As I was leaving work yesterday, I found several crumpled sheets of paper wedged underneath a waste bin in the B3 stairwell of my company's parking garage. I untwisted the mass of stationary and tried to make sense of the document. The six grimy pages contained what looked like a manifesto, or perhaps notes for a speech. The handwriting was terrible, a puzzling maze of smudged scrawls and scribbled asides. It looked as though some frantic mental patient had written it on a dare, and the apparent subject matter didn't discourage my assumption.
I spread the pages on top of the trunk of my car, fetching a
notepad and pen from my briefcase. With care, I began to decipher each word and piece together every sentence. As I worked, a few people from my office entered the parking level. They were on the way to their own cars, ready to leave for the day, and noticed that I was up to something. I slid my briefcase over the pages of the speech as they approached me. I told them everything was fine, to go off and enjoy their night. They eventually left me alone, and I continued my work.
It took quite a long time to legibly transcribe the entirety of the speech. I was careful to
maintain the proper order, as the treatise seemed to veer off into wild digressions as it slowly snaked its way toward resolution. Once every bit of text was there in my notepad, I was able to read the document in full. However, its purpose still eluded me, still begged for comprehension that the document itself did not provide.
If this were indeed a speech, it surely would have been meant for a department much different than the one I managed. Its conclusion was unfathomable to me. I couldn't imagine anyone from the company suggesting that my team should open the trench, that we should peer into the hypnotic eyes of our shadow selves on the other side of the invisible fold. After all, it was my department's job to keep the dark portrait of humanity from that other world as far away as possible.
I packed up and drove home, tried my best later to hide my unease from my wife and kids.
I couldn't get to sleep that night; nothing seemed to quiet my mind. It occurred to me that the speech was likely an early draft, carelessly abandoned in favor of an updated version. Or versions. That was the natural order beyond the trench, after all: many versions of the same world, bound together by the one that was determined to absorb all the rest. We enjoyed ignorance for far too long, but we learned from the absorption of others what horrors can fill a void. If this speech was a call for us to abandon our crucial post, then I would have to be ready to demonstrate the depth of the trench.
Today, I am ready for the next phase. Perhaps it will be an unscheduled meeting, perhaps it will circulate as an office memo from an unknown source. That's all it will take for me to alert my superiors on the 38th floor. If they will not listen to me, or if they are already party to this madness - which I fear that they are - then I will alert the other inhabitants of my world. I will start with my coworkers and our clients, then every contact I've encountered in this business over the years. I will hide out for a while on B3, bide my time until those that would silence me have stopped looking, and then I'll escape the building to warn anyone within earshot of my voice until I can reach the largest stage that I can find. I have prepared a speech of my own.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Not That Dude
"I'm not that dude," was a troubling form of punctuation that Diane had heard Connor use on several occasions. Usually the conversation would be about some vague scheme with unclear motives, such as "I could be on the news any day of the week, but I'm not that dude." Diane never asked him to go on, would usually mutter something non-committal like "Uh-huh," or "Yeah," as a new red flag silently joined the others already residing in her brain.
Of course, this didn't stop Diane from answering his late-night texts, and it certainly didn't stop her from "dropping by" Connor's house on Brierwood Lane Friday evenings after work. She'd usually arrive at dusk, armed with a six-pack of Rolling Rock or a fifth of whatever was cheapest that week at Turnstile Liquor. Conner would open the door without saying hello, and she'd kick her shoes off just inside his front door, already anticipating the inevitable escape she'd pull off before the sun would rise on Saturday.
It was on one such Friday night that Diane pulled her blue Civic up to Connor's curb. She never parked in the driveway. She did at first, but Connor was picky about how people parked, so she started parking at the curb to avoid the topic altogether. She grabbed a plastic Turnstile sack from the passenger seat and walked across his lawn, perfectly manicured as ever despite the trademark shittiness in every other aspect of Connor's world.
That includes you, you know, she thought.
"Oh, right. I hadn't thought of that," Diane said to no one as she pressed the doorbell. Reflex caused her legs to feel as though they would carry her inside almost immediately, like the ghost of a Panama City undercurrent tugging on her ankles after a long day in the ocean.
The door stood closed. Diane pressed on the doorbell again just as she heard shouts erupt from behind her. She scanned the neighborhood and saw Connor across the street, struggling to stand in the front lawn of the house that faced his own. His shirt was ripped at the collar and there was a bloody spot near one of his eyebrows. Connor was yelling at a man that Diane had seen before, a neighbor, though not one that lived in the house across the street.
The man stood tall and shirtless from the front porch. Connor attempted to walk up the porch stairs, maybe to go back inside the house, and the neighbor effortlessly shoved him back. This caused Connor to careen backward off the porch and land on his shoulder with a thud on the grass. Diane gasped, though it was obvious that the push wasn't the first of it. Through the house's open front door, she saw pieces of broken glass glint up from the carpeted floor inside.
It took a few attempts, but Connor eventually picked himself up and staggered away from the house across the street, back toward his own place. He shot his middle finger upward as he walked, which almost caused him to trip on the curb. The man watched him get as far as the street then went back inside. Before the door closed, Diane saw a woman hand the tall man a beer and smack him on the ass. It sounded like they were listening to disco music over there.
Connor continued across the street and noticed Diane's car before he noticed Diane. He leaned against it and pulled a flattened pack of cigarettes from his jeans. Diane walked to him. Connor put one in his mouth and fished around for a lighter somewhere on his body, but couldn't seem to find one. His eyes, glassy and bloodshot, crawled up Diane's body and found her face.
"Got a light?" he muttered. Diane wasn't sure if he was drunk or on something, but it was definitely one of the two. Probably both.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked him.
He sighed and put the bent cigarette behind his ear.
"Who was that guy?" she continued. "Are you in trouble?"
"Don't worry about it, 'kay? Just some stuff." He grabbed Diane's hand and began to pull her with him as he started toward his front door. "C'mon," he said. "You know I'm not that dude."
Diane jerked her hand away from his and stood her ground on his lawn, waiting for a real explanation. Connor slowly turned to look at her. The blood was now rolling from his brow down to his cheek and he looked tired, but nothing in his eyes seemed to register that something was wrong. He shrugged and stumbled into his house. After a moment, Diane plucked the plastic Turnstile bag from Connor's perfect lawn and joined him inside.
Several hours later, she was back in her blue Civic, pulling it away from the curb and down Brierwood Lane. It was time for Diane to be home, not for any reason other than that's where she wanted to be.
Diane didn't live far from Connor, only a five minute drive from his house to her apartment on Ash Street. It was exclusively within the span of that distance on these dark, early Saturday morning drives that Diane would wonder what Connor considered their relationship to be, or if he considered what they had to be a relationship at all. For her part, she tried to not think of it in those terms, though she recognized that wondering was usually the first step.
If she really had to admit it, either to herself or to anybody else on the planet that wanted to know, she hoped Connor wasn't that dude.
Of course, this didn't stop Diane from answering his late-night texts, and it certainly didn't stop her from "dropping by" Connor's house on Brierwood Lane Friday evenings after work. She'd usually arrive at dusk, armed with a six-pack of Rolling Rock or a fifth of whatever was cheapest that week at Turnstile Liquor. Conner would open the door without saying hello, and she'd kick her shoes off just inside his front door, already anticipating the inevitable escape she'd pull off before the sun would rise on Saturday.
It was on one such Friday night that Diane pulled her blue Civic up to Connor's curb. She never parked in the driveway. She did at first, but Connor was picky about how people parked, so she started parking at the curb to avoid the topic altogether. She grabbed a plastic Turnstile sack from the passenger seat and walked across his lawn, perfectly manicured as ever despite the trademark shittiness in every other aspect of Connor's world.
That includes you, you know, she thought.
"Oh, right. I hadn't thought of that," Diane said to no one as she pressed the doorbell. Reflex caused her legs to feel as though they would carry her inside almost immediately, like the ghost of a Panama City undercurrent tugging on her ankles after a long day in the ocean.
The door stood closed. Diane pressed on the doorbell again just as she heard shouts erupt from behind her. She scanned the neighborhood and saw Connor across the street, struggling to stand in the front lawn of the house that faced his own. His shirt was ripped at the collar and there was a bloody spot near one of his eyebrows. Connor was yelling at a man that Diane had seen before, a neighbor, though not one that lived in the house across the street.
The man stood tall and shirtless from the front porch. Connor attempted to walk up the porch stairs, maybe to go back inside the house, and the neighbor effortlessly shoved him back. This caused Connor to careen backward off the porch and land on his shoulder with a thud on the grass. Diane gasped, though it was obvious that the push wasn't the first of it. Through the house's open front door, she saw pieces of broken glass glint up from the carpeted floor inside.
It took a few attempts, but Connor eventually picked himself up and staggered away from the house across the street, back toward his own place. He shot his middle finger upward as he walked, which almost caused him to trip on the curb. The man watched him get as far as the street then went back inside. Before the door closed, Diane saw a woman hand the tall man a beer and smack him on the ass. It sounded like they were listening to disco music over there.
Connor continued across the street and noticed Diane's car before he noticed Diane. He leaned against it and pulled a flattened pack of cigarettes from his jeans. Diane walked to him. Connor put one in his mouth and fished around for a lighter somewhere on his body, but couldn't seem to find one. His eyes, glassy and bloodshot, crawled up Diane's body and found her face.
"Got a light?" he muttered. Diane wasn't sure if he was drunk or on something, but it was definitely one of the two. Probably both.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked him.
He sighed and put the bent cigarette behind his ear.
"Who was that guy?" she continued. "Are you in trouble?"
"Don't worry about it, 'kay? Just some stuff." He grabbed Diane's hand and began to pull her with him as he started toward his front door. "C'mon," he said. "You know I'm not that dude."
Diane jerked her hand away from his and stood her ground on his lawn, waiting for a real explanation. Connor slowly turned to look at her. The blood was now rolling from his brow down to his cheek and he looked tired, but nothing in his eyes seemed to register that something was wrong. He shrugged and stumbled into his house. After a moment, Diane plucked the plastic Turnstile bag from Connor's perfect lawn and joined him inside.
Several hours later, she was back in her blue Civic, pulling it away from the curb and down Brierwood Lane. It was time for Diane to be home, not for any reason other than that's where she wanted to be.
Diane didn't live far from Connor, only a five minute drive from his house to her apartment on Ash Street. It was exclusively within the span of that distance on these dark, early Saturday morning drives that Diane would wonder what Connor considered their relationship to be, or if he considered what they had to be a relationship at all. For her part, she tried to not think of it in those terms, though she recognized that wondering was usually the first step.
If she really had to admit it, either to herself or to anybody else on the planet that wanted to know, she hoped Connor wasn't that dude.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Opening to "Cave Demon Roommate" (1984)
An upbeat, jazzy intro to the show's theme song begins. Edison explains the premise over the music; clips from the pilot episode tell the story.
"Rent was too high in the city, so I found a nice cave to move into. Well, 'nice' might be pushing it - it was okay. My first night in the cave was lonely, but I didn't know that Miles, a demon, was watching over me. We didn't exactly get along at first, but now we're the best of friends."
The saxophone solo from the intro ends and the theme song proper, "The Best of Each Other" (sung by Bobby Caldwell), begins playing over a montage of the following basic scenarios: Edison and Miles hanging out at a pet store (Miles eats a tarantula), going to the library (Edison wants to talk to a pretty girl, but can't), and eating ice cream cones on a park bench (Miles gets brain freeze). Back in the cave, they place a "Home, Sweet Home" sign crookedly over a pile of human bones.
Finally, the duo are shown on a mountain peak surrounded by swirling dark clouds. Edison clumsily hands Miles a sacrificial dagger, apparently meant for a goat that looks on nervously from the background. Instead of that gruesome act, Miles uses the dagger to divide a sandwich into three parts, one for Edison, one for himself, and one for their dark master, Forneus (played by reoccurring guest star William Hickey), who takes the biggest sandwich piece and open-mouth smiles to the camera.
The song ends on a freeze frame of Edison and Miles shaking hands while wearing cheerleader uniforms (also from the pilot episode). Over this still, the executive producer credits appear for Carla Reed, the Church of Putrid Decay, and Jerry Hewitt.
Each week's episode usually opens with an exterior shot of the cave.
