Kalifornia (28 page)

“Look at me,” she said.

“Bad girl,” the pope stammered. “You can’t touch me.”

“No?” She reached behind his ear and pulled out a small contoured
device like the one Sandy had worn in the temple of Kali to jam the baby’s
signal.

“Now . . . look in my eyes!”

The pope tried to look away but she must have entered his wires to
force the confrontation. His eyes fixed on hers. He began to scream, his florid
face darkening, the vessels in his eyes beginning to blacken and burst.

“Kali,” Sandy said, grabbing at her, finding the metal unyielding.
“Stop it! Don’t kill him—you’ll only hurt yourself.”

But her own face was white, locked in agony. She couldn’t seem to
let go. Sandy flung himself against her hard carapace, sending her clattering
to the floor. The pope sobbed loudly, hands clapped over his eyes.

“It was all McBeth’s plan,” the pope whimpered, pleading for his
life. “He and Thaxter . . . it was
their
plan.
He’s really fully wired!”

Sandy
growled warningly: “Pope . . .”

“No—no, you’re right, you’ve seen through me. It was Dr. McNguyen!
He—”

“You’re not blaming it on him.”
*

Sandy
tightened his fists in wads of red velvet,
shaking the pope. “I know about Marjorie, and I’m the only one who’ll ever
know. If you say a thing to my father, if you hurt him, I’ll finish what Kali
started . . . or let her do it.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” The pope blinked demurely, his
lashes matted with blood. “But please, I—I think I’m blind.”

Sandy
staggered to his feet.

From the passageway, after a stunned silence, Sandy heard
footsteps. Poppy was at the head of the returning crowd. When she saw Kali, she
let out a cry.

“You’re here!” she said. “You’re really here!”

Kali looked around at the cavernous basement, the technicians,
her uncle, the dead governor, and the quivering pope.

She threw up all her arms and started to cry, letting out
everything at once, hysterical with fear and relief. Poppy knelt and took her
in her arms.

“Mommy,” she said. “Mommy, I’m here, I’m here!”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Poppy fumbled at Kali’s hard casing, but her fingers were shaking
so much she couldn’t work the locks. Sandy dropped down next to them,
remembering how it was done. “Sit,” he told Kali. Then he undid the catches in
the suit’s chest, revealing a small child at the heart of the enormous cold
contraption.

Poppy brought the baby to her breast, rocking and cradling her.
Alfredo knelt beside them.

“Sh, shush, little one,” Poppy said. “It’s all right now.”

Kali quieted, but kept weeping. The technicians, and all those who
had tried to pull Poppy away, looked cowed and yet comforted, as if her words
were for them as well. And indeed, Kali’s signals still carried the words out
through the studio, bounced them between satellites, blanketing the earth and
rising to the moon. Each one of them, every last wired soul, received a mother’s
comfort, whether they lived in the dark or in the light, in summer or in
winter, at the poles or the equator. And like Kali many of them wept when they
heard that everything would be all right. It was over now, she promised.

The very short reign of Kalifornia.

S01E13.
 
Sequelitis

A TEEGEE TRAGEDY:

HUMANIMALS IN HOLLYWOOD

Reviewed by Nigel Wadds-Wright

Last night’s gala opening of McNguyen’s Viet-Celtic Theater was
distinguished by the premiere closed-circuit wirecast and screening of the
first production ever by a humanimal, “A Teegee Tragedy: Humanimals in Hollywood.” The semiseal Cornelius, better known as “Corny” from the lamented “Figueroa
Show,” follows in the footsteps of Ron Howard, Rob Reiner, and Maggie Simpson
as the latest in a line of gifted young sitcom actors to step behind the wires
and create their own programs.

Written, edited, and produced almost single-handedly by the
sealman—who acknowledges an unabashed debt to the late Clarence Starko,
controversial wirist of “Poppy on the Run”—this ninety-minute documentary
contains more genuine insight, pathos, and emotion than a year’s worth of
Magyk-7 weddings, funerals, and bar mitzvahs all condensed into one “Best of”
broadcast.

Boldly combining flatscreen and wire technology to great effect,
the documentary focuses on the struggles of several prominent transgenics in
the entertainment industry: particularly the hot new star Kai Corgi, the
cryptic E. K. Shemhamphorasch, and the popular but (as we see here) clearly
demented child-violence star, Wayne Clutterbuck, better known as “Rooster Man.”

