CHAPTER NINE
I was locked in my cell pretty much 24 hours a day for the next couple of weeks. I complained about that, but they asked me where I would keep a prisoner if I had one, and I had to admit I guessed I’d keep him in a cell. And I’d probably leave him in there most of the time. Just like they were doing to me. So I quit complaining about that. I was off base there. But I felt I was justified in complaining about my rear end. It hadn’t cleared up like they had said it would. It just got blacker. And more swollen. I had to sit down the other way. On my face. And that’s a very uncomfortable way to sit. You can’t see anything except the chair seat. And all you can hear is people laughing. Never go to the government for medical advice, that’s what I learned from that experience. Go to a doctor.
There were other prisoners in the cell block, but I didn’t socialize with them much. Most of them weren’t very interesting to talk to because their minds had been reprogrammed so many times they were just walking error messages. So I never found out what they were in there for. They probably didn’t even know themselves anymore. I did manage to play a few videogames on one of them, but after awhile the guards told me to quit it.
Then one morning my cell block suddenly came alive with frenzied activity: everything was hurriedly scrubbed down and hosed off, including your correspondent; the guards changed into friendlier looking uniforms; and all the prisoners were given party hats. And after a government art director came through, eyed me for a moment, then crossed my legs and put a martini in my hand, I figured something was up. And I was right. The news media was coming.
The facility had always had to deal with occasional visits by newsmen and other busybodies who wanted to know what was going on behind all the barbed wire. Nobody puts boring stuff behind barbed wire, it was felt. Stringing the wire is too much work, for one thing. And there’s the expense of buying the wire. “What’s the big secret?” people would ask. And, of course, there was no honest way to answer that question without revealing the secret. So the government said nothing.
There were rumors that awful experiments were being conducted in the facility, and that people were being wrongfully imprisoned in there. That was close enough to what was actually going on to make the government very careful about how visitors were dealt with. Refusal to let the news media visit would result in bad publicity, and just lead to more visits, as contradictory as that might seem. Letting them see what was actually going on would be bad too. Since it was all so evil. So they granted them admittance periodically, but only let them see what they wanted them to see.
Everywhere the newsmen went on their carefully guided tours, they saw nothing but nice things: bright airy research centers with handsome scientists looking at test tubes (upside down, but never mind); beautiful atriums where scientists could relax and reflect on all the good they were doing Mankind, and how legal their experiments were; and cheery day care centers where Junior Scientists could romp and play.
Everything looked so nice and innocent, it was a little confusing to the visitors.
“So… why is all this nice activity behind barbed wire and armed guards?” they would ask.
“Let’s look over here,” the tour guide would say, changing the subject so deftly it was hardly noticeable. And everyone would look over in that new direction, their questions forgotten, at least for the moment.
But the media wasn’t always completely taken in by these performances. Sometimes they would catch a glimpse of something evil and smelly behind a door, or a cardboard cutout of a perfectly proportioned scientist would fall over revealing the real hunchback scientist behind it. Sometimes things just didn’t feel right. So, despite all the government’s efforts, suspicions were aroused.
On this particular Visiting Day, one news organization, the Central City Cable News Channel, had decided to discover the truth – to, once and for all, get to the bottom of what was going on inside the secret government facility.
While the rest of their news team was taking the tour and obediently asking all the right questions from the list provided, and taking all the right pictures from all the right marks on the floor, and buying all the right items from the gift shop, one member of the team slipped away unseen and made his way down to the lower level of the facility, where I was. This area, when it was shown to visitors at all, was portrayed as a kind of Fun Zone, where scientists and researchers had parties and really let their hair down after a hard day’s work. If someone asked about the cells, the answer usually was: “Let’s look over here”.
I first became aware that an unauthorized and unescorted visitor was snooping around my cell block when my guard got his head bashed in with a microphone, and keys rattled in the lock of my cell door.
“My name’s Johnson,” the reporter said breathlessly as he struggled with the lock. “I don’t know what’s been going on in here, but I’m going to find out. Now, once I let you out, remember to…”
At this point he had gotten the door open and I had hit him with a chair, so I didn’t get to hear the rest of what he had to say. Grabbing his credentials and his security clearance badge, and outfitting myself with his blazer, oversized capped teeth, and false two foot hair, and putting my party hat on his head so the guards would forever think he was me, I made my escape.
No one paid much attention to me when I joined the other reporters on the tour. With my false hair combed and angled like theirs and a microphone in either hand, I looked just like the rest of them. Even so, I stayed in the back as much as I could, and made it a point to duck behind other reporters whenever a government official looked my way. And I don’t think I asked more than five or six questions.
When the tour was concluded, and all of our suspicions had been laid to rest until the next time, we were escorted back to the news bus. As we were walking, one of the newsmen sidled up to me.
“Did you get what we came for?” he asked quietly.
“Huh?”
“Or should we send you back in there?”
“Oh, no, I got what we came for all right. It’s… uh… it’s in my pocket.”
He looked at me strangely for a moment, started to say something, then changed his mind.
