overthinking

Places, Everyone

A story I wrote for the 2011 NYCMidnight Short Story Contest. The required genre was: DRAMA. The subject was: FREAK SHOW.

The house is not as nicely furnished as it was a month ago, sections of compressed carpet where the couch, a table, a chair used to be. The computer on the desk is still on, its blue glow turning the empty tumbler glasses and wine bottle into ghostly shapes and giving that whole corner of her living room a spooky glow to which she is more than well-accustomed. She walks toward it as she pulls on her coat, and leans down, clicking the browser window shut. There is another window behind it, an unfamiliar one. She moves the mouse over to close it, still hunched over the desk.

It’s a red popup banner ad, no doubt opened by one of the sites she visited the night before. “Newly Single? We can help get you started!” She doesn’t close it for a second, looks at it, biting her lip a little. Then she shakes her head, smirks, clicks it shut, and turns to leave.

***

“Places everyone! It’s 8:55, that means we’re rolling in five minutes, so please, let’s all just get ready, and stand by!” Jeanine releases the button next to the little microphone on the desk in front of her and turns to the rest of us in the control room. She finds me in the crowd of faces. “Norman, did you put the baby daddy in the soundproof greenroom? The one furthest from the DNA guy’s?”

This is the kind of question she asks every day, as if she is the only one that knows how to do this and the rest of us haven’t been working here for the last five years. I just nod. “I told him we still had to interview the fashion expert before he can come out for the makeover portion. He’s got snacks, he’s okay.”

“Good.” She seems uncertain if she should trust me. I am used to this and simply stare back at her, waiting for her to decide we actually are good. She studies my face a little more before turning back toward the microphone and hitting a different button. “Faye, are we all set onstage? Is Bobby ready?”

A brief burst of static is followed by Faye’s distinctively deep voice. “Hey, you know Bobby. Point the camera at him and he’s ready to go. He’s warming up the audience right now.” We can see him out the giant glass window through which we see everything. He is leaning over, listening to an older woman. His hand is resting on the bare shoulder of what appears to be the woman’s teenage daughter. Her face is flush with his touch.

Faye is in the middle of the stage, a wide body that’s hard to miss; a college shot put champion, there are signs of what general speculation calls past steroid use, most obviously a thatch of soft hair around her chin. Hard to look at for some, but proven to serve as a useful distraction and a good way to help many of our more nervous “guest stars” feel less self conscious in comparison. Headset on, clipboard in hand, Faye is always strong, calm, and in control. She’s the only person Jeanine doesn’t question constantly. Right now, she is having what appears to be a pretty heated conversation with the baby mama’s father, a pretty common sight around here. He turns and storms off stage, bumping one of the many crewmembers scuttling around with last minute adjustments. Neither takes the time to acknowledge the contact.

It’s quiet in the control room now. Everyone is at their designated spot, waiting for the countdown to start. This is the calm before the storm, before the adrenaline begins to really pump. Before The Bobby Saxon Show becomes our whole world, our entire consciousness. In a few minutes—

EEEEEEEE. EEEEEEEE. EEEEEEEE. The fire alarm slices through the meditative atmosphere. Jeanine’s head drops into her hands as we all stand up and start filing out. No one says a word. We all know where exactly the fire exit is.

***

Outside, the midday sun is blindingly bright, the air much warmer than on the stage. She walks out into the parking lot, blinking rapidly and rubbing her arms with her hands to get the blood flowing.

There are quite a few people out here, warming themselves, smoking, or just soaking up some sunlight and fresh air. They have formed little conversational circles, smiling and laughing, telling stories. The smokers are all together, flicking ashes onto the ground absentmindedly while they talk.

She recognizes only a couple of people—the bald guy with the goatee and the earring, who everyone says has breath so bad it could take down a bull moose. There’s the incredibly short, stocky guy who runs the CG graphics generator and always wears polo shirts. She can’t think of his name but remembers that he doesn’t have a sense of humor about his height. Neither looks up or acknowledges her as she walks past, wandering over to the three-foot patch of grass on the side of the lot.

She touches the necklace under her shirt, finding the ring at the end and twisting it around each way. With her other hand, she brushes a pebble off the curb before sitting down. This far from the rest of the people in the parking lot, their voices blend together, their words merging into a soothing stream of white noise, like a babbling brook. She puts an elbow on her knee and rests her head there, closing her eyes.

***

If she hears me walk up, she hides it well. “Power is back up on the main stage,” I say to her. “But the control room is still down. It’s on a separate generator or something, I guess. They’re working on it.”

