THE TELEVISION
Television was in Willie
Gilmore's opinion, mankind's crowning achievement. The actual
programs were secondary in importance. It
was the fluttering images and cadence of sounds which attracted and soothed
him.
Because of this, he
tended not to view any particular rhythmic pattern for long. No
matter what he was watching, he was usually more interested in what else might
be on. He simultaneously devoured sitcoms filled with canned laughter
that erupted every 30 seconds; hour long dramas featuring impossibly attractive
doctors, lawyers and police officers; movies showcasing the disease of the
week; star studded self-congratulatory extravaganzas; game shows that allowed
ordinary Americans to become temporary celebrities provided that they were
sufficiently enthusiastic about winning money; contrived scenario reality shows featuring actors
pretending not to be script following actors; and edited feature films modified
just right for his screen. Much like an obese man at an
all-you-can-eat buffet, he would sample one dish, discover that he was still
ravenous, so quickly move on to the next selection. Thanks to the
blessed advent of cable his choices were bountiful, if not always
appetizing. As long as something was showing somewhere, and
something else somewhere else, Willie was a happy camper.
This is why he held such
reverence for the device that perfected the world's most perfect
creation. The remote control. This marvelous result of
modern technology enabled him to scoot across the numerous broadcast systems
like a barefoot man on a bed of hot coals. With his remote in hand,
Willie had no need for grandiose dreams. Hopes and aspirations were
not even trivial concerns, for he was master of a twenty inch universe. Willie
Gilmore was God, with a real short attention span.
Willie's footsteps
quickened once his pleasure dome came into view. The listlessness
characterizing his movements during the nine to five portion of the day
magically evaporated as he leapt up the stairs with grace that would have made
Tanya Harding go for his kneecaps. He was just in time to catch the
beginning of Full House, Family Matters, and The Golden Girls, as well as the
second half of the cinematic masterpiece, Spies Like Us.
Upon entering his home
one particular evening, it took no longer than immediately for Willie to
discern that something was awry. The first thing he routinely did
upon arrival was pick up his remote and turn on the TV. But on this
day there was no need, for it was already on.
"How strange,"
Willie thought aloud. He always switched the television off just
before walking out the door. It was quite odd that he would have
forgotten to do so this morning, equivalent to not belching after eating a
chili dog. But he supposed that stranger things had been known to
happen, so he didn't dwell on the matter for long. Instead he
changed out of his work clothes, microwaved himself dinner, and zoomed through
sixty-two channels with the speed of an amorous jackrabbit until it was time to
go to bed.
Each interval of Willie
Gilmore's life mirrored the one prior and foretold of those to come. This
was more than fine by him. Variety and change were not his cups of
tea, coffee, or any other beverage. Personal growth through gained
experiences was as foreign a concept as putting on a pair of pants by pulling
them over his head. Physically possible? Perhaps. But
for what purpose would he bother trying to find out? He knew
precisely what pleased him and had no intention of adding to or subtracting
from the list. To describe him as a couch potato would be a severe
understatement. After all, a potato was easily moved. Once home and
in position, Willie was a couch barnacle.
At 7:40 a.m., his alarm
clock signaled the start of a new day. As always, he hit the snooze button to
grant himself nine more minutes of slumber. When the time was up, he
cursed the morning for ending the night. Then he headed towards the
bathroom, switching on his television on the way. Not actually
listening to the morning talk show, but nonetheless comforted by the sound of
it, he went about the business of preparing to trudge through another
day. He began by relieving himself of last night's Kool Aid,
followed by brushing his teeth, shaving, and taking a shower. On the way back
to his bedroom, Willie picked up the remote and zipped around a few
channels. The only difference between this morning and any other
occurred in his head. He reminded himself to do what he had
previously done instinctively - to turn off the television.
