“Fields and trees teach me nothing, but the people in a city do.”

~ Socrates (Plato, Phaedrus)

 

 

Cathy always told people she never watched TV. She read, instead.

Her mother—had she been alive—would have laughed. Cathy not only watched TV, she'd sell her soul to be on TV.

She had once won a newspaper essay contest: “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.” Most kids wrote about summer camp or visits to Graceland. Cathy wrote about watching Jeopardy with her grandfather. Gramps never missed a question, but when Cathy asked why he didn't try out for the show, he waggled his arthritic fingers and said, “I couldn't buzz in fast enough, honey.”

That admission had a profound effect on Cathy. Night and day she'd form a fist with her right hand and press her thumb against her first finger. The kids at her high school thought she was afflicted with a disease, some kind of palsy, and she let them think that because, in a weird way, it gave her celebrity status. Of course, she couldn't be a cheerleader or star in the school play, but she didn't care. Her entire focus was on somehow, some way, getting herself on TV.

Maybe even Jeopardy.

To that end, she studied hard and aced her classes. She stopped pressing her thumb against her finger and started clicking the end of a ballpoint pen. She memorized facts. She read footnotes. She read books and newspapers. She avidly watched the Discovery Channel and the History Channel and—

Cathy blinked. There it was! Right there in today’s newspaper:

WE NEED TEENS, AGE 13 TO 16. IF YOU ARE CLEVER

AND HAVE A PRETTY SMILE, UNCLE BOB WANTS

YOU. JOIN THE TV CAST OF FEED THE HOMELESS!

WIN PRIZES. INTERVIEWS BEGIN TODAY.

 

The rest of the boxed advertisement included an address but no phone number. Walk-ins welcome, Cathy thought with a smile.

She knew her smile was pretty. Her mother's dying words had been, “Don't forget to floss, Cathy. Promise!”

As she flexed her mouth and practiced her smile, Cathy phoned her friend Howard. Kids called him Howard the Duck because he had a fat behind and walked duck-footed, but his IQ was almost as high as Cathy's and he had a nice smile. He'd even gone with her when she auditioned for Star Light, Star Bright, a TV talent show. She sang “White Rabbit” and one of the judges (with a snooty British accent) told her she sucked. Unfortunately, she hadn't been sucky enough to make the worst-auditions tape. That would have landed her on TV.

“FEED THE HOMELESS! sounds like a scam to me,” Howard said. “Like those modeling agencies. The ones that promise instant fame, then charge you for modeling lessons. Feed the homeless, my foot! They probably mean feed the kitty!”

But Cathy decided she wouldn't sign up for any lessons, so all it would cost her was bus fare into the city.

When she returned home from the interview, she couldn't stop grinning. The FEED THE HOMELESS! staff hadn't asked for money and she'd passed every test with flying colors. FEED THE HOMELESS! was a “reality quiz show,” it's format not unlike Jeopardy’s. They'd tape the show next Saturday, they said, because they didn't want kids to miss school. And, it would be shot in front of a live audience.

As opposed to a dead audience? Cathy giggled at her own joke.

She thought about phoning Howard, but the interviewer had made Cathy promise not to tell anybody except her guardian. The show planned to mount a publicity campaign, after the taping. They'd even scheduled a press conference. Standing behind the bank of microphones would be the President of the United States and the CEOs of the Corporate Sponsors.

“It'll be good for the youth of America to get involved,” the President had told the FEED THE HOMELESS! staff, “and the big winner will lunch at the White House.”

Cathy itched to tell somebody, but she always kept her promises. Hadn't she promised to honor her mother's last wish and floss twice a day? That promise had ensured her appearance on FEED THE HOMELESS! Admiring Cathy's white teeth, the interviewer had said that Cathy would be in the forefront of the publicity stills. To be perfectly honest, she didn't care about publicity stills. She wanted to flash her hundred watt smile in front of the TV cameras.

***

Cathy entered the FEED THE HOMELESS! studio at 9 a.m. The interview had been held at a different locale and the studio was in the very heart of the city, so she’d left home at the crack of dawn, afraid she might get lost. She didn't want to be late, even though she knew she was one of four contestants and they couldn't start without her.

