Radio-TV mirror (July-Dec 1954)

What A Boss! (Continued from page 43) connection with show business was an occasional trip to the neighborhood movie. Emphasize, instead, my brand-new college degree with a major in radio and television. By all means, play up my practical experience in acting and delivering TV commercials. Play down my ultimate ambition to work in a studio continuity department turning out nice, tidy, preciselytimed scripts. Concentrate on my immediate aim to get that secretarial job I had been told was open here at WCPO. That ought to do it. But — if that procrastinating personnel manager didn't talk to me soon — I'd get so fussed I'd forget my own name. To be this slow to keep an appointment, he must have been at the station since the day of the crystal set. He'd probably turn up wearing high-laced shoes. Uneasily, I tugged my jacket down again. Hearing footsteps approaching, I looked up expectantly. Then, through the door burst this specter, this apparition, this unbelievable, gangly, red-wigged guy in a grass skirt. Striding right up to me, he brandished his spear in my face and demanded, "Are you Miss Rippey?" I gasped. I managed to nod. I had no voice to reply "Good," he said. "I'm Paul Dixon." He sat down beside me. There was a long silence while Paul adjusted his grass skirt and I planned to sue my employment agency. Then, glancing up, he saw my horrified face. "Oh . . . this . . ." he indicated his outfit. "It's just a costume. I just finished the show." Then all at once he realized how it must appear to my startled eyes and he laughed. That famous Dixon laugh. That did it. I laughed, too. And, when I did, I was no longer a tongue-tied, nervous job-applicant. I was at ease. r aul's novel notion of what the welldressed boss wears when interviewing a prospective secretary should have warned me. But I confess that, when I walked through the Dixon office door, I was expecting a conservatively carpeted place where employees appeared at discreet intervals to murmur, "Yes, Mr. Dixon." I couldn't have been more wrong. In one corner of the big, untidy room, director Al Sternberg and producer Len Goorian were fighting a duel, complete with fencing masks and clashing swords. In another, where a phonograph blared, Wanda Lewis was practicing a pantomime. Sis Camp, backing out from under a desk, acknowledged our introduction on hands and knees, explaining, "I'm just looking for a lost earring." And there were phonograph records everywhere. They were stacked in piles on the floor, the tables, the desk. There was a huge closet bulging with them and more in a smaller cubby hole next to it. "This is where you'll work," said Paul, shoving aside a tower of records to reveal a typewriter. "You can start right now." This was all happening too fast. I stammered. "But what . . . what am I supposed to do?" So nonsensical a query puzzled Paul. "Oh . . . well . . . you just work," he said. His attention swung from me to the others. "Okay, rehearsal time," he shouted. They gathered around, each producing assorted sound effects. They sang a bar or two from a song. They acted it out. They argued, agreed, vetoed. I never heard such a commotion. It was a week before I saw through this five-ring circus routine suf ficiently to realize that, while it looked and sounded hectic, the Dixon office really is well organized and efficient — simply because of Paul. Make no mistake about Dixon. While he often gives the impression that his head is filled with froth and foolishness, this man has a brain. He knows everything that goes on, however infinitesimal. He also knows how each thing should be handled. Without apparent effort, he runs through the million-and-one details which must be dealt with to turn out five hours of network shows each week plus his local shows. He gives firm direction. Yet he also has a heart. He is no overriding tyrant. We all love to work for him, because he regards each one of us as just as important a human being as himself. From the outset, you know that your opinion, your ideas are all-important to Paul. I can't imagine any other star who would be willing to listen to his secretary gripe that they don't make carbon paper the way they used to. To rib Len Goorian about the diet he's always planning. To ask Wanda how her youngster's skinned knee is getting along. He cares what happens to each of us. What's more, he's not afraid to admit that he, too, can be wrong sometimes. You should see how sheepish he looks when he loses our last pencil or upsets coffee. Much of his confident, easy manner, I think, stems from the close, warm companionship he finds at home. Everyone knows he adores his children, Pam and Greg, but they may not realize that Paul and his wife Marge are even more in love today than they were when they first met back in Iowa. Marge, I have discovered, fusses at Paul about only one thing. She hates to see him work so hard, so many hours. For his own sake, she'd like to see him take things easier. Yet Marge Dixon knows her Paul. She knows that, when he gets wound-up enthusiastic about an idea, there's no stopping him until he accomplishes it. Before I had finished my first full day in his office, I had discovered how many different things Paul included in his original vague assignment, ". . . you just work." Taking dictation and typing letters is the least important part of being Paul's secretary. Instead of having a chance to catch up with my dictation when the show goes on the air, I am right out in the studio checking props, helping Wanda and Sis change costumes, attending to a frantic number of last-minute details. Caught up in this rush, I swiftly lost such notions as I had about TV being "glamorous." The studio is hot and dusty. The sets are held together with staples. There's never any place to sit down to take a breather when you're tired. But none of this matters. Out in front of the cameras, Paul has so much fun you forget your feet hurt and that you've just torn your last pair of stockings on the corner of a piece of scenery. Paul's flood of fun sweeps you along. I can't explain what a good feeling it is to see camera men, engineers, prop boys — all the technical crew who have long been immune to "clever" shows — convulsed with laughter when Paul takes off on one of his kicks. Work for Dixon and — automatically — you, too, soon get into the act. My own on-camera appearances began quite accidentally on the day I had a message to deliver to Paul. I was talking to him when suddenly I noticed that a camera was pointed our direction and those little red tally lights were, on. 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