Virgil Inhibited: Txtisode 4
[ rises
The long shot of a small ship as it and
falls
over the
ocean waves on a stormy night.
The men on deck wore yellow rain suits and worked in pairs. They were positioned around both sides of the ship, alternating between grabbing hold of the side for balance and rigorously pulling, hand-over-hand, at the brown ropes between them that trailed over the side and deep into the black ocean they were floating on.
The men wore yellow rain suits to try and stay dry, but the way the water was hurling itself over the sides the suits had become more of a hindrance than anything. Despite it all, the men continued, defiantly, to pull at the brown rope.
Suddenly there was a commotion, and a pair of the men stepped back from the side of the ship as they pulled a large black cage from the water and up onto deck. The rest of the men paused from their work to turn and look.
Despite the storm and the rushing water pushing at their ankles, threatening their balance and maybe even their lives, all of the men let out a great cheer upon seeing their catch:
Tiny yellow rubber ducks filled the cage, the top layer of them seeming to bounce and pop around, while the rest of the men returned to their pulling with renewed vigor and determination, knowing that soon they would all be rich.
You’re reading Channel 642.]
[Black screen, then:]
[A brief shot of the outside of The Quack House; a couple walks passed arm-in-arm.
{cut to}
Inside, Virgil, Leo, and Dorgan were sitting around their regular table, each man with a beer in-hand. Dorgan was slouched rebelliously in his seat, his hair parted coolly on the side, wearing his dark jeans with his black leather jacket draped over the back of his chair and a cigarette tucked neatly behind his ear. Lately, he had really begun to embrace his new life in his new clothes as some kind of mock greaser, and had even taken to rolling his pack of cigarettes up in his shirtsleeves.
Next to him, Virgil was brushing something off the shoulder of his brown suit, while Leo, wearing a tank top and cut-off khaki dress shorts, took a long chug from his beer. He put the mug down and sucked the beer from his mustache with his lower lip, then looked at Virgil and Dorgan blankly.
Virgil said, “Do you guys remember the Americana Bar and Grill that used to be across the cul-de-sac? What ever happened to that place? I also remember Leo being more cartoony-looking back then for some reason.”
Leo shook his head and said, “Are you sure that was me?”
“Of course. We used to go there all the time,” said Virgil. “Me and you. It had a bunch of old sports memorabilia on the walls.”
“That was a long time ago, Virgil. Those were tough, strange days for me.”
“But you lived here then,” said Virgil insistently. “You lived on this street. We walked there almost every afternoon. Have you been revised lately or something? How do you not remember this?”
“Hey. Virgil,” said Dorgan suddenly. “Let’s not go down that road again, okay? I know personally speaking that I’ve had enough of that already, so I think it’s best we change the subject.”
Dorgan pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, eyeing Virgil and Leo over the table. He liked Leo, but he hadn’t known him as long as Virgil had. All he knew was that the two of them showed up on Honeysuckle Street at just about the same time and became fast friends. However, having spent the last several weeks living with the two of them, he had noticed that Leo had a tendency to space out pretty hard—that was the best way Dorgan could articulate it to himself in his mind—but he didn’t know if Leo had always been that way or not. He also dressed like one of the street bums that wandered Honeysuckle Street, and it seemed to Dorgan that somehow, even though Dorgan himself had been brought back to life with no possessions or money of any kind, that Leo was perpetually worse off than he was.
He didn’t like Virgil so much, but he did the first time he met him. Virgil was throwing a party at his place and Dorgan was staying the night across the street with Neal Daniels, his co-worker from his old office. He heard the music and wandered over to the party, and, as soon as he was introduced, he seemed to feel some kind of magnetic pull emanating from him that made him and other people want to follow him around. Once his novel came out, though, that all changed for Dorgan. In his nearly eighteen-month afterlife stuck between worlds as nothing more than what resembled a blue-gray puff of smoke, Dorgan had floated himself around Sunset City quite a bit, and he had found ways to read Virgil’s novel. Novel ways. He hovered over people’s shoulders in bookstores, and even followed a woman home one night that had bought the novel, hovering longingly at the nape of her neck, reading it as she read, and occasionally looking down her shirt. He found ways, and even though he never actually finished it (he was always being swatted at by the people he hovered around) he felt like he had read enough to not like the way Virgil portrayed him.
