Remote Control (2 page)

She watches him now, a longing in her heart, wishing so desperately that he would return to the Harry she once admired and loved. Can it be that
that
man is gone permanently?

* * *

Beatrice recalls the day they were married.

The wedding was simple and sweet, and it took place a few months after college. Harry, decked out in a three-piece Armani suit that he'd borrowed from his brother, looked like the popular football jock that he was; Beatrice, wearing an elegant white dress cut low in the back, was the class valedictorian. She'd been so happy back then…and so in love. And Harry? Why, he'd literally swept her off her feet in a short five months.

Now he can barely lift his own feet.

They'd had such innocent dreams for their future together. She was going to teach wonderful, sweet children to read and write, maybe even homeschool their three equally wonderful and sweet offspring. Harry would own a plumbing company, hiring at least ten contractors, and they'd specialize in new homes. They'd target all the local builders and coax them with special deals. They'd all make a fortune.

But instead, reality had given her a classroom of unruly, spoiled children, a hectic schedule and one child of her own whom she'd had no time to homeschool. Harry's company lost customers daily because of his poor work ethic and the three contractors he'd hired last fall had all quit. Better pay elsewhere, they'd all said.

Beatrice catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dinette table.
What happened to me?

Her thin lips are pursed in discontent as she flicks a look over her shoulder and stares at the protuberance in the recliner.
Things have got to change around here,
she thinks.

She hangs Harry's shirt over a wooden chair. "Goodnight, Harry." She pauses in the doorway.

In answer, her husband of twenty years points the remote at the television and switches channels.

Beatrice can't take much more of this.

She turns away.
I wish that things would change.

Be careful what you wish for, Beatrice.

* * *

On this night―the night that '
IT'
happens―the weather takes on the frightening quality of an orchestra gone awry. A merciless, miasmic symphony of heat and humidity is brewing, churning the heavens into a hazy, hellish hue of burnt amber. Bitter black clouds as dense as tar pits clash overhead. Hot rain is spat out, a trumpeting torrent that splatters and spreads into running rivers, flooding the grass and streets. Jagged lightning spears are thrown down to earth, landing with precision in a field of sleeping cattle, then on a power line, causing the lights in Harry's rented abode to flicker. Thunder booms through the tiny two-bedroom house and an enraged wind drums on the doors, windows and the stove vent.

A pile of long overdue bills that Beatrice has left on the coffee table flutters to the ground, caught in a fluted draft that seeps under the front door and across the living room, and Harry shivers. The electricity in the air makes the hairs on his arms stand at attention.

"Goddamn storm," he mutters.

He knows that Beatrice is probably tossing and turning in the bedroom down the hall, but he isn't finished keeping his ever-vigilant watch of the small screen before him. There's fifteen minutes left of the hockey game and he's got a vested interest in the score. He's wagered a thousand dollars he took in increments of one hundred from their savings. One thousand dollars for the home team to win.

And he has a feeling…

The doorbell rings. His pizza is here.

He pays the delivery guy, who yawns sleepily and hands him the two-for-one box.

"Keep the change," Harry says, handing the guy a twenty.

The man gives him a scowl. "Thanks, buddy. I may be able to pay for the gas with that…uh," he looks at the receipt, "forty-eight cents."

Harry closes the door and waddles back to his chair, clutching the pizza box like an excited child holding a Christmas present. He opens the box, inhales about a thousand calories in one breath and downs a pizza in record time. He's starting on the second one when something crackles.

Harry jumps. "What the―?"

The lights wink again. Off, on.

"There'd better not be a power failure," he yells at the television.

The game is in the final minute.

"Come on! Get the goddamn puck, you assholes. Now, shoot it!"

He holds his breath, watching as the tiny puck on the screen glides across the ice toward the net.

Closer…closer…

* * *

Without warning, the TV goes fuzzy. Static hisses at him and Harry hisses back.

"Ssson-of-a-bitch!"

He changes channels with the remote, but every channel shows the same gray, stagnant static, so he clicks back to the game. Still nothing.

Harry heaves himself from the recliner, then pauses to catch his breath.

This is not the time for the stupid TV to act up.

Harry needs to know the score. He has to know if he's just made them ten thousand dollars richer, or if he'll have to find a way to cover his tracks―and hide the money loss.

"Aw, for crying out loud! I wish to God I knew the score."

With the remote control in one hand, he approaches the television with trepidation. He pushes the channel up button, and as his other hand―or fist, actually―makes contact with the box, he switches the channel back to the hockey game. Simultaneously and unbeknownst to Harry, a bolt of lightning sears the cable dish on his roof and a surge of electricity races down through the wiring and into his old television.

He feels a minor tingling sensation in his fingertips. Then a sharp jolt of pain courses up his arm.

"Beatrice!" he yells.

His voice sounds funny, as if he's in a deep cavern. His vision blurs and darkness wraps him in a cloak of oblivion. Sounds fade in and out, waves of voices on a restless sea.

The TV must be back on,
his subconscious tells him.

He blinks. Then he gasps.
What was that?

A face swims in front of him, too large for the television. A man's face. He has dark blue hair.

That's not right,
he thinks.

He blinks again. And glimpses a crowd of people hovering over him.

Am I dead?

His vision clears and beyond the crowd, he sees hundreds―no,
thousands
―of screaming people.

