Remote Control Page 2

  He blinks again. And glimpses a crowd of people hovering over him.

  Am I dead?

  His vision clears and beyond the crowd, he sees hundreds―no, thousands―of screaming people.

  "Where the hell am I?" he bellows.

  But Harry knows exactly where he is.

  * * *

  He is standing now―after much assistance―and as he gazes across the stadium, his eyes rest on the hockey net at the other end of the ice rink. The home team is just setting up for a power play. The same scenario he's already witnessed at home, while sitting in his recliner with his popcorn and beer.

  "Excuse me," a woman says beside him. "This is yours."

  She presses a small black object into his hands. Harry's remote control.

  He's stunned. And very confused. "But how did you…?"

  "You dropped it when you fainted."

  "I fainted?" He rubs his forehead, squinting as a sudden pain flashes through his temples.

  Well, this is just wrong. I, Harold Abner Fielding, do not faint.

  While he tries to make sense of it all, his hands habitually caress the remote control buttons. When he grazes the volume button, he applies more pressure than he initially intends. The result nearly makes him pee his pants. The volume in the arena increases.

  "Must be a coincidence," he mumbles.

  He pushes the volume decrease button and the surrounding sounds diminish to a bare whisper. Flabby fingers stroke his 'long lost lover', pressing the mute button. The arena is eerily silent, yet all around him, people go through the motions of screaming, jumping up from their chairs, stomping their feet and whistling at the dueling hockey teams. It reminds him of those old black and white silent pictures with the incomparable Charlie Chaplin.

  He laughs, but no sound is emitted from his throat.

  "You suck!" he silently yells at the guy beside him.

  The guy gives him a nasty scowl.

  Apparently, the remote only gives Harry the effects. Everyone else hears just fine.

  Experimenting more, he presses the rewind button. It's a hysterically funny sight watching people move backwards, only slightly slower than normal. He glances at the woman behind him and immediately wishes he hadn't. She is regurgitating an all-beef hotdog smothered in mustard and onions.

  His stomach heaves, so he turns around and resumes fiddling with the remote. Fast forward gives him the expected results. The channel buttons do nothing that he can see.

  Distracted by this unexpected turn of events, he halfheartedly watches the final minutes of the game. As the puck makes its way across the center line, he catches sight of the "memory" button on the remote.

  "Now what does a remote have to remember?"

  He pushes it.

  * * *

  Zzzz-zap!

  A blinding flash of light pierces his eyes and he clamps them shut. When he opens them, he finds that he is standing next to the television in his stuffy two-bedroom rental. The remote control is at his feet and a burnt plastic odor lingers in the air.

  What the hell just happened here?

  He shakes his head, trying to free the cobwebs of his mind. He obviously imagined everything.

  Good God, Harry. You're losing it, buddy.

  He laughs. It starts off as a self-deprecating chuckle, then bursts into a full blown Jell-O belly laugh. Above his own laughter, he hears a thunderous cheering. The hockey game is in the last three minutes and the crowd is screaming wildly.

  The puck inches near the net, and Harry sees imaginary dollar signs. His bet is going to pay off.

  "Shoot!" he screams, trying not to think of what just happened.

  The puck hits the side of the goal net and ricochets between one player's feet, and the buzzer sounds. Game over. The home team has lost.

  And so has Harry. He's just lost one thousand dollars.

  He lets out a cry of frustration. "Goddamn losers!"

  Leaning over―which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes―Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote.

  In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic.

  The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. "Help me!"

  But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail.

  Jesus Christ, I'm drowning!

  He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers. The remote.

  Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he's ever prayed. "Please let this work. Please!"

  He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.

  He's instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another 'zoning out' period except for two things―he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.

  Or Beatrice, at the very least.

  She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he'd bought it for her last Christmas.

  He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.

  "Harry?" Blink…yawn…gasp! "What in God's name is going on here?"

  * * *

  Beatrice searches the room for the source of the water. There's no leak in the ceiling and the kitchen sink isn't overflowing. So where'd all that water come from?

  Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she steps closer to Harry. "Did you go outside?"

  It's the only thing that makes any sense to her, yet the rain had stopped about half an hour ago.

  Harry gives her his 'you're so dense' glare, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Of course I didn't go outside."

  "Then why are you standing in the living room soaking wet?"

  Ignoring her, he pushes past and waddles toward the bathroom.

  "Just like a man," she mutters. "Avoid the question and run away."

  While he's gone, Beatrice cleans up the water on the hardwood floor. She searches for the remote control so she can turn off the TV, but it's nowhere to be found.

  "Harry?" she calls out. "Where's the remote?"

  He appears beside her, the remote firmly grasped in one hand.

  She holds out her hand.

  "I'm not done watching TV," he says.

  "But it's almost eleven-thirty."

  He looks at her, raises his eyebrows. "And your point is?"

  "You always go to bed by eleven when you have a job in the morning."

  "I know." He glances at the television. "But I have a plan that is sure to make us rich."

