by Ira Nayman
“Naah,” TOM answered. “Reinitiating sequence. In the meantime, can you handcuff yourself to this…whatever adjective you feel is appropriate under these circumstances until our job here is complete?”
“Ms. Michealovitsky, I really don’t think –” Investigator Chumley started. You’d think he would have realized by now that he was never going to finish that sentence.
“That. Was. Awesome!” Michealovitsky giddily interrupted. “Ooh! I know! I know! Let’s go set a homeless person on fire!”
“Ms. Michealovitsky!” Investigator Chumley protested. “You should not be discussing felonies in front of a quasi-government official sworn to uphold the law!”
> or an audience of two and a half million people!
“Oh, man, this was real!” Michealovitsky exulted. “If I had been caught, there would have been nobody to bail my ass out! I would have gone to jail!”
“Where,” Investigator Chumley pointed out to her, “with your one phone call, you would have gotten somebody to bail you out.”
> burglar sentenced to life imprisonment thanks to California’s new “one strike and you’re out” law (Los Angeles Times)
“You have no romance in your soul,” Michealovitsky accused him.
“What can I say?” Investigator Chumley shrugged. “I’m a criminal investigator.”
> Attorney General says US hasn’t reached “natural rate of incarceration” (20% of population): “for good of prison industry, we must try harder to put people behind bars – and keep them there!” (Washington Times)
“Can I get some ice cream?” Michealovitsky pouted.
“Do we have to mug the Good Humour man?” Investigator Chumley warily asked.
Michealovitsky grinned to herself for a moment, then vigourously shook her head. “No. No, that would be wrong. Fun, but wrong. We’ll get it the old-fashioned way – you’ll pay for it.”
“Deal,” Investigator Chumley agreed, taking her hand to shake. To his surprise (mingled with shock, amazement, disbelief, mild distress and utter flabbergastedness), she pulled him towards her and gave him a big, sloppy kiss on the lips.
> China concedes prisoner race to US: “We simply can’t compete with your level of incarceration,” Ambassador says (Podunk Mash and Enquirer…Times) @ @ @ smooth move, babe – I hope you can back that kiss up!
* * *
Noomi was sitting behind a table in a gigantic hall. In front of her was about 15 feet of empty space, then rows of stalls stretching back as far as she could see. On either side of her were tables. Two tables down, George Takei was signing autographs. George Takei was 137 years old. He was still handsome (if a little more craggily so). He was still charming. He was still gay. (Noomi sighed.) A few tables down from him, Tim Allen was signing autographs; Noomi imagined him saying something like: “Yeah, of all the things I did, I never thought the one I would be most remembered for was Galaxy Quest. Do you remember the scene where the other actors and I are at a – of course you do. How ironic is it that I ended up here?”
A man was standing in front of Noomi’s desk. He was in his 40s. He was well-dressed. He seemed to be polite. He had been staring at Noomi for two minutes and 12 seconds. He had yet to say a word.
Noomi looked at Orodovitz, who shrugged over the stack of posters on the table in front of him. Then, she looked back at the man standing in front of her.
> okay, sweetie. audience research shows that two minutes and 34 seconds is as long as you get to build tension using silence. after that, the audience just gets bored. time to bring this one home.
“So, uhh,” Noomi asked, “who should I sign this to?”
The man stared for another couple of seconds. Just when Noomi thought she would have to either ask him again or shout for security, he said, “Augie Doggie. Sign it: To my biggest fan, Augie Doggie.”
Noomi signed the poster and handed it to him. The man took it without averting his gaze from her. Several more seconds passed before he said, “Thanks,” and walked away.
“That wasn’t creepy,” Noomi said to herself.
> you are the star around which all of your satellites rotate
“Some faster than others,” Noomi replied.