He thought Virgil had made him seem helpless and weak, and what made it worse, in Dorgan’s mind, was that he knew the book would act as a sort of makeshift memorial in honor of his life. He knew it would shape the way he would be remembered, forever, while simultaneously ensuring it, and he hated the idea of being memorialized as a fool.
And reading it was also pure sadness.
The novel was universally panned by the most influential Sunset City literary critics and most people picked it up to see if it was really as bad as they said it was; like getting high and going to see a movie that you know is bad, just to laugh at it.
It spread through small circles of snarky friends, and those people showed it to their friends, joking about it, but passing it around nonetheless, and it gained minor notoriety for all the wrong reasons. For Dorgan, the writing was effective enough to conjure up memories of his old life with Ruby and his two daughters. His house. His job. The people he worked with, Neal Daniels especially, and that was enough. Whether Virgil knew it or not, despite the bad reviews, there was at least one person who was moved to tears by his novel, and unlike the critics, it wasn’t because of the writing itself. It’s the whole reason he started haunting Virgil in the first place, and whether ghost or human, he was determined to give him a hard time until the end of his days, or Virgil’s. Whichever came first.
“Fine,” started Virgil, changing the subject. “What else is going on, besides you guys owing me a bunch of money and taking up all my time?”
“Not much,” said Dorgan. “Killin’ time on your dime,” he said, before waving at the bartender for another beer. “Same thing!” he shouted to him.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you guys,” continued Virgil. “I got a new gig downtown doing cover-readings at a place called The Learning Curve.”
“Never heard of it,” said Dorgan. “I’m sure you’ll be terrible though. Maybe I’ll come watch.”
“I say congrats, man,” said Leo. “Positive vibes, man.”
Leo’s beard had gotten thicker the last couple weeks and his hair was growing out, and ever since he was arrested on Superb Bowl Sunday and subsequently bailed out by Virgil, he had become more subdued and reflective over the last few weeks. “I think that’s great,” he said. “Really, man.”
“Who are you?” said Virgil. “I seriously think you’ve been revised.”
“I’ll punch you,” said Dorgan. “I’ll punch you if you say it again.”
“Why are you so defensive,” said Virgil. “It happens. It happened to you.”
“Exactly,” said Dorgan, “and it ruined my life. It’s not funny.”
“Who said it was funny?” said Virgil.
“You tried to write about it funny,” said Dorgan. “You made a mockery of my life and then published it to the world.”
“It was self-published, but come on, man. I’m a writer. I look for stories. You came to The Quack House that one day all riled up and wild-eyed. You were a maniac by then, I mean, once you told us everything that happened up to that point, I was like, shit, that’s a great fu—”
“—Alright, alright!” interupted Leo. “Enough of that. I’m in his book, too, Dorgan, and you don’t hear me complaining about it all the time.”
“At least not while he’s around,” muttered Dorgan.
“Wait. Leo?” said Virgil.
“Listen, Virgil, it’s not true. Maybe just minor things here and there, you know? Normal stuff. Human reactionary stuff. It’s not every day I’m a character in a novel.”
The bartender came over with Dorgan’s beer and slid it in front of him roughly, spilling some of it all over the table.
“Hey, what’s the idea?” said Dorgan.
“You creeps ran out my best waitress.”
“Lucy?” said Virgil innocently. “I liked Lucy.”
“Me too, and she was my best girl. She said she went to your stupid Superb Bowl party and this guy over here especially,” he said, glaring at Dorgan, “he really freaked her out. He said you was asking her weird questions all night.” He looked hard at Dorgan, who just dragged squinty-eyed on his cigarette.
“I was just trying to flirt with the girl is all,” said Dorgan. “No need to knock around my beer about it.”
“So why did she quit exactly?” asked Virgil.
“Because she knew you creeps are regulars here and she was afraid to see you again. She came in on Monday morning before we opened and told me she was leaving on account of you three.”
“All three of us?” said Virgil. “Me too? I liked Lucy. I tried to help.”
“Help my ass,” said the bartender.
“Can we make it up to you somehow?” said Virgil. “What can we do?”
