by Jeff Zentner
“Sure,” Josie says, straight-faced.
Lawson starts toward the door, giving a whistle. “Come on, boy.” Tater trots after him. As Lawson opens the door to leave, he turns once more and waves clumsily to Josie. She gives him an okay this is really the last one wave. Then he’s gone.
“I’m ready whenever y’all are done teenaging,” Arliss says.
“Whatever,” Josie says. “You’re teenaging.”
“You are.” Arliss does a mocking, coquettish wave.
“I was being polite.”
“Polite would be not wasting my time with sassmouth so I can get to what I really want to be doing with my Friday night, which is sitting on my back patio with my dog and listening to the new Jason Isbell album.”
While they’re talking, I see my phone light up, buzz, and skitter in a semicircle on one of the chairs off set. I run over and check it, my guts quivering. Nothing. A coworker texting to ask if we can swap shifts next week. There’s nothing in this world worse than a phone notification that’s not for the thing you need.
“It does too sound boring to a normal person, right, DeeDee?” Josie calls to me.
I put my phone back down. “What? Sorry.”
“Arliss’s Friday-night plans sound super boring, and we’re way more fun.”
“For sure.”
Arliss snorts. “I’ve had pieces of popcorn stuck in my teeth that I enjoyed more than doing this show. All right,” he says with a clap. “Let’s roll.”
“We love you, Arliss,” I say. I’m not lying. Try as he might to push us away, Josie and I both think he’s terrific and want to be his friend, even though he hates us. The more he doesn’t want to be our friend, the more we want to be his. If coolness is doing your own thing and not caring what anyone else thinks about it, then Arliss is pretty cool.
“I warned y’all once about sassmouth,” Arliss says.
* * *
•••
I don’t remember exactly when we started roasting some of our letter writers, but I know that it came out of necessity to keep our sanity. As two young women working in a field whose audience contains its fair share of middle-aged dudes with endless appetites for inconsequential minutiae, we get explained at a lot. Actually, the basis for the Dracula lore is blah blah blah…Actually, in Lovecraft’s mythos yakity yak yak…Actually, Frankenstein was the name of the doctor, not the monster herka derka diddly dee. That last one we get constantly. Arliss inserts an old-timey car horn aoooooogah sound now after we read one. We have a bit planned for the next time we get one of those.
Still annoying but somewhat more flattering (because at least they’re paying attention) are the letters complaining about the continuity errors in our show’s universe: On the episode that aired on June 21, Delilah said that you were both 200 years old, but two months later, in August, Rayne made reference to your being 250 years old. Which is it? (Who-gives-a-pair-of-shorn-yak-nuts years old is the answer, by the way.)
And then there are the pervs. Use your imagination. No, really. Almost anything you can conceive of. And more, if you have a bad imagination. We don’t read their letters on air. We should really give them to the cops. We used to yell at them on the show, until we figured out that some of them were getting off on that too. It’s fun being a girl. Josie gets it the worst.
Most of the letters come to the show’s email address or our Facebook page, and we print them to read on the show. Sometimes, though, people mail stuff to us at the station. We’ve gotten animal bones; DVDs of movies people thought we should see; DVDs of movies people thought no one should see, therefore we should see; DVDs of movies people made themselves; and so on. I have, taped up in my bedroom, a fan art drawing someone from Fargo did.
We drape a black blanket between our chairs, where Arliss will crouch with the Frankenstein W. Frankenstein puppet and hand us the mail. (The second “Frankenstein” is pronounced Frahn-ken-shteen. You better believe we get letters.)
Arliss sets a box of letters behind the drape, fits the puppet on his hand, and kneels with a grunt so that only his puppet arm is visible. “We’re rolling.” When Arliss helps us with a segment, he just points the camera at the set and lets it roll.
Josie and I take our seats, sit quietly for a few seconds to give Arliss room to fade us in, and then start.
Josie kicks us off as usual. “Welcome back, vampire bats and black cats, it’s time for our favorite segment and yours…the mailbag! Where we hear from you out there in TV land! Oh, Frankenstein? Frankenstein W. Frankenstein?”
Arliss raises the puppet and speaks in a high, hoarse voice. “Whattya want? I was sleeping and dreaming about never having to do this again.” Arliss has the most fun when we let him play himself.
“Frankenstein!” I say. “It’s always so nice to see you!”
“Well, it sucks to see you!”
“All right, all right. Let’s get to the letters, you old grump,” I say.
We do a couple run-of-the-mill thank-you letters with a pause after each for Arliss to insert the sound of applause.
Arliss dips his hand below the drape, comes up with a letter in Frankenstein’s arms, and hands it to me.
I clear my throat to read. “This one comes to us from…Chad? Chad in Macon. Hi, Chad! He writes:
Dear Midnite Matinee, I generally enjoy your show, but I must take issue with your use of the name Frankenstein for a puppet who is clearly intended to be Frankenstein’s Monster. This may seem like a minor quibble, but I believe that it is important to treat texts—especially such vital ones of the horror canon—with scrupulous accuracy. Yours truly, Chad.
