Channel Blue (12 page)

Amanda’s twin sighed. ‘Why must I always save these thrown-together productions? Why?’

‘Because you’re the best,’ Amanda said. ‘And it’s not all gloom-and-doom. Remember who I cast to play Freddie Mercury in the Prime Minister’s sex dream?’

The twin chuckled. ‘Oh Amanda, I just can’t say no to you.’

Amanda smiled. ‘You’d better get going. You have your lines and the address?’ Amanda Two nodded. ‘Then break a leg.’ Amanda and her twin cheek-kissed, which Perry found titillating, despite its unfathomable strangeness. A panel in the ceiling opened and sunlight pierced the dark room. Amanda’s twin melted, falling away until all that was left was a small dark mound on the floor. This mound trembled briefly until the shape of a large crow emerged from it. The crow squawked loudly, hopped once, took flight and soared up through the opening in the ceiling.

Perry was still staring up at the open ceiling when he realised that Amanda was already out in the hallway, the sounds of her shoes clicking away from him. He tore after her and caught up. ‘That was incredible. Does he always turn into you like that?’

‘They have an easier time communicating if they assume the appearance of whomever they’re talking to,’ Amanda said.

‘Where do they come from?’

‘There’s no time for questions, Mr Bunt. We’re about to go live to air.’ Amanda arrived at a door marked Control Room D and pushed it open. Perry followed her into a dark room dominated by screens that lined the walls. Technicians silently worked at a console in front of the largest screen, which showed Steve Santiago sleeping peacefully in his hairnet and sleep mask. Amanda guided Perry by the elbow through the darkness to the second console, where a large green slug creature covered with eyeballs sat in a swivel chair.

‘Guy,’ Amanda said, ‘this is Mr Bunt. He’s the writer.’

The slug creature nodded the top portion on its slithery head and around half of its eyes focused on Perry. ‘I never forget a face,’ said the creature. The wide slit at its base flattened itself out into what appeared to be a smile. ‘Welcome to the team.’

‘We’re lucky to have Guy directing our pilot,’ Amanda told Perry.

‘Oh stop,’ said Guy, oozing a viscous yellow liquid that poured down one side of its gelatinous green body. While Perry fought the urge to gag, Amanda steered him to the console at the very rear of the room, where Nick Pythagorus was already seated. In front of him was a bottle wrapped in a festive ribbon.

‘Amanda,’ he said. Amanda nodded curtly. ‘We’ve got our A team on this one. We’ll make it work.’ Nick smiled at Perry, who noticed that the boy executive still had some of his baby teeth. ‘Congratulations on the pick-up,’ he said, sliding the bottle down the console towards Perry. ‘I obviously underestimated you.’

Perry examined the bottle.

‘Cassiopeian Burgundy,’ Nick said. ‘The best wine in the galaxy. You might as well know that a lot of people around the station have been very sceptical. “A show by an Earthle? Are you crazy? That’ll never work! What a stupid idea!” But I believe in you, Mr Bunt. I think we may have a hit on our hands.’

Perry smiled, unsure. ‘Thank you.’

‘Quiet, please,’ one of the technicians said. ‘Three, two, one... cue heavenly vision—’

On the screen, a shimmering pool of light appeared at the base of Steve Santiago’s bed, accompanied by ethereal sounds. Steve stirred and opened his eyes. The pool of light congealed into the form of Jesus Christ, complete with white robe, sword and a deeply furrowed brow. Perry noted that this Jesus seemed even angrier than the one he and Amanda had met in front of the elevators.

Amanda leaned forward to Guy. ‘Nice effect,’ she told him.

The director chuckled. ‘Just wait till he starts waving that sword.’

‘Is that Jeff?’ Perry asked.

Amanda nodded. ‘He’s the best.’

‘Steve Santiago!’ On the screen, Jesus bellowed in a
basso profundo
that shook the control-room speakers. The Jacuzzi salesman sat up in bed, pure terror on his face. ‘I have come for thee!’

Steve fell onto the floor and, quivering all over, pulled himself up on his knees. ‘Lord?’

‘Thou art a terrible sinner!’ Jesus shouted.

Tears sprang from Steve’s eyes while an unmistakeable wet patch spread in the crotch of his boxer shorts. ‘Yes, Lord,’ he whimpered. ‘Yes. I am.’

Amanda turned to Perry, her eyes filled with excitement. ‘This is good stuff,’ she whispered. ‘Steve never soils himself. The mere thought of it horrifies him.’

