Who Killed the Fonz?

by James Boice

  “Who’s the lunatic?” Potsie was saying happily as Richard returned. He held out the basket of free fries.

  Ralph wasn’t saying anything, just smiling at him. He held out his hand. “Congratulations,” he said.

  “I have to make a call,” Richard said, taking a fry, going inside to the pay phone. He dialed the direct line Sealock had given him.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Meet me first thing tomorrow morning at Sackett-Wilhelm,” Richard told him. “Bring your film crew. You want something that will grab them? What I have in mind will grab them and never let go.”

  • • •

  THEY CHASED AWAY A FEW more cars, then Potsie and Ralph had to leave, to be up early for work. Richard had an early start also. He stopped in the bathroom on his way out. As he stood at the trough, his eye went to the wall. Beneath his “Long Live the Fonz” from yesterday was a new message:

  RC: Sit on It

  –TJ

  Every generation has its brush-offs. Gag me with a spoon was his daughter’s. His had been sit on it. He hadn’t said it or heard anyone else say it since about 1965. He had hardly even thought about it since high school. Everybody had said it then. He took a closer look. RC was him. But who was TJ? He tried to remember someone with those initials but could not.

  He exited the bathroom, looked around for who might be TJ. At the bar were the Sackett-Wilhelm guys from yesterday. The one who had accused him of being a Madonna enthusiast looked over his shoulder at him. They met eyes. The guy smirked then turned back around.

  “Real funny, TJ,” he muttered as he passed the guy on the way out the door. The guy looked at him but did not say anything. As the door closed behind him, Richard heard snickering.

  He was a mile from the house, the only one on the road, when in the darkness behind him, in his rearview mirror, a single headlight appeared. It grew brighter and brighter. Came up close behind him and stayed there, filling the car with light, reflecting off the mirror into his eyes. “Okay, buddy, okay,” Richard said, putting a hand up to block it. He rolled the window down and waved at the biker to pass, but the guy did not, he only pulled closer.

  Richard brought his arm back inside the car and did not know what to do.

  TJ, he thought. Local crazy. Nothing better to do but put in days at Sackett-Wilhelm then nights at the bar at Arnold’s, getting loaded, then getting on his bike and looking for a fight.

  He started putting it together. The biker earlier at Inspiration Point who reminded him of Fonzie.

  What it meant was there were some here who did not only resent him—they wanted him out of town.

  He held his breath and drove.

  TJ disappeared from his rearview then reappeared on his left flank, passing him in the other lane. Richard got a good look. He looked twice. The first look, he felt the same thing he had felt at Inspiration Point. Silver gas tank, ape-hanger handlebars, no front fender. The way he rode. It was Fonzie, in that first look. But in the second look, there was logic and rationality, and there was a helmet—and it was not Fonzie. And the rider was leaning forward and ducking his head, and the engine grew suddenly louder, taking him away into the night, where he soon disappeared along with the roar.

  Richard pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. He had calmed down by explaining the situation to himself. Of course the bike wasn’t Fonzie’s. That thing was gone—smashed up on a police impound lot somewhere. What was the rational explanation? What had really happened? Not much. A guy on a motorcycle that looked like Fonzie’s had passed him on the road. It was nothing. There were a lot of bikers out this time of year. Maybe his grief was making him take things that had nothing to do with him—for example, some motorcycle enthusiast with the same taste as Fonzie’s getting his last day of riding in before winter forced him to garage his bike until spring—and twist them until they became something that reminded him of Fonzie. Maybe this TJ was not harassing him at all, and maybe no one was—maybe Richard just missed his friend and wished he were here.

  • • •

  INSIDE THE HOUSE THE LIGHT on the answering machine was blinking again.

  “Richard!” Gleb Cooper said. “I’m at Dan Tana’s with our friend. I’m talking about the prince. Listen, I floated the idea of you directing this thing. He loves it. You want a directing job? You got one. It’s yours. The choice is yours. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. This kind of thing doesn’t happen, Richard. All you have to do is tell me yes, like a sane human being. So call me back and tell me yes. By Saturday, Richard. Saturday!”

  WEDNESDAY

  THE SACKETT-WILHELM FACTORY WAS THE size of an airport and just as busy. Shuttle buses delivered loads of workers from several satellite parking lots. It was approaching the time for a shift change, and a heavy crowd of workers was arriving. They were dignified and proud, content to have work waiting inside for them.

  Potsie had arranged parking at the loading area, for easier access. A small film crew waited for Richard as he arrived with doughnuts. Lighting guy, camera guy, sound guy. Potsie and Ralph were there too. The crew’s rusted old Ford Econoline van was parked nearby. They were blowing into their hands or drinking from fat Styrofoam cups of coffee, the steam rising out into the air around them. They were young—college, Richard guessed, or just out of it. Long hair, beanies. Mostly the production company they worked for did weddings, school pageants, and corporate training videos. It probably beat working at Kinko’s. Richard went around shaking hands, introducing himself.

  “Richard Cunningham,” the sound guy said, squinting at him thoughtfully. “Where do I know that name?”