  She rolls her eyes. Another one of Harry's 'plans'. Oh goodie.

  "I have an idea," he continues, "that'll make you wish you'd never doubted me."

  "What I wish," she snaps, "is that you'd stop all your wishing once and for all. I wish that you'd stop pressuring me to work more hours and figure out a way to fix this mess we're in. In fact, I wish that you'd just leave me alone!"

  Beatrice turns on one heel, but his portentous words follow her.

  "Be careful what you wish for, dear Bea."

  * * *

  Harry is desperately afraid. Afraid that he's imagined everything, that he's had a stroke or something and temporarily blacked out. Terrified in a way that makes his heart race with anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he hasn't dreamt it up after all.

  There's only one way to find out.

  It's now just past midnight and Harry has changed his clothes, toweled off his hair, and his skin has returned to its normal color of malnourishment. Leaning forwa
rd as far as his tire tube belly allows, he sits in his recliner and contemplates how he can use his new best friend to make all his wishes come true. His pudgy hands are glued to the remote, as if his life depends on its close proximity.

  "Okay, RC," he says. "Let's see what you can really do."

  Now don't forget how smart Harry is. He's already thought this through. If everything that happened was real, then he has somehow found a kind of portal. And portals can be very useful―if one can figure out how to use them.

  "I was transported to the same hockey game I was watching on TV," he says. "I was actually there. Then I changed channels and went to the Arctic, just like the documentary." He shivers. "Bad move there."

  Needing something safe to test his theory on, he channel surfs.

  "There!"

  The screen shows dozens of digital cameras, flat screen TVs and laptops. Tonight's news is featuring a piece on the grand opening of a Best Buy store in southeast Edmonton. According to the reporter, the grand opening sale is on 'NOW'.

  "Then NOW is the best time," he says with a wry grin.

  He never stops to wonder what will happen if he selects a commercial that has been pre-recorded in a store that is now closed. But he does do two things. He wishes and waits.

  Nothing happens.

  "What the hell?"

  He holds the remote out in front, points and changes channels quickly, from a beer commercial back to the Best Buy ad, wishing with all his might for fame and fortune.

  Still nothing.

  He turns the television off, then on, and tries again. Point…wish…click channel button.

  Disappointed that he's still sitting in his chair, he says, "Why won't you work?"

  Scowling, he scratches his chins and replays previous actions in his head, thinking of everything he could have possibly done.

  Finally, he smiles. "Ah-ha! I touched the TV."

  Thankful he hadn't reclined his chair, he begins to rock. One…two…three! Up he goes.

  Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down.

  As a last thought, he grabs a hooded jacket he'd flung over the couch earlier that day. He doesn't bother to zip it up―he couldn't have even if he wanted to. But he does pull the hood over his head and fastens the top snap under his chins.

  He shuffles to the television and touches the faded black plastic. Making his wish, he switches back to the Best Buy commercial. In a single heartbeat, he sees his arm and hand disintegrate.

  Then Harry vanishes completely.

  * * *

  He's staring into a pitch-black cave. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realizes that he's inside the Best Buy store―after closing. Not even a night janitor is around.

  "It works!" He jerks as his voice echoes through the cavernous building with its high, open ceiling.

  Harry is stunned. He's tempted to hit the memory button and return home to collect his thoughts. But then it hits him; he should be collecting something else. He's standing in a store filled with expensive electronic equipment. Stuff worth thousands of dollars. Per shelf. Stuff he could keep―or sell. And best of all, there's no sign of a break-in, and there'll be no evidence of his departure.

  He glances up, sees a security camera sweeping the area and pulls the hood tighter. "Security!"

  Chuckling at his brilliance, he stares at his good friend RC and strokes the small black box. "Can I take really something back with me?" He remembers something. "Well, I brought back some of the Arctic Ocean, didn't I?"

  Makes sense to him that objects can be transported just as easily as water.

  "This'll be a reconnaissance trip," he decides, thinking of the movie Ocean's Eleven with George Clooney and a host of other big name actors. "It'll be a dry run, and I'll be Clooney."

  He waddles down one aisle, grabs a Canon camera and wraps the strap around his neck. Then he shoves four small digital cameras into his jacket pockets, two per side. He grins. With a skip and a bounce in his step―well, as much as his three hundred and sixty pound frame will allow―he lumbers into a second aisle and scoops a laptop up with one hand.

  Then he sees it, the most wondrous thing in the store.

  A forty-two inch Panasonic flat-screen TV.

  Shuffling toward his treasure, he practically salivates at the sight, and he makes a decision that will make one of his routine wishes finally come true. He hugs the flat-screen, squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer.

  "There's no place like home," he says.

  He tries to click his heels, but his marshmallow thighs won't let him.

  So he presses the memory button on the remote instead.

  * * *

  Harry stands motionless in his living room. His pockets are stuffed with stolen loot and the flat-screen he's holding makes his arms ache. He rests his new treasure on the couch and groans at the physical exertion. He stares at it and his jaw drops. A drip of drool slides from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and disappears into the unshaven folds of his face.

