Remote Control (3 page)

There's only one way to find out.

It's now just past midnight and Harry has changed his clothes, toweled off his hair, and his skin has returned to its normal color of malnourishment. Leaning forward as far as his tire tube belly allows, he sits in his recliner and contemplates how he can use his new best friend to make all his wishes come true. His pudgy hands are glued to the remote, as if his life depends on its close proximity.

"Okay, RC," he says. "Let's see what you can really do."

Now don't forget how smart Harry is. He's already thought this through. If everything that happened was real, then he has somehow found a kind of portal. And portals can be very useful―if one can figure out how to use them.

"I was transported to the same hockey game I was watching on TV," he says. "I was actually there. Then I changed channels and went to the Arctic, just like the documentary." He shivers. "Bad move there."

Needing something safe to test his theory on, he channel surfs.

"There!"

The screen shows dozens of digital cameras, flat screen TVs and laptops. Tonight's news is featuring a piece on the grand opening of a Best Buy store in southeast Edmonton. According to the reporter, the grand opening sale is on '
NOW'
.

"Then
NOW
is the best time," he says with a wry grin.

He never stops to wonder what will happen if he selects a commercial that has been pre-recorded in a store that is now closed. But he does do two things. He wishes and waits.

Nothing happens.

"What the hell?"

He holds the remote out in front, points and changes channels quickly, from a beer commercial back to the Best Buy ad, wishing with all his might for fame and fortune.

Still nothing.

He turns the television off, then on, and tries again. Point…wish…click channel button.

Disappointed that he's still sitting in his chair, he says, "Why won't you work?"

Scowling, he scratches his chins and replays previous actions in his head, thinking of everything he could have possibly done.

Finally, he smiles. "Ah-ha! I touched the TV."

Thankful he hadn't reclined his chair, he begins to rock. One…two…three! Up he goes.

Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down.

As a last thought, he grabs a hooded jacket he'd flung over the couch earlier that day. He doesn't bother to zip it up―he couldn't have even if he wanted to. But he does pull the hood over his head and fastens the top snap under his chins.

He shuffles to the television and touches the faded black plastic. Making his wish, he switches back to the Best Buy commercial. In a single heartbeat, he sees his arm and hand disintegrate.

Then Harry vanishes completely.

* * *

He's staring into a pitch-black cave. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realizes that he's inside the Best Buy store―after closing. Not even a night janitor is around.

"It works!" He jerks as his voice echoes through the cavernous building with its high, open ceiling.

Harry is stunned. He's tempted to hit the memory button and return home to collect his thoughts. But then it hits him; he should be collecting something else. He's standing in a store filled with expensive electronic equipment. Stuff worth thousands of dollars. Per shelf. Stuff he could keep―or sell. And best of all, there's no sign of a break-in, and there'll be no evidence of his departure.

He glances up, sees a security camera sweeping the area and pulls the hood tighter. "Security!"

Chuckling at his brilliance, he stares at his good friend RC and strokes the small black box. "Can I take really something back with me?" He remembers something. "Well, I brought back some of the Arctic Ocean, didn't I?"

Makes sense to him that objects can be transported just as easily as water.

"This'll be a reconnaissance trip," he decides, thinking of the movie Ocean's Eleven with George Clooney and a host of other big name actors. "It'll be a dry run, and I'll be Clooney."

He waddles down one aisle, grabs a Canon camera and wraps the strap around his neck. Then he shoves four small digital cameras into his jacket pockets, two per side. He grins. With a skip and a bounce in his step―well, as much as his three hundred and sixty pound frame will allow―he lumbers into a second aisle and scoops a laptop up with one hand.

Then he sees it, the most wondrous thing in the store.

A forty-two inch Panasonic flat-screen TV.

Shuffling toward his treasure, he practically salivates at the sight, and he makes a decision that will make one of his routine wishes finally come true. He hugs the flat-screen, squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer.

"There's no place like home," he says.

