling standings, just as you said you would.”
    “Do you know what ranks among the highest in total attendance among spectator sports in your very state?”
    “You’re leading me to say wrestling, but it’s not a spectator sport.”
    “Then what are all those people watching?”
    “Scripts. I think we ought to straighten this out, Robby. I don’t want you to keep looking for wrestling columns from me. I don’t write about variety acts.”
    “You write so many columns. I don’t understand why you can’t do a piece now and again.”
    “I just told you why, Robby. I’m a sports columnist.”
    “I understand. Integrity. I’m for integrity. And I respect your integrity. It’s a commodity on the paper.”
    “My integrity is a commodity?”
    “It’s popular with readers. So you keep your integrity, Doug, and I’ll work around it. Let’s do it this way. Give me one wrestling column. I’m not telling you what to write. I’m only asking you to address yourself to the subject.”
    “Why is this so important to you?”
    “Because wrestling’s become important. And we haven’t heard from you about it.”
    “With good reason.”
    “We just want to hear your voice here. People want to know what you have to say about it.”
    “What I have to say would be negative. You’re not looking for that.”
    “All I’d like is one wrestling column from Doug Gardner. Now is that a deal breaker? Am I being unreasonable? One column. Anything you want to say. How can you possibly object to that?”
    “I can’t,” Doug said, finessed. “I guess this is why I work for you and you don’t work for me.”
    He slept poorly that night, too, and decided if you have work stress and money stress and ex-wife stress you shouldn’t be sleeping alone. He phoned Monica Davidson, a woman he had met recently at an ABC Sports press party who worked for a casting office. She was in her early 30s, a bouncy blonde with her hair in a ponytail. On their first evening together they had gone to a Mexican restaurant on Third Avenue she had recommended where he was among the oldest in the place and the noise level was so high the waiter shouted the dinner specials like a racetrack announcer. Monica ended the evening abruptly saying she had to be at work early in the morning, and took herself home by taxi. When he called this time she seemed pleased to hear from him, though, and invited him to join her in seeing the musical Cats. She was interested in a few of the cast members for television commercials. Monica claimed that in an instant she could tell who was headed for success and who was not, and he was fascinated by her youthful certainty. How much she actually knew, he questioned. On their first evening together they passed a store which had a poster of Clark Gable and Grace Kelly, a black-and-white blowup as they appeared in Mogambo. She knew who Clark Gable was, having seen Gone With the Wind.
    “Who is she?” Monica asked.
    “Grace Kelly.”
    “Oh, that’s Grace Kelly. I thought so. She was before my time.”
    Casting executives making decisions that can influence people’s careers and they can’t identify Grace Kelly.
    They sat in the theater and Doug put on his new glasses to read the program.
    “Ever consider doing commercials?” Monica asked, studying his face.
    “ Moi ? as Miss Piggy might say.”
    “We keep an eye out for ordinary-looking people.”
    “Ordinary-looking?”
    “You don’t look like an actor is what I mean. You’re an ordinary person.”
    “This is getting worse as we proceed.”
    “I’m not saying it right. You have an interesting face and you don’t look like a professional actor.”
    “Thank you. Let’s hold it right there.”
    Cats began and he sensed they were having different responses to the show. Doug, brought up on the traditional American