I got on the bus with the others, found a seat by a window, then hunched down and hid my face as well as I could. When the bus pulled out, we were waved out of sight by friendly government officials, jolly sentries, and smiling dogs.
For most of the ride back to the news channel’s studios, everyone on the bus was turned around in their seats staring at me. Maybe it was the glue dripping down my face from my hair and teeth. Maybe it was my sweaty smile and constant nervous laugh. Or the way I kept saying “Hurry! Hurry!” to the driver. Whatever the reason was, they were staring at me for practically the whole time.
When the bus pulled into the studio parking lot, and I was sure I was safely beyond the reach of the government, I got off the bus and revealed my true identity. Or tried to.
“I’m not really a newsman,” I explained to the people around me, as I tugged at my hair and teeth. Apparently I had used a little too much glue when I had put them on. They wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t say that,” one of them said. “TV anchors are kind of newsmen.”
“Come on, Johnson,” said the man who had spoken to me earlier, taking me firmly by the arm. “You’re on in five minutes.”
“Yeah, but I’m not really Johnson,” I revealed. “I’m some other guy.” This sensational piece of news should have stopped him in his tracks, but I guess he didn’t completely understand what I was saying. My words were kind of garbled. I wasn’t used to talking with such big teeth. “If I could just get these teeth off…” I muttered, yanking at them.
Ignoring my mostly incomprehensible protests, he hustled me into the studio, pushed me down into a chair, then quickly ducked out of sight. Bright lights came on, blinding me. There was thunderous applause. I was on the air!
Looking back on it now, I guess overall I would give my perfor
mance a C-. It wasn’t really bad, but it definitely had room for improvement.
I couldn’t read the teleprompter very well, was one problem. The words were too small and they kept moving all the time. I had to kind of guess at what they said. So that’s probably how that war got started. The one that killed so many people. I feel kind of bad about that. My fault, in a way.
I couldn’t enunciate very well either. That was another problem with my debut. About the only words people could hear clearly was when I fell backwards off my chair and started cursing a blue streak. They could hear all those words fine.
I never did get to the big expose Johnson was supposed to give at the end of the newscast - the one where all the evil things that were going on inside the government facility would finally be revealed. My reporting was so lackluster during the first half of the show – especially during that teen-oriented segment called Newsdance, which featured the top headlines told to you by dance. I felt silly jiggling around like that - the studio audience grew increasingly restless. Finally they snapped.
“That’s not today’s weather!” yelled someone in the back. “That’s yesterday’s sports!”
“He’s right!” shouted someone up front.
The situation quickly escalated into a riot. I don’t know whose idea it had been to have a studio audience for a news broadcast, or to make this Souvenir Bat Night, but whoever it was had miscalculated.
The audience charged the stage, swinging their bats in all directions, demanding responsible journalism, money, women and dope.
Some of the rioters got up on stage and started horsing around with the equipment, pretending they were broadcasting the news to each other.
“President Buttsmell,” announced one young rioter into a microphone, “got a buttache today when he fell on his stupid smell butt. Her-her-her-herherher.”
Security guards started moving forward to stop this unauthorized broadcast, but a producer held up his hand and said “Wait.”
“Butt butt butt butt smelly butt her-her-her,” continued the ‘announcer’.
Before I left the studio I saw this ‘announcer’, and another young man who was making fart sounds with his armpits and buttocks, being signed to fantastic contracts. So I guess you can find talent anywhere. Even show business.
With everyone being distracted by all the rioting, and all the new talent that was being discovered, it seemed like a good opportunity for me to make my escape from the world of journalism. I signed off, then ducked backstage and started looking for a way out.
“Over here, Johnson!” I heard someone shout.
I looked around and saw someone waving to me and holding an emergency exit door open. I knocked him down and ran out, just making it through the door before it closed on me.
I managed to get through all the rioting in the parking lot – they had heard about my broadcast out there too – and got back out onto the street with only minor cuts and bruises, though my fake teeth and hair had sustained major bat damage during the melee. Oh well, they weren’t mine anyway.
When I was far enough away from the studio to feel safe, and was sure no one was after me, I stopped and took a look around. It was the first time I’d had a chance to see what Central City looked like now that I had never been born.
It was wonderful.
CHAPTER TEN
For the rest of the afternoon I wandered around Central City with a big smile on my face. What an improvement! Everything was better now that I wasn’t born.
People were happier, buildings were taller and straighter, the sky was bluer, dogs barked better and louder. There weren’t as many graveyards, or broken noses, and there were far fewer fires. People were right about me being a troublemaker. I saw that now. We probably should have done something about me a long time ago.
After awhile my smile started to fade a bit and I began feeling a little insulted by how much better everything was now. It was getting ridiculous. I mean, how come the pavement was better? What did I have to do with that? Come on! But I couldn’t stay angry for long. Things were just too great.
