Chapter One
The Show
Producer: I’ve read your idea. Very confusing, and disjointed. And for a children’s show, the material’s full of anarchic humor. Could you elaborate?
Writer: Well, you’ve given me five episodes… I have five different ideas.
Producer: The more the merrier, and all that… However, there’s bound to be a pattern in even the strangest of ideas. What’s the angle here?
Writer: Well…
Producer: Is it some form of storytelling?
Writer: I suppose…
Producer: Animated?
Writer: Some of it.
Producer: Is it educational?
Writer: Probably not.
Producer: What about set design?
Writer: We need one set. A library.
Producer: I see. So is the show entirely narrative?
Writer: The start of every episode may be. The rest of it is either filmed on location, or animated.
Producer: Do make this easy for me, will you?
Writer: I’m not surprised at your response, it’s written in such a way as to confuse both parents and kids…
Producer: All right, but you’re going to have to explain this to me. Selling an original idea to a corporation isn’t exactly child’s play. What’s the format?
Writer: I introduce each episode like I’m reading from a children’s book, then the camera pans out, the visual fades in and out to reveal the story I’m reading. Sometimes filmed, sometimes animated.
Producer: I’m going to have a long day straddling executives with this one, I just know it…
Episode One: The Grizzly and the Retail Hive
Once upon a time, there was a forest. And in this forest lived a bear. The bear was known for it’s non-violent attitude towards other animals, and smiled a lot at every other animal. The squirrel, the shrew, the badger, the fox all received their early morning jovial grins from the bear, everyday. Many of the animals were of the opinion that the bear was probably cracked in the head to be so happy all the time, not knowing it was a by-product of his diet. The bear loved honey, and would greet hives all around the forest, with early morning greetings, and proceed to eat slab after slab of honey, while the bees watched in implausible horror at seeing their homes eaten away, gradually but progressively. Other animals watched this phenomenon with a mixture of incredulity and mild amusement. The bees did not share this sentiment. The Buzz Council of Elders, with the queens of the land, conveyed a general body meeting, so as to deal with what they termed the Grinning Menace.
Elder 1: We must attack…
Elder 2: How?
Elder 1: We must converge, and attack him while he steals from us…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: With all due respect, Elder, we tried implementing that strategy before…
Elder 1: … and what happened?
Minister of Foreign Affairs: He giggled.
Elder 1: What?
Queen 1: Be specific, Minister, or I might just consider using your head as a soccer ball…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: I am being specific, your Majesty. He giggled. To the best of my knowledge, a few worker bees heard him say something about being ticklish.
Queen 2: This is worse than I thought. Does anyone have any ideas?
Lawyer 1: I believe we can prosecute him, your Majesty…
Elder 2: Don’t be silly, he’ll overturn the decision…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: You mean overturn the hive…
Queen 1: Silence. This is no time for flippant wit.
Elder 3: If I may be permitted a suggestion… It might just work.
Queen 3: Speak.
Elder 3: What I’m proposing is slightly strange. It requires the cooperation of bees from all three hives, and our thespian bees will have to deliver with panache…
Queen 3: Speak.
Elder 3: It requires our best efforts of calculated silliness for this plan to work…
Queen 3: Speak to the point, before you lose your head…
Elder 3: Yes, your Majesty, yes… The worker bees will have to position themselves like a neon sign reading Honey Store with an arrow pointing at the hive. The drone bees will have to hum right next to the sign, to signify the resemblance to a neon sign. If we manage to lure the bear with the sign, the fate of our homes rests on the performance of our thespian bees.
A morning like any other. The bright sunshine reflected off the dew collected on the undergrowth. Another lovely morning, the bear thought. Must have some honey. The grizzly made its way past the trees, the bushes, the tiny little lake near its cave, and walked to where it expected to see the hives filled with juicy, luscious honey. Pure golden richness. Until it saw the sign.
Honey Store.
Strange, the bear thought.
It walked in the direction the sign pointed to, and encountered a tiny little stall in a tree, with tiny little bottles of honey stacked in vertical piles on the counter. Behind the counter stood two bees dressed in tailcoats.
Thespian bee 1: Right this way sir. How may we help you today?
Bear: Uh… Honey?
Thespian bee 1: Yes sir, we do sell honey.
Bear: Sell?
Thespian bee 2: Yes indeed, sir. We sell honey, in little ounce bottles, or in a family pack. Might I suggest a few hundred family packs for you, sir?
Bear: You sell honey?
Thespian bee 1: Yes sir.
Bear: So how do I get honey?
Thespian bee 2: You buy it, sir.
Bear: Buy? I thought it was free.
Thespian bee 2: On the contrary, sir, our worker bees work extremely hard to provide you with the best of our lovely honey. It’s a service, sir, but it’s certainly not free.
Bear: How do I… buy honey?
Thespian bee 1: Well, you could either gather what we call money from the circus, which happens to be passing the forest right now, or we could provide you with a free sample at the moment, and let you think over it.
Bear: Uh… All right, pass me a free sample…
Thespian bee 2: Here, sir…
Bear: -slurp- Could I have some more?
Thespian bee 1: Not unless you pay for it sir. Two coins for a day’s supply, sir.
Bear: Could I please have a teensy weensy bit more?
Thespian bee 2: I’m afraid not sir. Not without an advance payment. Good day.
Bear: But…
Thespian bee 1: Good day. Sir.
The bear left the Honey Store with a heavy heart and a dry tongue. He couldn’t breath. He knew human beings trapped bears and made them dance to awful tunes compiled from Top of the Pops. But he needed the honey. His jovial smile slowly disappearing, he walked over to the circus in the hope of using his skills in espionage and infiltration, to get the money for a yearlong supply of honey. As it happened, his skills in espionage and infiltration were pathetic at best, and he was made to dance to jeering crowds for the rest of his life. The bees rejoiced, danced their own intricate little dances and prospered.
[Note: Every character in Episode one, are dressed in animal outfits]
Episode Two: Banished
Deep within the bush lands of Africa lived a family who laughed themselves silly every chance they got. This wasn’t attributed to having a sense of humor, that’s how hyenas were. The pack of hyenas would go out of their way to snigger at zebras, giggle at lions, and chortle with laughter at giraffes. The reaction each species exhibited to this oddball behavior was considerably unique. The zebras trotted away, looking smug. The lions would get incredibly cross and remark “ there, eat it, go ahead, I’m leaving”, and walk off in ill-disguised disgust. The giraffes would look at each other incredulously, and if irritated, would rush at the hyenas, swinging their necks about like the Loch Ness monster on ecstasy.
For this hyena pack, today was an auspicious occasion. Today, one of the females, Growly, was poised to undertake her first dragging. A “dragging” is when one of the coming-of-age members of the pack would try to drag/haul a carcass back to the pack to feast on. If this was done successfully, it would be next in line to become the leader of the pack.
Leader (Growly‘s mom): - Hee hee giggle snort - There it is, Growly. Your ticket to becoming a woman.
Growly: - Heh hee - But I am a woman.
Leader: - chortle giggle splutter - Of course you are, dear. But you have to prove it.
Growly: - gasp giggle - Isn’t there an easier way to prove…
Leader: - gasp giggle huff - Watch that insolence, little one. One of these days you’ll land yourself in trouble with that cheek.
Growly: - ha ha - I’m just saying…
Leader: - Awoo gasp giggle - Enough. Go get that zebra.
Growly: - ha chortle - I’m going, I’m going…
Growly approached the carcass and saw it lined with maggots. The decay inherent in the jungle was natural to her eyes, whenever she had to eat. But now… She felt she’d be tampering with some intricate balance of the bush land.
