by James Morrow
ALBERT: (to Jake) If it’s about a werewolf, why is it called House of Dracula?
Jake, exasperated, rolls his eyes and steps away. LOU SPINELLI, a bewildered fifty-year-old with a Tor Johnson physique, marches up to Albert.
LOU: My wife is working down at the truck stop now, or she would’ve come along too, ’cause this is about her as well as me. You see, Mr. Meinster, when I decided to marry Alice I knew she had a couple of pretty serious addictions—rather like poor old Bela Lugosi—but I thought everything would turn out all right if I just loved her enough. Pretty stupid, huh?
He turns and faces the audience.
LOU: (cont’d) Anyway, one day the police show up, and they take Alice away, and they tell the judge she’s a dealer, which is a lousy lie, so after Alice goes through rehab she has to spend seven years in Wyncote Penitentiary, seven years, and I take to relieving my stress by watching Frisson Theater. Half of me wants to back out of the marriage and start playing the field, but old Doc Sarcophagus, he’s always showing his Mummy movies, and he keeps reminding the fans how Kharis really knew the meaning of faithfulness. That loyalty idea, well, it kinda struck a chord with me, and I said to myself, “Heck, Lou, if Kharis can stay true to the Princess Ananka for something like three thousand years, you can certainly stand by Alice for seven.”
Lou backs away from Albert. Cindy gestures Ruth off the set, then signals for Edgar to face camera one.
CINDY: Mr. West, we’re up on camera one. Ten, nine, eight…
To amuse himself, Edgar starts tossing the vase in the air and catching it. Albert nearly has a heart attack. He takes two steps toward the set.
EDGAR: Humpty-Dumpty sat on the wall…
Albert stops abruptly, groans.
CINDY: Three, two…
She cues Edgar to begin.
EDGAR: (to camera) Hello again, boys and ghouls, crazies and gentlemen. We’ve had a very eventful afternoon here at Channel 56, and I want to thank all of you who sent telegrams, made phone calls, and darkened our door. Unfortunately, it’s too early to tell whether our hidebound station manager has seen the light. (flourishes vase) You know, this Ming vase reminds me of an exciting offer available exclusively to all Sarcophiles. Just last week the station acquired a limited quantity of authentic Egyptian entrail containers. For only ten dollars you can get a canopic jar big enough to hold a large intestine, or colon, and for five dollars we’ll send you one that’s perfect for a small intestine, or semicolon. (beat) And now—the exciting climax of The Mummy’s Curse! (glances offstage) Roll it, Ivan!
As before, the Frisson Theater set goes dark, and the spotlight falls stage left on Tom Moody and the elderly Edgar.
TOM: (awestruck) You saved that man’s marriage. You helped all those kids cope with adolescence.
EDGAR: And I gave the Sarcophiles two hours of pleasure every Saturday afternoon—that’s what I’m really proud of.
TOM: And yet Albert Meinster still wanted to cancel the show.
EDGAR: Those endorsements went right over his head. But you know, Tom, I did get through to the person who mattered most…
As the spotlight fades, the familiar glow bathes the Frisson Theater set. The three witnesses are gone. Cindy stands at her post. Albert stalks around the studio.
Ruth rushes toward Edgar, arms outstretched. Edgar balances the vase on the casket lid and receives Ruth’s embrace.
RUTH: Oh, Edgar, I had no idea anybody was actually listening to all that Mister Rogers stuff you’ve been doling out.
ALBERT: (singing sarcastically) It’s a beautiful day in the netherworld…
CINDY: Mr. West, when the show’s over, could I have one of those autographed photos you like to give your fans?
EDGAR: (to Cindy) Sure thing.
Edgar and Ruth relax their embrace.
ALBERT: (indicating Edgar) The Role Model from the Black Lagoon.
Suddenly Albert springs onto the set and swoops the vase off the casket lid.
ALBERT: (cont’d) Ah-hah!
Albert turns, lurches forward, and presses the vase into Cindy’s grasp.
ALBERT: (cont’d) Hide it some place where a washed-up horror host would never think to look. Do the job right, and I’ll give you a raise.
Vase in hand, Cindy rips off her headset, drops it on the floor, and makes an abrupt exit.
RUTH: (to Edgar) Surely you were moved by all those testimonials.
