Week 17.4 My Happy Place

 Idol Mini-Season 2018-19
Week 17.4
Topic: My Happy Place 

THE PILL 

Ozzie stood on his balcony, staring at the sunset over the Pacific, the waves crashing against the beach below, sipping some overly expensive wine from a needlessly costly glass.  His regular monthly party, large and noisy, was going on in the house behind him. 

“They don’t know it, but it’s the last,” he thought, before throwing some pills over the railing.  “It was great while it lasted.” 

He picked up his phone and started scrolling through the pictures until his third grade school photograph stared at him, with his bad haircut, braces, forced smile and downward eyes.  He never knew whether to despise or cherish this picture; either way, the memories hurt.  Still, he couldn’t bring himself to delete it. 

“I wouldn’t be me without him,” Ozzie thought, his eyes beginning to tear, finishing his glass of wine.  He dreaded going back. 

There had never been anything particularly wrong with Oswald Michaels as a child, but never anything particularly right, either.  In a sea of Jennifers, Jasons, Michelles, and Davids, Oswald had stood out; he had liked his middle name, John, but he had been doomed in the first grade when other kids had heard his mother say, “Remember Ozzie, Mommy loves you.” 

“Kids want cool names,” Ozzie thought, leaning against the balcony rail, “not weird ones.” 

As a young child, he had been short, but even after he grew, he had still been bad at sports, the ultimate sin for boys.  He had always been picked last, but he would have preferred not to be picked at all.  In fifth grade PE, the teacher had sent him off to play with the girls, which had only made life worse. 

Ozzie had never dressed right.  Shaking his head, he remembered the year his mother had sent him to school in a pair of orange corduroy pants because she had liked the color and the fabric was soft.  He had begged her to buy jeans, but it hadn’t mattered.  After he had spilled paint on them, he had been relieved when she had replaced them with jeans, until he got to school. 

“Ozzie’s wearing Wranglers!” Steve Johansson had said.  “Those are girls’ jeans!” 

Ozzie had been humiliated.  He hadn’t known that boys only wore Levi’s, and of course his mother hadn’t known.  Money had been tight, and they hadn’t been able to replace them, so he’d had to wear them the rest of the school year. 

His hair had been short when the other boys’ hair had been long and long when it should have been short.  And then the braces.  And the pimples. 

Of course, no one had wanted to eat lunch with him.  His table had been called the island of misfit boys.  A few others had sat there, and if there had been no friendship, at least there had been solace. 

Underlying it all had been Ozzie’s intense shyness.  

“I would always have been shy,” he thought, getting ready to rejoin the party.  “But the way they treated me sure didn’t help.” 

His intelligence hadn’t helped either, even after he’d finally learned to slouch in his chair and answer every question with “I dunno.” 

Ozzie had survived school, but his difficulties hadn’t stopped.  His shyness had continued in college, driving him underground.  He had loved the basement biochemistry lab, working on his major in preparation for medical school.  Any place by himself had made him happy. 

He’d had one desire: to rid himself of his shyness.  “If a pill can treat depression, why not shyness,” he had dreamed.  He had planned one day to invent one. 

Four years of college, six years of medical school, another four to become a board-certified psychiatrist, and Ozzie had been hired to help develop new drugs for the psychiatric field by PsyChem.  Along the way, his shyness had diminished but it had never gone away.  He had never forgotten young Ozzie. 

Ozzie had worked on new drugs for depression, psychosis, and other problems, but he had never been able to convince his superiors that shyness could be treated with drugs. 

“If they won’t let me try,” Ozzie had thought, “I’ll do it on my own.”  Back to the basement he had gone, this time at PsyChem, where he had worked on his own time to create his shyness pill. 

It had been a daunting task, but he had persevered.  Over the years, he had developed various compounds, but they had either killed the test rats or made them vicious and aggressive.  Some had even eaten each other. 

“The self-confidence is good,” Ozzie had thought, “but not the cannibalism.” 

It had also been difficult to tell which rats were shy, so he had never been certain of his results. 

After several years of late nights and weekends, he had thought he finally had the right formula.  It hadn’t killed any rats and they hadn’t eaten each other. 

“My data’s too thin for human trials,” Ozzie had thought, “and PsyChem won’t fund them anyway.” 

He had had only one solution: test the drug on himself.  There had been a hundred reasons why this was had been banned and only one reason to go forward. 

