Season One, Episode One

CAPPING S’ERS

XCAL - 1

10-11 pm

New “Dawn Adams”

S1/EP01, (2017), The premier of a weekly show that highlights one individual who desires to commit suicide. With an assist from thrower Ricky Fordham, the individual may go through with it or not.

I arrive at the cavernous Studio 13 an hour early. My footsteps echo in the emptiness, but I can’t sit at home any longer. I’ve already had dinner, and I am ready to go.

The two stadium-style 100-seat capacity portable bleachers that are arranged on one side of the studio are empty. It is too soon for the audience to be let in, although I hear a crowd gathering outside. There are a few stagehands milling about, but I don’t know any of them, so I proceed to my trailer.

Yep. There is my name on the door. Ricky Fordham. I go inside and sit at the table. After a quick glance in the mirror, I put my backpack on the table and pull out the star. I hold it with both my good right hand and my mangled left hand. I stare down at the disc-shaped object with its five sharpened points.

The disc has an eight-inch diameter with the points sticking out an additional two inches. The body is half of an inch thick in the middle, a quarter of an inch on the edge, and the tips of the points are razor sharp. It is painted silver, and if you look closely you can still see the scars from when it was beaten. The points are white. The disc body has straight line grooves on top that begin with dots beneath each point that flow to and join in the center.

The studio wanted to paint different colors on the body to create a swirly look as it spins through the air. I won’t let them because I don’t allow anyone else to touch the star. I’ve never let anyone touch it, and I wasn’t giving it up for a week for someone else to play around with. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that star.

 My mangled left hand aches as it always does when I am anxious. As I stare down at the star, I also see the scar in the web of my right hand from the time the star cut me, and I bled all over it.

After about a half hour, Brian knocks on my trailer door.

“Ricky, you in there?” he calls.

“Yes. Come on in, Brian.”

“You’re here early.”

“Yeah. Anxious, I guess.”

“Well, they’re almost ready for you in makeup so you can head over whenever you’re ready. After that, your assistant will help you get into your costume.”

“Okay.”

“Now, things are going to go a little different from what we talked about. Everything is still the same, but we added a segment where Phil is going to interview you. Since you are the star of the show, and no one knows anything about you, we figure the audience will be curious and want to know more.”

“We haven’t rehearsed this. What if I mess up the interview? What questions is he going to ask?”

“Don’t worry about that. Phil is only going to ask you background stuff. Besides, there is a five-second delay on the live show, all except for your throw, of course. That way we can bleep out anything awkward you may say. Any questions for me?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. I’ll see you again before we air. All right? Break a leg, kid. You’ll be great.”

After patting me on the back, Brian leaves and I think back to when I first met him. I lay the star flat on the table and touch one of the points with my right hand. I found if I hold the star this way while trying to remember something, it is as clear as if it just happened.

I discovered this by accident as I was sitting in a foster home, remembering how I used to brush my twin’s long silky hair. I was idly holding the star. This was after I started throwing again. When my hand touched one of the points, my memory became so vivid, I felt like I was time traveling. I tried the other points and it didn’t matter which one I picked. They all acted the same. Now, whenever I want to remember something, I touch or hold a point of the star while doing so.

#

I remember I was still reluctant as I drove onto the studio grounds for the first time bright and early that Monday morning. After parking outside Studio 13 as I had been instructed by phone the previous week, I walked into the building and looked around. Against one wall was a stage. Arranged facing the stage were two sets of metal bleachers on wheels. The back half of the room was empty except for a giant video screen. A man wearing a frown and carrying a clipboard approached me.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m the star of the show,” was my reply.

“Talent,” he muttered as he walked away. He approached the stage and yelled, “Brian! Your talent is here.”

A man with long black hair and a full beard that had been dyed gold came from backstage, jumped down, and approached me.

“You are?” he asked.

“I’m the talent. The star of the show.”

“Sounds more like you’re a smart ass. Your dressing room is the trailer right back there in the corner. The door with the star on it. You can tell it’s yours because your name is on it. Stow your stuff and then let’s talk.”

I looked down at my empty hands and shrugged. I walked over to the trailer in the corner and opened the door. Inside was a dressing table with mirror, a couch, a bed, and a bathroom in the back. Yep, looks like a trailer. I closed the door and walked back to the man with the golden beard.

“Is Harvey Howard here?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The producer.”