"Rent was too high in the city, so I found a nice cave to move into. Well, 'nice' might be pushing it - it was okay. My first night in the cave was lonely, but I didn't know that Miles, a demon, was watching over me. We didn't exactly get along at first, but now we're the best of friends."
The saxophone solo from the intro ends and the theme song proper, "The Best of Each Other" (sung by Bobby Caldwell), begins playing over a montage of the following basic scenarios: Edison and Miles hanging out at a pet store (Miles eats a tarantula), going to the library (Edison wants to talk to a pretty girl, but can't), and eating ice cream cones on a park bench (Miles gets brain freeze). Back in the cave, they place a "Home, Sweet Home" sign crookedly over a pile of human bones.
Finally, the duo are shown on a mountain peak surrounded by swirling dark clouds. Edison clumsily hands Miles a sacrificial dagger, apparently meant for a goat that looks on nervously from the background. Instead of that gruesome act, Miles uses the dagger to divide a sandwich into three parts, one for Edison, one for himself, and one for their dark master, Forneus (played by reoccurring guest star William Hickey), who takes the biggest sandwich piece and open-mouth smiles to the camera.
The song ends on a freeze frame of Edison and Miles shaking hands while wearing cheerleader uniforms (also from the pilot episode). Over this still, the executive producer credits appear for Carla Reed, the Church of Putrid Decay, and Jerry Hewitt.
Each week's episode usually opens with an exterior shot of the cave.
Home Inspection
It had been a long time since Greg had gotten any real satisfaction from robbing houses. Lately, it just felt like he was evening the score, like pulling out an old, dusty eraser and wiping the slate clean. Well, as clean as it could get with a dusty eraser.
He knew what to look for, which neighborhoods to hit. When he had first started out, those dark and desperate days back in Houston, he hadn't liked anyplace with more than one floor. But now he sought out the two-story houses, sometimes three. He needed the challenge as much as he needed the money that Zachary would give him for whatever he brought back with him.
Greg had his target: a two-story corner brick home on Levy and Bowerwood. He had watched it for a few days, more than enough time to figure out the old woman who lived there didn't move fast. A trip to the mailbox took her over a minute, which meant a trip to the supermarket or beauty shop would give him at least an hour.
That would have been the easy route, safe. But it was too easy for Greg's taste. That's why he decided to play dress up and steal from her while she was home.
"Morning, ma'am," he said to the old woman standing at her front door. He had found the coveralls he wore and the clipboard at a thrift store he'd visited the previous day. The baseball cap with the Buchanan Gas and Electric Company logo was his, custom-made. Mrs. Buchanan was a teacher from high school that Greg had especially hated.
"What d'ya want?" the old woman squawked. She was fully dressed in an old-fashioned and ill-fitted pants suit, looking as though she expected to preside over the world's most depressing boardroom meeting later that day. The wrinkles on her face tripled under the weight of the scowl she presented Greg.
That's perfectly alright, he thought as the difficulty meter in his head shot from a 4 to a 6, maybe a 6.5. Make this uncomfortable for both of us, you old sack.
"Ma'am, we're doing inspections on your block this morning, checking pipelines for a natural gas purge that we'll be running next week."
Carol Louten's glare judged the tool bag laying at his feet, more props in the grand bid for authenticity. She looked like she literally wanted to kick both the bag and Greg off of her porch. "Gas purge? Nobody told me about that."
Greg's mouth dropped open as his eyes searched for answers. This expression was second nature to him, higher than a genuine smile on his face's list of greatest hits.
"Ma'am, you haven't seen the notices that we've been posting?" He flipped through the papers on his clipboard and held up an inspection notice with the Buchanan logo clearly displayed. "This is just one of three. Did you get a letter from my company in your mailbox?"
"No. I don't think so. No." Carol Louten held her footing firm as Greg's confusion became real. He had dropped the BGE notice in her mailbox himself just two days prior. He had even made sure to misspell her last name so that he could have a conversation about a new girl at the home office who was lousy at her job, one of many deflections he relied on in his line of work.
"Well, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I'm required to check this home's excess flow valves, circuit breaker switch panel, the arc-fault ground connection point, and-" Greg flipped to the last page on his board. "And your second floor polarized receptacles."
"My what?"
"Electrical outlets." And off her look. "They're what the plugs plug in, ma'am."
Carol stared at Greg for a moment, lips pursed and eyes squeezed into fury. With a grunt, she pulled the door fully open. He nodded and smiled, exhaling as he crossed the threshold. The hardest part was over.
"According to the floor plan, your kitchen is back this way, correct?" he said, pointing to the left entryway from the small foyer they stood in. The woman quickly sighed and nodded. Greg opened his bag and pulled out an old radar detector that he had found at a flea market and later modified. He switched it on.
"What's that for," Carol asked. "Some kind of gas detector?"
"That's exactly what it is, ma'am." He gave her a grateful look as though she could teach him a thing or two. She closed her eyes and shrugged. He continued. "It measures carbon monoxide, which is a very deadly gas. One of your neighbors...do you know the Stensons?"
"Oh, yeah. 'Cross the street."
"That's them. Well, the Stensons had a small CO leak, hardly even worth the trouble of repairing. However, the gas purge next week very well might cause a rupture in the active pipe, which would be catastrophic for the Stensons. Well, it would have had we not caught it when we did." His tone straightened its tie and got serious. "And I don't think that I need to tell you what I mean by 'catastrophic'."
She grimly nodded as Greg sat his bag by the front door. He could see that Carol was picturing the Stensons' young girl going to sleep one night and never waking up. It was the exact image Greg needed Carol to have in her head for the next hour.
Greg began to walk through the house, Carol following closely behind. He made his way into a dark living room and darker hallway. Greg, ever the detective, wasn't surprised to not see a single family picture displayed on tables or hanging on any walls. "No family" was very attractive to Greg, but he was beginning to think that was where the romance ended. Outside, the house was neat and modern; even its lawn was cared for by a professional crew. But the inside was drab: bookshelves lined with dusty books, side tables covered with doilies, analog clocks sitting next to digital ones.
Old people stuff. Great.
He walked into the kitchen and saw that Carol didn't even have a microwave. He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Even though his back was to the old woman, she must have sensed it.
"Is there a problem?"
Not yet, Carol. Don't jump the gun. That's later.
"No ma'am. I was just looking for the circuit breaker. The kitchen is usually the-" He walked to it. "Oh, here we go." He opened the panel and pretended to inspect it. He was about to tell Carol that the unit may need to be replaced when he heard a loud thump above him, coming from the second floor. He had no idea what it was, but it didn't sound like a dog hopping off a bed - not that he thought Carol had one.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning to the old woman. "Am I taking you away from company?"
Carol looked insulted. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"It's just...I thought I heard something. Upstairs."
"Nothing up there except three bedrooms, two closets full of old sheets, and an empty bathroom." She smiled a bit. "Oh, and all those polarizing resuscitators for plugs."
Greg returned the smile, in his way. "Okay. I just need to check the stove hookup and then I'll ask that you show me the backyard."
He glanced behind the stove and scribbled a few random letters on a random page. Carol craned her neck to see what he wrote, but she was slow and Greg jerked the clipboard nonchalantly to his side.
"Okay, now to the backyard, please. After you."
She guided him through a sun room, the darkest he'd ever seen. There appeared to be a futon set up in the corner, but Carol hurried him through to get into the backyard and sweet daylight. To Greg, it was like stepping out of the Addams Family house into the real world. The day was bright and birds were chirping. He didn't realize it before, but his sinuses had been stuffed up the entire time he'd been inside.
Probably all that dust. This is hardly worth my-
Greg saw something move from inside the house, somewhere in one of the second story windows. His peripheral vision had picked it up, maybe a curtain pulled to the side or a figure somewhere watching him. Whatever it was, it was gone. Everything was still.
"What in the heck are you looking at?" Carol asked. She had her hands on her hips in a way that reminded Greg of that old cow Mrs. Buchanan. He wished that he could pick Carol up and throw her over the fence.
"I was...," he looked over the perfectly-manicured lawn. "I was just noticing that this style of house doesn't have an arc-fault ground connection point. My mistake. We can go back inside. Do you have a basement?"
The basement held no more valuables than Greg had seen elsewhere in the house, but it would serve other purposes. He lifted the phony CO detector around the dirty room. He pushed a button that he had installed and the device emitted a series of quick beeps.
"What was that?" Carol shrieked, just the right reaction to Greg's ears. "Was that that carbon diocide?"
"Dioxide. Yes, but I wouldn't be alarmed. A pocket of CO gas here and there is perfectly normal. But I'm going to need scan every room, just to be on the safe side."
She nodded. "Yes, okay." Greg hoped that he hadn't calmed her down too much. There were so many fine lines in his work.
"Now, are there any rooms on the first floor that we didn't pass through?"
"Yeah, one."
Carol slowly climbed the basement stairs and led Greg to an office study on the first floor. As she swung open the door, Greg had to keep himself from laughing. A large floor safe, likely a TL-30 or -40, sat squarely behind an oak Riverside Executive desk. His back twinged with old hurt from memory of such previous hauls.
Even if the safe's contents don't pay off, I can get a solid grand for the desk. I'll just have to back the van right up to the front door.
"I don't go in here much," Carol said. "This was Henry's room. He didn't like me going in here, and after a while I stopped wanting to."
"Is that right?"
Thump, thump from overhead. Greg looked up at the ceiling, then to the old woman. Her face was calm, bored even.
"Yes, that's right," she said.
"I think it's time I checked out the second floor," Greg told her. "See about those outlets."
"Don't you want to check this room for gas?"
Greg quickly waved the radar detector around from where he stood.
"It's fine. Let's go."
Carol led him to the staircase, just right of the foyer. Greg waited for her to begin the slow, arduous journey up the steps, but she just gestured for him to go up.
"Are you not coming upstairs?" he asked.
"No. I never go up there." The words hung for a moment, ominous. Then she smiled at Greg. "My knees, you know. I almost had to ask you to carry me up from the basement. It's too much trouble, so I just stay down here. Sleep in the backroom. Got everything I need down here."
"Oh. Well, that's fine," Greg said as he turned away and climbed the stairs, a rare smirk forming.
As dark as it was downstairs, it was even darker upstairs. He carefully went from room to room, checking for the source of the thumping. The last thing Greg needed was a hero barging in on the job. Especially if the hero was an underage relative that he had somehow missed during a stakeout over the past two weeks. He didn't find anybody, and it looked like there was nothing to take either. The rooms were mostly empty, the decorations more suitable for a life-sized dollhouse than a home. To Greg, this felt like a waste of space and a good reason why the rich needed less riches.
He peered out a window, wishing he could open it. His sinuses had flared up again. As he thought about it, the lack of upstairs loot was almost a relief to Greg. Carrying anything as large or heavy as the study desk down the staircase would risk personal injury. Still, he went about his quiet search for jewelry and any artwork that might pull in a few extra bucks.
Movement outside caught his eye, maybe a lawn maintenance worker. Greg quickly backed away from the window.
Home stretch now, kid. Not a good time to be seen.
A bit shaken, Greg decided to end the search. He removed the radar detector from his jacket pocket, ready to send beeps down the stairs for Carol to hear. It was time for the second hardest part: getting the mark out of the house.
He pushed the button, but nothing happened. Silence. This was not good. Carol was sold on the gimmick and the gimmick needed to be convincing. He hit the side of the device. Nothing. He knew that the batteries were new, but he took them out and put them back in anyway. Nothing. Greg had been using the detector for years and had never had an issue. He stood in the dark of the second story hallway, could only stare at the dim light coming from first floor, by the staircase where Carol stood below.
Greg thought of the backup plan, of the ropes and the gag laying in the bag he had placed by the front door. It was a shitty thing to do, but he was already in a hole with Zachary financially, and there wasn't another tactic that he could see to get Carol out of the house. He took a deep breath and began to walk toward the staircase.
His footsteps suddenly sounded sickeningly familiar. Thump.
Greg had been caught during a job once before, had served time for it. He had bought some access codes to an office building and was using them to search for petty cash and whatever equipment he could carry out with him. A security guard had wandered in and busted him, trapped Greg like a rat with no more than a can of pepper spray, which was more than Greg carried. The moment when the guard yelled "freeze," he actually felt the word take form. It was as though his neck was blasted by a cold breeze and the chill spread down his spine and across his shoulders.
If his shoulders were frosty then, they were twin blocks of ice now.
