Cat's Pajamas

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Cat's Pajamas Page 9

by James Morrow


  TOM: Macabre Monsters of the Movies.

  EDGAR: Once there were three different fanzines devoted entirely to Dr. Sarcophagus. The Mortuary Monitor, the Pall Bearer, and… I forget.

  TOM: The Carrion Clarion. I’d like to begin with—

  EDGAR: With the astonishing events of February the 23rd, 1975.

  TOM: (taken aback) How’d you know?

  EDGAR: Yesterday I entertained a reporter from Frightening Freaks of Filmdom, and last week I spoke with Abominable Aberrations of the Silver Screen. You all want to know about February the 23rd. (entering a reverie) My ex-wife was the first to arrive in the studio that afternoon, and then came the station manager…

  As Edgar reminisces, the spotlight fades, and an eerie luminescence suffuses the stage, revealing the set of Frisson Theater, the sort of low-budget horror-host program that flourished on UHF television during the pre-cable 1970s. The one impressive appointment is a gaudy casket resting on saw-horses. Otherwise, we see only the standard spiderwebs, rubber bats, human skulls, ornate candelabrum, and fake dungeon masonry, plus ERIK THE ORANGUTAN, a tattered stuffed ape reclining on a Victorian couch.

  Just out of camera range, a bar stool holds an elaborate make-up kit, jammed with an assortment of fright wigs, putty noses, latex scars, horned brows, grotesque dentures, and tubes of grease paint. A mirror dangles from a nearby coat rack.

  Edgar’s ex-wife, RUTH HENDRICKS, thirty-five, bustles about the dungeon set, arranging the tacky props. She is an attractive and generous woman who suffers fools too gladly for her own good. Enter ALBERT MEINSTER, the station manager, early forties, cradling an exquisite porcelain vase. Though fiercely devoted to the bottom line, Albert is someone for whom a diagnosis of boorishness normally suffices to counter any suspicions of corruption.

  Ruth acknowledges Albert’s presence by picking up Erik the Orangutan and caressing the ape fondly.

  RUTH: Remember when we ran Return of the Ape Man?

  ALBERT: (nodding, disgusted) Edgar spent twenty minutes expounding on the metaphysical implications of transplanting a man’s brain into an ape’s body. Our lowest ratings ever.

  RUTH: But we received a dozen letters from philosophy students who said they understood Descartes for the first time.

  Albert draws close to Ruth.

  ALBERT: Might I have a word with you?

  RUTH: (annoyed) I have to dress the set.

  ALBERT: It’s about your future.

  RUTH: (impatient) My future is that we go on the air in ten minutes.

  ALBERT: I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I’ve decided you’d be the ideal producer for our new cooking show.

  RUTH: I don’t know anything about food.

  ALBERT: Before I convinced you to produce Frisson Theater, you didn’t know anything about monster movies either.

  RUTH: (cynical) And in a mere ten years my understanding has become positively… pathological. “Even a man who’s pure in heart, and says his prayers at night, may become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms, and the autumn moon is bright.”

  ALBERT: Here’s the idea, Ruth—we’re going to combine cooking with dancing. Crockery Rock. Catchy, eh? It’ll probably make Channel 56 the biggest UHF station in Philadelphia.

  RUTH: I once dated a man who wanted to create the largest hog wallow in Tuscaloosa. (indicates vase) What’s this? Are you also launching an antiques show?

  ALBERT: A very strange episode. I bought it from a sidewalk vendor on Market Street. Distinguished looking fellow. Well-dressed. Down on his luck, I guess. Mostly he was selling the usual junk—flimsy umbrellas, phony watches, wind-up toys—but then my eye caught what I’m pretty sure, knock on wood, kiss my shamrock, is a genuine Ming vase!

  RUTH: I know even less about antiques than I do about cooking.

  ALBERT: He charged me ten dollars, but I’ll bet it’s worth a thousand. Naturally I hoofed it over to Chinatown right away. Two different restaurant owners told me it’s quite possibly authentic.

  RUTH: Authentic? Then forget about your thousand dollars, Albert. We’re talking maybe a quarter of a million!

  ALBERT: (astonished) Golly.

  Ruth animates Erik the Orangutan, working his arms and dubbing his voice.

  RUTH: Can I hold it, Mr. Meinster? Can I play with it?

  Albert panics, hiding the porcelain vase behind his back.

  ALBERT: I’ve got a second proposition for you, Ruth. An exquisite little Italian place just opened in Chestnut Hill. How about you and me twirl some linguini tonight?

