Confidential File

Why My Mom Said Farewell to Macy's

Let's talk about me for a moment. Did I ever tell you that my nightly KTTV program is viewed a week later in New York at 3 in the afternoon?

"Viewed"
may be somewhat of an exaggeration. I get the uncomfortable feeling
that in all the vast, sprawling metropolis of New York the only one who
bothers to "view" me is my mother.

But her dedication is not
without frustration. The other day she called and announced tersely:
"As far as I'm concerned, R.H. Macy & Co. can go you-know-where."

"What happened, mom?" I asked.

And this, in effect, is what she replied:

Last
week she was in Macy's to pick up a special on dish towels, 40 cents
apiece, three for $1. She glanced at her watch and noticed that it was
almost time for my program.

Taking the Up escalator two steps at a time, she hurried to the fourth floor — pre-teen ready-to-wear, washing machines, house and garden utensils, stoves, radio and television sets.

In
the TV department a buxom lady shopper had turned on one of the floor
samples and was staring fixedly at "The Price Is Right." My mother
tapped her gently on the shoulder. "Beg your pardon," she murmured,
"but would you mind if I turned to Channel 5?"

Cold Glance

The woman turned her head slowly, glanced coldly at my mother and snarled: "I certainly would mind."

Ordinarily,
mom would have withered her with a word. But there wasn't time. She
rushed over to another set, flipped it on and tried, unsuccessfully, to
tune in Channel 5. Finally she called over one of the salesmen. "Beg
your pardon," she said politely, "but would you show me how to get
Channel 5? My son is on, and I want to . . ."

"Lady," he interrupted impatiently, "can't you see I'm busy with a customer?"

He
walked away. "Nasty thing," she muttered, continuing to work the dials
until I came in loud and clear. That day I was interviewing a guest in
a mask. A small crowd gathered, listened curiously a moment or two and
began drifting away until only my mother and one enormously fat man
were left. He wasn't exactly looking at the program. He was just
leaning against a wall and tidying his nails with the sharp corner of a
paper matchbox. My mother pointed to the set. "That's my son," she told
him.

"Which one?" the fat man asked.

"Which one?" my mother snorted. "You think the one in the mask? The one asking the questions, Paul Coates."

"Paul Coates?" The man thought a moment, then shook his head. "Never heard of him."

An
elderly gentleman walked unsuspectingly into the TV department and my
mother cornered him immediately. "You see that man on the screen over
there?" she demanded. "That's my son."

"Boy oh boy oh boy," the old man said, rocking his head appreciatively. "Imagine such a thing. Your son! How you must be proud."

My
mother sighed contentedly. "Well I am, of course," she confided. "But
I'll tell you something. I always knew it would happen. He was never
like other children. He was different. You know what I mean?"

The man nodded. "And money?" he said. "Boy oh boy oh boy, I bet he makes a small fortune."

She Explains

My
mother shot him a quick, suspicious look. "Well," she said cautiously,"
he's got a lot of expenses. A man like that can't go around looking
like a bum."

"Listen," the old man agreed, "you're telling me? Naturally not, he can't."

"But," she couldn't resist adding, "he makes a living."

The salesman came over. "Lady," he said, "you inner'ested in buying this TV set?"

"Buying it?" my mother cried. "Why should I buy it? I already have a TV set."

"Then you don't object if I try and sell it to somebody else," he said, turning it off.

"Not at all," she said archly. "My son was almost through, anyway."

And with a triumphant flourish, she stalked out of R.H. Macy and Co., never again to return.