“We should track her down,” said Leo. “Find her and bring her back.”
“Don’t do that,” said the bartender. “That will make it worse.”
“It’s hard to replace someone like Lucy,” said Leo. “I’ll get her back for you. This place needs her now more than ever.”
“Please don’t,” said the bartender. “I really don’t want you to. I’m serious.”
“I know,” said Leo, winking. “I am too.”
Virgil and Dorgan were silent for a moment, transfixed on Leo, who for some reason or another, lately, had seemed to mistake dead seriousness for dry sarcasm, and vice-versa. The most fascinating part was how genuine he was about it.
“How about I do some cover-readings for you?” offered Virgil.
The bartender seemed to consider it a moment, looking towards the floor thoughtfully. Then he said, “We haven’t had anything like that in here in a while.”
“So now’s the perfect time to bring it back,” said Virgil. “It’s been a real trend lately in center city. I’ll even do it for free one night, to make up for losing Lucy.”
“You know what, Virgil? You’ve got a deal. This place could benefit from some culture,” said the bartender, looking around the place with a disgusted expression.
“Great,” said Virgil. “I’ll talk to you about the details before we leave. We’ll figure it all out.”
“You can bet we’re all as sorry as you are that she left,” said Dorgan, being intentionally creepy. “I’m tempted to help Leo go track her down.” “That’s the spirit,” said Leo, standing up alongside him. “We’ll right the ship together. It’ll be just like it was before the Superb Bowl. Just like old times. Come on, Dorgan, let’s go!”]
[Black screen, then:]
[Melancholy jazz is the soundtrack to the image of a rainy city street. The buildings along both sides of the street look like wet clay.
A man is standing on a street corner in a brown trench coat and gray hat, holding a rolled up newspaper under his arm, trying to open his umbrella. His face obscured by his arms and the camera angle.
The umbrella is jammed halfway up and looks like a spider. A close up shows him grimacing as he pushes at it harder.
(It’s clear now that the man is recognizable comedy actor Clint Newcastle, and just saying his name to people usually starts a back-and-forth recital of his funniest lines.)
Remember the melancholy jazz that’s playing, and watch him finally get the umbrella all the way open, clumsily.
Visibly relieved, the man steps into the street just as a tremendous gust of wind plucks his umbrella from his hand and sends it flying off screen behind him, his trench coat blowing wide open at the same time.
After the gust subsides, the man slaps his thigh in frustration and looks up at the sky, then shakes an angry fist at it.
Then there is a flash of lightning followed quickly by a booming thunderbolt.
Then the rain really came down.
The words Death One Day at a Time appeared on screen as the man turned and sulked down the sidewalk, below the title it said: In theaters this Friday.]
[A montage of images from the Superb Bowl:
Hoovers fans, with their faces half blue and half neon green.
Jamal Ginn, in slow motion, dragging his toes just inside the line.
A man’s voice says: “You’ve done it! Now that the Midland City Hoovers have won the Superb Bowl…
Hoovers quarterback C.J. Cole raising the Superb Bowl trophy, which looks like a solid gold shooting star. He has to hold it with two hands.
A low shot so that you can see the confetti falling on the winning team’s star player.
“…Sports Digest, the premiere sports magazine…
Jamal Ginn doing a touchdown dance as his teammates jump all over him.
“is now offering a superb discount, and free gifts!...
Unsuspecting coach of Midland City, Kurt Trout, gets yellow sports drink poured all over him, cringing as it pours down his neck.
“if you call right now, you can get our one-year subscription for half the price! That’s just 12.99 for 13 issues! That’s less than one dollar an issue!...
A blonde woman with short bangs is modeling a Midland City Hoovers sweatshirt.
Then there’s the shot of a DVD called Superb Bowl XXIX with a picture of the quarterback, C.J. Cole, and the Coach, Kurt Trout, holding the trophy up together with confetti all over them and the rest of the team crowding around.
“If that’s not enough, for all you Midland City fans, we’re including a sweatshirt and a DVD of game highlights, narrated by famed sports narrator, Wes Westinghouzen.
The ordering information came on screen, and a new voice says hurriedly:
“Toorder, call thenumber below rightnow, or send checkor moneyorder to the address onthescreen. Justpay shipping andhandling.”]
