20
The Curleyworld Follies
“Cindy,” Dogboy calls. But she’s frozen. Stuck in a second. All the color drained out. Same with everybody else except for Zeph.
“I reckon ya’ best come along now, boy,” Zeph say. He floats above the street on a black cloud.
“Am… am I dead?” Dogboy says. Zeph shakes his head no. “Then what’s going on here?”
“We’s stuck in the jam what’s tween the toes of the universe. Why— Ha. Jam tween the toes?” Zeph’s voice changes here— higher, brighter, with no hint of its previous drawl. “That dialog is atrocious. This ‘Swamp Wizard’ character needs some work shopping. Can we take five, D.B.? I need to change into something more ‘me.’”
Dogboy climbs up Hot John, balancing himself on his wide shoulders. He swats at Zeph, who laughs as he floats out over the park. “Who are you? How do you know so much about me?”
“Tune in after this commercial to find out,” Zeph says. A POP— burning sparks in a million saturated hues explode out of his chest. Dogboy falls back, sprawls on the ground as the light fades.
Zeph is gone. A man in a light pink cardigan sweater, matching pink shirt, purple pin-striped bow tie, and squared-off glasses smiles down at Dogboy. He floats to the ground then walks up to Hot John. “A broken-hearted clown. Imagine. He might never laugh again. Laugh, clown, laugh or my heart will break.” He shakes with mocking tears then falls down and rolls in the dirt, giggling.
“What happened to the old guy?” Dogboy asks, backing away from the peculiar man. He disappears. Dogboy feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s the man again.
“Oh, did you like him?” the man says. “Just a little character I worked up recently. The name is too on-the-nose, huh? It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve been in this business a long time. My skin’s as thick as this clown’s head.”
“Character? What are you talking about?” Bronson says. He grabs the man by his collar. “Look. Whatever this is it has to stop. They’re gonna get Cindy.”
“Now that hurts,” the man says. “I’ll tell you one thing. I should turn you into a turnip for that, but I won’t. You’re lucky I’m really a sweetheart underneath it all. The name’s Willowwood.” The man extends his hand. Dogboy doesn’t take it. “Let me say I’m a big fan. I admire somebody who isn’t afraid to go out in public looking like… that. Shows real bravery.”
“You’re Willowwood?” Dogboy says. “The guy my dad—”
“Ah, yes. Duncan. Dear, dead Duncan. I was shocked— no, outraged— when I heard what happened. He was always such a sweet boy, if a little on the chubby side. That’s genetic so I’d cut back on the hot dogs if I were you.”
Dogboy gasps with excitement. Finally, somebody to answer his questions. He assembles the most pressing hundred or so in his head. Before he can ask the first one, he’s somewhere else. A small yard with a fence running around it. It’s autumn. Red and orange leaves cover the ground.
One board on the fence sticks out a little further than the others. Dogboy is drawn to it. He pulls it off the fence and sticks his head in the hole. He’s looking down a steep hill covered in sticks and stones. He goes to pull his head out but he can’t. His ears catch on the wood. He’d rip them off with any more effort.
He recalls when this happened. When he was six he’d waited two hours before his parents noticed. This time he waits days without assistance. Days to worry about Cindy. About Willowwood. Do they even exist? Maybe it’s all some weird dream he had when he was six with his head stuck in the fence.
Weeks pass. His mouth dries, eyes shrivel, stomach aches. Months later, his body fails him. He draws in one last breath, closing his eyes as he asks “Why?”
He’s somewhere new. Trumpets and tubas play a jaunty jingle with a polka flair. He’s strapped to some cheap theater seats; the powder blue fabric is worn white in places. He’s sitting center stage, third row back.
On the stage (a silver platform hovering a few feet off the ground) Willowwood yells through a plastic megaphone at the puppets piled by a puppet theater midstage. He wears a beret and has a monocle wedged in his eye.
“Do the script like I wrote it, you hacks,” Willowwood says, tossing some pages at the puppets.
