It's like Esperanto met ADHD and they adopted a greyhound
Shadow climbed into the bed. He wondered about watching an adult movie, but the pay-per-view device by the phone needed a credit card, and it was too risky. Then again, he was not convinced that it would make him feel any better to watch other people have sex that he wasn't having. He turned on the TV for company, pressed the sleep button on the remote three times, which would make the TV set turn itself off automatically in forty-five minutes. It was a quarter to midnight.
The picture was motel-fuzzy, and the colours swam across the screen. He flipped from late show to late show in the televisual wasteland, unable to focus. Someone was demonstrating something that did something in the kitchen, and replaced a dozen other kitchen utensils, none of which Shadow possessed. Flip. A man in a suit explained that these were the end times and that Jesus - a four or five syllable word the way the man pronounced it - would make Shadow's business prosper and thrive if Shadow sent him money. Flip. An episode of M*A*S*H ended and a Dick Van Dyke Show began.
Shadow hadn't seen an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show for years, but there was something comforting about the 1965 black-and-white world it painted, and he put the channel changer down beside the bed, and turned off the bedside light. He watched the show, eyes slowly closing, aware that something was odd. He had not seen many episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show, so he was no surprised that it was an episode he could not remember seeing before. What he found strange was the tone.
All the regulars were concerned about Rob's drinking. He was missing days at work. They went to his home: he had locked himself in the bedroom, and had to be persuaded to come out. He was staggering drunk, but still pretty funny. His friends, played by Morey Amsterdam and Rose Marie, left after getting some good gags in. Then, when Rob's wife went to remonstrate with him, he hit her, hard, in the face. She sat down on the floor and began to cry, not in that famous Mary Tyler Moore wail, but in small, helpless sobs, hugging herself and whispering, "Don't hit me, please, I'll do anything, just don't hit me anymore."
"What the fuck is this?" said Shadow, aloud.
-----
The music hasn't been working in reception since last Thursday. Crazy Cougar Receptionist has been going out her mind over it. She's sent emails and phoned all sorts of people in a desperate bid to get it fixed, and quoting Palooka as saying "it stopped working at 0330".
Of course, whever any correspondance concerns security or my company, I get to see a copy of it. So, seeing that, I asked Palooka about it. He said that that's when he first noticed it (I happen to know it happened before his shift), but he didn't write it down. Therefore, it didn't happen, and I told the appropriate people that security has no opinion in the matter.
That sounds pedantic, and it is, but in a war over priorities and inter-departmental budgets, we're just going to sit this one out. Plus, screw CCR.
Anyway, she's been emailing really high-level people, totally inappropriate for the case, and saying she'll call formerly employed high-level managers (bought out early last summer in the big layoff) to find out the information they need to fix this. Let her trail her rope and hang herself with it, we're not getting involved.
And yesterday morning, apparently it was weighing on her, because when she came in to reception as Palooka was going off-shift, he said good morning to her. And instead of the usual light I'm-happy-to-see-you good morning she apparently usually gives him, she tensed up, slowly turned her head and glared at him, and through clenched teeth said "Good morning."
To hear him tell it, you'd have thought she was channeling Satan. He was freaked right out, and wasn't looking forward to seeing her the next morning. So we'll see how that went tonight.
I wonder if word trickled back down to her that her claim of security having said it wasn't working isn't supported, and that she should talk to the security chief. Of course, at this site, that's me. I might not get support from my own company, but the site gives it to me.
I wonder if the princess was tense, since she treats me poorly and knows that I won't give her anything? And that no opinion except mine matters to the client?
Ah, power. Got to get me more of that!
Speaking of which, I've been putting you to sleep with this blog for a year now. Feel free to discard this factoid.
-----
The picture dissolved into phosphor-dot fuzz. When it came back, The Dick Van Dyke Show had, inexplicably, become I Love Lucy. Lucy was trying to persuade Ricky to let her replace their old icebox with a new refridgerator. When he left, however, she walked over to the couch and sat down, crossing her ankles, resting her hands in her lap, and staring out patiently in black and white across the years.
"Shadow?" she said. "We need to talk."
Shadow said nothing. She opened her purse and took out a cigarette, lit it with an expensive silver lighter, put the lighter away. "I'm talking to you," she said. "Well?"
"This is crazy," said Shadow.
"Like the rest of your life is sane? Give me a fucking break."
"Whatever. Lucille Ball talking to me from the TV is weirder by several orders of magnitude than anything that's happened to me so far," said Shadow.