Kai Corgi, who rose to global stardom after successfully fighting
an involuntary euthanasia order all the way to the Monday Night Court of
Appeals, is unsparing with his savage analysis of how Hollywood (here, a
microcosm for society in general) has led to global oppression of teegees
through ignorant stereotypes. An active champion of animal—and not merely
teegee—rights, Kai has lately withdrawn from wire-show performances, although
he made an exception recently to portray his close friend Cornelius in an
adaption of the Kalifornia story (airing tonight: see Schedule for times and
channels).

We watch in sympathy as Shemhamphorasch, a trained Shakespearean
actor whose highest aspiration is to “tread the boards” as Hamlet or Othello
(but whose genetic sources remain a matter of open speculation) finds himself
cast again and again in the role of menacing alien blobs with monosyllabic
lines . . . if any. Let us hope that the industry’s eyes
are opened to the talents of this underrated actor, and that he gets the chance
to play some of the roles he certainly deserves. I, for one, would tap deep
credit for the opportunity to experience E.K.S. as Willy Loman.

The most depressing moments, however, come in the study of Wayne
Clutterbuck. Here is a teegee at the peak of his career—and his salary is
anything but “chicken feed”—trapped at the bottom of an abyss of personal
torment. Cornelius ably targets the source of Rooster Man’s anguish in his
inability to come to terms with his transgenic roots. Straddling the vast moral
gulf between man and rooster, unable to embrace or reject either identity,
Clutterbuck is a truly tragic figure. The segments detailing his various drug
addictions are shatteringly painful and sordid. This is a wirecast to
experience with your children, and should open the eyes of any parent who
expects the wires to play the part of unsupervised nanny and tutor.

In spite of Cornelius’s proficiency with wires, it is the flat-screen
segments that add the most dimension to the show, distancing us from the
subjects and thus reminding us that we can
never know another’s mind
completely, despite the misleading evidence of our polynerves. With the sharp
eye of an insider, Cornelius takes us into a world he knows well—and a
harrowing journey it is, rife with injustice and bigotry, yet ultimately full
of great hopes for an expanded, enlightened view of . . . not
of humanity, but of intelligence itself. For what is most noble in these
creatures is not necessarily their human qualities: it is something I cannot
easily name. We should be grateful to Cornelius for his daring and insight. I
await with trembling anticipation his next foray on the wires, whether he follows
his bent for serious social commentary or plunges straight on into nerve-tingling
entertainment!

***

The Baja sun was hot in the afternoons, even in the green shade of
the valley. Cornelius put down the review with which he had been shading his eyes
as, sneakingly, he read it over again. Lying in a soft chaise lounge, he sipped
a margarita and nibbled on some fresh chilled trout he’d hooked from the
stream below the house just that morning. He thought of his relatives sunning
themselves on craggy, barnacled rocks covered with sea-gull excrement, and had
to pity them. They would never know the pleasures of a purely terrestrial
existence. On the other hand, they didn’t have to put up with so much nonsense.
This afternoon was a distinct and rare departure from his recently hectic
schedule. Real seals had no concept of—no need for—vacation.

Maybe there was something in all this for his next project. He was
fishing for ideas with increasing desperation now that his first feature had
been released. He must remain true to his roots, that much was certain. Despite
the promised corporate sponsorship of McNguyen Industries for whatever his next
effort might be, he had promised himself to liberate the suppressed humanimal
energy he felt crackling around him every day, seeking avenues for release. So
much injustice. If only he could focus all his ideas into one grand concept. An
overarching plan eluded him, but he could feel it coming. . . .

He perked up as Dyad called him from the shaded depths of the
house. Going inside was like diving into cool water. She was waiting in the
study. “It’s time.”

Among the shelves of antiquarian books was another antique, a
twenty-seven-inch color television set. Because the three of them lacked
polynerves, it was more than merely a curiosity. A leather loveseat and several
padded chairs sat in front of it. Cornelius dropped down in one of the chairs,
and Dyad took the loveseat. A few seconds later, Raimundo came in and sat
beside her.

“I don’t know why you force me to watch this garbage,” he said
with an aristocrat’s pride.

“This is a big moment,” she said. “Something to rank with a new
episode of ‘Gilligan’s Island.’”

“I don’t know how you can compare the two,” Raimundo said
scornfully.

“Oh, Raimundo, get a tan.”

He appeared to be sulking, but that was his continual expression.
Beneath his moody surface, Cornelius found him to be an agreeable fellow. He
certainly couldn’t blame him for disliking the wire shows. No one exactly
trusted the wires right now. Television and holography were experiencing a
renaissance—probably temporary—which pleased Raimundo beyond words, except
when the programs themselves drove him to caustic criticism. He was a
connoisseur of vintage sitcoms; the newer creations he considered pale, derivative
crap.