A puppet in a black hood and top hat sits up, raises his hand, then speaks without moving his stitched-on mouth. “Mr. Willowwood, ain’t I the only guy who has lines?” he says.
“Based on the dreck you’ve given me so far I might as well a weatherman reading it,” Willowwood says. He paces back and forth across the stage. “Put some feeling into it. But not too much. Can’t have your hands waving around every which way like a frog for goodness sake. What will the audience think of that? They’ll think about going to another theater is what.”
“Let me go, you creep,” Dogboy says, pulling against his bonds. “Where was I just now?”
“Dear heart, you know exactly where you were,” Willowwood says. “How could any of us forget that scarring moment? I thought it would make a good thematic lead-in to the main event. Places everybody, our audience is here.”
The limp puppets spring to life, running behind the small stage-on-a-stage. They wobble back and forth on their feet with each step, threatening to blow away if a strong wind happens by.
“Can we walk like actual human people, please? I know you’re puppets but above that you’re actors. Walk the part at least.” Willowwood snaps his fingers and he’s sitting next to Dogboy. Two more snaps and they both have buckets of popcorn, although Dogboy can’t reach his due to the chains. Dogboy calls Willowwood several rude names. Willowwood pulls his thumb and forefinger across his lips in a zipping motion. Dogboy’s lips lock together, blocking any further attempts at speech.
“That’s better,” Willowwood says. “The lights are going down so we need to be quiet. One of the pillars of good theater etiquette.”
The lights go out, and a voice comes over the speakers: “Ladies. Gentlemen. Boys. Girls. Dogboys. Catgirls. Squirrel Uncles. Tonight— Tragedy, comedy, action, and even a little romance. Willowwood presents a Willowwood production of an original script (based on true events) written by Willowwood himself. We present to you… Live on this stage… The Curleyworld Follies.”
Two puppets pop up in front of the curtain, bowing to the audience then turning to each other. One is dressed like a magician with a top hat and flowing purple cape. The other’s a dark-haired woman in a sun dress. The magician hands the woman a paper flower.
“Once upon a time,” says the narrator, “a boy and a girl fell in love. As these things often happen, the boy loved the girl while the girl…” The female puppet devours the flower, the crumpled petals falling out the sides of her mouth. “Wasn’t fond of the boy at all.”
The red backdrop rolls away. The wheels turning it squeal. The puppets bob up and down as the screen becomes a moving forest backdrop behind them. The magician marches behind the woman as calliope music plays.
Three puppets in ski masks pop into the scene, twisting back and forth to slap the woman with their arms.
“One day, the woman was attacked by some bandits on a forest path. Luckily our magician was nearby doting on her. He jumped in to help, displaying all manner of strange abilities.”
The magician throws orange handkerchiefs at the bandits, who fall down below the proscenium. The woman embraces him as the curtain closes.
When it opens again, the magician and the woman stand at an altar, the woman wearing an elegant white dress. “Before long they were married,” the narrator says.
Willowwood dabs his eyes with an orange handkerchief. “Sorry about this. I can’t help but cry at weddings. They’re so bea— bea— beautiful,” he says through the sobs.
Various backdrops fly in behind them: a museum, the Taj Mahal, a ski resort, and so on. “They lived life to the fullest, criss-crossing the world to find adventure, but finding each other in the process.”
“After a time, the woman discovered she was pregnant, and soon enough they welcomed their son into the world.”
A hand reached up into view, depositing a small bundle the size of a potato to the female puppet.
“Hey, that’s you, kid,” Willowwood says, nudging Dogboy in the ribs. “Now stop talking, this is the important bit.”
“They loved their child as parents do, but the magician was worried,” the narrator says.
The woman and child disappear. The magician stands against a black background. He fends off gigantic monsters with tentacles and claws.
“You see, the magician wasn’t always a young man in love. In his time he’d made many enemies and done many questionable things. He knew such decisions often come with a price eventually, and he certainly didn’t want his son to pay it.”
The magician practices various feats: levitation, energy blasts, and so on. “The magician prepared, and in time he mastered his powers. He even discovered a way to transfer them to somebody else if it came to that.”
