A Shooting at Snoopy's House, or: United Media Memories, Part 3

Yeah, more stories.

As I take a small trip down United Media Memory Lane, I regret that there are some stories that I'm unable to tell because they're stories that were told to me; I didn't experience them firsthand.

If I could only track down the guy who told me some of these stories, I'd have him do a guest post. The crux of those pre–The Anthony Show United Media stories was that during the late 1980s, more than a couple of employees liked to consume drugs, particularly cocaine, and that resulted in episodes that were very funny when you hear them 10 years later but were likely very sad and regrettable during the time they occurred.

But I do have a couple of stories that I witnessed, and they definitely fall under the "that's weird!" category. Here's a good one...



FORTUNATELY I HAVE A COPY OF GRAY'S ANATOMY, SO YOU CAN DRAW A CIRCLE AROUND THE AREAS WHERE THE WOUNDS OCCURRED

"He was shot in the spleen, right? No?
The pancreas? How's the gallbladder?
Is the gallbladder still functioning?
I need to know!"

I was at United Media for maybe six months when the entire organization, some 50 or 75 of us, were called into the large welcome-area lobby, where folding chairs had been arranged.

I was new to the company and also very young (24), so I didn't even know that meetings like these, particularly the spur-of-the-moment variety, were unusual and often meant bad news. I sat in my folding chair and saw our CEO, the kind of CEO you almost never see, tell us that there had been some sort of incident that had transpired at the Santa Rosa, California, compound where Charles Schulz ran his "Peanuts" empire.

If I recall the details correctly, an angry wife showed up and shot her estranged husband, who worked there. The victim was recovering from his wounds, said CEO, who also stressed that "Sparky" was not there at the time.

The reason for the powwow in our New York office was because there was a possibility that news organizations might try to call us for comment, and if any reporters were accidentally transferred to our own extensions — which was quite likely because I always seemed to receive any call if the receptionist heard the word "comic strip" — we were to refuse comment and transfer the inquisitor to our public relations people.

Even to a green 24-year-old, this all made sense. CEO wrapped up the meeting with, "Any questions?"

Pig Pen was in the line of fire
but due to the cloud of dust,
he was unseen and unharmed.

As I learned later but at the time knew intuitively, one usually concludes a presentation with "Any questions?" even if there are no questions to be asked, because it sounds better than saying, "I'm done! Return to work, slaves!" I expected there to be a silence of about five seconds, during which time CEO would scan the assembly and then say, "Thank you, everyone."

But that was not to be.

One woman, I'll call her Iris, raised her hand. CEO seemed a little surprised: What was there to ask? But Iris had an important question:

"Do you know where he was shot? Like, was it in the head? In the chest?"

The CEO flinched for like a nanosecond, which probably made him a good CEO, and replied, "Uhhh...we don't have all the details, yet, but I'm sure that will come out soon."

I sat there thinking, "Hmmm...that was kind of an odd question, but no one here seemed to react that way."

But once we dispersed and began to return to our desks, one of my co-workers, a couple of years older than I, said to me, "Did you hear what Iris asked? What the hell is wrong with her?"

I never did find out where the poor guy was shot, or whether the bullets exited his body, or how much blood he lost, or the brand or caliber of the weapon, or even if he and his wife reconciled.