She doesn’t open her eyes, just lets out a deep breath and nods. “Finally! It’s been almost four hours! We all know that girl’s dad pulled the alarm. People saw him! This whole ‘turning off the power and sweeping the place for possible hazards’ policy is ridiculous! It happens at least once a week. I don’t know why people always think the fire alarm will stop the show. It only slows us down.”

She opens her eyes and stands up, dusting off the back of her jeans. “We should be able to just reset the alarm and get back to work instead of having to pull this fire drill shit.”

“Right, and I suppose you would pay for all the lawsuits if it we ignored the alarm and it turned out to be a real fire?”

There’s a familiar look in her eyes now that we’ve all learned to dread. I brace myself for the tirade, but this time, it doesn’t come. Her expression softens. She sighs. “This is where Thomas and I used to take our smoke breaks. I don’t even smoke. And I hated that he did. But it was nice to come outside and just…sit with him.”

It’s a side of her I have not seen. “Uh…I…are you okay?”

“Norman, would it surprise you to hear that you and Faye are the only people whose names I know? On this whole crew?” She walks toward me. “I work with several hundred people, and I don’t know any of them. It’s fucking…pathetic.” She passes me and walks away, through the crowded backlot and in the stage door without looking back.

***

In the dark control room, the plate glass window is like a wall-size flat screen TV. The illuminated stage swarming with crew and the seats slowly filling back up with bored retirees engulf her vision. She sits at her desk, head in her hand, watching the hustle and bustle as everyone prepares to get today’s show back on track.

Her head tilts a little as I open the door in the back of the room, the bright light streaming in and briefly creating a glare on the window. I sit down in my chair, behind her and just to the left. She does not turn around.

“Do you need to…uh…talk, or something?” I ask. She doesn’t answer.

I roll my chair forward, scooting next to her, the wheels squeaking wildly. Her face is pale, outlined in the light from the stage. Her blue eyes glimmer, piercing the darkness toward nothing in particular. She is looking out, watching the crew work, but her eyes are unfocused. “Do you think what we’re doing here is worthwhile?” she asks.

“What?”

“We basically exploit people, don’t we? We take all the weirdos, crazy people, sluts, psychos, and every other kind of freak we can find, and we put them on the air so they can entertain people with their insanity. We cultivate it, just to make sure we get the ratings we need. So we can sell more bathroom cleanser and pull-up diapers. I mean, what’s the point?”

I am silent, thrown off. She continues, “in fact, there are so many people like that in the world, we could do a show every day for the rest of our lives and never have to bring in the same person twice. It makes you wonder…are we the ‘normal people’ in this world…or are they?”

I clear my throat, feeling awkward. She’s not done. “I don’t feel normal. Haven’t for a long time now. I wonder if I am more like these people than I’ve ever cared to think.”

She goes silent again.

After a couple of minutes, I turn back toward the window. “See that guy with the long blond ponytail and the Hawaiian shirt?” She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “That’s Danny the stagehand. He always carries tarot cards. He thinks he has some sort of ability to tell the future. He tried to read my tea leaves one time. I didn’t even have loose tea; it was just the remnants of a teabag. He told me I was about to come into some money, but it would corrupt me somehow. Based on a soggy teabag in a Styrofoam cup.”

I try to read her reaction from out of the corner of my eye but there is no movement, so I continue. “See that black dude walking through with the bike helmet? That’s Jerry. He’s a messenger on the lot, comes by here every day with contracts and stuff. You can’t tell from here, but he is totally covered in tattoos and piercings. You can’t even see his normal skin. Look, he’s taking off his helmet. You might be able to see, he has like six rings in one eyebrow, and a bunch of other ones. We joked about him having some, you know, uh, down there, and he offered to show us! Seriously, he had his pants half open before we could stop him.”

I sense some movement and turn my head toward her a little. Her expression has changed, softened. Her mouth is curled up just a little at the ends, and her eyes are focused as she watches Jerry walk off the stage.

“See those two blond girls sitting in the director’s chairs behind Faye? That’s Sarah the caterer and Julie from Legal. Sarah only has to work at lunchtime. And once Julie gets the contracts signed, she’s just standing by all day, in case someone gets hit with a chair or something. They just hang out and mostly make bitchy comments about everyone else. Seriously, they’re always together, practically joined at the hip. Everyone calls them the twins. I think they actually like the nickname.”

She laughs softly. I can’t hear it, but I see her shoulders bounce up and down a little in my periphery. I just keep staring out the window.