"Where the hell am I?" he bellows.

But Harry knows exactly where he is.

* * *

He is standing now―after much assistance―and as he gazes across the stadium, his eyes rest on the hockey net at the other end of the ice rink. The home team is just setting up for a power play. The
same
scenario he's already witnessed at home, while sitting in his recliner with his popcorn and beer.

"Excuse me," a woman says beside him. "This is yours."

She presses a small black object into his hands. Harry's remote control.

He's stunned. And very confused. "But how did you…?"

"You dropped it when you fainted."

"I fainted?" He rubs his forehead, squinting as a sudden pain flashes through his temples.

Well, this is just wrong.
I, Harold Abner Fielding, do not faint.

While he tries to make sense of it all, his hands habitually caress the remote control buttons. When he grazes the volume button, he applies more pressure than he initially intends. The result nearly makes him pee his pants. The volume in the arena increases.

"Must be a coincidence," he mumbles.

He pushes the volume decrease button and the surrounding sounds diminish to a bare whisper. Flabby fingers stroke his 'long lost lover', pressing the mute button. The arena is eerily silent, yet all around him, people go through the motions of screaming, jumping up from their chairs, stomping their feet and whistling at the dueling hockey teams. It reminds him of those old black and white silent pictures with the incomparable Charlie Chaplin.

He laughs, but no sound is emitted from his throat.

"You suck!" he silently yells at the guy beside him.

The guy gives him a nasty scowl.

Apparently, the remote only gives Harry the effects. Everyone else hears just fine.

Experimenting more, he presses the rewind button. It's a hysterically funny sight watching people move backwards, only slightly slower than normal. He glances at the woman behind him and immediately wishes he hadn't. She is regurgitating an all-beef hotdog smothered in mustard and onions.

His stomach heaves, so he turns around and resumes fiddling with the remote. Fast forward gives him the expected results. The channel buttons do nothing that he can see.

Distracted by this unexpected turn of events, he halfheartedly watches the final minutes of the game. As the puck makes its way across the center line, he catches sight of the "memory" button on the remote.

"Now what does a remote have to remember?"

He pushes it.

* * *

Zzzz-zap!

A blinding flash of light pierces his eyes and he clamps them shut. When he opens them, he finds that he is standing next to the television in his stuffy two-bedroom rental. The remote control is at his feet and a burnt plastic odor lingers in the air.

What the hell just happened here?

He shakes his head, trying to free the cobwebs of his mind. He obviously imagined everything.

Good God, Harry. You're losing it, buddy.

He laughs. It starts off as a self-deprecating chuckle, then bursts into a full blown Jell-O belly laugh. Above his own laughter, he hears a thunderous cheering. The hockey game is in the last three minutes and the crowd is screaming wildly.

The puck inches near the net, and Harry sees imaginary dollar signs. His bet is going to pay off.

"Shoot!" he screams, trying not to think of what just happened.

The puck hits the side of the goal net and ricochets between one player's feet, and the buzzer sounds. Game over. The home team has lost.

And so has Harry. He's just lost one thousand dollars.

He lets out a cry of frustration. "Goddamn losers!"

Leaning over―which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes―Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote.

In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic.

The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. "Help me!"

But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail.

Jesus Christ,
I'm drowning!

He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers.
The remote.

Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he's ever prayed. "Please let this work. Please!"

He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.

He's instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another 'zoning out' period except for two things―he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.

Or Beatrice, at the very least.

She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he'd bought it for her last Christmas.

He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.

"Harry?" Blink…yawn…gasp! "What in God's name is going on here?"

* * *

Beatrice searches the room for the source of the water. There's no leak in the ceiling and the kitchen sink isn't overflowing.
So where'd all that water come from?

Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she steps closer to Harry. "Did you go outside?"

It's the only thing that makes any sense to her, yet the rain had stopped about half an hour ago.

Harry gives her his
'you're so dense'
glare, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Of course I didn't go outside."

"Then why are you standing in the living room soaking wet?"

Ignoring her, he pushes past and waddles toward the bathroom.

"Just like a man," she mutters. "Avoid the question and run away."

While he's gone, Beatrice cleans up the water on the hardwood floor. She searches for the remote control so she can turn off the TV, but it's nowhere to be found.

"Harry?" she calls out. "Where's the remote?"

He appears beside her, the remote firmly grasped in one hand.

She holds out her hand.

"I'm not done watching TV," he says.

"But it's almost eleven-thirty."

He looks at her, raises his eyebrows. "And your point is?"

"You always go to bed by eleven when you have a job in the morning."

"I know." He glances at the television. "But I have a plan that is sure to make us rich."

She rolls her eyes.
Another one of Harry's 'plans'. Oh goodie.

"I have an idea," he continues, "that'll make you wish you'd never doubted me."

"What
I
wish," she snaps, "is that you'd stop all your wishing once and for all.
I
wish that you'd stop pressuring me to work more hours and figure out a way to fix this mess we're in. In fact, I wish that you'd just leave me alone!"

Beatrice turns on one heel, but his portentous words follow her.

"Be careful what you wish for, dear Bea."

* * *

Harry is desperately afraid. Afraid that he's imagined everything, that he's had a stroke or something and temporarily blacked out. Terrified in a way that makes his heart race with anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he hasn't dreamt it up after all.