Authors: Frank Cammuso
2007-Eleven (8 page)
Way I heard it, the dude was camped in gramma’s bed, wearing gramma’s Playtex living girdle. I mean, a wolf ain’t supposed to do that.
You saying it’s OK to go Jayne Mansfield on a brother simply because he’s between gramma’s sheets, wearing gramma’s unmentionables? That what you’re saying?
Look, I’m saying I agree that Woodsman overreacted, but Harry should’ve known better. Eat your meal, but don’t play with your food. That’s all.
Interesting point. OK, it’s time. Let’s get in character.
Knock knock.
Little pig, little pig … THE PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS MAN …
P
iggy, are they coming after us?
Yeah, Pork Chop.
Will they get in?
No.
Thump.
What’s that? In the living room. Oh, baby, I’m scared.
Wait here, Piglet. I’ll be right back.
Pig peers around the corner and sees Wolf at the fireplace, beating on his smouldering tail. He empties a .45 into Wolf, splitting open his belly and causing blood to pour out onto the thick shag carpet. Wolf staggers and falls, writhing, into a cauldron of boiling water.
W
hat happened back there was an act of God, you hear what I’m saying? That whole damn house just exploded, blew apart like cheap Kleenex. It’s a miracle we’re alive.
Hey, it was luck. That’s all. Like you said, it was just a haystack, and this wood shanty looks just as
cheap. Jesus, the pig didn’t even bother to use nails. How do they live like that? Let’s go get him.
No way. I’m quitting. First, it’s that Red Riding Hood incident, then the straw hut, and now this—we’re cruising Fairy Land with a dead pig in the backseat. I’ve had it. I ain’t huffing these sticks. I’m outtahere.
C’mon, man, you can’t quit. How you gonna live?
Way I see it, I’m gonna be a lone wolf. Gonna find me a flock of sheep guarded by some punk with a reputation for calling in false alarms, and I’m just gonna, you know, chill with the lambs.
You’re full of it. No sheep’s gonna trust you. Look at you. You’re salivating now, just thinking about ‘em. C’mon, man, you’re a big bad wolf. This is your job. You can’t just quit.
Done deal. Know what’s wrong with this world? There’s too many fairy frickin’ godmothers flying around, granting wishes. Everybody expects to win at Lotto. Nobody wants to take responsibility. Well, that’s what I’m doing.
You know, I used to recite the Brothers Grimm because I thought the tales offered clear distinctions between good and evil. The older I get, the more I
figure those stories just tell about the weak and the strong. Life is a choice between the two. Yeah, I’m a big bad wolf. But I can change. What happened back there was a sign. I’m gonna heed it. From here on, I’m living happily evermothergoosinafter.
Excerpts from
King George III,
the newly discovered play
penned by William Shakespeare.
February.
ACT I, SCENE I. In a field. Thunder and lightning.
RIZZUTO:
Single, double; bullpen trouble.
Owner burn and pitcher bubble.
Though great’st by far his minions be, They’re not great’st by far, enough, for he.
What huckl’berries these mortals be!
YOGI:
’Tis déjà vu—again, I see.
(
Enter George, holding ball.
)
GEORGE
: O’er my hearth doth hang the bejeweled broom of series swept.
Yet the stone floor mocks surly ‘neath a new season’s dirt.
O, budget: Thou art paid to brutish beasts!
O Bernie! O Jeter! O Rivera! O’Neill!
And Good David Wells! The hurler burly! Paw of south!
Thane of ale and team!
ALL
: Maker of the perfect game!
GEORGE:
Ye hath restored the crown to its rightful throne.
Alas, one soul whose yonder curveball breaks
Holds my heart in his split-fingered grip.
O, Roger Clemens, rocket of northern skies domed.
No owner hath lesser need for thee, and yet:
This is the A.L. East, and Roger is the Cy Young.
RIZZUTO:
Holy cow! His heart’s imprison’d!
YOGI:
To be, it is. To b’not, it isn’t.
ACT II, SCENE III. In the owner’s box. Enter Ghost.
GEORGE
: Angels and ministers of security, defend me!
What botch of nature doth appear before me?
GHOST:
I am the spirit of ye managers fired.
I bring news sure to screaming headlines capture.
To-night, the Jays tender Clemens to the bidder high.
His breast shall be pin-striped before the cock crows.
But the ransom shall cut sharper than an agent’s tooth:
To-night, David Wells shall from thy castle be snatched, And ye shall be the robber.
GEORGE:
Nay! That the heart of my rotation I would sell?
‘Tis a trade rumor told by an idiot, signifying nothing.
True, Clemens in my coat could capture six-and-twenty.
But to peddle dear David; aye, there’s the rub.
‘Tis nobler in the mind to keep him.
GHOST:
Owner, is not your summer of discontent foreseen?
Your staff shall wilt ‘neath the gravity of innings hurled.
Put a pennant in thy purse.
Your Wells has drunk ten cups to-night,
And not the milk of human kindness.
Come May, he will be as full of quarrel and offense
As old Ripken’s back.
Put a pennant in thy purse.
Clemens’ hard heaves still bloody his receiver’s leathered palm.
He painteth corners and maketh music of men’s chins.
Lash Wells to a lesser pair and etch their travel tickets,
To-ronto, and To-ronto, and To-ronto.
Put a pennant in thy purse.
