Black Friday Matters

            It was dark when Frank woke up. He looked at the clock. 6:00. Still early, he thought. He climbed off the couch and walked into the kitchen. His roommate, Reggie, was eating a TV dinner. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. “What are you doing up so early?” Frank asked him. “And why are you eating a turkey dinner for breakfast?”

            “Jesus, Frank, it’s six o’clock at night.” Reggie stuffed a fork full of mush into his mouth. “You must have really tied one on last night.”

            “Six o’clock at night?” Franks said in a panicked voice. He ran back into the living room and searched for his jacket. “Have you seen my jacket?” he yelled to Reggie.

            “Isn’t it hanging on the back of the couch?”

            Frank checked the back of the couch. Nothing. Behind it. Nothing. Underneath. Bingo! He wondered how it got there as he searched the pockets. Half a pack of smokes. Two disposable lighters. A ripped piece of paper with a phone number on it. A tiny plastic bag coated in white residue. A token for a free beverage at a place called “Marty’s Hole in the Wall.” A nickel. Four dimes. His flip phone. Bingo!

            He checked for missed calls. Seven. All from the same number. Junior! He had promised his son that he would make him Thanksgiving dinner. His refrigerator was filled with all the ingredients.  Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. He said he would pick him up at noon.

            Frank pressed the “Call” button on his phone. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

            “Goddamn it Frank!” It wasn’t his son’s voice.

            “I can explain.”

            “I don’t want to hear it. This was the last time. Please don’t call here anymore.”

            “Just let me…”

The line went dead. Ring tone. Frank flipped the phone shut. “Hey Reggie,” he yelled.

“Yeah?”

“What time does that store open?”

“Which store?”

“The one with the big Black Friday sale?”

“Eight o’clock, I think. Why?”

Frank swung his jacket over his shoulders and jolted out the door of the trailer. The rain pounded the windshield of his Pontiac as drove across town. He arrived at the store an hour before it opened. There were already over a hundred people in line. He waited. In the pouring rain.

There was a mad rush to the toy section when the doors opened. Everyone was after the same thing. Snatchimals. Frank didn’t even know what the fuck a Snatchimal was. But he needed one.

The shelf was empty.

“Excuse me, miss.” Frank approached an elderly woman who was holding one of the prized possessions. “I know how this must sound, but I need that toy.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But I can’t part with it.”

Frank pulled out his wallet. “You don’t understand. I really need it. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars? These things are going for hundreds on the internet.”

“Please, just do me a favor.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” The woman headed toward the cash register.

Frank walked out the front door and waited. In the pouring rain. The woman came out. Frank followed her to her car. “Excuse me, miss…”

“You again! I said no…”

Frank punched her in the nose. She tried to yell. Frank punched her again. And again. And again. Until she fell to the ground. He grabbed her shopping bag and walked to his car.

He drove to a spot he knew next to the old mill. A spot that was secluded. He climbed into the back seat. He crossed his arms. He closed his eyes.

When daylight broke, he drove to his ex-wife’s house. He rang the doorbell. His son answered.

“Peter!”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to bring you this.” Frank handed his son the bag.

Peter opened it and pulled out a Snatchimal. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the new toy. The one everybody wants.”

“I’m fifteen fucking years old. Why the fuck would I want a Snatchimal?” The door slammed shut.

Frank left the toy on the porch. He drove toward home. He pulled into the trailer park. Two cop cars were idling in front of his home. He turned around. He drove away. In the pouring rain.

           

Playing the Trump Card

            Richard woke to a jackhammer striking the inside of his skull. And his mouth, it felt like it was filled with cotton. Or was it cat shit? It didn’t matter. He needed water. But that meant getting up. And getting up meant moving. And he was in no condition to move.

            He tried to fall back to sleep, but the pounding in his head screamed “NO!” Weed would help, he thought. So he rolled over and grabbed a joint off his nightstand, lit it, and took a long drag. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and took another hit. And that’s when he heard the moan. He turned around to find a motionless body resting on the far side of his bed. Who was this? He thought, I don’t recall bringing anyone to bed last night.

            He quickly scanned his memory as if it was a rolodex of blurry Polaroids: shots, lines of cocaine, more shots, bongs, the bar, after party at the frat house, more shots, keg stand…and that was all he could remember. He took another hit from the joint and that’s when the paranoia slithered into his consciousness.

            He sprung to his feet and began pacing back and forth across his room. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Did he rape this girl? What if he did? She was in his bed. He must have. And even if he didn’t, what if she thinks he did. That’s all it took these days—just one girl to accuse you. Just one stupid girl to ruin your life. But whatever happened already happened. Didn’t it? Why should two lives be ruined?

He could figure his way out of this. Couldn’t he? Let’s see. He could say he was never there. His frat brothers would give him an alibi, wouldn’t they? But that wouldn’t work—too many people saw him last night. Plus, the DNA. Fuck! The DNA! Okay, so he needed an excuse. Not an excuse—a reason. A psychological reason. He was a psychology major after all. But who was he kidding? He never went to class.

That’s when he saw the newspaper laying on his desk. Yes! That’s it! That’s his way out. The election! We elected a president who was clearly a sexual predator. And he received the majority of the women’s vote, so, if they voted for him, then that meant it must be okay to sexually assault a woman. Yes! That was the answer! The new president would get him off! He knew there was a reason he voted for him.

             But would he really? Richard began to panic. There’s no way that would actually work, would it? I’m so fucked, he thought, just like that swimmer from Stanford.

