The Man Who Retired
By Bill Zehme |
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Here, but of course, is John William Carson, civilian, president
emeritus of American Humor, seventy-six years in life, one decade in
remove, sharp as a shiv, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-omniscient,
and a potential consultant for the federal witness protection
program. Here, indeed, is Johnny, and he is fine, thanks. Or, as he
will tell you, should you ask: "I'm fine, thanks." (He is shyly
succinct like that.) Since his elegant abdication from public
view—on the woeful night of May 22, 1992—I have occasionally borne
personal witness to his fineness during visits to the Santa Monica
office suite that until weeks ago housed his production company, a
small enterprise that has masterfully archived his legacy. (I had
made friends with his loyal staff of three and would drop by for
semiregular fresh fixes of Carsonian proximity.) Usually, he was not
around, but sometimes he would come ambling along the quiet
corridors and pop through a door and make funny banter—and, in an
out-of-body sort of fashion, I would banter back while realizing
that this lively, compact, white-haired man in blue jeans was Johnny
Fucking Carson and that, like a thousand fools before me, I was
trying to make him laugh and, when he did laugh (he is very polite),
I felt new reason to continue living. I recall one such bull session
in 1996 when the topic turned to the forthcoming HBO film The
Late Shift, which dissected all Leno-Letterman dramaturgy as
prompted by his own retirement. "Can you believe that awful shit?
It's just ridiculous," he said, chuckling, fully bemused by the
shambles left in his wake. Whereupon I kidded about the casting of
impressionist Rich Little, who played him in the film. He rolled his
eyes, as only he can, thus implying volumes, as only he could.
Largely, what he would imply most in such moments was that the
world—while hardly utopian during his long reign—had merely gone
straight to hell during his absence.
"I think I left at the right time," he says now. "You've got to
know when to get the hell off the stage, and the timing was right
for me. The reason I really don't go back or do interviews is
because I just let the work speak for itself." Inasmuch, I have come
to know that he is far better than simply fine; he is supremely
self-assured of his place in the firmament, secure about the lasting
worth of that which he quit doing for television cameras and for his
country. He is contented in a way wise humans can only aspire to be
but rarely are. Always with a shrug and a whiff of final
punctuation, he regularly repeats to friends and family three short
words: "I did it." Nobody argues.
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Living as a satisfied apparition, however, offers small solace
for wistful masses that are forced to subsist solely on a strict
limited diet of refreshed memory—on wee-hour infomercials for
videotape and DVD compilations of his spriest Tonight Show
moments, or on the interactive pleasures pulsing within johnnycarson.com. Still, people wonder about
him—about what exactly it is that he has been doing with
himself since disappearing. Therefore, as the tenth anniversary of
his Final Night began to draw near, I did not ask Johnny Carson so
much as warmly inform him in a letter that I would be commemorating
that milestone by collecting tales of his retirement years from
cronies and colleagues. If he wished to offer me any ground rules, I
urged him to please do so. He called shortly after reading the
letter and said, "There are no ground rules at all. If anybody wants
to take a shot at me, I don't care anymore." He also cheerfully
started telling me things about his life of late. As suddenly as
that, the King sounded ready to play again…
There is sharp focus in his look, even right now. His eyes
brighten widely as they absorb what you say. Those steely-blues, as
Ed calls them, are nowadays set in a somewhat fuller face, but a
face posed to laugh as ever before. The genial countenance is
unchanged from memory, as he answers innocent questions and asks
some of his own. Has any man asked more questions with more people
watching him do so? So many thousands of those questions he gave not
one shit about, but it looked like he did, like he really wanted to
know. And now, here we are, making with the small talk, at his
conference table, early on a February afternoon, sitting
kitty-corner, a few feet between us, him tilting back in his chair,
sunburned fingers laced behind his head; he reaches for his hot
coffee mug once in awhile, then resumes laced-finger recline.
Because he knows you have been learning things about him, he asks:
"So who have you talked to?" He likes asking questions when no one
is watching, it turns out. He likes hearing the latest still…
"Feel like grabbing some lunch?" he says, and quickly rises, and
lopes, for he is a loper, into the next office to ascertain
reservation plans from wondrous Helen. And then you follow him past
the hanging magazine covers featuring his younger face, and you
enter the elevator with him. His sweater is camel color and snug
across his broad chest. He wears black pants into whose pockets he
jams his hands, just as he often did between monologue jokes. You
notice that he goes unnoticed, that perhaps because he has
conditioned people to no longer see him, they cannot see him even
when he is right in front of them. Heads do not turn, really.
Outdoors, tucked in a corner table, facing the rest of the patio, he
lifts his Cabernet and says, "Well, cheers," and clinks glasses…
Suddenly, he stops talking because he is craning his neck, gazing
toward the ground, where a pigeon waddles up. "Any messages?" he
asks the bird. |
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