The Fourth Wall

The moment I saw Elon Musk staring at me from the television I should have walked away. It's so clear to me now. Why didn't I simply turn it off and ask the wife if she would like to go for a walk or even suggest going out for a coffee? Anything would have saner than what I did instead.

After fifty years of work, I finally decided to retire. I certainly felt like I had earned it. Is that really too much to ask for? Isn't that the American dream?

So, I poured a bag of Frito's into a big bowl and filled a frosty mug with beer and retreated to the television room. But when I turned it on, I saw Musk briefing the president and his staff. Since I get my news from the daily paper - it's easier on my blood pressure - naturally I switched channels. But with each and every click of the remote Musk appeared with his cat ate the canary grin, and I grew more and more exasperated.

I'm retired! I wanted to yell. Let me watch some action flick or something funny!

I got so angry, I began jamming all of the buttons on the remote at random, even the ones that never do anything useful. But it did not matter. Every stinkin' channel was hijacked by Musk and company!

And then IT happened.

Elon turned and starred straight at the camera barking, "Hey you, yeah you, stop bouncing around! we're trying to save you tax money!"

Self-consciously, I pointed a finger at my chest, my mouth at half-mast.

"Yeah, you ... Frito man." Any sane person would have hit the power button or at the very least pulled the plug. But nooo, I just sat there inviting flies to buzz in an out of my gaping mouth.

The President, scowling in a reasonable facsimile of the stern guy in charge, suddenly asked me - "Why aren't you at work?"

I managed to squeak, "I'm retired, Mr. President."

"I've got this, Mr. President," Musk said and then turned to me again. But he was not Musk anymore, Samuel L. Jackson pointed a big ass pistol at me, his arm coming out of my television as I knocked my Frito's into the air in terror.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "Did I break your concentration? I didn't mean to do that."

Before I could stop myself, I said "What?"

He replied, "They speak English in What?" and then cocked the pistol.

Mercifully Musk returned before Mr. Jackson began the Ezekiel speech, but too late for my dignity. I definitely lost a little pee in the exchange. Maybe not so little.

Elon asked, "You on the government dole, Mr. Cox?"

"What?"

Should I invite Mr. Jackson back?"

"Please don't," I simpered.

"Are you drawing Social Security?"

"Yes," I mumbled, suddenly feeling like a truant.

"You have five days to email me five productive things you did last week or I'm taking you off of the dole.

"What?"

But this time Mr. Jackson AKA Jules Winfield and John Travolta AKA Vincent Vega were standing in my television room with their guns pointed at my chest. I may have promised God to never watch another Quentin Taratino movie ever again.

I may have also made a very loud and unmanly shriek because my wife ran into the room but stopped dead at the Fritos all over the carpet and one of her fine China bowls upside down on the coffee table and clearly chipped.

Fortunately, Jules and Vincent vanished and instead of Musk, Jackie Gleason as Ralph Kramden was shaking his fist and yelling at his wife. "I swear, one of these days, Alice. Pow! Right to the moon!"

After giving me an earful about the mess, her ruined China and an unsolicited editorial comment about my choice of programming, she asked what on earth had happened. I told her I had a sudden cramp - I could not very well have told her the truth - and she left the room.

I literally dove for the television plug and pulled it out. But before I determined which was more important, a fresh pair of underwear or cleaning up the mess, someone began pounding on the door.

My wife hollered, " Can you get that?" So, I made a beeline to our entrance. When I opened the door, a half dozen television cameras pointed at me, two news vans were parked on our driveway, two on the lawn and two in the street. A reporter stuck a microphone in my face and demanded, "Are you a productive citizen, Mr. Cox?

I said "What?" and then covered my face in expectation of a hail of bullets. I swear "What?" had become a reflex. When the reporters started yelling more questions, I wisely closed the door.

Of course, all of the commotion drew my wife. At first, I assumed that once she looked out the window, the camera's, reporters and their vans would disappear like Jules and Vincent had when she entered the living room. But this time was different.

Pointing out the window. she asked "What do they want?"

"To know if I'm a productive citizen," I answered meekly.

She laughed harder than I appreciated under the circumstances. "And why do they want to know that?" she asked, still chuckling.

I told her about Musk's demand and the threat to cut off my Social Security benefits but left out the whole television imbroglio.

She grinned, suddenly very pleased. "Since you are retired, I think you should knock out a few of those household chores you never seem to have time for. In fact, five of them come immediately to mind. That should satisfy Mr. Musk don't you think?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I suggest you get started now, unless you want to invite Jules and Vincent back into the house to lay some vengeance and furious anger on your old behind."

How did she know about that?