He tries to click his heels, but his marshmallow thighs won't let him.

So he presses the memory button on the remote instead.

* * *

Harry stands motionless in his living room. His pockets are stuffed with stolen loot and the flat-screen he's holding makes his arms ache. He rests his new treasure on the couch and groans at the physical exertion. He stares at it and his jaw drops. A drip of drool slides from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and disappears into the unshaven folds of his face.

Harry's eyes widen in comprehension. "I did it."

He realizes something and puffs up his already expansive girth. He's no longer just Harold Fielding, plumber extraordinaire. Now he's a thief, a criminal, a wanted man.

He grins and holds himself more erect. It feels good to be wanted, to be somebody special. A tingle of anticipation gives him a delicious shiver as he thinks of the police investigation that will follow. They'll wonder how someone got in and out without touching the doors or windows.

They'll think I'm amazing.

He empties his pockets. "And I am amazing."

He can't believe he made away with it all. And he didn't even set off the Best Buy's alarm.

Harry gasps.
Maybe the press will give me a special nickname.

"Maybe they'll call me
The Disappearing TV Thief
."

Laughter escapes from his mouth, his bulky belly doing 'the wave' as it ripples with each laugh.

He covers his mouth with fat fingers.

What to do now…

He must have an excuse for having all this state-of-the-art equipment. Now what can he tell Beatrice? Maybe an uncle passed away and left him―no, that wouldn't do. Beatrice knows he doesn't have an uncle.

He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him.

Harry grins. "I'll tell her I won everything. In a lottery."

She'll never know the truth. She'd never approve of it.

Suddenly, Harry hears a sound that makes his heart stop.

Footsteps.

Good God, Beatrice is awake!

* * *

Beatrice peeks around the corner and sees Harry sitting in his recliner, his eyes wild looking and his face flushed. He's wearing a jacket, which is odd since it's the middle of the night and the house is toasty.

"Harry, what's wrong? Are you ill?"

"No."

She notices that he's covered in an oily sheen of perspiration. "Should I call 911?"

He shakes his head, his breath coming in quick pants. "Bad dream."

Beatrice looks at him for a long moment. "Come to bed, Harry. You're going to be too tired to work tomorrow." She glances at the clock on the wall. "Or should I say, today. It's almost two."

"I'll be up in a minute." He gives her an innocent looking smile and a sweat bead rolls down the side of his face, cascades down his three chins and drops on his shirt.

Her eyes narrow.
What's he up to?

She follows his gaze to the closet. "What's in there, Harry?"

"Where? What are you talking about?"

"What are you hiding in the closet?" she demands.

He shoves himself from the chair, wobbles, and says, "I'm not hiding a thing."

She doesn't believe him. He's too interested in that darned closet. Can't keep his eyes off it.

She walks toward the closet door with the intention of exposing Harry's secret. Probably half a dozen assorted flavors of potato chips and a bulk package of chocolate bars.

She scowls.
Or more dirty magazines.

She'd already found his stash in the garage and made him burn them outside in the fire pit.

Men!

"Really, Bea," he insists, "it's nothing. I can't help where I was looking."

She hesitates in front of the closet door.

"Why don't we go upstairs," Harry says. "We can have some fun."

He raises and lowers his brows in an attempt to be suggestive, but Bea isn't interested in his idea of fun, the kind that always leaves her unfulfilled, with cracked ribs.

"No, Harry. I'm more interested in what's in here."

She reaches out a hand, touches the doorknob and turns it.

* * *

The closet holds all that once was, or once could have been. When she opens the door, two tennis balls―still bright yellow―roll between her feet. The rackets hang on the inside of the door, never used. Inside and to the left is Harry's barely used golf bag. Beside it are three burgundy suitcases for the many fabulous vacations that never happened. Cardboard boxes filled with Harry's extra plumbing gear are stacked to just under the clothing bar on the right side. Behind all this are more boxes and a pile of wool blankets and beach towels―for the picnics they never went on anymore.

