by Jim Krusoe
Viktor: Have you ever seen a rat trapped in a cardboard box?
Jeffery: What kind of cardboard box? Are you thinking about those that four six-packs of soft drinks come in, or more like this cereal box, something skinny that you can close at the top?
Viktor: No. What I had in mind was the kind of box that holds several packages of toilet paper, or possibly paper towels—a big one, with high sides.
Jeffery: No, I haven’t.
Viktor: Well, let me tell you about it. The first thing a rat will do in that situation is to jump around in every direction and try to find a way out.
Jeffery: Are you sure? I remember back when I was a kid I went to a pet store once and the owner let one crawl all over me. It was white and had brown spots. It was nice but my mother wouldn’t let me have it. I must have been around ten . . .
Viktor: I’m not talking about tame rats. I’m talking about wild rats, the kind you see in sewers and in garbage dumps. Big, fierce ones. They’re usually brown or gray.
Jeffery: Okay, I thought you meant tame ones. So what are you saying?
Viktor: I’m saying that when, after a while, after a rat has finished jumping around and he finally understands he can’t get out, do you know what he will do?
Jeffery: No.
Viktor: He goes to a corner—it doesn’t make a difference which one, because they’re all the same in a box—and he puts his back against the wall, and then he turns and bares his fangs.
Jeffery: His fangs? Do rats have fangs?
Viktor: Well, his teeth. He bares his teeth.
Jeffery: So why are you telling me this?
Enter HEATHER, who is wearing a short nightgown and fluffy slippers.
Heather: Oh, sorry guys. I didn’t mean to disturb your man-talk.
Jeffery: No problem. I was just leaving.
Viktor: Me too. I was just leaving, too.
The men rise and leave their dirty plates on the table. VIKTOR takes a long look at HEATHER, before exiting, as if he is deciding something. JEFFERY just walks out. HEATHER picks up the plates and puts them in the sink. She washes them and places them in the drying rack to dry. She shakes her head.
Heather: Did I do something wrong? I was going to have the enchiladas I was saving, but now I’m not so hungry.
Going from one mediocre celebrity dinner after another makes the Captain almost long for those sickening buffets back at sea—those endless fancy platters displaying dead animals, dead fish, dead grasses ripped from the earth—not so different, come to think of it, than having to repeat the same stories again and again, waiting for the audience to laugh at the same lines, in the same places. What kind of life is that for a real man, a man who is basically a man of action? The Captain tries to remember the last truly good time he had. Was it running down that boat full of so-called sightseers in Rangoon harbor? Standing, lashed to the wheel, during that typhoon in the China Sea? And on land? Possibly working as a technical advisor to that silly show about hippies. It was ridiculous, but at least there were lots of pretty girls, and the pay was good, despite the smart-asses in the production crew, that idiot of a director, and that infuriating kid, Junior something. That is, until what happened at the very end.
He can feel his Death Quotient starting to climb.
Get yourself a plan, thinks Madeline. Do this logically. Find a mirror and stand in front of it. Pretend you are being interviewed. Start with a question and go from there. Ready, set—
Question: What is it you like to do?
Answer: I like to cook.
Question: Then why not open a restaurant?
Answer: Well, it takes money, for one thing.
Question: So you could start small. Maybe you could prepare food for others until you get famous enough that someone will give you money to start your own restaurant, and that person will be your first investor.
Answer: Well, I already prepare food for others down here. Just the other day, for example, I made a really excellent artichoke and bacon quiche, and did anyone thank me?
Question: No, but I’m sure it was appreciated. How about Viktor?
Answer: What about him?
Question: He claims to be making a ton of money. He should be able to spring for a restaurant.
Answer: Viktor? That cheapskate? Are you kidding?
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Madeline says to Heather. They are both in the kitchen, late at night. Heather is having her usual tea and arrowroot crackers, while Madeline is reheating a can of mushroom soup to which she has added a few spices to pick up the flavor.
“What’s wrong?” Heather questions.
“I don’t know,” Madeline says. “Has this ever happened to you: you try to think of an ingredient—not even a complicated one, like cardamom or clove or coriander—in a recipe you’ve made a thousand times, but then you can’t remember which one you need, or if it’s something else entirely, like cumin? I mean—I know they’re different, but sometimes I have a hard time remembering exactly how they are different anymore. Honestly, I’m afraid my mind is slowly disappearing. I think maybe it’s a sign it’s time for me to get out of here.”
“No,” Heather says. “It never has.”
ANOTHER CONVERSATION FROM THE TECHNICAL STAFF
Tech #2: You know, I have a question, but I don’t know if it’s the kind of question I should ask or not.
Tech #1: How can you know until you ask it?
Tech #2: Well, it’s this: We’ve been working together down here for a long time and, speaking for me at least, I wonder if you’ve noticed that practically the only talks we ever have are related to this work.
Tech #1: I have, but what else is there to talk about?
Tech #2: Well, nothing, of course, but I was wondering—and you don’t have to answer . . .
Tech #1: Answer what?
Tech #2: I was wondering if you have a name for them?
Tech #1: A name for whom?
Tech #2: You know who.