Thump. This one behind him, impossibly.
He slowly turned toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He had closed the door when he had walked out of it earlier, but it was open again now. In the doorway, a pale woman stood in front of a boy around seven or eight years old. Her hand, bruised and bloody, was on his shoulder. They looked like a mother and son portrait, only one occupying the physical world and all of its gruesome dimensions. They looked as though they had been dead for some time. Their skin was grey, their eye sockets hollow. But they could still see Greg; he knew that they could.
The floor melted under his feet, causing him to slip until the ground's firm, hot grip took hold of his ankles. Greg steadied himself by pushing against the walls of the hallways, but he was still sliding down into the floor. As if in burning quicksand, he turned away from mother and child. As he did, he found himself face to face with an old man, half naked, his skin torn with lacerations. The old man was hunched over and sneering at Greg. He grabbed one of Greg's arms. With his free hand, Greg pounded on the floor, suddenly solid.
Thump.
Muffled from below, Greg heard his own voice. "Am I taking you away from company?"
Greg pounded on the floor again, trying to warn himself.
Thump, thump.
The old man pushed Greg's head down and he sank lower into the floor, his energy draining faster than his mind could try to save himself. Greg was powerless and he knew that it was almost over. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes for what might be the final time before he went under.
The old man was gone, mother and child too. Greg looked down and saw that he was kneeling on the hallway floor, his arms still stretched to the walls on either side of him. Slowly, he tried to push himself up, only to fall to his knees again.
Thump.
"Is everything alright up there?" It was Carol, calling up from the first floor. Greg realized that he had been whimpering. He looked at the doorway to the bedroom. It was empty, but his mind could still place mother and child there, too easily. "Hello?" Carol again.
Without answering, he stood up and walked back down the staircase. He made no effort to disguise any expression that he might have been wearing now, but that didn't stop Carol from smiling at him.
"Everything check out okay?" she asked. Greg reached the bottom of the stairs and stood face to face with Carol.
Greg tried to answer her. Stopped. Couldn't. From a far off place, he realized that he had dropped the fake detector upstairs. He instantly knew that it didn't matter, that nobody would find it up there. It wasn't a place where people went.
And knowing that - especially in the way that he now knew it - made Greg want to dent the old woman's face in with a crowbar.
Just like Mrs. Buchanan. Always with a lesson to teach.
"Yeah, I got what I needed," Greg said, picking up his bag, a saccharine smile plastered on his face. "Big time, ma'am. Everything is perfectly fine here."
"Oh, good!" she said, beaming. Carol Louten opened the front door, allowing Greg to stumble back into the warm Thursday morning again.
He knew what to look for, which neighborhoods to hit. When he had first started out, those dark and desperate days back in Houston, he hadn't liked anyplace with more than one floor. But now he sought out the two-story houses, sometimes three. He needed the challenge as much as he needed the money that Zachary would give him for whatever he brought back with him.
Greg had his target: a two-story corner brick home on Levy and Bowerwood. He had watched it for a few days, more than enough time to figure out the old woman who lived there didn't move fast. A trip to the mailbox took her over a minute, which meant a trip to the supermarket or beauty shop would give him at least an hour.
That would have been the easy route, safe. But it was too easy for Greg's taste. That's why he decided to play dress up and steal from her while she was home.
"Morning, ma'am," he said to the old woman standing at her front door. He had found the coveralls he wore and the clipboard at a thrift store he'd visited the previous day. The baseball cap with the Buchanan Gas and Electric Company logo was his, custom-made. Mrs. Buchanan was a teacher from high school that Greg had especially hated.
"What d'ya want?" the old woman squawked. She was fully dressed in an old-fashioned and ill-fitted pants suit, looking as though she expected to preside over the world's most depressing boardroom meeting later that day. The wrinkles on her face tripled under the weight of the scowl she presented Greg.
That's perfectly alright, he thought as the difficulty meter in his head shot from a 4 to a 6, maybe a 6.5. Make this uncomfortable for both of us, you old sack.
"Ma'am, we're doing inspections on your block this morning, checking pipelines for a natural gas purge that we'll be running next week."
Carol Louten's glare judged the tool bag laying at his feet, more props in the grand bid for authenticity. She looked like she literally wanted to kick both the bag and Greg off of her porch. "Gas purge? Nobody told me about that."
Greg's mouth dropped open as his eyes searched for answers. This expression was second nature to him, higher than a genuine smile on his face's list of greatest hits.
"Ma'am, you haven't seen the notices that we've been posting?" He flipped through the papers on his clipboard and held up an inspection notice with the Buchanan logo clearly displayed. "This is just one of three. Did you get a letter from my company in your mailbox?"
"No. I don't think so. No." Carol Louten held her footing firm as Greg's confusion became real. He had dropped the BGE notice in her mailbox himself just two days prior. He had even made sure to misspell her last name so that he could have a conversation about a new girl at the home office who was lousy at her job, one of many deflections he relied on in his line of work.
"Well, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I'm required to check this home's excess flow valves, circuit breaker switch panel, the arc-fault ground connection point, and-" Greg flipped to the last page on his board. "And your second floor polarized receptacles."
"My what?"
"Electrical outlets." And off her look. "They're what the plugs plug in, ma'am."
Carol stared at Greg for a moment, lips pursed and eyes squeezed into fury. With a grunt, she pulled the door fully open. He nodded and smiled, exhaling as he crossed the threshold. The hardest part was over.
"According to the floor plan, your kitchen is back this way, correct?" he said, pointing to the left entryway from the small foyer they stood in. The woman quickly sighed and nodded. Greg opened his bag and pulled out an old radar detector that he had found at a flea market and later modified. He switched it on.
"What's that for," Carol asked. "Some kind of gas detector?"
"That's exactly what it is, ma'am." He gave her a grateful look as though she could teach him a thing or two. She closed her eyes and shrugged. He continued. "It measures carbon monoxide, which is a very deadly gas. One of your neighbors...do you know the Stensons?"
"Oh, yeah. 'Cross the street."
"That's them. Well, the Stensons had a small CO leak, hardly even worth the trouble of repairing. However, the gas purge next week very well might cause a rupture in the active pipe, which would be catastrophic for the Stensons. Well, it would have had we not caught it when we did." His tone straightened its tie and got serious. "And I don't think that I need to tell you what I mean by 'catastrophic'."
She grimly nodded as Greg sat his bag by the front door. He could see that Carol was picturing the Stensons' young girl going to sleep one night and never waking up. It was the exact image Greg needed Carol to have in her head for the next hour.
Greg began to walk through the house, Carol following closely behind. He made his way into a dark living room and darker hallway. Greg, ever the detective, wasn't surprised to not see a single family picture displayed on tables or hanging on any walls. "No family" was very attractive to Greg, but he was beginning to think that was where the romance ended. Outside, the house was neat and modern; even its lawn was cared for by a professional crew. But the inside was drab: bookshelves lined with dusty books, side tables covered with doilies, analog clocks sitting next to digital ones.
Old people stuff. Great.
He walked into the kitchen and saw that Carol didn't even have a microwave. He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Even though his back was to the old woman, she must have sensed it.
"Is there a problem?"
Not yet, Carol. Don't jump the gun. That's later.
"No ma'am. I was just looking for the circuit breaker. The kitchen is usually the-" He walked to it. "Oh, here we go." He opened the panel and pretended to inspect it. He was about to tell Carol that the unit may need to be replaced when he heard a loud thump above him, coming from the second floor. He had no idea what it was, but it didn't sound like a dog hopping off a bed - not that he thought Carol had one.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning to the old woman. "Am I taking you away from company?"
Carol looked insulted. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"It's just...I thought I heard something. Upstairs."
"Nothing up there except three bedrooms, two closets full of old sheets, and an empty bathroom." She smiled a bit. "Oh, and all those polarizing resuscitators for plugs."
Greg returned the smile, in his way. "Okay. I just need to check the stove hookup and then I'll ask that you show me the backyard."
He glanced behind the stove and scribbled a few random letters on a random page. Carol craned her neck to see what he wrote, but she was slow and Greg jerked the clipboard nonchalantly to his side.
"Okay, now to the backyard, please. After you."
She guided him through a sun room, the darkest he'd ever seen. There appeared to be a futon set up in the corner, but Carol hurried him through to get into the backyard and sweet daylight. To Greg, it was like stepping out of the Addams Family house into the real world. The day was bright and birds were chirping. He didn't realize it before, but his sinuses had been stuffed up the entire time he'd been inside.
Probably all that dust. This is hardly worth my-
Greg saw something move from inside the house, somewhere in one of the second story windows. His peripheral vision had picked it up, maybe a curtain pulled to the side or a figure somewhere watching him. Whatever it was, it was gone. Everything was still.
"What in the heck are you looking at?" Carol asked. She had her hands on her hips in a way that reminded Greg of that old cow Mrs. Buchanan. He wished that he could pick Carol up and throw her over the fence.
"I was...," he looked over the perfectly-manicured lawn. "I was just noticing that this style of house doesn't have an arc-fault ground connection point. My mistake. We can go back inside. Do you have a basement?"
The basement held no more valuables than Greg had seen elsewhere in the house, but it would serve other purposes. He lifted the phony CO detector around the dirty room. He pushed a button that he had installed and the device emitted a series of quick beeps.
"What was that?" Carol shrieked, just the right reaction to Greg's ears. "Was that that carbon diocide?"
"Dioxide. Yes, but I wouldn't be alarmed. A pocket of CO gas here and there is perfectly normal. But I'm going to need scan every room, just to be on the safe side."
She nodded. "Yes, okay." Greg hoped that he hadn't calmed her down too much. There were so many fine lines in his work.
"Now, are there any rooms on the first floor that we didn't pass through?"
"Yeah, one."
Carol slowly climbed the basement stairs and led Greg to an office study on the first floor. As she swung open the door, Greg had to keep himself from laughing. A large floor safe, likely a TL-30 or -40, sat squarely behind an oak Riverside Executive desk. His back twinged with old hurt from memory of such previous hauls.
Even if the safe's contents don't pay off, I can get a solid grand for the desk. I'll just have to back the van right up to the front door.
"I don't go in here much," Carol said. "This was Henry's room. He didn't like me going in here, and after a while I stopped wanting to."
"Is that right?"
Thump, thump from overhead. Greg looked up at the ceiling, then to the old woman. Her face was calm, bored even.
"Yes, that's right," she said.
"I think it's time I checked out the second floor," Greg told her. "See about those outlets."
"Don't you want to check this room for gas?"
Greg quickly waved the radar detector around from where he stood.
"It's fine. Let's go."
Carol led him to the staircase, just right of the foyer. Greg waited for her to begin the slow, arduous journey up the steps, but she just gestured for him to go up.
"Are you not coming upstairs?" he asked.
"No. I never go up there." The words hung for a moment, ominous. Then she smiled at Greg. "My knees, you know. I almost had to ask you to carry me up from the basement. It's too much trouble, so I just stay down here. Sleep in the backroom. Got everything I need down here."
"Oh. Well, that's fine," Greg said as he turned away and climbed the stairs, a rare smirk forming.
As dark as it was downstairs, it was even darker upstairs. He carefully went from room to room, checking for the source of the thumping. The last thing Greg needed was a hero barging in on the job. Especially if the hero was an underage relative that he had somehow missed during a stakeout over the past two weeks. He didn't find anybody, and it looked like there was nothing to take either. The rooms were mostly empty, the decorations more suitable for a life-sized dollhouse than a home. To Greg, this felt like a waste of space and a good reason why the rich needed less riches.
He peered out a window, wishing he could open it. His sinuses had flared up again. As he thought about it, the lack of upstairs loot was almost a relief to Greg. Carrying anything as large or heavy as the study desk down the staircase would risk personal injury. Still, he went about his quiet search for jewelry and any artwork that might pull in a few extra bucks.
Movement outside caught his eye, maybe a lawn maintenance worker. Greg quickly backed away from the window.
Home stretch now, kid. Not a good time to be seen.
A bit shaken, Greg decided to end the search. He removed the radar detector from his jacket pocket, ready to send beeps down the stairs for Carol to hear. It was time for the second hardest part: getting the mark out of the house.
