THE TELEVISION - A #SHORTSTORY

THE TELEVISION

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

    

    

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 Johnson
My 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 Jackson
My 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 Telgemeier


This 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 Winter
My 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 Coben
My 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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