[Black screen, then:]
[A brief shot of the outside of The Learning Curve with its neon sign blinking, but long enough to see that it was dark outside. Taxis crept by in the foreground.
{cut to}
Inside, the place was dim and dusty and the same neon signs you could see from the outside could just as easily be seen from the inside, the words backward. Off to the side was a small stage area where Virgil was getting set up for his cover readings. He had put his suitcase of books down on a small table and began to sift through them, flipping through the pages absently and reading some random passages to himself quietly to get warmed up.
The tavern itself wasn’t very busy, but there was a crowd of men at the bar sitting and standing together, a couple tables of people eating food and drinking in shadowy corners, and one very beautiful woman sitting alone at a table towards the back of the room who Virgil kept stealing glances at. She had chosen a seat directly under one of the few lights in the place, and it cast a soft, angelic glow down on her, perfectly lighting her honey blonde hair and he suddenly became nervous about his readings. There was the sudden and uninvited feeling of pressure now that he noticed her, but with it had come the romantic idea that he might read so well she would fall in love with him right then and there. He tapped on the microphone and said, “Check. Check, one-two. Check.”
She was writing something in a small notebook while she held two slender fingers on the stem of her martini glass, and just her pose at the table was beginning to distract Virgil’s attention. He looked at her as he checked the microphone again, hoping she would look over at him, but she didn’t.
{cut to}
A long shot of a car driving on a dark road, the headlights extending from the front of the car in solid cones of dingy white light.
{cut to}
Inside the car it’s mostly dark except for the glow of the dashboard lights and one of Dorgan’s cigarettes. Leo was driving with his left elbow resting on the windowsill and his other hand loose on the wheel.
“Let me get one of those stogies, bro.”
“What’d you say?”
“Let me get a cigarette, man,” said Leo.
Dorgan popped the box from his white shirtsleeve and shook one out for Leo and himself, then tossed his old one out the window into the dark. In the rearview it swirled orange sparks for a moment. The windows were cracked a little to let the smoke out, and the sound of the wind blurred with the radio.
“What time did he say this thing is supposed to start?” asked Dorgan.
“Nine o’clock.”
“I can’t believe we’re going to this thing. I can’t think of a worse way to spend the night. Let’s go pick up some chicks, man.”
“There might be some girls there.”
“Do you even like girls?” said Dorgan, exhaling smoke that was immediately sucked out the window.
“Of course I do.”
“When was the last time you got laid?” said Dorgan over the sucking wind and the music.
“That’s a personal question,” said Leo, the tip of his cigarette glowing as he took a drag. “Long enough, but I’m not obsessed with it like you are. We should be focused on Lucy, man. You saw the bartender today; he was pissed.”
“Dude, seriously, he doesn’t want you to find Lucy. He was pretty clear about that.”
“He was being subtle,” said Leo. “He wants her back, and he wants us to go get her.”
“I’m convinced now that you’re insane.” said Dorgan. “He wasn’t being subtle, he was being absolutely clear. He doesn’t want you to try and bring her back. Forget about her, man, she’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” said Leo, looking at Dorgan.
“Absolutely sure. Listen, honestly, you scare me, man. You need to work on that shit, you know? Interpreting people’s tones. It’s a weird thing you got going on and I don’t like it. You won’t be able to find her anyway; you don’t know her last name. That idiot idea salesman might not have even given her one! She’s gone, man, poof!”
“I guess you’re right,” said Leo. “I don’t know her last name. I don’t know anything about her. I should just give up. On everything.”
“Exactly,” said Dorgan. “Now you’re getting it.”
Dorgan started to veer off the road slightly.
“Whoa there, Leo,” said Dorgan.
Dorgan pulled the car back onto the road.
“I mean, with the idea salesman up there in his executive tower, tinkering all the time with people’s lives, if we were supposed get her back he would have given us the information to do that,” continued Dorgan.
“Do you think she still exists?”
“Not for our purposes,” said Dorgan. “In that sense she might as well not exist at all. Trust me, I understand how this shit works better than anybody.”
