four’s company, too

 

That was the last time I ever saw Fanny. I wouldn’t get a chance to see her on TV wearing the Hoss Cartwright hat, just before jumping to her death from the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Flint Rockway was there. He covered the whole thing LIVE, earning him his first ever Emmy nomination. Good for you, Flint.

But it got me to thinking: what is it about the Vincent Thomas Bridge that impels people to jump off it? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that film director Tony Scott jumped to his death from there, or maybe it’s because the bridge goes from Terminal Island to San Pedro, where Charles Bukowski died.

I thought I was going to die there all alone on the cold damp basement floor when all of a sudden the Professor shows up: my good friend, Professor James Aloysius McCarthy. He did exist. He really did exist. I knew it.

“Brain trauma,” said the Professor. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

The Professor was on crutches with one leg in a cast. Apparently, the fall had not killed him. He told me he was almost there, so close to a solution to the microbial invasion force from Planet Germanicus. He just needed a little more time.

I told him about the Tumerling spy and he said that was all just a hoax.

Thanks for telling me, I told him.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

He then proceeded to position himself in that La-Z-Boy®, lift that big battery way back up high, and let that sucker go. It was good to have the Professor back. Then, of all people, Salty Hubbard shows up. Great.

“So,” he says, “I see you’re in on the latest trend, too”

Latest trend?

“That’s right. It’s called Braining, and it’s all the rage up in the Valley.”

Good Lord.

“Funny thing is,” he says, as he hoists that big battery way up high, “I never figured you guys for hipsters. Mind if I join?” He let go of the rope, then joined us on the floor.

Great, I thought. Now I’ll have to listen to this guy for all eternity.

Next thing you know, Wang shows up. He just stands there, shaking his head, going on and on in Chinese about who knows what, probably about all the mess he’s going to have to clean up.

But Wang isn’t one to dawdle. He begins cleaning up the mess right away, starting with picking up that big battery off the floor.

Hold on. We’re just getting warmed up.

Next thing you know, there’s Fulmer. He’s a lot shorter than I’d imagined. A LOT shorter. Truth is, he’s a Little Person. A midget. I never would have guessed, although it made perfect sense now, booming voice and all.

Fulmer takes one look at the three of us lying there bleeding all over the floor, then at Wang, who is holding that big battery dripping with blood.

“Fucking Chinese,” says Fulmer, and he goes for Wang.

Wang swings the big battery and hits Fulmer square in the head. If two’s company and three’s a crowd, what’s that make four? A basement party? Not hardly.

There we were, all of us finally together, even if we were as dead as four doornails.

“The thing is,” says the Professor, “we’re never actually going to be able to beat back the microbial invasion force from Germanicus. But at least we can make ourselves germ-resistant.”

Again with the hand sanitizer?

“Yes, but this time, instead of putting it on the outside, we apply it internally.”

Done that. Not as much fun as you think.

“Not like that,” says the Professor. “Why do you think there’s so much corn these days?”

Because everyone loves popcorn?

“Because the government pays farmers to grow it, through subsidies. Corn is in everything these days: salad dressing, potato chips, hamburgers, french fries, chicken, fish, tacos, even pudding. You name it, it’s got corn in it. It’s even in Coca-Cola. Did you know that Coca-Cola no longer uses sugar as a sweetener but corn syrup instead?”

I did not know that.

“He’s right,” said Fulmer. “All you have to do is follow the money. As corn prices rise, so too do most all other foods. The financial markets don’t lie.”

“Corn is also the main ingredient in ethanol,” said the Professor.

So what?

“So what?” said the Professor. “That’s the answer: ethanol. Hand sanitizer is sixty percent ethanol, remember? Along those lines, I’ve come up with a new vaccine. I call it The 60-percent Solution. It’s a mutant form of ethanol that can be injected straight into the human blood stream.”

So, I thought, in essence our bodies become these extra-large versions of a bottle of hand sanitizer?

“Exactly. And as an added bonus, we’ll get better gas mileage too.”

No, thanks. It’s enough with all the corn.

“You know,” chimed in Salty, “this is where Three’s Company used to live.”

What?

“Yeah, the Hacienda Palms Apartments. This is where Jack, Chrissy, and Janet lived in the show Three’s Company. The Ropers, too.”

Don’t forget Mr. Furley.

“And of course, Mr. Furley.”

Poor, Don Knotts.

“It was only mentioned once in the whole show,” said Salty, “Episode 2: And Mother Makes Four.”

Fucking Salty. There’s always one at every basement party.

Three’s Company, huh? If three’s company, then I guess four’s company, too.

“You know,” Fulmer said to Salty, “Grauman’s is owned by the Chinese.” Fulmer can’t stand Salty.

“I know,” said Salty. “Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Duh.”

“No,” said Fulmer, “I mean it’s actually owned by a Chinese company now: the TCL Corporation. The Chinese are buying-up all facets of the entertainment industry. It’s all part of their evil plot.”

Fucking Chinese.

Then, there was gunfire. At least, it sounded like gunfire.

No gunfire. It was just TJ making is rounds.

Welcome to my eternal existence: one exasperating, exhausting, never-ending episode of Seinfeld. Imagine that: being trapped inside an episode of Seinfeld. Forever. I’d kill myself all over again, if I thought it would do any good.

I guess the only thing I have to look forward to now is wondering exactly when Fanny will come walking through the door again. It’s about a thirty mile drive from Terminal Island to Santa Monica, and an even longer swim. For a regular swimmer, maybe two days? Maybe less for a dead spirit person?

Unless she decides to go back to Downey instead. Downey is, after all, closer to San Pedro than it is Santa Monica. Why would she return to Downey? Perhaps to get her old job back at the Poor Farm? She did say it was a ghost town now.

God, I hope not. That would mean dragging the whole gang down there. It’s bad enough having to sit around here listening to their B.S. all day, but a road trip? I’m not ready for that.

Still, I’m counting on her not going back to Downey; and anyway, two days is plenty of time to get this place in order. I’d better get busy, though; I’m sure as hell not going to get any help from these deadbeats.

Am I sore about her wanting to slit my throat? Chop off my head? Shucks, no. In all fairness, I did threaten to crack her skull wide open first. If there’s anything I learned this whole time, it’s a little bit about relationships. If you don’t want to murder each other at least once in a while, you’re not in love. Just ask Timofej and Tatiana.

As for Fanny and I: we’re in love. I know it. I can just feel it in my spirit bones. And I can finally say, with the utmost confidence: She is my girlfriend.

Think about it. A girlfriend picks you up when you’re down and helps to make a better man out of you. A girlfriend stands by your side when no one else will, even when you make a total ass of yourself. A girlfriend even cleans up the mess when you puke your guts out, all without even batting an eye. My girlfriend? Not only did she scoop my brains up off the cold, damp floor, she wore them on her head right there on national television. Now, if that’s not a girlfriend, I don’t know what is.

One last thing before I go. About all the blood and brains all over the basement floor. I just want to say: Sorry, Wang. Sorry for all the mess. Of course I’ll help you clean it up; just give me a moment to think on it first.