41) Saturday, February 15th :
8:00 to 9:00 PM – “Pony Got Sick!”
What had begun as a day of triumph for Leland Buford Sonnenschein, a fiscal, egotistical valentine to (and from)
himself, had, over the past hour, utterly soured. Not even the jam-packed parking lot of the
One World Mall his limousine prowled, still in search of parking, lifted Big
Sonny’s spirits – the Giga-Grrls (Effie Lou Wilson…
Miss Dominator, 2017… and her jealous runner-up, Sabra Martin, squeezed into
opposant seats facing, to either side, nonfinalists
Crystal and Rae, with a perspiring, fat Fred Faubourg wedged pawsomely between) were sullen and, at least, silent
(though Fat Freddy was not). Finally the
Discount King ordered the driver to park in a vacated handicapped space,
leaving his entourage in the three big vans… clowns, musicians, several more
personal and Screaming Eagle security goons and celebrity placekicker Jarlo Knupp… to fend for
themselves.
Perhaps the worst
of it was Faubourg’s incessant, greasy tide of excuses and apologies…
“I done what I could, you know?” the lobbyist kept justifying
himself, “… it was that damn Werbele, Lee…”
“You don’t call
me Lee. Friends call me Lee,” admonished the lord of the Giga-domain
“…Effie here, she can call me
Lee.” He squeezed the model’s bicep,
and not gently, under the wet, unfaux fox fur jacket
that sort of matched her hair - Miss Dominator responding with an obligatory,
braying giggle while dark-haired Sabra sat, smoldering... perhaps envious that
Sonny hadn’t groped her, probably relieved that he hadn’t. “People I trust…”
“Werbele’s from West Virginia, Indiana, somewhere white… no
problem…” Fat Freddie wheezed. “Just
‘cause he’s like God to all the fundamentalist woo-woos, he’s gotta be treated special, even though he’s out of
office. Time was, Lee… uh, Sonny… time
was these Christian hacks would jump through hoops when you mentioned abortion
or the queers, they rendered unto Caesar what properly belonged to Caeser, meaning us…”
“When does the
President go on?” Big Sonny cut him off, though tiredly...
“Nine…” Faubourg
gave up with a wheeze.
¾ ¾ ¾
Far from his comfortable nest on Grape Street, Westy Soames had spent the last hour and a half moving
slowly up the line of customers waiting to get into Giga-Plex. Some retarded grandson of Jim Crow had made
him wait out in the rain awhile before admittance into the busted CD shop,
where he’d wormed his way towards the exit into the mall proper in winding,
snaky lines worse than those at the Motor Vehicle Department… finally he’d been
allowed to emerge from the door, into a sheltering corridor, partitioned off
with a genuine velvet rope, as if the big box store were a goddam supper
club. Behind the glass, there was an
interesting array of weaponry and surveillance gear from the 007 Shoppe to
ponder… after moving up another dozen paces in ten minutes… rows of laptops and
accessories apparently designed by and for leprechauns with tiny green
fingers. This guy with a long, white
beard and three women in khaki were just closing up the pet store, reaping
bouquets of feline mewlings
and chatter from the monkeys and the birds within… by some peculiar arrangement
Westy had heard of, but didn’t quite understand,
there were no dogs inside; those were across the mall at Kearsey’s
Kennels, where the pitbulls, Dobes
and German Shepherds were referred to as “security companions” with a wink and
a nod… when Big Sonny and his entourage piled out of the limo under the sullen
skies weeping sleet, pushing their way through knots of angry, exiting
customers berating two Eagles and a few more One World security guards at the door.
Two of the
latter… one maybe eighteen, the other well into his seventies… tried to detain
the Giga-Posse…
“This entrance ain’t no good if you’re
goin’ to Giga-Plex,” brayed the kid, “…you gotta go out, then down that way to the place with the
lights on…” and he pointed towards the CD store.
“You’ll let me into GP, I own this
franchise. I own all of ‘em… and all of you...”