“I have no other choice,” Ozzie had thought, “I can’t give up now.” 

The next morning, he had swallowed a pill.  It had been a very low dose.  Nothing had happened. 

“No aggression, but no change in my shyness,” Ozzie had thought.  “And I don’t feel like eating anyone – that’s a good sign.” 

Each week for a month he had gradually increased the amount.  Finally, he had felt different.  He hadn’t avoided looking at a very pretty colleague, one he could barely talk to.  The next day, he’d been joking with her in the break room, and the day after that, she’d agreed to go out to dinner with him. 

He had got a haircut and some new clothes, and when Mary had opened her door, he’d looked good and he’d known it.  They’d had a great time at dinner and had made plans to see each other again.  The night had ended in a romantic kiss, then Ozzie had walked away, knowing that Mary had still been looking at him.  He hadn’t looked back, just smiled. 

It had taken some time for Ozzie to find the right dose.  Too much, and every night he’d had a new babe on each arm; not enough, and he’d had trouble standing up to his supervisor.  People had noticed the changes and a lively betting pool had started as to which Ozzie would show up for work.  One day he’d driven up in a sleek red Ferrari instead of his old gray Prius, and everyone had lost. 

After about a month, Ozzie had figured out the right dose.  He’d been warm and friendly, but not obnoxious and loud.  Everyone had liked him, and he’d liked everybody, except his supervisor.  The betting pool had disbanded because he was now the same every day. 

“I can’t tell anyone about the pill,” he’d thought, “not now.  I’ll wait a year and see if any side effects develop.” 

The new Ozzie had thrown himself into his work and his life.  He’d moved into an expensive ocean-view apartment, and he’d made friends.  Lots of friends.  Ozzie had become outgoing, gregarious, and everyone had liked him, especially women.  

“He’s so genuine,” he’d heard one woman say at the office.  Ozzie hadn’t blushed. 

For six months, life had been wonderful.  It had all been exciting and new.  But Ozzie had gradually noticed something different. 

“I feel flat,” he’d often thought, “like there’s no spice in my food.  I need to make some changes.” 

New Ozzie had become dangerous Ozzie.  He’d taken up rock climbing, then paragliding.  Speeding in his Ferrari had become a way of life and paying for tickets was just another entertainment expense. 

He’d made more friends among the thrill-seeking adrenaline junkies, and that had worked, for a while. 

But even thrill-seeking had no longer masked his emptiness.  The world had become a dreary place, and it got darker.  He had gone through the motions, including the parties, but eventually it had all become too much. 

“Classic depression,” he had told himself, so he had tried anti-depressants until it had become clear that this did not help. 

Out on his balcony, with the party noisy behind him, he knew what he had to do, what he had struggled to avoid. 

“I’ve got to stop taking my shyness pills,” he thought despondently, as he poured them off the balcony and into the ocean below. 

Gradually, Ozzie’s depression lifted, but his shyness returned.  His friends, missing the dynamic, fun-loving Ozzie, gradually drifted away. 

Now that he had experienced life without his shyness, Ozzie knew that he had to keep going.  

“I know I’ve got the basic formula,” he thought, as he headed back to the lab.  “I’ve just got to work out a few details.” 

All in all, Ozzie considered this a positive experience.  He had a Ferrari and a beautiful home with an ocean view.  And unlike some of his test rats, he hadn’t killed anyone or tried to eat his friends. 

“Could have been worse,” he thought.  “Someday I’ll get it right, and new Ozzie will be back!” 

It took a few years, but one day his co-workers started betting again on which Ozzie would show up for work.  One day they stopped, and Ozzie was happy.

 

Week 17.5 Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life

Idol Mini-Season 2018-19
Week 17.5
Topic: Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life

THE LIT SQUAD

The Shakespeare Café looked warm and inviting through the fog. Tonight was its monthly Author’s Night, which featured an open mic for writers to read their works. The performances were uneven, ranging from the wooden to the brilliant, with a lot more wood than lightning. The café was packed when Rebecca entered.

“I’m hungry,” she thought as she pushed through the door. She immediately saw her target, sitting alone at the bar, waiting his turn. He was in his mid-twenties, not bad looking, and clutching a manuscript to keep his hands from shaking, with four empty shot glasses nearby.