“Oh yea, right. No. He sold the idea to the studio, took his money and ran. I’m the producer now. And director. My name is Brian Goldstein.”

“Oh.” I guess that explains the choice of beard color.

“What do you think?” Brian asked, gesturing around the sound stage. “Nice setup, huh?”

“This stage you built. It needs to be bigger.”

“What?”

“A bigger stage. I need more room for my throws. This stage isn’t big enough. I need a throwing area that is at least half the size of this room. It must be at least 80 feet long and 50 feet wide.”

“You know this is only a six-episode run. There isn’t money in the budget to build a stage that size.”

“Okay. Forget the stage. I’ll do it on the floor.”

After staring at me like I had lost my mind, Brian said, “I guess that will work. Do you have a name for the show?”

“A name?”

“Yes, a name. What do you call what you do?”

“A throw. I throw a star.”

“The Throwing Star Show. No. We can’t call it that. Too boring. The name needs to be exciting and give the TV audience some idea of what the show is about.”

“I don’t know what else to call it.”

Brian waved it off. “Well, don’t worry about it. That’s what we have a creative staff for. Those writers can come up with anything.”

“Writers? Why would this show need writers?”

“Let me ask you something.”

“Okay.”

I looked down at my dirty sneakers. I would need new shoes for this show.

“This throw of yours. How long does it take?”

“The actual throw? Probably around 30 seconds. Add in some prep time. Getting everyone in place. Final staging. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“This is a one-hour show. That means 40 minutes 30 seconds of airtime. Thirty seconds for your throw. That leaves 40 minutes to fill. How exciting is watching you getting set up?”

“Not very. Pretty boring really.”

I still wore jeans with holes in them. Maybe I would get new jeans as well.

“Right. So we fill 5 minutes with you at various times walking around setting up. Those are the teasers. Those little tidbits before the commercial breaks. We fill 5 minutes with a video package about the person about to kill themselves. Show them doing things around their hometown. That’s flavor. That is at the beginning. Then 30 minutes of the person telling their story while being interviewed by Phil. Now, do you know of any person who is about to commit suicide who can talk coherently and intelligently for 30 minutes?”

“No.”

I didn’t know anyone, about to commit suicide or not, who could talk coherently and intelligently for 30 minutes.

“And that, my friend, is why we need writers,” he proclaimed with a hand flourish as he walked away.

#

After reminiscing, I walk over to makeup. They fuss with my hair, but since it is so short there isn’t a lot they can do with it except put in a couple blonde streaks for excitement. They put paste on my face, mascara, and false eyelashes. I never used makeup before, not even blush. I feel like a two-bit whore.

When I return to my trailer, I want to scrub my face clean, but they say I need it for the cameras. I guess. Getting into my costume takes fifteen minutes, and I definitely need an assist. With my left hand in as bad of shape as it is, I never would be able to fit into my skintight one-piece black leather outfit. The network says this outfit is going to make me look sexy. Sexy? I don’t want to look sexy. I just want to do my throws. Instead, I feel like a bad Cat woman caricature. So far, I am not feeling good about any of this.

They want me to wear these shoes with three-inch stiletto heels, but I can’t do it. Physically, I cannot walk in them. I try walking around in my trailer with them on and fall three times. I can’t throw in these things.

My assistant calls Brian, and he comes over and asks me what I am going to do about the shoes. I reply with a smart ass comment about going barefoot. He says that can be sexy too.

As I walk from my trailer back to the studio in my bare feet, I notice they have let the fans in, and the bleachers are starting to fill up. I spy my sister parked in one of the handicapped spaces, and hiding my left hand behind my back, I give a little wave with my right hand. Of course, she can’t wave back. I feel calmer seeing her. She is the reason I am here. I am doing this crazy show for her.

I owe her at least that much.

Brian checks in with me via my earbud, and I tell him I’m fine, ignoring the rumblings of my stomach. I am surprised he can’t hear them, they’re so loud. I quickly duck into shadows as the Capping S’ers theme music starts up.

“Welcome, California, to a new weekly show that will delight. It will thrill you and, yes, even shock you. Welcome to Capping S’ers!”

I follow the spotlights as the audience politely applauds. The lights are swinging back and forth. One of the spotlights stops and zeros in on a random audience member, an older gentleman scratching his bald head.