She ran back to her pack.
Leader: What in the name of red-butted baboons are you doing? - hee -
Growly: I can’t do it.
Leader: What the.. Why not? - hee -
Growly: I just can’t mom.
Leader: - giggle - Do not call me that.
Growly: - yip yip chortle - Oh fearless leader, I can’t do it.
Leader: - giggle snort - Growly Snarler Bush-bottom, you are hereby banished from this pack.
The festivities arranged for the occasion were dropped, the banner was ripped off the last carcass, and Growly was sent off into the wild, with nothing more than her wits to survive in the jungle… She walked despondently, looking at the desolate landscape. She felt like a stranger to the same jungle she grew up in, a disowned child lost without meaning or repose.
Lioness 1: What are you doing in our part of the bush land?
Growly: - giggle growl moan - I’ve been disowned by my own family. I have no family, no community, and I’m face to face with you lot. This short existence of mine is coming to an end… - gasp sob chortle -
Lioness 2: What an eccentric performance…
Lioness 1: Yes, very good indeed…
Growly: - chuckle sob - What?
Lioness 2: Will you stop laughing to yourself? You hungry?
[Note: Episode two is animated, the background looks like the background from a Western.]
Episode Three: Prank Day
St. Paul’s preparatory school was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only. To deal with very, very young deviants. Children from the age of four to nine were sent by parents, who were at the point of ripping their hair out by the root. What the parents didn’t know, or chose to ignore, was that the staff at St. Paul’s were exceptionally cruel. Deliberately.
The school was filled with security cameras, so any sign of trouble, and the kids would be punished. The students weren’t allowed to fraternize at all, and were expected to sit through 10 hours of rigorous study in silent classrooms, or were punished. The teachers, the headmaster, the secretary and the janitor felt free to physically harm the students.
And no matter how bad the bruises were, the parents never believed the children.
Ricky: We have to do something.
Eva: The term’s nearly over. And we’ll be moved on to other schools after this. Let’s just leave it.
Wendy: The last day’s the perfect time, actually. We’re all off on vacations after school’s over, and the school’s not going to be reopened for two days. They’ll reopen it for a few days for new admissions.
Vicky: Well then, do you have a plan?
The last day of school. After the rest of the children left, one class of students still remained. The cameras in this classroom were blacked out with spray paint, as were all the other cameras, with special care not to be seen. A teacher walked through the corridor and watched the girls in the group waiting outside their classroom, chatting incessantly about some pop star.
Teacher: Don’t you cretins want to go home?
Wendy: Well, we’re waiting for the boys, sir. They’re doing something in there, and asked us to wait in the hallway as sentries.
Teacher: Sentries?
Wendy: Yes, sir.
Teacher: What’s going on in there?
Wendy: We don’t know, they threatened to beat us up if we asked any more questions.
Teacher: Oh? We’ll see if they try that with me. I…
Which was as far as he got. A battering ram banged into his stomach, rendering him unconscious. Other methods, such as chloroformed tissue boxes, jelly on staircases, or the old fashioned kick to the crotch were deployed, and pretty soon the staff were tied up and locked in a broom closet.
The children left the school, for their individual vacations. They hadn’t hurt the staff, but they certainly had their revenge. The security found the staff fast asleep, huddled together in a broom closet two days later.
[Note: The episode is filmed like an extremely dark graphic novel]
Episode Four: The Rattle
The rattlesnake named Mortimer
Was a cheerful rattlesnake indeed
He slid around the jungle
Trying to make new friends
The animals
Were terrified
Of Mortimer’s rattle
When he arrived to say hello
They scampered off in haste
Mortimer was very sad
And cried most days and nights
“Why, oh why”, He asked himself
“Do I not have a friend…”
The rattlesnake woke up one day
And had a radical idea
“If I get rid of my rattle”, he reasoned
“ I could make more friends that way”
He slid around
Like he always did
In search of something that would help
In removing that part of him
Which attracted fear and hate from others
He found a human camp
And found a bread knife
Clutching it in his mouth
He slid away
To attempt cutting off his rattle
He decided to hold his teeth
Firmly over a tree
To make sure he didn't scream aloud
At the pain of separation
He realized he needed his mouth
For wielding the knife
He aimed, he paused, he swung
To chop his rattle off
He hissed for a full minute
Till he felt he should stop
Unless he wanted to feel very silly
For crying like a hunted animal
He heard paw-steps
He calmed down
And saw a big great cat
Tears of happiness lined his eyes
As he thought this was possibly his first friend
He said “ Hi, my friend
My dear new friend
Am I glad to see you”
The cat paused
And pondered over this
And said “ So am I”
As Mortimer approached the cat
To greet him
The cat stood on him
And promptly ate him.
[Note: This episode is animated]
Episode Five: Synesthesia and Schizophrenia
This is the story of a rich little orphan, and a penniless, rather mad, blind musician. The year is 1904.
The orphan was paralyzed from the neck down, and had no one else attending to her, apart from a maid, and a butler. She loved music, and it was the only way her thirteen year old self could seek an escape from the trauma of lost parents, and her physical condition.
There was another reason, perhaps, for her love of music. Whenever music played, colors of all shades seemed to appear in front of her eyes, and she specifically asked that music be played to her within dim rooms to enhance the effect. This wish wasn’t complied with, since musicians couldn’t play without light. Until the blind musician turned up responding to a word-of-mouth request in the local bakery, duly mentioned by the little girl's butler.
He looked odd. And that’s being polite. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were torn at multiple places, and he smelt of cheap wine. His walking stick kept bumping into everything, breaking most things that lay in its path. It seemed like he wasn’t feeling out his surroundings, rather removing most obstacles.
He approached the grand piano in the little girl’s bedroom, stroked a few keys, and waited. The girl asked that the curtains be drawn, to drown the sunlight out. And then he played.
It was mesmerizing. He played beautifully, and combined with the colors, it was one of those remarkable occasions where she rarely, thoroughly enjoyed herself. And almost as soon as she had begun to enjoy the experience , he stopped playing.
Musician: Imagine a man walking through the clouds. He almost skips with the joy of being so high up among the clouds, but he does look down and feel a twinge of sadness when he remembers his family. He knows that he’s gone to be with god now, and that’s meant to fill his heart with immense pleasure and indescribable bliss. But he still longs, craves, desires - for earthly pleasures. God took notice of this, and send him down to hell for his ingratitude.
Girl: Not exactly a lovely story, is it?
Musician: Like that piece of music, this story is at times beautiful, at times profound, at times terribly sad.
Girl: The music was delightful, no question. What’s the story for?
Musician: It’s for you to imagine when you hear the music again.
Girl: I see. Was this necessary?
Musician: No, young lady, it isn't. Neither is drawing the curtains for a recital, and yet you asked specifically for it. May I ask why?
Girl: I can see colors when music is played, no one else can. I’m not normal…
Musician: Likewise, whenever I play a piece of music, I see a story in my head. You’re not alone in being strange, young lady…
And so it went. The mad musician kept playing random pieces of music after narrating an accompanying story, and the girl imagined the story if it was interesting, or retreated back to seeing colors.
Two hopeless individuals, seeking refuge in each other’s circumstances and imaginations…
[Note: The episode is filmed in a sepia tone, because much of the filming is done in very dimly-lit rooms]
Chapter Two
The Writer
There was a time when I felt the world’s problems perched on my shoulders. When did I get from there, to imagining my life being the worst of the lot? And with that thought, began my self-induced mental rot, not having subsided its progression for ten years.
