Copeland

Speaking Down

By

Alexander S Copeland

I nodded approvingly to Allen from offstage. He met my orderly gaze for a brief moment

and then set the closing in motion with the same tagline I had written years ago, my words from

his mouth:

“Thank you for joining us and, folks, let the events that you have seen here tonight be a

reminder that one should never underestimate the rectifying power of the public opinion. Until

next time America, take care.”

The “APPLAUSE” sign lit up and the audience took their cue, erupting into an ensemble of

clapping and hollering. A graphic with accompanying voiceover was broadcast, per usual,

prompting television viewers to call a hotline where they could register and be given a chance to

appear live on the Allen O’Dell show. Allen disappeared backstage, loosened his tie and exhaled

with exhaustion, several beads of sweat still clinging to his well-shaven neck. Between

rehearsals and the actual show he had been standing upright with a microphone and vehemently

shouting sermons for the past five hours. Not to mention, Allen had been struck in the jaw by the

edge of a folding chair thrown by a crack addict with poor aim and an even poorer temper, made

all the worse by the fact that she was positioned only five feet away from the woman who had

been sleeping with her husband. He was half way to his dressing room when I reached him.

Allen was in his late forties and was trying desperately to cling on to some semblance of his pre

mid-life crisis self: he was made up of dyed black hair that he wore in a comb over, bleached

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white teeth, a carrot-hued tan, a baby blue seersucker suit pressed tighter than his own asshole,

and enough cologne to choke a small horse.

“Hey Al, that was quite a hit you took out there. I hope you’re okay,” I said, trying to seem

genuinely concerned.

“It’s all part of the job chief. I’ve been meaning to talk to you …What are we gonna do

about those ratings Ted? We’re lucky that chair got slung; it’s been a while since we’ve had

airborne objects on the show. My head hurts like a sonuvabitch but I will gladly be this show’s

martyr if it means we’re back on top” he said while massaging his jaw around with his fingertips.

“Hmm, I don’t know Allen. What are we going to do about those ratings?”

I was starting to push the envelope more and more with him and he was starting to take

notice. Sure, I was the producer with the fancy office and business card in gold-printed Romalian

type, but Allen was the “talent.” He held most the power. If I left, the studio would have to shift

some things around a bit and reorganize their budget, but without Allen, it would all fall apart.

He was the host and this was a talk-show. Essentially, Allen was the show.

“Watch it with those smartass jibes Ted,” he said as he ran his fingers through his sleek

head of chemically-altered hair. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re tenured just because

you’ve been in the business a handful of years. I’ve been in this game much longer than you,

doing the real work, and let me tell you, it’s not that easy pal. I’m sure you’re aware that your

contract is up for renewal at the end of this season, if we don’t get cancelled that is, and right

now I can’t think of too many ways you’ve been benefitting the show.”

“Whoa, let’s take a step back. We both knew this ratings dip would happen when we

started this thing. I’m doing everything I can to raise viewership and I assure you we will pull

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ahead. People are merely getting tired of the same mystery father and promiscuous teenager

shticks.”

“It would appear so. We need something more, Ted-o. We need to start getting guests who

will really draw in a crowd…and by we I mean you. You’re my producer dammit. You need to

go on a walkabout and bring in some real interesting folks, and I’m not talking about the cheap

freak show gimmicks my friend. No bearded ladies or conjoined twins.”

I raised my left eyebrow and shot him a suspicious look.

“What’s wrong with the telephone hotlines?” I asked.

“They aren’t drumming up the type of responses I’m looking for. We’re really counting on

you here buddy. Look high and low. Newspaper tabloids, online chat rooms, seedy bars,

Walmarts, whatever you have to do.”

“I’ll see what I can do. This is a big city. I’m sure there’s something out there we haven’t

seen.”

“That’s the spirit champ. You better have something good for me for next Friday.”

He began to leave but turned around at the last minute and flashed me his polyethylene

wolf’s grin brimming with capped pearly whites, shaven and molded precisely to match the

contours of his mouth.

“Go get ‘em slugger!” he said and then winked that terribly grotesque wink of his.

