The Furry MEGAPACK®

by Huskyteer

  I had considered wearing my Terrence T-shirt for the interview, but that seemed a little too desperate-fangirl. Instead, I’d gone for professional but approachable: khaki slacks, pastel blouse, small gold hoop earrings.

  There was no doorbell, so I knocked gingerly. The door opened a crack, and a bright black pupil peered out from a field of white. “Yes?”

  It was his voice, no doubt of that, but it was quieter and rougher, as if he’d just woken up.

  “Terrence?” I hoped I didn’t seem too forward calling him by his first name, but somehow ‘Mr. Tiger’ just sounded silly. “I’m Lauren Mitchell, from ForeverToons.com? We’d scheduled an interview for today.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He opened the door.

  He looked…faded. Not merely his colors, though I would have sworn that his orange fur had been brighter. He just seemed smaller, lesser.

  That’s what the camera does, I told myself.

  He did seem tired, though, and a pang of fear went through me. But—maybe I really had woken him up. Toons ate and slept like everyone else, after all.

  “Please, come in.”

  It looked as if he’d kept the furniture from the house’s rental days: wicker, glass, well worn honey-colored wood, simple and ordinary. The only signs of his acting life were several framed photographs and an old bookcase of awards. I recognized the Emmys, but none of the others. A thin layer of dust shrouded all of them.

  He saw me looking around and gave me a wry smile. “Not what you expected?”

  “I—I don’t know what I was expecting.”

  “Can I get you anything to drink? Water, soda, iced tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He led me into the living room, ushering me onto a faded blue couch while he sat in a white wicker chair opposite. I noticed there was a small stereo in the room but no TV.

  I powered up my tablet, opened a new file, and turned on the recorder. When I asked if I had his permission to record our interview, a flicker of unease passed across his face, but he agreed.

  I settled back on the couch. “You have a lovely place here. It’s so quiet.”

  He laughed dryly. “Listen…Lauren, was it?” I nodded. “I appreciate the white lie, but let’s agree to tell each other the truth today, all right? I…” That shadow across his features again. “I expect this will be the last time I’m interviewed by anyone, so I’d rather not waste it being anything but ourselves.”

  “All right.” I glanced at my notes, then decided I’d be better off winging it and turned the display off. “I’m curious as to why you chose this place, then.”

  “I didn’t. It chose me.”

  “How so?”

  He turned his gaze to the sliding glass door to our right, looking out at the water. “We’re all drawn somewhere near the end. A lot of us to the water for some reason. Oceans, lakes, islands—nobody knows why. So I came here. It was cheap enough, and people let me be.”

  “You want to be left alone?”

  Another wry smile, but at least this time he looked more like the Terrence I remembered. “Not really. But if it’s going to happen, I’d rather it happen quietly.”

  I knew what the “it” was that we were politely dancing around. Toons aren’t born—at least, not in the human fashion. They call it “winking in,” and it happens all at once, when they appear more or less fully formed, although their appearance and personality can still be molded to some extent by the role they play—for instance, I don’t know if Terrence had that stripe across his throat that’s shaped like a bow tie when he first winked in. But for all intents and purposes, toons have no childhood.

  The flip side of this is what happens to toons when they wink out. They disappear, but no one’s quite sure exactly what decides the time. The best theory at the moment has to do with not how popular or loved they are, but how relevant they are—that is, loved at the moment, not out of pure nostalgia.

  As far as I knew, Jungle Jam hadn’t been shown on TV in years. Boxer shorts and T-shirts with Terrence’s image were still sold, and collectibles went for respectable amounts on the auction sites, but there was no mistaking it for anything but thirtysomethings like me getting suddenly nostalgic for their childhoods.

  Well, he wanted honesty, so I went for it. “How long do you think you have?”

  He didn’t flinch. “I don’t know.” I was surprised at how matter-of-fact he was being, but I supposed he’d had time to resign himself to fate.

  “I think it’ll be soon,” he added after a moment. “It’s just a feeling, but…” He shrugged.

  “What about the others from the show? Do you ever see them?”

  “They’ve all been gone for years. Longtusk held out the longest. But I was the star, and the stars are always the last ones left.”

  This was getting depressing—even though it felt selfish to think that. Where was the wisecracking character I remembered, or even a glimmer of him? I hated myself for it, but I was starting to feel almost cheated.

  He studied me for a moment. “Did you watch the show? Or—no, it was probably before your time—”

  “Now who’s telling white lies?”

  He smiled. “It’s just—you don’t look that old.”

  “Old enough. Of course I watched it. All the time. I loved you.” I felt myself blushing, not only at what I’d said, but at saying it in the past tense. “Jungle Jam was my favorite show. I watched a couple of episodes last week and felt like I was eight years old again. It was great. I’d forgotten how good it was.”

  “We had good writers.”

  “And good actors,” I pressed. “I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever see you this modest.”

  A familiar impish spark came into his eyes. “Better be careful. I haven’t had this much praise in so long, I can get drunk on a thimbleful.”

  “Maybe that’s what I want.”