(
Ghost exits.
)
GEORGE:
Wine of victory: Must thou always roil from rott’d fruit?
Torre, quickly! Screw your courage to the trading-place!
Opening Day.
ACT V, SCENE VIII. In a dugout.
RIZZUTO:
The unkind’st cut doth poorly sells.
YOGI:
All is not well that endeth Wells.…
GEORGE:
O what a rouge and peasant owner I am!
Betrayal: Thou art known to me as wife.
(
George points a dagger to his heart.
)
Good-bye, good team. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
(
Cashman enters.
)
CASHMAN:
My liege! Saint Louis whispers dangerous truths into my ear.
McGwire, the Ruthian knight, doth be for sale. (
George throws away the dagger.
)
GEORGE
: Hark, hark, the Mark!
Cashman, quickly! Send Tino Martinez to the block.
Cut the deal!
CASHMAN
: Et, Tino, boss?
GEORGE
: A row of murderers I shall have. O what teams may come!
RIZZUTO
: Unb’lievable! What? A minute, wait!
L’mmie get this in, ’fore ’tis too late.
Get well, Ophelia, in Albany.
YOGI:
’Tis over now, ’cause ov’r it be.
I
t was a cold day in April, and the digital clocks were flashing thirteen. Winston Smith scanned his card at the door, nodded respectfully to the security camera outside No. 4, and began leafing through the letters that spilled from his mailbox. They came from celebrities hoping to save wildlife and from the chief executive officers of global corporations. “Dear W. Smith,” one said. “Have you ever sent a fax from the beach? YOU WILL.”
This rattled Winston. He feared beaches, where hot sands often concealed medical wastes. For a frightening moment, Winston wondered if he really wanted the freedom to watch five hundred TV channels or access the electronic-data superhighway from a laptop computer. To calm himself, Winston swallowed a Prozac, grabbed his precious remote box, and flicked on the telescreen. A woman with the piercing, all-knowing eyes of
a TV reporter smiled at him. He knew her as Murphy.
“Trying to figure out which telephone company gives you the best deal?” Murphy said. “Only Sprint offers you The Most. It’s like a billionmegabyte brain in your phone. It figures out who you call the most, then gives you a twenty percent discount on long-distance rates to that number. It’s
that
simple.”
Winston broke into a cold sweat. He’d heard of rebel phone companies but until now had never dreamed of joining one. Murphy vanished from the screen, replaced by a show devoted to the capture of criminals. But Winston still thought about Murphy.
“I will,” he said finally, dialing the number she had projected. “I WILL!”
That night, Winston dreamed of making love to Murphy and saving 20 percent on long-distance rates.
He awoke next morning to the telescreen, where a large, bald man stood before a map of Oceana. “Here’s what’s happening in your world as we speak,” the man said. Winston waited for instructions. The phone rang. A frantic voice shouted, “We want you back, W. Smith! WE WANT YOU BACK!”
This rattled Winston. He thought about nothing else while riding the train to the Ministry of Truth, where he worked in the Department of Conventional Wisdom. That morning, a programmer named O’Brien pulled Winston into a back room.
“We heard through e-mail that you’re switching,” O’Brien whispered. “Before you do, think about it. Think about what’s important.
“I’m making a list, Smith,” O’Brien continued. “It’s my ‘Friends and Family Circle’ list. You could be on it. But in return, we need a list from you. We need to know whom we can count on. Join MCI, and you’ll cut long-distance bills by twenty percent. Of course, certain restrictions apply. What do you say, comrade? Will you join?”
“I will,” Winston said. “I WILL.”
O’Brien’s beeper sounded. The two men scurried to their workstations.
That night, as Winston entered No. 4, his phone was ringing. Before he could answer it, three intruders leaped from the shadows and pressed the Yellow Pages to Winston’s mouth. His mind went blank.
Later, all he would remember were the words “Have a nice day.”
He awoke lashed to a chair. At a console sat O’Brien.
“It was the Talk Police, Smith!” the programmer whimpered. “They reached out and touched me. They showed me … Reason Number 101.”
“Dear God!” Winston said. He had heard of the more than eight hundred reasons not to leave AT&T. The mere thought of Reason 101 turned his bowels to water.
“Answer one question, and we’ll release you!” O’Brien said. “With the other companies, how much do you save?”
“That’s easy, O’Brien. I save up to twenty percent. It’s that sim—AHHH.”
A painful busy signal shot through Winston’s body.
“Let me repeat my question, sir! How much do you
save?”
“O’Brien, you know the answer! Up to twenty perce—AHHH!”
“YOU SAVE PENNIES, SMITH! DO YOU HEAR? PENNIES! FOR PENNIES, YOU GIVE UP
SERVICE,
SMITH. IT’S JUST ANOTHER PART OF ‘THE I PLAN.’ YOU GIVE UP SERVICE—FOR PENNIES!”
“But O’Brien, you said—AHHHH—”
Months later, his resistance broken, Winston
shouted the answer O’Brien sought and came to recite the slogans of TrueVoice:
Clarity Is Peace.
Interruptions Are Slavery.
Caller ID Is Security.
After his release, Winston never again listened to Murphy on his telescreen. He accepted without question all the coming technologies. He never went anywhere without his laptop. He had won the struggle over himself. He loved Ma Bell and Big Blue.