And with that, he walked off, leaving me utterly dumbfounded in the way only a man such

as himself, a man who owned a Rolls Royce with his name decaled in big letters along the

windshield, could.

I left my Jaguar in the studio garage and decided to take the subway home. If I was going

to give the show a shot of adrenaline in the form of a savior guest, the subterranean metropolis of

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New York City was a good place to start the search. The fall-night air was cool on my skin as I

walked from Rockefeller Center over to the 47-50th street stop and descended into the labyrinth.

The subway system was an ant farm ruled by metallic basilisks, slithering and screeching their

way through the bowels of the city. I hadn’t been down there in ages, and being there at that

moment, I remembered why I avoided it for so long. The entire station was bathed in a pale,

flickering light that sapped away at the very being of the shadowy figures that skittered through

the tunnels. A faint mechanical hum permeated through everything. The place was sterile yet

horribly filthy at the same time and everything had a perpetual drip to it. I jumped on the first

train, which happened to be headed towards Lexington Avenue. Once I reached Lexington, I got

off the train to look around in one of the nightmarish bathrooms: I figured anybody willing to use

the restrooms down there had to be an insane person.

I walked into the bathroom and saw the words written in standard black permanent marker.

They started at the top of the bathroom door and wrapped around the entire room, running over

light fixtures, pipes, mirrors, and stretching onto the sinks and stall doors. Even the urinals had

the cryptic words scrawled across them. I stood there, mesmerized by the scripture. Parts of the

writing seemed to be pieces to a bigger story that was broken up occasionally by prophetic one-

liners: “Now I am relegated to the subterranean bathroom boxes where I continue my work…

They know not what they do. How to make them see the error of their ways?...Love conquers

all…Hopefully, one day, the right subject will come along and read these words for what they

truly are.” I followed the words around the room reading different bits until I heard a faint

scratching from inside one of the stalls. Slightly terrified and overcome by curiosity, I nudged

the stall door open to reveal a gruff man dressed in tattered clothing crouched in the corner. He

was wearing a dirt-streaked, puke-green colored beanie, a faded white t-shirt and a worn jean

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jacket with a gaping hole in the left elbow and several black streaks of filth running across it.

With fingerless woolen gloves and a brown string knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was

exactly what you’d expect a streetwise burnout to look like. He was shaking a marker in his hand

and mumbling to himself.

“Come on ya… Just a little more.”

I knocked on the stall to announce my presence and the man spun around.

“Whatsa? Oh, hey. Sorry fella. This one’s taken. Do you happen to have a pen?”

His voice was mellow and friendly as if he was completely comfortable despite his current state

of affairs. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties and had olive skin, hazel eyes, a nicely

groomed chinstrap/goatee combo and stringy chestnut hair that flowed down to his shoulders.

“No, I’m sorry. Did you write all this?” I asked, waving my hand in a sweeping motion.

“Yessir. Why? You like it?”

“It seems quite... profound from the small bit I’ve gleaned.

“Well thank you much brother. I have to get the message out somewhere: the truth, you

know? Seemed like a good place to go with all the people constantly flowing in and out,” said

the stranger, still shaking his marker.

“Yes. Yes I do know” I replied, feigning encouragement.

This guy seemed like the exact type of quirky idiot savant I was looking for. He wasn’t a

screaming surface-psychopath, but the way he looked and the things he wrote gave me hope for

his insanity. Plus, the show had suffered from too many of the same over-energized, bombastic

guests. Here was a man who had subtlety to his lunacy. Not even an hour after I had left the

studio and I had already found a gem of madness in the rough of the NYC psychosphere. What

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type of awfully good luck had befallen me? I had been mulling over letting my contract with the

network expire without renewal but this man had given me hope for the future.

“Hey, this might seem strange, but are you hungry? I know a pretty good diner on the street

above us. What do you say to getting a bite with me?” I couldn’t pass up this chance.

“Wow, now there’s a nice gesture. I haven’t had a decent supper in ages. Sure, I’ll grab a

meal with you. I really appreciate it. I’m going to need your name though.”

“I’m Ted Iscariot. What’s yours?” I reached out my hand for a shake but he batted it away

and pulled me in for a hug. I inhaled his scent: one of stale fish and cheap wine.