  The lighting guy snapped his fingers and pointed at Richard, kind of leaning back and bending his knees. “Sorority Slaughterhouse.”

  The sound guy turned to the lighting guy. “Sorority Slaughterhouse?”

  “Sorority Slaughterhouse.”

  They looked at Richard. “Tell me that was you,” said the sound guy. “Please.”

  “It was me,” Richard confessed, dying a little inside.

  They put their hands up and cheered, as if for a touchdown. The sound guy took Richard’s hand in his. “Sir? Mr. Cunningham? It’s an honor to work with you.”

  “Thank you,” Richard said.

  As the two explained to the camera guy the lowbrow pleasures of the no-budget horror movie with the enthusiasm of kids, Potsie said to them, “If you guys think that one’s good, you should see Welcome to Henderson County. It’s his masterpiece.”

  Richard turned to Ralph. “How high can you get me on your crane?”

  “As high as you need.”

  A black Town Car arrived, pulling into the loading area and delivering Sealock in a suit.

  “Ready for my close-up,” he said.

  Richard stepped forward to greet him. “We’re just about all set, Martin—”

  Sealock put his arm around his shoulder and turned him around to face the others. “Everybody, I can’t thank you enough for your help here today. Before we start, I just wanted to take a second to recognize what a special moment this is. You will tell your grandkids about this day. Because today marks the directorial debut of the great Richard Cunningham, native son of Milwaukee and my favorite new filmmaker.”

  He shook Richard’s hand and wished him good luck as the others applauded, and then they all went inside.

  • • •

  RICHARD SAT BACK AND TURNED off the playback on the editing bay that the sound guy, who was also the editing guy, had shown him how to use before departing the production company office and leaving Richard to it. His back hurt, his shoulders ached. His eyes were red and dry. He took a look at his watch—ten o’clock. He had been at it all day and evening, since the factory. It was Halloween—he had hoped to make it back to Joanie’s early enough to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters, but he had had to miss it. His storyboards were in a trash can somewhere in the Sackett-Wilhelm factory. He hadn’t needed them. There were only two shots in
the commercial. He had a dozen different versions of Sealock delivering his lines. The guy could act. He took direction more effectively than some actors Richard had known. Whatever he threw at him, Sealock would find new nuances in the words Richard had written for him, discovering different angles. He told the candidate after the shoot that if the election next Tuesday did not go well he might have a job for him on an embarrassing Star Wars knockoff.

  The crew had come through. The camera was steady, the lighting was naturalistic, the audio was clear. Richard found he could read the crew well and hone his direction to their personalities, to get the best from them and make them want to give it to him. He had felt capable and talented. He wanted to keep going—direct more. He could keep going. For the first time since he could remember, he felt sure he had a future.

  Richard tried different versions of the commercial, swapping in the different takes, until little by little—almost frame by frame—the finished film began to emerge.

  He knew it was happening because it felt like somebody was leaving the room, pulling the door closed behind them, taking with them noise and endless impossible questions and ceaseless demands and an energy that was restless, gnawing. He kept working, working, waiting to hear, to feel the click of the door latch catching.

  When it happened, he felt a calm descend over him, then that sadness that follows completion of a project, that kind that should have its own word. Then the second-guessing. He looked at the clock. He played it back one last time. Fortunately, time and fatigue would keep him from continuing to fuss with it. It was done. Time to let it go.

  It was too late to deliver it to the local network stations—that could wait until morning. He had changed his return flight to Friday morning, to allow for any necessary reshoots or problems. Richard had invited Sealock to come to the production company office to see the final edit before it went out, but Sealock’s schedule did not allow for it.

  “I trust you,” he had said in the factory parking lot as the crew packed up following the shoot. “Just make me look good.” He smiled.

  “I hope it gets you elected,” Richard said.

  “And I hope it helps get you back to where you ought to be,” Sealock said. They shook hands and said goodbye.

  THURSDAY

  RICHARD LOOKED THROUGH CHACHI’S CLOSET. He needed something to wear—he had packed for only a few days and there had not been time to do laundry. He found a flannel shirt and jeans. He and Chachi had a similar enough waistline, and he would roll up the too-short sleeves of the shirt. But they had different shoe sizes, so Richard had to stay with the Bruno Maglis.

  The morning was spent delivering copies of the commercial to the network stations. The campaign had already paid for the airtime, but at each station the person in charge of such things had to screen the commercial first before accepting it. At the third station, the guy told Richard after it was over that he had never seen anything like it, that it had changed the way he was going to vote: Sealock, all the way.

  When Richard left the final station and got back into the Tempo to find somewhere for lunch, the feeling of a job well done quickly gave way to a rapidly spreading melancholy. It spilled across his consciousness like the colors at sunset. He realized he had no real reason to be here in his hometown anymore. It was time to start saying goodbye.

  As he drove he passed a junkyard. It looked like it had been there a long time. Richard had driven past it before, but he had never really noticed it. There was something immediately inside the fence out front that caught his attention. He made a U-turn, pulled in to the parking lot, and got out of the car. The sign above the junkyard read: TJ’S AUTO PARTS AND SALVAGE.

