Thank You and Good Night

By Ray Succre

Based closely on the multi-faceted and prolific life of Rod Serling, creator (and both head writer and host) of The Twilight Zone, as well as many other programs, Thank You and Good Night spans the rise and fall of a television icon.

Through several award-winning dramas and his popular television show, The Other Side, Emery Asher, a scriptwriter and overnight success, becomes a household name. There is a price in accolades, however. His imagination plays antagonist to his success, and as the world begins slipping through his fingers, Emery Asher becomes a man fighting his own past achievements, with his prone ego and the ever-fickle nature of television watching closely.

Through narrative, script, commercials, and the all-too-surreal transformation of a scriptwriter living both outside and within his own tales, Thank You and Good Night is the story of a little man playing a leading man through the raucous, speculative, and complex world of home-screen celebrity in the early days of television. Spanning four decades, this is a story of celebrity and obscurity, of success and failure, of a man in his machines, through events that could only come from that place where reality and imagination merge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Succre
• Release date: May 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476403366

Ray Succre

Ray Succre is 35 and currently lives in Coos Bay, Oregon, a small, coastal town where art is sparse and, when it does exist, is of a general relation to driftwood, deer, dying romance, or various maritime subjects. He has tried to leave the town numerous times. He is married, has a six year-old son, and loves the south coast. He is a novelist and a writer of poetry, and has recently returned to college in order to become Mr. Succre, an eventual teacher of English to your kids. As an author, Ray's work can be found in hundreds of publications across two dozen countries. His poetical fugue theory has been published in several places and his early work also appeared (with excellent company) in The Book of Hopes and Dreams, a charity anthology edited by Dee Rimbaud, out of Scotland. Ray has been nominated for the the Best of the Web Award, as well as the Pushcart Prize on several occasions, and he is also a winner of the Adroitly Placed Word Award, for spoken word.

Book preview

FADE IN:

EXT. CAYUGA LAKE, 1936 - LATE AFTERNOON

A slow pan over the surface of Cayuga breaking with white reflections from the light of overhead summer. Beyond the rim of the lake, the parti-colored foliage of upstate New York, cabins cloistered on the coveted view, their reflections atop the lake’s outer edge and always at end the frisky motions of the younger vacationers.

LOW ANGLE SHOT from the active lake’s surface to an area near the shore, devoid of groups. We see a boy and a man walking from the lake into a seasonally umber field.

DISSOLVE TO:

The twelve-year-old EMERY ASHER and 1ST CAVALRY LIEUTENANT MERRILL, a uniformed confederate soldier with his saber drawn. As day enfolds them, the two appear comfortable with one another, old friends, and the leader of these two does not seem to be the older. The ASHER boy leads. He is being accompanied.

CROSSFADE TO:

Summer. The faltering breezes of Cayuga met her child compatriots, whose every splash against her surface surprised the afternoon. The sway of low viburnum felt this push of wind, moving like the jangle of light castanets. Above, the sheer Sun. Below, a warm coating of just-disturbed lake water, the scent of which signaled a recreational feeling in those who could discern it. Over the black walnut tree near Mud Lock, a loon gave trill of her joys in a sudden harp, tattling to the Sun about the workings of her wings. In those moments and through many more, a boy and his guardian traipsed into the fields beyond the trees. They walked in hunt, searching for great prey.

The cavalry lieutenant spoke with a rich, southern intonation, a drawl that found, at times, certain pep in his pronunciations, speech that moved quickly between tiredness with vowels and a zest with the stresses of words. As he spoke, his long beard and conjoined moustache dipped with his chin in a playful and energetic manner. That Merrill’s hat fit, snug against his temples, was no confidence against his hair, which was copious, all gray, and somewhat unkempt. He was a certain sort of very old fighter. Lieutenant Merrill had been a military man, but had long ago been congratulated, dismissed, and forgotten. He had left his active service to past decades, was near to sixty years a veteran of Lee’s army, and he had not aged a day since Appomattox. His old body, while certain and still strong, did bear the mark of a man who had seen much and lived full measure.

Perfect weather for it, the Lieutenant remarked, gait slight to maintain his place beside the boy.

I don’t like it, Emery said, A hotter day will make our prey more courageous.

Yes, it will be a dangerous hunt, Merrill agreed, looking at the boy for a reaction to this statement, however small, an indication that Emery was apprehensive. There was no smoke of this, however. Merrill’s confederate pride swelled; he found no fear in the boy.

We’ll have it dead by five, Emery planned.

That soon?

Mmm. And eat until we feel to burst.

Though a browser, with teeth replete in those pulverizing nubs best suited for grinding leaves, and a bulk designed to keep upward where its fodder grew, the mastodon was still, by no measure, simple quarry. Though an herbivore, the beast was fearsome and filled with a certain delight for the stamping murder of all small creatures, of which near everything was fit in comparison his mass. Sociopathic by nature, the monumental beast held in its mind an image of mutilation with each heavy step. By holding this disturbing image and hunger in its mind, like an image burned into film, the mastodon was never off its guard, or in any means without urge or short temper. Its tusks could gore a man in half with but a single motion and even the cold death in its eyes could take a life with but a glance. Lucifer himself could not have envisioned a more atrocious, hate-filled mass of flesh and tusky malevolence.

One had to lurk, was the thing; stay in the brush that lined the animal’s resting grounds, peer out and stay motionless until the sentry-like devil decided to uproot itself and travel. The mastodon would eventually move toward the grove, toward the fruit and leaves it kept near, into the arms of the trees. That was the opportune moment, the time for chance, when a hunter crept, low and with the tall grass in his face, slow and certain to the animal’s rear, flanking. When a man’s shadow was aligned with his breathing and his crouch was just so, near enough the unwary monster, with both heartbeats in his very fingertips and eyes focused most... that’s when the hunter sprang and made his grievous gambit. The stabbing could not be thirsty or random, angry or felt, but needed to be tacit in reasoning. The attack required a spot into which the saber could pierce with precision and, once into the flesh of the animal, go deep as clarity.

The jugular, then? Lieutenant Merrill asked.

Right in the throat. Between the shoulder and jaw. I come up from beneath, Emery detailed.

