“Ohh-kay,” he said at last, and chuckled nervously. In an uncertain tone, he went right into his presentation, turning his face from us to pace up and down the stage as he spoke. His voice sounded strained, either from embarrassment or from trying to hold in the paunch he had to be suddenly all too aware of.
He talked about the fine. He talked about Lean, and the sad necessity of job cuts, but the bright future that Nepenthe still offered for those who remained. It was all about the customer, after all, he told us…making sure they got the best product they could in the fastest possible way.
There was no applause at the end of his presentation, either. When the announcer called out, “Let’s hear it for Bobby Vook, ladies and gentlemen,”
the most you heard was a few people clicking the buttons on their new pens, their faces set in hard lines as they contemplated their longevity with Nepenthe Pharmaceuticals. Vook waved back at us without actually looking at us as he jogged—no, bolted—off the stage.
Three months later—a year since Bobby Vook’s first meeting to address the pricing issue—I was sitting in the cafeteria trying to eat while assailed by the propaganda spouting from the oversized mounted TV screens spaced about the great room, when I heard my coworker Albert say, “Hey, look, it’s Vook.” He pointed toward the nearest screen.
There, we saw a photo of Bobby Vook taken when he still wore his sandy hair in a bland conservative cut, and small steel-framed spectacles. Words scrolled below the pleasantly smiling portrait, which read: “It is with great sadness that we report the passing away of our friend of many years, Bobby Vook.
Last night, Bobby took his own life at home, where his body was discovered by his wife, Tilly. He is also survived by his sons Tommy and Billy. We will keep you up to date on funeral details, but in the meantime, all the Nepenthe Pharmaceuticals facilities across the globe unite to share our grief…”
“What the Vook?” Albert exclaimed.
The scrolling words were cut off by a strobe flash of static. For a few moments, through watery, wavering distortions, I saw a figure dancing…twirling…grinning into the camera. Though I couldn’t hear the words he was singing, I did see that he wore a crooked black top hat with a lime green ribbon. But then the static returned to swallow that image, and when it cleared, the screen returned to its endless stream of Nepenthe’s very own programming.
We learned more about Vook’s passing in the newspapers, in the days that followed. Vook did indeed die in his home, specifically in his bathroom, where he was found curled on the floor in a pool of his vomit, wearing nothing but his steel-rimmed specs and the black sweater upon which glowed, in orange and green fibers, the logo of Nepenthe Pharmaceuticals. He had died from an over-dose of the sleep aid LethargEase, one of our company’s numerous products.
I wasn’t one of those to have his job cut, as it turned out, though coworkers dropped away around me like war buddies gunned down by a remote, dispassionate enemy. Over my lunch in the cafeteria the day I learned of Bobby Vook’s suicide, I became rather philosophical. It occurred to me that Bobby Vook was one of us, after all—at least in one respect. He had not only helped to implement the Lean process that was to cut so many workers from Nepenthe Pharmaceuticals, but he had cut himself from those ranks, as well.
#9: Waltered States
After several evenings of sitting on the carpet to watch TV together, this time Hee suggested we both sit in the recliner instead. We were pressed into it so snugly that she was practically in my lap. I was afraid that she would take note of my subsequent state of tumidity, but if she did she didn’t call attention to it.
She watched TV with a zealot’s devotion. Changing the channel with my remote, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, oh, I’ve been wanting to watch this documentary about Rake and Widget!” She set the remote down on a smooth brown thigh (oh lucky, lucky remote) and clapped her hands like a child half her age (she had told me she was eighteen, which was a relief—her personality, if not her former occupation, had led me to think she was a year or two younger).
“Who are Rake and Widget?”
“A music group. This is one of the new channels I’ve been watching ever since the night we lost power for a while.”
Without admitting to having been the cause of that incident, I asked,
“Where do you think these channels are coming from?”
“Other dimensions,” she said easily. “I sure wish Rake and Widget were in this dimension—I love them. Shh, now.” She pressed a finger to my lips, and I had an impulse to take it wholly into my mouth but she drew it away first.
The documentary began by following a musical performer of this other dimension named Walter Egan, as a limousine delivered him at some TV or movie studio, a handheld camera shadowing him all the way. This Walter Egan had an attractive head of fluffy, snowy hair and looked unpretentiously casual in his dark glasses, black t-shirt and jeans. Inside the studio, on a small sound-stage around which were gathered cameras and clusters of lights, a flurry of smiling, more self-consciously attired individuals greeted the musician enthusiastically. Chief among these grinning hand-shakers was a slender youngish man who introduced himself to Egan as Teddy Winsome, his tan set off by his expensive light-colored shirt and slacks.
“Walter,” Teddy Winsome gushed, pumping Egan’s hand, “I can’t tell you how exciting it is that you could make it today to watch Rake and Widget shoot this video.”
“Well, it was fun to be flown in here for this,” said Egan. “I’m flattered these guys wanted to cover my song.”