I still see her thick veins, throbbing like a rickety electric fence, in my mind. It’s the hands I remember more vividly. Her long spindly hands reaching out, to grab onto me as she nearly lost breath. In her scramble to grab me, touch me, one of the joints on her fingers snapped.. In my panic, I ran out of the room, down the stairs, visions blurred… Sometimes the visions existed merely as disjointed flashes - a staircase here, a coffee cup there, her oxygen mask off her face… Wait, what?
Dear god…
I reached back panting and partly psychotic, to find her immobile. Her final struggle to reach me, was her way of saying “ I’m sorry”, I suppose. On hindsight, she didn’t owe me that. She knew she was dying, and wanted to put herself out of her misery. Or maybe, it was to shield me from further pain and suffering, as she put it. Or… she still wanted to live, or thought she wanted to when she nearly lost breath. Instead of replacing the oxygen mask over her face, I ran away.
Empathy is like a rusted crucifix, especially when we think from the perspective of someone we really care about. And it is a relatively simple process. Imagine for instance the scenario I just described. She reaches out to me in her final death throes, I panic, and scamper off. She can’t scream at me, she can’t demand that I get back, she can’t cry, she can’t even fucking breathe. Eyes bulging in horror and disbelief, she has about ten seconds to calm down and accept her fate. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I’ll never know for sure, but I think can make a safe, calculated guess…
The final episode of the show was filmed the following morning. I suppose the underlying sentiment rubbed off on last minute editing of the material. Ten years have passed with me functioning on auto-drive, till a plan emerged in my head. Finally.
Let’s see now… rationing… A few bottles of water, a writing pad, my car… Should be enough, to record my last moments of this rather pathetic life, while I drive into the barren wilderness of a desert. To die.
Let me explain. In order to end my life in a method that’s gradual, painless and inconspicuous enough, I decided to drive into a desert, where there’s no living soul for miles and miles around, and end my life simply by starvation and dehydration. In the process, indulge myself in that final struggle of recording my final inconsequential thoughts on paper.
I’m guessing two weeks should do it.
Day One
Switched off cell phone - Check. No human inhabitants for a radius of one hundred and fifty miles, at least - Check. Survival supplies minimal - Check. Writing pad and pen - Check.
Whoever knew I would plan ahead for something in my life? Everything that’s happened so far has been remarkably well-placed, well-timed coincidence. I think people who believe in divinely executed destiny, need to genuinely observe and understand the nature of random circumstances. They think they do, I suppose, because they believe in a higher power which alternately blesses and curses them based on a moral outlook. This process, and the subsequent mind-set isn’t just illogical; it’s sad and quite pathetic. And stemming from this sad, pathetic rationalism emerges concepts like soul-mates, blessings, morality, life-goals and success - each more stupider than the other. All of which are permutations of the same lingering, unenlightened stupidity.
Oh yeah, smart me… I’ve driven into desolateness to end my life, and claim to understand the human condition better than most others. What I’m doing at the moment is self-indulgent tripe; very much like people deciding to murder, torture, alienate, scorn, repress, imprison, survey, undermine, ridicule and discourage others different from themselves on the basis of narrow beliefs and moral perspectives - to save our souls.
Sure. I’d recognize the value in all that, the day I manage to float.
Day Three
I’ve been a non-believer for as long as I can remember, because I couldn’t agree with all the shallow, unimaginative, and indeed, cruel imagery of religion, irrespective of whatever philosophical justifications were thrown at me.
So, for once, I’m going to take the side of theists, and attempt to find reason with their assumptions.
For the sake of argument, let’s say god created the universe.
Scenario one - The Sun is massive, so massive that we could fit a million earths inside it. But it doesn’t end there. Go up in scale, and you go on to consider planetary systems, galaxies, and universes. On a universe of this scale, can we really assume god cares? And less likely, that he has the patience to judge these tiny surface-dwelling creatures on a planet, which is in itself a miniscule dot within a miniscule dot; in his eyes, of course; on a strict moral code?
Scenario two - If god created everything, surely the brain we’re gifted with to question, reason, ponder over, and contemplate everything is the handiwork of god too. How did we get from that, to suppressing art and education over the centuries? Holy books, no matter what the argument ever is, is our work. Flawed interpretations of His word. Whether this information was imparted by visions or not is irrelevant. What is relevant, is that it was still interpreted and imparted by us which are, by both god's and our admissions, relatively flawed mediums. Consider the possibility that god’s entrance exam to get into heaven was whether we could and would refute self-contradicting, inhumane laws and doctrines, irrespective of popular opinions. To follow this with the use of His gift (the brain) to stumble, argue and apply rules when it’s humane and logical; and discard the rules when they don’t apply and think of ways to change them. Jesus was against the Pharisees, and now, the majority of the population seem to be following the modern equivalents. I’m assuming this, of course, because the brain is a direct gift from god, while the word of god was transferred, prophesized, censored, and manipulated as a result of the lack of human imagination, combined with power struggles. Simple assumption.
Too bad god’s people still don’t get it…
Day Eight
Christ, the heat. Burning seats, burning upholstery, cracked up bleeding skin, and no water…
The wind’s starting to get rougher by the second. It’s strange how scary the sound of strong wind is in a locked car in the middle of nowhere. The sand attributes to turning it audibly and visibly scarier. It covers the car up until nothing’s visible, and the sound is similar to hearing glass cracking. I expected my windshield to break a few days ago, thankfully, it survived. These are the mornings. The nights have stronger winds, and get really, really cold.
What the fuck did I get myself into? Sylvia’s departure from earth forced me to think it wasn’t worth living anymore, and now I’m trying to place the amount of intelligence I possess somewhere between audiences watching Jerry Springer, Oprah and Glenn Beck. After ten years of intricate planning, this was the best option I could come up with… At the time it seemed like a good option - no gore, no fuss, no paperwork or documentation required.
Day Nine
I was never aware of the reviews I’d got for the show. I collected my paycheck and left. I’d been working odd jobs since then, always on the move, never stopping by too long to get to know anyone. I suppose this moving from one place to another, constantly, functioned as a form of escapism. Either that, or let’s revert to the standard reason - I may have commitment issues.
Perhaps when they find my body, find this writing pad, and mull over this case years later, psychiatrists might want to name a disease after me. Which is certainly plausible. The oddity of making a children’s show which was weird for kids, disappearing for ten years, and then deciding to die in a desert waiting for death, does strike even me as eccentric.
Day Ten
Why did I make my way to this place?
Why did I decide to kill myself?
How is this act going to change, symbolize, or address anything?
I don’t have an answer to that last query of my own devising, and I’m beginning to see pitfalls in my own logic. If life has been extremely cruel, the last thing to do is to blame someone else, or something for it. Get over it, and make yourself proud of the effort of getting over it. Those were her lines. Corny, perhaps, but it seems to fit in perfectly to the situation I’ve put myself into.
Self-pity is the worst emotion or mind-set to possess. If you manage to think with that pathetic little perspective, you’re fucked, more or less.
The coughing fit’s back again. Even my bones hurt with every last cough, and I’m looking at the windows of my car, the insides splattered with blood from random coughs. Oh I see, this is what approaching death is like, is it?
Too tired. Can’t drive. I’ll be dead soon.
Day Eleven
I must try to get back. This isn’t worth it.
More importantly, it’s an insult to her memory if I die this way. Alright, maybe not.
But I must try.