I leave a beat before speaking so Arliss can insert the old-timey car horn sound effect. “Well, Chad. Here’s the thing: imagine what you care about least in this entire world.”
“It could be anything,” Josie says. “The state of the Malaysian economy.”
“The process by which shoelaces are manufactured.”
“The size of the possum population in Cleveland.”
“Imagine those things you care so little about. We care even less that you’ve got your undies in a twist over our puppet’s name.”
“Hang on, Delilah, let’s ask Frankenstein if he cares that we call him Frankenstein instead of Frankenstein’s Monster.”
Arliss pops up his hand. He’s always game for crapping on our insufferable letter writers. “Yeah? What?”
“Do you care if people call you Frankenstein instead of Frankenstein’s Monster?” I ask.
“I don’t care even one little bit, and I think anyone who does needs to get out more.”
I toss the letter over my shoulder. “Well, there you go, Chad. Maybe you can go get a snack or go pee every time Frankenstein is on our show.” I wait a beat for Arliss to insert a crowd-booing sound effect.
“Okay, next letter. Frankenstein?”
Arliss hands Josie a letter.
“All right, viewers, this one comes to us from Troy in Spokane. Hi, Troy! He says:
Dear Rayne and Delilah, I wanted to say that I’m a big fan of Midnite Matinee and I’ve been watching for almost all the time that your show has been airing on my local station. I love your senses of humor and the fun little skits you guys do during the movie. You always crack me up. Stay cool and keep up the good work. Love, Troy.
Josie turns over the letter. “Oops, there’s more.
PS: I had this weird idea for a funny skit you guys could do. Maybe some time you could crush raw eggs with your bare feet and then—
Arliss pops his hand back up. “Uh-oh! Abort! Abort! Heading to Weirdville!”
“Oh, Troy,” Josie says, shaking her head, lowering the letter to her lap, a note of dawning understanding in her voice.
“Troy, Troy, Troy. We were rooting for you,” I say. I kinda saw it coming. I’ve developed a sort of pervert sixth
sense. It’s not so much the stuff our letter writers are into. Who cares about that? To each their own. It’s that maybe just don’t tell two high school girls about it, especially when they didn’t ask.
“You blew it, Troy. You blew it by being gross,” Josie says.
“You’re a creep, Troy,” Arliss says.
“I think we need to scream these letters a little better, Frankenstein. Get it?” Josie says, winking broadly.
“Like ‘screen’ but ‘scream’ because we can’t resist a horror-related pun,” I say, returning her wink, after leaving a beat for Arliss to insert a rim shot or booing.
“Should we do one more letter?” I ask.
Arliss pops up. “Nope. Frankenstein’s good at this point.”
“All right, then,” Josie says. “I guess that settles it.”
She starts telling our viewers where they can send their non-weirdo letters, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone light up and jitter around. Adrenaline clangs in my ears like a fire alarm. I swear, if it’s not the email I’m waiting for, it will validate my theory that you are never, ever more popular than when you’re expecting an important email.
We cut and Delia dashes to her phone, her face slick and pale with queasy anticipation. She picks it up, checks, and disappointment registers. Her shoulders fall. My heart hurts for her. She’s visibly dejected as we film the show’s farewell segment.
As we come off set, Arliss reaches into the box of letters and tosses a glossy mailer at me before starting to wind up cables. “Here, this came for y’all a couple months back. Forgot to give it to you.”
I pick it up off the floor. It’s an advertisement for ShiverCon, a convention for makers of horror films, horror hosts, and film buffs. It’s the biggest con of its kind. This year it’s being held in Orlando. We’ve never gone, even though we’d like to—Delia more so than me. I debate whether to even show this to her. It might just bum her out, since we probably can’t go. Work schedules, money, etc. She removes the choice from me.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“A thing for ShiverCon.”
“Lemme see.”
I hand it to her, kneel, and scratch Buford behind the ears. He gives me an even, slightly reproachful gaze, like It’ll take you a while to work off this debt. “I know, Bufie Bear, I know. But you’ve been a very good boy today.” I start helping Buford out of his little suit.
“Hey, Jack Divine’s going to be speaking at ShiverCon,” Delia says, reverence and awe in her voice.
“That name means nothing to me,” I say. “Hey, do you know if Lawson gave us back the outfit Tater was wearing?”
“Jack Divine was, like, a big horror host named Jack-O-Lantern in LA in the seventies. He directed and produced a bunch of low-budget horror movies, but he was best known as a producer and director for SkeleTonya’s show all through the eighties and early nineties, when she was on USA Network. You at least know SkeleTonya.”
“Goth Dolly Parton vibe?”
“That’s her. She’s a big deal at cons and stuff.”
“SkeleTonya is awesome,” Arliss says, brushing past us. “I watched her when I was a teenager.”
“Arliss, why have you never told us you’re capable of finding pleasure in things?” I ask.
“Don’t mistake my not finding pleasure in this show specifically with not finding pleasure in things generally.”
“It would be so cool to meet him,” Delia murmurs. “We should go. Try to talk to him. Give him one of our DVDs.”
“You two make a great team,” Arliss says. “Because you”—he points to Delia—“kinda suck at TV but know everything about every dumb horror movie and show. And you”—he points to me—“are pretty good at TV but seem to know jack about horror movies.”
