What's on TV

What’s on TV?
By Kell Myers
Copyright march 2010

“This is what worries me,” the middle aged blonde guy said to me as he held up and pointed the recent issue of Time with a cover story about Barak Obama.
  “Why is that?” I asked, hoping he was just a concerned conservative worried about another 9-11 or a new welfare state.
  “Because we’ll be seeing a lot more of this soon,” he said with a nod while wearing a knowing smile.
  I knew where this was going but still wishing I was wrong. Besides, it was my job to at least pretend I’m listening as I sit behind the counter in the lobby. 
  First, let me tell you about my job. I’m the night shift desk clerk at a Mega 10 Motel in Tennessee. I see all kinds of people passing through there. I also get to hear it all. Did you know that the Vietnam War was a Republican conspiracy orchestrated by The Freemasons and led by LBJ in order to control the oil reserves of South East Asia on behalf of Israel? It was news to me. You can also declare yourself exempt from the Federal Income Tax according to the Constitution. You just have to let the IRS know. Good luck with that.
  “A lot more of what, democrats?” I replied. Playing stupid usually kept people like him from thinking I agreed.
  “Blacks,” he whispered in a hushed conspiratorial tone still wearing that proud, ignorance fueled smile and nodding like he just saved my soul. “I’m not a racist, but doesn’t this worry you?”
  I was silent for a moment debating what to say next. I really didn’t feel like dealing with his crap so I lied, “Not really. My great grandfather was black.”
  “Oh.” Is all the guy could manage to say as he turned sunburn red and desperately searched for an exit from the situation while at the same time trying to play it cool and not to look like he was about to make a run for it. “Well, I’m not a racist. I was just saying is all,” he said trailing off the sentence.
  “Yeah, I got it. Did you need a wakeup call?” I asked giving him the out we both so clearly wanted.
  “Seven thirty,” he said finally leaving the office.
    Blessed quiet once again reigned the two A.M. hour.
    I looked at what was on TV and asked, “What’d you think about that one?”
  Now, when I say on TV I don’t mean a show I mean literally on top of the plastic box. It just sat there hunkered down with spindly arms and legs with a round bubble gut. It would have been a foot and a half maybe two feet tall if it stood straight up which I have never seen it do. It was hairless with skin the color of the once white but now worn out dingy sheets my boss uses on the top floor beds. Its big eyes were a bloodshot yellow and about the size of CDs. It wasn’t cute, anime or Disney kind of big but weird creepy fish from the bottom of the Marianas Trench kind of big.
  Like every time before I got no response.
  “No surprises with you is there?”
  The thing just stared at me like a drunk Mexican who couldn’t understand a word of English.
  I first noticed the thing a couple of years ago. The bullshit politics of the office combined with the extreme boredom and annoying nature of my job, plus my use of the only tool for retaliation of the former (apathy) must have been what made me notice this strange creature. Two truckers were yapping  something about their union and the, then, upcoming 2004 Presidential election when I saw it. I should have been yelling, “What the hell is that thing?” or “Holy shit that’s fucking weird!” but I remembered how much I really didn’t care and so mustered a less than impressed “Hmmh.”
  The thing just sat on the TV with its head slowly swaying back and forth in hypnotized interest as a news babe went on about the latest pretty white girl gone missing story. The only logical conclusion is that I was going nuts. No one else noticed it and it was more than obvious. Unfortunately the thing was real.
  It would periodically turn on the television more than once in front of guests. I blamed it on the “ghost” that haunts the top floor since this occurred when the remote was across the room. We’ve gone through three sets, each different brands and models so it wasn’t just a short in the TV’s components or any other mechanical malfunction.
  I kept tabs on it for a couple of years taking mental notes. Either it didn’t know I could see it or it just didn’t care. I noticed how its behavior differed with certain shows. When the History Channel, A&E, Discovery, and the like were on the thing seemed to sleep, though that didn’t last. When the soaps were on the thing bounced excitedly and when most sitcoms and reality shows aired it would go into joyous convulsions. I swear to God I think the little turd was masturbating sometimes. Your garden variety dramas made it just stare off into space. But when I played videogames the thing disappeared entirely.  Needless to say I now play a lot of videogames. After a while it had gotten to the point where I often forgot the strange little SOB was there. That was until this one day when the horror of what it was became apparent to me.
  It started with a way too often repeated exchange I had with a customer.
  “Is this place American owned?” some traveling salesman type asked as soon as he opened the door. I get this question all too often. By American owned they really mean WASP owned. I couldn’t tell if this guy was a dumbass or weary from the road since he didn’t noticed the large placard on the wall saying that This Mega 10 Franchise is owned & operated by B. Patel.
  “Yes, sir it is,” I replied omitting the part about the owner emigrating here from India over twenty years ago.
  This isn’t the first time I’ve done this but it never gets old. The way I see it I get to take their money and they get to go screw themselves. If I’m lucky I get to fill them in on the rest of the story when they check out. It’s funny how much alike these people are, both men and women. Pretty well every one of them are shorter than average, on the bad side of middle aged, overweight, and convinced the problems they have with the world have nothing to do with the fact that they are assholes.
  The man in his pastel yellow Oxford complete with rolled up sleeves and a loosened blue and silver striped tie then explains at the last Indian owned motel the owner was cooking something that smelled bad, blah, blah, blah. As I said, I’ve listened to this same natter too many times before and I didn’t need to hear it again.
  I did hear a cooing from the top of the TV though.
  The little turd was giddily bouncing so much he was making his belly go in an opposite rhythm as he watched the exchange between me and the man in the yellow oxford; this crap I have to put up with again, this rerun of retardation. That’s when I finally figured the strange creature out. We made this thing. Our over-stupidity and apathy, mine included, gave birth to it and its power grows a tiny bit each day. It’s now even starting to get excited on the brainer channels whenever the (non)reality home crasher, great explosions in history, or bike builder shows come on. It grins maniacally whenever people become instantly outraged over the latest travesty of justice that the talking heads blab about on the 24 hour news programs, as they just as quickly forget about it when forced to make the vitally important decision about which chain restaurant to eat at.
  We have become TV and the thing is watching us.