"What's the
deal?" asked Willie, when he was welcomed for the second day in a row by a
TV set that had anticipated his desire. He definitely recalled
turning it off that morning. So certain was he of this fact that he
would have been willing to bet his three month supply of Pringles on it. What
could be the cause of this unsettling turn of events? One solution
he came up with was preposterous, but less so than the only alternative which
came to mind. After all, televisions could not turn themselves on at
will. They had no will. Not yet, anyway. So this could
only mean that someone had come into his apartment while he was at work. Yet
nothing had been taken, nothing was out of place. His home was in
the same condition as when he left, except for the baffling enigma encased in
plastic and glass.
Such thoughts caused
Willie to pay even less attention to the sounds and images on the screen than
usual, and when he went to sleep he dreamed of dancing televisions.
At 7:49 a.m. the next day, Willie picked up the remote and took aim. But just as he was about to push his thumb down, he recalled the bizarre happenings of the past two days. Willie was not what you would call a morning person. Not that he was an afternoon or a night person either. He was particularly inattentive and unfocused upon awakening, however, so perhaps his mind had tricked him into thinking that he had done what in actuality he had not. It was the only explanation which conformed to logic.
Groggy or not, it was
clear that his television was now at rest. If let alone, it would be
in the same state when he got home. Sound reasoning if ever there
was any.
Much to his annoyance,
Willie's thoughts involuntarily ventured back to his television throughout his
day of professionally processing data. He had solved his
mini-mystery quite sufficiently, and made sure that the peculiar occurrence
would not repeat itself. What was there to think about? The
case was closed.
It re-opened when Willie
entered his apartment that evening. "What in the world is going
on?" he asked of himself, half expecting the television to speak up and
account for its bizarre behavior.
Willie paced around the
living room in search of an answer. The same one kept presenting
itself. Someone was breaking into his apartment for the sole purpose
of turning on his television. As for why, he would pose that very
question to the culprit upon capture.
Instead of going to work
the next morning, Willie called in sick. He made a big breakfast,
then settled comfortably on his sofa and stared ahead at the television
screen. His beloved remote was achingly within reach. But
he let it lie on the coffee table. Willie wasn't about to do anything to alert
his mystery intruder to the trap he was setting. He would silently
await the appearance of his nemesis, then end this madness once and for
all.
Willie faithfully kept
his promise. Until about 3:00 that is, when unable to keep his eyes
open any longer, he dozed off. About an hour later he awoke to the
precocious banter of Arnold and his older brother. "What you
talkin' bout, Willis?"
How was this
happening? Who would have the audacity to sneak into his apartment
while he was still in it, just to turn on his television? What motivation
could this lunatic have for perpetrating such a dastardly crime?
Willie made a most
solemn vow. Tomorrow, no matter what it took, he would be ready and
waiting for the psychopath who was making his life a living hell. He
would not allow this to continue any longer.
The next morning he rose
over an hour before his alarm clock would have awakened him. Every
nerve in his body was tensed. He didn't even glance at the remote as
he passed through the living room. Willie didn't bother to shave,
and the shower he took was almost ice cold. He went into the kitchen
to prepare the first of several pots of coffee he would consume. Instead
of lounging on his sofa, he sat on a hard back chair. Death itself
was not going to close his eyes today.
Time ticked by ever so
slowly. Willie was aware of every second, of every minute, of every
hour that silently passed. He counted the beats of his heart while
staring ahead with startling intensity. The only movement he made
was to bring the coffee cup to his lips, and then back down to the table. He
didn't eat anything, because hunger made him more alert. He kept an
empty apple juice bottle by his side as substitute for trips to the bathroom,
because such trips would put him out of eye shot of the TV. Willie
had a simple, clear cut mission to accomplish. He must protect his
television until 6:00, which was the time he usually came home from work. He
was confident that if he did this, the bizarre streak of the last few days
would be broken and life could go back to the familiar pattern he had grown accustomed
to. To keep his television off he had to watch it. And so
he watched, and watched, and watched.
It was 5:59 forever and
a day. The digital clock on his cable box had stuck on that time after
plodding ahead surely all day long. Willie held tight to the bottom
of the chair to keep himself down. And then suddenly, as if by magic, six
o'clock arrived. Victory was his. Nothing else achieved
in his monotone life had been as sweet. This was Willie Gilmore's
moment in the sun.