{cut to}
Back at The Learning Curve, as Virgil went through the books he’d brought, dog-earring the pages he would need to quickly flip to when the time came to read them, he was simultaneously trying to think of some reasonable way to approach the girl at the table, before it finally came to him. Having watched her a bit as he set up, he noticed she seemed to be assessing the tavern and making notes in her notebook, occasionally putting her pen down to take a sip of her martini, and he thought maybe she was an aspiring writer, there to hear some of the classics recited for inspiration. He decided he would ask her if she had any special requests, and he secretly hoped that talking to her a little before the show would ease some of the pressure he was suddenly feeling with her around.
He dog-eared a final page, put the book down on the table next to the others he planned on reading from, and wiped his hands on his brown suit jacket nervously, before he stepped down from the small stage and approached her table. When he was only a few steps away, she looked up at him from her notebook and smiled.
“Hello there,” said Virgil. “I’m Virgil Island.”
“I’m Svetlana,” she said, extending a hand.
Virgil swallowed hard and extended his hand to hers, and when their hands clasped over her martini, even for just the brief moment it lasted, he felt an electric tingle come over his body.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, adjusting his tie a bit, and trying to compose himself. “I came over to ask if you had any special requests tonight.”
“How about something from The Big Canard,” she said playfully.
“Have you read it?” he asked.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “Please sit down. I’d love to spend a few minutes with the author of one of my favorite books.”
Virgil sat down without even thinking about it, and he felt his face blush as a reaction to her compliments.
“Well thank you very much,” said Virgil. “I don’t get that kind of praise from many people. Are you a writer, too? I noticed you writing in that notebook while I was setting up.”
“Yeah, I’m giving it a shot. I’ve always wanted to be a writer you know, but I’ve spent my life doing a lot of other things up until now. I’m kind of an adrenaline junky.”
“Oh yeah?” said Virgil. Her self-assuredness was sexy and intimidating. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing (and believe me, she did).
“Yeah, you know, skydiving, mountain climbing, bungee-jumping. I wrestled an alligator once in Australia; that was crazy. Look at these scars,” she said, extending her arm out for Virgil to look. The top of her forearm had two parallel scars just below the elbow.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Alligator got me,” she said, “but if you think this is bad you should have seen the alligator!” She laughed, playfully touching Virgil’s sleeve.
Virgil laughed awkwardly as she picked up her martini and downed the remainder in one hearty gulp.
“Have you ever had to shoot a mountain lion as it charged at you?”
Virgil shook his head.
“Well I have,” she said. “It’s really something. The eyes are what get you.”
“That’s amazing,” said Virgil, although he was trying hard to hide his incredulity. “I’ve only ever lived with mountain lions, but I don’t suppose that’s the same experience.”
She shook her head.
“Anyway, it sounds like you should have plenty of experiences to draw on in your writing,” said Virgil. “I’m going to go get myself a drink before I get started, do you want me to send over another martini?”
“I would love that,” she said, and just as Virgil turned to walk away he stopped and turned around to Svetlana.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said.
“What?” he said. “What was I going to say?”
“You were going to say something about talking after the show. How you would help me be a better writer.”
He swallowed hard again, and she was looking at him with fierce, flirtatious eyes. “Well, yeah,” he started. “I was going to ask that, of course, but that was going to be my second question.”
“What was your first, then?” she asked, smiling at him curiously.
“I was going to ask if you wanted gin or vodka in your martini,” he said.]
[Black screen, then:]
[A woman and a man are sitting next to each other behind a news desk with big forced smiles on their faces, then it cuts close and the woman says proudly, “I am The Daily Candy.” Then it cuts to the man and he says, “I am The Daily Candy.” Then it cuts to a journalist, a beautiful blonde clutching a notebook and leaning against a lamppost somewhere on the Sunset City boardwalk, the ocean in the distant background, and she says, almost giggling, “I am The Daily Candy.” Then it cuts to husky man in a black suit and red tie, standing in front of a map, who says, “I am The Daily Candy.” Then it cuts to the four of them standing together, surrounded by their whole production crew and all at once they say, “We are The Daily Candy,” as a few of them laugh self-consciously.
