Orbit 11 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Night

  They talked about hair, of course. They did not say that he looked like Jesus. Steve thought that this in itself was worthy of being recorded in his notebook. A Gremmager laughed delightedly. Another suggested that Steve was really the Apostle Paul: he had finished the First Corinthians, and the Second, and now he was working on the Honorable Mention Corinthians. Everyone laughed; Steve laughed too, that poor, dead dear.

  When the cheeseburgers came the locals were still talking about hair. Steve was interested in the Gremmagers’ point of view.

  “I’ve never really had it explained so clearly,” he said. “I never understood the objection to long hair before. But I can sympathize with your point.” The Gremmagers smiled to each other.

  If you squint just right, you can see the entire population of Gremmage crowded together on the sidewalk in front of the diner.

  “You are right,” said Steve, “on some people long hair looks horrible. But I always thought it filled out my thin face.”

  The diner is empty except for the group of Gremmagers that came in with Steve. The waitresses and the kitchen help have all gone outside to join the others on the sidewalk.

  “I wish I could get this hair cut right now. I don’t know how I ever thought it was decent for a grown man to wear it like this. I look like a damn faggot. Right after lunch you’ll have to show me the barber shop.”

  The Gremmagers laughed. “No need to wait, if you don’t want to,” one of them said. “Matt here’s a barber. Do it for you right here.”

  “Oh yes, please! Cut it off already; God, I hate it!”

  You can look around, there’s about twenty minutes now, nothing much happening except the haircut. The Gremmagers inside the diner and the Gremmagers outside slap each other’s backs and laugh a lot. At last Steve’s hair is tastefully short. With his beard he looks like D. H. Lawrence.

  “You gonna keep the chin feathers, son?”

  “Maybe you could trim the beard a little, neaten it up.”

  “You’re gonna look like some regular professor or something.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Take it off.”

  “Hey, Don, I think it’s time for the sign.”

  The Gremmagers were cheering. They cheered each other, they congratulated Steve. They gave him a new suit and a ten-dollar bill. Someone flipped a switch and a neon sign lit up above a dingy door at the back of the diner: A High-Pay, Fascinating Career Is Waiting For You In The Exciting, Wide-Open Field OF COMPUTER PROGRAMMING!!! Steve grabbed the doorknob. He turned back to the Gremmagers and smiled shyly. He never could take care of himself. As the town of Gremmage applauded he opened the door and went through.

  <>

  * * * *

  Gary K. Wolf

  DISSOLVE

  DAVID: Good evening. David Dahlstrom here—on the air—around the world. My

  guest today—noted British psychiatrist, self-styled TVologist, and author of the recent best seller Big Eye, Dr. Bernice F. Trainner. half turn, look at guest. Hello, Dr. Trainner.

  GUEST: Hello, David, smile. So nice of you to have me in.

  DAVID: My pleasure, return smile. Tell me, Dr. Trainner—

  GUEST:shake head. Please. Call me Bernice.

  DAVID: nod. Thank you. Tell me, Bernice, exactly what do you mean here in your

  bookopen book when you say read from book ‘“television dangerously altered our perception of the world around us”? close book.

  GUEST: Quite simple, David, turn slowly, face camera. Television appeared to depict

  the real world. When, in fact, it never came anywhere near doing so.

  DAVID:Look puzzled. It didn’t?” Tilt head to one side. How do you mean that?

  GUEST: Well, for instance. Take your typical television series. The quote good-guy-

  hero-what-have-you unquote never lost. He was always a winner. Now how realistic was that? For some guy to always come out on top every ti . . . fade out picture, long, slow fade on sound, fade-in scene two and establish, open on wide-angle shot, interior of bombed-out television studio, pan around, two light bulbs hang from ceiling, video tape scattered all over, broken props everywhere, mobile, gas-powered generator parked against back wall, grubby, unshaven boy sits at desk, filthy girl in raggy clothes points television camera at him. girl pushes button, boy’s face appears on television monitor in studio corner. boy sees himself, breaks into grin, fade-in sound.

  “It works! Goddamn, it works! I’m on the air! Hot shit! Keep the camera on me, and do what I tell you. Ready? Let’s go. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Creighton Moore here with the evening news. Brought to you tonight by Tone Tine, the world’s finest sonic toothbrush. Bad breath turning your honey off in those close-up clinches? Use Tone Tine. Kill bad breath germs super-sonically. Push the camera in. Closer. Come in right on my upper molar. Yeah, that’s right. Use Tone Tine to be sure. And now for the news, Okay, Melissa, that’s enough. Cut it off.”

  The girl pushes a button, and a video-tape recorder next to her slows to a gentle stop. Scotty, the boy, comes out from behind the desk trailing a microphone cord behind him.

  “Goddamn,” he says, “I was really on. Play it back so I can see it.”

  Melissa pushes the rewind button, lets the tape spin back for a few moments, stops it, then pushes the button marked play.

  “. . . Keep the camera on me and do what I tell you. Ready, Let’s go. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Creighton Moore here with . . .”

