Page 3 of Playworld

Dad, who liked to hurry past mistakes, shot him a look. “Still,” he said to Oren, and then to Sam, “it’s close.”

Over Sam’s shoulder, Oren said, “So it tops out at what, Mr. Shah? One-twenty?”

“Verygood,” Sam replied. “And no,” he told Dad.

“It’s a V-8,” Oren continued, amazing me. “The S1 was a straight six.”

“I see you know your automobiles,” Sam said.

Oren shrugged and then sank back into his seat, crossing his arms, wearing a pained expression as he watched the darkened trees whip by. “I know a little,” he said.

I could tell Dad was uncomfortable in the presence of Sam’s material success, which baffled me. He sang on Broadway, and his voice was allover TV.Give,he said,to the United Negro College Fund. Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste.He had nothing to prove to me.

“What do you think of American cars?” Dad asked Sam. We’d just bought my grandfather’s Buick LeSabre for a dollar—an amount Grandpa had demanded to make the transaction, in his words, official.

“Not much,” Sam said.

“Elliott certainly loves his Cadillac,” my father observed.

Once again Sam leaned toward my father. “Even Dr. Barr has lapses in judgment.”

While Oren and I were recovering from this heresy, my father’s voice came on the radio—his commercial for Schlitz. It was suddenly obvious to me why he’d turned it on in the first place. Oren was so mortified he hid his face behind Sam’s seat, while I, being the more dutiful son, exclaimed, “Dad, it’s you!”

Sam raised the volume.

You only go around once in life,said my father,so you have to grab all the gusto you can!

Sam laughed, delighted. Dad shrugged like it was nothing.You drive a Bentley,he seemed to be saying.I am the voice of malt liquor.

A moment later, Sam asked, “How do they pay you for that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it a one-time thing?” Sam said. “You do the commercial, get a check, and you’re done?”

“Not exactly,” my father said. He sat up straight, then pinched his thumb and index finger together as if to make a fine point. “They also pay you for a thirteen-week cycle. After that, if they want to renew the commercial, they pay you again.” He sat back and crossed his arms, satisfied.

Sam appeared to do a quick calculation. “So during that period, they could play the ad a million times and you wouldn’t see an extra cent?”

My father opened his mouth and then closed it. “In theory, yes.”

Sam smiled, blinking. “Someone’s union needs to renegotiate.”

Dad had had it with his unions. They’d been on strike since late July, the walkout over cable TV and videocassette revenue, which made me happy—finally, I wasn’t on set shooting my show over the summer. My father hated being out of work, but he took Sam’s observation as a morepersonal affront: he suddenly also felt underappreciated. Now it was he who faced the window to watch the world unspool past him.

“I’ll talk to them,” he replied, as if his SAG and AFTRA reps were just waiting for his call. He was distracted now, but when we took a sharp curve and Sam accelerated through its apex, he managed to step back into character. “The handling is justremarkable.”

“Yes,” said Sam, “but it’s nothing like my Ferrari GT.”

“You have a Lusso?” my brother asked. “That’s the rarest car they ever made.”

“It’s a 365,” Sam corrected, and then rolled his eyes at my father. “I’m notthatrich.”

“Is it red or black?” Oren asked.

“My dear boy,” Sam said, tilting the rearview mirror so he could look my brother in the eye, “I think we both know the Ferrari only comes in one color.”

Confused, Oren said, “What’s that?”