Jesus glared down at the trembling sinner. ‘While I gave my life to redeem you, thou hast shown me nothing but wickedness,’ he intoned. Steve nodded his head, sobbing plaintively.

Amanda leaned forward to Guy. ‘
I care nothing for your womanly tears
,’ she said.

‘I care nothing for your womanly tears,’ Jesus on the screen said, eliciting another crying jag from Steve.

‘Take it on home,’ Amanda said to Guy. The director’s towering head nodded.

Jesus waved his sword and a fierce roar shook the walls of Steve Santiago’s townhouse. ‘I will blot out you and all of Man from the Earth!’

Steve moaned, beyond terrified. ‘Please no! Please just... give me another chance!’

‘There is only one way in which my hand will be stayed,’ Jesus said. ‘That is if you, Steve Santiago, undertake to change yourself from evil to good. Will you do this?’

Steve nodded his head fervently. ‘Yes, Lord. Yes!’

‘You make this vow right now before me, to lead a life of righteousness?’

‘Yes, Lord! I swear it!’

‘Then I will give you this one chance,’ Jesus spoke, and with a whirl of his sword, vanished from Steve Santiago’s bedroom.

Steve stared at the spot where Jesus stood, blinking incomprehensibly. He rose slowly to his feet on shaking legs and walked into the bathroom.

A whoop of celebration went up in the control room. ‘Did you see him?’ one of the technicians said.

‘We’ve got a hit!’ Guy said, many of his eyes widening in excitement.

‘Fantastic!’ Amanda said. She hugged Perry and he nearly passed out from sudden, ecstatic joy. ‘We couldn’t have asked for a better start.’ Perry couldn’t believe it – yesterday he’d been a poor screenwriter without a single production to his name. Today, not only had one of his scripts been produced, it was being shown throughout the galaxy, reaching an audience of which the greatest writers in Hollywood could only dream.

‘Hold on,’ Nick said. The boy executive was watching one of the smaller monitors. ‘Put the bathroom on the main screen.’ The large centre screen filled with the image of Steve Santiago bent over the bathtub, using his fingernails to pull a tile off the wall. The control room fell silent.

‘What’s he doing?’ Perry said.

‘He’s got a peephole that looks into the shower of his neighbour,’ Nick said, unable to conceal his glee. ‘The amazing thing is, she’s fifty and weighs 200 pounds.’ Nick pulled the bottle of wine from Perry’s hands. ‘You won’t be needing this. I knew it wouldn’t work.’ Perry gaped at him, confused by his sudden change in tone. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Your show’s done. Finished. Understand? You’re cancelled.’

Perry turned to Amanda, who, for the first time in Perry’s memory, appeared shaken.

‘It didn’t work,’ she said. ‘Steve couldn’t change for five minutes, much less a series.’

The two copbots entered. The tall guard’s face was still crumpled around the chin where Perry had yanked it off the previous day.

‘Take him to the Green Room,’ Nick said.

The tall guard smiled and grabbed Perry by the collar. ‘With pleasure,’ he said. ‘Say goodbye, Earthle.’ Before Perry had a chance to, however, he was yanked from the room. The last thing he saw was Amanda’s face watching him go, suddenly pale in the light of Steve Santiago’s bathroom.

CHANNEL 13

CANCELLATION

Once more, Perry found himself in a Galaxy Entertainment elevator. But this time, the car was plummeting into darkness. Flanked by the two robots staring straight ahead, Perry contemplated the sudden cancellation of his first and seemingly last show, as well as the dire consequences thereof. He was being taken somewhere awful to die, that much was certain, and the fact that the entire planet was also doomed didn’t make it any easier. His thoughts flew far afield. He thought of his best friend from the second grade, the first person he’d ever known well who’d died. On his eighteenth birthday, the friend had drunk too much beer and fallen off the back of a tractor into a threshing machine. At the time that Perry heard the news of the tragedy, death seemed completely abstract, like Mongolia or any other foreign country you’d never visited and never planned on going to. But then, in the last couple years, he’d been provided with ample opportunities to contemplate his mortality, since professional failure in Hollywood expertly simulated death: you lost everything, including your friends, and were forced to move to a less desirable place.

He thought of his parents. He wished now that he had called them more often. He’d always put off calling until he had some good news to tell them. But for the last two years he hadn’t had any. And now this. At least they wouldn’t have long to contemplate their son’s short, unfortunate life before the world ended. And it gave him no small comfort that they would never know of his final failure, when the Earth had come falling towards his outstretched glove and he had dropped it.