After a couple of minutes, she lets out a deep breath. Her voice is rough; her lips make a smacking sound as she opens them. “Thomas left me, Norman. I’m sure you knew that. I’m sure everyone has noticed he doesn’t come around the show much anymore.”

“No one expects executive producers to come around much anyway. In a way, it was weirder when he was here all the time.”

“I have only recently realized how much I was wrapped up in him. It appears I have never bothered to build myself much of a life outside the show, and that relationship.”

“Well…” I fumble around in my head for several seconds, frantically trying to think of what I can say. This is the most she has ever said to me about anything other than the show. “Never too late!” I blurt out, a little more positively than the mood dictates.

She nods.

It’s not enough. I should say more. “You know, you’re not the only one that feels that way. Most of us, we’re here all the time. Twelve hours a day or more. None of us really have lives outside of here. I see my wife for about an hour every night. My son calls me ‘ghost dad.’ Sees me peeking into his room every night after he’s in bed.”

A thought occurs to me. A point I was making all along, just hadn’t realized until now. “We’re all freaks in some way, Jeanine. These people aren’t any weirder than the rest of us. They just wear it on the outside while the rest of us hide it away.”

The fluorescent lights flicker on, and machines all over the room beep into life. The radio at her elbow crackles and we hear Faye’s distinctive baritone. “—should be coming on any second. Yeah, I see it. The control room is hot again. Okay, we’re back up people!”

I turn my head back to her and she looks at me too. It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen on her face since…well, I guess ever. I lean forward in my chair, my hands resting on the desk, about to push myself up.

“Wait,” she says. She turns back toward the window. “One more.”

“Oh. Okay. Uh…” I scan the crowded set. “See that older guy with the slicked back gray hair and the tight snakeskin pants? I mean, they’re actually pleather, but they have that snakeskin pattern. That’s Lenny. He’s one of our regular audience members. We have a few, of course, but he’s the only man who comes every day.”

“I never noticed him before.”

“We have to seat him in the back so it doesn’t look like we have always the same audience. Because he’s so…um, memorable. He’s retired or something, I guess. He winks too much, at just about everyone, and I think he’s here to hook up with the housewives.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah. But he’s entertaining as all hell when you talk to him. Except for the winking, I mean. That’s pretty…off-putting.”

“God.” She says, laughing. “What a freak.”

 

Shut Up and Write: A Short Story Entry

So it’s been long enough. Time to get back on the horse.

Getting paid to write has been a great thingI love writing, and now that’s all I do all day.

Getting paid to write all day has been a horrible thing—I write copy all day long for some other guy, then when I come home, I am so sick of looking at a computer screen and trying to think of ways to say things, that I just don’t have the energy or motivation to write anything for myself.

So I went out and found myself some motivation. I signed up for a writing contest. Eight days to write a short story of 2,500 words or less. They supply the genre and the topic. You do the writing. Perfect, right?

My genre: Political satire. (ulp.) My topic: hypnosis. (um…huh?)

So began a grand experiment. Judging is far from over. Now’s there part where we share what we came up with, for better or for worse. Hey—at least I’m writing, right?

The Second Date

Clink. Clank.

The man in the dirty white t-shirt stacked the plates on the table then dropped them into the gray plastic tub, his knee holding it in place as it balanced precariously several inches of it off the table’s edge. A fork dove in ahead of the plates and clattered around out of sight.

Charlie checked the time on his cell phone, then slipped it back into his pocket. From where he was sitting, one table over, he could see the thin layer of sweat the poor guy had worked up, could see a small scar on his neck where the hairnet that was supposed to hold in his ponytail had torn a little. There was a sour scent, like a rag that had been wet too long.

The game was on the television, bracketed high into the corner of the darkened restaurant. The sound was muted—the better to hear the classic rock playing lightly on the tinny speakers, hidden somewhere in the fake plants. The place was unusually empty, even for a Monday night; there were a couple of guys at the bar with their backs to the rest of the room. The deep colors of their business suits blended into the brown wood of the bar and walls.

It was a good game. The score was close; the men in yellow looked determined, the men in blue seemed worried. The numbers in the corner of the screen counted down. The guys at the bar shifted around, looked at each other, their shadowy profiles displaying slivers of the excitement they felt. The screen faded to black. Just as Charlie’s eye started to wander, the blue light of a commercial illuminated the room.