Arriving early, standing across the street, she marveled at the building. It rose up out of the smog like a Disney castle. Funny how she'd never seen the massive edifice before. But then, people always seemed to pass hulking structures and stare at them with sightless eyes.

Pressed against the building's façade, melding into murky shadows, were what looked like homeless children. They formed a somewhat orderly line, as if waiting to buy concert tickets, although a few children crouched like vultures. Tattered clothing fluttered like ragged wings and everyone clutched a plate or bowl and a knife, spoon and fork.

There must be a soup kitchen nearby, Cathy thought.

Gramps said that in his day “people lent a helping hand,” and except for the Great Depression, nobody went homeless or hungry. There was no such thing as Live Aid or Comic Relief, which Gramps called “checkbook charities,” ‘cause all you had to do to feel merciful was scribble your name on the bottom of a check, or recite numbers from a piece of plastic.

Cathy felt sorry for the children huddled against the building. She, herself, had been homeless, following her mother's death. Then Aunt Charlene had volunteered to raise her only niece. Aunt Charlene was as delicate as a porcelain statuette. Her face was marred by a strawberry birthmark that began beneath her chin and skulked doggedly onto her left cheek—reddish streaks sprouting like rivulets seen from a plane's window. She rarely stepped outside unless heavily veiled, and she shrouded the house in semi-darkness. The only bright light was Cathy's study lamp, unless one counted the tiny bulbs that studded Cathy's bedroom mirror.

Aunt Charlene, as Cathy's guardian, had signed the FEED THE HOMELESS! release form. The dim lighting prohibited perusal, thank goodness, since Aunt Charlene despised TV.

“It's a permission slip for a school field trip,” Cathy had fibbed, handing her aunt a pen. “This Saturday. I'm not sure what time I'll be home.”

She kissed her aunt's dry, parchment-textured cheek, the one without the birthmark, and—to Cathy's surprise—her aunt kissed her back.

I can count on one hand the number of times Aunt Charlene has kissed me, she thought, returning to the present.

Inside the building, she blinked at the glossy brilliance. Walls were painted canary-yellow, illuminated by a fluorescent-lit ceiling. The furniture, however, was shabby, as if purchased at a charity donation store.

The first floor looked like an enormous living room. Nine dilapidated sofas, their cushions crisscrossed with duct tape, faced a dozen old TV sets whose screens were filled with various sit-coms: Father Knows Best and The Beverly Hillbillies, Gilligan's Island and Green Acres, and … Petticoat Junction?

All of the sets had the volume turned down low. Cathy could hear the murmur of laugh tracks but no dialogue.

Atop a small coffee table was a New York Times crossword puzzle from September, 1965. Hadn't the Times gone on strike in September, 1965? Cathy felt her stomach knot. She had memorized so many dates. Maybe she'd overdone it and the dates were playing musical chairs inside her head.

Her interviewer led her up a winding staircase to the Green Room. At least that's what it said on the door in big letters, even though the walls and ceiling were the same canary-yellow as the living room.

On top of a rickety table were boxes of glazed doughnuts and pitchers of milk. Seated at the table, two girls ate doughnuts. As Cathy reached for a doughnut, the interviewer made introductions, first names only.

Shirl wore a white dress with red polka-dots and ruffles, lacy white socks and saddle shoes. Her golden hair was curled tightly in ringlets, like Shirley Temple. In fact, Shirl bore a striking resemblance to Shirley Temple. She said she was thirteen.

Ivana looked eighteen, although she said fifteen, and Cathy wondered if Ivana had lied to get on the show. After all, they hadn't asked for birth certificates. Ivana’s breasts threatened to burst the buttons of her white blouse. Her violet eyes were huge, her lips looked swollen, and her long ebony hair had a white stripe down the middle—like a skunk.

“I'm surprised my mom let me come,” Shirl said to Ivana. “I've won beauty pageants and she's jealous. My mom's very, very fat, can't even fit behind the steering wheel of a car. She hates TV, hates to shop, hates me.”

