Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Act Local
Friday, March 5th, 2010
Wheel of Fortune went to commercial, my signal to head for the kitchen. Another beer in hand, I stepped back out to hear, “–your hair can look supermodel good.”
The latest 007 girl was sitting in one of the chairs at Sybil’s Salon. Sybil’s, which always looked dingy and empty when I passed while walking to the corner market. The actress looked airbrushed just sitting there. And the salon was huge, with bustling hair stylists and manicurists and a dozen happy-looking customers. How the hell could Sybil afford a television ad, much less one that looked this good? How could she afford an actress who only went by a single name?
The next commercial came on. “Dog walking by Carol,” said the announcer over a simple geometric background that morphed into a picture of my wife standing by a pair of Pomeranians. She’d never looked so luscious. The ad was Cleo-worthy. It was Superbowl-good. I spent most of the time looking at my wife instead of listening to the voice track.
A full orchestra backed Frank Sinatra as he extolled the virtues of the lemonade stand on the corner. “But seriously,” he said. “Kip and Kerry only use the freshest lemons and the purest sugar.” He was computer-generated, but to get that true to life they were using the latest Hollywood tech.
It went on. Million-dollar ads for the taco truck two blocks away, for the high-schooler across the street who mowed lawns, for the upcoming garage sale planned by the Hilliards two doors down. During prime time there were commercials for the same businesses, but these were different ads, just as impressive.
The phone rang. Somebody wanted Carol to walk her labs. Again, the snooty VanMasons asking if she could sit their pedigreed poodles over Labor Day. People paid more attention to the commercials than the prime-time shows.
Are the auto manufacturers gone? The insurers? The fast food franchises? All the other big businesses whose ads would normally be airing? I’m sure I have friends who work – or worked – for them, but I can’t think who just at the moment. I’ll have to check my address book.
But first, a lemonade from Kip and Kerry. Advertising works.
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Flames Burn Red
Thursday, March 4th, 2010
“Red tape! Red goddamn tape!” And with that, ribbons of red silk burst from Gorman’s fingers and wrap me up tighter than a pair of earrings on Christmas Eve.
See, the thing about battling occult threats to Britain’s shores is that, despite the getting-to-fight-tentacle-monsters-with-a-flaming-sword bits, and the using-knuckle-dusters-that-punch-holes-into-alternate-dimensions bits, it’s still just a job. There are still timesheets, emails about missing staplers, annoying co-workers. Gorman was always an annoying co-worker. And there is the red goddamn tape.
Honestly, half the time something’s eaten most of Essex before I’m even able to get all the signatures I need to get my hands on the flaming sword in the first place.
Must have been worse for Gorman being in accounting. And apparently he really wanted to touch the flaming sword. Got himself fired over it. Submitted everything right but they rejected him anyway. Course they did. He was an accountant. Still, Gorman looked at the form with the big, “rejected” stamp and a gear slipped. Tried to grab the sword out of the safe. Didn’t get far. Course he didn’t. He was an accountant. And they fired him.
Apparently Gorman’s made use of the spare time. Who knows where he found the grimoire. The cape is a little more obviously Halloween gear, but it’s hard to poke fun when a chap breaks into the office and takes you out in under ten seconds.
The air fills with red ribbons. More people are bundled up. I lose sight of him in the blizzard of it. We lie there. I hear crackling in the distance, can smell something burning.
And then I see him. He’s holding the sword in both hands, hacking a path through the jungle of red tape he himself has created. Tape curls back as the flame licks through them. And he smiles like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. The cape suddenly looks a little bit awesome.
Gorman gets to the door. Looks back at us, at the now limp strands of red tape, and the grin stretches wider. He buries the sword in the floor. And he walks away.
Eventually someone finds us, works us free. Someone, some civil servant, looks at me as I stand up and says, “Well, aren’t you going to go after him?” But, honestly, after that example, there’s no way I can be bothered to do the paperwork.