Joe knew he gave a poor reading. Out in the street he debated about going to the McCoy Building. What was the use? Amby’s door would be locked. He started for the bus stop at the corner, depressed. FWWO had got on his nerves. The reading had been worse than bad.
“Joe! Joe Carlin!” Amby, elbowing and jostling, came hurrying through the crowds of Royal Street.
Joe said: “I muffed it.”
“FWWO? Forget it. Does Ambrose Carver put over his talent? Get an earful of this. FKIP’s cutting a platter. You’re in.”
The flags outside the hotels along Royal Street became gay, royal banners. The weight that had come down on Joe’s heart at FWWO was gone. “A good part, Amby?”
“A bit. It’s a bit show. I Want Work! FKIP hopes to sell it to some sponsor as a good-will buy. People out of work tell their stories. People who can give them jobs write in or telephone. You’re a kid whose father’s home with a busted leg. The furniture’s due to be heaved into the street.”
Joe was puzzled. “I thought people in need of work told their stories.”
“Don’t you get it? FKIP gets in touch with churches and welfare organizations. Men and women come in; script writers take their hard-luck stories and put in the zing. A professional cast puts on the show.”
“But people think they’re listening to—”
“The actual men and women who need the jobs? Sure. That’s radio. Radio runs on a clock; a fifteen-minute show is a fifteen-minute show. We Want Work must be drama. How you getting drama out of anybody you happen to bring in? How you going to hold them down to fifteen minutes? Some will want to talk all night; some will get mike fright and won’t give. A professional cast has to fake it. A real kid came in with the story you’ll read.”