He pushed the button, but nothing happened. Silence. This was not good. Carol was sold on the gimmick and the gimmick needed to be convincing. He hit the side of the device. Nothing. He knew that the batteries were new, but he took them out and put them back in anyway. Nothing. Greg had been using the detector for years and had never had an issue. He stood in the dark of the second story hallway, could only stare at the dim light coming from first floor, by the staircase where Carol stood below.
Greg thought of the backup plan, of the ropes and the gag laying in the bag he had placed by the front door. It was a shitty thing to do, but he was already in a hole with Zachary financially, and there wasn't another tactic that he could see to get Carol out of the house. He took a deep breath and began to walk toward the staircase.
His footsteps suddenly sounded sickeningly familiar. Thump.
Greg had been caught during a job once before, had served time for it. He had bought some access codes to an office building and was using them to search for petty cash and whatever equipment he could carry out with him. A security guard had wandered in and busted him, trapped Greg like a rat with no more than a can of pepper spray, which was more than Greg carried. The moment when the guard yelled "freeze," he actually felt the word take form. It was as though his neck was blasted by a cold breeze and the chill spread down his spine and across his shoulders.
If his shoulders were frosty then, they were twin blocks of ice now.
Thump. This one behind him, impossibly.
He slowly turned toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He had closed the door when he had walked out of it earlier, but it was open again now. In the doorway, a pale woman stood in front of a boy around seven or eight years old. Her hand, bruised and bloody, was on his shoulder. They looked like a mother and son portrait, only one occupying the physical world and all of its gruesome dimensions. They looked as though they had been dead for some time. Their skin was grey, their eye sockets hollow. But they could still see Greg; he knew that they could.
The floor melted under his feet, causing him to slip until the ground's firm, hot grip took hold of his ankles. Greg steadied himself by pushing against the walls of the hallways, but he was still sliding down into the floor. As if in burning quicksand, he turned away from mother and child. As he did, he found himself face to face with an old man, half naked, his skin torn with lacerations. The old man was hunched over and sneering at Greg. He grabbed one of Greg's arms. With his free hand, Greg pounded on the floor, suddenly solid.
Thump.
Muffled from below, Greg heard his own voice. "Am I taking you away from company?"
Greg pounded on the floor again, trying to warn himself.
Thump, thump.
The old man pushed Greg's head down and he sank lower into the floor, his energy draining faster than his mind could try to save himself. Greg was powerless and he knew that it was almost over. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes for what might be the final time before he went under.
The old man was gone, mother and child too. Greg looked down and saw that he was kneeling on the hallway floor, his arms still stretched to the walls on either side of him. Slowly, he tried to push himself up, only to fall to his knees again.
Thump.
"Is everything alright up there?" It was Carol, calling up from the first floor. Greg realized that he had been whimpering. He looked at the doorway to the bedroom. It was empty, but his mind could still place mother and child there, too easily. "Hello?" Carol again.
Without answering, he stood up and walked back down the staircase. He made no effort to disguise any expression that he might have been wearing now, but that didn't stop Carol from smiling at him.
"Everything check out okay?" she asked. Greg reached the bottom of the stairs and stood face to face with Carol.
Greg tried to answer her. Stopped. Couldn't. From a far off place, he realized that he had dropped the fake detector upstairs. He instantly knew that it didn't matter, that nobody would find it up there. It wasn't a place where people went.
And knowing that - especially in the way that he now knew it - made Greg want to dent the old woman's face in with a crowbar.
Just like Mrs. Buchanan. Always with a lesson to teach.
"Yeah, I got what I needed," Greg said, picking up his bag, a saccharine smile plastered on his face. "Big time, ma'am. Everything is perfectly fine here."
"Oh, good!" she said, beaming. Carol Louten opened the front door, allowing Greg to stumble back into the warm Thursday morning again.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
The Corporate Gig
For those that don't know, improv is a form of Theatre where the actors
make up a scene or play as it goes along. It's kind of like a rap
battle, but with less dissing and more pantomimed shoveling. Usually, one of
the performers will ask the audience for a suggestion of what the scene
could be about. This shows that a) the scene is new and based completely
upon impulsive swear words from the audience, and b) the actors were
too lazy to write and rehearse a proper scene.
Learning improv is a lot like learning to juggle, but the juggling pins are constantly betraying embarrassing gaps in knowledge and shouting Freudian slips. I received the first of my improv training in high school Theatre classes, but many others got their start in backyards, playing cops and robbers or Dairy Queen drive-thru. Improv education ends when a performer has learned to embrace the zen idea of "now" or, failing that, when the streetlights come on and it's time for dinner.
I've gotten a lot of joy from watching and performing improv over the years, but I'm hardly a proper spokesperson. In terms of terrible theater-going experiences, I would place bad improv up there with exploding cellphones and "a sandbag fell on my date". The cruel thing is that it's so easy for improv to go bad. All it takes is one mistimed genitalia joke or accidentally racist caricature and the audience will turn on the performers, never to be won back.
In the early 2000's, I regularly performed with a comedy improv troupe called Torrential Downplay. (I'd love to go into the group's history and roster of performers, but I'm not qualified and this isn't the place.) Suffice it to say, we were a solid crew of individual opinions with a strong group spirit. I joined up when T.D. was young and idealistic, a society of clever actors, writers, and directors that wanted to see smart comedy thrive in Birmingham, Alabama. I'm biased, but I'd say that we actually achieved that for a few years, for hundreds of people that saw us perform. However, getting up in front of drunken crowds week after week, we quickly learned that "smart" comedy could sometimes include "yo mama" jokes and the occasional Austin Powers impression.
A typical Torrential Downplay show was around two hours of short-form improv games, such as the type of stuff you'd see on Whose Line Is It Anyway? ("World's Worst", "Party Quirks", etc. - though we'd usually do our own spin and title them something different). Most shows consisted of four performers and a "mediator" who would host the show, choose/introduce the games, and get suggestions from the audience. I was never very good at hosting shows; the only reason I initially wanted to do it was to pick the song that would kick off the show, after which I would have nothing more to add creatively. The 10-12 standing T.D. members were rotated to perform in these weekly shows at various Birmingham bars and coffee shops, usually on Sunday nights.
The first few months involved a good bit of aimless flailing onstage, cursing at our collective stupidity while literally cursing at audiences. But we eventually got comfortable and - dare I say - good in the weekly shows. And after we had established ourselves around town, Torrential Downplay became popular enough to warrant additional gigs on the side. Most of these turned out to be for family-friendly audiences, the kind that caused us to sweat over the possibility we might accidentally use words like "crap" or "hell".
I was lucky enough to perform at a few private parties, several citywide events, and one Bat Mitzvah. These gigs paid better than a typical Sunday night show, and usually ran much shorter than the two hour marathons of wacky character voices and forced puns that we were accustomed to. The flip side, however, was that random Alabama audiences rarely knew who we were or what the word "improv" meant, usually leaving all involved with that classic cocktail of frustration and embarrassment, always served over confused, distrusting ice.
Which finally brings me to the corporate gig that this story is named for.
I'm not supposed to talk about this corporate gig. The five of us who were selected to perform at the corporate gig north of Birmingham decided after the show, during a long, mostly quiet drive home, if anybody from the rest of the group ever asked us what happened at the corporate gig, we'd respond with "It went well." I think that enough time has passed that I can finally reveal what happened, though I won't name the company that hired us to perform (let's call them BlunderCo), nor the names of the other performers who were present that fateful night.
All of Torrential Downplay's corporate engagements had similar set ups. The person that contacted our booking agent would be the company's representative as far as we were concerned. They would give us directions to the gig, any special instructions about the performance, and (most importantly) pay us after we were finished. Sometimes there was free food involved, which would leave absent T.D. members steeped in jealousy for days. However, the BlunderCo rep (we'll call her "Angel") did something unexpected. About a week before the gig, she emailed us a list of employees that we should target during the show.
It's not uncommon for improv troupes to be given "funny" info about employees before performances, the expectation being that these little threads of insider comedy would be weaved into the show, a parade of the company's own "party quirks" as it were. Angel's list included such eccentric foibles as "Millie Wurther is afraid of clowns" and "Jeremy Purvis always works late" - you know, real heavy-hitting stuff.
What was unusual about this, at least to us at Torrential Downplay around this time, was the implication that the BlunderCo people actually understood what improv was (albeit in kind of a hokey, party game kind of way). Most side gigs were painful when it came to teaching new audiences what our regular audiences already knew, but this actually got our hopes up. We prepared ourselves for what would surely be a fun show, and we memorized Angel's list accordingly.
The drive up the BlunderCo's large office complex was uneventful, except for a few last-minute pop quizzes on what type of cologne does Dottie Hingleman hate and what alma mater does Harvey Lankdover constantly bring up? ("Belmont!") We arrived and Angel met us in the lobby. She seemed a little nervous, but we were still in high spirits. Torrential Downplay's show uniform was a nice white shirt over black pants in those days, so it's not like we looked like the Deltas from Animal House. She asked us if we'd mind waiting a bit and disappeared back into the recesses of the cavernous BlunderCo facility.
After an unsettling forty-five minute wait, Angel returned and led us to a large banquet room. 95% of the floor space was taken up by thirty large circular tables, where 300 very loud people shouted at each other as frantic caterers navigated between them. Dinner had obviously been served some time earlier and everybody seemed to be on their fourth or fifth cocktail round. Off to the side, we saw a 5x5 platform with a makeshift backdrop, our illustrious stage. Angel faced the crowd and verrry slowwwly got their attention. She quieted one table, which then quieted the next, and so on for several minutes until all thirty tables realized that Angel had something to say.
Torrential Downplay had seen more than a few rowdy audiences by that point and we knew a little bit about crowd control. My experience put the room's patience at about fifteen seconds, the time everybody assumed it would take Angel to announce that BlunderCo was awesome. Instead, she meekly welcomed us performers to the stage and the crowd became very concerned that us kids in the bad waiter costumes were going to take longer than fifteen seconds to do some kind of little skit.
Introducing a new crowd to the concept of improv is tedious, mostly because it's not very funny. When you're paid to be funny, the last thing an audience wants is a plea for proper conditions and an explanation of why something is eventually going to hopefully be very funny(!!!). The BlunderCo crowd was about as impatient with this part of the show as a four-year-old child on speed would be at a city counsel meeting.
It was looking more and more like, no, this crowd didn't know what improv was - and they did not care to find out. Our mediator took the understandable route of "Who better to explain improv than improv itself?" and we launched into the first game of the evening. It was greeted by some light chuckles and, I have to believe, conspiratorial murmurs of a rising coup from the far away tables. Luckily, we knew that we had aces up our sleeves: Angel's list of famous office quirks!
I'll pause here to say that Angel's magic list still amazes me. I have a ton of improv stories, but I'm telling this one because of that list. My memory is that it had about 20 people on it, 25 tops. BlunderCo had 300+ employees, so we knew that Angel couldn't have provided funny facts for everyone. But we assumed it was a cross section of the most beloved and popular BlunderCo employees. Do I need to tell you that this wasn't the case?
We began to unleash our veritable knowledge of the BlunderCo corporate family through sloppy, not-great-for-improv character assassinations:
"Don't mind me, circus clowns. It's just me, Rusty Frecklin, and my extensive collection of Beanie Babies!"
"You're the world's biggest Dallas Cowboys fan, huh? Well, I wouldn't mention that to Sandy Reynolds?"
It didn't take long for us to notice that these odd inclusions were only getting reactions from 1 of the 30 large tables. And they weren't good reactions; they were "oh no, okay fine, please move on" reactions. It dawned on us that Angel had only provided information about her own department, and the lack of reactions from the room signaled that her coworkers were apparently not very notable among the other 29 tables at the banquet.
What made this part worse was that, even after we realized what was happening, we didn't stop including Angel's group - not at all. I can't speak for the other T.D. performers, but I thought maybe I'd hit on a name that was a general manager or somebody that everybody from BlunderCo would have heard of. Surely, I thought, Angel would had thrown us their version of a Steve Jobs or a Ted Turner.
But this was not the case. Her department's embarrassment only deepened as we continued to expose their odd fears and habits without any proper context. We watched that embarrassment turn into absolute humiliation as Angel's team proved to be the unfunny comedy group's only target. It was as if Angel's team had ordered a crappy moon bounce filled with putrid air and told the rest of BlunderCo that they were the only department allowed inside.