  A small trailer outside the fence served as the office. It was plastered with old license plates and signs for VALVOLINE and SIMONIZE.

  He went to the chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, that surrounded the property, put one hand on the links, and bent to look. It was smashed up. Mangled. Hardly stood upright on its kickstand. It had been such a long time since he had seen it, but it did not matter—he knew it. This was Fonzie’s motorcycle.

  The trailer door swung open. Two large, slobbering Rottweilers came down the steps. A man in coveralls who Richard had never seen before appeared in the doorway behind them. For a moment he watched Richard backing away from the dogs, then said, “They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.” Richard stood still, not so sure. One of the dogs sniffed his hand then lost interest, went to a fence post, and raised his leg.

  “You need something?” said the guy.

  “This motorcycle,” Richard said, pointing to it. “Where’d it come from?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Richard Cunningham. From Los Angeles, California. That’s my friend’s bike.”

  “It is, is it?”

  “Yeah. Fonzie. Arthur Fonzarelli.”

  The man relaxed. “Any friend of Fonzie’s,” he said. He came down the stairs, came toward Richard holding his hand out. “TJ Parker,” he said.

  “TJ,” Richard said.

  “That’s what I said. Fonzie was my friend too.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “Police. They let me haul away the wrecks nobody claims.”

  Richard winced. “I hate thinking of his bike as that.”

  “Me too. That’s why I made extra sure to get it as soon as they’d give it to me. It’s awful what happened.”

  “Yes it is.” It was quiet. TJ didn’t know what more to say. He turned to the motorcycle.

  “This bike is something special. A 1949 Triumph Trophy TR5 Scrambler Custom with the castrator tank rack removed, bullet-holed muffler modified to a pea-shooter, front fender yanked off, ape hangers bolted on, gas tank painted chrome, vintage all-alloy engine on a 11198T frame. Nothing there it doesn’t need. Yeah, this is Fonzie’s bike all right.”

  “How’d you know him?”

  “He came by now and again to pick up parts for his shop. Fonzie didn’t talk a lot. But when he did, it was about one thing. Automobiles. That was fine by me. I never knew anyone who knew so much about them. I can’t believe he went out the way he did.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “But there’s still something about it that keeps bugging me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s nothing, probably. The last few months, I started seeing him a little more often. He’d come around sometimes not even looking for parts—he’d come just to shoot the breeze. He seemed to be in a real good mood, real happy. But last time I saw him? Probably a week before he died? He was even more quiet than ever. Wouldn’t even talk carburetors with me. I asked him what it was. He said nothing. But I could tell something serious was on his mind. The guy looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. When I heard the news, know what my first thought was? That it must have had something to do with what had been on his mind that day.”

  “TJ, did you write me a message on the wall at Arnold’s?”

  “I haven’t been to Arnold’s in years.”

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would someone leave that message for him? To lead him here? But why?

  “Could I get inside the fence? Take a closer look at it?”

  “I suppose so.” TJ opened the gate, and the dogs rushed past. TJ followed, then Richard behind him.

  “God,” said Richard, looking at it.

  “That’s what crashing at seventy, eighty miles an hour will do.”

  “It really happened, didn’t it,” Richard said. “It really did. I don’t think I really understood until now, seeing this.” He and TJ stared at the bike in silence. It felt like Fonzie’s grave site. One of the dogs was sniffing it, like he knew it was the focus of attention.

  Then Richard had a revelation. Sit on it. Maybe he had misunderstood and it wasn’t an insult, or even a reference to their youth. It was an instruction. He took a step forward and swung one leg over the seat, got on. “Careful,” said TJ, “it’s not stable.”
He lifted his feet, put them on the foot pegs. He took hold of what remained of the ape-hanger handlebars. It was a mistake. He didn’t like it. It felt like a violation, a trespassing. But more than that—the bike could not hold his weight. The kickstand gave out and it fell. “Whoa,” TJ said, reaching out to grab Richard’s arm to keep him from falling with it. Richard got his feet under him and stood, but the bike was already down, sending the curious dogs leaping back. He stood straddling it, looking down at it. TJ helped him step away.

  “It’s all just barely hanging together,” TJ said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Can you help me stand it back up?”

  “Grab that end,” TJ said, pointing toward the rear. “I’ll take the front.”

  Richard reached down then stopped. “What’s that?” He could have seen it only at this angle.

  “What’s what?”

  “That blue paint. See it? Right there.” Richard pointed at the bottom of the rear fender, and TJ leaned in toward it, squinting. “And the way it’s bent right there at the bottom. Kind of looks like someone hit it or something,” Richard said. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” said TJ, bending over it. “That man took care of his bike. The word obsessed doesn’t do it. He wouldn’t have been riding around with a ding like that. No way. Almost looks like he got clipped from behind.”

  Richard said, “Think he was?”

  TJ thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “No. No way. Cops would have considered that.”

  Richard said, “Yeah. They would know.” They were quiet. Then Richard said, “How would they though?”

  “Well,” said TJ, “because they’re cops. They know that kind of thing. They investigate. If a bike was clipped, well, they know that. They see that.” He added, impatiently, “They’re cops.”