She had gorgeous red hair, full lips, and a body barely contained by a short blue dress. She was clearly old enough to vote, and that was all the men wanted to know as they tried not to stare at her. Their appraisals didn’t bother her, only the poet at the mic, who was rambling on in free verse about his pet frog.

The stool next to the writer was empty, so she headed straight for it and sat down.

“Buy a girl a drink?” she said to Roger Michaels.

Roger was the next to read, and he was so nervous he barely heard her.

“Well then, can I buy you one?” she said, nodding to the bartender, who brought over the cheapest scotch in the house, plus the most expensive for Rebecca.

“On the house,” said the bartender.

Rebecca smiled. She was used to this.

Just then, it was Roger’s turn at the mic. Rebecca knew he’d be back.

He read one of his short stories. It was so powerful, gripping, and raw that the audience was silent, then erupted into the loudest applause of the night.

As he read, Rebecca could see a light shine from him, growing in intensity. She smiled and licked her lips.

“Feeding time,” she thought, her hunger growing.

Roger returned to the bar, hands still shaking. Rebecca gradually moved her stool closer. As they talked about his writing, thin needle-like protrusions extended from her fingertips. Smiling seductively, she jabbed him with her fingertips on his thigh. He felt a sting and pulled back. By then it was too late.

Rebecca had sucked all of Roger’s prodigious talent from him, satisfying her needs but withdrawing every creative impulse from him.

He would never write anything meaningful again. The intense desire to be a writer would still be there, but now there was no talent. It would be like doing his nightly homework back in school.

Her hunger satisfied for now, Rebecca left, adding the Shakespeare Café to her list of feeding grounds.

Meanwhile, across town, the Literary Crimes Unit of the FBI was trying to track Rebecca down, #4 on its own Ten Most Wanted List.

The Lit Squad consisted of Special Agent Marcus Johnson and whatever agent was unlucky enough to be assigned to him, currently Sylvia Klein. It was in the basement, next to the HVAC and as far from real agents as possible. Marcus had been allocated one room, two desks, and three battered filing cabinets. Most people didn’t know it existed, which was fine with him. It meant less interference.

“Just don’t embarrass the FBI,” the agent in charge had said when Marcus had first arrived. He’d mostly succeeded.

He’d been pleased when Sylvia had been assigned to him. Named for Sylvia Plath, both her parents were published writers of romance and crime novels, so she had understood the magnitude of Rebecca’s crimes.

Lit Squad was considered punishment and Sylvia had been no exception; she had mouthed off once too often about her inept supervisor. Marcus knew the guy and she was right.

“It looks like Rebecca’s in town,” said Marcus. “We just got a phone call from a confidential informant at the Shakespeare Café.”

Sylvia started to look at the thick file Marcus handed her. There were reports going back over fifty years and some grainy, unfocused photographs of her, making visual identification difficult.

“Rebecca’s a talent-sucker,” said Marcus, “kind of a reverse Muse. No one knows where they came from. They’re human, except for the need to feed on literary skill. They can sense it and then use their finger needles to draw it out, leaving their victims talentless. We don’t know how many – probably thousands – are scattered all over the world. Rebecca’s been working Los Angeles, but now she’s been spotted in San Francisco, which makes her our problem.”

“Is that why there are so many franchise movies, remakes, and reboots?” asked Sylvia.

“She’s sucked everything out of the scriptwriters,” said Marcus, “and now she’s here. Our job is to catch her and inject her with the serum.”

“What’s that?” said Sylvia.

“It eliminates her need to feed on creativity. It’s like taking the blood lust out of a vampire. It was invented by William Carlos Williams, who was a doctor as well as a poet, when a talent-sucker ruined his friend, Ezra Pound.

“I almost caught her once, at the start of my career. She got a high school kid named Steve Larkin over in Coalinga. Had all the talent in the world. Real pity.”

San Francisco had a lively arts scene, which made catching Rebecca more difficult. Marcus gave Sylvia the task of finding any event likely to draw writers, including book signings, even though Rebecca didn’t usually drain prominent authors – too risky. She sometimes cruised coffee shops looking for writer’s working at their lap tops, but most of her attacks occurred at larger events, like the Shakespeare Café.

Marcus was going to talk with his snitches, mostly bartenders or baristas, at the coffee shops and cafes that had a reputation in the literary underground, especially those near San Francisco State, which offered creative writings classes.