His apple juice bottle
had been full to the rim for the past hour and a half, so Willie opted to hold the urge in rather than abandoning his post.
Now that his mission was accomplished, there was no reason to refrain
from relieving himself. Several cups of
coffee he had imbibed were anxious to be released. The pleasure he
felt as he set the golden stream free was immeasurable. He closed his eyes, and for
a split second thought he saw God. Once this task was performed,
Willie started to shave off his stubble. He was about halfway
through when his concentration was broken, causing him to nick his chin.
"Sunday, Monday,
Happy Days. Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days." Willie
rushed into the living room to confirm his worst nightmare. The
television set was on.
Perhaps it was an
unearthly sign, a message that he needed to adjust his priorities. He
was after all, stuck in an intolerable dead end job. A few casual
acquaintances with whom he spent a scare amount of time constituted his social
scene. As for a romantic life, it was non-existent, unless one
counted the crushes he had on various TV actresses. It seemed
evident that he was being told to reclaim his soul from the grips of this
monastic lifestyle creating, intellect sapping, boxed form of entertainment.
The matter thus settled,
Willie stuck his hand into the closet and withdrew the Louisville slugger he
hadn't swung since childhood. But he swung it today all right. The
sweet spot of the bat connected dead center with the TV screen, causing the
latter to explode on impact. Shards of glass took off in every
direction.
The bat hung limp from
Willie's hands once the heat of the moment had passed. He stood
motionless for a few seconds, uncertain of how to feel about the destruction of
his most prized possession. Then a smile crept across his
face. The demon was dead.
Realizing that it was no
longer necessary to battle the fatigue raging war against his eyelids, Willie
dropped the bat in the middle of the mess he had created and headed for the
safe confines of his bed. His slumber lasted about three
hours. Upon awakening, his heart was filled with contentment. A
gentle breeze came through the window, caressing his half shaven face. Willie
sat up, rejuvenated, feeling like he could conquer the world. It was
to be a short lived emotion.
The sound he heard was
faint, but grew more coherent once its source was recognized. He
would know their voices anywhere. Jo, Blair, Natalie and his
personal favorite, Tootie. After eavesdropping on their conversation
for a few seconds, he was able to recall the episode taking place.
Then he remembered what
he had done a few hours earlier. Willie leaped from his bed and ran
into the living room. The sight of his television seemingly
destroyed beyond usefulness was disturbing. More so was the fact
that the sound still worked. Then he looked down at the floor, at
the scattered jagged pieces of glass, and witnessed the most unsettling
phenomenon of them all. Within each piece of what had been the
screen, a section of The Facts of Life was somehow playing.
Willie considered
jumping out of a window, for it was clear that he had gone insane and this did
not seem an agreeable way to spend the remainder of his days. But
the notion was quickly passed on, for such a drastic measure seemed
disproportionate to the symptoms of his dementia. After all, it was
not as if neighborhood dogs were talking him into dismembering random
strangers. Beyond the hit his electricity bill might take, this
peculiar haunting should disturb him very little once he grew accustomed to it.
On the verge of hysteria
just moments ago, his mood had taken a dramatic turn for the better. He
had tried to deny his nature, and was therefore destined to fail. His
chances had been no greater than those of a cat attempting to bark. Such
a cat would be a silly one indeed, for cats were meant to meow just as surely
as Willie's role was to watch television.
It was now perfectly
clear. The key to sanity was acceptance of what life gave you, like
it or not. Mental institutions and psychiatrist offices were filled
with lost souls who questioned too vigilantly why things were as they
were. Those smart enough to know better roamed the earth free of
care, if not quite happy, at least a close enough facsimile. One of these
people, a man named Willie Gilmore, dropped to his knees to assemble a most
bizarre jigsaw puzzle, each piece put back into place bringing his life that much
closer to order.
And now for some book reviews.
