Short Attention Span
As far as he was concerned, television loved him, and he loved television.
Thaddeus Volkson rested his solid carcass in the worn channel he’d created on the couch. He rarely moved, save to get up to get something to eat or drink—or, of course, to heed Nature’s call. If television was in fact a vast wasteland, as Newton Minnow eulogized, then Thaddeus was its first trailer-park squatter. He hated his first name so he shed the Thaddeus moniker once he hit high school. Anyone who knew him also knew his love for television, so ironically he became TV.
Inactivity was a badge he wore with honor, even pride. His weight had increased in direct proportion to his slovenly lifestyle. He had worn off the finish from the coffee table where he always propped up his feet. He was even on his third remote for the same television. The right side of the couch looked all but untouched compared to the anatomically correct imprint of his form embedded on the left side. This was a man who put the potato in couch potato—and reveled in it.
Living room shadows shifted eerily with each change of scene, the only light in the room blinking from the ever-present, perpetually running television. Thaddeus munched dutifully on the bag of cheese doodles in his lap, reaching occasionally for the dwindling supply of White Castle burgers he bought on the way home from his job at the DMV. A Charlie’s Angels rerun slid by on the set, so he surfed backward to watch it. His phone rang at the same exact moment the one on screen had. What were the chances?
“Hello?” he grumbled. “For cryin’ out loud, Raydeo, you live across the hall, just knock on my door! You don’t have to call…Yeah. Sure. Hey, bring a six-pack with ya’!” Thaddeus dropped the phone on the base with a wrist flourish he’d perfected over the years.
Raymond DeOlgothipani had been his neighbor for the last five years and was his only friend. Any friends of Ray’s which Thaddeus met always called him Raydeo for short, so he took to using it as well; it just seemed better suited to him than plain old Ray, not to mention the sheer linguistic effort it took to say his last name. Ray was only slightly less lethargic than TV, with the added onus of lacking cerebral credulity.
What he lacked in smarts, he made up for in compassion. He’d been a true friend to TV, even dreaming up things to do on odd occasions when he could drag TV from his apartment. It was high time he intervened in his friend’s lifestyle, at least try to help him come to grips with some modicum of health. Grabbing a six-pack of cheap beer from the fridge, he headed out the door and walked the few steps to TV’s place across the hall.
“Yeah! Come on in!” Ray heard Thaddeus shout through the door, not wanting to move off his perch, of course, to let him in. Sauntering in, he silently held up the six-pack and TV nodded acknowledgement. Ray all but felt his way to a chair as his eyes adjusted.
“Damn, TV! When you gonna’ pick up this pigsty, man?” Ray reached underneath himself to remove an errant foil bag, which probably once held Doritos. TV waved without removing his gaze from the flickering screen.
“Eh, I’ll try and clean up this weekend sometime. What’s the rush?”
“TV, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about somethin’, man.” Ray hadn’t thought through how best to paint the picture for him.
“Yeah. Well, out with it, man. What’s eatin’ ya’?”
“You are…I mean look at yourself. I’m your friend so I have to tell ya’ that you really let yourself go.”
TV didn’t even blink, unfazed by the assessment of his physique, yet it still demanded a response.
“Yeah, well I don’t see you winning any fitness awards either. Look, could we discuss this at commercial?” TV was clearly annoyed at Raydeo’s lack of manners. Talking during the show—what arrogance. Ray looked down at the slightly stretched fabric of his shirt. Compared to TV he was practically an Adonis. Had TV averted his eyes from the screen for a split second he’d have seen a mixture of curiosity and hurt on his friend’s face. Farrah’s butt encased in painted-on jeans took precedence.
“I’m just sayin’ that I’m concerned. I care about you. Don’t want to see you get sick or somethin’, y’know.”
“Thanks, Bud, I appreciate it, really,” came the reply.
Ray found TV’s ability to simultaneously watch the screen and listen or respond a little unsettling, yet he’d become accustomed to it over time. At first, it was downright creepy. Now it was just a quirky part of his character. Raydeo stood up.
“Mind if I use the can?” he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.
“Go ahead. Hey, get me a beer while you’re up, will ya’?”
Ray shuffled to the fridge bathed in the sterile, if not tepid, glow of the television. He had to squint when he opened the door to the refrigerator. That light never seemed so bright before. He closed the door and rubbed his eyes, then delivered the beer to his sofa-bound compatriot, finally heading to his destination for some much-needed relief.
At the first of several commercials, TV stood up to stretch. He didn’t move away from the sofa, just stood, then bent over to take a swig of beer and set the can back down on its appointed coaster. He breathed deeply as he straightened up, and then grimaced tightly, his entire face contorting from pain. Eyes clenched shut, he gripped his chest; couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. TV sank to his knees and leaned on the coffee table for support. The entire attack took no more than a minute. Sheer body mass caused him to slide backward off the table, knocking the beer can over as he went, soaking the carpet where his prodigious bulk would violently come to rest. And the commercial break wasn’t even half over yet.
“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff!” Ray triumphantly proclaimed upon departing the throne.
While widely considered socially inappropriate behavior, it was something he and TV had bonded with. Disgustingly male, but they giggled like schoolboys every time. Raydeo washed his hands and dried them on the nearby stiff towel without a thought. It seemed strangely quiet. He could certainly hear the television, but usually he heard TV grunting or belching.
“Hey, man, you got any burgers left?” he shouted.
Getting no response he stepped into the living room. He immediately noticed the lack of TV’s bulk on the couch, but wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing it on the floor.
“TV, c’mon man, quit messin’ with me!” he said, his voice escalating a notch as each word left his mouth. He prodded the bulk, trying to get a reaction. “TV!” Ray couldn’t see him breathing, nor could he feel a pulse. “Phone. Phone. Where’s the phone?” he muttered spastically. The dimness made it hard to make out the phone. since it was made of black plastic. “Where’s the phone, man?” he shouted. As if shown, he suddenly noticed the red LEDs in the semi-darkness. “Okay, Raydeo, don’t panic—don’t panic!”
Good thing the keypad was lit. As calmly as he could, he dialed 911. The response was almost immediate.
“911. What is your emergency?” came the disembodied voice.
“I think my friend is dead!” Ray proclaimed in a rush of adrenaline.
“What happened, sir, can you tell me anything else?”
Exasperated and confused Ray blurted, “I came out of the bathroom and he was laying here on the floor! He’s not breathing, and I don’t feel a heartbeat! Send someone!”
“There’s an ambulance on the way, sir. Stay with me on the phone until they get there, okay?” The operator’s voice was calm and level.
“Yeah, sure,” Ray panted.
“Okay, and what’s your name, sir?”
“Raydeo.” Fingers could be heard tapping manically on a keyboard at the other end. “And your friend’s name?”
“TV. That’s all I’ve ever called him. I don’t even know his real name.”
And so the dispatch notes were sent to the EMTs as follows: Cardiac arrest. Radio says TV is dead.