Remote Control

Reality depends on the channel.

 

            Mid-morning and it’s awfully bland around here, all watered-down coffee and sofas that scratch and claw at your bare legs. The remote doesn’t work well enough, you have to stand and point and accuse, jabbing at the buttons �" it’s almost therapeutic. Almost. If you open your eyes and nostrils and take big gulps of the stale air, you can taste the tinge of disguise. Everything here is coated in disguise, from the air freshener covering the smell of vomit, to the throw pillows hiding cigarette stains. We’re not meant to smoke in here, and for once I agree. There’s enough metaphorical smoke in this place. You can barely see where you’re going.

            Aha. Now there’s a channel I like. A talk show, one of those ones where people sit in plush chairs and tell a host about all the stupid stuff they’ve done, and everyone at home laughs because, although everyone does it all, at least we don’t feel the need to publicise it. No thank you, Mr Springer, we’ll take our mistakes quietly, with two sugars, no milk. A lady with stringy hair extensions is speaking about her boyfriend. He’s the father of her child, she keeps insisting, and she stares at the man to her left, who slouches in his chair. Yes, the great father sits, wearing a grey hoodie and his discomfort like a medal. He’s lying, of course. He wanted to be there, he signed the damn contract. He got his makeup done. He doesn’t deserve this audience.

            Writing trails the bottom of the screen, letting the audience know what to look out for next, as Mr and Mrs Apathetic are apparently not holding our attention. Now there’s something that catches my eye. One more ad break and then this will get really interesting. Don’t move; I know the sofa’s itchy, but you get used to it, and it’ll be worth it. You’ll enjoy this next segment. Ad break.

            Persians carpets are piled high, waiting for eager customers to leap upon them and throw their money behind them as they soar out into the realm of Middle Income Living. Knives that can cut anything �" well, mostly fruit and vegetables �" are sure to guarantee a lifetime of satisfaction. Exercise machines, with a multitude of tiny Lego pieces doomed to slot together, promise to make you feel like you again, and not the old you, in baggy clothes and a sad expression, but a new you, with makeup and better lighting. And then insurance, to make sure you never lose any of these valuable possessions. All for a limited time. And we’re back.

            “And now, for your viewing pleasure,” says the host, that handsome Cheshire cat, “the story of a young woman, stranded and left entirely alone, an innocent victim of something, something, et cetera, et cetera�"”

            That’s my line, you wait here, and I’ll be right back.

            “Mercy Adams, ladies and gentlemen!”

            Cue music. I strut, like I’m meant to, on the endless path to the red cushioned chairs in the centre of the stage. When I get there, I look out to the audience and beam, and everyone beams back, especially you, how kind of you to sit so close to the front. Now it can be almost like I’m talking right to you.

            “Now, Mercy…” The host pauses, as if something had just occurred to him. “Gee, that’s an unusual name. How did you end up with that name?”

            Titters from the audience, but I don’t mind. I smile so wide my lips crack.

            “My mother was religious. She slept with my father before they got married, so she named me Mercy to beg forgiveness for her sin.”

            Much louder laughter, the sweet and caring kind. The audience likes me; perhaps they feel sorry, maybe they assume I was teased at school. I never was, but they can think that. It helps my case.

            “What a story!” booms the host �" Mitch, I think his name is. “Now, Mercy, let’s hear your story; you really have gone through a lot, haven’t you?”

            Modest smile, head tilted down. No comment.

            Mitch leans closer, concern flickering in his made-for-TV eyes, and in deep, resonant tones he murmurs seductively, “Well, don’t be shy. Tell us about yourself.”

            A glance at the audience, a little make-believe reluctance �" there’s nothing more endearing, don’t you see? I quiver, the audience smiles at me, and I begin.

            “I was born right here, in this very town. My parents were good to me �" my mother always said I was a happy kid. We lived in a big old house not far from here. I went to nursery school, then grade school. I was enrolled in university. I was happy.”

            “She was happy,” enthuses Mitch. The audience members nod. I think I can see you nod too, but I can’t be sure. Mitch tilts his head familiarly, and asks if I can tell the audience what happened next, sweetheart. I can. I have been waiting for this.