“Yeah? Pleased to meetcha,” said the old man through his remaining teeth (his
breath an appalling gumbo of garlic and cheap vodka that induced the Giga-Grrrlz to hide their noses in their fuzzy collars), “…me, I’m Coach
Zorn. An’ that fat kid over there,
that’s the Prince of Whales…”
Before his own
Eagles and the two guarding the line could arrive at an accommodation, Sonny
had snapped open his cell, punched out Tenison’s hotline…
“I’m at the
door. Some ass-clown holdin’
us up, and he’s not one of mine…” When Mark launched into a disjointed stream
of apologies and excuses… worse, even, than Faubourg’s…he abruptly handed the
phone over to the elder mercenary, who listened, nodded…
“OK!” The old guard handed back the phone and
unhooked the velvet rope… which was a streaky shade of turquoise, not red. “C’mon in…”
“Easy,
Rosko! Your goddam rainy parking lot’s already ruined my boots,” Sonny looked down, “…they’re
genuine crocodile, not just any old alligator out of any old swamp. Twelve hundred bucks I paid… I oughta sue myself for negligence…”
And Faubourg, as
he was paid… well-paid… to do, giggled obsessively as soon as he recognized the
joke that the security people stubbornly failed to understand. Then, over the vehement protests of the
waitpersons nearing the front of the line, Big Sonny and his posse were
escorted into the Mall. Their grumbling
lowered as Miss Dominator and the lesser Giga-Grrrlz
in their furs, tall white boots and short, sheer, sparkly multicoloured
minidresses cut low to show a cornucopia of multihued damp flesh led the
entourage onward, then trailed off into flat-out grunts of amazement at the
straw-hatted Dixieland Band, six clowns in sleet-dribbling greasepaint and polkadots herding apes and peacocks, more Giga-guards and
Screaming Eagles and the sullen, swarthy Jarlo Knupp (in his out-of-date Redskins uniform numbered 99,
football under his arm) all traipsing through the wrought-iron portals of the
Mall and into the Promenade, between Lester’s Likenesses and Linens-2-Go.
Catching a scent
of something or other, the dogs in Kearsey’s Kennels
went mad, provoking the monkeys across the aisle into fits of howling and
Sonny’s apes (two chimps and an ourang) into
straining at their leashes.
By now, General Westmoreland
Soames had advanced past the shuttered Third-Fifth Bank and the gunshop and was parked in front of Lester’s… a whole family
of very white, very still people with Roman curls and ambiguous smiles staring
blindly back at him… near enough to the corner to watch the procession
pass. An old guy with a troubling cough,
standing in front of him, turned and leered…
“Shows whatcha can do, bring along a few pretty gurls…”
“Must be money,” Westy ventured, “sure ain’t his
looks.” His time waiting outside in the
drizzle had dampened the gauze still on his left hand – he ripped the bandages
off, flexed his fingers. They hurt – but
it was tolerable. He balled the
dressings, looked around for a trashcan and then just tossed them to the side
of the One World floor.
Reality be
damned, Big Sonny’s vanity induced him to slough off Lester the Greeter’s
effusive welcome and gaze at his own personal alabaster likeness as it rotated,
larger than life-sized… while the old One World Mall rent-a-cop who’d let him
by told the waiting customers, under this breath…
“That Sonny… he ain’t so big…”
A fawning,
groveling Mark Tenison quickly attached himself to Big Sonny’s entourage –
escorting the entrepreneur past the registers, tech and credit tent… now
holding three miserable prisoners, shoplifters condemned (without trial nor
consultation with attorneys), to blowing up balloons… and into the circle of
HDTVs (most tuned to the inexorable NFL precast on basic cable, a few others
broadcasting police and reality shows) that last month’s script from Waco had
decreed be called the “henge”, after those ancient rings of stone obelisks
found here and there in the Old World, with the imposing Dominator… like a
black-robed Druid priest… at its center, awaiting but a brief electric surge to
summon Satan...
A genuine plasma
set, this, not a cardboard replica.
“Dom’s all wired and ready to go…” Mark Tenison bounced up and
down like an excited puppy.
Big Sonny removed
his cigar. “Bad news, boy. President’s on the air in…” he looked down at
his watch, “…thirteen minutes, movin’ transition back
to Tuesday, the twenty-second, so as to appease the looters and rioters. Gutless wonder! I want every one of these fuckin’ sets turned
to the gayest programming on the air – cable, dish or satellite,” he pointed,
“something that ain’t got nothing to do with football
or, especially, has no chance of runnin’ that
speech…”
“Try the Project
Runway reruns on Bravo…” Fred Faubourg suggested…
Big Sonny lifted
an eyebrow. “How would you know?”
The lobbyist
shrugged, winking at Effie Lou. “Can’t
help it, I’m a fool for skinny broads…”
Tenison kept
bouncing up and down alongside the big boss.
“Nothing but problems,” he burbled, “…but they’re the good kind of problems. Compressor busted, ran out of hotdogs, pony
got sick…”
“Kid, you’re breakin’ my heart!”
And Big Sonny shoved his cigar back into his mouth, snapping his
fingers, and… under one of many No Smoking, Criminal Penalties Apply! signs…
Effie Lou ignited it for him.
