With her eyes back in her lap, Devin said, “You’re not really taking the adults away, with the computers. You’re just hiding them, because kids don’t build … or program the computers. They’re certainly not producing or editing the content of the shows either.”
There you go, Asa, I thought.
“That’s right,” Parker continued. “But you need to give them a modicum of control, a sense that they are behind the learning. They don’t know what they want, but they know that they don’t want to have to go to adults to get it.”
Then Amy added, “We’d like to recommend that you reconfigure the show to focus on your Junior Science Corps group. Have them be the centerpiece of the program. Cast these roles permanently and have them work out the solution to scientific problems together, through a consensus-based group process. We’ve tested the idea, and kids like it.”
“Where does that leave old Dr. Science?” I chuckled. The question flew from my lips before I could contain it. Nevertheless, I had the sinking feeling that I was playing right into their hands. Parker lifted the lid of his laptop and clicked a button on a palm-sized remote, bringing an image to life on the screen.
“We wouldn’t suggest losing Dr. Science altogether. Parents have a lot of attachment to the brand, which brings viewers to the show, but we’d like to use the new configuration to hold them there,” Parker said. He clicked another button and a cartoon image of an owl in a space suit came on the screen. “That’s the new Dr. Science. He’s a cyber-owl.”
“A what?” I said.
“A cyber-owl,” Amy answered. “A kind of STEM muse for the kids. The cyber-owl lives in a computer. The kids can access him and ask him questions when they get stuck. He can send them on quests. We’d use your voice, of course, but the owl would be CGI.”
“Cool,” Sage said from his seat. “Maybe his programmer could be an old wizard from a thousand years in the future.”
“Shut up, Sage,” Pablo said through his teeth. “That’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Why not a puppet?” Devin asked, then she glanced at her gizmo. “Computer animation is still pretty … expensive, isn’t it? A puppet would be cheaper, and you could keep the human quality. We can’t sacrifice the humanity of our work.”
Parker answered decisively, “Puppets are dead.”
Amy followed up, “Kids don’t buy into puppets anymore. Ever since Toy Story they’ve had insatiable appetites for CGI. Puppets are the new eight-track.”
Emily, who had been quiet for the whole meeting, pushed her glasses up and said, “You can cuddle with a puppet—I mean, kids could cuddle with one.”
“Puppets are dodos, carrier pigeons,” Parker said. “Time marches on, folks. Cuddle factor doesn’t sell anymore, look at Milo’s Treehouse. Licensing revenues have been down for six quarters.”
“TIME MARCHES ON,” ASA GROWLED, and then paid for his slice. “Puppets are dead? Are you kidding me?”
“That’s what they said,” I told him. But he knew. He’d been listening.
“And the network is actually listening to these people?”
“They said they’re going to be meeting with all the producers in the network.”
“We have a meeting with them early next month,” Asa said.
“You’re a goner, then,” I said.
We took our food and sat at the window facing the billboard of Barb. Asa asked if I wanted to sit somewhere else, and I told him I wasn’t going to let her win even the smallest victory. Besides, I was going to need to learn to ignore her smug face raining down on me. “She’s everywhere,” I said. “There’s no escape. I’m going to have to work on tuning her out.”
Asa nodded and took small bites of his pizza, chewing them carefully, arranging his napkin every little while. It looked like he was formulating a plan or comment or something, but he just kept eating. He was wisdomless.
Across the street, a cop was frisking a kid in a stocking cap and a huge winter coat. I still felt a little loopy from the pill, but mostly numb. Coming down off the adrenaline was worse. My mouth was dry; the rims of my eyes hurt.
“Everything’s upside down,” I said. I told him about Barb and the stock situation.
“You are having a terrible week,” Asa said. “Are you tied up in any of this? Do you know where the cash is?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean I’m sure she’s got money stashed all over the place.”
“You should start liquidating before they freeze her accounts.”
“I’ll have to,” I said.
We ate for a while in silence, then Asa set down his pizza and said, “You ever been to Israel?”