"It's not Lucille Ball. It's Lucy Ricardo. And you know something - I'm not even her. It's just an easy way to look, given the context. That's all." She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
"Who are you?" asked Shadow.
"Okay," she said. "Good question. I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore."
"You're the television? Or someone in the television?"
"The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to."
"What do they sacrifice?" asked Shadow.
"Their time, mostly," said Lucy. "Sometimes each other." She raised two fingers, blew imaginary gunsmoke from the tips. Then she winked, a big old I Love Lucy wink.
"You're a god?" said Shadow.
Lucy smirked, and took a ladylike puff of her cigarette. "You could say that," she said.
Shadow looked at his watch. It was twenty-five past twelve. "Doesn't matter," he said. "So, Lucy-on-the-TV. What do we need to talk about? Too many people have needed to talk recently. Normally it ends with someone hitting me."
The camera moved in for a close-up: Lucy looked concerned, her lips pursed. "I hate that. I hate that people were hurting you, Shadow. I'd never do that, honey. No, I want to offer you a job."
"Doing what?"
"Working for me. I heard about the trouble you had with the Spookshow, and I was impressed with how you dealt with it. Efficient, no-nonsense, effective. Who'd've thought you had it in you? They are really pissed."
"Really?"
"They underestimated you, sweetheart. Not a mistake I'm going to make. I want you in my camp." She stood up, walked toward the camera. "Look at it like this, Shadow: we are the coming thing. We're shopping malls - your friends are crappy roadside attractions. Hell, we're on-line malls, while your friends are sitting by the side of the highway selling homegrown produce from a cart. No - they aren't even fruit sellers. Buggy-whip vendors. Whalebone-corset repairers. We are now and tomorrow. Your friends aren't even yesterday anymore."
"And if I don't want to work for you, I-Love-Lucy?"
There was a knock on the door of Lucy's apartment, and Ricky's voice could be heard offstage, asking Loo-cy what was keepin' her so long, they was due down at the club in the next scene; a flash of irritation touched Lucy's cartoonish face. "Hell," she said. "Look, whatever the old guys are paying you, I can pay you double. Treble. A hundred times. Whatever they're giving you, I can give you so much more." She smiled, a perfect, roguish, Lucy Ricardo smile. "You name it, honey. What do you need?" She began to undo the buttons of her blouse. "Hey," she said. "You ever wanted to see Lucy's tits?"
The screen went black. The sleep function had kicked in and the set turned itself off. Shadow looked at his watch: it was half past midnight. "Not really," said Shadow.
The picture was motel-fuzzy, and the colours swam across the screen. He flipped from late show to late show in the televisual wasteland, unable to focus. Someone was demonstrating something that did something in the kitchen, and replaced a dozen other kitchen utensils, none of which Shadow possessed. Flip. A man in a suit explained that these were the end times and that Jesus - a four or five syllable word the way the man pronounced it - would make Shadow's business prosper and thrive if Shadow sent him money. Flip. An episode of M*A*S*H ended and a Dick Van Dyke Show began.
Shadow hadn't seen an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show for years, but there was something comforting about the 1965 black-and-white world it painted, and he put the channel changer down beside the bed, and turned off the bedside light. He watched the show, eyes slowly closing, aware that something was odd. He had not seen many episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show, so he was no surprised that it was an episode he could not remember seeing before. What he found strange was the tone.
All the regulars were concerned about Rob's drinking. He was missing days at work. They went to his home: he had locked himself in the bedroom, and had to be persuaded to come out. He was staggering drunk, but still pretty funny. His friends, played by Morey Amsterdam and Rose Marie, left after getting some good gags in. Then, when Rob's wife went to remonstrate with him, he hit her, hard, in the face. She sat down on the floor and began to cry, not in that famous Mary Tyler Moore wail, but in small, helpless sobs, hugging herself and whispering, "Don't hit me, please, I'll do anything, just don't hit me anymore."
"What the fuck is this?" said Shadow, aloud.
-----
The music hasn't been working in reception since last Thursday. Crazy Cougar Receptionist has been going out her mind over it. She's sent emails and phoned all sorts of people in a desperate bid to get it fixed, and quoting Palooka as saying "it stopped working at 0330".
Of course, whever any correspondance concerns security or my company, I get to see a copy of it. So, seeing that, I asked Palooka about it. He said that that's when he first noticed it (I happen to know it happened before his shift), but he didn't write it down. Therefore, it didn't happen, and I told the appropriate people that security has no opinion in the matter.
That sounds pedantic, and it is, but in a war over priorities and inter-departmental budgets, we're just going to sit this one out. Plus, screw CCR.