Her fingers trail across the suitcases. She wonders if she'll ever use them again.

"So what didn't you want me to see in here, Harry?"

"Nothing, dear. Really." Harry's voice is thin, nervous.

She glances over her shoulder at him. "Then why are you so nervous,
dear
?"

Harry releases a long sigh. "I-I just realized how messy it was in there. You asked me to clean it up on my day off. I forgot to do it. Don't be upset with me, Bea. I'll do it right after work tomorrow. I promise."

She cocks her head. Maybe she's been too hard on him. Maybe he can't help that work's been slow.

"Maybe I can do it―"

"No!" Harry moves to her side and firmly closes the closet door. "
I'll
do it. I made a promise to you. I don't want you lifting a finger. The stuff in there is heavy, and most of it'll be going to the junkyard. The rest I'll store in the basement, or at least make a bit neater in the closet. Let me do that for you." He gives her a pleading look.

Well, I can't hurt his feelings by telling him no, now can I?

"Fine. You take care of it. I have enough to clean anyway." She gives him a tired look. "I sure wish we could hire someone to clean the house once a month. My joints are aching all the time and I can't wash the floors like I used to." Her voice fades with yearning. "I wish you were making more money."

Will he get the hint?

Harry's eyes have a strange glimmer in them. "I'm working on it, Bea. Believe me."

She almost does. Almost.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she says sadly.

* * *

Harry tiptoes into the living room the following morning and heads for the closet, hoping and praying that he hasn't dreamt it all, that there really are cameras and a flat-screen TV stashed behind the boxes. He flicks a look over his shoulder. Beatrice is in the shower, but he can't be too careful.

He opens the door and grunts as he shifts the top three boxes.

There! Right behind them is the top of the flat-screen.

He lets out a whoop. "Ho-ly shee-it." He covers his mouth, but not before a giggle escapes.

Returning the boxes to their original positions, he quickly shuts the door. As soon as Beatrice leaves for work, he'll move them to the basement.

Harry checks his clipboard to see what appointments he has booked. He's too keyed up to even think of going to work. Last thing he wants to do is wedge himself under some old lady's sink and unclog a drainpipe that she's clogged up by washing her rapidly thinning hair and her five dogs and six cats. Not to mention, she's probably hawked in it every morning to clear up a phlegmy throat.

What he really wants to do is check to see what's on TV.

"Let's see what's on the tube," he says, settling in his chair.

He picks up the remote and turns on the television, wishing it was the brand new one sitting in the back of the closet. He scrolls through the channels until he comes to the guide. There's a game show on in a few hours.

"That won't do," he realizes. "I'd just show up. They wouldn't just let me play."

The cursor hovers over Channel 78. Oprah will be on later in the day.

Harry chuckles. "Like to see Oprah's face if I just popped up on that couch beside her."

No, the queen of daytime TV will have to wait. Maybe once he's rich and famous she'll invite him to be a guest on her show. Bea too. That would sure score brownie points with her.

He starts channel surfing. Maybe something exciting will catch his eye.

And something does.

* * *

Global TV flashes a
"BREAKING NEWS"
banner.

"Sometime early this morning," news anchor Bill Humphrey says, "the new Best Buy store located in southeast Edmonton was broken into and robbed. We have Desiree Montgomery standing by."

The camera cuts to an attractive young woman with sleek blond hair. She's standing inside the store, right about the place where Harry had 'landed'.

"What can you tell us, Desiree?" Bill asks.

"Well, police don't have much to go on at this time, Bill. As you can see behind me, officers are still dusting for fingerprints. However, they don't think they'll find anything they can distinguish from the thousands of people who have walked through these doors since the store opened three days ago."

"Do they know how the thief broke in?"

"That's the strange thing. Police have ruled out entry by either the front or back door. Outdoor security cameras show no movement in front of either. Right now they're looking into the possibility that the thief waited inside the store until it closed, then somehow made it past security with the goods in hand when the store opened."