 "That’s All, Folks!"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick
Life would be so much easier if I were a
cartoon character. It seems like I’m almost there anyway, except for the
pain. It’s like I’m a half-cartoon, and I need help getting there. Sounds
silly, I know. Mary wanted me to see someone… I’m sure you’re not who she
had in mind, but who else is more qualified? Anyway, I apologize for this,
but I just need a few minutes to explain.
They used to be innocuous incidents that
could happen to anybody—like stepping on the rake and slapping myself in
the face with the handle. My wife and kids thought it was as funny as a
Tom and Jerry bit. Of course, none of them had a broken nose and a fat
lip.
I’ve slipped on marbles, tripped down stairs, fell down an open manhole.
Mary says I’m accident prone, but I’ve never been. I’ve never been chased
by dogs and bitten in the ass—twice, different dogs. I’ve never been in
six car accidents in my life, much less within four months. And I’ve
certainly never had a band member drop his tuba off a grandstand onto my
head. I hate to walk past buildings for fear a falling piano might flatten
me to the pavement.
Anyway, there isn’t anything else to tell. So… what do you think?
* *
*
Jerry Nolan sat rigidly behind his desk.
His wrinkled hands gripped his chair, his fingers like claws around the
wood. His tendons felt like hydraulic cables. The flesh of his arms was as
white as the shock of hair on his head. Bill Marsh stood on the other side
of the desk, waiting for an answer. Nolan was afraid to say anything;
after all, the guy had a gun—and a damn big gun at that. In his other
hand, he held a cracked flowerpot, its flower leaning feebly to one side.
But the man wanted him to answer. Nolan
wet his lips and said, “Ahhh… I can see why it’s difficult, Mr. Marsh.”
Marsh listened intently—gun at his side,
flowerpot at sternum level. He looked ridiculous.
“I’m not sure what you want of me,” Nolan said nervously. “But just tell
me whatever you want. After all, you have the gun.”
“I don’t plan to hurt you,” Marsh said,
“but you’d have called the police if I didn’t bring it. You’re my only
hope, Mr. Nolan.”
“I don’t see how I can help you,” Nolan
said meekly.
“You’re Jerry Nolan!” Marsh said with a
broad smile. “You were making cartoons when Bugs Bunny was young. You of
all people can understand what I’m going through.”
“I don’t,” Nolan said. “I sympathize,
but… I’ve never known anyone to have so many bizarre incidents before.”
“So many?” Marsh chuckled. “I haven’t
made myself clear. They’re constant, sir, for the past four months. Every
day, something ridiculous happens that completely violates the laws of
probability. Trips. Falls. Things whacking me on the head. Stuff dropped
on my feet. I’ve been electrocuted seven times. I can’t tell you how many
cars have hit puddles and soaked me from head to toe. How do you explain
all that?”
If he could keep Marsh talking, Nolan
thought he might be able to sneak his cell phone out of his pocket and
covertly dial 911. “Honestly, Bill, I think it sounds like a lot of
coincidences.”
“But several times a day, each and every
day? And no matter how spectacular it is, no matter how painful, no matter
how many stairs I’ve tumbled down or how many stories I’ve fallen, I’ve
come out all right.”
Nolan gave a start. “Stories?”
“Oh, sure,” Marsh said, waving the gun
nonchalantly. “I fell out my bedroom window into the rose bushes. That
really smarted. Fell out of my office window at work. Never should have
tried to fill the bird feeder—but this was at the beginning, before I put
it all together. That was four stories, right into the fountain. Everyone
got a kick out of that lucky break.” He looked mournfully down at the
wilting flower he was holding. “That’s another thing. Painful as they are,
they’re funny as hell to everyone else. They’re the sort of things that,
no matter how painful you know they must be, you can’t help but laugh. I
can see why—they’re silly!
“And how can so many silly things happen
to one person? There hasn’t been a single day something hasn’t happened.
Major and minor, I’ve had at least five incidents per day. That’s at least
six hundred in four months. Name anyone you know who’s had that many
ridiculous, improbable, silly events in an entire lifetime!”