That’s it. But one cut and then you run. To the grove. Promise me you’ll make the single cut and then run. And don’t miss that artery; he’ll be wary of us then and we won’t achieve a sneak on him again.

You need no promise of my skill; I know my way around a saber, sir, Emery said.

We’ll see. Just wound him and let him give chase to the grove. I’ll fire from my mount there to assure the matter. This hunt might end up in a chase, I think. Him after me. But he won’t catch the sprint of my Lauderdale, so I might fire many times in the safety of our speed.

And we bleed the thing.

It’s a good way. Very old. We work it to its slow death.

With any luck, Emery said.

No no, my boy. We forgive ourselves luck, Merrill said, We are the last soldiers in our great Confederacy. You and I are to move with diligence. We’re in it for the full bounty. With God above and Mr. Colt on our sides, you see.

Right, for the South.

Yes, well done. For the South. For the War Department. Now take up the saber.

The lieutenant’s ever-slung ammunition pouch wobbled against his leather belt and holster. He leaned his head aside and removed the sword’s sheath-strap from his shoulder. After a brief testing of the weapon’s weight, he spun the sheathed sword around and presented it to the boy. Pure curve. Grave design. Sharp death sheathed in steel and chamois. Soon, young Emery had attached the scabbard to his waist. He tightened the strap over his chest and across his nape. His height was matched by the length of the sword, however, and the sheath’s tip against the ground made a brief, scraping ruckus as they walked.

Pivot the handle down, keep yourself quiet, Merrill whispered. Emery nodded and did as advised, saying nothing. There was such foresight in the boy; a born hunter. Young Emery seemed to be soldier at his most green, but an achiever, and a boy on which to base one’s expectations. He was a fine young being who would do much good that day. They made their way toward the beast quietly before parting company, Emery crouching into the grass and the Lieutenant sneaking off to the grove at the field’s edge. The lieutenant mounted his tethered horse, Lauderdale, and had a time of saddled wait with his shooting iron.

The mastodon was in the field’s center, as if that powerful animal featured the faculty to know this position gave its hunters a declined benefit. Mastodons were fierce creatures and quite accustomed to death’s tactics, having many of these maneuvers at their disposal. A desperate animal looking to make a meal of a mastodon would have to attempt many things to succeed, and in so attempting would have inadvertently taught the mastodon, or its peers, over time and application, how to avoid them all. Emery would have to move in near silence and cover a strong distance to reach his quarry. If the flank was not made before the animal stood, its neck would be too high for the saber to reach. Merrill’s later gunshots would likely do too little damage without the blood loss of the slit artery aiding in the beast’s downfall.

Emery was President of his class. Yes, at West Junior High, and his Scout training had been followed with stringency. The responsibilities of Emery’s young life were as the bobbles of a bird. No effort, no trial; life and youth were simply how one walked for a time. Money turned many dials in a man’s life, however, particularly when that money was present for one’s youth. Emery had heard it called privilege, and thought he might disagree if this were approached formally, in argument. Informally, he had been given riding time on chestnut horses, ate well, wore the clothes expected of his station, and he was well-loved. Emery had an older brother from which to model his mistakes and degrees, a mother willing to cook fresh mastodon pies, and a father lenient to a boy’s certain flights of imagination. Perhaps this was, in a more questionable marrow, a truer privilege than currency and resource. That his father might sell the gained meat that day for sale in his shop was the impetus behind the fervent hunt. A young boy might provide, after all. Capital was a fuel of the civilized world, but was not provision its true ruler?

The hour passed with a lugubrious boredom, spent alone, creeping along the grassy floor. He had removed his shirt to stave off the rustling of cloth against soil. Moving on his hands and knees, each moment of inching motion had him aware of the scabbard’s possible noise against stone or stalk. The saber in his hand reached out in those slow creeps as he made his cautious, hungry way to the monster’s flank. It was here, beside the great, living meat of the animal, that his appetite began asking him to hurry. The boy was patient however, pulling in his stomach to keep it from rumbling and exposing his position to the slumbering animal. His target was near. The neck. Just before him. He had to move slower than ever, so close to the sheeted ears, so near to those tusks that could sweep him to the air with broken ribs or back…

And then Emery sprang his well-laid assail. He lurched to his feet in a rush with the saber drawn back. The animal’s deathly eyes shot open and the tusks lost their stillness. Twice through the mass of neck the saber shot, deep and bringing out the hot blood beneath. Emery turned and ran, the fatal blows having been struck. The beast began to move. Emery reached his good sprint, feet the scatter of drums against evening, the ground beneath in a blur as the grass whipped against his bare belly. He ran his certain, swift way toward the grove, hoping only that he was fast enough to reach this place of assured safety. The stomping, earth-tremoring mastodon had lifted onto its feet. With heavy, quickening steps, the animal began after the small hunter. Emery nearly fell as the sound of the angry beast neared him. He was losing ground against the massive creature. No foot-race was enough. The animal would trample him any moment. Emery squinted and ran at his peak, as fast as his body could move, his intent as if to outrun the season itself. The grass began a steady impediment to his gait and the scabbard beat about his back, bruising and gashing him as he swiftly leaped and ran through the grass of the field.

The grove was too distant. He would not reach safety before the mastodon apprehended him. The sensation of the beast’s tonnage, its powerful legs, was overwhelming. It had run him down and was at his back by a mere dozen yards. The young boy jumped and made a mid-air turn, choosing to face his recompense. The motion ceased in a skid of up-tufted dirt about his shoes. There were but yards between two creatures; a giant and boy and twenty-five feet, then eighteen feet, then seven. The monstrous Proboscidean lowered its tusks and lunged forward for the simple, brutal kill.

The lieutenant’s firearm had been readied, but required no use. It was with wonder the aged soldier watched from his mount, seeing the talented young man atop the mastodon, riding it toward the grove and stabbing with his saber down, again and again into the meaty nape of the monster. Who had seemed an energetic boy of certain delusion and a quaint sense of servitude to the Confederacy, now appeared the embodiment of bravery and legend. The mastodon was brought to its knees at the grove’s edge. A coarse roar escaped the massive lungs as its life fled, as its head lowered and the tusks propped it to stillness, into the final comatose of blood loss. The lieutenant rode into this scene, pulling his reigns back hard and dismounting Lauderdale several feet from the boy and the dying behemoth. Soon, the mastodon whimpered and rolled to its side in the grass, the Sun hot against its hairs and eyes starved of oxygen. Emery stood beside the animal, holding the red-stained saber, much alive and full of cheer.