ASA WASN’T REALLY ASKING A question but delivering the preamble to a proposition. In the course of reconnecting to his Jewish faith, he had fallen in with some Zionists, people who planted in his head the idea that he would be happiest if he could leave the world of television and reconnect with the land, with physical labor, and perhaps experience direct contact with children through teaching or athletics. Their suggestion was that he could do this best by moving to a settlement in the West Bank, where the borders of Israel were imperiled.
Asa told me he’d been considering this option for a long time, praying every day for insight. Then, he said, this divine call came from our phone puppetry gambit. Once he had the chance to hear the network’s plan to strike down everything we’d all been dedicating our lives to, he’d had enough. God had spoken with a clarity that he felt did not require repeating. Asa suggested we both go to Israel. There, in a single stroke, I could escape Barb and my demotion to cyber-owl sidekick.
“Besides,” he said, “we don’t want what America is turning into, Max.”
He was right. I wanted out, out of every last part of it.
Asa had arranged to buy land that was part of a moshav located in the Golan Heights. He showed me beautiful pictures, said the moshavim are collectives, but your place belongs to you and you put your crops in with everyone else’s. He said the work can be difficult for some people, but the freedom it could bring would be worth it.
What he said made a lot of sense to me. If Barb was going to be swallowed up by an investigation and media frenzy, I would not be immune here. My money would be frozen as well, my movements suspect. I had very little in my name. Over the next few days Asa continued his pitch. He explained that most people farm in that area, but Asa was planning to open a school, a bilingual school, and who, he asked, would be a better teacher in the beautiful orchards of Mount Hebron than the world-famous Dr. Science?
I was still sitting on the fence until I stumbled upon some bank information I didn’t recognize. Deep in one of Barb’s files, I found a note card with an internet address, a log-in, and password. It was online access for a bank account in the Cayman Islands in the name of none other than Bitya Steinberg. The balance: fifteen-and-a-half million dollars. I was furious at first, but I came out of it quickly and saw this for the revelation it was.
You should know how difficult it is for me to use a word like that. As Dr. Science, I have lived a secular life, built on scientific training. This religious world of Asa’s has been a curiosity for me, something I would call psychology rather than spirituality. The events of the last few weeks make me second-guess that approach. Science doesn’t explain my rage at, or disgust with, my wife. In evolutionary terms, what purpose does cuckoldry serve? Wouldn’t the organisms who show a predisposition to ignore it be the ones most likely to survive and reproduce? Wouldn’t the moody, sad monkeys, the ones crushed by their mate’s affection for other monkeys, be the ones to mope themselves into a childless oblivion? How do creatures who can be hurt so deeply by the caprices of other creatures rise up on two legs and become the kings of all they survey? In purely evolutionary terms, we lack the emotional strength of the pit viper or barracuda, and that’s a strength we need sometimes.
So, as I stared at Barb’s secret account, a pathway for settling the score opened before me, an
d I moved the mouse without reservation. I searched the internet for another offshore bank. This one in Barbados. I opened an account. When the account was established, I transferred a third of the money into it. Cleaning her out would not give me the closure I wanted. My plan was this: leave most of the money in that account and then leak the information to the authorities, let them follow the money and seize the account. Barb’s stash would become a weapon against her in a very real way. I wouldn’t just be robbing her, I’d be sending her to prison. And I can’t tell you how the thought of that raced through my body like a house on fire.
WHEN THE MONEY CLEARED, I called my brother, Boyd, with the number he left me. It was a motel in Ventura. Even with his talk box, he sounded surprised to hear from me.
“You still need money for your house?” I asked.
“UP YOURS,” he answered.
“I’m serious, Boyd. I have some money, and I think I might be able to help you.”
“IT’S TOO LATE. I’M OUT FOR GOOD. THEY’VE GOT A FAMILY IN THERE NOW. YUPPIES. I’M HUMAN GARBAGE.”
“You’re not human garbage,” I said.
“YOU’RE NOT HERE. YOU DON’T KNOW.”
“What if I told you I had the money to get you a house, free and clear?”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FREE AND CLEAR?”
