Reel VS Real = ???

By N*V*ER

The radio crackled to life.  "Attention!  All vehicles!  Crowd control
assistance requested at the RanierSite Hotel. . .  Repeat. . .All
vehicles. . .even Ellison's hayseed truck. . ."

Blair Sandburg jerked his head at his partner, Jim Ellison.  They
were, at present, inside said hayseed truck.  "Uh, Jim, did you hear that?"

"Yeah."  Jim glanced at his partner in crime - er, law enforcement -
. and commented slowly, "They don't usually pull in Major Crimes
detectives on crowd control."

"Jim, they called this a hayseed truck!"

"Well, it isn't a fine Ford Explorer, now is it? This is a hayseed
truck.  No doubt about it."

Blair stared out the window as the truck zoomed down the busy streets
of Cascade. He had a feeling this was going to be a highly unusual day.
His Guide senses were starting to tingle.  He had a feeling Jim might be
walking into trouble.  And if Jim were walking into trouble, he would
only be steps behind, as usual. . .unless Jim tossed him out in front to
be the bait. He was always being exposed to danger because of his association with
this man.  What was it that kept him by this man's side through all the
horrors, the ups and downs of their daily lives, the insane mood swings that
comprised the essence of  Jim Ellison?  Was it their partnership?
Dare he think it. . .their deep abiding friendship forged through
unimaginable trials and tribulations?

Naw.  It was the money he was gonna rake in on that book he was gonna
write about the man with the super senses.  Dissertation?  PhD in
Anthropology?

HA!  Why would a smart man settle for that?  This book would bring
him wealth, fame, movie deals, a chance to be on Oprah!  Sure, it would
expose Jim to the criminal element out to kill him. .  .but the man took
risks for a living.  He was a cop, after all. C'est la vie!

The RainierSite Hotel was swarming with women.  Tall women, short
women, pretty women, not so pretty women, -- they were everywhere!  They all
wore similar expressions on their faces: admiration, appreciation, and
respect had been replaced with primal lust.  Several carried small buckets with
the words "my drool bucket - get your own!" scribbled on them.

Blair sensed something was going on.

Rafe approached the two as they got out of the hayseed truck.  His
handsome face was composed, but Ellison noticed the sense of unease within the
man's hazel eyes.  Rafe greeted Ellison with a shake of the head.
"Unbelievable, Ellison."

Jim surveyed the scene.  He could hear many women muttering names,
almost in a chant.  It was difficult to distinguish exactly what the names
were amid the general noise from the street and the talking of the crowd
but he managed to get a sense of them. "Who the hell is Richard Birdie and
what's a Garen Maggot?"

Rafe laughed, but knew better than to correct the tall man with the
ice blue eyes. He had obviously spoken the name "Garen" with two "r"
sounds. It had only one "r".  The fans had made that detail perfectly clear.  Rafe
may be a throwaway to the Cascade PD and the Powers That Be, but, damn it,
he was a valuable member of the team. He caught the little details like
that, almost as well as Ellison. And he was way too good looking and
talented to always take the back seat to Ellison and Sandburg. "They're
actors," he explained.  "From some cop show called "Sentiment" or
something like that."

"Actors," Jim nodded. 

"Well, celebrities anyway.  I mean, they never won any Emmy awards or
anything so how good can they be?  The show's on one of those new,
baby networks so no one's ever heard of it.  Except," he pointed out
ominously, "all these crazed fans."

"Winning awards is hardly indicative of any individual's particular
ability, "  Blair pointed out.  "In most societies, recognition
depends upon ability and substance but in our somewhat shallow and warped
modern society, the people who achieve the level of notoriety called fame
are often the ones with the best looks, the most winning personalities,
and the most expensive press agents."

"Well, those two better hire a new PR firm, Chief, cuz I ain't never
heard of them and that means just one thing.  They don't really exist.  Or
the network with their show is on is incredibly short sighted not to
promote the hell out of it so the public knows its out there.  Is that the
show that goes on about the truth being out there somewhere over the
rainbow?"

"No, Jim," Blair explained.  "That's the big hit on Fox.  UPN could
have a big hit on their hands if they handled it like Fox handled that other
show. Y'know, get the star on Leno once in awhile. . ."

Rafe glared at Blair. "I thought you didn't know about the show.  You
lied?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you knew."

"But I didn't lie."

"But you knew."

Jim stepped in to settle it. "He obfuscates.  Leave the kid alone.
He's my partner. I won't let you badger him. That's my job. Besides," he
added, his chisled face taking another look at the women, "we have work to do."