  “More interesting reading, you mean?”

  “For the five people who read the blog, sure.”

  “I can see the headline now—‘Famous Cartoon Star Tells Lurid Tiger Tales.’”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Hm. Well, Mort and Morey Monkey weren’t really twins.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I know, it’s scandalous.” He paused. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? I’ve got a nice Riesling, if you like wine.”

  “I’m driving, but one glass wouldn’t hurt.”

  While he slipped into the kitchen, I went back to take a closer look at the photographs. One was a shot of the entire cast with everyone grinning at the camera—except the villains, who were scowling appropriately. It was hard to believe the rest of them were all gone.

  The other pictures were of Terrence with a variety of cartoon stars; it looked like they’d been taken at parties. I lingered in front of one that showed Terrence with Bugs Bunny, both of them wearing leis, coconut bras, and grass skirts, each toasting the camera with a mai tai.

  “He’s starting to fade, you know.” Terrence spoke quietly behind me. “He doesn’t go out much anymore so no one will see. If they don’t find something good enough for him soon… I’ve heard rumors he’s looking for a place in Pismo Beach. I hope they’re wrong.” He held the wine glass out to me, and I took it and sipped, not knowing what to say.

  I’d had so many questions ready to ask—what his favorite episode was, what his relationship with Longtusk was really like, what he thought of the cartoons on TV today. But now that I was here with him, those all seemed petty, just trivia to dole out for the fans. All at once, I realized that what I really wanted was to know him as a person instead of the icon I’d watched every day after school. I didn’t know if that was even possible. I wanted to help him, to bring him back somehow—but that felt even more farfetched.

  Instead, I went back to the couch, and we sipped our wine, and he talked. He told me stories from the show, the practical jokes that went on behind the scenes. He did impressions of the other characters that left me ho
wling with laughter.

  A soft beep came from my tablet. Low battery. I’d forgotten about the recording. I couldn’t believe the time when I checked it: I’d been there five hours. It had felt like two at most. As Terrence took our wine glasses into the kitchen, I realized sheepishly that it really hadn’t been much of an interview. It had been fun, but I had no idea how I was going to get something out of it for the blog.

  “I should get going,” I said when he returned. “But…I was wondering if I could come back tomorrow. Just…to kind of follow up.”

  His smile then was the most genuine I’d seen from him all night. “I’d like that.”

  I wanted to hug him, but that felt too awkward—as did the thought of just leaving. Finally I held out my hand. He clasped it gently in both of his, and I saw something in his expression that I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the motel, my hand still tingling with the warmth of his touch, that I realized it was gratitude.

  * * * *

  I glanced over my notes again the next morning while I ate breakfast at a local diner. The tablet’s voice recognition software was a joke, so most of the transcription was garbled, but it was enough to refresh my memory. I sipped my coffee (bitter), nibbled a slice of toast (burned), and finally ditched the runny eggs in favor of a piece of apple pie that was just coming out of the oven. Not exactly the complete breakfast they talked about in the cereal commercials, but close enough.

  I guess this is how you know you’re an adult—when no one can tell you that you can’t have dessert for breakfast. I felt oddly giddy and reckless, and though I tried to chalk it up to being nervous about seeing Terrence again, I finally had to admit that it wasn’t anxiety. It was excitement. I hadn’t looked forward to seeing someone this much since I’d been in—

  No. No way was I going there. This was hero worship for a guy I felt like I knew. Emphasis, I told myself sternly, on felt like. For all I knew, most of that personality I loved so well truly was the product of the writers—or merely the persona of the actor.

  You are not going to be an idiot fangirl.

  I held tight to that mantra, paid the check, and headed down the road.

  * * * *

  Terrence looked brighter this morning—and not just his color. “Coffee?”

  “God, yes. Does the health department know that diner in town is serving battery acid?”

  He chuckled. “Ah, the Silver Strand; serving cheap food at cheaper prices for over twenty years. But nobody beats their desserts.”

  I took the thick pottery mug and held it with both hands, savoring the aroma. “That’s more like it.”

  I took my seat on the couch again. For one wild moment I hoped he might sit beside me, but instead he took the same chair as before. “So,” he said, “where were we?”

  I quickly powered up the tablet and turned the recorder on. “We were talking about the second season, and how they experimented with the format.”

  “Mm.” He nodded. “Well, some of those shows worked, and some didn’t.” He flashed a quirky grin.

  I smiled, too. “‘Broomsticks and Butterflies’?”

  “By popular agreement—fans and crew—our single worst episode.” He looked heavenward and shook his head. “It was all I could do to get through the dialogue. If the whole season had been done that way, we would have been canceled for sure.”

  “Okay, so I know your least favorite. Which one was your favorite?”

  He glanced at his coffee, then back up to me. “‘Purr-fect Harmony.’”

  “The one with… Oh, no wonder.” I grinned. That was the episode where the poachers had used a girl tiger from a zoo to lure Terrence out of the preserve.

  Terrence’s orange cheeks went redder. “Hey, it was a fun show. I liked getting tricked for once and being out of my element for a little while.”