The scene changes and a puppet in a trench coat stands in front of a cardboard house fighting with the magician.
“As the boy grew, the magician’s brother would often visit, asking him to use his powers in various grifts. The magician always refused, pointing out that if the powers were meant for such deviant acts the creature who’d provided them would have picked the brother instead.”
“That’s me,” Willowwood says, nudging the boy again. “We’re famous.”
“On his last visit, after the magician had raised his common argument against a collaboration, the brother went mad. He made a decree,” the narrator says.
“You’ll regret that,” says the brother, “You want to protect your little family? Your little life? Your fortune? You don’t deserve it. That creature made a mistake all those years ago. Those powers… this life of yours… it should have been mine. If I can’t have them, I’ll take them from you, along with your wife and family and son. I will see you dead, brother. Count on that.”
“The magician wanted to stand against his brother, but his visions of the future showed him his family’s fate was sealed,” the narrator says. “He was powerless to stop it.”
The scene changes again. A puppet Dogboy fights a puppet Hot John, A puppet Andrus cackles from stage right.
“Hmm… Mmmhhh…” Dogboy screams behind locked lips. Willowwood waves his hand so the boy can speak.
“What is it?” he asks. “We’re building to the thrilling conclusion.
“My dad always told me we make our own luck,” Dogboy says. “Why would he let a stupid flash forward keep him from stopping Uncle Randolph?”
“That’s something I really like about you, D.B.,” Willowwood says. “In the face of all evidence you remain hopelessly naive. You should know the things parents tell their kids to do almost never match what they do themselves.” Willowwood waves his hand, and Dogboy’s lips seal shut again.
A smaller puppet, obviously Bronson, stands on a basketball court with a slightly taller puppet. “One day the magician’s son got into a fight,” the narrator says. The taller puppet hits the Bronson puppet, knocking him out. “That is to say, he lost a fight then went home to whine to his parents.”
A facsimile of Bronson’s old house appears. The magician puppet hugs the Bronson puppet. The stage goes dark. A projection screen lowers.
A filmstrip starts. The family car riding down a hill. An explosion underneath. Crashing through trees. Dogboy jumping from rooftop to rooftop.
“The magician’s vision showed him the details of his demise. Against logic… Against reason… He forced his family to go on the fateful, fatal car ride, abandoning his weakling son to a den of thieves.”
The screen rolls up. The lights come on.
“But what would cause a seemingly caring father to leave his son alone? And what effect would this have on the boy? Come back in one week for the next thrilling episode of The Curleyworld Follies.”
Willowwood jumps to his feet, clapping so quickly his hands are pink smudges in the air. The puppets walk out from behind the screen, taking their bows in ascending order based on stage time, until the magician puppet and the female puppet bring them all together for the final bow. They all collapse in heaps on the stage as Willowwood jumps up beside them.
“Thank you. Thank you,” he says, pulling a stool from the air then leaning against it. “It’s time for a little Q&A… If you folks are up for it, that is?”
Applause breaks out at a level more befitting a stadium than an empty theater.
Willowwood bows his head, ever humble. “Why do I even ask? Okay, first question. You, kid with the dog mask. You wouldn’t shut up during the show. What’s your question?”
“Hmmpphh. Mmmmph,” Dogboy says.
“Oh, right. Sorry about that, folks. Bronson here’s been a bad dog.” The invisible crowd chuckled. Willowwood snapped his fingers. Dogboy’s mouth fell open.
“My dad would never do that,” Dogboy says. “Not in a million years. He loved us.”
Willowwood nods. “A critic. And with the full cast lying right here on the stage. Don’t you know how sensitive actors are? Maybe I should let them respond? That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
Willowwood snaps his fingers. The puppets grow as big as the room. Willowwood vanishes, leaving behind his monocle floating in the air. “Watch out,” he says, “Some of them can shoot fire ice. Not available in your home dimension. Nasty stuff. Word of warning: Don’t let it touch you. Not once.”
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