“He’ll have a martini,” announced Doreen. As the waitress walked off, she said to Roger, “Not to worry. These people check their nuances at the door.”

“Then why are we here?” he asked earnestly.

“Just relax and we’ll discuss it later.”

The drinks arrived, and Roger took a sip of his martini. He tried not to make a face as it went down. It was the drink of the masses, and he found himself wishing for a ’48 Chardonnay, or possibly a ’51 Dom made entirely from grapes raised on the north slope. (In truth, his tastebuds couldn’t tell the difference between Dom Perignon and Two Buck Chuck, but that, he knew, was merely because they weren’t yet properly educated. He watched all three of UN’s wine shows religiously, and he by God knew good from bad, even if his mouth didn’t-another gift of television to the drab, empty lives of its audience.)

Suddenly the lights dimmed, and a fat man in a sad sack suit sidled nervously onto the stage. He had a receding hairline and bulging eyes almost as big as ping-pong balls. He goggled at the audience, as if he expected that they might start throwing things at him. For a long moment, he said nothing. The room went quiet as well. He shuffled from foot to foot in the spotlight in front of a microphone. Roger thought maybe he had wandered onto the stage by accident. Then he crooked a finger between the collar of his shirt and his neck, loosening his tie.

“I get no respect,” he said. “I took my wife to a fancy restaurant on her birthday and I made a toast. ‘To the best woman a man ever had.’ The waiter joined me.”

The room exploded into laughter.

“My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met.”

A man at the next table doubled over and banged his head against the tabletop.

There followed another ten minutes of one-liners, none of them new, and none, in Roger’s opinion, the least bit funny. The alleged comedian complained about his wife, his kids, his doctor and his dog, a sad litany of abuse and misunderstanding.

“They actually pay this man to stand up there and spout this drivel?” whispered Roger.

“They not only pay Rodney Dangerfield to perform,” replied Doreen, “but you’ll notice that every table in the house is full.”

“But he belongs in a saloon a century ago!” said Roger. “This whole act is about how stupid he is.”

“Everyone laughed,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means we’ve got our work cut out for us,” said Roger grimly.

“Nothing else?” she persisted.

“Should it?” he asked, confused.

She looked pityingly at him and sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

“So can we go now?”

“This is just the opening act,” said Doreen. “We’re here for the headliners.”

“If I have to sit through anything else like this Dangerfield, I’m going to need another martini,” said Roger, signaling to the waitress.

The drink arrived. Roger was just lifting it to his lips when the place erupted in such a deafening roar that he almost spilled its contents.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up.

“The stars of the show,” said Doreen.

Two old men strode onto the stage. One, tall and handsome, carried his age well. He strode confidently to the microphone and began crooning a melodic tune. Meanwhile the other shuffled out among the tables, picking up customer’s drinks and sniffing them, looking down women’s dresses and mugging shamelessly every time his partner hit a high note. He might have been skinny once but now had gone to fat. He seemed to move with difficulty.

“What do you think of his voice?” asked Doreen.

“Well, it’s sure as hell not La Traviata.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought of the song.”

“How can I tell about his voice if he won’t sing an aria?” replied Roger.

“Not everyone sings opera, and not everyone likes opera,” she noted.

“Not everyone likes coming in out of the rain,” he shot back. “I don’t see your point.”

Just then the fat man with the uncertain step seemed to slip on something. His arms windmilling wildly, he caught himself by sitting briefly on the lap of a woman with enough blonde hair to stuff a pillow, then rolled off her to onto his knees and rested his head on the shoes of her date. The slow-motion pratfall sent the audience into paroxysms of laughter.

“Hey Lllaaadddyyy!” He stared up at the blonde with a grin. “Don’t worry, lady. I’m all right, but your boyfriend needs a shine.”

The comedian clambered gracelessly to his feet, pawing at the woman as he did, then crossed his eyes and started complaining about the singing in a high, whining voice.

“If you think you can do better, Jerry,” said the singer, “go ahead and try.”

“You bet I can, Dean!” whined Jerry. Then, to the audience, “I’ll murder the bum.”

He began singing, horribly off-key, and the audience began laughing again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you think that’s bad,” said Dean, “you should hear it in French.”

“My God!” muttered Roger. “This is what passes for entertainment in this place!” He turned to Doreen. “I can’t take any more of this. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’m dizzy. I have to get some air!”

“All right,” she said unhappily. She left a tip on the table and then led him through the maze of people and chairs until they reached the exit.

“That was dreadful!” he said when the world stopped spinning around him.

“Those are the most popular acts in New York, Roger,” said Doreen. “Maybe there’s something wrong with you.”

He stared at her. “This is all some kind of practical joke, right?”

“No,” she said seriously. “I intend to use whatever clout I have to get the network to hire them and start a variety show.”

“We already have a variety show, in case it’s slipped your mind,” said Roger. “We’ve had St. Martin-in-the-Fields Choir, Allen Ginsberg’s Poetry Slam, Pilobolus, the Kronos Quartet…”

“Roger, we’re giving the people what we think they should have,” said Doreen. “I think it’s about time we started giving them what they want.”

“They don’t know what they want!” Roger shouted. “A baby doesn’t want to stop suckling at its mother’s breast. A two-year-old child doesn’t want to learn to use a toilet. A six-year-old doesn’t want to go to school. We teach them to accept things for their own good, and thanks to television and visionary men like Nader and Murrow and, yes, Tweed in his limited way, we don’t have to stop teaching them just because they’ve grown up and left school.”

“You left out one important thing, Roger,” she said.

“Oh?” he replied. “And what is that?”

“The element of choice.”

“Do you give a child the choice between touching a live wire and not touching it?” asked Roger.

“We’re not talking about children, Roger,” said Doreen.

“All right then, what if you’re right?” said Roger. “Have you ever seriously considered that?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you’re right?” he repeated. “What if you gave the unwashed masses their choice?”

“It would be a good thing,” said Doreen. “There’s room on television for everything.”

He shook his head. “If that audience tonight was typical, then Martin and Lewis and Rodney Dangerfield won’t share time with Mort Sahl. They’ll share it with dumb weekly shows about dippy housewives and teenaged hippies and country hicks outsmarting city slickers. Dance bands and crooners won’t share time with Pavarotti and Domingo; they’ll shove them into the shadows and their places will be taken by more tuneless music, aimed at the least sophisticated tastes. And worst of all, the news shows will be unable to hold an audience unless they start covering beauty pageants and diet fads and crimes no one has any reason to care about.”

“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” said Doreen.

“The bad always drives out the good,” answered Roger. “Why do you think I keep working for a mean, self-centered son of a bitch like Tweed? Because he’s what stands between us and Dangerfield. Can’t you see that? Ed Murrow is what stops the Super Bowl from being more important than the war in Uruguay. We have a sacred mission to uplift and educate.”