Loving Day by Mat JohnsonMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Mat Johnson has a very funny (as in comical) way of looking at the world, perhaps because he grew up with a fair number of people looking at him funny (as in odd). Is he black, is he white? The box you decide to put a person into upon introduction, the label you instantly apply to their existence, shapes the dynamics of the relationship you will have with them. If you're not sure of which box to go with, which label to use, then what is there to guide your first impression? If you're not sure what someone else is, how do you go about being yourself around them? We live in an identity obsessed culture. What are you? Who am I? We are comforted when we can tell at a glance whether someone is a star bellied sneetch or a starless sneetch. But when the truth about someone cannot be discerned by a glance at them, then either they need to forcefully declare what they identity as being, or else we'll do it for them. Loving Day is filled with indelible characters; a line-up of humorous situations; an entertaining blend of reality and unreality; a considerable amount of wry, insightful prose; great compassion; and a handful of ghosts. It is about figuring out that regardless of how clearly our stars can be recognized (thanks for helping me out with this review, Dr. Seuss), it doesn't change the fact that we're all just people put here to find other people to love. Preferably people who will love us in return for whatever the hell we are.
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The Star Side of Bird Hill by Naomi JacksonMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Home is more than where you live. It is where you are loved. It is the place you feel safe, where your fondest memories are created and stored. Home plays a major role in the creation of your identity. If another place was home, you would be a different version of yourself. The Star Side of Bird Hill is about two sisters, one a preteen and the other a little closer to the verge of womanhood, who are sent from Brooklyn to Barbados to spend a summer with their grandmother. This temporary arrangement is given permanence when their severely depressed mother kills herself. With their father out of the picture, having no parents in their lives means that home is suddenly redefined. But Bird Hill is not what they know nor what they have chosen. It is an idyllic prison cell. The children of Bird Hill are not their true friends. Their grandmother is an unbending woman with strange ways, not the adored woman who raised them. This is not to say that Brooklyn was paradise, for that was where their mother had been vanishing before their eyes by withdrawing into herself as depression took hold. Brooklyn is where their father abandoned them. Barbados is where he makes a surprise reappearance that is difficult to trust. Who they can have faith in is their stalwart grandmother, and she is rooted in an island they knew little of up until now. So Bird Hill is where they will finish becoming the women they are meant to be. Memories happy and sad, at least for the time being, must stay behind in Brooklyn. The new shape of home, including loved ones they have gained and those who have been lost, must be accepted no matter how reluctantly. Passage of time will construct that acceptance. This is a fine debut novel by Naomi Jackson, an author to keep an eye on.
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Drama by Raina TelgemeierThis title (which my daughter adores and I haven’t actually read yet) made the 2015 Banned Books list. Why? It doesn't ignore the fact that homosexuality and homosexuals exist. They can even make appearances in graphic novels geared to young readers. Deal with it.
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Sonia Sotomayor: A Judge Grows in the Bronx/La juez que crecio en el Bronx by Jonah WinterMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Inspirational story of a girl who grew up in the Bronx, like myself. We even went to the same high school (Cardinal Spellman in the house!). My daughter, who read this book aloud to me, loved the illustrations of a young Sonia Sotomayor by Edel Rodriguez. Reminded her a bit of herself, although Sonia has "only" made it as far as the Supreme Court while my daughter plans to be President one day. So what's not to love about this book?
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Just One Look by Harlan CobenMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
3-1/2 stars. This book was headed towards a 4-star review due to its infectious page turner style of prose that will be mistaken by no one for literary flair. Strictly meat and potatoes. This writing style effectively accomplishes the goal of all mystery books which is to make readers extremely curious about who dunnit and why they dunnit. As I have found to be the case with quite a few mysteries, the grande finale portion where all/most gets solved and the culprits are revealed was a bit underwhelming. Hence I settled on 3-1/2 stars, but GoodReads/Amazon won't give us a half star option for some incomprehensible reason, so 3 stars it is. The explanation section at the end of Just One Look is so choppy and convoluted and hole punched that I stopped caring halfway through it. In other words, I raced to the end only to find myself somewhat dissatisfied by the destination. Nevertheless, I will be sure to give another Harlan Coben book a shot because he is excellent at leaving a trail of crumbs for readers to eagerly devour, and that's what we read mystery novels for - the thrill of the blind chase.
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