“All my friends call me Jay. Let’s go Ted. I’ve been working up quite the appetite.”

*****

I loathed my job but oh boy, did it pay well. I was in the business of feeding Americans

their own self-aggrandizement in twenty-minute segments at a time. Every week, viewers would

tune in to watch another domestic train wreck sponsored by McDonald’s cheeseburgers and

green coffee-bean extract diet pills. One prominent television reviewer in the New York Times

called the Allen O’Dell show, “the epitome of degradation among any outlet of modern day mass

communication.” The ratings were fantastic. People loved being reassured that, no matter how

twisted or trivial or trite their own lives felt, there were always others out there who were entirely

more screwed up, and with that screwiness also came a great deal of shameless entertainment.

The viewers couldn’t get enough, up until our eleventh year on the air that is. Even though a

septuagenarian dwarf marrying a Cocker Spaniel named Stu may seem out of the ordinary, you

play the same variation of oddities over and over again and, eventually, even the oddities become

banal.

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I had entered into the industry of journalism as a young Columbia graduate with hopes of

becoming a star journalist, exposing the types of government cover-ups and shady backroom

business deals that would open the eyes of the public to the mass of corruption that had befallen

our society. What I unknowingly signed up for was a section of the entertainment industry

disguised as reporters who disseminated base information and so called “news” stories to a

blissfully ignorant public. These “news” stories mostly consisted of murder reports, celebrity

scandals, political dramas, stories about what hot products were selling the most, and whatever

perpetuated fear. What they teach you in journalism school is that those who are afraid are more

easily persuaded and tend to stay tuned in longer, and from what I’ve seen, more often than not

people try to escape what they fear by withdrawing into a comfortable nest of manufactured

commodities that they have built for themselves. Newsflash: It Doesn’t Work.

I started my career feeding into this commercialized information machine by writing those

very same pop-articles. I struggled finding work out of school so I had to settle for a job at The

New York Post, one of those sensationalist tabloid papers. The first professional article I ever

wrote was titled “What The Government Isn’t Telling You About Public Busing May Kill You!”

If only. I should have been writing “Our Government: Why They’re Willing to Kill You.” I was

only at The Post a few months before I quickly became fed up with my role in perpetuating the

downfall of honest-to-goodness journalism. I was writing articles like “There’s a Cat in My

Gyro!!” and “What Happened to Brittany?” when I started peppering in my own rebellious

musings to jam up the gears of the system. At the end of a piece entitled “Terrorist Plot

Threatening Macy’s Day Parade?” I wrote: “…but we must take care to remember that not all

followers of the religion of Islam, or any religion for that matter, are of the same nature as those

acolytes who display the violent and predatory characteristics that give way to the disastrous

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events we have witnessed in the past. The overzealous few that work towards a false cause are

not indicative of the devout majority, and to judge the whole based on the actions of the

extremists is, itself, an exercise in extremism.” I’m not sure if a few of the editors at The Post

were sympathetic to my quest for moral righteousness or if they were just plain bad at their jobs,

but somehow, my writing got through un-tampered.

I had only been on the Post for six months when Allen O’Dell contacted me. At that time,

Allen was still budding into the utterly detestable slime that he would later become. He still had

somewhat of a passion for true journalism back then. We both did. Allen would occasionally

read The Post as a source for frivolous laughs, and he noticed what I was silently doing with my

articles. He called me and offered me a job. Allen had worked as an anchor on various television

news stations around New York and was looking to start his very own hour-long, live talk show

called Breaking The Silence with a drive towards investigative reporting. It was a rather tasteful

program. Daniel Lieberman, a renown thirty-seven year old who spent a decade doing similar in-

the-field investigative reporting was looking to settle down and do something within the confines

of a studio. The show centered on topical discussions between two people or groups with

opposing viewpoints, Lieberman being the mediator between the two. I was offered a position as

writer and accepted with great anticipation for the future of my career.