“For the next sixty minutes, we are going to meet Dawn Adams. We are going to visit her in her hometown of Bakersfield. We are going to do a live interview of her here in our studio, and then LIVE we will watch the Capp and see if Dawn commits suicide or not. Stick around. We will be back after the commercial break.”

That’s my cue. On the stage floor, three men are standing in an arc spaced about 20 feet apart from each other. Between the first and the second man is a post with an arm from which a length of rope hangs down about halfway to the floor. The rope post is repeated between the second and third man. After the third man, an unadorned square post stands alone. The men are dressed in black form fitting leather shorts. They are bare chested and are also barefoot.

Funny, they had shoes on before. They are all standing stiff and erect, with a decorated silver or gold metal collar around their necks.

The men are all built well. Six packs. Developed chests. Bulky arms. And they all seem to be wearing oversized cups.

I walk over and grab hold of the first man in the arc and move him two inches to the left. Looking at the first man’s new position, I gaze at the other two men, and move the first man back one inch to the right.

I look over at the audience to check on my sister. She is still there, but I notice that seated above her is the same older gentleman who was scratching his head. He is now adjusting himself. That guy just can’t get comfortable.

Commercial.

During the commercial break I walk over to the coffee and donut table. While I am tempted, I think if I were to have even a bite, I might burst out of my costume. I rub my left hand again. It aches bad.

The doc is at the table as well. Chowing down on goodies. Maybe I should ask him about my hand. And my right hand itches where the scar is. I guess I can’t get comfortable either.

I look over at the giant screen against the back wall where the next part of the show is to be displayed. As the Capping S’ers theme music plays, the camera fades in on a pretty, young girl standing on a curb next to a bright yellow sign that says BAKERSFIELD spanning the road. She is smiling as she says, “Welcome to Bakersfield, my hometown.”

Next shot is the same girl standing outside a building with a tall spire that says FOX. “This is the Majestic Fox Theater. It is one of the last of its kind built in the Gilded Age. It opened Christmas Day, 1930, and was actively showing movies and hosting concerts until the borders closed. My name is Dawn Adams, and I am ready to commit suicide.”

The scene shifts and now Dawn is standing outside a church. She says, “This is the First Baptist Church, which survived the 1952 earthquake, and was used commercially until it closed.”

The final scene shows Dawn walking into a plain stucco home. She says, “This is my parent’s home, but I live here, too. Let me show you my room.”

The camera follows Dawn down a hallway and into a room. It pans to show the small room filled with a bed, desk and chair, and a window. Nothing adorns the walls. No posters, pictures or decorations of any kind. The view out the window is of a neighboring house. The girl sits on the bed. She says, “I spend most of my time here in this room. I hide in here. This is where I go to cry. I just want to kill myself.”

With the camera zooming in on Dawn’s face, the announcer says, “We will get up close and personal with Dawn right after these commercial messages.”

My cue again. This time I walk over to the first pole that is holding a rope. I move it a couple inches one way, then move it part way back.

Commercial.

Once I receive the ‘all clear’ message that I am off camera, I put the pole back where it started. Just part of the show. I look for my sister again and observe the older gentleman above her vigorously scratching his arm and looking around. Does he have fleas? I hope he doesn’t give them to my sister.

During the two-minute break, Brian tells me my interview is next. So once the theme music has played and Phil, who is also the announcer, is done saying “We’re back,” I walk up the five steps onto the stage and sit down in one of the chairs.

“Welcome Ricky,” Phil starts, “Thanks for agreeing to be interviewed.”

“I didn’t realize I have a choice.”

“Ha, ha,” Phil laughs, “Such a kidder. Seriously, I am sure everyone here and at home would like to know more about you.”

“Not much to tell. Pretty boring, actually.”

“Well, why don’t you start with how you prepared for the show today?”

“Okay, well, I really didn’t have anything to do today. Just makeup and getting dressed. All the prep work was completed over the past three months.”

“So all you did today was makeup and get dressed?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So all the prep work was done over the past three months?”

“Correct.”

“While you were naked.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said today was the first time you got dressed. So all the prior three months, while doing prep work, you were naked.”

“Are you some kind of pervert?”

“Not really. Just curious. Tell me about this prep work. What did you do this past week?”

“I spent this week working with lighting and cameras. I did my thing while they ran around like crazy figuring out what they needed to do, best angles, close-ups, where and when.”

“And prior to that?”

“Oh, there was a ton of stuff to do. Finding the people to stand in the line. Practicing throws. Picking contestants to be S’ers, although Brian did most of that.”

