A Silver Path

The trouble with doing anything, as Thomas Laney saw it, was the possibility of being good at something. And the problem with being good at something was that sooner or later someone will expect you to be GREAT at it. Worse, they expect you to WANT to be great at it.

Here lay Thomas's problem.

Thomas had a gift for imagination. He did not, however, feel the slightest inclination toward thinking that hard about just about anything. Wherever possible, Thomas remained welded to the couch in front of the television, barely noticing the real world around him, and certainly not contributing to it. Here lay Thomas's mother's problem. Forty-six years old, and still living in his mother's home - or in the living room, anyway - no job, no friends, no girlfriends, no prospects, no plans. Just a dull-witted expression and a remote control. Obsessed with watching the people's lives, factual and fictional, play out upon the screen. A stationary receiver for the mindless dribble that flooded the screen, day in, day out; never switching off. Thomas had never worked a full day in his life. Collectively, even. He had never expressed an interest in any kind of hobby, unless you counted watching television, in which case he was an avid hobbyist.

Mrs Laney had had enough. There was something she knew about television that Thomas didn't. And the time had come to teach him a lesson. Seeing that Thomas had finally dragged himself upstairs, hopefully to bathe, Martha Laney crept into the living room, sat down, and prepared herself to speak with an old aquaintance of hers. Someone of considerable influence. Someone who could help her to execute that lesson…….

"Mum?" Thomas called, when he heard a thump downstairs. It had sounded like the front door closing and his mother hadn't made his dinner, yet. "Mum!" he whined as he slouched down the stairs, pulling a three-days-stale T-shirt over his head as he went. He went into the kitchen to seek her, and his meal, out. Nothing. Not even his dinner. "Great," he mumbled sarcastically. "she leaves me to starve to death. That's motherly, that is."

Sulking, he shuffled over to the freezer and took out a litre of ice-cream then continued on to the draw for a spoon. Bypassing the crockery cupboard, he made for the couch, and the Friday night viewing schedule. This was to be a long weekend, with the Queen's birthday on Monday, and his mother had long been planning a trip to Sydney to see her brother. "There's a thought," he said brightly to the walls. "There may be no meals, but there's also no nagging." "No listening to what she thinks I should be doing with my life." He continued. "No hearing of how she scraps and cleans after me for no thanks whatsoever. I mean to say, I stay here, don't I? I don't let her get lonely. I mean, thirty years since dad died I've kept her company, and I don't thank her enough? Nice. Gone to see stupid old Uncle Jacob now, I think. And who do you think will be guarding the house? Me, of course. I don't thank her enough? Please."

As he entered the living room, he stood a moment admiring his state-of-the-art, surround-sound, digital home-entertainment-system. An enormous great structure taking up one whole wall in the living room as well as the speakers which adorned the upper corners of the room. All were paid for by him. For thirty years he had saved all but fifteen dollars per week out of his dole payments, never sparing a dollar to put toward household expenses – using his fifteen bucks to rent movies when there was little but news on the television. This, of course, was a constant source of material for his mother to feed her bitching.

Moving to the couch and settling into the sagging, deep impression of his backside on the cushion, he picked up the remote control and aimed it at the television, anticipation flooding his face as he pressed the "POWER" button.

The screen flickered to instant life and flooded his senses with colours, sounds, and the infinitely more interesting lives of Other People. He lived through those Other People, believed their every word. It wouldn't be on television if it weren't true.

On the screen at the moment was one of the old constants, Gary Kingsley, talk-show host for the ages. Of the ages. In fact, Thomas couldn't remember a time when "The Gary Kingsley School Of Life" wasn't a part of the channel 8 line up. Funnily enough, nor could he remember him looking any different than he did right now as he sat in his tall chair, about to introduce his next guest. A constant. Thomas liked Gary Kinsley.

Here was a man who could show you people worth complaining about, and tell them exactly what their problem was and why. This would be good.

"…..so that today's guests could get through to the lazy, lay-about, uncaring, irresponsible losers in their lives. In some cases, they'll be getting them out of their lives, and into the School of Life." Gary Kingsley was saying to his live audience and to the viewers at home.

"Here we go…" said Thomas excitedly as he rubbed his hands together and removed the lid from the tub of ice-cream. "Look out losers!"