Anyway, she's been emailing really high-level people, totally inappropriate for the case, and saying she'll call formerly employed high-level managers (bought out early last summer in the big layoff) to find out the information they need to fix this. Let her trail her rope and hang herself with it, we're not getting involved.
And yesterday morning, apparently it was weighing on her, because when she came in to reception as Palooka was going off-shift, he said good morning to her. And instead of the usual light I'm-happy-to-see-you good morning she apparently usually gives him, she tensed up, slowly turned her head and glared at him, and through clenched teeth said "Good morning."
To hear him tell it, you'd have thought she was channeling Satan. He was freaked right out, and wasn't looking forward to seeing her the next morning. So we'll see how that went tonight.
I wonder if word trickled back down to her that her claim of security having said it wasn't working isn't supported, and that she should talk to the security chief. Of course, at this site, that's me. I might not get support from my own company, but the site gives it to me.
I wonder if the princess was tense, since she treats me poorly and knows that I won't give her anything? And that no opinion except mine matters to the client?
Ah, power. Got to get me more of that!
Speaking of which, I've been putting you to sleep with this blog for a year now. Feel free to discard this factoid.
-----
The picture dissolved into phosphor-dot fuzz. When it came back, The Dick Van Dyke Show had, inexplicably, become I Love Lucy. Lucy was trying to persuade Ricky to let her replace their old icebox with a new refridgerator. When he left, however, she walked over to the couch and sat down, crossing her ankles, resting her hands in her lap, and staring out patiently in black and white across the years.
"Shadow?" she said. "We need to talk."
Shadow said nothing. She opened her purse and took out a cigarette, lit it with an expensive silver lighter, put the lighter away. "I'm talking to you," she said. "Well?"
"This is crazy," said Shadow.
"Like the rest of your life is sane? Give me a fucking break."
"Whatever. Lucille Ball talking to me from the TV is weirder by several orders of magnitude than anything that's happened to me so far," said Shadow.
"It's not Lucille Ball. It's Lucy Ricardo. And you know something - I'm not even her. It's just an easy way to look, given the context. That's all." She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
"Who are you?" asked Shadow.
"Okay," she said. "Good question. I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore."
"You're the television? Or someone in the television?"
"The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to."
"What do they sacrifice?" asked Shadow.
"Their time, mostly," said Lucy. "Sometimes each other." She raised two fingers, blew imaginary gunsmoke from the tips. Then she winked, a big old I Love Lucy wink.
"You're a god?" said Shadow.
Lucy smirked, and took a ladylike puff of her cigarette. "You could say that," she said.
Shadow looked at his watch. It was twenty-five past twelve. "Doesn't matter," he said. "So, Lucy-on-the-TV. What do we need to talk about? Too many people have needed to talk recently. Normally it ends with someone hitting me."
The camera moved in for a close-up: Lucy looked concerned, her lips pursed. "I hate that. I hate that people were hurting you, Shadow. I'd never do that, honey. No, I want to offer you a job."
"Doing what?"
"Working for me. I heard about the trouble you had with the Spookshow, and I was impressed with how you dealt with it. Efficient, no-nonsense, effective. Who'd've thought you had it in you? They are really pissed."
"Really?"
"They underestimated you, sweetheart. Not a mistake I'm going to make. I want you in my camp." She stood up, walked toward the camera. "Look at it like this, Shadow: we are the coming thing. We're shopping malls - your friends are crappy roadside attractions. Hell, we're on-line malls, while your friends are sitting by the side of the highway selling homegrown produce from a cart. No - they aren't even fruit sellers. Buggy-whip vendors. Whalebone-corset repairers. We are now and tomorrow. Your friends aren't even yesterday anymore."
"And if I don't want to work for you, I-Love-Lucy?"
There was a knock on the door of Lucy's apartment, and Ricky's voice could be heard offstage, asking Loo-cy what was keepin' her so long, they was due down at the club in the next scene; a flash of irritation touched Lucy's cartoonish face. "Hell," she said. "Look, whatever the old guys are paying you, I can pay you double. Treble. A hundred times. Whatever they're giving you, I can give you so much more." She smiled, a perfect, roguish, Lucy Ricardo smile. "You name it, honey. What do you need?" She began to undo the buttons of her blouse. "Hey," she said. "You ever wanted to see Lucy's tits?"
The screen went black. The sleep function had kicked in and the set turned itself off. Shadow looked at his watch: it was half past midnight. "Not really," said Shadow.
posted by Rimmy at 12:26
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