Marsh looked up with woeful eyes from his
flowerpot. “You’ve gotta help me, Mr. Nolan. It’s getting worse. I knew it
when this happened today.” He held up the flowerpot as if presenting a
piece of obviously clinching evidence.
“I don’t understand,” Nolan said.
“I was walking to my car this afternoon,”
Marsh said, “and this flowerpot fell on my head.”
Maybe it was the way the embattled man
said it, certainly combined with the absurdity of the whole thing, but
Nolan spontaneously laughed. It was like a cross between a guffaw and a
hiccup, and just sort of sneaked out. Marsh immediately looked
crestfallen.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marsh,” Nolan said,
unable to keep the smile completely off his face. He did his best to make
it look rueful. “It’s just that…”
“No need to explain,” Marsh said. “I can
see why it’s funny. But you don’t understand. This isn’t the first thing
to fall on my head—not even the first flowerpot. But it’s different than
the rest. Remember how I told you how I was scared to walk near buildings
because I didn’t want to get hit by a piano? Well, I wasn’t near a
building. I was in a parking lot.” He got excited as he spoke. “There was
nothing over my head. There wasn’t a building for three hundred feet.
There was no ledge, balcony, catwalk, fire escape, bridge—not even a light
pole or an airplane. Flowerpots don’t just fall from nowhere—not in our
world. But they do in cartoons. Anything can happen in cartoons,
especially if it’s funny.”
It was time to cut to the chase. “I don’t
understand what you want from me.”
“You’re the largest independent animation
studio in the world. You know all about cartoons. I want you to make me
one.”
Nolan blinked. “That’s it? You want me to
make you a cartoon?”
Marsh smiled, satisfied. “Yes.”
Finally, something he could use to get
the guy out of his office. “I can do that,” Nolan said. “I’ll get the
animation department on it first thing in the morning and make you your
own personal cartoon. You name the characters and we’ll do it.” It was all
bullshit, but he just needed to make the guy think he was serious.
“You don’t understand,” Marsh said
evenly. “I don’t want you to draw a cartoon for me. I want you to draw a
cartoon of me.”
“Draw a cartoon of you,” Nolan repeated,
his voice as flat as a tire.
“Just draw the best cartoon you can of
me,” Marsh pleaded. “Make it as real a cartoon as you can. Animate it. And
I’ll become the cartoon.”
“Okay,” Nolan said, unable to not sound
exasperated. “All right. I think we’ve taken this as far as it can go. I
know you’re in charge here, because you’re the one with the gun, but you
need help and I’m the wrong person to give it. Now, I’m going to call the
police. I won’t press charges. I just want to get you the help you need.
So why don’t you put the gun down and have a seat?”
It was calculated and daring, but Nolan
gambled that Marsh viewed him as his only hope—and wouldn’t actually shoot
him. Marsh just stood there, gun dangling, flowerpot held, looking utterly
confused. Nolan’s hand was almost on the phone before Marsh reacted. His
face darkened, although it remained pleading, and he brought the gun up
and leveled it at Nolan. Nolan froze.
“You don’t believe me,” Marsh said,
slightly bewildered.
Nolan stared back for a hard second, then
said, “Would you?”
* *
* * * * * *
*
How will Nolan handle this? What
happens to Marsh?
To read the whole story, visit www.TheFirstLine.com and order a back issue of The First Line, Volume 7, Issue 1, Spring 2005. |
Writing instructors have often assigned
tasks to students by listing various items from which the students must
choose and incorporate into a spur-of-the-moment story... or maybe all of the items must be incorporated. For instance, the instructor might
give a list of nouns, verbs, and adjectives, and require all items used to
be integral in some way to the story. This sort of assignment offer an
excellent challenge to writers: they are forced to write within guidelines
yet broaden their imaginations to create vastly different stories from the
other students using the same things. Particularly stringent teachers
might even outline a plot, them, and character archetypes, and challenge
the students to be as creative as possible within those very strict
guidelines.