I turn the car up. It chokes, splutters, has a few spasms of life, and turns on.
Let me see, fuel. Should get me a couple dozen miles. As far as I can remember, all I saw on my way here were a few barren trees, and boulders. I’m going at 20 mph to preserve fuel. Feels nice. It almost feels like I'm moving in zero gravity.
A little over an hour later, the car stops, exhausted. Yeah, this is the end. I’m seeing mirages all over the place, taunting me to come forward. No thanks, I’d die rather than walk into an illusion. The sun is directly overhead, and now I’m starting to see sand monsters with walking sticks, staring at me. Or are they just cactuses? Soon enough, the sunlight’s becoming dimmer and dimmer. And dimmer. And I…
Am I still on the road? There was a shining light overhead, but the car seat surely wasn’t this horizontal. I blinked a few million times, before I started to realize I’m in a hospital room. And I’m alone. Solitary room. I looked over at the table beside me, and there were flowers placed in a vase on the table, along with a glass of water, and a switch with a sign saying, “ Please ring for any assistance”. I rang.
Nurse: You rang, sir?
Me: Yes, I did. I’ll ignore the obvious question, and ask “how did I get here” instead…
Nurse: …
Me: Well?
Nurse: You were brought here by some truckers. They found you on the side of a highway. I’m not going to ask you how you got there…
Me: I was attempting to kill myself… No matter, when can I leave this place anyway?
Nurse: I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. I’ll send the doctor to explain it to you.
Me: Alright.
A while later…
Doctor: How are you feeling, Mr. Aitkin?
Me: Not too bad, considering the circumstances I was dragged in from. So. when could I leave, doctor?
Doctor: I’m afraid it’s not that simple…
Me: Could you please make it simple? The nurse said the same line a while ago, and she said you would explain it. Is it Mystery Week at this hospital, or is someone else going to come in after you to deliver the killer one-liner?
Doctor: Well, you see, the police are on to this case.
Me: Why?
Doctor: You arrived a month ago? On a tourist visa?
Me: Yeah.
Doctor: And you’ve been in the desert for 11-12 days?
Me: Yeah.
Doctor: Well…
Me: Honestly, doctor, you should consider a career in soap operas…
Doctor: You didn’t hear this from me. They have reason to believe that you entered this country for the purpose of killing yourself. And they want to ask you a few questions regarding the incident.
Me: Could you send them in, so I could get this over with?
A longer while later…
Officer: Mr. Aitkin?
Me: Get on with it.
Officer: Why were you at the location the truckers found you at?
Me: It was a little way off from the place I parked, and thought of killing myself. I had second thoughts about the whole affair yesterday afternoon, and decided to come back. The car had run out of fuel a little way off. Then, I remember waking up here.
Officer: So you admit it?
Me: Admit what?
Officer: That you came to this country for suicidal reasons?
Me: That’s the first time I’ve heard it described like that, but yes, I suppose so…
Officer: You do not come to my country for that…
Me: Really? I see no other reason why anyone would visit your country…
Officer: You’re lucky you’re British, you have diplomatic immunity. You’ll be banned from entering this country ever again. Collect your things. We’re sending you back to your country. Be thankful.
Me: Believe me, I am.
Two weeks later
I’m back at my flat, rejuvenated, and considering my options for the future. I want to be get back to writing, but I’m not entirely sure of it. For one thing, I’m a relative unknown in showbiz circles. The one show I did do merely had five episodes, I’m not even sure if people liked it back then. I didn’t even stick around to hear the responses.
It must be slightly cliché to have this sort of reprise. There’s plenty more of this sort of trash in entertainment. The writer who’s written brilliant stuff, had a few personal losses, lost his mind temporarily, indulges himself in every form of excess, has a set of terrible consequences, and makes a comeback, all the more wiser. That isn’t my story. Otherwise, I could’ve propagated an autobiography. In the age of fellatio experts, war criminals and sex tape victims writing bestselling books on their humdrum, mediocre lives, I would’ve fit right in to the bill. Unfortunately, my life isn’t as exciting as that.
Who could that be?
Me: Yes?
A girl wearing a Trillby, and a funny grin, looks directly at me.
Girl: Aren’t you Timothy Aitkin?
Me: Yes?
Girl: Oh good. I think I’ll invite myself in.
I fix her with an incredulous look as she walks in. This does not seem to bother her in the least. She seats herself on the sofa, looking at the house with irrelevant curiosity. I close the door, but still stand by it.
Me: Can I help you?
Girl: You were the creator of Bedtime Stories, weren’t you?
Me: Yes…
Girl: I’m a fan of your show.
Me: Well… I…
Girl: I’ve been looking for you for a year.
Me: What for?
Girl: That’s immaterial. I found out no one knew where you were for the last ten years. Where the hell were you?
Me: Well, if you must know, I just got back a couple of weeks ago from the middle east.
Girl: Pleasure trip?
Me: Oh no, I was trying to kill myself.
Girl: What? Why?
Me: That’s immaterial, isn’t it?
Girl: Which? Me asking you, or the reason for attempting to kill yourself?
Me: Both.
Girl: Is it?
Me: I think so… Anyway, I still haven’t heard the reason for your visit…
Girl: I wanted to give you a personal invitation.
Me: To what?
Girl: We’ll get to that. Now, why did you try to kill yourself?
Me: I think I was a little older than you are now, when a friend died. I’ve been running away from society and writing ever since.
Girl: Has that changed anything?
Me: I guess not… What’s the invitation for?
Girl: Well… I’m having my first exhibition today. I’m an oil painter.
Me: I see. Congratulations. But I still don’t see the need for inviting me. Do I know you?
Girl: Not really.
Me: Well?
Girl: One of your episodes inspired me to become a painter… I thought it would be fitting if I asked you to be there at the start of my career.
Me: Which episode was this?
Girl: The Rattle. I suppose it succeeded in getting the idea into my head that life could only get infinitely worse, so why stop and think about how bad it is instead of doing something constructive. It’s slightly strange to see the writer of certain material which had such a profound effect on me, could have just come back from a failed suicide attempt.
Me: There’s a distinction between fiction and reality…
Girl: Sure… That’s no reason to write off reality entirely, for the sole reason that it’s been bad for you. I made it this far because of you. So have a few others.
Me: What in the world are you talking about?
Girl: There was this nerdy kid in my neighborhood, who watched Synesthesia and Schizophrenia with me. Unable to play the guitar, he tried playing every other instrument. Now he’s a virtuoso in half a dozen instruments.
Me: I had nothing to do with that.
Girl: I have two friends who were, let’s just say, inspired by other episodes. Because of the kind of background imagery you’d used in Banished, she decided to experiment with landscape images of idyllic or desolate locations, and is now a recognized photographer. The other watched The Grizzly and the Retail Hive, and is now a comedy writer for panel shows.
Me: Well…
Girl: Then, there was this interview I watched about three years ago. This political activist across the Atlantic who’s one of the main proponents for minority rights in the country. He was involved in a school shooting as a kid, and had a leg amputated as a result. When asked what got him back on track, he mentioned Prank Day.
Me: Look, all of this is very flattering, I really don’t know what to say. But I had nothing to do with any of it. All of these people, you included, made solid decisions and are where you are because of those…
Girl: … which might not have been possible without the show. You’ve changed our lives… does that not account for anything?
Me: Both the inspiration, and your present lives are purely coincidental connections.
Girl: Maybe. You are coming to my exhibition aren’t you?
Me: If I do, will you never bother me again?
Girl: Alright.
Me: Alright then.
