AS THE WORLD TURNS

by George Rogers

      I think I always knew that one day the singing and dancing would stop. There would be no more block parties, no more off-camera camaraderie. But how could I have imagined Ernie shouting in tongues, handling snakes. Bert in drag. Oscar and his scatologies, feigning dyslexia. The rejections by Mensa. Cookie Monster scoring raw dough, thinks he can fly, talking him down from ledges. Pay-per-view learning. Rumors of Henson redivivus. Ripped stitches. Tupperware worship. Grover balding. Herry Monster running numbers. The anatomically correct clique. Paternity suits. Corn-dog breakfasts. And above it all, always, those damned pigeons.

      The producers are always shipping us new children. Camera fresh. Uninhibited. Not entirely sure what comes after ten. After a week or two they're gone, shooed away because they've learned too much. And I'm left behind. Again. I can't tell you how this makes me feel, except to say that it is a little bit like how I feel each spring when I find myself coupled with so me new-found mate. She spews out eggs; I cling to her back. Bushels of eggs bob in the water around us, my sperm frantically puncturing as many as they can. Life is suddenly set in motion, floating all around us, as we spin and wander with the current. Then, suddenly, we're through. I hop back to my apartment and the ailanthus in the backyard. She to the depths of some burbling swamp. And our 13 million babies? Will I give them nurturing? Will I ever see the results of my chromosomes? No.

      If I had to put my finger on when the changes started, I would have to say it was at a jam session over at Bird's. Ernie knew the sax player, so he had introduced us to the band. First, Bert asked if they'd like to help us work on the difference between big and little, then the drummer exposed himself and Bert fainted. Everybody huddled over him, blowing clove smoke at him to try to make him come to. When he finally did, he started flopping his arms around and yelling at Ernie. Then he stormed out.
      After things calmed down, the lead guitar player, an intensely mellow babe, made us all hold hands and meditate. To concentrate on who we were. Oscar said we were all basically fuzzy socks. No, she said, deep down inside, who are you? What makes you jump and shout? A stranger's hand, we replied. No, she said, deeper than that.
      None of us had an answer, and I think this not knowing and having to say so in unison disturbed us.

      Bird stopped by the other night. As I slid back the dead-bolts and opened my door, it occured to me that Bird must be some sort of emu, although I can't bring myself to ask. I know he still harbors dreams of flight. I've seen him in the alley, secretly flapping vestigial wings, growing teary from the effort.
      "Come in," I said. "I've got sunflower seeds in the oven."
      Bird scuffled in, dropped his heavy bones on my couch. From the kitchen I listened to him mumbling into his feathers about his near-sighted, good-for-nothing agent. I placed a steaming bowl of seeds on the coffee table, and he began working his beak through them, scattering the empty hulls on my carpet while I lay beside him, watching his crop slowly fill.
      Aren't we a sight--an eight-foot-tall bird and a frog, alone together, ignoring our positions on the food chain.
      "Kermit, there's nothing out there for me."
      "There's nothing out there for any of us."
      "There's got to be something beyond this show."
      "There's nothing, Bird. You know he only made us for this show. Nothing more. Besides, we've had a good run."

      O.K. Here's your life-story: One day you're careening about the living room the way only a pre-schooler with a belly full of apple juice can, and the next day you're in Kmart begging for a Kermit, an Ernie, a Big Bird, which your parents get you, convinced they've made an educational purchase. Then, you're on to kindergarten, sixth grade, high school--frantically dressing for your prom--while we settled to the bottom of your toy chest, our tattered fabric stained with mashed carrots, crushed under the weight of Legos and Barbies and Power Rangers.
      Meanwhile, on the way to your prom, Bud, a young man who takes great pride in the contrast between his black boxer shorts and his white trousers, drives, talking about his plans not to attend college, but to, instead, hit the game-show circuit. And so when Bud leers at you, you cannot help yourself. You undo your seatbelt and slide over the cool vinyl of his pickup's bench seat, into the crook of his anxious arm. You are impressed with his theoretical approach to the daily double. Before you know it, you've missed the dance, because you were busy getting pregnant. Twins are born. Bud has an unfortunate encounter with heavy machinery and begins collecting disability. Although he never leaves home, he insists that he is unable to help watch the kids during the day, because that is when he crams for "Jeopardy." So you deposit the kids in front of the television. And there we are. Just where you left us. Just where we left you.
      You really should have stayed and kept watching; maybe we could have helped each other.

George Rogers lives in Fairbanks. E-mail: ftglr@aurora.alaska.edu