            “I was kidnapped!” I intone, and the word reverberates around the studio and makes ripples in the watery coffee. The words at the bottom of the screen read “KIDNAPPING IN THIS DAY AND AGE: LITTLE GIRL LOST”. I continue.

“I went home from school a few days before graduation, and they were waiting for me there.”

            “Who?” breathes Mitch.

            “Two strangers. They bound me, and dragged me to a car.” Tearful shake of the head. “No-one heard my screams. Not even the neighbours.”

            A collective gasp from the audience.  I can see tears glisten in their thousand eyes. They’re hooked.

            “They took me to a strange place, they gave me drugs that made me see things. Awful things.” Practised shudder. “They tortured me.”

            “Ungodly! Horrific! Can you even imagine doing such things to a young girl… how old are you, Mercy?”

            “Twenty-three.”

            “Twenty-three!”

            I swear I can hear some sobs from the audience. This is better than I could have hoped for.

            “And you had ambition too, didn’t you?”

            “Yes, Mitch. I wanted to be an architect.”

            “Was this a dream of yours, Mercy?”

            “Well, Mitch, I’d say we all have dreams.”

            The moneymaker. The front row of the audience screams in horrified pleasure: what an angel, what a sweet, sweet child. Only you sit stony-faced, which irritates me. You should play along. You’ll get us in trouble otherwise.

            “You wanted to be an architect, correct?” He asks, glancing at his notes.

            “Yes.”

            “What did you want to design?”

            “Oh, anything.” Wistful giggle. “Hotels, bridges, hospitals. Beautiful buildings that keep everyone safe.”

            Mitch waits for the audience’s ahh to die before reaching behind the chairs and pulling something out.

            “And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have a sketch from Mercy herself!”

            I feel my breath tighten and my heart beats quickly, a hummingbird drilling through my chest. This wasn’t part of the plan �" where could he have found that? I can see you frown, and I beg you not to look concerned, not to give anything away, just to keep sighing and smiling.

            Mitch examines the stark pencil lines on the paper.

            “And this was a sketch you did just before you were taken?”

            I force a smile. “Yes.”

            “Mind if I ask what it is?”

            The audience giggles happily. “A hotel.”

            “With no doors?”

            I inhale quickly, and squint at the page; I must have put doors, where are the doors? The audience laughs again.

            Damage control. I sigh. “I must have forgotten them!”

            Mitch draws his brows together and leans closer. “But then how would any of the guests enter? And are there windows? This stairwell doesn’t go anywhere.”

            For the first time, there is silence in the studio. 

            “I… I meant to…”

            “This doesn’t work at all.” He half-laughs, and it bounces from wall to wall, unabsorbed by the audience’s usual titters. “This makes no sense.”

            “No, no it does make sense. I can make it make sense, I’m fine!” I babble desperately.

            “Ah,” he whispers, and then, to my horror, he turns to the audience and poses the indecent question: “is she fine?”

            I can see my shock and terror reflected in your face. I search for the cameras, but find none �" how does this damn show work anyway? I grip the sides of the chair, and try to smile. “I’m fine, I promise, I’m well!”

            A few people begin to leave. I see them gathering their things. “I’m well, I’m well, I’m well!”

            Mitch shakes his head sadly. “Tune in next time on�"”

            “No!” My throat seems raw and dry. “I’m well, I’m fine! Five years in here and I’m fine!”

            The audience continues to filter out. Mitch turns to me and says, with as much confidentiality as he can muster, “There’ll be another show next week. Or next year, maybe.” He shrugs. “No matter. You should go take your pills now, anyway.” He turns back to the fading audience, and announces, in words that seem to turn my bones to dust and rouse a half-hearted cheer from the remaining audience members, “Don’t worry, folks, she’s safely locked away!”

            You reach up to take my hand, and lead me from the stage. We sit back on the scratchy sofa to watch the credits. A nurse offers me Valium in a little plastic cup, and with it I drink the thin and desperate coffee, until it seeps into my foundations, assuring me that I am undoubtedly an unhinged and rickety construction.  

 

This is the story of Mercy Adams, slowly unravelling for your viewing pleasure.