END
The Show
Producer: I’ve read your idea. Very confusing, and disjointed. And for a children’s show, the material’s full of anarchic humor. Could you elaborate?
Writer: Well, you’ve given me five episodes… I have five different ideas.
Producer: The more the merrier, and all that… However, there’s bound to be a pattern in even the strangest of ideas. What’s the angle here?
Writer: Well…
Producer: Is it some form of storytelling?
Writer: I suppose…
Producer: Animated?
Writer: Some of it.
Producer: Is it educational?
Writer: Probably not.
Producer: What about set design?
Writer: We need one set. A library.
Producer: I see. So is the show entirely narrative?
Writer: The start of every episode may be. The rest of it is either filmed on location, or animated.
Producer: Do make this easy for me, will you?
Writer: I’m not surprised at your response, it’s written in such a way as to confuse both parents and kids…
Producer: All right, but you’re going to have to explain this to me. Selling an original idea to a corporation isn’t exactly child’s play. What’s the format?
Writer: I introduce each episode like I’m reading from a children’s book, then the camera pans out, the visual fades in and out to reveal the story I’m reading. Sometimes filmed, sometimes animated.
Producer: I’m going to have a long day straddling executives with this one, I just know it…
Episode One: The Grizzly and the Retail Hive
Once upon a time, there was a forest. And in this forest lived a bear. The bear was known for it’s non-violent attitude towards other animals, and smiled a lot at every other animal. The squirrel, the shrew, the badger, the fox all received their early morning jovial grins from the bear, everyday. Many of the animals were of the opinion that the bear was probably cracked in the head to be so happy all the time, not knowing it was a by-product of his diet. The bear loved honey, and would greet hives all around the forest, with early morning greetings, and proceed to eat slab after slab of honey, while the bees watched in implausible horror at seeing their homes eaten away, gradually but progressively. Other animals watched this phenomenon with a mixture of incredulity and mild amusement. The bees did not share this sentiment. The Buzz Council of Elders, with the queens of the land, conveyed a general body meeting, so as to deal with what they termed the Grinning Menace.
Elder 1: We must attack…
Elder 2: How?
Elder 1: We must converge, and attack him while he steals from us…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: With all due respect, Elder, we tried implementing that strategy before…
Elder 1: … and what happened?
Minister of Foreign Affairs: He giggled.
Elder 1: What?
Queen 1: Be specific, Minister, or I might just consider using your head as a soccer ball…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: I am being specific, your Majesty. He giggled. To the best of my knowledge, a few worker bees heard him say something about being ticklish.
Queen 2: This is worse than I thought. Does anyone have any ideas?
Lawyer 1: I believe we can prosecute him, your Majesty…
Elder 2: Don’t be silly, he’ll overturn the decision…
Minister of Foreign Affairs: You mean overturn the hive…
Queen 1: Silence. This is no time for flippant wit.
Elder 3: If I may be permitted a suggestion… It might just work.
Queen 3: Speak.
Elder 3: What I’m proposing is slightly strange. It requires the cooperation of bees from all three hives, and our thespian bees will have to deliver with panache…
Queen 3: Speak.
Elder 3: It requires our best efforts of calculated silliness for this plan to work…
Queen 3: Speak to the point, before you lose your head…
Elder 3: Yes, your Majesty, yes… The worker bees will have to position themselves like a neon sign reading Honey Store with an arrow pointing at the hive. The drone bees will have to hum right next to the sign, to signify the resemblance to a neon sign. If we manage to lure the bear with the sign, the fate of our homes rests on the performance of our thespian bees.
A morning like any other. The bright sunshine reflected off the dew collected on the undergrowth. Another lovely morning, the bear thought. Must have some honey. The grizzly made its way past the trees, the bushes, the tiny little lake near its cave, and walked to where it expected to see the hives filled with juicy, luscious honey. Pure golden richness. Until it saw the sign.
Honey Store.
Strange, the bear thought.
It walked in the direction the sign pointed to, and encountered a tiny little stall in a tree, with tiny little bottles of honey stacked in vertical piles on the counter. Behind the counter stood two bees dressed in tailcoats.
Thespian bee 1: Right this way sir. How may we help you today?
Bear: Uh… Honey?
Thespian bee 1: Yes sir, we do sell honey.
Bear: Sell?
Thespian bee 2: Yes indeed, sir. We sell honey, in little ounce bottles, or in a family pack. Might I suggest a few hundred family packs for you, sir?
Bear: You sell honey?
Thespian bee 1: Yes sir.
Bear: So how do I get honey?
Thespian bee 2: You buy it, sir.
Bear: Buy? I thought it was free.
Thespian bee 2: On the contrary, sir, our worker bees work extremely hard to provide you with the best of our lovely honey. It’s a service, sir, but it’s certainly not free.
Bear: How do I… buy honey?
Thespian bee 1: Well, you could either gather what we call money from the circus, which happens to be passing the forest right now, or we could provide you with a free sample at the moment, and let you think over it.
Bear: Uh… All right, pass me a free sample…
Thespian bee 2: Here, sir…
Bear: -slurp- Could I have some more?
Thespian bee 1: Not unless you pay for it sir. Two coins for a day’s supply, sir.
Bear: Could I please have a teensy weensy bit more?
Thespian bee 2: I’m afraid not sir. Not without an advance payment. Good day.
Bear: But…
Thespian bee 1: Good day. Sir.
The bear left the Honey Store with a heavy heart and a dry tongue. He couldn’t breath. He knew human beings trapped bears and made them dance to awful tunes compiled from Top of the Pops. But he needed the honey. His jovial smile slowly disappearing, he walked over to the circus in the hope of using his skills in espionage and infiltration, to get the money for a yearlong supply of honey. As it happened, his skills in espionage and infiltration were pathetic at best, and he was made to dance to jeering crowds for the rest of his life. The bees rejoiced, danced their own intricate little dances and prospered.
[Note: Every character in Episode one, are dressed in animal outfits]
Episode Two: Banished
Deep within the bush lands of Africa lived a family who laughed themselves silly every chance they got. This wasn’t attributed to having a sense of humor, that’s how hyenas were. The pack of hyenas would go out of their way to snigger at zebras, giggle at lions, and chortle with laughter at giraffes. The reaction each species exhibited to this oddball behavior was considerably unique. The zebras trotted away, looking smug. The lions would get incredibly cross and remark “ there, eat it, go ahead, I’m leaving”, and walk off in ill-disguised disgust. The giraffes would look at each other incredulously, and if irritated, would rush at the hyenas, swinging their necks about like the Loch Ness monster on ecstasy.
For this hyena pack, today was an auspicious occasion. Today, one of the females, Growly, was poised to undertake her first dragging. A “dragging” is when one of the coming-of-age members of the pack would try to drag/haul a carcass back to the pack to feast on. If this was done successfully, it would be next in line to become the leader of the pack.
Leader (Growly‘s mom): - Hee hee giggle snort - There it is, Growly. Your ticket to becoming a woman.
Growly: - Heh hee - But I am a woman.
Leader: - chortle giggle splutter - Of course you are, dear. But you have to prove it.
Growly: - gasp giggle - Isn’t there an easier way to prove…
Leader: - gasp giggle huff - Watch that insolence, little one. One of these days you’ll land yourself in trouble with that cheek.
Growly: - ha ha - I’m just saying…
Leader: - Awoo gasp giggle - Enough. Go get that zebra.
Growly: - ha chortle - I’m going, I’m going…
Growly approached the carcass and saw it lined with maggots. The decay inherent in the jungle was natural to her eyes, whenever she had to eat. But now… She felt she’d be tampering with some intricate balance of the bush land.