The crowd was growing restless, beginning to mill around in an unruly
manner.  Their collective eyes were beginning to glaze with the
frustration of desire so long unfulfilled, so long denied, so long ignored.  How
dare those stars try to ignore their true and deep feelings for them?
Didn't they know how they yearned in their hearts for a sign that they knew
they were loved and adored and worshipped from afar?  Didn't they realize
that this convention was in their honor?  Didn't the stars realize that
the fans built their entire lives around this show and these personalities?
That they spent countless hours writing loving tributes to them and
posting them to the web?  That they would travel across the world for the chance
to breathe in the same air that they exhaled?  For the chance to tred
softly and reverently upon the same ground their beloved feet touched?

Didn't the fans realize the actors worked their butts off six days a
week to produce the fine show they loved so much and lived very insular
lives and had no clue what went on in the real world themselves?  They had
agents, and so called publicity men, and producers, and directors,
and security, and tech guys, and the heavy burden of memorizing those
exquisite words written by the most revered people on the planet, THE WRITERS,
(praise be their keyboards, pens, pencils, and creative little minds)  --
didn't the fans realize the heartache of having to be separated from their loved
ones and forced to work in a wonderful, yet foreign, country due to
socio-economic demands currently placed upon the entertainment
industry  -- didn't the fans realize they could take their money, sit
back, relax, and really never have to face them in person unless they were forced to?

Didn't anyone have any empathy or understanding or concern for anyone
else in this bizarre, cold and heartless world?

(only in the smarm pages, apparently, but that's truly another matter
and off topic for this particular piece of fiction.)

One of the fans in the crowd, a mere slip of a woman really, turned
to Ellison.    She studied his fine form and handsome face and smiled, slowly, seductively.
"You look like Dick Birdie," she observed.  "Very, very similar appearance."

Ellison took a step back.  Had he just been insulted?  No, that was
obviously meant to be a compliment.  "Thank you, I think.  Could you
tell me the time, miss?"

"It's almost 1 pm." This woman leveled a gaze at Sandburg. "And you,
my little apple dumpling, look an awful lot like Garen Maggot.  An awful
lot. An astonishing amount. . ."

Blair smiled.  "Oh?  Well, there is a theory that everyone has an
exact double out there.  Whether that means those two share the same karma,
or its a trick of genetics. . ." He swallowed.  This woman would have
been a knock out if only she were a red head.  This Garen Maggot guy
attracted some interesting ladies.  Hmm.  Maybe he could make this work for
him. Ellison always observed and commented that he would jump a table leg
if given the chance.  Well, if he could make this resemblance thing
work, tables could once again be safe. . .

There was a huge, collective gasp as everyone ignored Rafe yet again
and turned to the long black shiny limousine pulling up to the curb.
Someone Important was arriving. The crowd cheered and applauded.  Some were
moved to tears.

"Who is it?" Jim demanded to know.

The mere slip of a woman, who really could have been gorgeous if only
she had red hair, sighed.  "It's. . ." she choked, wiping away a tear,
"it's the most important people to the entire creative process.  The true
stars that everyone should admire and praise instead of revile and say evil
things about.  It's. . .the writers!"

A red carpet was rolled out and the writers exited the limo as rose
petals were strewn before them.  They nodded to the crowd, not speaking.
Writers never spoke.  Their abilities did not extend to anything beyond the
written word.  They spoke like regular people, and that ruined the image of the wise, sage,
intelligent know it alls  --  er  -- learned souls who examined and explored the
complexities and angst of life, seeking to draw the reader deep into his own mind
to contemplate and examine the issues by thoughtful introspection and
then e-mail words of great praise to the writers and make them feel good
about spending hours and hours and hours hunched over the keyboard, minds
working at a fevered pitch, trying to chose just the right word, just the one
word that would adequately convey every nuance of the  intricately
involved and highly clever plot point about to be subtly revealed --

"The writers?" Ellison scoffed.  "I've seen tv.  I can do better than
the junk they come up with!"

The mere slip of a woman, who used to have red hair but dyed it brown
just because everyone had red hair now and being a babe was nothing an
intelligent woman of the 90's aspired to be anyway, looked aghast.
"You know, on second glance, you aren't anything like Dickie Birdie after
all.

Sorry for giving you the time of day."

She moved closer to Sandburg.

Sandburg grinned.

The carpet was rolled up and put away.  The crowd returned to anxious
waiting and mindless milling about.

Blair turned to the woman.  "What is everyone waiting for?"

"Dickie and Garen, of course," the mere slip of a woman quietly
explained. "We will wait forever, or until Wednesday night."

"Wednesday night?" Jim asked.  He knew the woman wondered how he had
managed to overhear her quiet comment to Blair.

The woman glanced at Jim, wondering what was with that unreadable
expression he seemed to wear all the time.  He looked like a man with
secrets. Big, dark, important secrets.  Secrets of the heart and
soul, secrets of life. . . and death.