As much as she hated to admit it, Noomi had to accept that that wasn’t even the worst encounter of the day. That pleasure belonged to the guy wearing a track suit and Spock ears who insisted that she got her name from “the guy who sang that song, bouncing around in his chair. You know – the video went viral, I think it was a Scandinavian song. Noomi Noomi?” “No, that’s not where I got my name.” “How could you have not gotten your name from the Noomi Noomi guy?” “For one thing, it was Numa Numa.” “No, it wasn’t. It was Noomi Noomi.” “No, I’m pretty sure he was the Numa Numa guy.” “Really?” “Really.” “I’m sure you’re mistaken.” Noomi told the guy to use his PDA to look it up on the Internet. One Google search later, the guy said: “Well, maybe your parents misheard the song and thought he was singing Noomi Noomi.” Noomi didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that the guy was serious or the possibility that he wasn’t.
Then there was the guy dressed as Jack Ryan…with Spock ears. Okay, it was true that, in one episode, Jack Ryan flashed through several images of himself in other universes and, yes, in one of them he appeared to be a Vulcan. Still, that image only appeared on the screen for .0837 seconds – what was it with men and pointy ears? “Do you know William Shatner?” he asked. “No.” “You’re from Canada, right?” “Yeah.” “And, William Shatner is from Canada, right?” “Okay, I think I see where this is go –” “Right. So, you must know each other, right?”
Noomi looked at him. Canada was the second largest land mass in the world, yet it contained less than 40 million people. It was so big that people on one coast didn’t know how people on the other coast lived, and nobody on either coast cared about the middle. She wondered how best to explain the unlikelihood that two people from such a large country would know each other. “He moved to the States before I was born,” she said. “Ohhh, right,” the guy said.
Noomi, who had been given training on the latest interrogation techniques, techniques that would have enabled her to break the hardest criminal mastermind, was not prepared for this!
“Hi. I love your work,” a girl said as she walked up to the table. A fairly realistic gash bled on her right cheek. Her cheerleader costume had been ripped in several places, including her shoulder, which showed a bit of her bra. There was a greenish stain on her skirt and bobby socks.
Noomi snorted, “Who are you supposed to be?”
“You,” the girl told her.
For the first time since she arrived at the convention, Noomi looked at the poster for the film Invasion of the B Movie Monsters that she was signing. Sure enough, there she was in that exact outfit, being menaced by a gigantic butterfly, a robot with wires bursting out of holes in its chest and a green creature that looked like Don Knotts with gills, with nothing but a whip and a box of double A batteries to protect herself.
“I always thought that Invasion of the B Movie Monsters was a breakthrough cuz it was the first time a black woman fought for her life against cheesy special effects ghouls,” the girl quietly said, “but, I guess to you it was just another acting job, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t –” Noomi started.
> this is the part where you tell her what a fantastic costume she has made
“…think I’ve ever seen a costume as detailed…as…authentic as the one you’re wearing,” Noomi recovered.
“Really?” the girl responded, grinning.
Noomi signed the poster and sent the girl merrily on her way.
> try to keep an open mind, okay? the people at these conventions can spend months making their costumes and, even the ones who don’t have put a lot of their own imagination and creativity into entering the worlds we create. That level of devotion is rare in these cynical times. As fanthropologist and steampunk goddess J. M. Frey wrote in her Masters t
hesis, “Water Logged Mona Lisa: Who Is Mary Sue, and Why Do We Need Her?”:
Noomi closed her eyes. It didn’t help: the words appeared in neon pink against the white floating blobby things and grey background.
“Are you okay?” Orodovitz asked.
“Fine,” Noomi warily responded without opening her eyes. “I’m being lectured on the backs of my eyelids.”
> “To use another allegory, they are like children playing with letter blocks to spell words; the work of crafting the letters and writing the alphabet is taken care of for them, so they can concentrate instead on spelling out their messages. They give creators – both professional and amateur alike – the ability to demarginalize their own voices and experiences, deconstruct the paradigms of classical theoretical interpretation, and destroy the walls between the amateur, the professional, and the academy by utilizing commonly known literature, theory, and media texts to tell personal narratives that have the ability to change the way the author and her subject position are viewed.” I hope you get the point
“This has been such an educational experience,” Noomi said to nobody in particular.
“Aren’t cons amazing?” a new voice asked. Noomi opened her eyes to see two guys in their mid-20s standing in front of the desk holding DVD cases.