Never had to fire a shot, the impressed lieutenant noted.

Nope. And tonight, we can have a feast, the young boy replied.

That we can. I saw your skirmish from afar. Stabbed twice before you ran, he said to Emery’s smile, Precocious.

Binghamton’s west side held many boys, including Emery’s brother, William, and in each of these boys lived the well-scoped constitution of fantasy. That Thomas Welter played his jacks with the rigid ruling of a blackbird’s pecks was but style. That Agatha Bilridge enjoyed heady, dark licorice in her ice cream was a wondrous and intimate preference. That Emery preferred the involvement of others in his studies of clubs and programs, festivities and all things student, was hard-won; others could be cruel. Social youth in Binghamton was a circus wherein fantasy and style met reality and the ever-present complexity of growing up. Children shared the blocks and park, the dogs and radio programs. There was very little that a young boy did not share, particularly if that boy had a brother.

Even Emery’s birthday was not solely his own. He had to share his birthday with Christmas itself, though only one of these celebrations was endeavored in the Asher house. Outside however, Christmas was always a large event that pleased children, his friends, schoolmates, and even a few adults. Emery had grown accustomed to the multi-functional in both festivity and company. When children ran about the block on Christmas day with their new bicycles and various toys and trinkets, he liked to imagine they were celebrating his birthday.

Each young man or woman held a fondness for certain details and matters. His brother William worked the year’s elements at schooling, and perched behind his thick glasses was a stare at times cold and bookish. The sod of Binghamton was richly topped with structures and the changes of sky and floor with the seasons. The world became cold with the snow and its call for thick clothing, warm with the summer and out-of-school activity, and wet the rest of the year’s days. Each season sparked a particularly distinctive feeling of warmth or shivers, comfort or dampness, adventure outside or hiding inside from the sky.

Long ago, New York had been the land of mastodons. They left their fossils in Queens and Manhattan. In Binghamton and Cayuga. No citizen had ever hunted the stately beast until now. Only Emery and his companion in the Confederacy. A mastodon had no fondness for certain details and matters. Not like children. It was quarry, and already grown up. Simple and unchanging. No mastodon had ever been President of Binghamton junior high school. No mastodon had ever celebrated a birthday or Christmas.

Standing in the field near Cayuga Lake, on vacation for but a week of the summer, Emery’s hunt now only chilled him and offered a sobering trill through his mind. The warm kill at his feet, so unwieldy and replenishing, was no longer something of which he might be proud. The downed animal was neither the triumph of man over beast nor the fruition of a weapon’s clamor against life, but instead presented itself as stunning proof of nature’s coldness, her invasive and grave-hungry truth that the largest of monsters could be killed by something as simple as a child’s ingenuity.

You look displeased, my boy.

Well, it’s just dead now. It’s not great anymore, Emery said.

Of course there was Paige. Back home. Another Binger. A little girl of such temerity that she often followed him about on school grounds questioning his adventures, each detail and unlikelihood. A pretty killjoy in pigtails with notebook and pencil. There could be triumph there, at least, as she heard out his adventures. When he returned to Binghamton from his family’s vacation, he would have a wondrous story for her. One so courageous she would have no choice but to abandon her scrutiny and simply adore him, for once. Riding a mastodon to its perish was much more difficult than riding a high stepper, but the one had trained him for the other, and perhaps he would bring Paige to his father’s stable and show her the two horses. One was a dray, but cared for and not yet old. He would demonstrate and reenact the mastodon hunt for Paige. He thought of her often, a new arrangement. Truly, he thought more often about why he thought of her, and had yet come any real conclusion, though his knowledge of heart matters was not lacking and he did understand the impetuousness of that strange fever between boys and girls. It was quite palpable, and Paige seemed the sort of person to impress, he supposed. People like that deserved adventures, even those that were not their own. She would want to write his adventure into her little notebook, of course, but how little her pencil would flutter when she saw his form atop the dray horse. How believable he would be.

The sound hurried across the field from the lake. An irascible and authoritative noise most certainly issued from the lungs of his troll-faced brother.

EMERY. DINNER.

IT’S ONLY FOUR.

IT’S SIX. COME ON.

That no fouler sound could have left a man than that loathsome voice of William’s was no assurance against doing what the older brother ordered. William’s lecturing, judgmental tone woke Emery some mornings, sent him to lunch, told him about girls, and uncorroborated a great many things Emery felt were true in the world. Mastodons were not real, and William was obliged to flaunt such information. The older brother was entirely incorrect, however; it was William’s nature to be wrong, in all ways known to science and logic, and concerning every possible thing. In fact, William was known across Binghamton as having been perpetually wrong for the longest duration any one man had ever been known to be mistaken. The only time William was correct was when repeating the words of the parents.

Emery looked down at his kill, saber in hand, and this view burned into his mind as aching proof of how silly and boring his brother had become over the past year. This felt good to note, and so he kept the thought, making his way across the field toward the lake and vacationing families. Lieutenant Merrill stayed behind, taking back his steel blade and hitching Lauderdale to a walnut tree.

Another day, my boy, he said to the exiting young man.

Susa brought the popping frankfurters from the cast-iron skillet into the house. The fire, a source of sit-around warmth, was diminishing in the twilight of Cayuga’s hills, and the chill of the air had brought the family into the house for dinner. Sitting at the wooden table in the small, rented cabin, the family talked over the day’s events and the happenings of their collective vacation. The mustard was fancy and the catsup, watery, but the salt of the frankfurters was more than enough flavor to induce good salivation and the sating of stomachs.

How about a night fish? Henry asked his boys.

In the dark? Susa asked, her acute, mothering sense having been tripped by the idea of children operating after nine p.m.

Well sure. We have a lantern, don’t we? I’m sure we brought it. And there’s good fish in this lake night or day. Not like they can go anywhere.