Maybe she had misjudged this man.  This fine, upstanding, obviously
very moral man (although she harbored a suspicion that this moral man
would indeed sleep with his previous partner's fiancée on what would be the
night of his partner's death, or would indeed sleep with another man's
fiancée if they had had a previous one week relationship in Bali  [BALI???] and
she had red hair) must be a man who could not be ignored.

Unlike that other guy over there people kind of walked past and
cameras sort of panned by.

"This is Friday," Jim needlessly pointed out.

"Wednesday night UPN is actually showing a new episode of this show.
Everyone has their VCR's set already but they have to watch it in
person, too, and then immediately e-mail "programming@UPN.com" to gush over
what an excellent episode it was and then post spoilers to the mailing lists.

They have this really cute new "spoilers" symbol that takes the word
spoilers  --"

"You know," Blair interrupted, "there is probably a paper in that
phenomenon.  Why would people who just watched a show feel compelled to write out all the details
about that episode for everyone to read, when everyone just watched the
same episode? Although it is very fascinating to see which points are
commented upon and which scenes are ripped apart because the characters behave
in ways the fans don't believe follow their characters -- "

Jim stared at Blair. Sandburg had been holding out on him. Could he
tolerate such betrayal from his best friend and partner?  Why had
Blair never mentioned his fascination with this show?  He
obviously watched it.  Was he. . .ashamed of his interest in this
particular show?  Was there an underlying subtext to this show that
was somehow less than "G" rated?  Could this be why the show was not
vigorously promoted?  Was everyone too flippin' concerned with being politically
correct these days?  "You watch this show, Chief?"

"I didn't say that," Blair said.

"But you do." Jim's voice was pained.

"But I didn't lie."

"But you knew about this show and didn't tell me."

"You didn't ask.  Jim, sometimes you have to just come out and ask
for something you want.  Sometimes the tough and silent thing just
doesn't cut it, you know.  There is ample evidence that suggests. . ."

Couldn't Blair tell that he just wasn't the type to go out and ask for something, especially if it were an
important something, like making sure the kid didn't go away and leave him alone and lonely in that loft? "Blair. . ." He thought maybe he could ask this time.  Maybe he could actually ask. Not tell, but ask.  Be sensitive to Sandburg's feelings. "Blair, would you shut up? Please?"

"No," Blair answered honestly. "I have the attention span of a gerbil
and have to keep up a running commentary on everything that goes on
around me or I get bored and hump table legs.  Gee, Jim, you should know that.
We've lived together for three years now. Why do you know nothing about my
life and I know everything about yours?"

"Because I'm not a nosy, inquisitive research anthropologist trying
to get enough information to fill a book."

Blair swallowed, his face suddenly serious.  "A book, Jim?  You mean
a dissertation?"

"No, Blair, I mean a book.  I heard you typing a letter to the
publishers the other night.  I can hear the subtle differences between each
keystroke, Chief, and I can identify the individual keys.  I can also
read the damn computer screen, you idiot."

"Oh."

"It hurts, Chief.  You just want to be around me for the information
you can gather about my senses to further your own selfish goals."

"That's not the only reason, man, and you know it!  You know it!  You
have to know it after all this time.  It's not just about the book.  It
was never just about the book.  It's about friendship, man.  I just
didn't get it before."

Jim swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat.  "It is?"

"Yeah." Blair stared up into the big guy's pale , sky, ice, light
blue eyes, searching for his reaction to the the inner truth about to be
revealed.  "That and the fact that you are such a smuck with women, I
can always count on there being a gorgeous red head around that needs
consolation.  Man.  Do you realize we must average one gorgeous red
head a month?"

Jim considered Sandburg's words.  There was truth to what he had
said. More truth than perhaps he wanted to admit. "You mess up with women,
too, Chief.  I get my share at the consolation game."

"It's a partnership that works on many levels, man."

"I'm beginning to see that, Blair."  Jim wrapped his arm
companionably around the smaller man's shoulder.  The kid always made him feel
protective.  Did Blair know how much he relished these infrequent
moments of physical contact? Did Blair feel anything for him?  Probably not.
Table legs received affection but Jim didn't.  Did Blair have any idea how
inadequate that made him feel inside?  Could he ever reconcile this
attraction he often felt for Blair with the ever present lust he felt
for red haired women who tended to be tramps, or murderers, or married to
mobsters? Was there something to his attraction to Blair or was he
just a man approaching middle age who led an emotionally bankrupt life?
Somehow, Jim felt that was another story altogether  -- --

The mere slip of a woman rolled her eyes at the two men showing
affection and friendship behind her.  "Geesh," she thought.  She was glad her
universe revolved around the Sentiment show, where none was
expressed.


That was the safe world after all.

That was reel life!


Finis

.. . . or is it just the beginning of a whole new and deeper
relationship that will need to explored further on an emotional and
intellectual level. . . ?




comments welcome
Send E-mail for N*V*ER to melrae@hotmail.com and I will forward it to her.