Into the camera eye he peered. Always staring, never blinking. Watching. But
for what?
He didn't even know.
But he did know—or at least he had a strong suspicion-that when he saw what he was waiting for, then he would know.
His wife unfortunately didn't share his belief.
"Phillip! Get away from that thing! You're frightening me!" she vainly pleaded. Once she even tried to physically pull him away from the video camera, but to no avail.
He was a man possessed.
But possessed by what, or whom? She could scarcely even imagine. All she knew was that her husband had been staring into that little viewfinder for over sixteen hours and that it was getting light outside as dawn began to peek over the horizon.
That damned camera—poached so innocently upon its tripod in front of the living room window. But what was it even pointed at? The Henderson's garage as far as she could tell. Or was he trying to see in through their window?
"I'm going to call the police!" she threatened in final desperation.
"You wouldn't call the police on me, Cassie," he said, never taking his eye away from the viewfinder. "Besides, what would they do? I'm breaking no law. You would just end up getting a good scolding. Maybe even arrested yourself for wasting their time."
"I'm not going to have you arrested," she hysterically replied. "I'm going to have you committed!"
For the first time in nearly seventeen hours Phil Mullins turned away from the camera and faced his completely disheveled wife. She stood there trembling, rivers of makeup streaming down her soft red cheeks.
And then he laughed.
It wasn't a giggle, or even a chuckle, but a full, hearty, gut-wrenching, rip-roaring laugh which only frightened her that much more.
"You'll have me committed???" he finally said. "Cassie, I'm not crazy!" Then suddenly a thought visibly flashed across his face. "Actually, I am crazy for standing here talking to you! I can't take my eyes off this camera!"
He immediately turned and resumed his steadfast gaze into the viewfinder. "Cassie, I cannot tell you how important this is to me," he said out the side of his mouth. "Not right now. You're just going to have to take my word for it. I am not crazy. When this is all over with, then I'll have time to explain. But not now. So please just go get some sleep!"
Cassandra started to say something and then stopped herself. She sighed her disapproval and then quietly disappeared into their bedroom.
I should have had her make me some coffee, Phillip reflected in dismay.
Act II: The Twist
Phillip was keeping his eye on a dirty old Garden Weasel propped up against
the far wall inside The Hendersons' garage.
Phil was crazy as a loon in case I haven't mentioned it, which seems to be a pretty popular condition for characters in my stories for some reason.
He stared and stared and stared at that Garden Weasel just waiting for it to do something. Anything.
After he had been watching it for nearly 22 hours, and while his exhausted wife lay sleeping in the bedroom, it moved just a little bit.
And then the damndest thing happened. That Garden Weasel began to dance.
It knew all the steps—the Twist, the Tango, the Watusi, the Hanky Panky; even the Funky Chicken! It swayed and waltzed and tap-danced and even moonwalked. Phil could scarcely believe his eyes.
"Cassie!" he screamed, "Get in here! It's happening! It's happening!"
Cassandra shambled groggily into the living room.
"Look!" Phil said, stepping aside so she could see it for herself. She bent down to gaze into the viewfinder.
And saw a Garden Weasel leaning against a wall.
Phil pushed her aside and looked again. "I can hardly believe it!" he said. It's actually happening! And I have proof! I've got it all right here on Betamax!"
Cassandra worriedly gazed at her husband of 17 years and shook her head. "All those years stocking shelves at the hardware store have finally caught up with you, Phillip." she told him. "You're crazy, honey. I want a divorce!"
"I am NOT crazy!" Phil exclaimed.
"Yes, you are" Cassandra reiterated.
"Am not!" he insisted.
"Am too," she replied.
"Am not!" he repeated.
"Am too," she responded.
"Am not!" he said.
"Am not," she echoed.
"Am too!" he shouted, not realizing that he had just demonstrated himself to be every bit as sane as Daffy Duck.
"I told you so!" Cassandra bellowed.
Suddenly Phil flashed back to his days in Vietnam, to the sweltering heat and the dark jungle nights, to sitting in front of a television set in Saigon watching Bug Bunny cartoons in Vietnamese.
"My God, I am crazy!" he realized aloud.
Act III: The Recovery Process
They say that realizing you have a problem is the first step in overcoming it.
But I say having the problem in the first place is actually the first step.
Phil and Cassandra sought therapy, and $58,000 later Phil was convinced that he hadn't really seen The Hendersons' Garden Weasel dancing a jig in a puddle of motor oil. Their marriage was temporarily salvaged for 18 more years, until that fateful morning when Phil stumbled across the old Betamax tape he had recorded on that distant day.
He found it when he was rummaging around in the attic looking for a copy of his will. He had wanted to reexamine the document in order to reassess the worthiness of everyone therewithin mentioned. Instead of the will he found the old Betamax tape and, despite his therapist's warnings from nearly twenty years ago, proceeded with it directly to the basement and plugged in his old Betamax machine.
Cassandra walked in on him watching the tape while carrying a basketful of laundry.
When it had finally finished he turned to face her.
"You knew," was all he could say.
She turned away from him and covered her face in shame and remorse.
"You bitch!" he exclaimed. "You knew I wasn't crazy and yet you made me spend our life savings on some useless junk psychotherapy! Why, Cassie? Why?"
[Stay Tuned For The Final Act…]
The Final Act
Cassandra ran sobbing up the stairs and straight into their bedroom where she
locked the door and, taking Phil's loaded .38 caliber pistol from the nightstand
drawer, proceed to blow her spleen out.
Phil busted down the door and could only shake his head in disgust.
"So it was you who were crazy, Cassie," he said to the pile of fleshy pulp lying on their bed. "It was you all along."
Without a moment to spare he proceeded back down to the basement and retrieved his old Betamax recorder and brought it upstairs and set it up again on its tripod in the front window facing The Albertsons' (formerly The Hendersons') garage.
He pulled up a chair and began staring into the viewfinder, determined not
to so much as blink until he saw that old Garden Weasel who was the greatest
dancer since Fred Astaire return and do its stuff.
THE END
© 2023 Randy Bone