“Sure,” Noomi answered.
“I’m Ralph,” the guy said, “and this is my friend Dogboy.”
“Hiiiii!” Dogboy said, barely able to contain his glee.
“We’ve been having a, well, debate might be a strong way of putting it – heated disagreement,” Ralph stated, “about your work.”
“Yeah!” Dogboy enthused all over the place. “Very heated. Very…intense.”
“You have?” Noomi, dismayed, responded.
“Absolutely,” Ralph told her. “You see, I think the ghouls in Invasion of the B Movie Monsters represent the id, which, as I am sure you know, being an actress and all, is the part of the unconscious mind where all of our most base instincts come from. I mean our worst animal impulses: planning to kill our bosses by spiking their lattes with toner, wanting to have unnatural relations with our AI-enhanced vacuum cleaners, dragging our girlfriends to Dolph Lundgren film festivals – that sort of thing. The movie shows us, in very vivid fashion, what would happen if we let our ids run wild. I’m talking iMax 3-d vivid! That’s why you have to kill all of the monsters by the end of the film – to restore the balance of civilization by bringing the superego back in charge.
“Dogboy here disagrees. He argues that the monsters in the film represent what happens when the human race falls too much in love with technology. After all, most of the monsters were created by us, either directly or indirectly through things like our pollution. By killing all of the monsters at the end of the movie, this argument – his argument, remember, not mine – goes, you are actually restoring the balance of nature.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dogboy snorted. “Balance of nature.”
“So,” Ralph asked. “Which of us do you think is right?”
Noomi looked at them blankly.
> okay, let me walk you through it. now, pay close attention…
* * *
“Oh,” TOM said, “I can’t wait to see how you’re going to write this up in your report!”
Investigator Chumley backed out of the embrace. “That – I – wrong,” he stated, utterly discombobulated.
“But, you loved it!” Michealovitsky told him. “Studies show that anybody who really isn’t interested in a smooch will end it within the first 1.345 seconds. But, you, you took 3.154 seconds to break free. Admit that you enjoyed it – you can’t argue with science!”
“It…it…it’s unprofessional,” Investigator Chumley, flustered, blustered.
“So? Let’s be unprofessional,” Michealovitsky trilled, pulling him close.
> smoke kills hundreds in Moscow! @ @ @ monsoon kills hundreds in Pakistan! GLOBAL WARMING COULD END ALL LIFE ON EARTH AS WE KNOW IT!
“Nothing could possibly kill my mood,” Michealovitsky purred, adding pointedly: “Do you hear me? Nothing!”
“Aaaaaaand, the signal’s gone again,” TOM interjected.
Grateful for the opportunity to “be professional,” Investigator Chumley backed away from Michealovitsky and, taking TOM out of his pocket, asked, “Were you able to get a fix on where it was coming from?”
“Somewhere inside Canada,” TOM told him.
“Okay. Okay,” Investigator Chumley said. “We’re narrowing it down. This is progress.” He put TOM away.
Michealovitsky sidled up to Investigator Chumley and purred, “Is that a Transdimensional Oddity Monitor in your pocket, or…”
> * GROAN * for the love of whatever you hold dear, dear, do not finish that thought!
“Mmmmmmmmm?” Michealovitsky mmmmmed.
“Okay, my mission here is complete,” Investigator Chumley brusquely stated. “We can go back to the office and retrieve Noomi. My Noomi.”
“Oh, your Noomi,” Michealovitsky said. “Pretty possessive for somebody who has a ‘professional’ relationship.”
There went that slight reddening of the face, again. “You know what I mean,” Investigator Chumley responded. “Let’s go.”
“But,” Michealovitsky gently asked, firmly grabbing his arm, “what if I don’t want to go?”
“But…but…but, Noomi,” Investigator Chumley insisted.
> Quincy Five Second Favourables Rating:
Noomi Michealovitsky: 8.37;
Noomi Rapier: 12.27;
guy who cleans the toilets on ‘The Real Life 47: How Much Reality Can You Take?’: 6.37
Michealovitsky’s face immediately clouded over. “That’s not the way it’s supposed to go! I’m supposed to be more popular!” she blurted. “That skanky bitch!”