I don’t want to fish tonight. I want to make a compass, William responded. Henry had a bite of the cylindrical meat and its bread housing, chewed with a nod as he looked on his youngest.

Well, what about you, Emery? Fish tonight?

That’d be fun, Emery agreed, We’ll catch breakfast.

Please clean them yourselves, Susa commented in mock annoyance.

And I thought tomorrow we’d go to Taughannock, the father added.

Oh, I can use my compass there, William said, a nudge of excitement tilting his brows up from their usual place behind the thick, black rim of his glasses.

Susa licked her lips and reached for the pitcher, pouring water into her glass with an articulate wrist. Her mood was pleasant; the lake trip had excited her all the way to smiles. Cayuga was family time, away from the shop and school, away from routine. Being away from the usual mode was helpful to her, no matter how well-meaning the city was for her at home. Binghamton was pleasant, but it was easier to uncover a sense of felicity when there were fewer things to distract her. A person could be quite pleased with life, but not know it through all the weather of occupations and institutions and the street-side, domestic din so common back home.

I want to go there. To Taughannock. First thing tomorrow, Emery voiced.

Yeah, William agreed.

Oh, it really is a lovely park, Susa said, I enjoy the smell up there.

Sure, it’s nice, Henry said, Expansive place. Big.

Emery swallowed a bit of his meal and had a small sip of water. After rubbing his eye with a palm and fighting off a bit of weariness, he announced with certainty the adventure of his day.

I brought down a mastodon today. Henry stopped chewing and lifted his curious eyes. William frowned.

Oh did you? the father inquired.

Couldn’t kill it the usual way. Too large. I had to cut its throat.

Now, Emery, Susa said, a touch reproachful. She noticed that her son’s hair was misbehaving in the back and this bothered her. The young boy had his father’s hair, mostly, but her uncle’s troublesome licks near the whorl.

Carotid artery. Bled it out, Emery said, mild.

Huh, Henry muttered, taking in his son.

Did it with a cavalry sword, the boy continued, Crept up on it for an hour, so I didn’t spook it.

Say, that was smart of you, the father accommodated.

I know.

You ran around in the field like a moron, William voiced then, I watched you do it. The father looked over both of his boys and had another bite. Through this mouthful of nitrated pork and breading, he asked a simple question.

Well, which is it, Em? Did you hunt a mastodon, or run around like a moron?

Moron, William chose.

William, stop it, their mother said. Emery set his frankfurter on the small plate and folded his arms across his chest. He had no need to answer, and knew which he had been.

The importance of his day thus spent now occluded into the more familial importance of a night well spent. This came, the late night, and there was fishing to do, and tomorrow, Taughannock. That a tour of the state park might please his parents and brother was only a secondary objective. Emery’s true mission was to keep them safe from the roving samurai that had made their encampments shortly out of view of the main trails. The armor placement on these foes made them a particular nuisance, even for a man as submerged in the tactics of war as Lieutenant Merrill.

Susa reached into her handbag and retrieved a steel comb, set it beside her youngest son’s plate. The silvery tines loomed as if filaments, undulating like the legs of a centipede. The comb arched its back then and inched toward his hand.

Sticking up in the back, his mother said.

Chapter Two

North High School was a matryoshka. Dolls within dolls. First the outer layer of street and yard, parking and brush. The father. Once lifted free, there was but the structure, cube-like with an awning and sheer supports in the face. The mother. When this was lifted, thrown aside, there was yet a smaller layer, hallways and rooms bustling with talk and worry. The school’s brood in the school’s image. Removing this gave one a row of lockers, each pregnant with the relics of education and personal need, and within these were the smallest dolls, the Micro-men, propped up and bolted back into the hind-wall of each locker, small men made of steel with penny slots and sage eyes. They were babies in the matryoshka. They were wise machines and each young boy or girl was assigned one. A student would open a locker, choose whatever book was needed for the next class, and if there was need and a penny, they would face and activate their Micro-man. That student would have made it to the center of the North High matryoshka, to the smallest doll, and now might incur the most expensive, inner-sanctum wisdom of the school.

Emery glanced over his Micro-man, which was humanoid in shape and consisted of various cogs and clothed wiring, a press-plate atop its head and a slot for copper currency in its open, tin hand. He drew his day’s penny from his pocket and, debating what else he might use if for, resigned himself to a bout of wisdom. The penny was placed in the tin hand, and the coin began down the narrow groove in the arm, scraping and rolling along until finally dropping into the steel gut of the machine. There was a puff of exhaust as the mouth of Emery’s assigned Micro-man opened and the word came out.

Question? asked the voice, metallic and fuzzed with the close-quarters of locker walls.

Hello dwarf. I need advice about a girl.

Near him, another young man shut his own locker and glanced over at Emery, having heard the question.

That doesn’t work, you know. All they know is fact, the other student said.

Mine’s different. Bashed it with a brick last term. Thinks it knows everything now and it tries to answer. Can’t say ‘no’ anymore, Emery replied.

You should get it fixed, then.

The young man left for his class and was quickly replaced by another young student at another nearby locker. They came and went.

Question? the Micro-man repeated. Emery lowered his voice and leaned closer to the mechanical figure.

It’s Paige Girdwood. What do you know about her? I want to take her to the promenade. She likes Hugh Karcher. I want her to like me, instead.

The Micro-man whirred to life and a brief light shot from its ears. The cogs within turned and a scent of ozone wafted from Emery’s locker. The familiar smell of gaining an answer. The sounds of machinery tapered into a dull rattle and the Micro-man spoke.

The name is English. Paige: Attendant. Servicer of homes or nobles.

Sure. How do I get her to like me, instead of liking Hugh? There was no response, however. Emery sighed and reached into his pocket, inserted another penny into the tin hand, watched it roll into the machine.

Question? the factoid golem asked.

"How do I get Paige Girdwood to like me instead of Hugh Karcher?" Clicks and whirrs. A tussle of smoke across metal that drifted from the locker and dissipated upward.

An attendant’s respect calls good faith and fondness, the Micro-man replied.