The screen lit up with a blue glow. Baroque fanfare was followed
by a somewhat embroidered version of a tune Cornelius had heard thousands of
times before. It was music he heard in his dreams. The Figueroa theme.

“Tonight. . . finally it can be told . . . a
stirring dramatization of the story behind the story everybody knows. ‘The
Rise and Fall of Kalifornia!’

“Starring . . .”

Cornelius watched bemusedly as the cast was unveiled: “Dane Magyk
as Alfredo! Helouise Magyk as Marjorie!” So much for the pope’s vow of silence
to Sandy; he had sold his inside version of the story to the networks, risking
prosecution for the chance to play himself. “Nona Magyk as Poppy! Danny B.
Magyk as Sandy! Miggles and Pepe as Mir and Ferdi! Baby Wego as Kali! And
Special Guest Star: Kai the Wonder Dog as Cornelius!”

The casting was bizarrely inappropriate, though Cornelius had
given Kai his blessing. Alfredo was an eight-foot Zulu, Marjorie a tiny
Filipino woman. They both, however, had beautiful singing voices and he had
long enjoyed the Magyk 7’s musical numbers. Sandy was the only remotely
Caucasian member of the group, a short and somewhat pudgy redhead with a
high-pitched nasal voice. And little Kali, plainly, was a dwarf.

As the story began, with a reenactment of Kali’s birth in a
luxurious suite of the Laguna Cliffs Marriott, Corny’s attention began to
recede. Fortunately, at that moment, the phone buzzed.

“Allow me,” Cornelius said.

He moved to a corner of the room and switched on the screen. Sandy—the real Sandy—looked out at him. “Are you watching it?”

“It’s on, but I can’t say it has my full attention.”

“I can’t bring myself to . . . you know.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to give you an accurate report.”

Behind Sandy was a cavernous region full of huge machines; sparks
flew from blowtorches, illuminating the dark regions in bursts; the sounds of
clanging and drilling and sawing nearly drowned him out. Sandy himself was
smeared with oil and grime. He had discovered happiness in the Holy City, and had returned to finish his education—and perhaps live out his life—with the
Celestial Mechanics.

“Who cares?” he said. “What’s important is the kind of work you’re
doing. ‘Grats on your show, man. I really thought it was tan, Corny.”

“I’m glad you made it last night,” Cornelius said. “It was good to
see the family together again.”

Their reunion had caused a small stir at the VC Theater. Miranda
and Ferdinand were cresting on the popularity of “Child Bride” (Ferdi played
the role of brother-in-law, a part somewhat smaller and far less controversial
than the one he’d planned for himself), but Poppy and Kali had not been much in
the public senses since the night of the Overload. Last night, they had looked
much like any other mother and daughter. Kali, whose alarming growth rate had
slowed quite a bit, was walking now—and on her own legs. Poppy had allowed Kali
to keep her wires, but she remained tuned to her daughter constantly,
supervising their usage. Alfredo, for once, seemed almost oblivious to the
crowd’s attention; he was more concerned with keeping an eye on Kali, playing
little games as if she were in danger of being bored. Alfredo did not quite
grasp the implications of her astonishing intelligence and her recent brush
with world domination. To him, she was simply a grandchild, to be teased and
adored and looked after.

Someone out of sight called Sandy. He held them off with a
gesture, then nodded to Corny. “Well . . . let me know if
it’s any good. I can always catch a rerun. Later, Corny.”

“Good-bye.”

When Cornelius returned to the program, things had deteriorated
further.

Raimundo made a noise, got up, and wandered away.

Dyad sighed. “Excuse me a minute, Cornelius. I think Raimundo’s
upset about something.”

“I can certainly understand that.”

The fat little Santiago character was waddling along breathlessly
next to Kai-Cornelius at the oceanside. He tossed a stick far out into the
waves, and the dogman plunged after it, barking joyfully in very poor imitation
of a seal and apparently unaware of the fact that Cornelius had never learned
to swim.

Cornelius licked margarita salt from his lips, thinking briefly of
the sea. Genetic memories surfaced, tantalizingly, giving him a moment of fear
before they subsided. He envied Kai the ability to splash about in the waves;
in this respect, the program’s portrayal was an improvement over the character
himself. Cornelius was a seal who couldn’t swim. What else had he lost when he
gained his humanity? And what exactly had he gained?

Thumbs were the main thing humans had to be proud of. Even a
teegee had to admit they were useful.

He used one of his to turn off the TV.