Anti-French

As a public relations professional, I am not proud of what I'm about to describe. In my defense, I can only say that war is hell and battle fatigue can sometimes bring out the worst in people. I am only human. I am no exception.

You see, my theatre opened a new comedy last weekend. A French comedy. Typically, I'm able to convince at least a few photographers and television producers that the first night of a production at a major regional theatre is a newsworthy event. Unfortunately, there's another little drama playing out around the world and no one seemed very interested in stopping by on Friday night.

Having worked as a journalist for many years, I understand the judgment that goes into making decisions about coverage allotment, particularly the often complicated and compromising arithmetic required to maximize attention to disparate events while juggling limited resources.

I can also use this understanding for evil. An illustrative example:

I spent Friday afternoon working the phones, vainly trying to drum up anything, anything to give the show a boost. Finally, I called the producer of a local entertainment magazine program who, in turn, transferred me to the assignment editor on duty.

Now, a word about assignment editors. There's a reason they act that way -- surly, I mean, and curt. They are the busiest people in a television newsroom, set upon on every side by people -- people like me, mostly, flacks with something to sell -- demanding their time. They are the air traffic controllers of the boob tube. When you get the ear of an AE, you have just a minute or two to make your case before they're off to the next fire, murder or celebrity gaffe. Seconds count. Guile becomes a tool.

"Jack," I said, "this is our last major production of the season and it would give you some beautiful pictures for Monday's show."

"Look," Jack replied, "all of our feature crews have been assigned to the news division for the foreseeable future. I can't spare a shooter tonight. Sorry."

I try never to put an AE on hold. They are, as I've said, busy people. But Jack is a friend. I can impose, just this once. "Can you hold on one sec?" I ask.

Jack assents and I mash the mute button, yelling to a colleague in the office next door. "Do you suppose there's any chance some anti-French protestors will be showing up for tonight's opening?"

She considers this for a second and then calls back, "I really doubt it but, you know, anything is possible."

I have Jack back on the line a moment later. "I've just learned there's the possibility of an anti-French protest here tonight," I say, more or less honestly.

"I'll schedule a crew," Jack says.

"Thanks," I say. "Curtain's at 8." I hang up the phone.

To my credit, I did not immediately pick it up again and arrange for a few friends to show up with tongue-in-cheek placards denouncing Moliere and his ilk. I may be a flack, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.