“Oh, they love Tunnel O’ Love. It’s such a cool song, Walter; it has to be the raunchiest song I’ve ever heard. I think that’s why the boys thought it would be fun to do it. It was very important to them that you get to see the shoot. God, we’re all such fans of your work, here!” He waved an arm to encompass the large, scattered crew of technicians, camera operators, makeup artists, publicity people and the like. Winsome went on, “I’ve been meaning to check out some of your newer work, like Walternative—what a great title that is! But Magnet and Steel from ‘78—oh wow, Walter, who doesn’t love that song? Such a classic. I had such a crush on Stevie Nicks when I was a teenager—and who didn’t, huh? I suggested to Rake and Widget they try to get her to do backing vocals for their cover of Tunnel O’Love, like she did for you, but ah…” his smile flickered and he shrugged “…they have their own vision, you know. They’re the artists, not me, right?” Winsome gave a nervous-sounding little laugh. He had an anxious sort of energy, like a dog waiting to be swatted again with his master’s rolled up newspaper.
I noticed, and it seemed to me that Egan noticed too, that there were some dark red stains on the front legs of Winsome’s slacks below the knees, as if he might have spilled some food on himself or maybe knelt down in something wet, but Winsome didn’t appear to notice the stains himself.
“So, ah, are you the director, Teddy?” Egan asked.
“Director? Oh no,” Winsome chuckled, darting a look over his shoulder, perhaps startled by the sound of the crew behind him as they rearranged the position of a set of lights. “Rake and Widget direct themselves. I’m their liaison here.”
“Liaison?”
“Their agent, more simply.”
Egan nodded, glancing over at the large greenscreen backdrop the cameras and lights were trained on. The performers would be photographed against this field of lime green, and another background or series of backgrounds later added behind them using the process called chroma key.
Looking back to Winsome, the singer said, “You know, sorry to say I’d never heard of these guys before.”
Winsome blinked at Egan several times, his smile uncertain, as if he thought the songwriter might be kidding him. He wagged his head. “Rake andWidget, Walter. They’re huge right now.” He waved a scolding finger at Egan and joked, “You know, it’s not the seventies anymore, Walter.”
Egan smiled politely and said, “Well Teddy, I’m sorry, but I follow all kin
ds of music, and I just never heard of these guys until the request to cover my song. And I still haven’t had the chance to hear anything by them. What kind of style do they have, anyway?”
“Oh, they’re very versatile! They can do just about any kind of genre.
Rockabilly, reggae, blues, punk…”
“Teddy! Teddy!” someone called. “It’s the boys!”
Egan and Winsome turned—Winsome with a brittle grin pinned onto his face—and the handheld camera that had been bobbing beside them, covering their conversation, whipped around woozily and settled on two figures as they approached the pair.
The figures couldn’t have been more different. One of them—Rake, I was to learn in a moment—was very tall and rail thin, appearing all the taller and thinner in his tight black jacket and tight black jeans. He wore black cowboy boots, and a bolo tie with a large turquoise stone offset by his black shirt. On his head, brim pulled low, was a black straw cowboy hat. It further shadowed eyes that were already deep-set in a gaunt, ashen face. His long sideburns, mustache and goatee were so black and geometrically trimmed that they looked like barely convincing theatrical appliances.
The documentary cut to a closeup of Egan, his eyes unreadable behind their dark lenses but his mouth hanging open a little, as he took in the smaller—much smaller—of the musical duo.
Widget had a waddling, floating sort of walk, his feet rising too high in an exaggerated simulation of walking. He was maybe thirty-five or forty inches tall, with the proportions of a child or dwarf, his stubby arms floating out to his sides. He wore a white, short-sleeved dress shirt under a green set of lederhosen with traditional suspenders and drop front flap. His glossy hair looked like a dollop of blood red ice cream atop his head, his bunched cheeks freckled and huge eyes emerald green. His jaw was hinged, and his limbs jointed, because Widget was a doll who moved as if suspended from wires—though I saw no wires, from where I sat. I even saw Egan look up at the ceiling of the sound-stage, as if he might find some puppeteers dressed in black hiding up in the rafters, but from the way he jerked his head this way, then that, and looked down again at Widget in incredulity, I assumed that he spotted no such puppeteers.
Rake continued forward until he stood beside, loomed over, the two men, but Widget had lagged behind, distracted by a pretty female crew member whose wrist he had taken in his articulated little fingers. When the camera turned his way again, Widget was heard saying to the woman in a lilting, high-pitched voice, “Oh come on, baby—once you go mannequin you’ll never go man again.”
“Widget,” Winsome called, “I want you to meet Walter Egan. Rake, meet Walter.”
“Sure is a pleasure, mm-hm,” the tall, black-clad figure drawled in a deep monotone, shaking Egan’s hand. Did the rock singer actually flinch at his grip? Was it that strong? Or that cold?
“Nice to meet you guys, too,” Egan said, squeezing circulation or warmth back into his right hand with his left.
At last Widget came walking over. It almost appeared that his feet didn’t always touch the ground as he moved. “Yeah, hi, Walter. So let’s get this road on the show, already. Where are those backup whores?” His head twisted 360 degrees, apparently in search of some women who would appear in the video, too.
Winsome said, “Widget, I was telling Walter that I had suggested getting his friend Stevie Nicks to do backing vocals for the song.”