"Take my next guest, for example. This poor woman, who should be enjoying her fifty-sixth year, is yet to experience a single days reprieve from her dauntingly useless son in forty-six years. Those of you who are on this side of the television screen, have a look at him. Think for a moment what it would be like to live with him, day in, day out – and that couch he's on now is where he sits, actually believing that he is some how doing his widowed mother a favour by leeching off of her for his entire adult life, a parasite clinging to a couch and a remote-control. Now look again as he shovels that ice-cream into his mouth and see if you can keep from shuddering."

Thomas slowed the steady inhalation of ice-cream, put off knowing that the jerk they were talking about on tv was eating the same way. As he had often wondered before when watching this show, he wondered again now why they only showed the pictures and footage of these people to the live audience, and not to the television audience. It kind of took away from the story a little.

A melting blob of ice-cream fell from his over-sized spoon to land heavily on his chest. Cursing, he looked down at the mess on his shirt. Upon closer inspection, Thomas decided that salvage was possible and hunched over, bringing his shirt up to meet his face and slurping the sickly sweet confection from the stale fabric. He cursed again as he heard the audience groan in disgust at something on the show, and looked at the screen to see Gary Kingsley shake his head at the camera as if words couldn't convey the repulsive nature of the jerk they were looking at.

"Man, this guy must be foul!" Thomas said out-loud.

"Yes," said Gary Kingsley. "He is foul."

Startled, Thomas dropped his spoon and it toppled to the floor as he peered warily at the television screen. Strange, a little coincidence like that and yet Thomas had had the distinct impression that Gary Kingsley had been speaking to him alone, and not the greater audience.

A hint of a smirk crossed the host's face before he pulled his gaze from the camera. "A truly, despicably foul individual."

Thomas blinked. "Huh." Kingsley gave a sideways glance at the camera.

"So," he winked. "While Thomas fumbles around on the floor for his spoon, why don't you all meet my next guest, my good friend and this foul creature's mother – Martha Laney."

Thomas had been half-crouching, stunned, and frozen to the spot since Gary Kingsley had winked and said his name. Now he almost swallowed his tongue in his effort to process having also heard his mother's name and breathe at the same time.

Reality and unreality combined to settle over him as he saw his mother walking large as life across the stage and he slowly sat down on the floor in front of the television, the couch behind him and the spoon forgotten.

"Mum – ?" he managed. What the hell was she doing? Why was she on national television talking about him like that? Why was she on national television at all? How could she do this to him? What was she thinking, for Christ's sake?

All of these questions crowded his mind for a heartbeat before he realized that Kingsley had described exactly what Thomas was doing, as he did it, and even seemed to have been interacting with him. Ridiculous. Impossible. Madness. But true, nonetheless. Or was it? Oh -

"Look at him, he's still just sitting there slack jawed. Thomas? Thomas, what exactly do we have to do to get your attention, here?"

"Aaahhh!" Thomas scrambled backwards and clutched at the couch to pull himself up and away from the television.

"That's probably the most exercise he's had in twenty years." A straight faced Martha.

"Mum!" Thomas burst out.

"Oh, control yourself, Thomas." She replied bluntly. "It's true and you know it. Besides, the look on your face was worth it. I'd pay to see it again, actually."

"Mum!"

To Thomas's horror the audience roared with laughter, even the host, but none so loud as his mother.

Betrayal!

Thomas fumbled about until he found the remote control on the cushion beside him and shakily pressed the "on-off" switch. Nothing. He stretched his arm out further and pressed the "channel up" button. The screen flickered once and displayed the same picture, only now there was a fluorescent-green "9" in the top-right corner of the screen where before there had been an eight. He pressed it again with the same results, only this time it was a ten.

All the while his jaw worked wordlessly, a demented expression forming on his face. And all the while the audience, the host, and his mother continued to laugh harder.

"Eventually, a lab-mouse realizes it is in a maze. Before now, I never thought that particularly significant. I wonder, does that mean that Mice are in fact smarter than some human beings?"

"What the hell is going on? Mum? Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"What do I want, Thomas? Well, let me start by saying that for the last thirty years you have used your father's death as an excuse for sitting on that blasted couch every minute of the day, treating me like your slave and expecting me to thank you for it. For thirty years what I wanted was for you to switch off the television. I've wanted you to switch off and join the real world. For thirty years I've looked at your dull-headed expression while you sprawl on that couch and today I realized three things. The first is that you will never change. The second is that while you are my son and I love you, I cannot stand the sight nor quite frankly the smell of you for one day longer."