  RUTH: (unenthused) Sure, Albert. Sounds like fun. But remember… (Lugosi imitation) “I never drink… wine.”

  ALBERT: We won’t talk about Bela Lugosi, only interesting things. The Phillies. Crockery Rock. Jeez, Ruth, how did you stand being married all those years to a man who was obsessed with horror films?

  RUTH: (corroborating) He brought a Bell and Howell Autoload projector along on our honeymoon, plus his 16mm prints of Dracula’s Daughter and The Mummy’s Ghost.

  ALBERT: You should’ve bailed out then and there.

  RUTH: (defensive) The Mummy’s Ghost is actually a very romantic movie. (wistful) There’s more to Edgar than you imagine.

  ALBERT: So… how did he take the news?

  RUTH: (aghast) I thought you were supposed to tell him.

  ALBERT: No, you were supposed to tell him.

  RUTH: No, you were.

  ALBERT: No, you were.

  RUTH: You were.

  ALBERT: You were.

  Suddenly the casket lid flies back, and an athletic man vaults from the chamber and lands on the floor, dressed in evening clothes and an Edwardian greatcoat. The new arrival is the same Edgar West we met earlier, only now he’s on the spry side of forty. Albert is so startled he nearly drops the porcelain vase.

  RUTH: Yikes!

  ALBERT: Eeeggaahh!

  RUTH: Shame on you, Edgar!

  EDGAR: (closing casket) What’s this big news you’re both so eager to tell me?

  ALBERT: I’m in dire need of a cup of coffee.

  Albert exits, holding the vase firmly against his chest.

  EDGAR: Is it good big news or bad big news?

  RUTH: (temporizing) Sooo… what movie are we running this afternoon? I forget.

  EDGAR: The Mummy’s Curse. Stick around, okay, darling? You won’t be disappointed. I’ve got a great bit worked out.

  Edgar approaches the make-up kit. During the following exchange, he stares into the dangling mirror and transforms himself into Dr. Sarcophagus—puffy cheeks, protuberant teeth, billowing fright wig: Dr. Caligari’s campy cousin.

  RUTH: (a kind of catechism) The Mummy’s Hand… The Mummy’s Tomb…The Mummy’s Curse… The Mummy’s Ghost. Ah, so you’re showing sequel number three.

  EDGAR: (mock distress) No, no, no, it’s Hand, Tomb, Ghost, Curse—don’t you know anything? Hand, Tomb, Ghost, Curse.

  Ruth winces, picks up Erik the Orangutan, and hugs the ape fiercely.

  RUTH: Get ready for a kick in the teeth, Edgar. Ever since August our ratings have been slipping, and the advertisers are going through a lot of pain. So Albert decided—

  EDGAR: (launching into routine) Three tana leaves, brewed into a reanimating fluid during the cycle of the full moon, will keep the Mummy’s heart beating. Nine tana leaves will endow Kharis with mobility, dexterity, and libidinous impulses toward the Princess Ananka. Fifteen tana leaves will make him functional enough to run for Congress.

  RUTH: SO Albert decided to cancel Frisson Theater. Today’s broadcast is our last. Next week—

  EDGAR: Twenty-one tana leaves enable Kharis to sire his own dynasty and dance like Fred Astaire.

  RUTH: (to Erik the Orangutan) He’s not listening to me. (ape voice) He’s not listening to you.

  EDGAR: Twenty-seven tana leaves, and they’ll let him teach Egyptian Studies at Princeton.

  RUTH: Next week Albert is replacing us with NCAA ba
sketball.

  EDGAR: Thirty-three tana leaves—(double take) Basketball?

  RUTH: Villanova versus Northeastern.

  Having transmuted into Dr. Sarcophagus, Edgar releases a howl of animal anguish and throws himself across the casket. As if responding to a cue, the floor manager, CINDY SMITH, a pert young Temple graduate, strides onto the set wearing headsets and holding a clipboard.

  CINDY: You’re on in six minutes, Mr. West.

  EDGAR: Basketball? Basketball? Anything but basketball!

  CINDY: (to Ruth) Sometimes I think he’s better in rehearsals than during the broadcast.

  Cindy executes an about-face and marches away. Edgar pushes off from the casket and stands up straight.

  EDGAR: (devastated) Oh, Ruth, what are we going to do?

  Ruth approaches Edgar and gives him a succinct but heartfelt hug.

  RUTH: I’m going to produce a stupid cooking show, and you’re… (beat) I feel completely rotten about this.

  EDGAR: Nobody remembers a basketball game two weeks or even two days after the broadcast.

  RUTH: True.