“Oh, I'm sure she doesn't hate you,” Ivana said. “I live with my grandmother. She's Russian. She says she wasted her youth but won't let me waste mine.”

Cathy mentally tuned out the chit-chat; she needed to concentrate. As she sank onto a chair, the fourth contestant entered the Green Room.

Howard! Duck-footed Howard! In his stretchy dress slacks, his butt looked like a 3-D figure eight, on its side.

“I thought you said the show was a scam,” Cathy said.

His face and neck turned crimson. “I decided to check it out,” he mumbled, sitting next to her. “To protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“Yes. I know how much you want to be on TV, and it could have been a scam.”

“And what, may I ask, convinced you it wasn't?”

“A letter. From the President.” Glancing at the interviewer, he lowered his voice. “They showed the letter to me. I'd love to 'do lunch' with the President.”

“You'll have to beat me first, pal. By the way, who signed your release form?” Cathy knew that Howard's father hardly ever let Howard go anywhere, especially on weekends. The man needed someone close at hand so that he could vent about his beautiful wife who had died in childbirth and his crummy job and his crummy life and his crummy, worthless son.

If possible, Howard's face turned even redder.

“You forged your dad's signature,” she said.

“No, I didn't. I handed Dad the form and a pen and he scribbled his name. He said…” Howard's lips quivered. “He said he was proud of me.”

Cathy poured Howard a glass of milk.

“How did you get permission?” he asked. “Your aunt thinks television is the devil's tool. She says all TV stars go to hell.”

“‘In hell they must live and cannot die,’” Cathy quoted with a grin.

“Who is John Webster?” Howard grinned back. “Here's one for you. ‘TV—chewing gum for the eyes.’”

“Frank Lloyd Wright?”

“Yeah, but you didn't put it in the form of a question. Who signed your release form, Cathy?”

“Aunt Charlene.” But she didn’t hardly look at it. “Let's make a pact, Howard. The winner will lunch at the White House, but no matter who wins, we'll share the prizes.”

“Deal,” he said.

The four contestants walked single-file down a hallway, then entered a makeup room. Chartreuse-colored walls boasted autographed photos of the same stars who had graced the TV sets downstairs. Robert Young and Eddie Arnold. Gilligan and the Skipper and the Millionaire and, wow, even Milton Berle, looking like the Chiquita Banana lady.

A makeup lady gestured toward four makeup tables, fronted by four chairs. Cathy sat at the first table. In less than no time, blood-scarlet rouge colored her cheeks, black smudged her upper and lower eyelids, and a purple, waxy lipstick coated her lips. A powder puff muted the effect somewhat, but the purple lipstick intensified her white teeth and pretty smile.

Soon, identical makeup layered the other contestants’ faces. The powder made Howard sneeze. “God bless you,” said the makeup lady, her voice somber.

A disembodied loudspeaker-voice directed Cathy, Howard, Shirl and Ivana to the main studio. Upon entering, Cathy skidded to a stop, then took a few steps backwards, almost crunching Howard's duck-feet.

“Wow,” she whispered.

Blinking neon lights in every color of the rainbow filled the large room. Miniature tornadoes of smoke funneled. Simulated flames flickered. It looked like Las Vegas. Not that Cathy had ever been to Las Vegas, but she'd seen Elvis in Viva Las Vegas a bazillion times, and the glitzy city headed her list of Places To Visit.

Against one wall stood an enormous blackboard. Facing the blackboard was a raised stage. On the stage were four stools embossed with name plates: Howard. Cathy. Shirl. Ivana.

The loudspeaker voice told them to sit down.

Seated, Cathy tried to see beyond the misty fog that the light bulbs seemed to generate. But all she could make out were the gray shapes of TV cameras mounted on platforms.

Listing right, toward Cathy, Shirl said, “I've always wanted to be on TV.”

“Me, too,” Cathy said, squinting at the audience. Although she couldn't see faces, she heard murmurs. Then she did see a few faces, thanks to an on-stage monitor, and she could have sworn she saw Aunt Charlene.

No. It wasn't possible. Cathy rubbed her eyes, which were obviously playing tricks on her.