The program outperformed expectations. We had episodes ranging from a debate on illegal

immigration between two politically opposed senators to a heated discussion on abortion

between a diehard Protestant church and a group of woman’s right activists. Armed with the

topics and questions written by myself and the other diligent writers, Lieberman respectfully

moderated the debates and oft-boiling tempers of the guests, making sure the situations never

escalated to the point of instability. Ratings were doing well and steadily inclining. It was the

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closest I had ever come to reaching my lofty goals as a journalist. The show had been on the air

for about a year and a half. And then the episode of May 12, 1998 went live.

*****

We were seated at the counter of Trinity’s Diner, a little eatery inside a hollowed out metal

train car from the 1960’s. Jay was on his third course: a stack of plate-sized banana pancakes

drenched in golden-brown syrup and topped with walnuts. Despite his obvious hunger, he

abstained from sloppily shoving the food into his mouth. He ate slowly and with great dignity,

savoring every bite as if it were his last.

“Let me tell you Ted, you people really know how to eat” he said to me after swallowing a

syrupy chunk of banana.

“Are you not from around here Jay?”

“Not originally. I ‘m just passing through, although, I have to admit, I’ve been living in

New York longer than anticipated, and you all need a lot of help. When I first moved here, I tried

to hold my teachings in public but nobody really seemed to listen to me. I knew I had to draw a

crowd. I gave the gift of sight to a blind man in New Hampshire and he ran away from me

screaming that I was a witch. I appeared at a funeral in Vermont and told the grieving that I

would raise Grandpa Walter from the dead. When I touched the coffin, it began to shake and the

pastor hesitantly opened it. When Walter rose up, the family immediately started bickering about

which one of them could be so neglectful as to bury Grandpa alive; they seemed to forget

entirely that I was there and wouldn’t listen no matter how many times I tried to interject, so I

left.”

“No kidding!” I offered.

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“Yeah, and when I levitated and walked across The Lake in Central Park several people

told me that some guy named David Blaine did it better. I eventually decided the whole miracle

thing was too much for people to take in right off the bat so I decided to go for a more subtle

approach with the graffiti.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Blaine, he’s a fraud. So, where do you originally come from?” I

asked, honestly intrigued by this perplexing nomad.

“North.” He pointed upwards with his finger.

“So like, New Hampshire or Maine?”

“Kind of. My father and I got into a huge fight and then he kicked me out of our home. He

told me that I needed to go do my job, whatever he thinks that is. I started my journey in Maine

and made my way down to New York several months ago.”

“What do you mean by journey?”

“Well, everybody is on their own journey. Even you, Ted” he said with a warm smile.

“Oh, you mean like a lifelong, metaphorical journey. Okay. So what’s yours?”

“Mine? Mine is one of enlightenment, though not my own.” He spoke while gesticulating

to me as if he were trying to sell me something. “So many I have encountered are going about

life the wrong way. Somebody has to set them on the right path. I think that’s what I’m supposed

to be doing and I’m definitely qualified, being the son of God and all.”

I almost choked on a piece of ice I was in the middle of swallowing from my cup of water.

He waved the waitress over and asked for a cup of coffee with two creams and a lot of sugar.

Within our first couple of minutes in the diner, I had decided that Jay would be perfect for the

show, but this was just too good. He was intriguing, mysterious, looked crazy, and was filled

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with the type of incendiary self-righteousness that was sure to get the audience riled up. But

this…he thought he was the second coming of Christ! Who could ask for more?

“So you’re really Jesus?” I asked him, playing along with his delusion.

“Yeah, but you’re inclined to not believe me. Nobody has. I mean I can’t really blame them

seeing as I haven’t been around for ohhh, two thousand years or so now.”

“As a matter of fact, I do believe you. There was something about you when I first saw

you. It drew me to you. Almost like a strong aura. Now it all makes sense.” I was really laying it

on thick, appealing to his messiah complex in the best way I could.

“Aura huh? I mean, that’s quite possible. My old Apostles told me they felt a sort of

ethereal vibration when they were with me. I thought you were a spiritual looking guy. It’s

refreshing to be with someone who has faith when so many seem to have lost it. You’re probably

still a bit skeptical even if you say you aren’t. Assuming you believe me to be who I claim to be,

would you have any questions for me?”