He’s not wrong. That is exactly why Delia and I make a good team.
“I’m pretty sure Lawson accidentally walked out with our costume still on Tater,” I say.
“I’m fairly certain he did, but not accidentally,” Delia says.
“You don’t think he’s pulling some rom-com meet-cute shenanigans, do you?”
“You saw how he waved.”
“Oh, brother.”
“He was nice, at least. And entertaining on camera. Work your charms with him and get him back on the show. Maybe he can karate-chop some bricks or something.”
“Hey,” Arliss says, “I almost forgot. Josie, you need to record a quick sponsorship spot for Disc Depot.”
“Did they give you copy for me to read?”
“You’ve been inside Disc Depot. Take a wild guess whether they lovingly prepared you some excellent copy.”
“What should I say?”
“I love Disc Depot. I could do it,” Delia says.
“They requested Josie specifically. Look, you’re not accepting the Nobel Prize. You’re plugging a used CD, DVD, and video game store that smells like incense burned in a shoe, has walls covered in Bob Marley and Jim Morrison posters, and pays us seventy-five bucks to sponsor a public access show for nerds and weirdos.”
“I’m serious,” Delia says, eyes fixed on the flyer like it’s a holy tract. “We should go and try to meet Jack Divine. He might be able to take our show to the next level.”
“We’ll talk in the car,” I say.
I sit on set and wing the ad. It’ll mostly be my voice cut in with still photos of the inside of Disc Depot. I call them the best spot to buy pre-owned music, movies, and video games in all of west Tennessee. I don’t know this to be true or even believe it myself, but it’s probably fine.
* * *
•••
Arliss grunts farewell as we leave the dim and cool of the studio into the dark and humid night.
“We had more DVD and T-shirt sales than last week. Between that and the new sponsorship money from Disc Depot, we had a pretty good week,” Delia says, opening my passenger door.
“What does ‘more DVD and T-shirt sales than last week’ mean?” I ask, helping Buford into the back seat.
“Like one more of each.”
We laugh.
“I thought the show went well,” Delia says. “Like we’re improving.”
I start my car and pull out. “From when we started? Worlds better.” Our first shows might generously be described as “fever dream–like.”
Delia holds up the ShiverCon flyer. “So that’s why I’m saying we should try to go to this and meet Jack Divine. We gotta put ourselves out there. What’s the saying? ‘Shoot for the moon because even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.’ ”
“That’s not that inspirational, if you think about it. ‘Shoot for the moon because even if you miss, you’ll go drifting off into the black icy void of space, where you’ll die alone and no one can see your shame.’ ”
“I like your version better.”
“When is ShiverCon?” I ask.
“Last weekend in May. After graduation.”
“I gotta check. I feel like I have something.”
“Check.”
“What would we do? Roll up to Jack Divine and be like, ‘Hey, come out of retirement or whatever and make us famous’?”
“Maybe a little slicker than that, but basically.”
“Doesn’t stuff like this happen through agents or managers or something?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who wants to go into TV professionally.”
“Pretty sure it does. Pretty sure it doesn’t happen from people working it at cons.”
Delia shrugs. “Maybe not. But we should try. Jack Divine is a big deal. We just got done marrying two dogs and talking to a puppet. We gonna embarrass ourselves?”
“It isn’t even so much embarrassment. It’s…is this even what we want for the show?”
“What? To take it to the next leve
l? Get into more markets? Get more viewers? Of course. It’s what I want. Do you not?”
“Sure. Obviously.” I realize even as I’m saying it that I don’t really know the answer to that question because I haven’t thought about it.
“If you want to do TV for a living, why not keep going with what we started? If he made us as big as he made SkeleTonya, there’s your career right there.”
There’s your career. Something about that feels strange. But Delia’s voice is drenched in yearning. “Can this dude even still make something like this happen?” I ask.
“Why not?” Delia replies.
“Because he was big before we were even born. That’s probably like a century in TV years.”
“He definitely can’t help us if we don’t even try.”
We pull up to a stoplight, and I reach back to scratch Buford’s belly. I want to change the subject. “Isn’t it funny how people are like ‘My dog is my best friend’ and yet we still don’t make them wear pants? It’s like, ‘Hey, dude, I can see your best friend’s butthole at this moment.’ ”
“I know, right? Also those bumper stickers that are like, ‘Who rescued whom?’ You did, lady. You rescued the dog. You’re the one with opposable thumbs and a car to drive to the shelter. You can take credit.”
A few moments of silence pass. I hesitate, but I ask anyway because the air gets heavy with Delia’s anxiety as soon as every moment of levity subsides. “So, did you hear back from the—”
“No.”
“Weren’t you supposed to have heard something by now?”
“Yeah.” Delia checks her phone again, as if for emphasis. “Text from Arliss. He says: This movie is far worse than I was led to believe.”
“What’re you going to do if you do hear something? Like say the PI gives you an address and phone number and stuff? Then what?”
Delia laughs ruefully. “Honestly? I don’t even know. I think having them would make me feel…like I had power over something, maybe?”