  EDGAR: Whereas The Bride of Frankenstein stays with you a lifetime. I could deal with getting blindsided by Gilligan’s Island reruns, but basketball…

  RUTH: Maybe you could become a special guest host. Tell everybody the point guard is really dribbling a human brain.

  EDGAR: (intrigued) Do you think they’d go for it?

  Ruth scowls and rolls her eyes.

  RUTH: There’s a good chance Albert can find you a job in marketing.

  EDGAR: (sarcastic) You two can talk about it during your big dinner date tonight.

  Ruth takes Edgar’s arm and strokes it affectionately.

  RUTH: I’ll never be able say “Frisson Theater” again without choking up.

  EDGAR: (attempting stoicism) It was fun while it lasted.

  RUTH: Remember when you needed a vat of epidermis to make a vulture stew for Granny Maleficium’s arthritis, and you told the fans to send you some?

  EDGAR: By the end of the week, the mail room was jammed with three thousand pounds of toenail clippings.

  RUTH: And then we made our big discovery…

  EDGAR: There is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do with toenail clippings!

  RUTH: Well, we did get one idea…

  Edgar and Ruth point at each other and giggle.

  EDGAR: Beanbags for bad children!

  Giddy with rapport and nostalgia, Edgar and Ruth start laughing. Albert strides into the studio holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee, the porcelain vase secured under the opposite arm.

  ALBERT: You’re taking this setback awfully well, Edgar. I’m impressed.

  EDGAR: (pointing) I’d never want a Ming vase in my house. Those things are such clichés. Like Stradivarius violins.

  ALBERT: My intention is to sell it.

  EDGAR: Or Dom Perignon champagne.

  ALBERT: (sarcastic, to Ruth) The man has his own print of Revenge of the Zombies, and suddenly he’s snooty about clichés?

  Edgar feigns a look of horror and abruptly gestures toward the empty space behind Albert.

  EDGAR: Albert, look out! Behind you!

  Albert drops his coffee and spins around to face the nonexistent menace. Taking advantage of Albert’s confusion, Edgar wrests the vase from his grasp, then retreats behind the casket. When Albert rushes toward Edgar, he raises the vase high above his head.

  EDGAR: (cont’d) Don’t move! I can be merciless with Ming!

  ALBERT: YOU creeping piece of crud!

  EDGAR: One more step, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men…

  Cindy strides into the studio and plants herself near the front edge of the set, presumably between camera one and camera two.

  CINDY: Twenty seconds, Mr. West. We’re bringing you up on camera one.

  EDGAR: (to Albert) Here’s the deal. Go to the control room and tell Arthur that for the next two hours he has to broadcast everything I say! Each time camera one goes dark, I want to see the tally on two start glowing like Boris Karloff in The Invisible Ray! The minute anybody cuts me off, your precious little cuspidor gets shattered in front of a million loyal Sarcophiles!

  ALBERT: This is blackmail.

  EDGAR: This is live television.

  CINDY: Five seconds, Mr. West. Four, three, two…

  Albert, defeated, throws up his hands and stalks off, headed for the control room. Ruth steps out of camera range but remains on the studio floor. As the discordant THEME MUSIC for Frisson Theater pours from the speakers, Edgar places the porcelain vase in the embrace of Erik the Orangutan. Edgar assumes a dignified posture and stares into camera one.

  NARRATOR: (off-stage) Chilling tales of the supernatural and the paranormal! Horrifying yarns drawn from the archives of the Frankenstein family and the annals of the Dracula clan! Channel 56 is proud to present Frisson Theater—with your host, Dr. Sarcophagus!

  Cindy points to Edgar, cueing him to begin his shtick.

  EDGAR: (to camera) Welcome, Sarcophiles! This afternoon we bring you the fourth and final entry in the Kharis quartet from Universal Pictures—yes, you guessed it, The Mummy’s Curse!

  He pulls out a sealed envelope from his pocket.

  EDGAR: (cont’d) But right now I want to tell you the results of our First Annual Frisson Theater Scenery Chewing Contest. Over two thousand viewers mailed in ballots, up five hundred from last year’s Name Dr. Sarcophagus’s Pet Armadillo Competition. (reads back of envelope) The nominees for Scenery Chewer of the Century are Charles Laughton in The Island of Lost Souls, George Zucco in Dead Men Walk, Peter Lorre in The Beast With Five Fingers, and Bela Lugosi in The Raven. And the winner is… (opens envelope, draws out paper) Bela Lugosi in The Raven! “Poe, you are avenged!”

  Leaning into the casket, Edgar retrieves a bottle of catsup and a plastic potted fern.