Okay, so nobody died. Nobody got punched in the neck and threw up all over a baby. In the grand scheme of things, the BlunderCo Job was less of a fiasco as it was an unfortunate miscommunication. But the show went on for nearly an hour, every minute of which felt like drowning in molasses. The only thing that got any semblance of a laugh was when our mediator jumped into one of the games to mix the company's name with...I'll just say a "well known product" to make it sound like...I'll just say a "part on a lady". And then another performer did it and it got another laugh. And then I did it too, because it was the only thing that they seemed to like and being liked was what we got paid for.
Hands scrubbed and a hundred miles later, the road home quietly hummed beneath us. Angel had paid us, had even thanked us, but we couldn't help but wonder what the folks over at BlunderCo would have to save the next time somebody mentioned "improv" in their presence. They might just turn and walk away. Our mediator, inventive as always, gave us the "It went well," response to any questions we'd be asked later, and we all agreed it was the only thing that we could say.
And we stuck with that line that for a long time. The other folks at T.D. might have learned tidbits here and there, but it wasn't that big a deal, not really. We had other bad shows, some of which I fought tooth and nail to see produced. Some failures you just can't outrun. But there were a lot of great shows and many terrific audiences that stayed with us, even when we accidentally said "crap" in front of their kids.
I'll leave it with a theory I have: the problem with improv is that it wants to lead to something greater: a stronger premise, a better acting gig, doesn't matter - just greater. Improv in and of itself is never enough; its value is only instrumental. Once our group felt that the normal shows were about as good as we could get them, Torrential Downplay tried its hand at long-form shows (one scene per show, high concept premises), sketch comedy, and all sorts of other experiments to keep us moving forward. Some did pretty well and turned a few bucks, but our bread was always buttered by the normal Sunday shows.
Through it all, we'd have these long, two-hour meetings where we'd sit around a big table to discuss our future: opening up a theater, offering classes, maybe making a feature film. I have to admit that I found these meetings awkward, because each of us would offer a different idea and none of them sounded all that likely.
I guess that's easy to say now, some 15 years later. (Stick around and I'll tell you why the Bears lost Super Bowl XLI back in 2007.) Still, I've realized over the years that hindsight was always the best method for looking at Torrential Downplay. Between the dozen or so of us hanging around in its ranks at any given time, we'd each of us have a unique vision for how something should be, something we'd be willing to fight for because we cared so damn much about it. But after the dust had settled and the shouting died down, we would usually agree when we were asked how something went.
And how did it go? What can I say? It went well.
Learning improv is a lot like learning to juggle, but the juggling pins are constantly betraying embarrassing gaps in knowledge and shouting Freudian slips. I received the first of my improv training in high school Theatre classes, but many others got their start in backyards, playing cops and robbers or Dairy Queen drive-thru. Improv education ends when a performer has learned to embrace the zen idea of "now" or, failing that, when the streetlights come on and it's time for dinner.
I've gotten a lot of joy from watching and performing improv over the years, but I'm hardly a proper spokesperson. In terms of terrible theater-going experiences, I would place bad improv up there with exploding cellphones and "a sandbag fell on my date". The cruel thing is that it's so easy for improv to go bad. All it takes is one mistimed genitalia joke or accidentally racist caricature and the audience will turn on the performers, never to be won back.
In the early 2000's, I regularly performed with a comedy improv troupe called Torrential Downplay. (I'd love to go into the group's history and roster of performers, but I'm not qualified and this isn't the place.) Suffice it to say, we were a solid crew of individual opinions with a strong group spirit. I joined up when T.D. was young and idealistic, a society of clever actors, writers, and directors that wanted to see smart comedy thrive in Birmingham, Alabama. I'm biased, but I'd say that we actually achieved that for a few years, for hundreds of people that saw us perform. However, getting up in front of drunken crowds week after week, we quickly learned that "smart" comedy could sometimes include "yo mama" jokes and the occasional Austin Powers impression.
A typical Torrential Downplay show was around two hours of short-form improv games, such as the type of stuff you'd see on Whose Line Is It Anyway? ("World's Worst", "Party Quirks", etc. - though we'd usually do our own spin and title them something different). Most shows consisted of four performers and a "mediator" who would host the show, choose/introduce the games, and get suggestions from the audience. I was never very good at hosting shows; the only reason I initially wanted to do it was to pick the song that would kick off the show, after which I would have nothing more to add creatively. The 10-12 standing T.D. members were rotated to perform in these weekly shows at various Birmingham bars and coffee shops, usually on Sunday nights.
The first few months involved a good bit of aimless flailing onstage, cursing at our collective stupidity while literally cursing at audiences. But we eventually got comfortable and - dare I say - good in the weekly shows. And after we had established ourselves around town, Torrential Downplay became popular enough to warrant additional gigs on the side. Most of these turned out to be for family-friendly audiences, the kind that caused us to sweat over the possibility we might accidentally use words like "crap" or "hell".
I was lucky enough to perform at a few private parties, several citywide events, and one Bat Mitzvah. These gigs paid better than a typical Sunday night show, and usually ran much shorter than the two hour marathons of wacky character voices and forced puns that we were accustomed to. The flip side, however, was that random Alabama audiences rarely knew who we were or what the word "improv" meant, usually leaving all involved with that classic cocktail of frustration and embarrassment, always served over confused, distrusting ice.
Which finally brings me to the corporate gig that this story is named for.
I'm not supposed to talk about this corporate gig. The five of us who were selected to perform at the corporate gig north of Birmingham decided after the show, during a long, mostly quiet drive home, if anybody from the rest of the group ever asked us what happened at the corporate gig, we'd respond with "It went well." I think that enough time has passed that I can finally reveal what happened, though I won't name the company that hired us to perform (let's call them BlunderCo), nor the names of the other performers who were present that fateful night.
All of Torrential Downplay's corporate engagements had similar set ups. The person that contacted our booking agent would be the company's representative as far as we were concerned. They would give us directions to the gig, any special instructions about the performance, and (most importantly) pay us after we were finished. Sometimes there was free food involved, which would leave absent T.D. members steeped in jealousy for days. However, the BlunderCo rep (we'll call her "Angel") did something unexpected. About a week before the gig, she emailed us a list of employees that we should target during the show.
It's not uncommon for improv troupes to be given "funny" info about employees before performances, the expectation being that these little threads of insider comedy would be weaved into the show, a parade of the company's own "party quirks" as it were. Angel's list included such eccentric foibles as "Millie Wurther is afraid of clowns" and "Jeremy Purvis always works late" - you know, real heavy-hitting stuff.
What was unusual about this, at least to us at Torrential Downplay around this time, was the implication that the BlunderCo people actually understood what improv was (albeit in kind of a hokey, party game kind of way). Most side gigs were painful when it came to teaching new audiences what our regular audiences already knew, but this actually got our hopes up. We prepared ourselves for what would surely be a fun show, and we memorized Angel's list accordingly.
The drive up the BlunderCo's large office complex was uneventful, except for a few last-minute pop quizzes on what type of cologne does Dottie Hingleman hate and what alma mater does Harvey Lankdover constantly bring up? ("Belmont!") We arrived and Angel met us in the lobby. She seemed a little nervous, but we were still in high spirits. Torrential Downplay's show uniform was a nice white shirt over black pants in those days, so it's not like we looked like the Deltas from Animal House. She asked us if we'd mind waiting a bit and disappeared back into the recesses of the cavernous BlunderCo facility.
After an unsettling forty-five minute wait, Angel returned and led us to a large banquet room. 95% of the floor space was taken up by thirty large circular tables, where 300 very loud people shouted at each other as frantic caterers navigated between them. Dinner had obviously been served some time earlier and everybody seemed to be on their fourth or fifth cocktail round. Off to the side, we saw a 5x5 platform with a makeshift backdrop, our illustrious stage. Angel faced the crowd and verrry slowwwly got their attention. She quieted one table, which then quieted the next, and so on for several minutes until all thirty tables realized that Angel had something to say.
Torrential Downplay had seen more than a few rowdy audiences by that point and we knew a little bit about crowd control. My experience put the room's patience at about fifteen seconds, the time everybody assumed it would take Angel to announce that BlunderCo was awesome. Instead, she meekly welcomed us performers to the stage and the crowd became very concerned that us kids in the bad waiter costumes were going to take longer than fifteen seconds to do some kind of little skit.
Introducing a new crowd to the concept of improv is tedious, mostly because it's not very funny. When you're paid to be funny, the last thing an audience wants is a plea for proper conditions and an explanation of why something is eventually going to hopefully be very funny(!!!). The BlunderCo crowd was about as impatient with this part of the show as a four-year-old child on speed would be at a city counsel meeting.
It was looking more and more like, no, this crowd didn't know what improv was - and they did not care to find out. Our mediator took the understandable route of "Who better to explain improv than improv itself?" and we launched into the first game of the evening. It was greeted by some light chuckles and, I have to believe, conspiratorial murmurs of a rising coup from the far away tables. Luckily, we knew that we had aces up our sleeves: Angel's list of famous office quirks!
I'll pause here to say that Angel's magic list still amazes me. I have a ton of improv stories, but I'm telling this one because of that list. My memory is that it had about 20 people on it, 25 tops. BlunderCo had 300+ employees, so we knew that Angel couldn't have provided funny facts for everyone. But we assumed it was a cross section of the most beloved and popular BlunderCo employees. Do I need to tell you that this wasn't the case?
We began to unleash our veritable knowledge of the BlunderCo corporate family through sloppy, not-great-for-improv character assassinations:
"Don't mind me, circus clowns. It's just me, Rusty Frecklin, and my extensive collection of Beanie Babies!"
"You're the world's biggest Dallas Cowboys fan, huh? Well, I wouldn't mention that to Sandy Reynolds?"
It didn't take long for us to notice that these odd inclusions were only getting reactions from 1 of the 30 large tables. And they weren't good reactions; they were "oh no, okay fine, please move on" reactions. It dawned on us that Angel had only provided information about her own department, and the lack of reactions from the room signaled that her coworkers were apparently not very notable among the other 29 tables at the banquet.
What made this part worse was that, even after we realized what was happening, we didn't stop including Angel's group - not at all. I can't speak for the other T.D. performers, but I thought maybe I'd hit on a name that was a general manager or somebody that everybody from BlunderCo would have heard of. Surely, I thought, Angel would had thrown us their version of a Steve Jobs or a Ted Turner.
But this was not the case. Her department's embarrassment only deepened as we continued to expose their odd fears and habits without any proper context. We watched that embarrassment turn into absolute humiliation as Angel's team proved to be the unfunny comedy group's only target. It was as if Angel's team had ordered a crappy moon bounce filled with putrid air and told the rest of BlunderCo that they were the only department allowed inside.
Okay, so nobody died. Nobody got punched in the neck and threw up all over a baby. In the grand scheme of things, the BlunderCo Job was less of a fiasco as it was an unfortunate miscommunication. But the show went on for nearly an hour, every minute of which felt like drowning in molasses. The only thing that got any semblance of a laugh was when our mediator jumped into one of the games to mix the company's name with...I'll just say a "well known product" to make it sound like...I'll just say a "part on a lady". And then another performer did it and it got another laugh. And then I did it too, because it was the only thing that they seemed to like and being liked was what we got paid for.
Hands scrubbed and a hundred miles later, the road home quietly hummed beneath us. Angel had paid us, had even thanked us, but we couldn't help but wonder what the folks over at BlunderCo would have to save the next time somebody mentioned "improv" in their presence. They might just turn and walk away. Our mediator, inventive as always, gave us the "It went well," response to any questions we'd be asked later, and we all agreed it was the only thing that we could say.
And we stuck with that line that for a long time. The other folks at T.D. might have learned tidbits here and there, but it wasn't that big a deal, not really. We had other bad shows, some of which I fought tooth and nail to see produced. Some failures you just can't outrun. But there were a lot of great shows and many terrific audiences that stayed with us, even when we accidentally said "crap" in front of their kids.
I'll leave it with a theory I have: the problem with improv is that it wants to lead to something greater: a stronger premise, a better acting gig, doesn't matter - just greater. Improv in and of itself is never enough; its value is only instrumental. Once our group felt that the normal shows were about as good as we could get them, Torrential Downplay tried its hand at long-form shows (one scene per show, high concept premises), sketch comedy, and all sorts of other experiments to keep us moving forward. Some did pretty well and turned a few bucks, but our bread was always buttered by the normal Sunday shows.