Then a grandfatherly voice says, “Whether you consume your news in print, online, or through the television, you can always turn to The Daily Candy for the latest local developments, the finest investigative reporting, and the latest on local sports. The Daily Candy, ‘Sunset City’s Only News Source.’”]
[A tanned man was leaning against a wooden rail wearing a blue windbreaker jacket and black wraparound sunglasses, one elbow on the rail, his other hand placed neatly over the other, looking dreamily out over the marina in front of him on an eternal summer afternoon.
Then the man turns to the camera coolly and says, “Nature sure is something, what a beautiful day. If you’ve ever dreamed of getting out on the high seas or hiking through pristine mountain trails…
Slide cut to a long shot of a speedboat cutting whitewater through a teal ocean; then a large double-decker boat silhouetted by the setting sun.
The man continued to speak over the images, “then you should visit The Sunset City Touring and Fishing Company down on the Sunset City boardwalk…
The footage of a group of nine or so people wearing sporty shorts and t-shirts, some of them also wearing bandanas and carrying walking sticks. Others wore dark sunglasses and baseball caps. Together they hiked a shaded trail somewhere in the Sunset City Mountains, smiling happily together as they marched on.
“We offer all kinds of ocean tours from adrenaline pumping speedboat rides to relaxing sunset cruises. But don’t worry, if you’d prefer something a little more rigorous, come sign up for a scenic mountain walk, or challenge yourself with a cardio mountain hike…
The graphic for The Sunset City Touring and Fishing Company came onscreen, showing the phone number and address.
“Whatever your tastes, we promise we have something you’ll like, so come on down today and have your own beautiful day.”]
[Black screen, then:]
[A quick shot of the King’s Parking Lot sign, the words “King’s Parking Lot” in red arching over a yellow, jewel-encrusted king’s crown.
{cut to}
Leo and Dorgan are parked somewhere in the parking lot, the soft white glow of parking lot lights making the car shadowy and dark. Dorgan is taking long drinks from a flask-sized bottle of whiskey while Leo stares absently out the front window.
“What time is it?” says Dorgan, using his sleeve to wipe his mouth.
“9:15,” says Leo. “We should probably get going.”
Dorgan lifts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and puts the rest of it down impressively, then tosses the empty bottle to the floor of the car.
“Let’s go listen to some readings!” he bursts sarcastically, wiping his mouth with his forearm again.
{cut to}
A quick shot of the The Learning Curve sign, blinking.
{cut to}
Inside, the lights had been dimmed further, casting everyone but Virgil in near darkness. The tables in front of the stage had managed to attract a few clusters of people from the bar that had now sat down to listen. Virgil was standing at the microphone, holding a book open in his hands, reading passionately from the end of Herman Clackman’s classic short story, “Death One Day At a Time,” which had recently been made into a movie again and was experiencing a resurgence in popularity:
“’—And so it was at that tragic moment,” he boomed, “with her blood on his hands, that he ultimately realized the error was his own, and that he had brought all of this on himself.’” He paused a moment, as if he were re-entering his true body again, and then said, “The end. Thank you.”
The small audience clapped politely as he snapped the book closed and took a quick bow.
“Thanks,” he said. “That was a little Clackman for you there. I want to take a break soon, but before I do how about a little Tickton for you, eh?”
There were a few claps here and there from the darkness, then he watched as Leo and Dorgan walked in and took a seat towards the back, right next to Svetlana, and caused a bit of a disturbance in the process because Dorgan was bumping into the other seats and half-stumbled into his own.
“Okay, for those of you just coming to the cover-reading scene, Rodney F. Tickton is most famous for his novel Stars in the Darkness, but I’m going off track a little for this one,” said Virgil, smiling mischievously as he spoke, attempting to build the anticipation. “I’m going throwback here—”
“—Holy shit, Island, can we get on with it,” slobbered Dorgan from the back of the room. “Am I right people?” he continued, trying to stand from his chair as if he were going to try and overthrow the reading and turn the audience against Virgil, but he wasn’t able to get himself fully to his feet without wobbling and falling back down into his chair. “Am I right or what?” he repeated from his seat. When no one echoed his sentiments he let out a defeated “Shit, people,” under his breath. Leo was sitting next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, staring around the tavern.
