TV Monsters

by Dean Williams

Part V

  The middle-aged man that was me came home.

  Click.

  For once, my shows seemed flat and uninspired.

  A man with a dazzling smile drank a beer;

  Who was he, why should I care? I was tired.

  My familiar den seemed suddenly stifling.

  Well, I hadn’t gotten any exercise in ages;

  A good walk might clear my head. Out I went.

  Autumn, and the sun burnished the foliage.

  In the woods, the wind whispered its soft song.

  I went further than I had gone in years.

  As I walked that awful night came back to me:

  The cloud—the light—the ship—that voice—the fear.

  The trees grew shy; I found myself alone

  In a grassy clearing. Was this the spot,

  Was that the tree behind which I had hid

  In terror as aliens hatched their evil plot?

  But hadn’t it all just been a young boy’s fantasy?

  It was something I’d eaten, or a nightmare.

  So much time had passed, better to forget it.

  Cast-off leaves fluttered through the chill air.

  And suddenly— I’ll never know how or why—

  Everything just seemed to— shift.

  I cannot describe it but to say that

  Between how I was and how I am,

  How I thought and how I think,

  What I knew and what I know,

  There could be no greater rift.

  Something dancing at the edge of my vision

  Since I was young, never fully perceived,

  Now came into terrifying focus.

  In plain words: we had been deceived.

  It was all a lie.

  A cardboard cut-out, a shell game, a Potemkin village;

  A golden snare cunningly laid just for us.

  Nothing on that screen could be believed. Nothing.

  Lost in a collective dream of cowboys, boobies, and riches,

  We’d left ourselves—and, Lord help us, our children too—

  Open to every charlatan and coldhearted executive

  The moneysuckers in their infernal pit could conjure up.

  We didn’t need aliens to brainwash us;

  We just needed simple human sloth and avarice.

  And while we had slept, heads nestled on electric pillows,

  The world, our world, had been stolen from us.

  Right—under—our—noses.

  I stopped and gazed up at the rose-tinted sky.

  A lone goose crossed it, neck slender as an eel.

  That southbound bird—the wind—the murmuring sky—

  These were the things that were good, that were real.

  The world around me was wide and wild;

  Nature’s forms shone infinite and various.

  There was no bottom line, nothing being sold,

  Just splendors wrapped in marvels mysterious.

  Back in the forest I looked—hard—at the trees.

  Each was unique, each followed ancient laws.

  Every animal, twig and flower was striving

  To fulfill its pure destiny, I now saw.

  In a kind of lucid daze, I staggered on.

  Wild things watched me with sad, reproachful eyes.

  “My child, where have you been?” they seemed to say.

  “To shut yourself off from us—was that wise?”

  A vague anger began to grow inside me as

  I glimpsed the blue shimmer of the lake.

  Humans had been one strand of this tapestry.

  This beauty’s loss made my heart simply ache.

  The natural world had its ecology;

  Where was ours? In our technology?

  We’d become disembodied couch potatoes—

  Was this really what we were meant to be?

  The setting sun beat gold into the waves;

  Descendants of ducks bought years before

  Gabbled near sighing reeds, which bade me go

  On to the dock further along the shore.

  Water lapped thirstily against weathered pilings.

  That familiar sound…. Fishing would do the trick!

  My heart leapt—an hour in grandfather’s boat

  Would be enough to quell this strange panic.

  I reached the end of the dock and looked down.

  The boat crouched low, wounded and half sunk.

  Algae lazily spun over the cracked sides;

  A lone oar floated forlornly, rotten junk.

  I dropped to my knees, gripped the dock,

  And then I, a grown man, began to sob.

  My childhood, my spirit, my link to nature:

  How could I have let myself be so….robbed?

  The scales had finally fallen from my eyes,

  And I could see how great was the disaster.

  We’d forsaken the many gods for the one,

  I thought, as I ran, faster and still faster.

  Fires in the west matched the one in my heart.

  It was clear-- we had taken the wrong path.

  We’d thrown away our most precious gift:

  Our uniqueness. And this was the aftermath.

  “The crooked timber of humanity”

  we were never meant to bend or straighten;

  but let grow and blossom as it would,

  until it be a world fit to meet our fate in.

  Diversity, that had been our real strength:

  A multifaceted gem worth any price.

  Democracy, education, culture itself—

  Our awesome potential we’d sacrificed.

  We’d lost the moon, the colt’s breath, birdsong;

  Endless walks, our aunts’ favorite recipes,

  Philosophies of the front porch and stoop;

  Thank-you cards, shifting light through canopies.

  The portentous rustle of newspapers;

  Goofy, drawn-out board games without winners,

  Stamp-collecting and amateur athletics;

  Picnics, barbecues, slow family dinners.

  Deep, hard-won knowledge. Honest laughter.

  Privacy. A single uncorrupted election.

  Telling stories for the sheer sake of it.

  A sense of community. Introspection.

  Moments dropping slow, each in its own time.

  Thoughts like birds breaking free into flight.

  Blessed silence at the heart of each day.

  Life in its natural seasons and rhythms.

  All lost. Gone with the click of a remote control.

  The roof— and my enemy— came into view.

  Thinking—wasn't that our most precious fruit?