So… I should get her respect? And that’ll give her good faith in me, and fondness? No answer. Penny. Insert.

Question?

If I get Paige Girdwood’s respect, she’ll have faith in me and be fond of me? Emery asked.

She’ll attend a home or noble, the machine repeated.

But I’m only in high school, dwarf. I’m just a normal citizen. I live in my parents’ home. Penny. Insert. Annoyance.

Question?

How do I get to be noble?

Show your value, station, or courage as being worthy of attendance.

I have no value, dwarf. My station is… it’s not much. And I’m not courageous.

Ignoble, the Micro-man added, giving a free correction. These were rare.

I’ll throw you out with the trash, Emery said, inserting another penny. It rolled down the arm and clanked into the gut bin with the others. This coin-scratched digestive tract was beginning to sound somewhat full. Emery was running out of pennies.

Question?

"Listen to me: I want to know how to be what she’s looking for. I can’t raise my station yet, so how would I go about maybe getting some value and showing the courage thing you told me?"

Value: Be needed. Courage: Show no fear.

Well, that’s kind of a stretch. What could she possibly need from me? And what the hell am I supposed to show no fear about? No answer without more money.

You’re useless. Give me my pennies back.

The route of mathematics was steep in the wonders of numerical alchemy. That the stately number ten might stomp the guts from a six by simply being more easily used was a sort of blessing. The metric system seemed to discern this, but the system he knew the more was not so fond of tens being hundreds being thousands. It preferred pounds into tons and inches into miles. These were strange affairs, but seemed crucial in any industry he might enter.

Emery inched toward class with a defeated, ninety-five pound posture and the robust sense of being unfairly smitten. How many liters made up Paige Girdwood? It felt as if a mile passed beneath his shoes while walking the hallway. 5,280 feet of thought. Which were sixty-some-odd-thousand inches. If he were to write down every instance of thinking about Paige Girdwood over the last two terms, that barely countable number would bear an exponent. Converted to a percent, would this amount of thinking dedicated to the incredibly fetching nature of her come close to equaling ten percent of his conscious time in thought? Or a more Gregorian six minutes of each hour? Paige thought he was a twit. He might have been. As he walked toward his next class, the weight of his ruminations bore a full ton, but he had no time to think over these things: A bell rang across the air like the icy squeal of an angry cornet. Emergency. Emergency. He was exactly late.

Hugh Karcher sat in the next row, two seats closer to the front. He just undulated there, his troll flesh roiled in pits on his face that some foolishly called dimples. The cleft in his chin was as if someone had placed a nail there. His idealized frame was simply given to him and the rudimentary ability of catching a rotund little ball had caused Hugh (often referred to as ‘The Karch’) to possess a certain value among staff and other boys alike. And girls. That Emery had been denied varsity this year, in favor of the larger and yet lither, new quarterback, was a mild treachery, but did cause him to envy those who had again made the team. Hugh should have been halfback. Emery should have been handing off to the horned troll with knotted hands, not sourly pitting himself against the boy for a girl that preferred Brawns over Ichabods.

The day of classes spanned the destruction of Carthage and the geometric intrigue of quatrefoils, to his brief mulling over of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness aloud during class discussion. This synopsis was met with yawns and disagreement. In his next-to-last class, Emery’s proximity to sleep during reflections on the common use of bicarbonates brought him tight-rope close to being officially disciplined. He had, in his final class for the day, whacked a baseball quite far, and this had caused his mood to fetter upward a bit, so the day was not an entire loss. As he packed at his locker, ready to go home, the Micro-man did aid in reminding him to study his economics for the following day’s test, gratis, fulfilling its only payment-free function. Some things worked out well enough, he supposed, even if what you wanted most did not.

FADE OUT

While distilleries are now producing alcohol for the war, Landers Royal is still available, and sold only from our pre-war reserves. The Royal Reserve holds an aged and smooth taste in every bottle. If you enjoy your Landers Royal in moderation, there’s enough to go around as long as the war lasts. Landers Royal Reserve. Our distilleries are providing for the boys overseas, but we’re saving the best reserve for you. When you want whiskey, why, you want Landers.

FADE IN

As school began to empty, young women and men exiting through the outer layer of campus, the girls awaiting parents and the men exiting to their walks home or, in rarity, cars, Emery found Paige near her locker. She was engaged in talk with Hugh, of course, and this young man was holding her books and leaning against the wall in an assured manner as she rummaged in her locker for some item or two. Emery walked into their midst like a ship’s bow ploughing through two squid attempting to mate.

What’s buzzin’, cousin? he asked.

Oh… hi, Paige responded. The Karch raised an eyebrow, a bit agitated at the intrusion.

I don’t mean to interrupt, uh, but you see I have a tiny man that lives in my locker, and he told me that I’m quite fond of you, and I wanted to briefly ask if you might let me accompany you to the prom, Emery said. Maybe he had ideas about courage and being noble, or else he was simply the sort that exposed things once he deemed they were taking up too much of his thought. Why hide an important thing? For better or worse, Emery was an insolent or concluding sort of person.

Hey, hey, back off, Asher. I just asked her that, Hugh said.

A man in your locker? Paige asked, intrigued.

Sorry Hugh, and yes, Paige, he gives me advice in exchange for a penny. Asking his two cents costs me one.

Emery… you can be off-putting sometimes, Paige responded, but this was said with her eyes in the mode used to create half a smile.

I’m not kidding, half portion. Don’t you have an article to write or something? Get lost, Hugh continued, ignoring Emery’s odd statement.

I do have an article to write, but that can wait. You say you just asked Paige to the prom? That’s great news, Hugh, and I do hope it goes well for you, Emery said, feigning good nature.

Scram, Asher.

Oh I will, but you should know, I’m still asking Paige to the prom, too. If there’s anything we’ve learned from Mr. Dahl’s economics, it’s that all good business needs competition. Good for us.

You’re funny, Emery, Paige said. The word ‘funny’ had a bit of a negative focus put on it, however.

Yeah, he’s funny all right, Hugh agreed in a frown.

Well, thank you both.

Okay, you had your laugh. Now go on, Hugh said, trying to affect a slight cheer through the layers of nuisance Emery had caused him.