ALBERT: Beat the bushes hard enough, you’ll find somebody who’ll say the Three Stooges saved him from a life of crime.
RUTH: The Three Stooges maybe. Basketball never.
ALBERT: I just did the math. The NCAA broadcasts will double our revenue.
RUTH: I just did the math too. The chances of my having dinner with you tonight are one in seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand. (to Edgar) Even if you didn’t save Frisson Theater, today’s efforts were not in vain.
EDGAR: My canopic jar runneth over.
RUTH: Kharis and Ananka—now and forever!
EDGAR: Now and forever!
ALBERT: (to Ruth) Piffle. Leaving this lunatic was the smartest thing you ever did.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the air vibrates with an unearthly WHIRRING, and an incandescent figure materializes stage right.
RUTH: Jeez!
EDGAR: Whoa!
We have just witnessed the arrival of PYTER PERIPHRASTIC, a judgmental but enlightened alien. Pyter wears a luminous silver jumpsuit featuring a high art-deco collar and, wrapped around his brow, a Ninja headband. He carries a Flash Gordon-style ray gun.
ALBERT: (to Edgar) I don’t care how many of your fans show up here. You’re not getting your show back.
EDGAR: Er, Ruth, Albert, I’d like you to meet Pyter Periphrastic, my supervisor in the Pangalactic Public Service Corps.
Pyter strides into the studio.
PYTER: (to Edgar) I’d forgotten how weird this planet is. Only two genders. No haiku in the gas-station bathrooms, (to Ruth and Albert) He’s telling the truth. Incredible as it sounds, Edgar West, alias Dr. Sarcophagus, was not born on Earth.
ALBERT: Nonsense.
RUTH: (to Edgar) Does this explain why we never had children?
Edgar nods and grins sheepishly.
RUTH: (cont’d) And that thing we used to do in bed with the eggbeater and the Saran Wrap and the yogurt?
EDGAR: It also explains why I simply have to keep playing Dr. Sarcophagus.
PYTER: On Sirius Prime, every person must spend the first ten years after puberty doing good in some underprivileged sector of the galaxy.
EDGAR: Running a soup kitchen, teaching first-graders to read, visiting the sick, hosting a horror show.
Pyter removes his headband. A third eye sits prominently in the middle of his brow.
PYTER: If Edgar successfully completes a full decade of Frisson Theater, he’ll receive his third eye and become a full-fledged citizen.
EDGAR: And if I lose my job, I’ll be exiled to the phlogiston mines of Borgazia Eleven.
RUTH: (to Albert) So now you have to give Frisson Theater another year.
ALBERT: (shakes head) Broadcasting is a business, Ruth.
Pyter strides up to Albert.
PYTER: You should get around more. On Epsilon Eridani Prime, television producers are expected to lose money on at least half their programs. It’s the only way to keep the poetry slams from driving the wrestling matches off the air.
Cindy returns, minus the porcelain vase. She picks up her headset, slips it over her ears.
CINDY: (pointing upward) What’s going on? In the control room they’ve all fainted dead away.
PYTER: (indicating gun) I used my catatonia ray.
EDGAR: Cindy, this is Pyter Periphrastic. He’s from another planet.
CINDY: Cool.
ALBERT: (to Pyter) You look familiar. Have we met before?
PYTER: This morning. I was the sidewalk vendor who sold you that hunk of porcel
ain you covet so much—a good way for me to intervene in Edgar’s case without anybody noticing.
ALBERT: Is it a real Ming vase?
PYTER: Phony as a rubber chicken.
ALBERT: Faugh.
PYTER: At this point, Mr. Meinster, I have no choice but to subject you to some shameless transdimensional manipulation. When I took your ten dollars for the vase, I simultaneously scanned your brain. Evidently you harbor a deep desire to become a Hollywood producer.
ALBERT: True enough.
Pyter draws a phosphorescent packet from his tunic.
PYTER: I have here detailed descriptions of twelve feature film concepts that, according to Laplacian prognosticatory dynamics, are likely to find huge audiences in the decades to come. They’re yours to keep… under one condition.
ALBERT: Huge audiences? How huge?
PYTER: You can’t imagine. Bigger than the audiences for the Sophocles revivals on Cygni Beta Nine.
For a protracted beat, Albert ponders his options.
ALBERT: (to Edgar) All right, Doc. You win. I’ll give you another season.
