Cat's Pajamas (13 page)

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 porcelain 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.

P
USHING 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 that 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.

Disembarking, we entered a small foyer decorated with two dozen full-figure portraits of men dressed in baseball uniforms. I recognized Ty Cobb and Pete Rose. Dennis guided me into an immense steel cavern dominated by a sparkling three-dimensional map that, according to the caption, depicted our spiral arm of the Milky Way. Five thousand tiny red lights pulsed amid the flashing white stars. Five thousand planets boasting intelligent life, Dennis explained. Five thousand advanced civilizations.

So: we were not alone in the galaxy—nor were we alone in the cavern. A dozen men wearing lime-green jumpsuits and walkie-talkie headsets paced in nervous circles before the great map, evidently receiving information from distant locales and relaying it to a hidden but eager audience.