Sylvia started with the internet, and when that finally dried up, she visited the few bookstores still open, looking for fliers announcing readings or open mics, one of Rebecca’s favorites.

After a few days, they had their top possibilities: a poetry flash mob in front of a bookstore; an improv short story gathering at the college; a writer’s workshop, also at the college; the weekly writer’s discussion group at the No Poets Café; and the Shakespeare Café for the open mic. Plus the annual Poetry Festival in Salinas, which started today.

“It’s too far away,” said Marcus.

“Anything more than 30 minutes is too far for you,” said Sylvia. “It’s the only likely event for a week, and Rebecca’s fed in that area before. Didn’t she get that kid in Coalinga you told me about?”

“Larkin?” replied Marcus. “That was years ago, and she was probably just passing through.”

“We’re not doing anything tomorrow,” said Sylvia. “You’ll live.”

Marcus knew she was right.

“I’m driving,” he said, “and my music.”

The next day, they checked out two tranq guns loaded with the serum and a tranquilizer. It took more than two hours to get to Salinas; the traffic was worse than usual, and it was not a very pretty drive. They had no trouble finding Hiram Moore High School, home of the festival.

Bill Williams, the director of the event, handed them programs at the entrance to the gym.

“I’ll need to talk to him,” thought Marcus, as he scanned the program.

He was disturbed to see the name of Steve Larkin, Rebecca’s victim years ago.

“We need to be gone before he reads,” thought Marcus. “I’d hate to hear what he’s become compared to what he could have been. That kid was a genius.”

After talking with Williams, they were no better off. He’d never seen anyone like Rebecca at the festival, but he promised to let them know if a woman matching her description showed up.

Marcus and Sylvia wandered around, checking the crowd. No Rebecca.

“That doesn’t mean she won’t turn up later,” said Sylvia.

They agreed to leave after the crowning of the Poetry Queen, before Larkin was to read his poem.

The poetry they heard ranged from the bad to very good, but overall, they were impressed.

Finally, it was time for the Poetry Queen. Everyone knew it was Principal Stevenson’s daughter, again, but no one complained. She was a very pretty girl.

But Marcus wasn’t looking at the Queen, he was staring at her mother, who was standing off to one side, beaming at her daughter.

“That’s Rebecca!” he whispered to Sylvia.

Rebecca, or Principal Stevenson, was wearing a baggy, plain dress; her hair was in a bun, and she had on a pair of glasses. She looked nothing like the beauty that Marcus had described to Williams.

“Why go to San Francisco when you can have the food come to you?” whispered Sylvia.

They had to shoot her with the serum darts, but they couldn’t shoot her in front of a crowd. That would require explanations the agents didn’t want to give.

Marcus moved through the crowd, getting behind Rebecca, while Sylvia approached her from the side. They held their positions until after the ceremony, and when she headed down an empty hallway to leave, they followed, closing the door behind them, tranq guns at the ready.

“FBI, Rebecca!” shouted Marcus.

As soon as she turned around, they fired. The darts injected her with the serum and a tranquilizer, which knocked her out. Sylvia called for medical assistance, explaining only enough to ensure that Rebecca got proper care.

As soon as the ambulance crew arrived, the agents left. It had been a tough month, and they were eager to get home. Closing out Rebecca’s case could wait until tomorrow, when the Lit Squad would start on their next literary offender, a serial plagiarizer.

When Rebecca woke up at the hospital, the doctor told her that she passed out from dehydration and the excitement at the festival. They kept her overnight for observation, then released her the next morning.

Rebecca knew she’d been shot with the serum. Already, her needle claws were beginning to die. She no longer felt the hunger to steal the talent from victims, but she would always miss the wonderful sensation she got from it. Her anger slowly began to grow in her. She could barely control her rage.

She would live the life of Principal Andersen – she had no choice. She would also work hard to improve the poetry festival. It wasn’t for her, she’d had plenty of other sources. But her daughter would need it in a few years when she got her claws.

In the meantime, she would have to do something about Lit Squad.

She would see to it that San Francisco was drained of all creativity, turning it into a wasteland.

As to the agents, they would lose whatever was most dear to them.

“They’re not finished with me,” thought Rebecca, “until I’m finished with them!”

Revenge would fill the void caused by the agents, and no serum existed for that.