EDGAR: You won’t regret this.
RUTH: (to Albert) You might recall that next Saturday Edgar promised to show The Mask of Fu Manchu. Any idea where I can get a decent print?
ALBERT: That’s your problem, Ruth! I’m off to Hollywood!
Pyter delivers the glowing packet into Albert’s eager hands.
PYTER: Find the humans with talent, convince them to make these movies, and you’ll become a mogul in no time.
Albert tears open the packet, retrieves the dozen pages, and begins to study them. Edgar and Ruth renew their embrace. Cindy steps up to Pyter.
CINDY: Excuse me, sir, but we’re going live in one minute. Could you please unfreeze our director?
Pyter backs into the darkness from which he came. Albert starts out of the studio, leafing through the film concepts.
ALBERT: (incredulous) A man-eating shark off the coast of Massachusetts? Spaceships over the White House? Yet another movie about the Titanic? A comic-book adaptation featuring martial arts and philosophical drivel?
Exit Albert. Edgar and Ruth embrace more tightly than ever.
RUTH: SO you’re really willing to give our marriage a second chance?
EDGAR: A third chance, a fourth chance, a fifth chance.
RUTH: Even though we can’t have children?
CINDY: (consulting watch) Ten seconds, Mr. West.
EDGAR: Actually we can have children, but it’s complicated.
RUTH: You can bring any movie you want along on our second honeymoon. Even the one where Karloff straps Lugosi to the torture rack.
EDGAR: Actually, Lugosi strapped Karloff to the rack.
RUTH: (playful) Can this marriage be saved?
Edgar and Ruth disengage. Cindy positions herself between camera one and camera two.
CINDY: Coming up on camera one.
As Ruth sidles off the set, Edgar faces the camera.
CINDY: (cont’d) Five, four, three, two…
Cindy points to Edgar.
EDGAR: (to camera) Well, I guess that about wraps it up for our friend Kharis, and the Princess Ananka too. But here’s some news to brighten your day—it looks like Frisson Theater is good for at least one more year! Alas, I’m afraid that next week we won’t be showing The Mask of Fu Manchu. Instead you’ll get to see…
He glances off-camera, toward Ruth.
RUTH: The Bride of Dr. Sarcophagus!
EDGAR: (without thinking) The Bride of Dr. Sarcophagus! (double take) No, seriously, folks, next week’s flick is, er…
RUTH: House of Frankenstein!
EDGAR: House of Frankenstein! Did you know that in order to get this job, I had to explain the plot of House of Frankenstein to the station owners? You see, the unscrupulous Dr. Niemann has decided to transplant the Monster’s brain into the Wolf Man’s body, even though he promised that sturdy frame to his hunchbacked assistant. The Monster’s worn-out body, meanwhile, is earmarked for Niemann’s old enemy, Ullman, and the Wolf Man’s brain will go to Niemann’s other enemy, Strauss…
As Dr. Sarcophagus babbles the plot of House of Frankenstein, the dungeon set dissolves into darkness, and the spotlight returns to Tom Moody and the elderly Edgar, seated on their stepladders.
TOM: WOW, what a story! My readers will be thrilled!
EDGAR: I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet Ruth, but she’s visiting our granddaughter on Altair Four. (beat) Hey, I think the heat’s finally on!
Edgar and Tom remove their gloves and watch caps. A third eye sits prominently in the middle of Edgar’s forehead. Tom pulls a copy of Macabre Monsters of the Movies from his coat and hands it to Edgar.
TOM: This is for you. Hot off the presses.
Edgar takes out his three-lens spectacles, puts them on, and scans the magazine cover.
EDGAR: (reading) “In this issue: Lon Chaney Junior filmography… the making of Dracula’s Daughter… figuring out the plot of House of Frankenstein,” (fixes on Tom) So, when do you begin your own horror-hosting career?
TOM: They’re beaming me down to Pittsburgh next month.
EDGAR: Looking forward?
TOM: Actually, I’m pretty scared. I don’t really have much confidence in myself.
EDGAR: That will come, Tom.
TOM: You really think so?
EDGAR: Is the Mummy old enough to get a driver’s license?
Tom hops off the stool.
TOM: So long, Dr. Sarcophagus… Mr. West.
EDGAR: Edgar.
TOM: Edgar. (starts away) I’ll remember this hour for the rest of my life.
