In the early 1970s, cable comes to Manhattan, agonizingly one neighborhood at a time. The main draw is being able to watch Knicks home games. A company called Teleprompter (they write it TelePrompTer) is awarded the northern half of the island, with the stipulation that they offer Public Access channels. Teleprompter voluntarily throws in an equipped, staffed studio for anyone to reserve for live broadcasts. (Subsequently, they add commercial public access, spawning the likes of Midnight Blue and Ugly George.)
Someone in my poetry workshop—which meets weekly at Westbeth—knows a curator at the Whitney named Tom with ambitions of producing for television and film. Tom invites a few of us to appear live on his Public Access show. My roommates will watch from home and give me notes.
The studio, at 125thand Lenox, has a big T.V. camera on a dolly along with lighting and sound equipment, and even a room to apply make-up (we don’t). Before we go on the air, Tom hands me the title card and asks me to hold it chest-level when the opening theme plays. “The cameraman won't show you.”
The show feels good, though I don’t know if anyone is watching beyond my three roommates. As we’re leaving the studio, I am approached by Taylor Mead—of Andy Warhol Factory fame—who watched from the viewing room provided by Teleprompter for locals not wired for cable. Mead says he’s about to go on the air but he loved my poems and maybe next time we can get a drink.
When I get home I ask my roommates how I looked, and one of them laughs and says, “Pretty silly holding that piece of cardboard and just staring into space.” I ask about the rest of the show, and another admits, “After about ten minutes we turned to the Knicks.”
Excited about this entree into the entertainment world, our workshop forms The TelePoets. Tom will videotape us reading poems in city locations, and edit the segments for his show. “Who knows, maybe a local channel will pick it up for their public service quota.” After a couple of unedited segments, we stop hearing from Tom, who doesn’t answer his home phone. He’s asked us not to call him at work, but we’re worried and I call the Whitney.
“There’s no such curator,” a man tells me, and asks what he looks like. “Yeah, that Tom,” he says, then with audibly clenched teeth adds, “Tom’s no longer here. And he worked in the mail room.”
That evening, my phone rings. “Hi, it’s Tom, did we have a misunderstanding?”
“We sure did. Do you want to explain?”
“Well, I had you down for 4 p.m. today.” And I realize it’s Ted—my therapist—and I flaked on that day’s appointment.
The TelePoets never hear from Tom again, and our show dies in development. I hold out hope (against hope) that one day Tom will emerge as a highly successful movie producer, and will start his Oscar acceptance speech with, “It all started in the mailroom…”