Through it all, we'd have these long, two-hour meetings where we'd sit around a big table to discuss our future: opening up a theater, offering classes, maybe making a feature film. I have to admit that I found these meetings awkward, because each of us would offer a different idea and none of them sounded all that likely.
I guess that's easy to say now, some 15 years later. (Stick around and I'll tell you why the Bears lost Super Bowl XLI back in 2007.) Still, I've realized over the years that hindsight was always the best method for looking at Torrential Downplay. Between the dozen or so of us hanging around in its ranks at any given time, we'd each of us have a unique vision for how something should be, something we'd be willing to fight for because we cared so damn much about it. But after the dust had settled and the shouting died down, we would usually agree when we were asked how something went.
And how did it go? What can I say? It went well.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Rejected Story Ideas
Like all true writers, my mind harbors a vast reservoir of innovative, thought-provoking ideas. However, an unrefined idea is really only the genesis of a completed story, and time does not allow each narrative spark the possibility to bloom into a thrilling bonfire.
With that, I present these selections from my archive of rejected story ideas. The finished tales that would have resulted from these will never come to pass, though they certainly would have electrified readers with the literary tasers of pure emotional resonance. For denying current audiences and future generations that unquestionable pleasure, I must apologize. But I hope that by presenting these ideas here, I will grant my fans a rare glimpse into my process, as well as my special mind.
With that, I present these selections from my archive of rejected story ideas. The finished tales that would have resulted from these will never come to pass, though they certainly would have electrified readers with the literary tasers of pure emotional resonance. For denying current audiences and future generations that unquestionable pleasure, I must apologize. But I hope that by presenting these ideas here, I will grant my fans a rare glimpse into my process, as well as my special mind.
- An arrogant scientist named Katrina Gerehorne is recruited by the US government to compete against Russia in a time traveling contest, where the goal is to go back in time and collect specific objects - all of which are selected in order to minimize significant changes to the course of human history. One such item is a document detailing the Monmouth surrender at the Battle of Sedgemoor (1665). However, Katrina accidentally steals Isaac Newton's scientific notes for Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica instead, which causes her to return to a world where gravity has never existed.
- In one of those heart-warming, coming-of-age stories, a young man named Claude leaves his small hometown in search of higher education, cleaner water, and overall better opportunities. His family is just glad to be rid of him.
- A mysterious count named Havel DeLanque buys an old castle in the Kentuckian countryside. Eventually, it becomes obvious that he wants to live there because of its large cellar, where he imagines that he'll one day entomb his enemies, like in Edgar Allan Poe's "The Black Cat". However, Havel never acquires any enemies and he eventually puts a pinball machine down there and uses the extra space for his collection of soapbox racers.
- Goats are extremely psychic and can read human minds. Most of the time they aren't interested in doing anything with the information they learn, but every now and then they use their powers to get free food and make people fall in love. A goat named Gingerbread uses both tactics to enter the 2016 Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Competition. The goat loses the contest, but learns a lesson about the human spirit.
- Unsuccessful car salesman Robby Enston has the ability to see into the future, but only for people that refuse to buy cars from him. He tries to convince prospective customers to come back and buy a car after his predictions prove to be 100% accurate, but they never do. Robby becomes embittered and eventually tells everyone that he has lost his powers. Desperate for information, everyone buys a car from him, which cancels out his powers. Robby appeases the new car owners by inventing wildly unlikely predictions, all of which are foretold to happen a couple of weeks past the warranty expiration dates on their new cars.
- Shy guy Willis Dabney decides to get a dog to serve as an icebreaker to meet the women that frequent his local park. However, the adorable beagle he brings home turns out be inhabited by the reincarnated spirit of John Howard, 1st Duke of Norfolk. This is not a problem for the most part, though Willis does grow tired of explaining who John Howard was and what a duke's responsibilities are.
- It is the year 2055 and Bayou Drinks is Louisiana's hottest honky-tonk. "Swamp" McSurge has returned to collect some money owed to him by the owner, a cyborg named Thelma (who is also his ex-wife). Trouble ensues when the local space sheriff decides to close down Bayou Drinks unless they can raise 10,000 NewMerica credits by midnight. They do, of course, and Thelma sees that Swamp has become a man of his word. The bar's house band plays Madonna's "Open Your Heart" in celebration.
- In another one of those heart-warming, coming-of-age stories, a young woman named Sybil leaves her small hometown in search of ways to go hang gliding without having access to either mountains or hang gliders. Her family eagerly awaits her findings.
- After months of searching, Hank Pritchard is thrilled to get hired as the editor of a brand new website called Vrinkle. Unknown to him, however, is the company's secret purpose: it was created by Hank's friends to make him feel better about himself. When his friends eventually tell him what they've done, Hank asks for a raise. The makeshift website is then bought by Google.
- In a parallel universe where magic is real, but GPS is not, people have many tales about a satellite-assisted method of giving people directions in an assortment of celebrity voices. College student Stacy Crawford is obsessed with the stories and desperately wants to make them into a reality, but her family forces her to major in levitation spells instead. Stacy flunks out anyway and starts a 80's cover band.
- Crass businesswoman Laura Caldeen decides to retire early and see the world. After a trying month spent mainly in airports, Laura returns to Philadelphia and unsuccessfully tries to get her job back. Not one to be defeated, she enters the 2016 Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Competition and narrowly beats out a goat named Gingerbread. Laura adopts the rascally goat, they move to Palm Springs, and soon after, Laura falls in love with a local hotdog vendor named Chet.
- A lonely man named Louis becomes infatuated with a painting that hangs in the background of his favorite TV sitcom, Pleasant Times. He travels to Los Angeles and sneaks onto the sitcom's set, only to find that most of the background (including his beloved painting) is computer-generated. Louis has a fit and interrupts filming by shouting his complaints about life in general at the Pleasant Times cast and crew. Annoyed at first, they slowly discover that they all agree with Louis's criticisms and really enjoy his fresh takes on modern topics. However, the executive producer of the show is too busy to witness any of this, and therefore doesn't give Louis his own sitcom. Security escorts Louis away from the studio and filming resumes.
- The Rowdy Maggots, a dangerous motorcycle gang, descends on a small town called Willow Glen, destroying its infrastructure and generally wreaking havoc. Not to be outdone, the citizens of Willow Glen buy motorcycles and start their own biker gang. The formerly quiet townspeople are transformed into brutal savages practically overnight. The Maggots, having learned their lesson, ride out of town. The citizens of Willow Glen then sell their motorcycles and begin cleaning up the wreckage. However, just as the town begins to look like its old self, an approaching gang of metal detector enthusiasts appears over the horizon.
- In yet another one of those heart-warming, coming-of-age stories, an older gentleman named Gus leaves his small town in search of promiscuous women. He finds plenty and sends the resulting bar tabs to his family back home.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Blackout in Electric City 3: The Midnight Grid (1990)
Blackout in Electric City 3: The Midnight Grid (AKA, Kiss of the KryptoSphere) is
a 1990 cyber thriller directed by Leon Powell, starring David Everett
as Kade Dakota, Brenda Sachs as Roxanna, and JoBeth Williams (Poltergeist) as Wendy Pavlord. The film was a wild departure from the Cold War themes of the first two Blackout entries,
focusing instead on some of the emerging computer software technologies
of the late 1980's/early '90's. A notorious flop, the movie led to the
bankruptcy and eventual demise of its distributor, Premium Shift
Pictures.
Blackout 3 begins in the virtual reality world of the KryptoSphere, which looks like a cross between Tron and the video game Doom. People in "the KS" appear as themselves, but with futuristic clothes and colorful auras around their bodies.
In a digital arena, handsome tech virtuoso Kade Dakota fends off a group of computer hackers using a 3-D game called Deity Blaze (a hybrid of Chess, Tetris, and Badminton). The three cyber criminals all wear white ski masks and their voices are filtered through a distortion program. They continuously refer to Kade as a "coral reef", alluding to his hindrance of their open web-surfing. Kade gains the upper hand when he dispatches a "zero-gravity spin-cube", the ultimate checkmate move in Deity Blaze. The hackers dissipate into digital mist.
The threat defeated, Kade removes his VR helmet and is back in the real world. His control center is located at futuristic Pavlord Industries, creator of the KryptoSphere. Kade is praised by his supervisor, Hector Stormdale (David Naughton, An American Werewolf in London), and told that the Wendy Pavlord owes a huge debt to Kade for keeping her company's innovations virus-free. Kade reveals his desire to see compu-crime ended by the year 2000. Kade then says he has to leave for a hot date with a woman named Roxanna that he met at a nightclub called Throttle Drive the night before.
Later that night, Kade meets with the beautiful Roxanna at her stylish condominium. Before they leave for their date, she requests that Kade fix her malfunctioning answering machine. Kade makes jokes about her not being tech savvy, but is embarrassed when he too cannot get the machine to work. She teases him before leading him toward her bedroom for gentle lovemaking. As they leave the room, the answering machine's message light switches on and the audiotape rewinds.
Kade is awoken in the early hours by voices coming from somewhere in Roxanna's condo. He tells the girl to hide in the closet and inspects the other rooms. He discovers that the voices are coming from the answering machine, which now is malfunctioning by playing back old messages. Before he can hit stop, however, he overhears a man's voice describe an upcoming crime in the KryptoSphere, expressing hope that no "coral reefs" prevent him from "catching a big wave".
The message ends and a moment later Roxanna appears in the doorway. She asks what the voices were, but Kade tells her it was nothing and they go back to bed. Roxanna blissfully sleeps on Kade's chest as he stares at the ceiling, obviously troubled about what he has overheard.
The next morning, Roxanna climbs into her Ferrari Testarossa and drives off, secretly tailed by Kade in his lime green Mustang. They end up at a storage warehouse downtown, where Roxanna walks in. Kade spots a payphone across the street and uses it to call into work. Hector is upset that Kade isn't at the office, informing him that Wendy Pavlord has asked that Kade present a lecture on compu-crime at a global conference in two days, to held in the KryptoSphere's Golden Palace.
Kade hints that he may have a lead on the recent hacks and hangs up. Using his impressive physical prowess, Kade climbs up some scaffolding to the warehouse's second story and enters through an open window.
Kade sneaks along some rafters until he gets a good view of Roxanna's meeting with a mysterious figure in a white ski mask and black leather trench coat. They put on VR helmets and Kade climbs down to get a closer look at the equipment they are using. Both helmets have Pavlord Industries labels on them, which confuses him. They end their VR session and Kade hides behind some large crates. He overhears them agree to meet again later that same day and they go their separate ways. Kade tries to follow the mysterious stranger, but a secret passageway in one of the warehouse's backrooms thwarts his attempt.
Later at the Pavlord Industries, Kade gears up in his VR equipment. He enters the KryptoSphere and appears surrounded by various types of Krypto-denizens: mostly typical web surfers, but also game peddlers, sexbots, and roving scammers. Kade enters a virtual dive bar and approaches shifty Hawke Gunnar (Harry Dean Stanton in one of his paycheck roles) sitting by himself in a corner booth. They trade a few verbal barbs before Kade threatens to ban Hawke from "the KS" due to a scam involving counterfeit KryptoKash (the virtual world's currency).
Hawke offers information about the team of ski mask-wearing hackers, which he refers to as the Midnight Grid. He tells Kade that they are a super-group of disgraced technophiles from each of the Electric Nations, assembled by none other than Hector Stormdale himself. Kade pushes for more information, but Hawke's connection distorts and his avatar appears extremely digitized. A health meter appears above his head, emptying fast. Distressed, Hawke says that he has just been stabbed through the heart in real life and will be dead soon. Kade backs away as Hawke's avatar explodes into digital carnage.
Kade removes his VR helmet and, through his control center's window, sees Wendy Pavlord talking to Hector. Kade exits his station to investigate. He can tell that Hector is overcome with Wendy's beauty and sophistication. She sees Kade and compliments him on this hard work for her company, saying that her father, Reynolds Pavlord, would have be proud of him. Kade thanks her and she leaves. Hector admonishes Kade for being rude and asks what he was doing in the KryptoSphere. Before Kade can ask Hector about the Midnight Grid, an assistant tells Kade that he has a phone call. It's Roxanna - and she needs Kade's help.