“Fuck that,” Widget chirped, his voice sweeter than the sugared tears of angels. “But I wouldn’t mind slipping her my Louisville Slugger.”
Rake concurred, “She’s a fine lookin’ little filly, I’ll give you that, mm-hm.”Widget said, “I did give her a very special invitation to come down and watch us shoot the video, too, but she turned me down.” One of his eyes winked at Egan with a wooden click.
Egan just stared back at the doll for a few beats, his mouth leaning toward a scowl, but then he tried on a belated smile in an obvious attempt to keep things pleasant, and said, “Well, um, since I’m here maybe it would be fun for the video version if, I don’t know, I did some backing vocals for the chorus with the backup girls, or something.”
“A cameo!” Winsome said brightly, turning to Widget with a grin that seemed to quiver with pure dread.
Widget said in that angelic voice of his, “We’re Rake and Widget, not a fucking trio. Look, we just want to use your song—this isn’t like a fucking Walter Egan tribute album or anything.”
“Now, Widget,” Winsome said, wagging a gently scolding finger.
The puppet turned to Winsome and gave him an abrupt kick in the right shin, with a crack of wood against bone. The cause of the dark stains on the man’s pants suddenly became apparent. Winsome clenched his teeth and doubled over a little, but straightened up quickly, smiling again, his eyes tearing.
“Now what? ” the puppet demanded of Winsome. His articulated eyebrows had turned down over his eyes in a look of cherubic fury.
“Hey, hey, come on now!” Egan said, taking a step forward as if to put himself between Winsome and the diminutive marionette, should Widget move to kick the man again. “What’s the problem here? You’re way out of line.”
“I’m out of line?” Widget said.
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, boys.” It was Winsome who stepped between Egan and Widget, chuckling as he said, “Let’s not get silly, here.” He took the rock singer’s arm and pulled him over to the side, out of earshot. In a hurried whisper teetering at the edge of panic, Winsome said, “Walter… please, now. Just hang in there, okay? Rake and Widget are visiting here from…somewhere else, and we just want to keep them happy.” His hand closed tightly on Egan’s wrist, and his tone became even more desperate. “We don’t want to make them angry!”
“Well I’m starting to get a little angry, here, myself, Teddy. Look at the way that thing kicked you, man!”
“Shhhhh!” Winsome’s eyes bulged. “I’m okay, it doesn’t matter, just…play along please, will you? Look, I’m going to write you a check before you leave, for the use of your song and for…just being cool. It’ll be a very generous check, Walter. Just…stay cool.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. But you’re the one with the bloody shins, Teddy.”
“That a boy, Walter. Let’s get back in there and have some fun.” With his hand on Egan’s back, Winsome began steering the singer to rejoin the others, but Egan stopped and turned to the liaison again.
“Teddy…so is it Rake who controls Widget?”
Winsome looked utterly confused, as though he’d been addressed in a foreign language. “Controls?”
“I mean, who does his voice?”
Winsome laughed, as if Egan were pulling his leg. “Nobody does his voice, Walter. He does his own voice. This is Rake and Widget, not Milli Vanilli.”
Walter and Winsome stood off to one side as an opening shot for the video got underway. It wasn’t at first apparent what would appear behind Rake and Widget, later, in place of the greenscreen.
Here, between bits of the video shoot, shown from different angles, sections of the finished video were cut into the documentary. The background turned out to be a brightly-lit, tiled tunnel like one might find leading into a subway station, its ceiling arched, its walls and ceiling and even the floor painted glossy pink. All of it dripping wet, streams of moisture running down the wall tiles to join puddles on the floor.
Against this background, Rake and Widget appeared to be constantly walking toward the camera, as if through an endless tunnel. In reality, Rake and Widget were walking on a slowly moving treadmill on the sound-stage, Rake’s long legs working in easy strides, his upper body rigid, while Widget had assumed a kind of stomping rhythm that matched the song’s raunchy beat, his body moving side-to-side, his fists looking balled at his sides for trouble, his brows lowered in an expression apparently meant this time to look intense instead of furious. Had his hard wooden jaw been replaced at some point? His former sweetly smiling mouth was now more of a naughty pout.
First, R
ake began singing. The deep monotone of his singing voice was little different from his speaking voice. His style was a little bit country, a little bit sepulchral. And his eyes never blinked.
Rake sang:
“Anytime you want me to do a little choreDon’t you know I’m waiting down at your back doorIndicate the feeling that you think is fineAnd you know your wish would soon be mine”
Now Widget took the chorus . In his seraphic, singsong singing voice, he tended to draw out certain words, making his voice even cuter. He sang:
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, baby, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, mama, take me inside”
“Inside” being delivered by Widget as, “Iiiiinsiiiiide.”
Now back to Rake, who sang:
“Ooh, you’re such a comfort, ooh, you’re such a thrillOoh, the way you hold me when you say you will”
And Widget took up:
“I’m like a volcano ready to erupt
Baby, when you treat me to your sweet, sweet stuff”
He stretched out this last as, “Sweeeeet, sweeeeet stuff.”
Nocturnal Emissions Page 22
