Washington Irving Interview
As he climbs down from the rickety observation tower, Johnny Carson finds himself at a row of turnstiles.
On one side everyone is going in and on the other side everyone is going out like the second hand on a clock.
The Burfies are all in synch, pulsing at the same rate.
The people in the food court are swinging back and forth — one turning to flip a hamburger while the other turns to serve it; one sticking pizza in the oven and the other passing it to the customer.
And, of course, the waterfall of coins falling from the pockets of the people into the corporate grate.
It is hypnotic and it makes Carson dizzy.
But there is only one way to go.
At the turnstile, Darth Vader holds his Burfie to Johnny Carson’s Burfie. He watches the screen.
“Carson.”
“I’m not your son, Son. And the cars are in the parking garage.”
“Name?”
“Johnny.”
“Not here. Down the corridor. Name?”
“So what would you like to know?”
Still staring at the screen, Darth Vader says:
You can pass. But remember your limitations. You’re in coach. You better not whine. You better not shout. You better not cry. You better not pout.
And you know why… Your Burfie will find out.
And it will tell us what you don’t…
The turnstile opens.
With a glance at the parade route, Johnny Carson steps forward onto his set.
His set.
His set in Burbank. Rainbow curtains and all.
He feels his whole body relax. Except his sphincter.
But he knows how to find a restroom here! He starts to sprint when the light flashes: “Recording” and the spotlight is on him.
He doesn’t even have time to see if he has buttoned his trousers again. He knows he hadn’t undone the belt.
“Well, you’re a great audience. I can tell,” he says. Because of the silence. Absolute silence.
He does not like to act for a camera.
“Excuse me, Sir…”
There’s a boy on the set. Wearing knickerbockers. He looks a little familiar. Maybe it’s the sinewy way he walks. Like a rubbery chicken.
But, what a relief! A monologue to an unknown audience on an unknown day… There’s no hook… Nothing to say that hasn’t been said before…
The boy says, “Washington Irving, Sir.”
Oh, no! This can’t be good.
“Johnny Carson,” says Johnny Carson. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Irving.
The boy shrugs and looks moves his shoulders as if to nudge Johnny Carson.
“Are you the Mr. Irving from Shady Hollow?”
“Washington Irving, Sir,” Washington says again, this time very slowly and carefully as if he is trying to remind Johnny Carson of something.
“Oh, you prefer to be called Washington?” asks Johnny Carson.
“Washington Irving, Sir.”
This time the words are prolonged as if on a string and stretched. The nose is bobbing as if to encourage him and both hands are down at his waist as if pushing him.
“I don’t get it,” says Johnny Carson finally. “Do you have a script?”
He can be the straight man. The joke is on him, after all. And he’s still not sure there’s an audience out there at all.
The boy flops down on the stage — not even in a chair. He sits with his bottom down, his hands behind him, his feet in front of him, and shakes his head, as if awakening from a long sleep.
Hey, man…. It’s like Jeopardy. I give the answer and you give the question. Then we write it up like an interview. It’s like a backwards interview, that’s all.
“I think I’ve heard of that,” says Johnny Carson.
“But that’s not an interview at all. It’s a script written by the interviewee and fed to the media for disbursal. In my business, we call that spam. Chopped ham. The gritty type. It’s not an interview.
“Same thing.”
“Uh huh.” Johnny Carson shakes his head.
Washington Irving says:
Yeah, so…
Look: in an interview the questioner is trying to trick the interviewee who is trying to manipulate the questioner.
Here, we just all agree one truth one way. Why not?
No one believes anything we say anyway.
Johnny Carson says: So, when you said ‘Washington Irving, Sir’ that was to prompt me to ask your name?
“Finally! I thought I’d be a hundred years old before anything gets through your head!”
“What happens next?”
The boy stands up again.
“Washington Irving, Sir,” he says.
“What is your name?” Johnny Carson asks.
Johnny Carson is looking at the empty audience, the red light, and this boy who appears to have no end of words…
I am as old as the fog upon the Hudson, and yet as young as the echo of a child’s laughter in Tarrytown. My years, counted in calendars, are but threescore and more, yet my tales are older still — borrowed from garrulous housewives who embroidered their gossip with bats’ wings and pumpkins, stitched together into legends that outlived them all…”
Finally Johnny Carson says, “How old are you?”
I was born, Sir, in a city of brick and masts, in a house that looked upon the sleepy waters of Manhattan, where the sails of the Dutch still seemed to billow even as the English banners climbed the sky. My name was given in honor of a general not yet president, though I was but a babe when his triumph was the talk of every tavern and steeple. They called me Washington Irving, and I was destined to chase shadows through old Dutch lanes and call them stories…
“Where were you born?” Johnny Carson asks and then starts shaking his head as the boy’s mouth opens again…
“No! No!” Johnny Carson cries.
I didn’t mean it! Wait. Wait. Let’s see if you can anticipate this question…
Do you have a script?
Can we just paste the script onto the paper and call it an interview?
“Now you’re getting it!” the boy says. “Pass up the bullshit and get right to the meat.”
The lights turn on.
The set disappears. It was an interrogation booth, after all.
The little boy climbs back into his Darth Vader suit.
“You passed the test,” Darth Vader says. “Welcome to the One Way Pavilion.”
He gives Johnny Carson the mic. “Have a good show.”
We shall speak as only one —
One way!
And…
With our pockets deep
Controlling what you see
You will learn to speak
Just like me —