“I mean I have enough money right now to buy you a house pretty much wherever you want one.”
“I WANT THE ONE THEY TOOK.”
“Well, that’s up to you. Do you still have a bank account, or have they closed it?”
“I GOT THE CHECKING ACCOUNT. THERE’S NOTHING IN IT. MAYBE A COUPLE OF BUCKS.”
I had him get a check and read me the account and routing number. Boyd was worried that I would use the numbers to steal from him. I assured him that I would only use them to make deposits. “Go to the bank tomorrow and check your balance. I think you’ll be surprised. And Boyd, I’m probably going away for a while, maybe forever.”
“TO PRISON?” he asked. “WHAT FOR? SCIENCE CRIMES?”
“No,” I said. “There’s no such thing as science crimes.”
“WHAT ABOUT THE NAZIS?”
“Except for the Nazis. You got me.”
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU DYING?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m quitting the show and moving out of New York. I’ll drop you a line when I’ve figured it out.”
“YOU GETTING RID OF THAT SO-CALLED WIFE? SHE’S ON THE TV ALL THE TIME.”
I told him that we would not be staying together. Boyd said he was glad about that, told me that Barb used to make his wife cry. Once while they were preparing Thanksgiving dinner, she saw Barb dump one of her pies into the garbage and then walk over and set the tin on the dog’s bed. I told him I’d been hearing a lot of stories like that lately.
“Boyd,” I said. “Go check the bank, okay? And don’t …”
“DON’T WHAT, MAX?”
“Well, I want you to—Please just get a house with it. Promise me you’ll get a house.”
“I’M GOING TO GET WAY MORE THAN A HOUSE, MAXIE,” he said. “I’M GETTING JUSTICE.”
It was clear to me that Max thought he was going to get justice, but justice might not be the safety net he thought it would be. After I wired him the money, I also took a spare set of keys to the New York apartment and put them in an envelope with a note:
Boyd,
If you need to get away from California, you’re welcome to stay at my apartment in New York as long as you like. I’ve kept a bunch of Mom’s things there. It could be a good place to get centered. The alarm code is 1961, the year I was born.
Love,
Max
From this point on, things started moving really fast. I forwarded Barclay’s letters to Barb and began to sort through my things. I didn’t want much. Almost everything in the place was Barb’s. I wanted a laptop, my clothes, the camera, a box of photographs, a few books (Gleick’s biography of Richard Feynman, some essays by Albert Einstein, Gulliver’s Travels). It didn’t seem like I could start over with a truck full of my old stuff. Plus, the effect of my leaving would have more weight, I imagined, if I seemed to have vanished into thin air. Asa and I got our passports and visas in order and discussed the possibilities of our school, what we would teach, how we would meet with the parents. It felt energizing to imagine the change.
I was invulnerable to anything the network could do or say to me. During our preparations, Devin and Emily were fired. Pablo left before they could “get their claws into him.” He got a job at the Cartoon Network working on a program about the children of superheroes. They kept Sage and Laura and brought in a new producer.
Sage came to me and said, “Hey, dude, it was going to be epic, but you can stop working on the magnetism show.”
“Why?” I asked. I thought somehow he knew about my plans to leave.
“They don’t want it.” He reached into his back pocket and took out a piece of paper that had been folded into quarters. “They gave me a list.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. Them. The network. Here’s the list.”
The memo Sage unfolded said the show would need a conservation angle. They wanted programs on the rain forest, recycling, wind power, hybrid automobiles, and lots of STEM. I set the paper on my desk and told Sage to sit down.
“Sage, don’t worry about what’s going on around here,” I told him. “You should just go finish your screenplay.”
“Which one?” he said.
“The autobiographical one about the wizard who can see into the future.”
Sage wouldn’t look at me. “That one’s not autobiographical,” he said without much conviction.
“Your name is Sage, right?”
He nodded.
“Sage. Wizard. I guess your parents were thinking about the herb.”