  EDGAR: (cont’d) And here’s Bela’s prize—a genuine piece of edible scenery, equally delicious with catsup or mustard.

  He slops catsup on the fern, then takes a bite, chewing with hammy delight.

  EDGAR: (cont’d) Hmmm, hmmm, good! The next time I see that hungry Hungarian, I’ll be sure to give him his trophy.

  Returning the fern and the catsup to the casket, Edgar retrieves the vase from Erik the Orangutan.

  EDGAR: (cont’d) And now it’s time to play Guess the Title of Next Week’s Movie. Your clue is this porcelain vase from seventeenth century China. Go ahead, shout out your ideas, I can hear ’em all, my hearing-aid is turned up full, (cups left ear) What’s that, Tony Cochantropolis of Mount Airy? You think it might be Charlie Chan in Transylvania? Nope, sorry. (cups right ear) Ah-hah! Right you are, Lucy Wintergreen of Manayunk—next week’s movie is The Mask of Fu Manchu. (tosses the vase, catches it) And now I have an important issue to discuss with Sarcophiles everywhere. It seems that the High Priests of Karnak no longer believe in Frisson Theater. Starting next week, they intend to fill this slot with NCAA basketball. Can you imagine? NCAA—No Creatures At All. So here’s my idea. During the next twenty minutes, instead of watching The Mummy’s Curse, let the powers-that-be know that monster movies aren’t simply escapist trash—they’re escapist trash that matters. Send telegrams, call the station, or visit us here at 1600 City Line Avenue. But you must act immediately, or there’ll be the Devil to pay! (glances off-stage) Okay, Ivan-roll the flick!

  As the famous 1940’s Universal fanfare fills the air, the Frisson Theater set goes dark, and the spotlight again falls stage left. Tom Moody continues to interview the aging Edgar.

  TOM: The fans really rose to the occasion, didn’t they?

  EDGAR: Six hundred telegrams. Three hundred phone calls—and heaven knows how many viewers couldn’t get through. But the big surprise was the legions of Sarcophiles who showed up at the station, even though it was the dead of winter. During act two of The Mummy’s Curse, Albert Meinster agreed to meet with them.
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br />   The spotlight fades, and once again a high-key glow illuminates the Frisson Theater set. Cindy stands at her post between camera one and camera two. Still gripping the porcelain vase, Edgar paces behind the casket, waiting for the next break in the broadcast of The Mummy’s Curse. Ruth fidgets near Erik the Orangutan.

  Having descended from the control booth, Albert stands just out of camera range, facing three of Edgar’s most devoted fans. The first to speak is MARGE TURNER, a plump middle-aged mother. She marches up to Albert and looks him in the eye.

  MARGE: I would’ve brought my boy Willy along, but he’s away at college. What you have to understand, Mr. Meinster, is that Willy was just about the most pathetic case that ever went to Glenside Junior High School. No friends. Didn’t fit in. Other kids always picking on him.

  She turns and faces the audience, so that she seems to be speaking to the whole world.

  MARGE: (cont’d) But then Willy got interested in Frisson Theater, and sometimes I watched it with him, which is how I became hooked, and we really liked the way Dr. Sarcophagus would talk about the Frankenstein Monster. (points toward dungeon set) That man you got over there, Edgar West, he has a gift. He explained to the fans that the Monster never asked to be the way he is, all clumsy and ugly, it wasn’t his fault, and the real problem is narrow-minded villagers who think they have to reject anybody who doesn’t wear lederhosen and carry a shillelagh. Well, that took a big load off Willy’s shoulders, and eventually he started to relax, and by the time he got to high school he wasn’t totally miserable anymore, just unhappy like most kids.

  Marge backs away. Next to approach Albert is JAKE GINSBERG, age twenty-three, poised, confident, amiable.

  JAKE: (points to Marge) I guess I was a lot like that woman’s kid, you know, an outcast, and to top it off all these changes were happening to me. I was starting to notice girls, and my complexion was worse than a pineapple’s, and I had so many braces my smile looked like the grille of a ’59 Chevy Impala.

  He turns and faces the audience.

  JAKE: (cont’d) But every Saturday afternoon I’d watch Frisson Theater. It was kind of my duty, since I was president of the Sarcophiles, Germantown Chapter. Mr. West really understood what we were going through. He told us how teenagers often feel like the Wolf Man—you know, our bodies out of control, spouting hair and everything, but he said we just had to hang in there, the way Larry Talbot does in House of Dracula, and if you remember that movie, Mr. Meinster, you know that the werewolf gets cured in the end.

 

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