if they really knew me

This is my second entry in the Write-Of-Passage Writing Well Challenge. Check out the links at the bottom to see some of the other great writing being contributed.

Gotta say, this week’s challenge is hard, yo! It’s FICTION! Ack! Here are the instructions:

Find a person in public today and study their character. Make a story surrounding them. Build them in to your short essay.

Uh … OK. Find a person in public? You mean, like, on the street? I tried this, but the dude I was staring at noticed me and then was like, “Uh, dude, what the fuck are you looking at?” So I decided to go another way. Hopefully I don’t hit too wide of the mark.

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Mr. Noodle’s brother, Mr. Noodle walked onto the set for yet another day of shame and humiliation at the hands of that red-furred, googly-eyed little tyrant.

It wasn’t enough he had to be here at the crack of dawn, wearing these ridiculously oversized clothes that made him look like some kind of Muppet himself. No, he would once again be forced to pretend not to know how to do some incredibly rudimentary task, like tie his shoes, hit a ball, eat soup … whatever … on national TV. Of COURSE he knew how to do these things. Was he a moron? No. He was not. Far from it. Thankfully, it was public television, and few of his friends had kids, so thankfully most didn’t know what was put through every day.

After finishing his Ph.D. in applied physics at MIT, he quickly realized just because his degree had the word “applied’ in it, that didn’t mean his skills could actually be “applied” to anything resembling a decent-paying job. After going on interview after demoralizing interview, he’d finally agreed to meet with his brother’s boss. “The job is great,” his brother, Mr. Noodle, would always say. “It’s a piece of cake. And he’d LOVE you! I’ve told him about you and he’s SO ready to bring on a sidekick for me. Just say the word and you’re in. Piece of cake, I’m telling you. Cake.”

He didn’t mind the idea of working with his brother, though “sidekick” wasn’t really what he had in mind. And no matter how much of a shoo-in his brother said he was, of course it wasn’t that simple. Even with his brother’s endorsement, they wanted to meet him before they’d give him the job. Not a problem, although having seen that hairy little red guy on TV a few times when he tuned in to watch his brother, he didn’t trust him. He seemed all happy and innocent and friendly, and sure, kids loved him, but from the stories his brother had told him, it just didn’t add up. His brother called him “brilliant,” “savvy,” and sometimes “ruthless.” He meant it as a compliment, and yet those words just didn’t jive with the bright red, squeaky-voiced dust mop making a fool out of his brother on TV every day. While it looked like fun and games, he knew there had to be more to Elmo than what people saw on that show.

Then there was Mr. Noodle’s brother Mr. Noodle’s inherent … uh … discomfort speaking with others. Social anxiety disorder, they’d called it. Whatever. People get nervous when they meet new people. He wasn’t that different. Sure, he had to wear three undershirts to keep from soaking his clothes with sweat, and he couldn’t exactly speak OUT LOUD for 20 or 30 minutes after first meeting someone, but how unusual is that, really?

The meeting went well enough, all things considered. Luckily he didn’t need to say a word, since that thing across the table never shut up. And even if he hadn’t had a clinically diagnosed condition that made him uncomfortable in social situations, he’d like to see the guy who wouldn’t be taken aback by the deep croaking rasp of the little monster’s speaking voice, and the fact he chain smoked 37 Lucky Strikes during their 15-minute meeting. He couldn’t even be sure it had lips, though that didn’t stop Elmo sucking down cigarettes one after another. But by far the most unnerving thing about meeting him in person was his laugh. His voice sounded nothing like it did on television (kids would run screaming if they heard the cross between George Carlin and Dick Cheney that was Elmo’s actual voice), but his laugh was exactly like on the show. High, fast, and verging on hysterical.

That was years ago. He’d long since gotten used to all of it, though it hadn’t made him like the little creep any more than that first day. These days it was just about getting through the day on the set. Because Mr. Noodle never had any lines in the show, they never sent him an advance copy of the script. They said it was so his reactions would be spontaneous and genuine, but that was bullshit. They knew if he had a heads up about half the shit they made him do he’d have stopped showing up long ago. He could count on ending up soaking wet, covered in pie, or having to land on his ass for about 100 takes until they got just … the … right … one … to please that hirsute Orson Welles. He watched the show enough to know they usually used the first or second take. That little asshat just liked to watch him suffer.