She ran back to her pack.
Leader: What in the name of red-butted baboons are you doing? - hee -
Growly: I can’t do it.
Leader: What the.. Why not? - hee -
Growly: I just can’t mom.
Leader: - giggle - Do not call me that.
Growly: - yip yip chortle - Oh fearless leader, I can’t do it.
Leader: - giggle snort - Growly Snarler Bush-bottom, you are hereby banished from this pack.
The festivities arranged for the occasion were dropped, the banner was ripped off the last carcass, and Growly was sent off into the wild, with nothing more than her wits to survive in the jungle… She walked despondently, looking at the desolate landscape. She felt like a stranger to the same jungle she grew up in, a disowned child lost without meaning or repose.
Lioness 1: What are you doing in our part of the bush land?
Growly: - giggle growl moan - I’ve been disowned by my own family. I have no family, no community, and I’m face to face with you lot. This short existence of mine is coming to an end… - gasp sob chortle -
Lioness 2: What an eccentric performance…
Lioness 1: Yes, very good indeed…
Growly: - chuckle sob - What?
Lioness 2: Will you stop laughing to yourself? You hungry?
[Note: Episode two is animated, the background looks like the background from a Western.]
Episode Three: Prank Day
St. Paul’s preparatory school was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only. To deal with very, very young deviants. Children from the age of four to nine were sent by parents, who were at the point of ripping their hair out by the root. What the parents didn’t know, or chose to ignore, was that the staff at St. Paul’s were exceptionally cruel. Deliberately.
The school was filled with security cameras, so any sign of trouble, and the kids would be punished. The students weren’t allowed to fraternize at all, and were expected to sit through 10 hours of rigorous study in silent classrooms, or were punished. The teachers, the headmaster, the secretary and the janitor felt free to physically harm the students.
And no matter how bad the bruises were, the parents never believed the children.
Ricky: We have to do something.
Eva: The term’s nearly over. And we’ll be moved on to other schools after this. Let’s just leave it.
Wendy: The last day’s the perfect time, actually. We’re all off on vacations after school’s over, and the school’s not going to be reopened for two days. They’ll reopen it for a few days for new admissions.
Vicky: Well then, do you have a plan?
The last day of school. After the rest of the children left, one class of students still remained. The cameras in this classroom were blacked out with spray paint, as were all the other cameras, with special care not to be seen. A teacher walked through the corridor and watched the girls in the group waiting outside their classroom, chatting incessantly about some pop star.
Teacher: Don’t you cretins want to go home?
Wendy: Well, we’re waiting for the boys, sir. They’re doing something in there, and asked us to wait in the hallway as sentries.
Teacher: Sentries?
Wendy: Yes, sir.
Teacher: What’s going on in there?
Wendy: We don’t know, they threatened to beat us up if we asked any more questions.
Teacher: Oh? We’ll see if they try that with me. I…
Which was as far as he got. A battering ram banged into his stomach, rendering him unconscious. Other methods, such as chloroformed tissue boxes, jelly on staircases, or the old fashioned kick to the crotch were deployed, and pretty soon the staff were tied up and locked in a broom closet.
The children left the school, for their individual vacations. They hadn’t hurt the staff, but they certainly had their revenge. The security found the staff fast asleep, huddled together in a broom closet two days later.
[Note: The episode is filmed like an extremely dark graphic novel]
Episode Four: The Rattle
The rattlesnake named Mortimer
Was a cheerful rattlesnake indeed
He slid around the jungle
Trying to make new friends
The animals
Were terrified
Of Mortimer’s rattle
When he arrived to say hello
They scampered off in haste
Mortimer was very sad
And cried most days and nights
“Why, oh why”, He asked himself
“Do I not have a friend…”
The rattlesnake woke up one day
And had a radical idea
“If I get rid of my rattle”, he reasoned
“ I could make more friends that way”
He slid around
Like he always did
In search of something that would help
In removing that part of him
Which attracted fear and hate from others
He found a human camp
And found a bread knife
Clutching it in his mouth
He slid away
To attempt cutting off his rattle
He decided to hold his teeth
Firmly over a tree
To make sure he didn't scream aloud
At the pain of separation
He realized he needed his mouth
For wielding the knife
He aimed, he paused, he swung
To chop his rattle off
He hissed for a full minute
Till he felt he should stop
Unless he wanted to feel very silly
For crying like a hunted animal
He heard paw-steps
He calmed down
And saw a big great cat
Tears of happiness lined his eyes
As he thought this was possibly his first friend
He said “ Hi, my friend
My dear new friend
Am I glad to see you”
The cat paused
And pondered over this
And said “ So am I”
As Mortimer approached the cat
To greet him
The cat stood on him
And promptly ate him.
[Note: This episode is animated]
Episode Five: Synesthesia and Schizophrenia
This is the story of a rich little orphan, and a penniless, rather mad, blind musician. The year is 1904.
The orphan was paralyzed from the neck down, and had no one else attending to her, apart from a maid, and a butler. She loved music, and it was the only way her thirteen year old self could seek an escape from the trauma of lost parents, and her physical condition.
There was another reason, perhaps, for her love of music. Whenever music played, colors of all shades seemed to appear in front of her eyes, and she specifically asked that music be played to her within dim rooms to enhance the effect. This wish wasn’t complied with, since musicians couldn’t play without light. Until the blind musician turned up responding to a word-of-mouth request in the local bakery, duly mentioned by the little girl's butler.
He looked odd. And that’s being polite. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were torn at multiple places, and he smelt of cheap wine. His walking stick kept bumping into everything, breaking most things that lay in its path. It seemed like he wasn’t feeling out his surroundings, rather removing most obstacles.
He approached the grand piano in the little girl’s bedroom, stroked a few keys, and waited. The girl asked that the curtains be drawn, to drown the sunlight out. And then he played.
It was mesmerizing. He played beautifully, and combined with the colors, it was one of those remarkable occasions where she rarely, thoroughly enjoyed herself. And almost as soon as she had begun to enjoy the experience , he stopped playing.
Musician: Imagine a man walking through the clouds. He almost skips with the joy of being so high up among the clouds, but he does look down and feel a twinge of sadness when he remembers his family. He knows that he’s gone to be with god now, and that’s meant to fill his heart with immense pleasure and indescribable bliss. But he still longs, craves, desires - for earthly pleasures. God took notice of this, and send him down to hell for his ingratitude.
Girl: Not exactly a lovely story, is it?
Musician: Like that piece of music, this story is at times beautiful, at times profound, at times terribly sad.
Girl: The music was delightful, no question. What’s the story for?
Musician: It’s for you to imagine when you hear the music again.
Girl: I see. Was this necessary?
Musician: No, young lady, it isn't. Neither is drawing the curtains for a recital, and yet you asked specifically for it. May I ask why?
Girl: I can see colors when music is played, no one else can. I’m not normal…
Musician: Likewise, whenever I play a piece of music, I see a story in my head. You’re not alone in being strange, young lady…
And so it went. The mad musician kept playing random pieces of music after narrating an accompanying story, and the girl imagined the story if it was interesting, or retreated back to seeing colors.
Two hopeless individuals, seeking refuge in each other’s circumstances and imaginations…
[Note: The episode is filmed in a sepia tone, because much of the filming is done in very dimly-lit rooms]
Chapter Two
The Writer
There was a time when I felt the world’s problems perched on my shoulders. When did I get from there, to imagining my life being the worst of the lot? And with that thought, began my self-induced mental rot, not having subsided its progression for ten years.