Tech #1: Oh. I call them the Sleepers.
Tech #2: And us, what are we then?
Tech #1: Support staff.
So Ballerina Mouse keeps on trying, and the years go by in a shower of mockery from her fellow dancers, who are, without exception, younger than she is. At recitals it becomes her job to hand out programs and staff the punch table, and although Mme. Suzette keeps promising Ballerina Mouse she will be cast in the very next recital, it never seems to happen.
Then one day, after a particularly hard practice session after which her fellow dancers squirt her with the sticky liquid left in the bottoms of their energy drink cups, pretending they are helping her cool off, Ballerina Mouse leaves the studio but instead of going home, walks straight to a gun store, where . . .
Stop it, Heather. Absolutely not.
XII
Episode One, The Burrow, Scene Two
HEATHER is alone in the kitchen. We watch her put groceries away, a process that involves opening and shutting the cabinet doors many times over. Clearly this is a young woman who struggles to find the right places for things. Finally, she sits down with an arrowroot cracker, strawberry jam, and a mug of Earl Grey tea.
Heather: I don’t know when it was I lost my nerve, exactly. Maybe it was going out on auditions at all hours of the night and day, every day of the week, including weekends, and, after each of them, hearing, “We’ll call you,” or “Hey, honey, I might have a part for you in the future, but meanwhile how’d you like to go out for a little drink.” Or “Sorry, too tall,” or “too short,” or “too young,” or “too thin.” And lately I’ve been thinking I should get out of this weird place because, honestly, it’s been forever since I saw the sun, but in point of fact, what good did the sun ever do me in the past? Anyway, no matter where I go, I’ll need somewhere to live, and a job, too, so in the end I’d just have to come back here or somewhere like it, and get back on the phone again. Am I having a breakdown? It’s certainly possible, but how can I tell? I’ve never
had one, so I don’t know the signs, and that makes me anxious all by itself. I’m not stupid; I’ve read how things can slip away from people—I think it’s happening to Madeline, too, though she’d never admit it—little by little and then, like swimmers, before they know it, they’re too far out to get back to shore, back to the spot on the beach where they left their blanket that is so far away they can’t even make it out. Help (softly). Help.
MADELINE walks in, wearing a blue bathrobe, provocatively open, and, on seeing HEATHER, closes it.
Madeline: Hey, honey. You don’t look so great. How are you doing?
Heather: I don’t know. Maybe not so good, I think.
Madeline: Gee, that’s too bad. Do you want to talk about it? Me, I can hardly get any sleep these days. Something’s keeping me up, I don’t know what, but I don’t suppose the same things that are bothering me are bothering you. Excuse me for interfering, but you’re pretty; why don’t you just get yourself a boyfriend? I know the pickings are pretty slim around here, except for Jeffery, that is. And as far as that goes . . . well, I don’t know. I used to date him once, and there’s something about him that’s special in a way. If you don’t snap him up I may well change my mind and take him back again myself.
MADELINE walks over to the refrigerator and looks in.
Madeline: Say, do you mind if I do a little cooking while we talk? It calms me down, and maybe it will help you, too.
Heather: You go right ahead.
Madeline: Hmm . . . beets and hamburger [she smells it]—still good—and onions. What can I make from that?
Heather: I don’t know.
Madeline: Wait! I’m thinking, maybe . . . red hamburger hash!
Heather: I’ve never heard of that.
Madeline: So let’s you and I live dangerously. Let’s see what happens.
She starts chopping up the onions and beets, and puts them in a frying pan with a little oil. HEATHER watches for a while, then loses interest.
Heather: Well, I’ve got to go. I’m expecting a phone call any minute.
Madeline: What? Oh, sure honey. Don’t forget what I said about Jeffery. He’s pretty special.
HEATHER leaves, MADELINE continues stirring. VIKTOR walks in and sniffs the air.
Viktor: Hey! Is that food I smell?
I’m getting rich, Viktor thinks, but not quite rich enough just yet. Still, a little rich anyway, and a person has to measure his life against something, so why not make it money? There’s love, of course, but how can a person tell if he’s ahead or behind in love? There’s health and all that goes with it, but that’s a one-way street, he knows; a person can hold back the water of that particular dam only so long, and then the water is going to win, is going to pour over the top, and if that person doesn’t pick up his camping gear and get the hell out of there he’ll be buried in a wall of mud. As for Madeline, well, she’s okay enough, and sometimes she sings crazy stuff to him, which he likes, but—hello—when Viktor gets out of here he won’t be taking her. Sorry, kid. Tough break.
Madeline is a survivor though, so Viktor’s not worried about her. Really, the guy Viktor feels bad for is the Duck Man because he was the one who stole Madeline from the Duck Man. But when he lets her go, maybe Duck Man can get her back. Fair enough. And if she thinks Duck Man is so great, she can have him, Viktor thinks. And does Viktor care? Not much. The mystery, if there is one, is why she ever left Jeffery.
I am such a pig.
I am such a pig.
I am such a pig.
I am such a pig, Viktor says to himself.
