57 Votes
REMOTE CONTROL
by:
3377
Views
Views
Chapter 9:- Zzzz-zap!
Zzzz-zap!
A blinding flash of light pierces his eyes and he clamps them shut. When he opens them, he finds that he is standing next to the television in his stuffy two-bedroom rental. The remote control is at his feet and a burnt plastic odor lingers in the air.
What the hell just happened here?
He shakes his head, trying to free the cobwebs of his mind. He obviously imagined everything.
Good God, Harry. You’re losing it, buddy.
He laughs. It starts off as a self-deprecating chuckle, then bursts into a full blown Jell-O belly laugh. Above his own laughter, he hears a thunderous cheering. The hockey game is in the last three minutes and the crowd is screaming wildly.
The puck inches near the net, and Harry sees imaginary dollar signs. His bet is going to pay off.
“Shoot!” he screams, trying not to think of what just happened.
The puck hits the side of the goal net and ricochets between one player’s feet, and the buzzer sounds. Game over. The home team has lost.
And so has Harry. He’s just lost one thousand dollars.
He lets out a cry of frustration. “Goddamn losers!”
Leaning over―which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes―Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote.
In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic.
The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. “Help me!”
But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail.
Jesus Christ, I’m drowning!
He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers. The remote.
Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he’s ever prayed. “Please let this work. Please!”
He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.
He’s instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another ‘zoning out’ period except for two things―he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.
Or Beatrice, at the very least.
She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he’d bought it for her last Christmas.
He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.
“Harry?” Blink…yawn…gasp! “What in God’s name is going on here?”
Zzzz-zap!
A blinding flash of light pierces his eyes and he clamps them shut. When he opens them, he finds that he is standing next to the television in his stuffy two-bedroom rental. The remote control is at his feet and a burnt plastic odor lingers in the air.
What the hell just happened here?
He shakes his head, trying to free the cobwebs of his mind. He obviously imagined everything.
Good God, Harry. You’re losing it, buddy.
He laughs. It starts off as a self-deprecating chuckle, then bursts into a full blown Jell-O belly laugh. Above his own laughter, he hears a thunderous cheering. The hockey game is in the last three minutes and the crowd is screaming wildly.
The puck inches near the net, and Harry sees imaginary dollar signs. His bet is going to pay off.
“Shoot!” he screams, trying not to think of what just happened.
The puck hits the side of the goal net and ricochets between one player’s feet, and the buzzer sounds. Game over. The home team has lost.
And so has Harry. He’s just lost one thousand dollars.
He lets out a cry of frustration. “Goddamn losers!”
Leaning over―which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes―Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote.
In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic.
The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. “Help me!”
But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail.
Jesus Christ, I’m drowning!
He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers. The remote.
Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he’s ever prayed. “Please let this work. Please!”
He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.
He’s instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another ‘zoning out’ period except for two things―he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.
Or Beatrice, at the very least.
She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he’d bought it for her last Christmas.
He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.
“Harry?” Blink…yawn…gasp! “What in God’s name is going on here?”