  That was the only episode she’d been in. “Did you ever see her again, after the show?”

  He studied the coffee mug again. “We went out a few times, but it didn’t work out. Too complicated.”

  “Why?” The question was out before I realized I’d said it. “Never mind—you don’t have to—”

  “It’s all right. It’s just that…toon relationships are always complicated.” He gestured to the framed photos. “Bugs tried it a couple of times. But they just weren’t as big as he was, and they didn’t last. We just…never know how long the other person will be around.”

  “Neither do humans,” I pointed out gently.

  “True. But that shadow’s just a bit sharper for us.” He switched to a lighter tone. “Besides, Tina looked just like me except for eyelashes and a blue bow over one ear. Not exactly the most attractive of women, when you get right down to it.”

  There was more there than he was saying, but going any further would have really been prying. Any other time, I would have pushed to get something good for the blog, but this time…I just couldn’t. It was more than wanting to respect his privacy. There was pain beneath his words, and I didn’t want him to be hurt.

  I moved on to another set of questions about what it was like to win the awards, and which ones meant the most to him.

  He shrugged. “None of them, really. Oh, it was great at the time, but now look at them. Gathering dust, and here I am, and none of them doing any good when it matters.” A bitter note crept into his voice at the end, and I saw a flash of something like anger in his eyes. He paused and took a breath. “I shouldn’t complain, though. I’ve done better than most.”

  Once again, I wished he were sitting beside me. I wanted to take his hand in mine, to tell him how much joy he’d given me over the years, how much happiness he deserved in return. Instead, the moment passed in awkward silence, and I made a big show of checking the tablet’s battery display.

  “So what was your favorite episode?” Terrence asked.

  “Oh, man, I don’t know. Can I give you a top five? Um…maybe the one where you lost your memory and thought you were British royalty.”

  He held up his coffee mug with pinky extended. “Quite right. Excellent choice.”

  “I took my stuffed animal and made a monocle for it.”

  He laughed. “Really? Do you still have it?”

  “I wish I did. It got so ratty my mom finally threw it out one day when I was at school.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, I’m still working through that in therapy.” My coffee had gone cold, but I sipped at it anyway. “I used to have all the playsets. The treehouse, the secret lair, the hot air balloon—everything. I wish I still had them, but…”

  A moment passed. “But what?” he asked softly.

  I tried to figure out how to explain it. “It’s not just wishing I had the toys again. If I had them now, they’d all just be sitting on a shelf. And okay, yeah, I’d look at them and remember, and that’d be nice.” I paused. “But what I really wish is that I could play with them like I used to. Just…sit there for hours and make up stories and move them around. Just get lost in it. And that’s what I can’t do anymore. That’s what I can’t get back.”

  I laughed nervously. “I guess that doesn’t make much sense if you’ve never been little, but—”

  “Actually,” he said slowly, “it does.”

  His gaze met mine, and I believed him. All at once I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the sensation of being understood, of utter comfort paired with complete freedom. It was only a moment, but there was no mistaking it.

  I fumbled for the tablet and had to tap the screen twice to shut off the recorder. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d better get going.”

  “Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay if—”

  “No, really. It’s all right. I’ll send you the link when the article gets posted. Sometime next week. Probably.” I powered down the tablet and shoved it clumsily into my bag. My face burned. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be a fangirl, and what was I doing now? Imagining some silly chemistry, some connection I o
nly wished were there.

  I picked up my coffee mug with the idea of carrying it to the kitchen, but he reached for it instead, his hands closing over mine, and there it was again: warmth, safety, and an ember of something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Or, if I was being honest, something I had never felt.

  I tried to remember what I’d planned to say. “It’s… It’s really been an honor. To talk with you. It’s been like a dream, so…thank you.”

  His voice had a quiet tone I hadn’t heard before. “It’s been…more than I hoped for.” He set the mug gently back on the table, and when he turned back to me, the Terrence I remembered was suddenly there, with his signature blend of mischief and charm. “Let me thank you, then. How about dinner tonight? My treat.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I promise we won’t go to the Silver Strand.”

  I told myself to be polite. Quick. Simple. A brief apology, an explanation that I had to be back at work the next day, that I really hadn’t planned on being in town another night, and—

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be… That’d be great.”

  His eyes lit up. “Wonderful. Just meet me here. Seven o’clock?”

  I nodded. “Seven. I’ll see you then.” I reminded myself to breathe, picked up my bag, crunched my way across the shell driveway, and managed to get into the car before I started grinning like an idiot.

  He was just lonely, I told myself as I drove back to the motel. That was all. It didn’t really mean anything. He wanted someone to talk to, and I could do that. I understood that.

  Because you’re lonely, too.

  I told myself to shut up.

  * * * *

  I spent a couple of hours staring at a blank screen, trying to come up with something for the blog. Every fifteen minutes or so, I would scribble an opening line with the stylus, watch my handwriting fade into text, stare at it for several minutes, and then scrub the stylus over it to erase the whole thing.