Historical March 1985 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I’ve finally made the big time!
After years of writing this column and wondering if anyone out there reads it, at last I know. Someone, at least one lost soul, reads “In Your Ear.” No, I wasn’t graced with a “present to my favorite author” on Valentine’s Day. No, I didn’t even get an anonymous Christmas card. I received neither a snazzy tie nor an encomium through the mail.
Thanks to Alexander Graham Bell (and, more recently, Cliff Robertson), I got a phone call from a fan!
It was a dark and stormy night when the phone rang, jangling my nerves already made raw from cheap cigars and another impending deadline. (Actually it was a slightly overcast afternoon and I was watching “All My Children” on television, but Writer’s Rule #1 is never let the truth get in the way of a good story.) Anyway, the caller immediately identified herself as a neighborhood resident and ardent reader of my column.
I was stunned. I didn’t know whether to thank her profusely or, realizing that she liked my work, try to take advantage of her obvious slow wit and limited mental capacity by selling her some resort land in Times Beach.
After all, some things do correlate. It’s nature’s way of evening out life’s advantages: Volvo drivers invariably have KWMU bumper stickers on their cars and refer to their children as “tikes”; girls who work in donut shops are always overweight; schoolteachers’ signatures are legible; and the readers (reader?) of my column try to peel the shells off M&Ms. “I need your help,” she rasped, the cadence of her breath warning me of a danger, such as war-like drums in a distant forest.
She shuddered and began again, the words tumbling from her mouth like the demons and gnomes from Pandora’s box. “Your column means so much to me,” she paused, the timbre in her voice playing tunes to beckon my alreadyheightened senses. “Each month I await your writing, your words, your thoughts. I take off from work and stay home so that I won’t miss a moment of having your work in my hands. I go to neighborhood parties and political meetings just to get a glimpse of you.
For years now, I’ve read ‘In Your Ear,’ always wondering and waiting to see you in person.
Then, oh, I guess it was at last year’s Progressive Dinner when I first saw you. They, all my neighbors, were right; you do look like Tom Selleck. Or should I say that he looks like you?” she asked. (Remember Writer’s Rule #1. What actually happened is that a person in the neighborhood called me on the phone, mispronounced my name, and asked me if I was the guy who wrote “In Your Ear,” or, she said, “is it part of an elementary school’s creative writing program?”) “My problem is touchy, er, kind of sensitive. I don’t know where to turn and I was wondering if you could help,” she said. “I’m new in town,” she added. “I work as an airline stewardess and model and it’s so-o-o hard to find a man you can trust.” I detected traces of a southern accent and my mind raced with possibilities. Would she ask me to help her rescue some refugee trapped in Cuba? Perhaps, detecting my razor-like fine mind and sense of honor through my writings, she was a CIA recruiter, about to ask me to serve the Country in carrying out some life-threatening assignment. Maybe, just maybe, she was a White House affiliate wondering if I would accept a senior position with the administration.
Then, too, there was a strong possibility that she was calling in behalf of Whitey Herzog, about to inquire whether I’d be willing to limber up the old wing and wheels and give it a shot at third base for the Cards this summer. “Sure, sweetie;” I responded in my best Bogart-like accent, exhaling cigar smoke and suppressing a cough at the same time. “How can I be of service?” I asked. “No, it’s how may I be of service?” she corrected. I now figured that she must be an exschoolteacher. I waited, wondering if anyone ever corrected Tom Selleck’s grammar, and she began to spin her tale of woe and intrigue. “Some time ago, in a small European country,” she began, “a small plaster statue disappeared.
The statue, itself, was worthless, but it contained a piece of microfilm.” “Microfilm” I responded cleverly. “Yes. It’s amazing how perceptive you are, Tom. Microfilm.
The film contained secrets so valuable … well, let’s just say that possession of the film will mean the ultimate power to someone.” • I sat up in my chair, knocking over my coffee and getting cigar ashes on my Mickey Mouse tie. What could possibly be so important, I wondered. I had an idea and knew that I must pursue it. “Is this secret so essential to national security that it’s worth risking men’s lives?” “Men have already died for this,” she responded.
She was tense now and her accent became a bit more pronounced. I recognized it as a regional dialect, typical to either the suburbs of Tallahassee, Florida, or Portland, Oregon.
My hunch was true and I knew now.
And she knew that I knew now.
And I knew that she knew that I knew now. “Is it,” I asked, “the date when cable television will be available to all residents of the City of St. Louis?” “I wish it were that simple. No, it’s even more important if you can imagine that!” “Who is this most important to?” I asked. “You mean,” she replied, “to whom is this most important?” Well, now I knew for sure that she was an ex-teacher.
And she knew that I knew. “Yes,” I replied, getting a little frustrated and knocking cigar ashes from my pants to the floor. I began to detect a sniffling and I could tell she was beginning to cry. “It’s so scary. It’s even bigger than cable television,” she said. Suddenly it hit me with a jolt and I interrupted her. “The film contains the truth about where the football Cardinals will play next year!” “Yes, yes, oh my God, yes” she sobbed, now crying openly into my ear (well, actually, into the telephone). “And only you, Tom Selleck, I mean, Tom Hoerr, only you can get the information from enemy hands!” She was bordering on hysteria now and I understood that some things are that important!
A wry smile crossed my face and I leaned backed in my chair, spilling more coffee and dropping ashes on to my shirt, my pants, the floor, and a dog. I inhaled on my cigar, coughed, and replied, “You’ve come to the right place, sweetie (Bogart again). Tom’s the name, fame’s the game.” (Remember Writer’s Rule #1. What actually happened, after I told her how to pronounce my name, is that she was calling because she had a “delicate neighbor problem,” as she termed it, and she thought that maybe I could help.
It seems that she has a neighbor who does things that aggravate her a great deal. Try as she might, she finds herself unable to confront the neighbor.
She thought that this column, “In Your Ear,” might be able to do it for her. (“Certainly,” I replied, feeling a bit like Bob Greene—I wonder if anyone ever mispronounces his name—”just give me the address of the offender. I’ll mention it in a cutesy-type poem.
The neighbor will get embarrassed and clean up the problem, and because there are so many neighbors, no one will know that it was you who called.”) “The statue is now in Rumania. It’s hidden in a shipment of cocaine and guarded by a force of heavily armed Korean kickfighting men. Can you get it?” she begged. (Still #1.
She liked the idea and gave the address of the unneighborly neighbor.
The problem deals primarily with noise and litter. Unfortunately, I’ve not been able to come up with a cutesy poem.
The poem and address will have to wait until the next issue.) “After the job is done,” she purred, “I’d like to meet you in person, alone. Maybe give you some kind of medal or reward for your valor, courage, integrity, wit, charm, good looks, and taste in clothing. Tell me again, how do I pronounce your name?”
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, March 1985.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1985_03.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