“Actually, sir, none come to mind regarding religion. I’m not very religious myself. But

don’t get me wrong, it’s an honor to know you.”

“Don’t worry Ted. Religion is just a manifestation of concentrated spirituality. A lot of

religious followers mean well but their religions don’t even have the story right. The stories of

what actually happened have been tampered with by so many human hands over the years. For

starters, the whole David and Goliath thing? I knew David and Goliath, and let me tell you,

David was a twig compared to that giant. David walked right up there with a little rock shooter

thing, like that was going to do anything, and Goliath eviscerated him with one thrust of his

spear. No, true spirituality, for the individual, lies in the heart. Reciting the same prayers written

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by men hundreds of years ago isn’t going to save you if you’re a terrible person. And religious or

not, you have your role to play. We all do.” He stared unwaveringly into my eyes for a moment.

“Well that’s good to hear…Jesus, sir, I have a proposition for you.”

“Please, none of that sir or Lord and Savior stuff. Just call me Jay. I want to connect with

your kind so don’t put me on a pedestal.”

I was ready to make my proposal.

“Jay, I have a proposition for you. I run a TV show. Not sure whether you’ve seen it or not

during your travels, but it’s a sort of public forum where people come to discuss their ideas in a

participatory setting. I’d love to have you on to share your views. Usually we only have each

guest on for a twenty-minute slot, but I’m willing to keep you on for a full hour if the audience

reacts well to your message. That way, you would be able to reach a huge number of people.”

The waitress came over and handed Jay his coffee, a dark inky color.

“I’m sorry, but we out of cream dear,” said the waitress.

“That’s okay child. You are forgiven” He turned to me with the mug in his hand. “You

know what, that sounds like a great idea. Maybe I just haven’t been going about this preaching

thing the right way.” He took a sip and looked down into his cup with a slight grimace. “You

know, after how long I had to consume bitters you think I’d be used to the taste by now.” He

chuckled and put the cup to his lips again. “How big of an audience are we talking?”

“Our live audience is usually around two hundred people but on a good day we can have

ten million people across the nation watching us.”

He thought to himself for a moment, sipping his coffee. “What if people don’t like what I

have to say?” he asked.

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“If you truly believe the words you hold in your mind and heart, then you have to speak

them, whether or not you think people will listen or agree. This is your chance to do that”

“You know what. You’re right. Let’s do it. But, Ted, you might have to buy me a new

suit.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can wear what you have on. You should take pride in who you

are. I take pride in knowing you, and I just met you.” Allen would have been proud of such sly

manipulation. Jay put the cup of coffee back on the counter and I asked the waitress for the

check. It may have just been my imagination or the lighting of the diner, but inside the mug I

saw the remaining coffee: a light, creamy beige.

*****

During the summer, ratings notoriously started to slip with the coming of the warmth and

sunshine, and the summer of ’98 had particularly beautiful weather. In order to fight the

temporary ratings drought and draw in a larger viewer base, Allen wanted to try something a bit

more daring. The topic of race had never played a prominent role in the show because the

network was scared to touch on it, especially with the Rodney King beatings and ensuing LA

Race Riots only a few years before. As Executive Producer of the show, Allen was in the

position to spearhead a segment dealing with racial tensions, and the entire crew was on board,

including me. He told the network heads that we were going to hold a debate between a group of

“inner city black kids” and some “backwoods white folks.” After some of Allen’s patented

silver-tongued persuasion, he got the go ahead. What he failed to mention, however, was that the

“white folks” were actually KKK members and the “black kids” were members of a radical

social-reform group founded in 1989 called the New Black Panther Party.

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Each group sent four people to represent and explain their warped ideals, but they were

given the same vague descriptions of each other that Allen had pitched to the network. Sure

enough, come the night of the show, the KKK and NBPP members were quite surprised to see

whom they were really going to be speaking with, and even more enraged. A disclaimer was

broadcast denoting that the program might contain language and situations of an explicit nature

and was not intended to promote any of the viewpoints held by the show’s guests. Right out of

the gate, the show was set to be a disaster. Lieberman’s first question was to a fully hooded and

robed Robert Hays, the leader of a Syracuse based sector of the KKK.