I can’t, Hugh Emery replied, See, I already asked. Surely, you can see that it would be rude not to hear her answer. It’s basic courtship diplomacy.

"Well, she hasn’t answered me yet. And I asked first. You’ll have to get your answer later. It’ll be ‘no’."

All right, that’s only fair, but things like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ are quick to say, of course, so I’ll just wait and get the rejection over with. Paige?

Emery stood there, waiting. Hugh pointed toward the end of the hallway and stared at Emery, a serious look in his eyes. When Emery simply nodded and smiled, playing dumb, Hugh shook his head and turned his focus to Paige.

I’m gonna lose my temper. Tell him to leave.

Okay, she said. Paige had known Emery for quite some time. They had once written stories together for school, and then beyond that assignment, he had spent many years somewhat impressing her with little fantasies. She preferred not to like him as much as she did.

You’ll have to leave, Emery, she said.

Oh, no need to mind me. You two go on with your discussion. I’ll be quiet. I have the patience virtue. It’s not as good as most other virtues, but Macy’s always has it in stock and it’s very affordable, so I have a lot of it, Emery said. Paige put a quick lid on her mirth, which wanted to manifest in the physical.

You want me to black your eye? Hugh asked.

That depends on which one. Hugh seemed to like this reply very much.

Both.

Emery was a bit frightened then. He had known that the impulsive nature of his sudden approach would be troublesome, especially because it would infringe upon the attention Hugh Karcher was receiving. Though Emery’s presence had been tolerated thus far, he wasn’t entirely certain it would end without a row. It seemed nearly assured, now, and Emery’s size was minute. In that particular vein, were one to view it in simple mathematics, Hugh’s physique was almost totally comprised of tens, and Emery’s was a hodgepodge of random odd numbers closer to the deuce than royalty. Perhaps Emery needed to vacate, as asked.

Look now, you boys calm down, Paige threw in, trying to intervene.

You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry for intruding, Emery acquiesced. Perhaps he had done enough in introducing his question, and would be best to let her think on it. No need to get battered about by a larger man. Women did not seem to favor that.

Outta here, crumb. I mean it, Hugh said. Perhaps Emery did not like that a person would shorten the three words ‘get out of’ into the paltry ‘outta’. Perhaps Emery did not like being called a crumb. Perhaps there was the matter of jealousy over his varsity loss. Perhaps, also, Emery was annoyed by Hugh’s good fortune to the point he wanted to marginalize Hugh’s idiocy and make it come out, in full force, feeling that Paige might not like a more summery show of Hugh’s nature.

Wait, I changed my mind, Emery baited, You were wrong, after all. I’d like to continue intruding. Emery thought about his eyes then, and which of them Hugh would black first.

Look Asher, ya can’t throw a ball and ya sure can’t throw a fist. This is your last chance to make tracks. That had been rude of him to say, though ostensibly correct. Emery did not have the best of throwing arms. The last chance given was a nice offer. Hugh began rolling up his sleeves. The young man’s arms were imposing. This was distressing but if there was anything to Emery beyond the oddity of his attitude in most things, it was a driven nature and an almost selfish need to be regarded.

Paige, would a blacked eye or two ruffle my chances of accompanying you to the prom?

She rolled her eyes and sighed. She was a little fond of him, and had known him for years, but she did not want Emery to stay and get into a losing fight with Hugh, a boy for whom she was also fond.

Honestly, Emery, you’re too much, she said.

Oh, he’s a real card. Right, Asher? Always a character? Great fun. But see I don’t like characters, and I don’t like you. At all. I don’t like your looks, I don’t like your attitude, and I don’t like your arrogant articles in my school newspaper. They’re bad and you’re a louse, The Karch said.

An autograph? No, I... I couldn’t do that.

I think I’ve had about all of this I care to, Hugh said, grabbing Emery’s shirt and pushing him flat against the lockers. The jarring of the row caused the Micro-man in Paige’s locker to activate.

The largest bundle of nerves in the human face is submerged behind the philtrum, along the upper lip, the Micro-man buzzed. Hugh articulated his arm to pummel this particular bundle of Emery’s nerves. How unfair. Emery’s Micro-man so seldom gave freebies. The fist struck hard. Emery turned within a bright, orange flash that confused him greatly.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. NORTH HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL FIELD - AFTERNOON

A typical football field with bleachers on either side. There is a practice session happening between many student players and two coaches.

LONG SHOT of The home-team bleachers, TWO PEOPLE sitting on them near the middle.

SLOW ZOOM TO:

The two occupants, PAIGE and EMERY. Sitting and talking on the bleachers. The wind is picking up and we can hear the varsity football team practicing on the field.

PAIGE:

So, do you remember when you had me come to your father’s stable so you could pose on that horse? Wanting me to write about it for class?

CUT TO:

That. A strange and childish thing suitable for a brazen boy. He had been this in droves and perhaps still was that childish boy.

That was just dumb, he laughed, I had this idea that you’d be impressed. Chronicle my adventures.

Well, it was silly, yes. I thought you were kind of crazy. Are you still hunting dinosaurs and fighting the good fight?

No, I’m on to sniping Nazis now, he said, though this was untrue. Mostly he imagined his way to girls and making the varsity team, two things he had expended much energy trying to make happen in the recent past, things that had not happened.

You should chronicle your own adventures, sometime, she said.

Diaries are for girls, he replied.

My brother keeps one.

Huh.

And I didn’t mean a diary. Not like that. I meant stories. So you could write about being a sniper that gets the Nazis. Or whatever else goes on in that head of yours. Like for books. Or you could write for the radio.

Hugh Karcher, then running drills with the team below, had ceased looking at them, for now. His status as an active player for the team was not jeopardized so long as he behaved. Emery held a minor guilt over this predicament, as his own behavior had been impulsive, rude, and rash, which had caused Hugh to act honestly to those things. There was a bit of shame in Emery that in gaining Paige’s favor, he had inadvertently caused much more dislike from Hugh than he had originally thought would result. Had he reported the fight, Karcher might have had trouble from Coach Hertz. That would have been unfair.