There—standing in front of a big banner with the outline of a bat on a field of stars and stripes, grinning unnaturally wide—there was Marcos Wilder, hair slicked back, eyes just a little too narrowed. His mouth moved slowly, like he was talking to a young child, or a foreigner who didn’t speak English. Was there something happening to his eyes? What was—

“What are you doing?” Julie was back, suddenly standing right in front of him, inches from his face. All he could see was the “PLE” of her Apples in Stereo t-shirt. He leaned back a little, zoomed out his focus. She stood with one hand on her hip, just above the waistline of her jeans, her head cocked a little to the left. She didn’t seem happy.

“Oh, you know, just…watching the game. While you were gone.”

“Oh.” Her green eyes met his, and as if someone had flipped a switch, she was smiling again. Her head went vertical; her hand fell back down to her side. The television rimmed her face with a blue halo, highlighting her short blond hair.

She didn’t look away as she walked around the table and sat down. “You said on our first date that you don’t watch television and you weren’t into sports or politics.” She shook her head right to left as she talked, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. “It’s one of the things I liked about you—one of the reasons we’re on a second date.” One eyebrow arched playfully, her eyes bored through him, making him shiver somewhere deep down.

“Uh, well, I don’t, really.” He threw a thumb toward the television. “That game’s close, so…but…uh, well…” He shrugged. “Whatever. I’d definitely rather be talking to a pretty girl like you.”

“Awww. Isn’t that sweet.” She reached down, picked up her fork, pushed her mashed potatoes around a bit. It didn’t look like she’d touched her food.

“So what do you think about the guy from that commercial?” His thumb shot up again. “You know, the guy running for governor? Marcos Wilder?”

She sighed, dropped her gaze back to her plate, put her fork down and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s just interesting. Our governor disappears all of a sudden, nobody knows what happened, then when it’s time to elect a new guy, this weird millionaire nobody’s ever heard of suddenly decides to run. And calls his party the ‘Vampire Party?’ I mean, is that a joke? It’s just…weird.”

“Like I told you the other day, I’m pretty much all about my art.” She crossed her knife and fork neatly on her plate. A commotion from the men at the bar indicated that something important had happened in the game. He resisted the urge to look at the screen, saw her watching him closely, waited for her to say something more.

Finally, her eyes shot to her lap for a second before meeting his again. Her face crumbled and the words came tumbling out: “He’s…my father. And he’s not weird.” The soft light of the television tinted the pale skin of her face blue on one side. She looked back down, jaw set firmly. “Not that weird, anyway.”

Charlie couldn’t keep his head from shaking back and forth a bit as he searched her face for any sign she was kidding. “What? He’s…No way…are you…that’s…awesome! Ha, your dad, the Vampire Governor! That’s hilarious! Are you, like…pumped?”

“It’s not a joke. They prefer the term ‘Undead Americans.’ I am not one, by the way. And he’ll be a lot better than the others.”

“Hey, whoa, okay, easy. Like I said, I don’t know anything else about him. I don’t watch television or read the news. He just seems a little…off kilter, you know? I mean, is that a real thing, this vampire deal? Vampires aren’t a real thing.”

“Wow, you really don’t watch the news.”

“Come on! I mean, it’s a killer shtick, don’t get me wrong, but…”

“Which do you prefer, the whiny liberals who think money grows on trees but can’t get it together to even pass one meaningful law? Or the tightfisted conservatives who love their money and their god—in that order—and vote down anyone who thinks differently?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Don’t you think it’s time for a change? Look at the world today. A vampire couldn’t do any worse, could he? It’s not like he’s Ross Perot or something.”

Charlie sipped the last of his beer and wiped the foam from the corners of his mouth. “Look, like I said, I don’t really follow this stuff. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to piss you off or…”

Her face softened, she smiled again. “No, I’m sorry. I overreacted. I was kind of hoping I could have a whole night of not talking about him, for once. It’s…I think he’ll make a good leader. He’s got a good heart…whether it beats or not. And hey, he’s not the first politician to be accused of not having a pulse. Ha! Ha…Dole? Gore? Nothing? Wow, you really are out of touch.”

“Sorry.”

“Well don’t be so quick to judge him. He’s smart, and can really get us back on top. He’s got great ideas for the economy, for international policies…and he hasn’t fed on anyone in years. No matter what his opponents say in those nasty smear ads!” She crossed her arms and pursed her lips, then, embarrassed for her outburst, loosened up again, smiling shyly. “He really will be a great governor. And one day maybe he’ll be a great president. I just think he should win it fairly instead of…”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh. Um….never mind. You know, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Politics is so boring!” She placed her napkin on her plate. “Anyway, I think I’m full. You want to get out of here?”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

The waiter was back with his change, and Julie was already standing to go. “Let’s get a drink, huh?” She wrapped her scarf around her neck and smiled.