All my personal problems had gone away too. No debts to be paid, no lifelong enemies to battle, no relatives coming to visit and eat all my food, and, above all, no problems with the authorities. Conklin and his government thugs didn’t even know I had escaped yet. And they never would as long as that party hat stayed on Johnson’s head. And I didn’t have to worry about the local police or the people from the loony bin looking for me either. There was nobody to look for. I didn’t exist. They had never heard of me. I proved this to myself by boldly confronting a policeman on a street corner.
“Are you looking for me?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then no.”
“You don’t want to arrest me?”
He hesitated before answering. “I didn’t a minute ago.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. So long, sucker.”
“So long.”
He watched me go, suspiciously. I still looked suspicious, of course. You can’t change your looks. That shifty expression most of us have will always be there whether we’ve been born or not. But they can’t arrest us for it.
A few people on the streets did recognize me, but it wasn’t as Frank Burly. They recognized me from my television appearance as the reporter Johnson. They waved at me when they saw me and said something about me being lousy. I waved back. I offered to sign autographs for them, but they said maybe later. Fame sure is fleeting. I forget who originally said that.
Since I wasn’t born, I expected my house and office to have other people occupying them, but when I checked them out I found they were both empty. It looked like no one had been in them since they were built. I guess I was the only person on Earth willing to inhabit them. That was a break for me. My lack of taste saved me some trouble there. I moved right back in.
My house was broken down and filled with cobwebs, but not as many as there had been before. It looked quite a bit nicer, in fact. So everything was fine on that score.
But I soon found there were problems associated with not being born. No birthday presents, was the first thing I noticed. When September 22nd rolled around, nobody thought it was an important day at all. I looked in my mailbox a couple of times, but there was nothing there.
A much bigger problem for me though, was my sudden total lack of documentation.
My driver’s license was no longer valid. Gotta be born to have one of those. At least that’s what they told me down at the DMV (after four hours!). I had no bank account either. No private investigator’s license. And my library card was no good.
“Well, shit,” I said.
“Shh!” they replied.
I couldn’t even prove I was old enough to drink, so I found myself in the embarrassing position of having to ask kids to buy beer for me. They did it, but some of them were crying the whole time.
The worst part of it was that I knew there was no way for me to correct any of this. It’s always possible, no matter how bad things get, no matter how much you’ve screwed up your life and smeared your own reputation, to start a new life for yourself somewhere else. Idaho, maybe. They don’t know about us in Idaho. But you have to be alive first. And be able to prove it. Otherwise you’re up Shit Crick. I’d been up Shit Crick before, of course, lots of times – I ran for Mayor in ’96 – but I’d never liked it there. So I wasn’t happy about being there again.
But you can’t just sit around complaining all the time, just because things aren’t going your way. There’s no money in that, kids. At some point you have to get hold of yourself and start striving to do something positive with your life. The only positive thing I could think of to do right then was to get revenge on the little pricks who had gotten me into this. So I began positively looking for Ed and Fred.
I tried all their usual haunts first; the bars and coffee shops they frequented; the newspaper boxes they favored; and that haunted house at th
e carnival they enjoyed heckling. They weren’t in any of their usual places. I decided I needed to expand my search.
I went to an area on the Near North Side called Odd Town. That’s where you’ll find all the people who are a little too odd to live anywhere else. Some zoning thing, I guess. There are lots of aged Hippies in Odd Town, as well as Lazies, Yellers, Stealies and Stupids. I figured even if the ghosts weren’t there, these people might know where I should look. I thought they might be a little more on the ghosts’ wavelength than, say, the guys in the Financial District. As it turned out, I was right.
I talked to a number of unusual people on the streets of Odd Town, many of whom were convinced of some very surprising things: that capitalism would soon be gone and be replaced by something else –photography, I think they said; that the world is being secretly run by politicians; that school teachers are trying to control our minds with their textbooks; that the dinosaurs evolved into flying saucers; all sorts of weird ideas like that. Unfortunately, none of them knew anything about my two ghosts. They just knew everything else.
I spent nearly an hour with one man in a bar who introduced me to what he said was a six foot tall invisible rabbit. I thought he was nuts and told him so, in that nice way I have. He wasn’t offended by my skepticism. He seemed to think that mine was an interesting take on the situation – an alternative view - and was glad we were all taking part in the conversation. Then he told me about how little actual work he did, and how much he enjoyed wasting everybody else’s time. He said he didn’t know where my ghosts might be, but if they did turn up he suggested they might want to play basketball with his rabbit. After he had gone, the bartender told me I was right. The guy was nuts.
“Isn’t there a rabbit?” I asked.
“There’s a rabbit, sure,” he said, “but he left three hours ago.”
He also said I should watch out for the guy because he had just killed a couple of high school kids.
Then someone I ran into on the streets – an old man who said he needed money, but could no longer remember why or how much – told me about a society nearby where they kept track of rains of frogs and rivers of blood and supernatural stuff like that. They might have some info on my ghosts. I gave the man a dime for this information, which he said wasn’t nearly enough, and headed for the building he had pointed out to me.
Dead Men Scare Me Stupid Page 6