Sage grinned uncomfortably. I told him I knew the days of Dr. Science were numbered. “Listen,” I said. “The future is always in motion. You’ve got to go catch it.”
Sage grinned. “Okay, that’s cool,” he said, “But you got it wrong.”
“What?”
“The Yoda line you just said. In the movie it went, Always in motion is the future.’ You know, because he’s got sensei grammar.”
I made a face that encouraged him to think I’d never seen The Empire Strikes Back. “Sorry,” I said.
“You’re okay, Dr. Science.” Doing the voice again, he said, “Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.”
“More Yoda?” I asked.
He nodded and walked to the door. “You never once made me feel dumb.”
“May the Force be with you,” I said.
“No, dude, may the Force be with you. You’re going to need it, bad.”
BEFORE WE LEFT, BARB CALLED me herself. I don’t think she even had Merilese place the call. Caller ID showed her personal cell number. I let it ring for a long time before I picked up. She was distraught, and I took pleasure in that.
“Max,” she said. “We’ve both been working too hard, with our shows. It’s been a hard year, Max.”
“Yes, it has.”
“You know this thing with Chuck doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, it does. It means you’re a terrible person.”
“Max, why would you say something like that?”
“Because no one else will. I assume you got those letters from Simon Barclay.”
She didn’t answer right away. During the silence, I doodled a pillow and a horseshoe magnet and thought about magnetic coition.
“You read them, I presume?” she asked, eventually.
“Of course I did. Does Simon know about this thing with Chuck? I wonder how he’d feel about that. Doesn’t seem like you’d want him to be—what’s the right word here—discontented with you right now? A man with the knowledge he has might not like hearing that you’ve decided to cheat on your husband with someone other than himself.”
“I wasn’t sl
eeping with Simon.”
“Oh, what tangled webs we weave, Bitya.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Simon does.”
“Simon is a fool.”
“Simon has the goods on you. I wouldn’t tick him off right now—do you think your phone is tapped?”
“How would I know?”
“Yeah, how would you? Anyway, Barb, I’m filing for divorce. Unless you want your books opened up to the courts, I’d suggest you sign the papers. It’ll be easier on everyone.”
At that point she hung up. I knew she would. The divorce was simple, I wanted the apartment, and that was it. I didn’t even want the Maserati. I only wanted something that would make it through whatever the SEC was going to put her through. It would also cut her to the quick. That apartment was her prestige, the way she bought herself out of her immigrant past. I also wanted someplace to come back to if this collective farming project fell through.
On the day before we were set to leave, Asa called. “I don’t have the shows,” he said. He was nearly hysterical. I asked him to calm down. “I don’t have the shows, Max. They screwed me with the contract.”
Asa’s contract, it seemed, gave him rights to control and distribute the image of Milo but not the Milo’s Treehouse program or the secondary characters. It hadn’t mattered, because the licensing money was so good. Asa didn’t think about it. But when Asa tried to arrange to take copies of his shows, he was told they were all being digitally remastered. The old videotape masters were being erased to make room in the archive for more digital servers.
“Anyway,” he said, “I can’t take Milo with me. They’re holding him hostage.”
I MET ASA FOR ONE last slice in town before we left. We sat at the window, eating in silence, our bodies filled with electricity. Asa got a second slice and refilled his Coke and sat back at the window and said, “If we were still in high school, I’d say we should do something to that sign of Barb across the street.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at it.
“This girl from high school named Charlene Stavros—she was ridiculously hot,” Asa said. “Well, she once dumped a buddy of mine for a guy on the student senate, she told him it was nothing personal, but she wanted to run for student government and thought he could help her. My buddy was crushed, but he decided to get even. He had this photograph of Charlene from an old middle school yearbook. Man, it was terrible: braces, feathered hair, huge Coke-bottle glasses, cowl-neck sweater. He took that picture and photocopied it and made like two hundred posters that said: STAVROS FOR STUDENT SENATE. I USED TO BE A BIG GEEK, SO I KNOW WHAT GEEKS LIKE YOU NEED. He plastered those things everywhere.”
It Needs to Look Like We Tried Page 11