He suddenly thought of Debbie Drimler, a development executive he’d dated back when he’d been successful. Debbie was pretty, smart, had a great sense of humour and, most importantly, liked him. Then, on their third date, while they were sitting in a Beverly Hills restaurant discussing spirituality, Debbie had absent-mindedly opened and shut her denim pocketbook over and over again. Perry hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but when he went to call her back later that day he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Suddenly, they were man and wife sitting at the Oscars. He was about to collect his award and she was opening and closing that damn denim purse. The world watched them wondering: How could that incredibly successful screenwriter be with that compulsive woman? And who brings a denim purse to the Oscars? And Perry hadn’t called her – that day or ever again.

Now Debbie had her revenge: He was about to die and all he could think of was her.

How would death happen? he wondered. The Green Room was apparently Galaxy Entertainment’s version of Gitmo, a dungeon for prisoners it couldn’t prosecute but couldn’t release. Perry swallowed hard and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. What terrible tortures awaited him before he became the latest victim of the Earth’s finale? The elevator slowed and Perry felt his heart accelerate as it came to a stop. The doors parted and he squeezed his eyes shut, awaiting the blows of his jailers. Instead he heard... music. Soft, calming music. He opened his eyes to see: A pristine carpeted lobby with light green walls. The copbots escorted him from the elevator, then stepped back into it. The doors closed and they were gone.

Perry recognised the music. It was an instrumental version of ‘Suspicious Minds’.

A pretty young woman holding a plain white envelope suddenly appeared next to him. ‘Welcome, Mr Bunt. We’ve been expecting you. Today you’ll be playing the role of Distressed Passenger No. 72.’ She handed him the envelope.  ‘This envelope contains your script. The rest of the cast is waiting for you.’ She pointed to a door at the end of the lobby. ‘Make yourself comfortable. The director will be joining you shortly to talk about your scene.’

Perry stood frozen, unsure. The young woman smiled at him again. ‘Go right on in,’ she said. ‘And please let any of the assistant casting directors know if there is anything we can do for you.’ Perry walked slowly with his envelope through the door, stepping into a large room with green walls and green couches. While there seemed to be over a hundred people scattered amongst the furniture, there was little noise or conversation.

Another pretty young woman, who Perry recognised as identical to the first except for being blonde instead of brunette, approached him. ‘Hello, Mr Bunt,’ she said. ‘Can I get you water, coffee or any other beverage?’ Perry shook his head. ‘Feel free to help yourself to the buffet.’ She gestured over to a sumptuous table of food set up along the far wall. Succulent fruit platters and trays of glazed doughnuts glinted reassuringly in the muted light. ‘If you’re not hungry, just have a seat wherever you’d like.’

Perry walked slowly to the first group of couches and studied the faces of the men and women sitting there. Most were reading books or magazines, a few dozed, and a few sat staring straight ahead with expressions of tranquil anticipation on their faces. Amongst them, Perry noticed Ralph, the homeless man who frequently made him uncomfortable on his morning coffee runs. Identifying him wasn’t easy: Ralph had been given some kind of makeover. He was cleaned, shaved and wore a polo shirt and khakis. Perry took a seat on the couch next to him.

‘Ralph?’ he said.

Ralph looked at Perry and seemed to recognise him immediately. ‘Hello, Buddy,’ he said. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’

Perry wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Do you know what we’re doing here?’

‘Of course, Ralph knows,’ he said. ‘Ralph’s known it for years. The aliens have been watching us. Ralph kept telling people, and every now and then these weird men in blue would take Ralph into their van and shoot something at Ralph’s brain that made it feel all fuzzy, and they’d do it again and again but Ralph would tell them, you can’t shoot nothing at Ralph’s brain on account that he’s a veteran. Ralph’s an American hero. You can’t shoot the brain of an American hero.’

Perry stared at Ralph, trying to make sense of his blather. Ralph pointed to both sides of his head. ‘Firefight in Tikrit. Two steel plates.’ He beamed with pride. ‘
Nobody
can shoot Ralph’s brain.’

Perry suddenly understood why he, along with Ralph, had been privileged with the terrible knowledge of Channel Blue. ‘After a while they just said, “OK, Ralph wins. Ralph can be in the show.”’ Ralph clapped his hands with delight. ‘Ralph can’t believe it. Ralph is First Class Passenger No. 12!’ He pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and read from it deliberately.