But wait, what was this? He noticed a tattoo on the woman’s back. He recognized the ink. He rolled the woman over. Thank God! It was only his sister! He didn’t rape anyone!

A sense of relief immediately filled Richard, until he looked down to find a condom hanging from his flaccid penis…

Infected

You wake up to a number. Only thirteen today, your wife says. Only. You remember when thirteen was a magnificently large number, worthy of a week or more of headline news stories. Now it’s only thirteen because yesterday seventy-three were killed in Columbus when a man walked into a movie theater and blew himself up with a homemade bomb. The day before that it was twenty-seven in Davis, where an elderly woman poisoned the mashed potatoes at all-you-can-eat buffet. Not a day goes by when you don’t wake up to a number.

It used to be terrorists you were afraid of. The darker-skinned religious radicals. The ones that only showed their eyes. They were easy to profile. Easy to avoid. But then it was some white middle-class teenager in Tallahassee. And then a Native-American woman in Boise. And then an elderly black man in Atlanta. Profiling was suddenly useless. They would strike anytime. Anywhere. No warning signs. Almost always on suicide missions. And when they are captured alive, they always have the same empty look in their eyes. Like deer caught in the headlights. And they always say the same thing: They deserved it. We all deserve it.

They tried a ban on guns. That’s when the bombs started. And the knives, axes, swords. It only got worse. So you blamed the President. You helped to elect him out of office. You blamed the gun ban. You helped to get it overturned. And then you bought a semi-automatic assault rifle. For protection. Years ago you wouldn’t have cared. But now you have a wife. A daughter. A responsibility to protect them. So you take them to the firing range. You teach them how to use the weapon. You teach them how to protect themselves. But you pray that they’ll never have to.

You hear it on the radio. The breaking news story you’ve been dreading. There’s been a mass shooting at your daughter’s middle school. You drop whatever you’re doing and rush to the scene. You’re stopped at the yellow police tape. An FBI Agent has questions for you. Do you own a semi-automatic assault rifle? Did your daughter have access to it? At first, you’re confused. Why are they you asking you these questions? And then you notice everyone is staring at you. The police. The victims’ parents. The news crews.

You must have known. There must have been warning signs. The FBI tears apart your house. They question everyone you know. The news people won’t leave you alone. Your phone won’t stop ringing. They camp out in front of your home. Your work. They demand answers. Until the story dies down. Until a college basketball player blows up his home arena during the third quarter of a close game. Over 1,200 dead. Instant ratings bait.

Even after they’ve gone, they’re still there. Your phone is tapped. Your computer monitored. Your guns apprehended. You’ve lost your job. Your wife has left. And you can’t stop thinking about your daughter. Why did she do what she did? What did she know that you don’t? There must be something. There’s no way a thirteen year old girl would murder her entire class unless she had a good reason. Did they deserve it? you wonder. Do we all deserve it? You start thinking about your next move. Your daughter took out twenty-two. Could you do double that? Triple? You fall asleep dreaming of numbers.

The Pitch

The Pitch

Setting: modern times, in a world similar to ours, though one that makes much more sense

Characters: the Producer, the Writer

The Producer is sitting in his office, at his desk, reading through papers, when there’s a knock at the door.

The Producer Come in.

Enter the Writer

The Writer Good day sir, thank you in advance for seeing me.

The Producer Make this quick. I don’t have much time.

The Writer Absolutely. Here’s the pitch: An hour long drama that revolves around a Presidential election.

The Producer Not another political thriller…

The Writer Hold on, just hear me out, this one is different.

The Producer You’ve got sixty seconds.

The Writer The show’s pilot starts one year before election night. The front runner on the Democratic side is the wife of an ex-president whose term in office was full of scandal. I mean a real sleaze ball—the guy is having sex with his interns and things like that. On the Republican side, a reality television star—an ignorant, racist, sexist, foul-mouthed billionaire. The show follows their turbulent campaigns. On one side, we have this woman who is absolutely corrupt. She’s leaking confidential information to foreign countries in exchange for cash contributions to her campaign. She’s sending paid-actors into her competitor’s rallies to stir up violence. She might even be involved in murders to cover up her wrong-doings. On the other side, we have this megalomaniac who is running a Hitleresque campaign based almost entirely on fear. He’s insulting people left and right—immigrants, Muslims, women, the handicapped—nobody is off limits. He might even be working closely with the Russian Government, using them to spy on his opponent. And yet, people love him. He builds a huge following, supporters that are willing to do anything to get him elected. So, now we have this country divided down the middle, set up for the most epic election in the history of the nation, and just a few episodes before the season finale, the Republican candidate is hit with a sex scandal where he’s caught on tape admitting to repeatedly sexually insulting women. At this point, the viewers think it’s over, that the Democrats have an easy path to victory, but then, in the second to last episode, there’s a huge turn of events. You see, there’s this disgraced politician, this pervert who got caught sexting with underage girls, his name, get this, Anthony Weiner…

The Producer (looking at his wristwatch): Wait! Hold on! Minutes up! There is no way this show will ever get made!

The Writer Why not?

The Producer You’re pitching a political thriller that involves presidential candidates who are tangled up in sex scandals, Russian espionage, fear mongering, and a pervert named “Weiner”? What else do I have to say?

The Writer But I haven’t even told you about the finale yet. You won’t believe what happens on election night…

The Producer I don’t need to know! I’ve heard enough! Nobody will ever believe any of this! Perhaps it will work as a comic book. Maybe a blog post. But I’m sorry, it’s just too far-fetched for television.