“I thought I saw my dad in the audience,” Howard said. Though he spoke to Cathy, his gaze swept the seated spectators. “But it couldn't be him. My dad would never watch a quiz show. Drunk or sober, he watches football, baseball, basketball … every sport except golf.”

Before she could respond, loud music sounded. Cathy had never in her life heard music like that before. It was as if someone had mixed Puccini with Frank Zappa.

A rap singer intervened with, “Clap your hands and stomp your feet, Uncle Bob you're soon to meet. Hey diddle-diddle, the sun and the moon, Uncle Bob will be here soon. Feed chicks nightshade, milk the cow, Uncle Bob is coming now.”

Once again, the Puccini-Zappa music sounded. It reached a crescendo, then faded as the TV host goose-stepped through the smoky haze.

Cathy slanted glances at Howard, Shirl and Ivana, wondering if they saw what she saw. But the other kids just sat there, smiling. Were the lights playing tricks on her eyes again?

Uncle Bob had to be a hundred. He looked like Cathy's grandfather, had Gramps lived to be a hundred. Uncle Bob's face had more wrinkles than a bloodhound. His eyes were lumps of charcoal doused with lighter fluid. He wore a Chicago Cubs baseball cap, a Bart Simpson T-shirt, faded jeans and high-top basketball sneakers.

Could a host with a Nightmare-On-Elm-Street face, liver-spotted hands, and a denim patch at his crotch pull it off?

Not a chance. Reality TV was one thing, flabby arm-flesh another.

Uncle Bob was laughable, really.

So why wasn't she laughing?

And, just for grins, where were the prizes?

As if he'd read her mind, Uncle Bob clapped once, clapped twice, and a red velvet curtain parted. Cathy hadn't noticed the curtain before; maybe it had been hidden by the simulated flames.

Howard, Shirl and Ivana gasped. Cathy gasped, too, as she feasted her eyes on dirt bikes, a huge, flat-screen TV, and a poster of Las Vegas. There was even a small sailboat, a certificate for a shopping spree at the city’s famous mall, and—best of all—a brand new, Elvis-pink, Cadillac convertible.

Cathy wanted that car. Stay focused, she told herself.

“Atten-shun,” said Uncle Bob, winking at the TV cameras. “Hello, hello, hello. Welcome to FEED THE HOMELESS!”

Uncle Bob's voice sounded like Gramps’ voice, sweet and funny and raspy from too many cigarettes. The audience clapped and whistled and the pandemonium hurt Cathy's ears.

“Atten-shun, atten-shun,” Uncle Bob continued. “Here are the rules of our game. We will show an answer on the FEED THE HOMELESS! chalkboard. The first contestant to press his or her buzzer will give us a question. The answers are always right. But if the question is wrong … well, then … uh-oh … oops … the contestant is disqualified. Gone. Poof.”

I won't buzz unless I know the answer, I mean the question, Cathy thought. They won't poof me.

“Isn't he great?” Howard whispered.

“Who? Uncle Bob?”

“Yes. He looks just like Michael Jordan. I wrote an essay … the person I admire the most … and I picked Michael Jordan. I met him once. He autographed my basketball and I told him I'd give anything to be a basketball player, except I'm too short. Do you know what he said?”

Stunned, Cathy merely shook her head.

“He said it didn't matter how short I was, as long as I practiced. I should have listened to him. After they tape today's show, I'm gonna start practicing.”

Cathy mumbled a response, then turned to Shirl and said, “What … I mean, who does Uncle Bob look like?”

Shirl sighed. “He looks like Hugh Laurie. I just love his British accent, don’t you?”

Cathy's heart beat like a trip-hammer. How could three kids see three different Uncle Bobs? Maybe it was some kind of virtual-reality effect that produced an optical illusion. Three optical illusions. Was that possible? Today's technology made anything possible, she supposed.

Before she could ponder further, Uncle Bob snapped his fingers. “The category is presidents,” he said.

Lights flashed and a question appeared on the blackboard in large chalk letters: THE FIRST PRESIDENT TO RIDE A RAILROAD TRAIN.