And not just him. He was so jealous of the guy who worked that fucking drawer, getting to push the little megalomaniac on his ass every day. Elmo would have cut that bit long ago if it didn’t get such a huge laugh. His brother was right, the guy was smart. Scary smart. Nobody fucked with him. It was all “yes, Mr. Elmo” and “no, Mr. Elmo” and “right away, Mr. Elmo.” Even the humans who were allegedly in charge knew who was really calling the shots.

More than anything else, it was the goldfish that finally made him realize just how horrible it all was. They went through at least 30 fish a day on the show. It was mind boggling. The kids at home thought there was just one goldfish. Elmo’s beloved pet, Dorothy. He’d always known that couldn’t be true. Goldfish don’t live that long, so naturally there had to be more than one. But that tiny red menace had it written into his contract from the beginning there must be a constant supply of extra goldfish available to be swapped in at any time if something wasn’t quite right. And there was always something not quite right. This one doesn’t move around enough, that one swims too much, this one’s got some white on his fin, that one looked at me funny. It kept Mr. Noodle up some nights, thinking about all those fish. Most people on set still didn’t know what happened to them. They assumed it was Elmo’s one soft spot, the way he personally carried every rejected fish from the set. That little fuzzball wouldn’t so much as lift a finger to move his own water glass, but he’d never let anyone else touch the fish in the bowl when he called for a new one. He’d scoop them out with the little net and carry them through the stage right door to his dressing room. Everyone assumed he flushed them. Then, three weeks ago, Mr. Noodle learned something he really never wanted to know about his boss and those fish.

He’d decided to take advantage of the downtime during one of the many fish swaps to visit the craft services table. They technically hadn’t called a break, but fuck that little hairball, he’d been falling off a pogo stick for six hours, his ass hurt, and he was damn well gonna have a donut. The day was almost over and they had to be getting close to the end the fish supply, Elmo had carted off so many. Noodle was biting into a jelly donut when he noticed the boss man’s dressing room door open behind him. From down the hall he could see straight into where the little thing was taking the latest in the line of rejected Dorothys.

He started to turn away — he didn’t really want that little fuckwit seeing him sneaking a donut between takes — when he saw what looked like a huge glass bowl of mandarin orange slices. Except they were wriggling. The little creep dropped in the latest addition, and Noodle realized it was all that day’s fish, crammed together in a massive brandy snifter, like piano players use for tips, with barely enough water to keep them alive. Jelly dripped onto Noodle’s sleeve as the little fish monger picked up the glass and tilted it to his mouth. He opened his jawless maw almost 180 degrees, like only a Muppet can. Then, just before that shiny, wriggling mass of discarded goldfish slid down his throat, Noodle suddenly understood why the guys who’d been here the longest walked on eggshells around Elmo, jumping out of their skins when he came up behind them.

As the wriggling mass of former Dorothys slipped into his mouth, six or seven rows of jagged, triangular, razor-sharp teeth emerged from the soft black felt inside his mouth. He chomped and slurped till the fish were churned into a kind of soup of scales and blood and tiny bones. When he’d swallowed them all, the teeth slid back into their sockets and he wiped his face with the back of his fur-covered hand. Then, Noodle realized Elmo was staring at him. The crimson creature grinned and winked a little, as much as a monster with no eyelids can wink. And it was then Noodle knew why no one ever quit, and why he could never leave the show. No one would ever believe him if he told them the truth. He dropped the donut in the trash and wiped the jelly off his sleeve before heading back under the lights in a horror-filled haze. From behind him he heard that screeching, hysterical laughter. This was Elmo’s World, all right. And he suspected he would never escape.

This post is dedicated to Michael Jeter, the actor who played Mr. Noodle’s Brother, Mr. Noodle, in addition to many wonderful roles in film, theater, and television. He died in 2003 after voicing Smokey and Steamer in The Polar Express.

I also just realized that this post might make this one make a bit more sense.

Tagged as: write-of-passage