While Sonny inspected his oldest store, eight more customers
departed… half with small purchases in hand, the other four holding tickets
that would secure them a place in another line in the rain out back behind the
loading dock… and the Screaming Eagles overseeing admissions lifted the sad,
blue velvet rope, allowing eight more standees into Giga-Plex – these including
General Westmoreland Soames, seventh in line, who was immediately and warmly
confronted by Lester, the Greeter…
“Welcome to
Giga-Plex!”
¾ ¾ ¾
At 8:48 PM, Uncle
Raoul set the scavenged TV atop Miz Lottie’s scorched table as an army of
curious kids and cynical teenagers converged on him.
The matriarch was
less than pleased. “Why are you doin’ that, fool!
They don’t work, them people on the television news that the ladies at
“Might at least
work, not not-work, you know?” was
Raoul’s convoluted explanation. “Set’s
not too wet, not burned, I’ll go down to Giga-Plex tomorrow an’ buy one of them
real converters, swear to God, so’s
you an’ Westy an’ the kids can see the game.
“‘Least you got money!” Miz Lottie said, scornfully.
“That’s right,”
Raoul said, defiantly. “I earned it…”
Rima
snorted. “You’re too late, as
usual. Westy
already gone off to Giga-Plex to get a whole new set… he pawned the car title
car again…”
Miz Lottie
scrunched up her face, beginning to shake and extending a wavering, accusing
arm…
“Uh oh, she fixin’ to hex…”
Tyesha groaned. “She gonna
turn Raoul into a hopfrog!”
Raoul answered
warily, but with just a little dash of indignation spicing up the lies. “Whuffo you tryin’ to hex that set I paid good money to bring out
here…”
His autie, shivering and gasping, exclaimed: “S’a good hex, I makin’ sure that at least it don’t
start no more fire…”
She rose from the
green chair, shut her eyes, moaned, then gave a climatic squeal that had
Tyesha, Rima and Uncle Raoul recoiling in wonder, opened her eyes and pointed
to Raoul..
“Now plug it in…”
“OK,” he
answered, deferentially, “but it still won’t work til’
I buy that converter. If it’s alright,
all we get is a buncha snow and noise, if not, I
guess I can find… can buy another…”
“Tol’ you!” Rima
laughed. “Copped that out of a garbage can…”
With a weary,
wary smile, Raoul plugged the foundling television in, then leaped back as
static filled the screen… coalescing, within a few seconds, into the grave,
even tortured face of Evan Augsberg filling the
screen…
“It’s a miracle!” Rima squealed.
The newscaster
seemed to have aged another twenty years over the past week – as if there had
been a corpse hiding behind the angry eyes and ponderous jaws… a corpse that
refused to rot away but, instead, had been indwelt by something; something that
had journeyed to the edge of time and space, returning with terrible news,
terrible prophecies. “Ted, I’m here with
the White House corps where President Rivers is about to make an important
announcement, concerning the highly unpopular high to modulated-definition
digital conversion that took place forty-six hours ago and was suspended at
eight - thirty, a move that some say benefited special interests at the expense
of lower-income and working Americans who would be losing access to Superbowl
Fifty Five… the President is at the podium now…”
“Ssssh!” Miz Lottie pointed. “That’s the President!”
“My fellow Americans! In
the course of our nation’s noble and inevitable march forward on the path of
technological progress, we occasionally arrive at an obstacle in the road… a
pothole, if you will, or a fallen branch from some dead tree, above. Such obstacles cannot be ignored, they have
to be overcome, with resolution, faith and good old elbow grease,
sometimes. Though it may smart to have
to step back and deal with these problems instead of forging blindly ahead,
there are times when prudence dictates a course of action that needs… not
reversal, for that would be wrong… but a temporary course cprrection.”
“Somebody wrote that for him,” Raoul smirked and the rest of the
family shushed him.
“So it has been
with the dawn of the digital epoch. For
most of us, the advent of high definition television had been a blessing and
the further compression of your broadcast signals via modulated definition will
be so, too. Vital spectra occupied by
cumbersome analog broadcasting having been freed up for use by our national and
local homeland security enterprises… police, fire departments, educational applisissi, uh cavea…” POTUS
stuttered, “shake-cations... these modular changes will allow even better
resolution to these vital commercial and security signals, making for a safer,
more prosperous America. And the sale of
surplus frequencies to the growing new communications, military and security
applications that will be the foundation of American jobs. enterprise and
prosperity over the next century will provide a vital revenue-stream allowing
us to reduce your tax burden, continue the rebate program begun by my
predecessor and continue the important financial arrangements in the
construction of the great wall on our border which Mexico, in the end, will
assuredly pay for. In fact, I am
confident that I speak in a wholly bipartisan sense, over the obstructionism of
the lying Congressional witch hunters from the minority partywhen
I reiterate that it is morning in America!”