“Sure! I know a bar nearby, just past the park. We can walk.”

“Oh.” Her smile flickered for a second. “Oh, okay. Yeah. That sounds nice.”

…

Tap tippity tap. She walked fast. Her shoes tinked on the cement as they walked. Each streetlight made their shadows grow shorter, longer, then shorter again. Her hand seemed to float at her side as she glided gracefully beside him. In the park across the street, he could hear noises, an occasional voice or two carried by the suddenly gusting wind. He flipped up his coat collar to warm his neck.

A young couple scurried arm in arm across the street, coats hugged tightly to their chests. The man had a sign tucked under his arm that read “WILDER. We hear and…” Charlie couldn’t see the rest.

Charlie glanced into the park. “Oh, are they meeting tonight? Is that one of their rallies? Is he going to be there? We should stop and say hello! Hey, why do they always have them at night anyway?” He said, rolling his eyes. “Does the sun really fry ‘em? Hey, are all his followers vampires too?”

“YES.” The word was short and her tone was sharp, an icicle broken off and crashing through the darkness between them. Her voice was hard. “They’re meeting. I mean…it sounds like they’re meeting. I don’t really…we’ve kind of…lost touch.”

As they came to the next block, he could make out some light bouncing off the trees across the street. The noises were clearer now. He could hear what sounded like chanting in the park.

Slowly, the rally came into view. It was a massive group of people, all standing quietly. Above the crowd was a brightly lit stage with a figure in a dark suit. His arms were extended, hands over his head, leaning forward almost to a 45-degree angle, fingers pointed outward at the perfectly still crowd. He didn’t seem to be speaking, just holding that pose. Every few seconds the crowd would say something in unison that Charlie couldn’t make out.

Julie had not slowed down, was getting further ahead. “It’s nice out here tonight,” he called, louder so she would be sure to hear. “Quiet too. Not even a dog or anything.”

Tap tippity tap.

“Have you noticed that there are a lot less dogs around lately? Especially strays. Is that part of his thing? Less strays? Are they drinking their blood or something? Ha. Seriously, there used to be dogs all over the place…”

She walked faster. The chanting had faded behind them, was just a murmur now.

He was almost running to keep up. “It’s up ahead here. See the sign that says, ‘Your Pal Randy’s?’ Yeah, right there. It’s down those steps,” he pointed.

The bartender, a squat older woman with a black vest over a white collared shirt, was the only person in the bar. She looked down from the television where a blond newscaster was reading some papers. The box over his shoulder said “Wilder with 99% lead in polls. We hear and obey.”

“Let’s sit over here,” Julie whispered, pulling off her scarf and pointing to a table in the corner. That way we won’t have the TV distracting us.” Her smile curved up invitingly—wickedly—at the edges.

The newscast cut to a shot of Marcos Wilder staring directly into the camera, speaking slowly. “Hey, there’s your fath…uh, I mean there’s…hey, what’s up with his eyes? Look at—”

“Why don’t you go hold the table, and I’ll buy the drinks,” she said, stepping between him and the bar. “After all, you bought dinner.”

…

The harsh sunlight on his face woke him from a truly horrifying dream that he couldn’t remember the second he opened his eyes. Outside, it sounded like all the birds in the world were perched just by his window, screaming their morning announcements. He reached for the industrial-sized bottle of Advil on the nightstand, popped three. The clock radio by his bed was playing softly. He pounded the snooze button and dropped his feet to the floor, running them back and forth against the thick carpeting, then headed into the living room.

“What’s up, dude?” Brett called from the couch, raising a beer in salute. “Where’s that chick? She didn’t stay the night?”

Charlie rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

Brett looked at the beer in his hand, raised it again. “Just cracked open my third. And People’s Court just ended. So it’s, like, noon. I’m about to head out to the polls! Election Day, yo! Use it or lose it!”

“Yeah. Right. Vote for the vampire. Ha.” Charlie mumbled groggily, rubbing his eyes again.

“They’re called ‘Undead Americans,’ dude. Show some sensitivity. Ha!” He turned back to the television. A black bat on a stars and stripes background filled the screen.

The kitchen tile was cold, made him shiver as he reached into the fridge and pulled out the carton of orange juice, chugged the rest as he walked back through the living area. As he closed the door to his room, he heard the beer can hit the floor with a thump, and Brett muttering, “I hear and obey.”

Shades drawn, blankets pulled tightly over his head, Charlie closed his eyes and went back to sleep. When he finally did wake up, his window was dark, and the polls were already closed.