And oddly it feels good to say this, like waving to himself from across the street, seeing a sort of familiar stranger, a mirror image, but one that reflects a truth that seems irrefutable, a truth that, once having been recognized, allows the recognizer some considerable latitude of behavior. Yes, thank you, Viktor, Viktor says. You are right. You are such a pig. And happy as a pig in mud.
Then Ballerina Mouse has an operation, one that’s done by little mouse doctors and mouse nurses, who take tiny X-ray pictures and move things this way and that, and pretty soon they turn her foot around so it faces a different direction and everything is better. But of course then Ballerina Mouse has to start practicing with her newly redirected foot, learning everything over again, in part because she’s had so much downtime, what with her stay in the hospital and all, but also because some of the muscles she’s now using aren’t used to working in that direction at all, but in fact the opposite one, so it’s like starting from scratch.
And Ballerina Mouse does work hard—even harder than she did before, which was already indisputably hard—so bit by bit her old skills return and she learns new skills as well. She gets a small role, and then a larger one, and then a larger one, and, at last, she becomes a star.
Well, no.
Who would believe that?
Among insects—the Captain thinks—among fish, among rats, iguanas, reindeer, dogs, lions, and tigers, there are no celebrities, nor are there celebrities among orangutans, or chimps, or bonobos, or apes. No, among none of these is there a need to raise one of their own above the rest, except to lead, or breed, or teach. No raccoon will ever choose another raccoon and set it off as an object of desire and envy. No snake ever said: I wish I could be you, to another snake. No toad ever fantasized about being a toad different than itself.
So what is this desire, the Captain wonders, we humans have to live out an alternate story to our own lives? Is there an entirely different life out there for him, one he never lived or has still to live or a whole series of possible lives heading off into infinity, like seeing a mirror reflected in another mirror? He looks around. On one hand there is the coffeepot, the microwave, and, in the next room, the giant TV screen—himself reflected on the surfaces of each in a way—and on the other hand, there is the leather couch with its feet resting on little rubber cups so as to keep it from digging holes into the Persian carpet, the coffee table, and, lying on the table, the Walther, right where he left it after having given it a thorough cleaning. And there he is too, standing amid all of it, a celebrity. But what would his life be like if he were just an ordinary seaman?
Madeline thinks: Has anyone down here in the Burrow ever taken a minute to recognize how important cooking is? I mean, what else does a person do three times a day, every day? Not sex, that’s for sure. But here, even with the limited facilities, it’s still possible for a stong-minded person with a talent for combining odd ingredients to carve out a gracious meal from the groceries that come, more or less in the middle of the night, several times a week when no one’s there to witness their arrival. Let’s see—kale, eggs, and breadcrumbs. How about a kale omelet with cheese covered with golden breadcrumbs? That sounds good, I think I’ll try it, but will my fellow renters even notice, or will they just take it for granted as they have so many, many other things? Will Viktor care? Jeffery? Even Raymond? Who am I kidding? And what about that twit Heather, who walks around in pretty much a daze, making faces to herself and jumping to one side whenever I pass her in the hall, like she’s afraid I’ll give her a smack? Honestly, I’m afraid the girl is headed for a breakdown, and I just hope I’m not around to see it when it comes; I have the feeling it could be messy.
I should charge people for my services, but then, if they said they didn’t need them, the truth is that I’d be bored without cooking, so I’ll just keep on doing what I do. Iron Chef Madeline. On-the-job training for some future career. No. Not just a career, but for being the queen of all celebrity chefs.
The fact is, Raymond’s head is small for his body, a trait that Madeline used to poke fun at in the days when she and Jeffery were, as Jeffery used to say, “an item.” Back then, the two of them would speculate on the man’s strange affinity for ducks and Madeline would say, “I can’t imagine any woman finding him attractive, can you?” then give Jeffery a little squeeze.
But toward the end of their relationship, just before she was about to leave Jeffery for Ra
ymond, she once said, “You know, if you look at any of these decoys around Raymond’s room, you’ll see their heads are small too, at least compared to their bodies, and they are beautiful.”
So Madeline, Jeffery tells himself, is now onto this string of two guys in a row: the first with a small head, and the second with overlarge hands. What does this say about her? Does Madeline have some kind of thing for freaks? And more important, is it possible there is something weird about him too that Madeline can see but he can’t?
All right. Say Ballerina Mouse never has an operation on her foot because she can’t afford it, and because nobody is willing to do something that takes so much skill gratis. Skill, after all, takes time and money to acquire. It can’t be given away for free, and even if Ballerina Mouse could find just one benevolent and kind old mouse doctor who would agree to help her out, such a complicated operation takes not just one generous individual, but a whole team of other mouse doctors, and nurses, and anesthesiologists, to say nothing of the costs involved in keeping a hospital operating room up, running, and free from harmful bacteria, not even counting the whole time spent afterward on the recovery ward, post-op, dressings to be changed, meals in bed, vital signs, and later, still further down the line, all the time that’s needed in the rehab facility. Don’t forget to add that.
But then, just as the other mice are laughing at her once again for her so-called hopeless dreams, and just as she’s about to call it quits, almost by accident she discovers tap dancing and it turns out she’s a natural.