EDGAR: Have a safe trip home.
Tom backs into the darkness. After a beat, Edgar calls after him.
EDGAR: Farewell, you fan of fiends! Adios, you toaster of ghosts! Au revoir, you maven of noir! And remember this, Tom Moody! Life is full of peasants with torches, but the sequel belongs to you!
The curtain falls.
THE FATE OF NATIONS
PUSHING ASIDE THE KNOTTED pairs of running socks, I lift the journal from my dresser drawer. I unfasten the delicate lock, turn to a fresh page, and ready my ballpoint pen. Click.
Dear Diary, let me say at the outset that I once counted myself among the luckiest of women. Dennis had a lucrative job as a software engineer at Micromega. Our daughter, Angela, loved school and always brought home top grades. Thanks to the saltwater fish fad, my little pet shop—Carlotta’s Critturs in Copley Square—was turning a tidy profit.
The first signs of trouble were subtle. I’m thinking especially of Dennis’s decision to become a Boston Bruins fan and a Philadelphia Flyers fan simultaneously, an allegiance that served no evident purpose beyond allowing him to watch twice as much hockey as before. I also recall his insistence on replacing our coffee cups and drink tumblers with ceramic mugs bearing the New England Patriots logo. Then there was Dennis’s baseball-card collection, featuring the 1986 Red Sox starting lineup. Wasn’t that a hobby more suited to a ten-year-old?
It soon became clear that Dennis was battling a full-blown addiction. The instant he got home from work, he plunked himself in front of the tube and start watching ESPN, ESPN2, or ESPN3. Dozens of teams enlisted his loyalty, not merely the Boston franchises. He followed the NFL, the NHL, the NBA, and Major League Baseball. Our erotic encounters were short and perfunctory, bounded by the seventh inning stretch. Whenever we went on vacation, Dennis brought his portable Sony along. Our trips to Martha’s Vineyard were keyed to the All-Star Game. Our winter sojourns in Florida centered around the Stanley Cup.
“What do you get out of it?” I asked. The edge in my voice could nick a hockey puck.
“A great deal,” he replied.
“What does it matter?” I wailed.
“I can’t explain.”
After much pleading, hectoring, and finagling, I convinced Dennis that we needed a marriage counselor. He insisted tha
t we employ Dr. Robert Lezzer in Framingham. I acquiesced. A male therapist was better than none.
The instant I entered Dr. Lezzer’s presence, I began feeling better. He was a small, perky, beaming gnome in a white cotton shirt and a red bowtie. He said to call him Bob.
It took me half an hour to make my case. The lonely dinners. The one-way conversations. The chronic vacancy in our bed. As far as I was concerned, ESPN stood for Expect Sex Probably Never.
No sooner had I offered my story than Dennis and Bob traded significant glances, exchanged semantically freighted winks, and favored each other with identical nods.
“Should I tell her?” asked Dennis.
“Depends on whether you trust her,” Bob replied.
“I do.”
“Then let her in. It’s the only way to save your marriage.”
Dennis bent back his left ear to reveal a miniscule radio receiver, no bigger than a pinhead, embedded in the fleshy lobe. The implantation had occurred on his eighteenth birthday, he explained, as part of an arcane initiation rite. Every adult male in North America had one.
“Throughout the long history of Western civilization,” said Dennis, “no secret has been better kept.”
“But what is it for?” I asked.
“If he gave you the short answer, you wouldn’t believe him,” said Bob, bending close so I could see his transceiver.
“Luckily, we’re only four hours from New York City,” said Dennis, stroking me affectionately on the knee.
Bob recommended that we leave as soon as possible. We arranged for Angela to spend the night at a friend’s house, then took off at two o’clock. By dinner time we were zooming south down the West Side Highway, heading toward the heart of Manhattan.
We left our Volvo in the Park & Lock on 42nd Street near Tenth Avenue, hiked four blocks east, and entered the MTA system. Although I’d often walked through the Times Square subway station during my undergraduate days at NYU, this was the first time I’d noticed a narrow steel door beside the stairwell leading to the N and R trains. Dennis retrieved his wallet, pulled out a black plastic card, and swiped it though a nearby magnetic reader, thereby causing the portal to open. An elevator car awaited us. We entered. The car descended for a full five minutes, carrying us a thousand feet into the bedrock.