“Hey!” Investigator Chumley came to his partner’s defense. “She may be a little difficult sometimes, but that’s entirely uncalled for!”
> besides, that “skanky bitch” is you, dear
“You know, what?” Michealovitsky told him. “You’re right.”
“I know,” Investigator Chumley agreed.
“You two deserve each other!” ignoring his surprise, Michealovitsky commanded, “Let’s get back to my office so I can take back my show!”
* * *
Noomi had to admit that there was something exhilarating about driving through Hollywood in a tank. Sure, it was slower than Conservative action on climate change. And, the environment was probably having heart palpitations over the vehicle’s fuel consumption. Still, sitting in the turret watching all of the cars scatter in front of her gave Noomi an odd sense of well-being. Oh, look! Was that…Michael Cera in the turret of the tank driving towards her? Noomi waved. The guy in the other tank took one look at her, sniffed and looked the other way. Had she just been dissed by Michael Cera? Who said Hollywood wasn’t a place where dreams come true?
> congratulate you as your email address have won you a cash prize of One million pounds in the UK-National Lottery Promotion. to claim your prize contact Barr terry wood gate @ @ @ sorry – don’t know how that got through the filters
As they walked from the tank (which was parked next to a space reserved for Steven Spielberg’s tank even though he had gone missing, presumed dead, on the vast set of Indiana Jones 16: The Breakfast Serial That’s Good For You years ago!) into the building, Noomi asked what was next on the agenda. Orodovitz checked his clipboard and said that she could expect a phone call from Enbridge Psyclotron soon after getting back to the office. Koriakina explained that Psyclotron, a used knish salesman with a crush on Noomi – sorry, Michealovitsky – had gotten into a fistfight with her boyfriend – sorry, Michealovitsky’s boyfriend – Jack Bluebird over a misunderstanding about who had accidentally gotten smelts in the office mail server. Things escalated and, before anybody knew what was going on, both men had drawn piranhas and were going at the altercation with great fury. Koriakina stated that she expected the conversation was g
oing to be awkward, but in a funny, Larry David or The Office (but, the British version, not the American remake) kind of way.
> we really know how to put the reality back in reality TV!
Noomi smiled to herself. After she had – ahem – adjusted her perceptions of the convention, Noomi found herself enjoying it. Add the tank ride back to the office, and she was settling nicely into this new reality. She strode into the office, Orodovitz and Koriakina by her side, only to find Michealovitsky sitting behind the big desk.
“Oh, hi,” Noomi said.
“He’s all yours,” Michealovitsky harshly told her.
“I’m sorry?” Noomi responded.
“Your detective? You can have him.”
Noomi looked at Investigator Chumley, who shrugged. Orodovitz and Koriakina, sensing something in the air, slunk over to join Michealovitsky behind the desk.
“Hand in your camera contacts, other me,” Michealovitsky commanded. “You’re finished in this town!”
“What if I’m not ready to go?” Noomi defiantly said.
“Ooh, catfight!” TOM gleefully shouted.
“We’ve lost the signal,” Investigator Chumley gently told Noomi. “There’s no reason to stay in this reality any more.”
> remember: Tropical Punch is the new Linda Evangelista
“I have no idea what that means,” Noomi commented.
“Are you sure?” Investigator Chumley asked. “We’ve been through this before. I would have thought –”
“Sorry,” Noomi interrupted. “I was responding to somebody else.”
“So,” Michealovitsky stated, “we’ll get my cosmetic technician in here, get the contact lenses out of your eyes, send them to be burned in some remote place far away from civilization so that the smoke and ashes don’t contaminate anybody’s drinking water and we’ll forget any of this ever happened. Okay? Okay.”
Noomi looked at Investigator Chumley, who nodded his agreement.
“Okay,” Noomi reluctantly agreed. “But, let me just say –”
The phone rang. Michealovitsky, holding up a finger, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello? Enbridge? What…?” Michealovitsky put a hand on the receiver. “I have to take this. Nice knowing you.”