Kade rushes to Roxanna's condo. She is distraught, coming clean to Kade about her involvement with the Midnight Grid and their nefarious plot to bring down the value of KryptoKash. She explains that she thought the KryptoSphere's collapse would help the Electric Nations' economy, but found out that it would only lead to anarchy. Kade asks her about Hector, but Roxanna says she doesn't know who he is. Once he's convinced, Roxanna leads Kade toward her bedroom for another round of gentle lovemaking (set to "Hyperdrive" by C.C. Cobalt).
The next morning, Kade sneaks Roxanna into Pavlord Industries and they enter the KryptoSphere together. She tells him that there is a virtual records cave in Database Mountain where the secret identities of the Midnight Grid's members are held. Kade and Roxanna reach the base of the virtual mountain and begin to scale it in a sequence that has gained notoriety as a viral video.
The sequence is as follows:
Rather than using normal mountain climbing techniques, Kade switches off the surrounding gravity and the two of them bungee-jump up each level. Badly-rendered digital pterodactyls attack them as they near the top of Database Mountain. Roxanna uses a program called "KryptoKopy" in order to create opposing pterodactyls to defeat the initial wave of prehistoric birds. However, Roxanna's bungee cord is inadvertently cut by one of their beaks. Kade catches her and resets the mountain's gravity to normal. They find a winding path that leads up and activate inline skates (see: rollerblades) from within in their avatars' feet.
The clip currently has over 12 million views on YouTube.
Once they reach the top of Database Mountain, Roxanna points out the entrance to the records cave. However, they are stopped by overriding signals, warning alarms, and messages that appear in their VR helmet displays. Kade and Roxanna are wanted by the Electric City Police Patrol for the murder of Hector Stormdale.
They quickly exit the KryptoSphere and avoid several security guards as they escape Pavlord Industries. Driving through downtown Electric City, Kade explains that they won't be able to access the KryptoSphere while they are wanted. Roxanna asks Kade about Hector Stormdale and he tells her a funny story about a time they got into a street race in "the KS" and had to allude a fleet of KryptoKops. Kade then gets an idea and drives to an old arcade called Button Mashers.
Roxanna tells Kade that this is no time to play Dig Dug as he leads her to a classic pinball game in the back. He taps out a pattern on the flippers and the machine sinks into the wall, revealing a secret passage. They enter and are faced with a old-school robot that demands a password. Kade says "Bodlaender" and the robot leads them to a room filled with technology from all eras. Roxanna is confused, but Kade explains that Bodlaender was an important Dutch computer scientist.
Hunched over a tiny microchip in the middle of buzzing electronics, sits computer tech legend Bolty Dobbs (Jon Gries, Real Genius). He yells at Kade about bringing the Spanish Inquisition to his doorstep, but it turns out to be a Monty Python reference. The two old friends greet each other and Kade introduces Bolty to Roxanna. Bolty say that he knows all about what is happening and that he's there to help them both.
Bolty tells Kade that he has something for him and takes him to a side room with a wall of display monitors. Bolty hits play on a VCR and Hector Stormdale appears on every screen. In a pre-recorded video, Hector explains that if Kade is seeing the message, then he (Hector) has been murdered. He reveals that he once worked directly under Reynolds Pavlord and had a brief love affair with Wendy, which angered the old man. Hector was moved from R&D to security detail at the company, but he kept his ear to the ground over the years and witnessed Wendy absorb her father's penchant for greed, especially after Pavlord died. He then discovered her plot to throw the Electric Nations into chaos, all so that the KryptoSphere would be the only safe haven for people looking to escape crime and rampant poverty.
The message ends abruptly with Hector telling Kade to get as far away from Wendy Pavlord and the Midnight Grid as he can. Bolty hits stop on the playback and Roxanna (who has been standing in the doorway for much of Hector's message) asks Kade what he wants to do. Kade asks Bolty if he can gain access for two to the KryptoSphere, along with counterfeit identities for their avatars. Bolty says that he can and will. Kade turns to Roxanna and tells her that they are going to "KryptoKrash Pavlord's party".
Inside the KryptoSphere, two giant blue pterodactyls circle the Golden Palace. Krypto-denizens pour into the large compound, a banner that reads "Electric Nations Global Conference 2000" adorns the entrance. Wendy Pavlord's smiling face is seen on monitors at every corner. The pterodactyls perch atop one of the landings and transform into two members of the Midnight Grid, both holding briefcases. They enter the building through a roof access opening.
The conference takes place inside a large ballroom where digital food and beverages are being served. Inside the KryptoSphere, people are well-dressed and ecstatic. However, in their real-life Electric Nation homes, people are merely wearing VR helmets while in their underwear and surrounded by filth.
Wendy Pavlord takes the stage, greeted by thunderous applause. She welcomes the denizens and speaks about her father's vision for the KS, as well as the need for evolution. Speaking to concerns about security, Wendy reveals that the Midnight Grid has bested Pavlord Industries' team at every level, infiltrating their ranks and murdering Hector Stormdale. She reveals her romance with Hector, saying that she never stopped loving him.
Behind Wendy, the two Midnight Grid figures appear. Wendy is confused and asks security to capture them, but the masked figures are able to disappear and reappear, seemingly at will. Finally, one accuses Wendy of murdering Hector. The crowd gasps. The two figures press buttons on their trenchcoats and reveal themselves to be Kade and Roxanna. The crowd gasps again.
Wendy asks why their presence isn't transmitting alert signals and Kade explains that they've accessed an override command through a friend. He also tells her that he and Roxanna again have reached the summit of Database Mountain and now know the identity of the Midnight Grid. He asks if it could have been her the whole time: Wendy Pavlord herself?
Through a flashback, Wendy is revealed to be the Midnight Grid in the real world, leading Roxanna through a maze of corporate espionage in order to ensnare Kade in a trap. The figure gracefully alludes Kade in the warehouse without letting on that she knows she is being followed. The secret passageway door closes and she removes the white ski mask, smiling. Later, she sheds a single tear as she plunges a knife into Hector Stormdale's heart.
Back in the KryptoSphere's Golden Palace, Kade says that this is only partially the truth. He opens his briefcase and dumps files onto the floor which morph into a 2-D hologram of the Midnight Grid. He announces that Wendy might be able to play secret agent in Electric City, but the true identity of the Midnight Grid is none other than her father, Reynolds Pavlord, his mind uploaded into the KryptoSphere before death. However, in the KryptoSphere, he is represented in triplicate. The three members of the Midnight Grid appear from the crowd and remove their white ski masks (each played by Harry Dean Stanton).
Kade shakes his head, saying that he never expected a dirtbag like Hawke to actually be Reynolds Pavlord, not in a million years. Two of the Pavlords fade into digitized blocks as the remaining one leaps onto the stage. His clothes transform into a tuxedo and he kisses his daughter's cheek. Smiling, Pavlord greets the audience, telling them that this is all a part of the night's amusement.
Reynolds Pavlord removes a transmitter from his pocket and presses a button, locking Kade and Roxanna into place and preventing them from disappearing again. Pavlord takes his daughter's hand and reiterates to the crowd the need for evolution in the KryptoSphere. He then announces that there is a new innovation from Pavlord Industries. He presses another button on the transmitter and the Golden Palace becomes ultra-realistic. He welcomes the audience to the KryptoSphere Version 2.0 and they rapturously applaud.
As the applause dies, one person in the crowd refuses to stop clapping. Pavlord glares to see who this is. Hector Stormdale, also wearing a tuxedo, walks up onto the stage and asks if they validate parking.
Pavlord demands to know how he got there and Hector explains that he uploaded himself into KryptoSphere 2.0 as soon as he found the specs. He then tells Wendy that he doubts she ever loved him. The only love she ever knew was for her father, who controls her even from beyond death. Wendy begins to cry, finally realizing that this is true.
Hector reveals that he too has a transmitter and releases Kade and Roxanna. He presses another button and the Golden Palace begins to shake and the walls crumble. They begin to flee, but Pavlord tackles Kade and they both disintegrate into digital dust. Roxanna screams, but Hector forces her to keep running. The palace falls and the KryptoSphere reverts back to its 1.0 version.
Later they all gather in a digital KryptoSphere field, a digital scrawl in the sky informs everyone that Wendy Pavlord has been arrested by the Electric City Police Patrol and that Reynolds Pavlord's program in the KryptoSphere was somehow deactivated. Roxanna wonders what became of Kade.
A moment later Kade appears over the horizon, triumphant. He explains that Pavlord believed that he could best Kade in any game of his choosing. She asks him what he chose and he removes a zero-gravity spin-cube from his pocket. She smiles at him and they kiss.
Kade asks Hector what he plans to do now that the Pavlords are gone. Amused, Hector says that he will let the KryptoSphere evolve on its own. He won't be its ruler, but perhaps he'll be its protector. His tuxedo transforms into a superhero outfit and he flies off. Kade and Roxanna laugh. They look at each other and kiss again.
The credits roll in a futuristic font created for the film.
Despite an extensive marketing campaign by Premium Shift Pictures, Blackout in Electric City 3 failed to capture the imagination of its intended audience. The film opened eleventh in its opening weekend and went on to gross only 23% of its production budget. While some critics maintained that the movie featured lively performances and a fun soundtrack, many were confused by the plot and jargon-heavy dialogue. Rumors of a behind-the-scenes romance between David Everett and JoBeth Williams were found to be a marketing ploy perpetrated by Premium Shift, resulting in one marriage's dissolution and several lawsuits.
Today, Blackout 3 is seen as an early counterpart to other cyber thrillers such as Hackers and The Net, though its legacy is less pronounced due to lack of future stars. The special effects, while not bad for its time, now look crude compared to the notable blockbusters that soon followed (T2: Judgement Day and Jurassic Park). However, many fans discovered Blackout 3 on various cable channels and the film has maintained a healthy cult status in the decades since its disastrous theatrical run. Upon Blackout 3's DVD release in 2011, former Premium Shift president Howard Kleinhorn asked these fans where they were in 1990, and then told them all that they could go to hell.
Blackout 3 begins in the virtual reality world of the KryptoSphere, which looks like a cross between Tron and the video game Doom. People in "the KS" appear as themselves, but with futuristic clothes and colorful auras around their bodies.
In a digital arena, handsome tech virtuoso Kade Dakota fends off a group of computer hackers using a 3-D game called Deity Blaze (a hybrid of Chess, Tetris, and Badminton). The three cyber criminals all wear white ski masks and their voices are filtered through a distortion program. They continuously refer to Kade as a "coral reef", alluding to his hindrance of their open web-surfing. Kade gains the upper hand when he dispatches a "zero-gravity spin-cube", the ultimate checkmate move in Deity Blaze. The hackers dissipate into digital mist.
The threat defeated, Kade removes his VR helmet and is back in the real world. His control center is located at futuristic Pavlord Industries, creator of the KryptoSphere. Kade is praised by his supervisor, Hector Stormdale (David Naughton, An American Werewolf in London), and told that the Wendy Pavlord owes a huge debt to Kade for keeping her company's innovations virus-free. Kade reveals his desire to see compu-crime ended by the year 2000. Kade then says he has to leave for a hot date with a woman named Roxanna that he met at a nightclub called Throttle Drive the night before.
Later that night, Kade meets with the beautiful Roxanna at her stylish condominium. Before they leave for their date, she requests that Kade fix her malfunctioning answering machine. Kade makes jokes about her not being tech savvy, but is embarrassed when he too cannot get the machine to work. She teases him before leading him toward her bedroom for gentle lovemaking. As they leave the room, the answering machine's message light switches on and the audiotape rewinds.
Kade is awoken in the early hours by voices coming from somewhere in Roxanna's condo. He tells the girl to hide in the closet and inspects the other rooms. He discovers that the voices are coming from the answering machine, which now is malfunctioning by playing back old messages. Before he can hit stop, however, he overhears a man's voice describe an upcoming crime in the KryptoSphere, expressing hope that no "coral reefs" prevent him from "catching a big wave".
The message ends and a moment later Roxanna appears in the doorway. She asks what the voices were, but Kade tells her it was nothing and they go back to bed. Roxanna blissfully sleeps on Kade's chest as he stares at the ceiling, obviously troubled about what he has overheard.
The next morning, Roxanna climbs into her Ferrari Testarossa and drives off, secretly tailed by Kade in his lime green Mustang. They end up at a storage warehouse downtown, where Roxanna walks in. Kade spots a payphone across the street and uses it to call into work. Hector is upset that Kade isn't at the office, informing him that Wendy Pavlord has asked that Kade present a lecture on compu-crime at a global conference in two days, to held in the KryptoSphere's Golden Palace.