  “Great. Cut it off.”

  Melissa pushes the stop button, and Scotty’s face freezes in midsentence on the screen. She pushes the off button, and his face disappears.

  “Damn, that’s exciting. Aren’t you excited, honey? Do you know what this means? Do you? Do you understand, sweetheart?”

  Melissa looks at him quizzically, thinks for a moment, and finally shakes her head quickly.

  Scotty smiles at her. She’s gotten worse in the past few months. Lately he has to explain things to her several times before she understands them. But she’ll be improving now. The TV will help her. Help her get smarter. Help her get better. More like she’d been. Before.

  He looks at her tenderly, runs his hands over her cheek, down her side and over her young breasts, and explains to her again the significance of their achievement.

  “Remember when we found this place?”

  Melissa nods.

  “And how much you enjoyed it when I figured out how to play all those video tapes we found? The ones with those great TV shows on them?”

  Melissa grins happily and nods again.

  “And remember how sad you were that day after the big cloud blew over. The day when we came down here to play a tape and found there wasn’t anything on any of them anymore?”

  Melissa’s face reflects her sorrow. She drops her head and raises it again. Slowly. Down. Up.

  “Well, you’re gonna be able to watch TV shows again. Because now we can make our own. Exactly the same as the old ones. You wait. You won’t hardly be able to tell the difference. I know. It’ll be just like it was before. See if it’s not. We’ll be able to watch anything we want. Better yet, we’ll be in the programs, too. Won’t that be super? We can be anything we want. You can be a dancer. A singer. Anything at all. As pretty and as smart as any girl who’s ever been on television before. Won’t you like that?”

  Melissa’s face brightens. She smiles the silly, sweet smile that Scotty so loves. And she nods her head. Of course, she doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Ever since the lump under her chin started swelling, four or five months ago, she hasn’t been able to make a sound. No words. No laughter. No grunts. Not even a sigh or a whimper. But it doesn’t matter. Not to them. Scotty can understand her. As now. As she comes to him. Hugs him to her. Tightly. Pulling him down. Down and over. Down and over and on...

  long, gentle fade-out. fade-in scene three.

  GUEST: . . . similar expectations in real life. You see, the medium’s

  semidocumentary
method of presentation blurred the distinction between fiction and . . .

  * * * *

  He puts his gun back in its holster, steps over the body lying in the street, and walks to the saloon. He pushes open the saloon door, goes inside, and sits down at a table already occupied by a young, pretty girl. He speaks to her.

  “You can go back to your ranch, now, Miss Linda. That Crayton fella ain’t a-gonna bother you no more.”

  “Oh, Sheriff. How can I ever thank you?”

  “Ain’t no thanks necessary. Don’t give it another thought, hear? And don’t you fret none ‘bout it, neither. ‘Tweren’t your fault. He was no good. The whole town’s better off without him. Matter of fact, I been wantin’ to do it for a long time, now. Glad he finally gave me a reason.”

  The girl looks at him, nods her head, gets up, throws her shawl over her shoulders, and starts for the door. Halfway there, she stops, runs back to the sheriff, gives him a hug and a tender kiss on the cheek, then hurries out.

  The sheriff looks after her, touches his hand to his cheek, turns his back to the door, sits down at the table, and orders a beer.

  * * * *

  show her pulling the trigger.

  Bang.

  * * * *

  one minute to air.

  stand by. quiet in the studio, ready music, ready to fade-in camera one, cue music.

  on the air.

  cue talent, fade-in one.

  “And now, brought to you direct from Radio City Music Hall in New York City, the Ed O’Hara Show with tonight’s guest stars, the comedy team of Brecher and Fultz, young singing star Diana Phillips, Jack Markas doing a scene from his new movie, and, to top it all off, those folk-singing sensations, the Last Children. Now, here he is, in person,ready two Ed O’Hara.

  take two.

  “Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you ever so much. Stick around awhile. You’ll enjoy the show. Starting right off, let’s have a big, big O’Hara hand for the young and lovely Miss Rhythum and Blues herself, here she is, Miss Diane Phillips.”

  pan in on the girl, from high up. catch a shot down the front of her dress, don’t show enough to get the blue pencils on our backs, but work mr. sunday-night-viewer up a little.

  Two spotlights pick up the girl as she stands there, radiant, capturing the entire audience and holding them in her hand with her awesome stage presence. She looks out, smiles, and begins to sing. The boom mike comes in low. Her body mike, hidden in the bosom of her low-cut evening gown, picks up the soft reverberations that give her voice its husky, sex-filled quality. The cameraman swoops in and out. Adding that old artsy-craftsy touch. A little blurred focus. Some double exposure shots. Quick zoom in. All counterbalanced by a lot of side-angle and high-up stuff. And through it all, above it all, she sings.

  what a performer, a real natural, too bad she’s got such a lousy voice.

  * * * *

  DAVID: I’m sorry, Bernice, I’m having a bit of trouble hearing you. Could you speak

  up a little?