  Into the shed for the ladder and tools.

  What had we gained then, what was the substitute?

  Money. Everything—everything—for sale.

  Everywhere one looked, selfishness and greed.

  A society based on asking, “What do you want?”

  And never, “What do you really need?”

  “The brain is wider than the sky—”

  “The kingdom is within—”

  These words of wisdom gave me new strength;

  My body suddenly surged with adrenaline.

  Up, up, up. The sky was simply on fire.

  I could sit here till my show started—hold on!

  That nonsense was what I’d climbed up here to fix.

  If I wanted to I’d stay here till dawn!

  Why, I could watch sunsets the rest of my life!

  And tomorrow I’d buy a telescope!

  Sunday I could patch the holes in the boat.

  Oh! Oh! How could I have been such a dope?!

  Books! My old school books were in some closet.

  Those years on the couch I’d never get back.

  Who knows what I could have been or done?

  But there was still time to get back on track.

  To work then; my gleaming foe awaited.


  When the bolts were loosened, did it speak?

  And when with a roar I cast it to the ground,

  Couldn't I hear a faint metallic shriek?

  In how many shows did the hero have to fight?

  Every time the evil-doers were vanquished.

  This time it wasn't helpless girls or earth

  At risk; it was my mind being extinguished.

  Whistling, I mused as I clambered down,

  What was the best metaphor for TV?

  An infection? Pollution? Mental prison?

  The hands-down winner: an electronic IV.

  The smashed antenna lay there mutely.

  I gave it a little kick and grabbed the ax.

  “Hey,” I thought to myself, walking inside,

  “I’m in my own show and here’s the climax!”

  At the door I was really tempted to say,

  “Heerrre’s Johnny!!” It sat quietly, a brown box.

  Ax in hand, I sat down in sheer wonderment.

  So simple, yet such power…what a paradox.

  I felt somehow that I should speak to it.

  “I’ve given far too much of my life to you.

  We had some good times, some laughter and fun.

  But now, my friend, it’s time for something new.”

  “Whatever you are, wherever you came from;

  Whether you’re alien mind control,

  Insidious entertainment opium,

  Or some dark fragment of the human soul….

  THE SHOW IS OVER!!!

  The first blow splintered the faux wooden top.

  The second smashed the console and laid the innards bare.

  The third sliced into its plastic and metal heart.

  By the fifth blow, I was hitting my stride.

  Howling with glee, I struck again and again. The air was filled with the pop and tinkle of glass and the wonderfully horrible clang of metal rending metal. I struck with the pent-up ferocity of a long-abused slave revenging himself on his master. At some point I found myself chanting, “Tha-tha-that’s all folks!!” A powder hung in the air--probably noxious. No matter.

  Striking from above, I had somehow avoided giving the screen a direct blow, and it was more or less intact. Well then, time to roll the credits.

  I went back outside to grab the sledgehammer. The lawn, the roof, the trees were crawling with piteously mewling aliens. I didn't bat an eye. “I’ve foiled your dastardly plot, you transgalactic scum. From now on it’ll be me who’s got his finger on the imagination button! Begone!!” They vanished with a final mournful whine.

  Whistling, I strolled over to the shed. It hadn’t seen much use after Pops had died. I shouted merrily to the shed, “Boy, are you going to get a makeover soon! I have one word for you: Craftsman!”

  “Yaaaaaaaaa!!!!” I shouted, dancing and spinning about in circles.

  I felt intoxicated, giddy with all the possibilities that were offering themselves to me, each more intriguing and enticing than the last.

  I was going to paint and remodel the house.

  I was going to close up the place and take a trip around the world.

  I was going to learn carpentry and boat-building and just work with my hands all day.

  I was going to take classes at the local community college.

  To hell with that, I was going to go to State!

  I was going to live.

  Plans embraced dreams and the two waltzed around the ballroom of my mind, which suddenly seemed vast, vast….

  Language, ideas, and the whole bright world seemed to be hovering by my side, waiting to do my bidding.

  All I had to do was act.

  I went back inside and stood, sledgehammer in hand, before the remnants of the TV, the larger part of which lay scattered on the floor. Its cracked and cloudy eye leered at me like a defeated but still defiant Cyclops.

  “I guess you taught me about everything I know. I’ve spent almost my entire life learning your lessons. And I plan to spend what’s left forgetting every Goddamned bit of it.”

  I did my best version of a Major League stance, took a deep breath, and swung with all my might. In my entire life I never heard a sound so satisfying, so final, as the shattering of that disintegrating screen. Shards flew, several lodging in my face and hands. Blood streamed down my cheek. I didn't care. Tomorrow I would burn the remains, just like in the monster movies.

  It was over.

  Outside the night air felt cool on my skin. The trees and the lake were absolutely still, in seeming awe of this one human’s courage and resolve.

  Suddenly exhausted, I collapsed on the grass. I rolled on my back and looked up in the sky. The first stars had just winked on.

  Whether their distant, inconceivably strange masters were somehow looking on with dismay; or in some control room a lackey of Big Brother had just reported my Thought Crime; or whether an angel had just sighed with relief—it was all one.

  These were tales dreamed by others.

  It was time to write my own story.