“So why is it that you have such a great disdain for African Americans?”

We immediately got calls from the network to shut the show down, but it was too late. The

debate was already underway, and it would continue whether the cameras were on or not. It was

twenty minutes into the debate and at the behest of Allen we were still rolling. Word of what we

were attempting must have spread quickly because we soon had more viewers tuned in than any

other point during the show’s almost two-year history. Allen, believe it or not, was going to have

us cut to commercial and pull the program, but then we got the call to continue on from Vince

Hill, the network’s chairman, who had even less of a conscience than Allen at that time.

Lieberman was doing a hell of a job keeping the discussion from devolving into little more than

racist-charged hate speech, but eventually the charade fell apart. The man had no chance. We

were throwing the lion-tamer into the den without a whip, and it became increasingly more

apparent as the program spiraled out of control. Soon enough, tempers had reached maximum

heat and the men were out of their chairs pointing fingers and spewing slurs. Lieberman put his

hand on Hays’ shoulder to get him to sit down, with which Hays replied by planting an elbow in

his face. The live audience jolted from their seats in awe, the cameras were cut, the police were

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called and the stage of Breaking The Silence became a flurry of ravenous limbs fueled by

centuries of social prejudices and xenophobia. We made international headlines.

In the aftermath of the tragedy, everybody was talking about Breaking The Silence. Some

of the more astute news sources decried the show and those involved for allowing such an

explosive gathering of radicals to ever see the light of day, but for the most part, the show was

lauded for its daring foray into the world of alternative broadcast journalism. Dan Lieberman

was exalted as a fearless reporter trying to expose the inner workings and complexities of the

human plague that is racism. He had a broken nose and quit immediately after, denouncing the

managers of the show as idiotic popularity whores. All the heat for the televised brawl fell to

Vince Hill who lost his job as network head for allowing the show to continue on. Breaking The

Silence was cancelled, and by some miracle of business hierarchy, Allen was able to keep his

job, although he would switch back to hosting shows instead of producing them so that he could

remove his one, giant production mishap from the spotlight. In fact, within a month we were

getting offers from networks across the country to run a similar TV program. The Lieberman

incident changed the face of television talk shows forever.

We switched to a different network but Allen wanted us to stay in New York because,

according to him, “it’s where all the action is, baby.” We had an offer to do another hour-long

talk show split into three twenty-minute segments. The entire thing was going to be based on the

same type of shock and awe interactions that resulted in the Lieberman incident: a carnival of

political incorrectness and insensitivity. I stayed on as head writer for a time until I was

promoted to executive producer. I thought that I was staying true to what I wanted. I thought that

at least there would be a substantial amount of honesty in exposing the faces of American

radicals to the public. That exposure soon turned into exploitation, and Allen and I became the

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poster children. If the selling out of my values and integrity has to be boiled down to one

moment, it would have to be the moment I signed the dotted line on Allen’s contract to

effectively become underboss of the tyrannical media magnate known as the Allen O’Dell show.

At first, I was ecstatic. Who wouldn’t be? My very own show being broadcast from the Big

Apple. My aspirations of exposing some fraudulent politician and winning a Pulitzer Prize

quickly transformed into a sort of Scrooge McDuck wet dream. Whatever shred of journalistic

integrity the show exuded was quickly tossed aside. It may sound like an excuse, but it’s very

difficult to stick to your morals when the money is coming in as it was back then, and the money

was vitally tied to the show’s absolute lack of moral character. Our stage was furnished with

security guards so as to prevent any melees and the live audience was filled with people as

profane and provocative as the guests. If we were going to do this thing, we were going to do it

right.

Allen’s main goal was to instigate feuds between the guests and audience, and at the end of

each segment we took audience questions or comments, which almost always served to

perpetuate feelings of rage amongst the guests. It wasn’t long until other talk shows imitating our

style sprang up across the country. Some well established shows even shifted their model to

mirror ours in an attempt to boost ratings. During our peak in the early 2000’s, we were the most

watched talk show on American television, even beating the greats such as Oprah Winfrey and

Dr. Phil. Towards the beginning of the tenth season, around the time we aired the highly popular

episode called “War of the Hookers,” I was beginning to question whether or not I had chosen

the right path in life, and our long ratings winning streak started to die down. Money only equals

happiness until you run out of things to buy.