  Harry's eyes widen in comprehension. "I did it."

  He realizes something and puffs up his already expansive girth. He's no longer just Harold Fielding, plumber extraordinaire. Now he's a thief, a criminal, a wanted man.

  He grins and holds himself more erect. It feels good to be wanted, to be somebody special. A tingle of anticipation gives him a delicious shiver as he thinks of the police investigation that will follow. They'll wonder how someone got in and out without touching the doors or windows.

  They'll think I'm amazing.

  He empties his pockets. "And I am amazing."

  He can't believe he made away with it all. And he didn't even set off the Best Buy's alarm.

  Harry gasps. Maybe the press will give me a special nickname.

  "Maybe they'll call me The Disappearing TV Thief."

  Laughter escapes from his mouth, his bulky belly doing 'the wave' as it ripples with each laugh.

  He covers his mouth with fat fingers.

  What to do now…

  He must have an excuse for having all this state-of-the-art equipment. Now what can he tell Beatrice? Maybe an uncle passed away and left him―no, that wouldn't do. Beatrice knows he doesn't have an uncle.

  He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him.

  Harry grins. "I'll tell her I won everything. In a lottery."

  She'll never know the truth. She'd never approve of it.

  Suddenly, Harry hears a sound that makes his heart stop.

  Footsteps.

  Good God, Beatrice is awake!

  * * *

  Beatrice peeks around the corner and sees Harry sitting in his recliner, his eyes wild looking and his face flushed. He's wearing a jacket, which is odd since it's the middle of the night and the house is toasty.

  "Harry, what's wrong? Are you ill?"

  "No."

  She notices that he's covered in an oily sheen of perspiration. "Should I call 911?"

  He shakes his head, his breath coming in quick pants. "Bad dream."

  Beatrice looks at him for a long moment. "Come to bed, Harry. You're going to be too tired to work tomorrow." She glances at the clock on the wall. "Or should I say, today. It's almost two."

  "I'll be up in a minute." He gives her an innocent looking smile and a sweat bead rolls down the side of his face, cascades down his three chins and drops on his shirt.

  Her eyes narrow. What's he up to?

  She follows his gaze to the closet. "What's in there, Harry?"

  "Where? What are you talking about?"

  "What are you hiding in the closet?" she demands.

  He shoves himself from the chair, wobbles, and says, "I'm not hiding a thing."

  She doesn't believe him. He's too interested in that darned closet. Can't keep his eyes off it.

  She walks toward the closet door with the intention of exposing Harry's secret. Probably half a dozen assorted flavors of potato chips and a bulk package of chocolate bars.

  Sh
e scowls. Or more dirty magazines.

  She'd already found his stash in the garage and made him burn them outside in the fire pit.

  Men!

  "Really, Bea," he insists, "it's nothing. I can't help where I was looking."

  She hesitates in front of the closet door.

  "Why don't we go upstairs," Harry says. "We can have some fun."

  He raises and lowers his brows in an attempt to be suggestive, but Bea isn't interested in his idea of fun, the kind that always leaves her unfulfilled, with cracked ribs.

  "No, Harry. I'm more interested in what's in here."

  She reaches out a hand, touches the doorknob and turns it.

  * * *

  The closet holds all that once was, or once could have been. When she opens the door, two tennis balls―still bright yellow―roll between her feet. The rackets hang on the inside of the door, never used. Inside and to the left is Harry's barely used golf bag. Beside it are three burgundy suitcases for the many fabulous vacations that never happened. Cardboard boxes filled with Harry's extra plumbing gear are stacked to just under the clothing bar on the right side. Behind all this are more boxes and a pile of wool blankets and beach towels―for the picnics they never went on anymore.

  Her fingers trail across the suitcases. She wonders if she'll ever use them again.

  "So what didn't you want me to see in here, Harry?"

  "Nothing, dear. Really." Harry's voice is thin, nervous.

  She glances over her shoulder at him. "Then why are you so nervous, dear?"

  Harry releases a long sigh. "I-I just realized how messy it was in there. You asked me to clean it up on my day off. I forgot to do it. Don't be upset with me, Bea. I'll do it right after work tomorrow. I promise."

  She cocks her head. Maybe she's been too hard on him. Maybe he can't help that work's been slow.

  "Maybe I can do it―"

  "No!" Harry moves to her side and firmly closes the closet door. "I'll do it. I made a promise to you. I don't want you lifting a finger. The stuff in there is heavy, and most of it'll be going to the junkyard. The rest I'll store in the basement, or at least make a bit neater in the closet. Let me do that for you." He gives her a pleading look.

  Well, I can't hurt his feelings by telling him no, now can I?

  "Fine. You take care of it. I have enough to clean anyway." She gives him a tired look. "I sure wish we could hire someone to clean the house once a month. My joints are aching all the time and I can't wash the floors like I used to." Her voice fades with yearning. "I wish you were making more money."