Kade hints that he may have a lead on the recent hacks and hangs up. Using his impressive physical prowess, Kade climbs up some scaffolding to the warehouse's second story and enters through an open window.
Kade sneaks along some rafters until he gets a good view of Roxanna's meeting with a mysterious figure in a white ski mask and black leather trench coat. They put on VR helmets and Kade climbs down to get a closer look at the equipment they are using. Both helmets have Pavlord Industries labels on them, which confuses him. They end their VR session and Kade hides behind some large crates. He overhears them agree to meet again later that same day and they go their separate ways. Kade tries to follow the mysterious stranger, but a secret passageway in one of the warehouse's backrooms thwarts his attempt.
Later at the Pavlord Industries, Kade gears up in his VR equipment. He enters the KryptoSphere and appears surrounded by various types of Krypto-denizens: mostly typical web surfers, but also game peddlers, sexbots, and roving scammers. Kade enters a virtual dive bar and approaches shifty Hawke Gunnar (Harry Dean Stanton in one of his paycheck roles) sitting by himself in a corner booth. They trade a few verbal barbs before Kade threatens to ban Hawke from "the KS" due to a scam involving counterfeit KryptoKash (the virtual world's currency).
Hawke offers information about the team of ski mask-wearing hackers, which he refers to as the Midnight Grid. He tells Kade that they are a super-group of disgraced technophiles from each of the Electric Nations, assembled by none other than Hector Stormdale himself. Kade pushes for more information, but Hawke's connection distorts and his avatar appears extremely digitized. A health meter appears above his head, emptying fast. Distressed, Hawke says that he has just been stabbed through the heart in real life and will be dead soon. Kade backs away as Hawke's avatar explodes into digital carnage.
Kade removes his VR helmet and, through his control center's window, sees Wendy Pavlord talking to Hector. Kade exits his station to investigate. He can tell that Hector is overcome with Wendy's beauty and sophistication. She sees Kade and compliments him on this hard work for her company, saying that her father, Reynolds Pavlord, would have be proud of him. Kade thanks her and she leaves. Hector admonishes Kade for being rude and asks what he was doing in the KryptoSphere. Before Kade can ask Hector about the Midnight Grid, an assistant tells Kade that he has a phone call. It's Roxanna - and she needs Kade's help.
Kade rushes to Roxanna's condo. She is distraught, coming clean to Kade about her involvement with the Midnight Grid and their nefarious plot to bring down the value of KryptoKash. She explains that she thought the KryptoSphere's collapse would help the Electric Nations' economy, but found out that it would only lead to anarchy. Kade asks her about Hector, but Roxanna says she doesn't know who he is. Once he's convinced, Roxanna leads Kade toward her bedroom for another round of gentle lovemaking (set to "Hyperdrive" by C.C. Cobalt).
The next morning, Kade sneaks Roxanna into Pavlord Industries and they enter the KryptoSphere together. She tells him that there is a virtual records cave in Database Mountain where the secret identities of the Midnight Grid's members are held. Kade and Roxanna reach the base of the virtual mountain and begin to scale it in a sequence that has gained notoriety as a viral video.
The sequence is as follows:
Rather than using normal mountain climbing techniques, Kade switches off the surrounding gravity and the two of them bungee-jump up each level. Badly-rendered digital pterodactyls attack them as they near the top of Database Mountain. Roxanna uses a program called "KryptoKopy" in order to create opposing pterodactyls to defeat the initial wave of prehistoric birds. However, Roxanna's bungee cord is inadvertently cut by one of their beaks. Kade catches her and resets the mountain's gravity to normal. They find a winding path that leads up and activate inline skates (see: rollerblades) from within in their avatars' feet.
The clip currently has over 12 million views on YouTube.
Once they reach the top of Database Mountain, Roxanna points out the entrance to the records cave. However, they are stopped by overriding signals, warning alarms, and messages that appear in their VR helmet displays. Kade and Roxanna are wanted by the Electric City Police Patrol for the murder of Hector Stormdale.
They quickly exit the KryptoSphere and avoid several security guards as they escape Pavlord Industries. Driving through downtown Electric City, Kade explains that they won't be able to access the KryptoSphere while they are wanted. Roxanna asks Kade about Hector Stormdale and he tells her a funny story about a time they got into a street race in "the KS" and had to allude a fleet of KryptoKops. Kade then gets an idea and drives to an old arcade called Button Mashers.
Roxanna tells Kade that this is no time to play Dig Dug as he leads her to a classic pinball game in the back. He taps out a pattern on the flippers and the machine sinks into the wall, revealing a secret passage. They enter and are faced with a old-school robot that demands a password. Kade says "Bodlaender" and the robot leads them to a room filled with technology from all eras. Roxanna is confused, but Kade explains that Bodlaender was an important Dutch computer scientist.
Hunched over a tiny microchip in the middle of buzzing electronics, sits computer tech legend Bolty Dobbs (Jon Gries, Real Genius). He yells at Kade about bringing the Spanish Inquisition to his doorstep, but it turns out to be a Monty Python reference. The two old friends greet each other and Kade introduces Bolty to Roxanna. Bolty say that he knows all about what is happening and that he's there to help them both.
Bolty tells Kade that he has something for him and takes him to a side room with a wall of display monitors. Bolty hits play on a VCR and Hector Stormdale appears on every screen. In a pre-recorded video, Hector explains that if Kade is seeing the message, then he (Hector) has been murdered. He reveals that he once worked directly under Reynolds Pavlord and had a brief love affair with Wendy, which angered the old man. Hector was moved from R&D to security detail at the company, but he kept his ear to the ground over the years and witnessed Wendy absorb her father's penchant for greed, especially after Pavlord died. He then discovered her plot to throw the Electric Nations into chaos, all so that the KryptoSphere would be the only safe haven for people looking to escape crime and rampant poverty.
The message ends abruptly with Hector telling Kade to get as far away from Wendy Pavlord and the Midnight Grid as he can. Bolty hits stop on the playback and Roxanna (who has been standing in the doorway for much of Hector's message) asks Kade what he wants to do. Kade asks Bolty if he can gain access for two to the KryptoSphere, along with counterfeit identities for their avatars. Bolty says that he can and will. Kade turns to Roxanna and tells her that they are going to "KryptoKrash Pavlord's party".
Inside the KryptoSphere, two giant blue pterodactyls circle the Golden Palace. Krypto-denizens pour into the large compound, a banner that reads "Electric Nations Global Conference 2000" adorns the entrance. Wendy Pavlord's smiling face is seen on monitors at every corner. The pterodactyls perch atop one of the landings and transform into two members of the Midnight Grid, both holding briefcases. They enter the building through a roof access opening.
The conference takes place inside a large ballroom where digital food and beverages are being served. Inside the KryptoSphere, people are well-dressed and ecstatic. However, in their real-life Electric Nation homes, people are merely wearing VR helmets while in their underwear and surrounded by filth.
Wendy Pavlord takes the stage, greeted by thunderous applause. She welcomes the denizens and speaks about her father's vision for the KS, as well as the need for evolution. Speaking to concerns about security, Wendy reveals that the Midnight Grid has bested Pavlord Industries' team at every level, infiltrating their ranks and murdering Hector Stormdale. She reveals her romance with Hector, saying that she never stopped loving him.
Behind Wendy, the two Midnight Grid figures appear. Wendy is confused and asks security to capture them, but the masked figures are able to disappear and reappear, seemingly at will. Finally, one accuses Wendy of murdering Hector. The crowd gasps. The two figures press buttons on their trenchcoats and reveal themselves to be Kade and Roxanna. The crowd gasps again.
Wendy asks why their presence isn't transmitting alert signals and Kade explains that they've accessed an override command through a friend. He also tells her that he and Roxanna again have reached the summit of Database Mountain and now know the identity of the Midnight Grid. He asks if it could have been her the whole time: Wendy Pavlord herself?
Through a flashback, Wendy is revealed to be the Midnight Grid in the real world, leading Roxanna through a maze of corporate espionage in order to ensnare Kade in a trap. The figure gracefully alludes Kade in the warehouse without letting on that she knows she is being followed. The secret passageway door closes and she removes the white ski mask, smiling. Later, she sheds a single tear as she plunges a knife into Hector Stormdale's heart.
Back in the KryptoSphere's Golden Palace, Kade says that this is only partially the truth. He opens his briefcase and dumps files onto the floor which morph into a 2-D hologram of the Midnight Grid. He announces that Wendy might be able to play secret agent in Electric City, but the true identity of the Midnight Grid is none other than her father, Reynolds Pavlord, his mind uploaded into the KryptoSphere before death. However, in the KryptoSphere, he is represented in triplicate. The three members of the Midnight Grid appear from the crowd and remove their white ski masks (each played by Harry Dean Stanton).
Kade shakes his head, saying that he never expected a dirtbag like Hawke to actually be Reynolds Pavlord, not in a million years. Two of the Pavlords fade into digitized blocks as the remaining one leaps onto the stage. His clothes transform into a tuxedo and he kisses his daughter's cheek. Smiling, Pavlord greets the audience, telling them that this is all a part of the night's amusement.
Reynolds Pavlord removes a transmitter from his pocket and presses a button, locking Kade and Roxanna into place and preventing them from disappearing again. Pavlord takes his daughter's hand and reiterates to the crowd the need for evolution in the KryptoSphere. He then announces that there is a new innovation from Pavlord Industries. He presses another button on the transmitter and the Golden Palace becomes ultra-realistic. He welcomes the audience to the KryptoSphere Version 2.0 and they rapturously applaud.
As the applause dies, one person in the crowd refuses to stop clapping. Pavlord glares to see who this is. Hector Stormdale, also wearing a tuxedo, walks up onto the stage and asks if they validate parking.
Pavlord demands to know how he got there and Hector explains that he uploaded himself into KryptoSphere 2.0 as soon as he found the specs. He then tells Wendy that he doubts she ever loved him. The only love she ever knew was for her father, who controls her even from beyond death. Wendy begins to cry, finally realizing that this is true.
Hector reveals that he too has a transmitter and releases Kade and Roxanna. He presses another button and the Golden Palace begins to shake and the walls crumble. They begin to flee, but Pavlord tackles Kade and they both disintegrate into digital dust. Roxanna screams, but Hector forces her to keep running. The palace falls and the KryptoSphere reverts back to its 1.0 version.
Later they all gather in a digital KryptoSphere field, a digital scrawl in the sky informs everyone that Wendy Pavlord has been arrested by the Electric City Police Patrol and that Reynolds Pavlord's program in the KryptoSphere was somehow deactivated. Roxanna wonders what became of Kade.
A moment later Kade appears over the horizon, triumphant. He explains that Pavlord believed that he could best Kade in any game of his choosing. She asks him what he chose and he removes a zero-gravity spin-cube from his pocket. She smiles at him and they kiss.
Kade asks Hector what he plans to do now that the Pavlords are gone. Amused, Hector says that he will let the KryptoSphere evolve on its own. He won't be its ruler, but perhaps he'll be its protector. His tuxedo transforms into a superhero outfit and he flies off. Kade and Roxanna laugh. They look at each other and kiss again.
The credits roll in a futuristic font created for the film.
Despite an extensive marketing campaign by Premium Shift Pictures, Blackout in Electric City 3 failed to capture the imagination of its intended audience. The film opened eleventh in its opening weekend and went on to gross only 23% of its production budget. While some critics maintained that the movie featured lively performances and a fun soundtrack, many were confused by the plot and jargon-heavy dialogue. Rumors of a behind-the-scenes romance between David Everett and JoBeth Williams were found to be a marketing ploy perpetrated by Premium Shift, resulting in one marriage's dissolution and several lawsuits.
Today, Blackout 3 is seen as an early counterpart to other cyber thrillers such as Hackers and The Net, though its legacy is less pronounced due to lack of future stars. The special effects, while not bad for its time, now look crude compared to the notable blockbusters that soon followed (T2: Judgement Day and Jurassic Park). However, many fans discovered Blackout 3 on various cable channels and the film has maintained a healthy cult status in the decades since its disastrous theatrical run. Upon Blackout 3's DVD release in 2011, former Premium Shift president Howard Kleinhorn asked these fans where they were in 1990, and then told them all that they could go to hell.
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