I still see her thick veins, throbbing like a rickety electric fence, in my mind. It’s the hands I remember more vividly. Her long spindly hands reaching out, to grab onto me as she nearly lost breath. In her scramble to grab me, touch me, one of the joints on her fingers snapped.. In my panic, I ran out of the room, down the stairs, visions blurred… Sometimes the visions existed merely as disjointed flashes - a staircase here, a coffee cup there, her oxygen mask off her face… Wait, what?
Dear god…
I reached back panting and partly psychotic, to find her immobile. Her final struggle to reach me, was her way of saying “ I’m sorry”, I suppose. On hindsight, she didn’t owe me that. She knew she was dying, and wanted to put herself out of her misery. Or maybe, it was to shield me from further pain and suffering, as she put it. Or… she still wanted to live, or thought she wanted to when she nearly lost breath. Instead of replacing the oxygen mask over her face, I ran away.
Empathy is like a rusted crucifix, especially when we think from the perspective of someone we really care about. And it is a relatively simple process. Imagine for instance the scenario I just described. She reaches out to me in her final death throes, I panic, and scamper off. She can’t scream at me, she can’t demand that I get back, she can’t cry, she can’t even fucking breathe. Eyes bulging in horror and disbelief, she has about ten seconds to calm down and accept her fate. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I’ll never know for sure, but I think can make a safe, calculated guess…
The final episode of the show was filmed the following morning. I suppose the underlying sentiment rubbed off on last minute editing of the material. Ten years have passed with me functioning on auto-drive, till a plan emerged in my head. Finally.
Let’s see now… rationing… A few bottles of water, a writing pad, my car… Should be enough, to record my last moments of this rather pathetic life, while I drive into the barren wilderness of a desert. To die.
Let me explain. In order to end my life in a method that’s gradual, painless and inconspicuous enough, I decided to drive into a desert, where there’s no living soul for miles and miles around, and end my life simply by starvation and dehydration. In the process, indulge myself in that final struggle of recording my final inconsequential thoughts on paper.
I’m guessing two weeks should do it.
Day One
Switched off cell phone - Check. No human inhabitants for a radius of one hundred and fifty miles, at least - Check. Survival supplies minimal - Check. Writing pad and pen - Check.
Whoever knew I would plan ahead for something in my life? Everything that’s happened so far has been remarkably well-placed, well-timed coincidence. I think people who believe in divinely executed destiny, need to genuinely observe and understand the nature of random circumstances. They think they do, I suppose, because they believe in a higher power which alternately blesses and curses them based on a moral outlook. This process, and the subsequent mind-set isn’t just illogical; it’s sad and quite pathetic. And stemming from this sad, pathetic rationalism emerges concepts like soul-mates, blessings, morality, life-goals and success - each more stupider than the other. All of which are permutations of the same lingering, unenlightened stupidity.
Oh yeah, smart me… I’ve driven into desolateness to end my life, and claim to understand the human condition better than most others. What I’m doing at the moment is self-indulgent tripe; very much like people deciding to murder, torture, alienate, scorn, repress, imprison, survey, undermine, ridicule and discourage others different from themselves on the basis of narrow beliefs and moral perspectives - to save our souls.
Sure. I’d recognize the value in all that, the day I manage to float.
Day Three
I’ve been a non-believer for as long as I can remember, because I couldn’t agree with all the shallow, unimaginative, and indeed, cruel imagery of religion, irrespective of whatever philosophical justifications were thrown at me.
So, for once, I’m going to take the side of theists, and attempt to find reason with their assumptions.
For the sake of argument, let’s say god created the universe.
Scenario one - The Sun is massive, so massive that we could fit a million earths inside it. But it doesn’t end there. Go up in scale, and you go on to consider planetary systems, galaxies, and universes. On a universe of this scale, can we really assume god cares? And less likely, that he has the patience to judge these tiny surface-dwelling creatures on a planet, which is in itself a miniscule dot within a miniscule dot; in his eyes, of course; on a strict moral code?
Scenario two - If god created everything, surely the brain we’re gifted with to question, reason, ponder over, and contemplate everything is the handiwork of god too. How did we get from that, to suppressing art and education over the centuries? Holy books, no matter what the argument ever is, is our work. Flawed interpretations of His word. Whether this information was imparted by visions or not is irrelevant. What is relevant, is that it was still interpreted and imparted by us which are, by both god's and our admissions, relatively flawed mediums. Consider the possibility that god’s entrance exam to get into heaven was whether we could and would refute self-contradicting, inhumane laws and doctrines, irrespective of popular opinions. To follow this with the use of His gift (the brain) to stumble, argue and apply rules when it’s humane and logical; and discard the rules when they don’t apply and think of ways to change them. Jesus was against the Pharisees, and now, the majority of the population seem to be following the modern equivalents. I’m assuming this, of course, because the brain is a direct gift from god, while the word of god was transferred, prophesized, censored, and manipulated as a result of the lack of human imagination, combined with power struggles. Simple assumption.
Too bad god’s people still don’t get it…
Day Eight
Christ, the heat. Burning seats, burning upholstery, cracked up bleeding skin, and no water…
The wind’s starting to get rougher by the second. It’s strange how scary the sound of strong wind is in a locked car in the middle of nowhere. The sand attributes to turning it audibly and visibly scarier. It covers the car up until nothing’s visible, and the sound is similar to hearing glass cracking. I expected my windshield to break a few days ago, thankfully, it survived. These are the mornings. The nights have stronger winds, and get really, really cold.
What the fuck did I get myself into? Sylvia’s departure from earth forced me to think it wasn’t worth living anymore, and now I’m trying to place the amount of intelligence I possess somewhere between audiences watching Jerry Springer, Oprah and Glenn Beck. After ten years of intricate planning, this was the best option I could come up with… At the time it seemed like a good option - no gore, no fuss, no paperwork or documentation required.
Day Nine
I was never aware of the reviews I’d got for the show. I collected my paycheck and left. I’d been working odd jobs since then, always on the move, never stopping by too long to get to know anyone. I suppose this moving from one place to another, constantly, functioned as a form of escapism. Either that, or let’s revert to the standard reason - I may have commitment issues.
Perhaps when they find my body, find this writing pad, and mull over this case years later, psychiatrists might want to name a disease after me. Which is certainly plausible. The oddity of making a children’s show which was weird for kids, disappearing for ten years, and then deciding to die in a desert waiting for death, does strike even me as eccentric.
Day Ten
Why did I make my way to this place?
Why did I decide to kill myself?
How is this act going to change, symbolize, or address anything?
I don’t have an answer to that last query of my own devising, and I’m beginning to see pitfalls in my own logic. If life has been extremely cruel, the last thing to do is to blame someone else, or something for it. Get over it, and make yourself proud of the effort of getting over it. Those were her lines. Corny, perhaps, but it seems to fit in perfectly to the situation I’ve put myself into.
Self-pity is the worst emotion or mind-set to possess. If you manage to think with that pathetic little perspective, you’re fucked, more or less.
The coughing fit’s back again. Even my bones hurt with every last cough, and I’m looking at the windows of my car, the insides splattered with blood from random coughs. Oh I see, this is what approaching death is like, is it?
Too tired. Can’t drive. I’ll be dead soon.
Day Eleven
I must try to get back. This isn’t worth it.
More importantly, it’s an insult to her memory if I die this way. Alright, maybe not.
But I must try.
I turn the car up. It chokes, splutters, has a few spasms of life, and turns on.