*****

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It was the night of the show and Jay sat on a leather sofa in the green room, awaiting his

trial. Allen walked by me backstage and patted me on the back.

“If everything you said is accurate, this one’s gonna be a winner. Jesus Christ! I can feel

it!” he said mockingly.

It was customary on the show that the guests wouldn’t meet Allen in person until they went live

on air. That way the guests weren’t afforded any opportunities to connect with Allen on a

personal level; the social distance was necessary so that the guests didn’t feel they had a friend in

the ring, so to speak. Everyone had to be on even ground, except for Allen who upheld an

arbiter-like presence in the eyes of the guests. I walked into the greenroom and sat down next to

Jay.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

There was a few minutes before show time. We sat in silence for a moment until he turned to me

and spoke again.

“I can tell, deep down, you mean well Ted, you’re just confused where to go in life. It’s

okay. I think all will be made clear after tonight.”

I was somewhat astonished by his words. Could he see through my ruse? Did he figure out it was

all a ploy on behalf of the show?

“Um, maybe you’re right. Regardless, I think what you have to say will be important, and

this is the best place to say it.”

“Ted, it’s not your fault. Whatever happens out there, I want you to know, it’s not your

fault.”

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Right there, looking into his hazel eyes filled with nothing but understanding and kindness, I felt

an overwhelming sensation of loss as my heart sank in my chest. I struggled to hold back the

inexplicable tears welling in my eyes and what I said next came rolling from my lips as if by the

will of some unseen, benevolent force.

“I’m sorry Jay. I’m so sorry. I never meant for it to be like this, any of it. The show and the

city and the people, and, and me. Please, just try to forgive us. That’s all I ask. Please forgive

us.”

“Of course you will be forgiven, and I’m sorry too. I don’t know where you went astray,

but I wish I could have helped to prevent it. Come here” he motioned for me.

And there I was, clutched in the embrace of a self-proclaimed prophet I found in the

subway bathrooms of New York City, happy, and I mean actually, truly happy, for the first time

in years.

The loudspeaker of the green room clicked on and a woman’s voice announced that we

were on in five. I was compelled to give him a hug, which he gladly accepted, before I got up

and walked out to the stage.

“Go spread the word,” I said to him.

The regular title sequence ran and Allen walked on.

“Hello folks. Tonight we have a very special guest joining us, a man who claims to know

the very meaning of life; a man who says we have all been living erroneously and wishes to

show us the proper path to enlightenment. Without further ado, please let me introduce to you,

hailing from the great New York City subway system, Mr. Jaaayyyy!”

The crowd was devouring it. Jay walked onto stage accompanied by applause and some mild

laughter.

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“So Jay. It seems that you disagree with the way in which many Americans are living, is

that correct?” continued Allen.

“That is correct sir, but not only Americans, people all over the world. They have lost sight

of what is real. They have wandered too far away from the light. I am here to guide them.”

Boos and chiding laughter from the crowd.

“I have to ask, because of your rhetoric. Are you a religious man Jay?”

“Well I’m glad you asked. No I am not traditionally religious, although I am filled with the

utmost spirituality.”

“So, what makes you think that so many people are living in the shadows as you say?”

Jay turned to face the audience and cameras. Here was his big primetime moment.

“Many of you live out of greed, obsessed with money and sex and consumed by a violence

that is both physical and social. You’re only concern is what benefits yourself. You pay no mind

to the well being of others and you will destroy all that is truly good so long as you have your

way. The world and its people are collapsing because you do not treat them with the care and

respect they deserve. I have seen the end of days Allen, and the fire will consume everything if

you do not change your ways. Love and kindness are the only things that can cure you. You must

open your hearts before it is too late.”

“It looks like our audience wants to say something. Let’s go to the floor.”

A skinny woman with gold hoop earrings, a fake blonde hairdo, the word “JUICY” printed

across her ass in pink balloon letters, and a Long Island accent was handed a mic.