Thomas sat shaking his head in disbelief and spluttered desperately, "You're kicking me out? You're throwing your own son out on the street? How can you do this? I wont let you do this! I wont go! This is my home, too, you know. I'm not going anywhere!"

"Yes, Thomas, I know you wont go. As I said, you will never change."

"Wait a minute - You said you realized three things. What's the third? Is the house willed to me by dad? Good. That'll teach you."

"No, Thomas, it isn't."

"Then what?" he said incredulously.

Martha Laney reached down with her right hand to pick up a small black rectangular object.

"The third thing I realized today is that if anyone is to switch off, it must be me. Goodbye, Thomas."

"Huh?"

She held the small rectangle out toward the camera, and Thomas was in darkness. He shot up from his chair – and banged his head hard on the now very low ceiling.

"Shit!" he cursed loudly, only his voice sounded wrong somehow. Hollow and yet muffled at the same time. But that wasn't all. There were other sounds, vague and remote, but unmistakably applause and cat-calls which were fading into a hissing sound which reminded him of pressure valves.

"What is that? Where's it coming from?" He stumbled in the direction of the heavily draped windows of the living room.

"What happened to the bloody lights?"

Whack!

"Damn!" he cursed again. How did the ceiling get so low?

"Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?" he ranted. But there were no answering voices. No explanations. Just the soft trailing off of the theme-tune for Gary Kingsley's "School Of Life" show. Thomas was beginning to think that something much worse than his mother's betrayal of him on national television had happened. Something far worse than a power outage. Something really creepy had happened. He could feel it in the air, in his body, even his hair. The air in here was both oppressive and alive simultaneously, static electricity eating away at his nerves and seemingly his oxygen as well.

Thud.

"Ooof!"

Thomas had found the curtained windows, he could hear the slight tink behind the thud of his head hitting the glass surface, and feel the thick velour fabric which hung heavily beside him.

"Huh?" Beside him? That meant that the curtains must already be pulled back, which simply couldn't be. For one thing he had definitely closed the drapes earlier. Secondly, if the curtains were open then where was every thing? Everyone?

He brought his hands up, palms out, and placed them on the wall beside the drapes. A tingling sensation sent tiny shocks through him and yet the surface was cool and smooth to touch. He took a few steps sideways slowly, running his hands on the surface in front of him as he went. The surface remained the same on both sides of the fabric.

Smooth. Cold. Statically charged.

And curved.

Thomas panicked and yanked hard on the velour, tearing the drapes and heavy wooden rods down together with a thud and a crash as they took him with them.

Scrambling and flailing his arms in an effort to untangle himself, Thomas stumbled twice before regaining his footing. He took a long breath to calm himself, and ran his hands through his hair. He turned then and launched himself at the wall.

Thunk!

"Ooof!" again.

Thunk!

"AAAAhhh!" This time he ran at the wall and slammed into it so hard that he was knocked unconscious. Deep, dreamless silence enveloped him for the longest time. And then…….

Music.

Soft, but getting louder. Clearer. Coming from behind him somewhere.

He tried to open his eyes but sticky sleep-dust had sealed his eye-lids. Remembering that he had hit the floor, he tried to push himself up, and realized that he was already up. Sitting slumped in a chair, in fact. He swung his head to the left, and then to the right as another sound entered his conciousness.

Applause.

Again, only faint but steadily increasing in volume, seemingly coming from all around him. Cat-calls joined the applause and from behind his eye-lids he was aware of a growing light in the room, accompanied by that strange hissing noise which he had heard when the lights all went out to start with. He sluggishly brought up his hands to rub at his eyes and froze, fists screwed up in his eye sockets, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood with more than the static electricity which had seeped back into the room.

That voice…

"And now, ladies and gentlemen,"

Nearly putting his eyes out in his haste to clear the sleep-dust from his vision and see where he was, Thomas wished he hadn't looked. Sitting all around him were the audience members of Gary Kingsley's show. All were shackled by their ankles to the chair they each sat on, every chair was bolted firmly to the floor. And what Thomas had always thought were the hoots and encouragement coming from the audience was in fact a cacophony of desperate calls, demented laughter and hopeless sobs of desperation which grew louder as a neon "applause" sign flashed on above the stage. The room roared with the clapping of hands.

"Welcome to the Gary Kingsley School Of Life!"…

THE END.

Story by SilverSoulSong