“Somebody get that guy a coffee and a bucket,” said Virgil mockingly. “So any—”
“You can’t make fun of me like that, Island!” said Dorgan, getting all the way to his feet this time, and shaking his fist at Virgil on stage. “I’m the reason you get to do this, asshole! Come on, people! You all know what I mean! What are we doing here?”
There were mumbles all around the tavern as Dorgan remained standing, keeping one hand near the table for balance.
“Virgil Island is a terrible person who I hate, and you’re all here, like suckers, listening to this crap about Tickton. Come on, peo—”
He was interrupted by a fist that had abruptly connected with his chin, like a torpedo from the darkness. He fell towards the floor, tumbling sideways onto and over Leo, who made no attempt to catch him, down to the floor, causing the small gathering of people to gasp simultaneously. Svetlana stepped over him, her fist clenched, while Dorgan put a hand to his face, then checked it for blood. Then he rolled over stiffly and began to sob and mutter, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” into his forearms.
“Okay everyone, let’s take a short break now,” said Virgil from the stage. “See everyone in twenty minutes. Tip your waitresses.”]
[Black screen, then:]
[The long shot of a man in dirty clothes standing atop a pile of trash in a landfill; he’s digging anxiously, tossing things to the sides as he searches.
It’s an overcast day, and smokestacks in the background pump brown smoke into the gray sky.
During a closer shot of the man, we can hear him breathing heavily, bent over at the waist as he continues tossing trash off screen, muttering impatiently, “Come on, come on.”
He pauses a moment—the moment of discovery—then reaches down into the pile and pulls out a small yellow rubber duck.
He screams in excitement at the seagulls circling overhead and dances on the trashpile, holding the rubber duck above him with both hands, as if offering it up to the sky.
You’re reading Channel 642.]
[Black screen, then:]
[A brief shot of the outside of Virgil’s house—still seeming to lean slightly to the left—but a shot long enough to see that it was daytime again.
{cut to}
Inside the living room, Dorgan was lying on the couch with his feet up and an ice pack over his right eye while attempting to watch television with the other. Then there was a knock on the front door.
“Virgil! Leo!” he shouted. “Someone is at the door!”
There was no answer and no sound of movement.
“Virgil!” he shouted. “Leo!” he shouted. “Door!”
Silence. Dorgan groaned and tossed the ice pack onto the coffee table as the person at the door knocked again.
“I’m coming!” he shouted at the door. He groaned again then lowered his feet to the ground and sat up before he pulled himself to his feet and went to the door.
There was another quick knock as he approached, and then he pulled the door open. It was an incredibly beautiful blonde in a tight dress and flat red shoes, wearing dark sunglasses and clutching a notebook over her chest. “Hi,” she said.
“Why hello there,” said Dorgan.
“Is Virgil here?” she asked. “Sorry if this is awkward.”
“What’s awkward?”
“You don’t remember me? From last night?”
“Did we have sex?” said Dorgan.
“I’m the one who punched you in the face last night,” she said.
Dorgan visibly deflated and stepped aside.
“Come on in,” he said. “I don’t know where he is.”
As they stepped inside, Virgil came down the stairs from the second-floor and stopped halfway down, Svetlana and Dorgan looking up at him.
“Hi, Virgil,” she said.
“You’re early,” he said, taking a few more steps down the stairs. “I see you’ve introduced yourself to Dorgan again though.”
“Yeah, I had to introduce myself again, but I’m just glad he’s not crying afterward this time,” she said as everyone but Dorgan broke out laughing. Then the screen froze, capturing Virgil and Svetlana both laughing, Dorgan sulking, and Leo quietly watching it all from the top of the steps above Virgil as the credits roll.
{cut to}
A white screen. A canvas.
A single hand holding a pencil begins to draw a cartoon duck, one line at a time. The outline shows it wearing a bowtie and sunglasses, standing in half-profile,.
Then the hand quickly fills in the outline with color pencil: the beak is filled with mustard yellow. The bowtie is filled with bright red. The sunglasses are given matching red frames and gray lenses. The coat of feathers is filled with a soft yellow.
As a finishing touch, the hand signs the words “Channel 642” underneath the drawing, immediately followed by two quacking sounds.]
[D.K.]