“Yeah, I’m a Roman Catholic born n raised, and I just wanna say, Jay right? I just wanna

say, what makes yous think you know it all? Why you think you’re better than us?”

“Yeah! Go back to the sewers!” shouted a man in the audience.

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“One at a time please folks,” Allen mitigated. “Jay, your rebuttal?”

“You must trust me. You must have faith that what I tell you is real. Many of the doctrines

of what you call Roman Catholicism are false.” I claim to be no better than any of you. You all

have the potential to live a life of righteousness and virtue. I am only here because I know the

truth. I am the Son of God, Jesus Christ.” With those words he looked to the ceiling as if seeking

acknowledgement from his purported father.

The crowd became hostile and people started booing in unison. What ensued was a sort of

public suicide or, should I say, self-execution. Jay went on and on about being sincere, living in

harmony, having a purpose in life. He also deprecated the doctrines of a dozen different religions

and personally called out several men and women in the audience for living unjustly. We weren’t

even at our first segmented break when things got too out of hand. People were cursing Jay out

left and right, screaming at him for being a phony, being a heathen; one elderly woman even

accused him of being one of Satan’s minions and a homosexual.

“We’re going to cut to a commercial break and we’ll have more for you when we return,”

Allen said with yet another fake smile.

I looked at Jay from my position offstage and his face called to my mind a visage in a

painting I saw during my Catholic school days: “Christ Carrying the Cross” by the Greek artist

El Greco. I wondered then if I had actually sold out the son of Christ for some useless television

ratings. Jay claimed to love everyone in the audience and wished them all happiness and

prosperity, and that’s when something in the collective psyche of the crowd snapped. The

audience rushed the stage, the full force of over a hundred people easily overpowering the two

security guards. The two men were lost in the stampede as the wave of hysterics overtook the

stage and eventually Jay who had gone limp, allowing the barrage of people to capture him. I

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stood up on a nearby chair and yelled my pleas for serenity into the crowd all to no avail. In the

center of everything was Allen who had taken charge of the ensemble and was whipping Jay

with his necktie as others encircled Jay and beat him down with their hands, fists and whatever

instrument of attack they could find. A few people broke off from the billowing mass of pugilism

and grabbed several industrial light stands that were set off to the side of the stage. Using an

assortment of black cables and wires they ripped from the camera and sound equipment, they

began lashing the metal stands together into a fixed t-shape. Allen and another man hoisted Jay

atop the crowd, which proceeded to move him over to the object upon a sea of undulating hands.

Jay was laid down on the fixture and the mass of people tied his arms and legs down to each of

the metal ends. I couldn’t help but to cry over the madness of it all. The entire metal and wire

fixture with Jay strapped to it was propped up above the audience members as if it were a parade

float and Jay closed his eyes as his battered head slumped down to his chest. The chanting of the

crowd grew louder and louder as the room shook with vigor: “DOWN WITH JAY DOWN

WITH JAY”

The light rack that dangled from the ceiling above the crowd vibrated uncontrollably. Then

with a quick popping sound and a bright white flash, every light bulb on the rack burst in unison

showering the congregation underneath with a spray of multicolored sparks and glass shards.

Luckily, being outside of the blast radius, I reopened my unscathed eyes to assess the situation.

Everyone seemed to be awaking from a stupor: some people contorted their bloody faces in

disgust at the scene, some people looked utterly dumbfounded and still others wept somberly to

themselves, over what, they probably did not know. On the floor rested the cable-bound fixture

though Jay was nowhere to be seen. Allen sat with his forehead in his palms, gobs of blood and

bits of broken glass falling between his spread fingers.

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“I quit” I said to nobody at all.

I walked out of the studio replaying Jay’s words in my head. I was done profiting off the

stupidity and misery of others, being a human leech. Whatever happened in that studio and

whoever Jay was, I felt that what transpired, while cruel and gruesome and sad, I felt it was

necessary, a blessing in disguise. I don’t know why it needed to happen or what was to be gained

from it all, but I believe that he’s out there somewhere, maybe writing something on a bathroom

stall, and if I can be sure of one thing, it’s this: I hope we never have to see him again.

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