Let me see, fuel. Should get me a couple dozen miles. As far as I can remember, all I saw on my way here were a few barren trees, and boulders. I’m going at 20 mph to preserve fuel. Feels nice. It almost feels like I'm moving in zero gravity.
A little over an hour later, the car stops, exhausted. Yeah, this is the end. I’m seeing mirages all over the place, taunting me to come forward. No thanks, I’d die rather than walk into an illusion. The sun is directly overhead, and now I’m starting to see sand monsters with walking sticks, staring at me. Or are they just cactuses? Soon enough, the sunlight’s becoming dimmer and dimmer. And dimmer. And I…
Am I still on the road? There was a shining light overhead, but the car seat surely wasn’t this horizontal. I blinked a few million times, before I started to realize I’m in a hospital room. And I’m alone. Solitary room. I looked over at the table beside me, and there were flowers placed in a vase on the table, along with a glass of water, and a switch with a sign saying, “ Please ring for any assistance”. I rang.
Nurse: You rang, sir?
Me: Yes, I did. I’ll ignore the obvious question, and ask “how did I get here” instead…
Nurse: …
Me: Well?
Nurse: You were brought here by some truckers. They found you on the side of a highway. I’m not going to ask you how you got there…
Me: I was attempting to kill myself… No matter, when can I leave this place anyway?
Nurse: I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. I’ll send the doctor to explain it to you.
Me: Alright.
A while later…
Doctor: How are you feeling, Mr. Aitkin?
Me: Not too bad, considering the circumstances I was dragged in from. So. when could I leave, doctor?
Doctor: I’m afraid it’s not that simple…
Me: Could you please make it simple? The nurse said the same line a while ago, and she said you would explain it. Is it Mystery Week at this hospital, or is someone else going to come in after you to deliver the killer one-liner?
Doctor: Well, you see, the police are on to this case.
Me: Why?
Doctor: You arrived a month ago? On a tourist visa?
Me: Yeah.
Doctor: And you’ve been in the desert for 11-12 days?
Me: Yeah.
Doctor: Well…
Me: Honestly, doctor, you should consider a career in soap operas…
Doctor: You didn’t hear this from me. They have reason to believe that you entered this country for the purpose of killing yourself. And they want to ask you a few questions regarding the incident.
Me: Could you send them in, so I could get this over with?
A longer while later…
Officer: Mr. Aitkin?
Me: Get on with it.
Officer: Why were you at the location the truckers found you at?
Me: It was a little way off from the place I parked, and thought of killing myself. I had second thoughts about the whole affair yesterday afternoon, and decided to come back. The car had run out of fuel a little way off. Then, I remember waking up here.
Officer: So you admit it?
Me: Admit what?
Officer: That you came to this country for suicidal reasons?
Me: That’s the first time I’ve heard it described like that, but yes, I suppose so…
Officer: You do not come to my country for that…
Me: Really? I see no other reason why anyone would visit your country…
Officer: You’re lucky you’re British, you have diplomatic immunity. You’ll be banned from entering this country ever again. Collect your things. We’re sending you back to your country. Be thankful.
Me: Believe me, I am.
Two weeks later
I’m back at my flat, rejuvenated, and considering my options for the future. I want to be get back to writing, but I’m not entirely sure of it. For one thing, I’m a relative unknown in showbiz circles. The one show I did do merely had five episodes, I’m not even sure if people liked it back then. I didn’t even stick around to hear the responses.
It must be slightly cliché to have this sort of reprise. There’s plenty more of this sort of trash in entertainment. The writer who’s written brilliant stuff, had a few personal losses, lost his mind temporarily, indulges himself in every form of excess, has a set of terrible consequences, and makes a comeback, all the more wiser. That isn’t my story. Otherwise, I could’ve propagated an autobiography. In the age of fellatio experts, war criminals and sex tape victims writing bestselling books on their humdrum, mediocre lives, I would’ve fit right in to the bill. Unfortunately, my life isn’t as exciting as that.
-Ding Dong-
Who could that be?
Me: Yes?
A girl wearing a Trillby, and a funny grin, looks directly at me.
Girl: Aren’t you Timothy Aitkin?
Me: Yes?
Girl: Oh good. I think I’ll invite myself in.
I fix her with an incredulous look as she walks in. This does not seem to bother her in the least. She seats herself on the sofa, looking at the house with irrelevant curiosity. I close the door, but still stand by it.
Me: Can I help you?
Girl: You were the creator of Bedtime Stories, weren’t you?
Me: Yes…
Girl: I’m a fan of your show.
Me: Well… I…
Girl: I’ve been looking for you for a year.
Me: What for?
Girl: That’s immaterial. I found out no one knew where you were for the last ten years. Where the hell were you?
Me: Well, if you must know, I just got back a couple of weeks ago from the middle east.
Girl: Pleasure trip?
Me: Oh no, I was trying to kill myself.
Girl: What? Why?
Me: That’s immaterial, isn’t it?
Girl: Which? Me asking you, or the reason for attempting to kill yourself?
Me: Both.
Girl: Is it?
Me: I think so… Anyway, I still haven’t heard the reason for your visit…
Girl: I wanted to give you a personal invitation.
Me: To what?
Girl: We’ll get to that. Now, why did you try to kill yourself?
Me: I think I was a little older than you are now, when a friend died. I’ve been running away from society and writing ever since.
Girl: Has that changed anything?
Me: I guess not… What’s the invitation for?
Girl: Well… I’m having my first exhibition today. I’m an oil painter.
Me: I see. Congratulations. But I still don’t see the need for inviting me. Do I know you?
Girl: Not really.
Me: Well?
Girl: One of your episodes inspired me to become a painter… I thought it would be fitting if I asked you to be there at the start of my career.
Me: Which episode was this?
Girl: The Rattle. I suppose it succeeded in getting the idea into my head that life could only get infinitely worse, so why stop and think about how bad it is instead of doing something constructive. It’s slightly strange to see the writer of certain material which had such a profound effect on me, could have just come back from a failed suicide attempt.
Me: There’s a distinction between fiction and reality…
Girl: Sure… That’s no reason to write off reality entirely, for the sole reason that it’s been bad for you. I made it this far because of you. So have a few others.
Me: What in the world are you talking about?
Girl: There was this nerdy kid in my neighborhood, who watched Synesthesia and Schizophrenia with me. Unable to play the guitar, he tried playing every other instrument. Now he’s a virtuoso in half a dozen instruments.
Me: I had nothing to do with that.
Girl: I have two friends who were, let’s just say, inspired by other episodes. Because of the kind of background imagery you’d used in Banished, she decided to experiment with landscape images of idyllic or desolate locations, and is now a recognized photographer. The other watched The Grizzly and the Retail Hive, and is now a comedy writer for panel shows.
Me: Well…
Girl: Then, there was this interview I watched about three years ago. This political activist across the Atlantic who’s one of the main proponents for minority rights in the country. He was involved in a school shooting as a kid, and had a leg amputated as a result. When asked what got him back on track, he mentioned Prank Day.
Me: Look, all of this is very flattering, I really don’t know what to say. But I had nothing to do with any of it. All of these people, you included, made solid decisions and are where you are because of those…
Girl: … which might not have been possible without the show. You’ve changed our lives… does that not account for anything?
Me: Both the inspiration, and your present lives are purely coincidental connections.
Girl: Maybe. You are coming to my exhibition aren’t you?
Me: If I do, will you never bother me again?
Girl: Alright.
Me: Alright then.
END
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