  * * * *

  He is an honest, diligent, hardworking engineer, living happily with his wife and two children in a small but comfortable apartment in a middle-class, integrated, all-American neighborhood. He doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t drink. And would never take something he didn’t earn, for, above all else, he’s determined to get ahead on the merits of his own talents and his own talents only.

  His wife is a senator’s daughter. At the age of fourteen, she inherited twenty million dollars from a distant uncle. She’s on a first-name basis with twelve prime ministers, eight dictators, a maharaja, the President of the United States, and a Haitian voodoo cult leader.

  Join them this coming Friday night at 8 p.m. Eastern Standard Time and watch the fun as she tries to hide the fact she’s hired the entire New York Philharmonic to entertain at their daughter’s birthday party while he places the United States foreign policy in jeopardy by mistaking the Queen Mother for a cosmetics saleslady.

  Don’t forget. It will all be happening right here, this coming Friday at 8 p.m. Make sure you’re here to watch it.

  * * * *

  let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, show her pulling the trigger.

  Bang.

  * * * *

  And now, a word from our sponsor.

  That walking through the meadow, rolling in the hay freshness that you’ve been waiting for is here at last. At your drugstore. Ask for it by name, girls. Pussy Willow. The finest douche money can buy. Available in six delightful flavors—strawberry, boysenberry, raspberry, orange, licorice, and vanilla. Pick up a snatch-pack. Today.

  Now, back to our program.

  * * * *

  run it again, i’ll dub in your voice, and we’ll hear how it sounds after we put it all together.

  * * * *

  “Jason, I’m afraid it’s all over between us. I’ve found someone else. Someone kind, and loving and generous. Someone, in short, entirely unlike you. Now, please, let’s not make a scene. Let’s part as friends. Agreed.” She walks toward him, her hand outstretched. As she moves, the sunlight streaming through the window picks up the highlights in her gorgeous auburn hair (Lady Qairol, shade 44S). He can’t resist. And doesn’t.

  He pushes her hand to one side and draws her to him, kissing her long and hard, holding her in a strong, masculine embrace. “Mirelle,” he breaths softly into her ear, “my Mirelle. Can you really leave me? Can you even think of leaving me? After all we’ve had together? After you’ve borne me a child? And what is to become of him? Of little Gaston? Eh? Have you thought of that? We were to tell him next week. Tell him that we and not Steve and Tom are his true parents. What are we to do about that? Are we to go on letting him be brought up as a homosexual in that filthy hovel where he sleeps on the floor and eats insects? I beg of you. Stay with me. Please. If not for me, if not for yourself, then for Gaston. Stay with me. Please. Please. Please.”

  Mirelle disengages herself from him by shoving him roughly away. She looks at him for a moment, her breasts heaving up and down with the memory of almost-forgotten passions. She puts her hands to her face and starts to sob. “No. Oh, no. How can you do this to me? What strange, evil powers do you have over me? I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do any longer. Where to turn. You’re a wicked, sinister man, Jason, and I hope to God I never see you again.” With large, sobbing gasps, she runs crying from the room.

  Jason looks after her, a sneer on his face. He suspects she’ll be back.

  Tune in tomorrow, same time, same channel, and find out if he’s right.

  * * * *

  how are we for time?

  right on schedule.

  * * * *

  The cloud comes back, and with it the sickness. Scotty holds Melissa in his arms. Rocking her gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until the cloud goes away. And her crying stops.

  * * * *

  what a scene! let’s watch it again on instant replay.

  * * * *

  The cloud comes back, and with it the sickness. Scotty holds Melissa in his arms. Rocking her gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until the cloud goes away. And her crying stops.

  * * * *

  “Hellooooooooo, KIDDIES. It’s me again. Cuckoobell the clown. Here to put a little fun, fun, fun in your lives. What do you say we get right to the cartoons. Would you like that? You would? Here they are, then. To make you laugh and chuckle. Your favorite little people. Wally Walrus and Bumble-Bee Bennie. Let’s see what they’re up to today.”

  Wally Walrus has it. A surefire way to steal Bumble-Bee Bennie’s honey. Wally’s put glue on all the flowers in the pasture next to Bennie’s hive.

  When Bennie and the other bees go out to gather honey, they stick to the flowers. Wally, hiding behind a rock at the edge of the pasture, grinningly watches the fun as the bees try to struggle loose. When he’s sure they can’t get themselves unfastened, he comes out into the open, teases them by tickling them under their li
ttle chins, does a fancy jig, then goes to their honey tree and, licking his lips, starts to climb.

  He’s only halfway up the tree when the first drop of water hits. Within moments, it’s pouring down rain. And Wally knows what that means. Glue comes loose in water, and when the glue on the flowers comes loose, the bees do too. He has to really hustle if he wants to get that honey.

  He picks up speed. Climbs faster. Lickety-split. Moving like a demon. Until, at last, he makes it. To the top of the tree where, there it is, right in front of him. Mounds and heaps and gobs of beautiful, delicious, sweet and yummy honey. He dips his paw in, closes his eyes, and starts to take a big juicy lick. Then he hears it.