That's easy, Cathy thought, as her right thumb pressed her buzzer. She said, “Who was Andrew Jackson?” Then she added, “Jackson was president from 1829 to 1837 and he rode the train in 1833.”

“Smartass,” Shirl murmured.

“Correct, Cathy!” Uncle Bob shouted. “Three points toward a prize. Smile, Cathy.”

I am smiling, she thought, but she stretched her purple lips wider.

Uncle Bob snapped his fingers and the board's answer read: THE SMALLEST, HEAVIEST AND TALLEST PRESIDENTS.

Cathy wasn't 100% sure, but she felt her thumb press her buzzer.

“Yessss, Cathy,” Uncle Bob hissed, and for a moment, an optical-illusion moment, Cathy thought his tongue looked like a snake's.

“The tallest pres…” She paused. “I mean, who was Abraham Lincoln?”

“Correct, Cathy. Smile, Cathy.”

“Okay … heavy … who was William Taft?”

“Correct, Cathy. Smile, Cathy.”

“Smallest president … smallest pres—”

“Hickory dick, Cathy. The mouse ran up the clock. The hourglass sand is pooping out and Dorothy will never see Auntie Em again.”

“Wait! Please! Uh, who was James Madison?”

“Correct, Cathy. Smile, Cathy.”

Uncle Bob snapped his fingers. PRESIDENT BORN IN A LOG CABIN, ELECTED IN 1850 read the blackboard.

As Ivana's buzzer sounded, Cathy's gaze strayed toward the monitor. She caught a glimpse—a flicker, really—of an old woman wearing a babushka.

“Yessss, Ivana?” Uncle Bob hissed.

“Who was Abraham Lincoln?”

That's not right, thought Cathy. 1850—Millard Fillmore?

“Wrong!” Uncle Bob did a Snoopy dance. “Who’s in the strawberry patch with Sal-eee?” he sang. “Who’s in the strawberry patch with Ivana? Who’s sorry now-ow-ow? The correct answer is Millard Fillmore. Heck-gee, I should have let someone else ring in. My bad.” He slapped his wrist. “I know. Let's give Cathy, Howard and Shirl 10 points each, free for nothing.”

As the audience applauded, red smoke billowed and Ivana vanished. Poof.

There's a trap door in the floor, thought Cathy. And most likely a slide.

Again, she caught a flicker in the monitor. The old woman in the babushka stood up, belly-danced her way past knees, and began to walk toward the exit. Only she wasn't old anymore. In fact, she looked no older than twenty-one.

Maybe there were two babushka ladies. Cathy needed to turn her gaze away from the monitor and concentrate. While she had been contemplating babushkas, Shirl and Howard had given the right answers to three blackboard questions.

As if manipulated by a master puppeteer, Cathy felt her face swivel. She scrutinized the monitor screen again. The camera panned the audience.

Flicker: A man who looked like Howard's father. Unshaven. Spittle on his lips. Vomit stains on his shirt. He clutched a brown paper bag shaped like a bottle.

Flicker: The birthmark on the Aunt Charlene clone had shrunk.

What the heck was going on?

Uncle Bob clapped his hands and Cathy snapped to attention. The blackboard read: LEMONADE LUCY.

Before Cathy could press her buzzer, Shirl pressed hers.

“Who was Lucy in Peanuts?” Shirl gave Cathy a frosty smile. “So there, smartass.”

“You forgot the cat-a-glory,” Uncle Bob said, as red smoke billowed and Shirl went poof and Cathy sneaked a peek at the monitor.

Flicker: A slender woman stood up and walked toward the exit. She looked like a mannequin who had been dressed in clothes that were eight sizes too big for her.

“Focalize, Cathy,” Uncle Bob said. “Cat-a-gory. Cat-a-glory. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Bonus time, 20 extra points for the right answer to the question Shirl missed.”

Cathy stared at Howard. He knew the answer; they'd studied U.S. presidents together. But Howard just sat there, frozen. Cathy felt her thumb press the buzzer.

“Who is Mrs. Rutherford Hayes?” she said into the red eye of a TV camera. “They called her Lemonade Lucy because she wouldn't allow any drink stronger than lemonade to be served at the White House.”