That Emery and Paige then sat on bleachers within view of Karcher had been her idea. Emery had begun to understand that certain sorts of trouble invigorated her. Emery was uncomfortable hovering near The Karch as they were; it seemed like rubbing it in that Hugh had lost her favor in punching him, something Emery had caused to happen with a certain chiseling.

The Nazis are really scary, she said then. This was abrupt. He looked at her and nodded.

Yeah, to everyone, he agreed, They’re out of hand. Like wolves. And the Japanese are running along side.

Almost everyone is being taken off to fight. You will, too, she said then. Her concern lifted his spirits, until he accidentally lowered them again with his next statement.

Well, it’s the right thing, he said, mortified with himself for uttering this, and we have to help do something about them. His stomach turned, however. He felt as if he were stating it was all right to eat your dead if you were hungry enough. This was not right, just a thing that could be. United States involvement in Europe and was not a thing one could call right or wrong, but rather a thing that simply had come to be, and was now inescapable.

It’s so brave to be like that. To not be scared about it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to fight over there. Courageous.

I suppose so.

But would you enlist even if you don’t get drafted?

He thought this over. In his mind, he heard the words of the Micro-man echo and gain ballast. Nobility. Need. Showing no fear.

I’ve applied to a few colleges, but if I had to, I’d enlist, sure, he fibbed, I’m not afraid of enlisting. They need us. He had no intention of ever doing any such thing, however.

There’s something funny about you, Emery.

Oh?

You keep me guessing.

Sure, I guess. But fighting for your country is… well, it’s noble.

I like guessing about you.

Yeah?

Yes, but don’t get thick about it. I only like it a little, she said.

Well, I don’t assume I’ll be asked to go, or that they’ll want anyone soon. This war is going to end any day now. The Germans are falling apart. We’ll take Japan apart any second now. I’d be surprised if it lasted another month.

Paige agreed to join him for the upcoming prom. He had not been certain she would want to go with him, and had been operating on a rather slim diet of juvenile hope. The war had been present for some time, but the worst seemed past, and unlike those seniors he knew the previous year, he was not in a panic about the draft, nor the plausibility of his ending up in the fray, himself. William, his older brother, had been able to use his status as a political writer and fact-checker for the Washington governor to keep himself out of the war, and the value of a powerful friend or two was tantamount his continuing security. Emery did not have these connections, aside from his brother, who had little clout, but time would be Emery’s compatriot, as the draft would in all probability be rescinded by the time his graduation came about. He was free to enjoy his youth somewhat, to have a lively, smart date for the prom, to watch the games and try and do what it was boys his age were asked when there wasn’t a war on: Plan a life, pick a career, choose a school, fall in love, even make his own enemies, instead of being given them.

You think I could write for the radio? he asked.

"You’re creative. You could figure it out, I bet. If I can write, so could you. I want to write for the Home Journal. You’ll have to find your own rag, though. Men don’t write for the Home Journal."

My mom reads that. I think I want to teach kids. Be a coach, like Hertz.

For football?

Well, more than that. An instructor. Physical education. But a coach, too, sure.

I see. Honestly, I thought you had to have more warts to be a coach.

I’ll grow them.

The one by his eyelid bothers me, she said then, her shoulders giving a shudder.

You’re right, I’ll need more warts, I think. Maybe a boil or two. I’m sure I can pick a few of those up along the way.

Or you could get some smarts, and do something else entirely.

He gave a false chuckle and let a slight frown escape, careful not to let her see this. The moment curdled and he stopped talking about the future. She did not approve of his, and he knew, prom or not, that he would not be a part of hers. Still, he felt he had waged a thing, and it had gone in his favor, and for the first time in his life, approaching a girl had not ended at the initial stage. Over the next weeks, war or not, Hugh or not, and even in the light of Paige’s newly developing loss of interest in him, he still felt good about things, and by the end of each hour, he fell a little further into the hue of pleasantry.

Chapter Three

OPENING CREDITS, NARRATION.

TITLECARD: THE WAR

FADE TO:

EXT. A DOUGLAS C-47 SKYTRAIN IN FLIGHT, 1944 - NIGHT

Rain against an uncertain, dark backdrop, flash of lightning in the distance. We see the plane in turbulence, bearing forward at great speed. The frame is shuddering.

CUT TO:

INT. THE SAME SKYTRAIN – SAME TIME

LONG ANGLE from COCKPIT through the noticeably nervous 511TH PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT. Among these men we see SOLDIER ASHER.

IN FROM LEFT steps HOST ASHER, looking out of place in a black suit, to CENTER, BEGINNING INTRODUCTORY MONOLOGUE. He is introducing a scene in which his younger, soldier self is to take part:

HOST ASHER:

Please bear witness to one Emery Asher, all-American young man in the service of his country, a soldier in a terrible war that has encompassed much of the world. While most people would be horrified at the thought of plunging from a soaring airplane, young Asher makes a habit of it. He drops into a bullseye of the enemy’s den with a rifle and a prayer. In just a moment, Private Asher will earn his nation’s Purple Heart. An award for being wounded, but this injury, physical upon first examination, will be eclipsed by a far deeper wound, a sense of dread that will forever return to him in nightmares, straight from the murk of his most unmentionable fears, a heart-stuttering panic lodged in his own memory, across continents, oceans, and even time itself, all the way from The Other Side.

ZOOM TO:

SOLDIER ASHER in M1942 paratrooper uniform. He is fidgeting with his cargo snaps. LIEUTENANT MERRILL OF THE CONFEDERACY walks among the young squad, his medals jangling and saber strapped to his hip, orating to his men and preparing them for the jump.

FADE TO:

Boots polished to regulation appeasement, though for so little reason. Cargo pockets with bellows, some of them empty. Two snaps for each pocket and four pockets to a coat. More of them on the pants. Emery grunted and tried to center himself. This was an incessant activity in which he only made ground for seconds at a time. He let his snaps be and waited, trying to clear his mind. This was not a minor task, and he failed. In not half a minute, or near in thought a month, his fingers woke and he found himself checking his snaps again. The plane dipped in the uncertain, troubled weather, toward the ever-approaching, unknown event below, matching well the devolving mood of the men on board. Unlike the spirits of the paratroopers, however, the plane shortly rose again.