And then the
President halted, voice taking on a softer, folksy tone. “Of course that isn’t literal, we’re still at
night, the middle of the night… well, the early middle, anyway… except, I
think, in Hawaii and some of the Pacific territories, but the premise is sound…
“Anyway, I was
speaking of the occasional obstacle on the road to tomorrow and, within the
past few days, the dilemma of those Americans to whom morning means another day
of poverty and deprivation has come to the fore – as it will, from time to
time. Ours is not yet a perfect society,
not yet even the great society that the Democrats thought to build… the failed great society… but it is a good
society, a darn sight better than what we had under my... prescidator...
and one of the ties that bind us together are the common rituals we enjoy
together, as Americans, throughout the course of a year together. Christmas… or those Jewish holidays around
that time… the Fourth of July. Hotdogs
and fireworks, pantie… er, parades!
Easter and Halloween… the first robin of spring, summer’s long days with
no school, watermelons, corn on the cob.
That isn’t a racial comment, by the way… we all love watermelons… black,
white, even Hispanic, like those little yellow ones they grow down there. And eat.
We enjoy these seasonal gratuities, in and out of season, and, because
of them, we are Americans!
“We also enjoy
our culture… most of us… whether it be high-class art museums and symphonies on
the NPR… not so much their fake news… Hollywood movies and television or the
Gospels read aloud from pulpits. Our
summers are bracketed by the exploits of professional baseball… now hopefully
free of the scourge of drug abuse and what remains of the Corona virus… from
spring training to the World Series that, more or less, signifies October. We have basketball’s March Madness to look
forward to, Indianapolis, the Kentucky Derby… many other events we can count on
as assuredly as the fingers on which we count these days and mark the passing
of these years as surely as our own birthdays do. Perhaps above all, we have tomorrow, Super
Sunday – providentially one day before Presidents’ Day honors the anniversary
of the birth of George Washington, our Founding Father, today and just ten days
or so after that of Abraham Lincoln, the Great Emancipator. The best of the best meeting to determine
America’s championship, it is the epitome of our culture… and, if I may inject
some small partisanship into this discussion, we in Washington have a special
interest in tomorrow’s game, as… I am sure… do the loyal citizens of Oak… uh,
Las Vegas, and even all of that desert out over there, you Mexicans and
Japanese and such, too.
“Now, it had come
to my attention that… wholly by accident of the weather, and the aftermath of
an insidious attack by terrorists whom we remain in hot pursuit of… the digital
transition period which began Thursday night may have inadvertently deprived
some of a chance to join in the common jubilation of Superbowl Fifty-five. Mistakes have been made… angry voices
raised. Legitimate concerns have been
exploited by special interests, some violent, therefore… and with bipartisan
consent from the Congress and Senate, I have issued an Executive Order that
pushes the transition date back to next
Tuesday, February twenty--fifth at noon, so that all may enjoy Super Sunday as
Americans have done since the days of Johnny Unitas,
Joe Namath and Washington’s own Riggins and Theisman. Consequently those of you with unmodulated
high-digital sets will still be able to enjoy the full measure of the world’s
best broadcast, satellite and cable technology and, effective immediately,
analog broadcasting via converter or basic cable will resume from this moment
until Tuesday, noon… just as some of you are perhaps viewing this announcement
right now!
“To those who
worry that
“We are all one
people,” the President concluded as the camera panned back, showing the blue
wall behind the Chief Executive, well-stocked with inspirational and
motivational words and phrases… “Freedom”,
“Progress”, “Technology”, “Competition”.
In the name of security, peace and progress, we are keeping America even
greater again – and, in this spirit of greatness, I thank you for your time, ask for those
of you have come out into the streets to
express your First Amendment rights to return home, watch television with your
loved ones and bid you all celebrate the upcoming two hundred eighth birthday
of these Presidents who are synonymous with life, liberty and the free market
by enjoying tomorrow’s game. Even you
liberals in Hollywood!”
And the President
smiled, pointed into the cameras and gave a thumbs-up before being replaced by
some cops in a cop show… in progress… doing the same cop-things that they had
always done before the transition.
“Damn!” exclaimed
Raoul.
“Damn right!” Miz
Lottie warned him. “I can hex that
cowboy hat wearing President’s ass the way I did that funny-hair loser, through
some broken-down TV set from China… don’t even make me think ‘bout what I can do to yours!”
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
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