NEMEROFF:
I’m not joking, Mr. Atkinson. I’m really not.
ATKINSON:
That’s– that’s your name? You’re, er, James, er, Franklyn, er..?
NEMEROFF:
Nemeroff. Yes.
ATKINSON:
Well! (WHISTLES IN SURPRISE) And, uh, the dates?
NEMEROFF:
I can only account for the birth date. It’s correct.
ATKINSON:
Oh. That sure is spooky (NERVOUS GIGGLE).
NEMEROFF:
There’s something spookier.
ATKINSON:
Oh? What’s that?
NEMEROFF:
Well, I’m a sketch artist. I use pencil and paper. And this morning, I made a sketch. Of you.
ATKINSON:
A sketch of me?
NEMEROFF:
That’s right.
ATKINSON:
But you said you’ve never seen me before.
NEMEROFF:
That’s right.
ATKINSON:
Oh – (THE SIGNIFICANCE DAWNS ON HIM) oh.
SOUND:
SKETCH UNROLLED
NEMROFF:
Here. Take a look.
ATKINSON:
(EMITS A SOUND OF UTTER SERIOUSNESS AS HE PERUSES THE PICTURE. THEN, AN UNEXPECTED CHUCKLE) And to think - it was only the other day that I told Martha there were no such things as ghosts!
NEMEROFF:
Ghosts?
ATKINSON:
You know what I mean. Your expression earlier, my face in your sketch, your name on my gra-
NEMEROFF:
(CUTTING HIM OFF) Yes, yes, I understand. My, er, my name... (REACHING) I guess you probably heard it someplace.
ATKINSON:
(EAGER TO AGREE) Yes, yes, that’s it. And you must have seen me somewhere and then forgotten it!
NEMEROFF:
Yes (NOT CONVINCING). I must have, yes.
ATKINSON:
Were you at, er, uh, at the boat show at Navy Pier, um, last, er July?
NEMEROFF:
No. No, I’ve never been to the boat show in my life.
ATKINSON:
Oh. But you must’ve seen me somewhere.
NEMEROFF:
Sure. Must have.
MUSIC:
IN AND UNDER.
NARRATOR:
(Narration at first over the two of them talking and then an abrupt stop of their conversation) They offer each other suggestions where they might have met before – but they can’t connect the dots. Not surprising, really, because there are no dots to be connected. And so there they are - silent for some time. And they stand there looking at each other, and at the two dates on the gravestone - “Born, January 16th, 1967, passed away August 20th” - today.
MUSIC:
EPISODE SCORE.
THRU TO THEME.
FADE DOWN.
ANNOUNCER:
“FANGORIA’S DREADTIME STORIES” returns... after these words.
COMMERCIAL BREAK.
ANNOUNCER:
Now back to “FANGORIA’S DREADTIME STORIES” and the dramatic conclusion of... “A Heated Premonition.”
MUSIC:
THEME.
THRU TO:
MUSIC:
UNDER NARRATION.
NARRATOR:
Nemeroff has reached a point where he can think of nothing more to say to Mr. Charles Atkinson. Once he’d told him that he’d drawn a sketch of him on trial, without ever seeing him before in his life, small-talk seemed... well, smaller than ever.
Nemeroff isn’t sure how sincere Atkinson means to be when he invites him inside his home for something to eat, but it is at least an attempt to break the tension, so he accepts.
SOUND:
NEMEROFF AND THE ATKINSONS EAT.
ATKINSON:
Martha, did you have to cook a hot meal in this weather? Couldn’t you have made -- a salad?
MARTHA:
When have you ever eaten a salad, Charles?
ATKINSON:
(CHUCKLES) You have a point. It’s just... this heat.
NEMEROFF:
Don’t you feel the heat, Mrs. Atkinson?
MARTHA:
I feel nothing at all, Mr. Nemeroff. Is the food to your liking?
ATKINSON:
(HIS MOUTH FULL) It’s delicious. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a real home-cooked meal.
Years.
MARTHA:
Years? My goodness.
ATKINSON:
It’s the pace of modern life, my dear. We’re lucky, you and I.
SOUND:
FADE OUT MEAL SOUNDS.
MUSIC:
IN AND UNDER.
NARRATOR:
Mrs. Atkinson is a strange little woman, pale as can be. She looks as though she’s lived her entire life indoors. Nemeroff thinks to himself that her face is quite interesting - not beautiful, but not unattractive either. In a different set of circumstances he would very much like to sketch her. She must suffer from poor circulation or some other affliction, because she is wearing layers of clothes in the God-awful heat. After the meal, Atkinson goes outside to smoke, and she and Nemeroff are left alone. From the small kitchen window Nemeroff can see Atkinson sitting outside on his stool, smoking, and he is quite sure Atkinson can see them both as they talk at the kitchen table.
MUSIC:
OUT.
MARTHA:
You’re my husband’s friend, Mr. Nemeroff?
NEMEROFF:
(CAGEY) That’s... right.
MARTHA:
You’re an artist?
NEMEROFF:
A sketch artist, yes. I like to use pencils.
MARTHA:
You’re very welcome in my home. I’m only sorry Charles hasn’t brought you here before.
NEMEROFF:
Why, thank-you Mrs. Atkinson, you’re kind to say so.
MARTHA:
You have a lovely voice, Mr. Nemeroff. Has anyone ever told you that?
NEMEROFF:
Why no, ma’am. No-one’s ever told me that.
MARTHA:
The cupboard behind you. You see that thin black book?
NEMEROFF:
Uh-huh.
MARTHA:
Could you get it out for me, please?
NEMEROFF:
Of course.
SOUND:
NEMEROFF GETS UP AND WITHDRAWS THE BOOK.
NEMEROFF:
Here you are.
MARTHA:
I would very much like to hear you read aloud from it.
NEMEROFF:
Me?
MARTHA:
You have such a lovely voice.
NEMEROFF:
(UNCERTAINLY) OK, if you... insist.
MARTHA:
Are you familiar with the book?
NEMEROFF:
(READS) “The Prophet,” by Khalil Gibran. No. Never heard of it.
MARTHA:
Please read.
NEMEROFF:
From anywhere?
MARTHA:
Yes.
SOUND:
HE FLIPS THRU A FEW PAGES.
MUSIC:
IN AND UNDER.
NEMEROFF:
Ahh... (CLEARS HIS THROAT. THEN READS) Then Almitra spoke, saying “We would ask now of Death.” And he said: You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate of eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the kind whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, then he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then