Thirteen eyes. Check ‘em. And tuck the pants; we wanna keep sharp, Lieutenant Merrill shouted over the din of the engines. His saber’s scabbard tapped against a young man who leaned back on the bench to avoid its further intrusion on his fear-based meditation.

The young men glanced at one another’s drab, olive boots, laced to the top and tight. Pants tucked into the upper cuff. Nervous eyes noting secure gear, most men with haversacks, three with Musette bags, then the eyes found one another, the absence of their earlier bolstering and jags with the onset of flight in a Pacific downpour. Their thoughts had turned to the streaking of their machine across the wavering sky, knowing that they would lose even the familiarity of this to the night in but minutes.

Merrill stroked his mustache into his beard, adjusted his cavalry hat and patted his Colt pistol. The soldiers needed his orders and assurances to keep from the inevitable horror of what they were about to do. All had jumped before, most more than once, but this next was a drop into a certain sort of pit, a place hot with enemies. There was no question as to whether combat would occur, or how many axis soldiers they might be facing, as with some previous jumps. This fight was already in place and they were being thrown out to fall at its side. They had been prepped on the terrain before, on maneuvers into Leyte, should there be a need. Now there was. Leyte, where the enemy’s cover was a sprawl of choice hiding spots.

Merrill cleared his throat and functioned as per his reliable nature, shouting and ordering the small things to light, barking and grumbling into the sound of the engines, keeping young, panicky hands occupied and moving.

Strap your gear and get it snug. Might be a Skytrain but we don’t check bags here. That’s your life you’re wearin’, boys, so get it on tight.

It had been a solemn sip from a disposable cup. The graduating class of North High School but two years back and their brief ceremony. The lemonade had been a mild taste; too watery. He had a few hours mostly free in adulthood before walking off to the yard, catching that grave and jittery train to the induction center. Most students had received a draft card. These bits of command were the same size as a high school diploma. One could cover the other. Emery had enlisted, however, on a delay through graduation. He had been told to wear his uniform to graduation, as it had been sent to him after enlisting. He had done so, and this uniform had caused him to be somewhat adamant about the war. A few conversations had resulted and soured him in the eyes of certain schoolmates, and at least one of his teachers. Emery had lost a few friends due to his overbearing decrees that draftees stop complaining. He said buck up, and Mr. Barnes had given him a look of strong reproach. Emery had become arrogant and terminal in thought, it seemed.

He was short, 5’4", and while he assumed he would grow a bit more through his senior year in high school, this did not seem to have occurred. His body had jerked and wobbled from the train’s slow movement down the tracks through town, his one-hundred and eighteen pounds keeping him from steadiness as the pride and fright of those boys around him chattered endlessly about their various, semi-informed plans, their tricks, ways to get at the nips and krauts, be heroic, or else stay smart and stay safe. Most were draftees. He knew the sort of job he wanted, if allowed to choose once at the induction center. The bold sort that would make him something of a daredevil. He wanted to box and he wanted to be a paratrooper. He could do those things. War changed everything. Not being chosen for the varsity team meant little once he stepped on that induction train. The true varsity team, the national one, was now ahead of him, and he would be on that team.

Emery had sat there on the sleek train, waiting. More boys came. Some he knew, fellow Northers, but others were cross-town rivals from Central. Emery supposed that particular rivalry, one so common between schools in like districts, was of no meaning anymore but for children still in school and old men that romanticized place and belonging. To the boys on the train, there was only slight room for squabbles of neighborhood or who won which match against whom. A larger rivalry had erupted throughout Europe.

They had served lemonade. Insignificant, bland lemonade in cups, set on the school’s best silver as some sort of basic congratulation, but this was to be tasted by boys soon off to places of volatile expiry. A girl had kissed him, after kissing two other boys. Just because. She had said Congratulations! Be safe, Em. He had never met her before. She didn’t even look familiar. Lemonade and a diploma. A kiss. Thirty minutes to ponder these things and then time was up. These were no congratulations, but failed and wholly unspoken attempts at consolation. His diploma felt like an apology. He was far west or east of that place now. From Cayuga. From his nation. He had been carried on the backs of flying oxen from his junior high presidency. From the scouts and his degree of servitude, from William and Paige, from his parents, house, from girls and horses and even lemonade.

The train doors were closed in Binghamton. Parents and family waved goodbye, most distraught and a few shouting with worry, fewer with pride. When the train whistled its departure, military police stood tall in the aisles, watching over each car. These were not welcoming authorities, but as if great cats with lowered ears. Emery had watched with a sense of doubt as the doors to his train car, already closed and latched, were then padlocked from the outside. As the train slowly rode forward, taking him from home and into the military, he resigned himself to trying not to think about the padlocks, what they meant on the outside of the doors like that. Not an hour had passed since lemonade at graduation. His father and mother were driving home at that moment, no doubt with his mother holding the diploma. They were possibly talking about him, just as they had talked about William when he left town several years prior. Perhaps his mother was crying a little, like she had then.

The train had continued for two years. The jostling floors and seats, the tense patrol of sentries and jabberers, and the always changing view. He had boxed, attempting to focus his mind on something remotely recreational, yet productive. He did well, though there were few in his weight class, slight as it was. There was little for him to do outside of his training and orders, and he had no interest in playing a musical instrument. Emery had slowly and carefully, over two years of occasional bouts in the lightweight, proven to himself that he was at least worthy of the role into which he had risen. He was a soldier and they called soldiers men. He did things he thought men should do. Some of these things were performed in a panic, while others occurred out of an inability to give in to other people. All of this new world, in uniform or with gloves, atop tracks or winds, with orders and parachutes... all had begun for him with graduation and Binghamton, a different world some 8,700 miles from the train on which he now shook. The train in the sky.

He missed his home terribly. He had been too small, senior year, and was denied the position of quarterback for the varsity team, coach Hertz stating simply that a kid of Emery’s size had no place in a skirmish. Now, Emery had been tolerated to fight grown men, in the ring or to the death with a rifle. He was the same size as he had been in high school. There in the graduation ceremony, the voice of Coach Hertz had seemed to loom over