“Correct, Cathy. Smile, Cathy.”

Later, hours later, Cathy felt as if every bone in her body had turned to lemonade. Tired and hungry, she wanted to go home. But she hadn't goofed yet and she was scared to goof. She had enough points for the flat-screen TV and a dirt bike and the trip to Las Vegas. Uncle Bob had changed what he called the “cat-a-glories” twice, and the FEED THE HOMELESS! board had flashed the “answers” to geography and literature.

Cathy decided not to press her buzzer for a while. But Howard pressed his and guessed wrong. He didn't seem to care. She heard him whisper, “Sorry I couldn't protect you, Cathy,” as red smoke billowed.

I won! Cathy thought. Ivana and Shirl and Howard lost, so I won! She wanted to jump up and down. Instead, she sneaked a peek at the monitor.

Flicker: The man who looked like Howard's dad escorted a young woman up the aisle. She looked like the bride in the wedding picture on top of Howard's TV.

Uncle Bob sang, “Walk like a duck, talk like a duck … where have all the flowers gone?”

Cathy’s mind raced. Where did Howard go? Where did the chute, if there really was a chute, empty its human cargo? Sorrow stabbed through her—the same sorrow she'd experienced when Gramps died and Mom died and her pet rabbit, Hobbit, died.

But Howard hadn't died. He had just slid to the bottom of … what?

Cathy felt her throat clog. She didn't want to think about the wraithlike homeless children. She didn't want to think about her aunt's kiss. To be perfectly honest, she could count on one finger the number of times her aunt had kissed her.

Why had Aunt Charlene signed the FEED THE HOMELESS! contract without flicking  on her flashlight and reading every word, first? Without even asking Cathy where her class was going on their field trip! Had the interviewer called Aunt Charlene and—

Cathy felt the color drain from her face as Uncle Bob said, “Round Two, round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the Den-zel.”

Uncle Bob introduced three new contestants: Betty, Kitten and Bud. Cathy blinked with surprise. When had Uncle Bob changed his clothes? Now he wore a Rolling Stones T-shirt, the one with the stuck-out tongue, and Bermuda shorts, and knee-socks and sandals—the same outfit Gramps had favored. Uncle Bob’s baseball cap read “Angels.”

He explained the rules again. “And if you're wrong,” he said, “you're disqualified. Gone. Poof.”

“Uncle Bob looks like John Elway, the ex-quarterback of the Denver Broncos,” the new boy, Bud, whispered. “I met him once when I was a little kid. John Elway autographed my football but somebody stole it. Holy smoke! Look! One of the prizes over there is a football autographed by John Elway. I'm gonna win that football.”

Or die trying, thought Cathy, swallowing the bubble of hysterical laughter that rose in her throat. She heard a clock ticking. Funny, she hadn't noticed a clock before. In fact, she'd lost all track of time. The clock's hands pointed to twelve and ten. Ten o'clock? Was it night already?

“Is it night?” Cathy turned toward Bud, who sat on Howard's old stool.

“No,” Bud said. “It's Saturday morning.”

“But it can't be. I've been here for hours.”

“Shall we begin?” Uncle Bob clapped his liver-spotted hands.

The audience applauded. To Cathy, it sounded like cymbals clashing. Glancing at the monitor, she saw the clock. She heard tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, but the second hand didn't move. She began to squirm. She had to go to the bathroom. Maybe if she raised her hand—

“Put your hand down, Cathy,” said Uncle Bob. “We use buzzers, you know that. Jeez Louise, put me in a park and call me goofy. I haven’t given y'all the question. The cat-a-glory is presidents.” He snapped his fingers and the blackboard read: THE FIRST PRESIDENT TO RIDE A RAILROAD TRAIN.

“But I answered that question already,” Cathy said. “I mean, I've questioned that answer. Oh, God, I don't know what I mean.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the monitor—a close-up of Aunt Charlene, whose strawberry birthmark was now the size of a quarter.

Uncle Bob grinned and Cathy thought his teeth looked like a shark's.

“Smile, Cathy, you're on TV,” he hissed.

The End