And the gunfire, the hailstorm, it stops.
Something exciting needs to happen.
Something amazing needs to happen.
In the blue velvet lobby, the microwave oven dings once, twice, three times.
The ghost of Comrade Snarky.
Still tugging at her necklace, Mother Nature slides down into the rough black mohair of a seat.
Saint Gut-Free looks at Reverend Godless, who looks at the Matchmaker, who looks at the Earl of Slander taking notes, who nods, Yes. And they start up the aisle, the rest of us a step behind them. Agent Tattletale's camera spotlight following them.
Through the auditorium doors, the French velvet lobby is empty. Shadows hide behind every palace chair and sofa. The light from the few bulbs we left, it's not bright enough to show the walls on the far side of the room. The doors to the lobby bathrooms are propped open, and the tile floor inside shines with water from the toilets. Here and there, melted lumps of toilet paper are stranded in the puddle.
On top of the toilet smell, the smell of rotten turkey Tetrazzini, the smell of Comrade Snarky's cooked ass, you can still smell . . . butter.
Through the smoked glass of the microwave door, you can see something white almost filling the oven.
It's the Missing Link who yelps. Our hairy man-animal. He yelps and slams both hands down on the snack bar so hard he swings his legs up to one side and vaults over it. Behind the snack bar, he yanks open the microwave, and grabs what's inside.
He yelps, again, and drops it.
By then, the Baroness Frostbite is vaulted over the marble counter of the snack bar.
The Countess Foresight rushes over to see.
Mother Nature says, “It's popcorn.” Her bells ringing with every word.
Another yelp comes from behind the counter, and the something white bounces high up into the air. Hands follow it, volleyball-slapping it, a white paper ball, keeping it out of the reach of any one person. In the camera spotlight, it becomes a spinning, steaming white moon.
Miss Sneezy is laughing and coughing. Countess Foresight, crying behind her sunglasses. All of us, reaching for it. Stretching to catch the spinning, greasy, hot smell of it.
The Matchmaker shouts, “We can't.” Waving his arms, he shouts, “We can't eat any!”
The paper ball batted between hands, it spins and bounces near the ceiling.
And Countess Foresight shouts, “He's right.” She shouts, “We could be rescued, today!”
One man-animal jump, and the Missing Link has both hands on the bag.
The Link passes to the Countess, who passes to the Matchmaker, who runs for the bathroom.
The rest of us—the Saint and Miss America and the Sister and the Baroness—we race after, screaming and weeping. Behind us all, Agent Tattletale follows after with the camera, saying, “Please don't let's fight. Please don't fight. Please . . .”
The Earl of Slander, already rewinding his tape recorder to hear the drumroll sound of the popcorn still hot in the microwave oven. Then the little “ding” that says it's ready.
Behind the snack bar, only Chef Assassin and Mrs. Clark are left.
To Mother Nature, her friend Lentil is our ghost. To Miss Sneezy, the ghost is her English teacher with cancer. The same way we ruined the food, our ghost might be the combined work of any two or three people. Of us.
From the bathroom, you hear a toilet flush. The toilet flushes, again. A chorus of moans echo from the tile inside the open bathroom door. A fresh sheet of water fans out the doorway, lapping at the edge of the lobby's blue carpet.
The water, spotted here and there with melted paper. Paper and popcorn. Another gift from our ghost.
Still staring into the open microwave oven, Mrs. Clark says, “I still can't believe we killed her . . .”
Still sniffing the buttered air, Agent Tattletale says, “It could've been worse.”
In the wash of water backed up from the toilet, washed up and stranded on the lobby carpet, you can see fur. Tabby-cat fur. A thin black leather collar. Some pencil-thin bones.
By now, Director Denial has followed us from her dressing room. She's just in time to see the little-toothed skull, picked clean by someone and then coughed up by the toilet.
Engraved on the collar, a tag that says “Miss Cora.”
Looking away from the expression on Director Denial's face, watching her reflected small in the mirror behind the snack bar, Mrs. Clark says, “How? How could killing anyone get any worse?”
American Vacations
A Poem About Agent Tattletale
“Americans do drugs,” says Agent Tattletale, “because they don't do leisure very well.”
Instead, they do Percodans, Vicodins, OxyContin.
Agent Tattletale onstage, one hand holds his video camera as a mask
to hide half his face.
The rest of him, off-the-rack in a brown suit. Brown shoes.
A mustard-yellow vest. His straight brown hair combed back.
A yellow bow tie and a white button-down dress shirt.
There, the white of his shirt shimmers,
patterned with movie actors.
Instead of a spotlight, Agent Tattletale is a screen for stock footage:
a shot of some theater audience.
Rows and rows of people, all of them,
their crowds of hands all clapping without a single
sound.
Onstage stands Agent Tattletale, favoring his left leg,
leaning a little more to the right all the time.
Instead of one eye, that spot filled by the red
RECORD
light of the video camera, watching.
Instead of an ear, on that side the built-in
microphone. To hear nothing but himself.
Agent Tattletale, he says, “Americans are the world's best at doing their work.”
And studying and competition.
But we suck when it comes time to relax.
There's no profit. No trophy.
Nothing at the Olympic Games goes to the Most Laid-Back Athlete.
No product endorsements for the World's Laziest
anything.
His camera eye on auto-focus, he says, “We're great at winning and losing.”
And nose grindstoning,
but not accepting. Not shoulder shrugging and tolerance.
“Instead,” he tells himself, “we have marijuana and television. Beer and Valium.”
And health insurance.
To refill, as needed.