“So, do you think you are ready?”

“I feel great. Yes, I’m ready.”

“What is the purpose of the ropes hanging from the poles?”

“The ropes are there to prove the star really can cut and isn’t fake.”

“Okay, enough for today. I hope you interview better next week.”

I am too stunned to say a word, so I just stare at Phil until we are off the air and all the way through the commercial.

Commercial.

The next part of the show is the interview with the S’er. I don’t want to watch this part. I don’t want to know anything about someone who may soon be dead because of my actions. I don’t want to know their problems or why they are on the show. I don’t want to see them until the Capp, but as I am about to descend the stage stairs, Dawn is at the bottom. We both do an awkward, “You first. No, you go.”, before I go down and head out to my trailer. Damn. Didn’t want that.

Even though I can’t see Dawn and Phil, I can still hear them. The speakers for the audience are loud. I want to turn on some music or something to drown them out, but there is no radio in my trailer. Just a TV that only gets the one official state channel that is broadcasting this show, and I turn that off.

“Hello, everyone. I am Phil Ebenezer. I have a PhD in clinical psychology. Now Dawn, tell me why you want to end your life.”

“I made a mistake. Now I’m afraid everyone will find out my secret. I would rather die than have that happen.”

 “I see. Now, this secret. That you would rather die than have revealed. Can you tell us what it is?”

“No.”

“Would this secret perhaps be sexual in nature?”

“What? No.”

“Could it be that your boyfriend Keven got too worked up one night at the end of your date?”

I hear crying.

“No. Don’t say that.”

“Could it be you were kissing him too much, got him too excited, then maybe he went too far, or did you want him to do it?”

“No,”

I hear the trembling of her voice amidst her sobs.

“And now you’re pregnant with his child? Could that be the secret you don’t want anyone to know?”

“I just want to die.”

“Stay tuned. We’ll be right back so Dawn can get her wish.”

Commercial.

“Welcome back, folks. It seems that there are twenty minutes to kill before we can go to the Capp. Dawn, tell us a little about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you?”

“That was just now. Five minutes ago. On this show. By you.”

“Oh. I guess so. Well, what is the thing you are most proud of?”

“I taught my dog to do tricks.”

“Wait a minute,” Phil says as he consults a 3 X 5 card on the table next to him. “I know you are young, but training a dog is the greatest accomplishment of your life?”

“It wasn’t easy. It was hard.”

“But still, you can’t come up with something better than that.”

“Not really.”

“How about school? Did you get good grades in school?”

“No.”

“Did you go on to college?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’m getting the signal it is time for another break. We’ll go to commercials while Dawn tries to come up with a better accomplishment.”

Commercial.

“Well Dawn, did you come up with anything better?”

“No.”

“All right. Let’s try something else. What do you do for fun?”

“I used to go to the Fox Theater until it closed. They had movies and concerts.”

“What kind of movies do you like?”

“Oh, I love romance movies. I always cry at those. Or anything with dogs in it.”

“So, I gather you like dogs.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind of dog do you own?”

“A collie. Female. Three years old.”

“And who is going to take care of the dog after you are gone?”

Dawn starts crying again as she mutters, “My parents.”

“I guess you cry at more than just movies. Okay folks, I just got the little voice in my ear saying it’s time to do the Capp. Before that though, here are some commercials for you that you are sure to enjoy. Don’t forget to stay tuned after the show for your XCAL 1 evening news, the only official state newscast. Remember folks, if you didn’t see it on XCAL 1, it didn’t happen.”

I rush out of my trailer. I was so busy not listening that I missed my cue! Does my earbud not work in my trailer? I have no idea what the television camera is showing, maybe me running to the set looking all confused. Too late now to pretend to adjust something, so I look up at my sister. She seems fine but the gentleman above her is panting like a dog.

I grab a couple of stagehands and do what I was supposed to be doing before this commercial break, which is carrying off-stage the pole with a rope that is between the second and third man in line. This is where the S’er will be standing for the Capp.

Commercial.

The playing of the Capping S’ers theme music means we are back from a five-minute commercial break.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the LIVE part of the show. Let me introduce you to Ricky Fordham, our Capper.”

As the spotlights center on me, hiding my left arm, I wave to the crowd with my right. Holy crap, this is happening.

“Ricky has, through years and years of practice, perfected a technique of throwing a star that will allow Dawn, by simply standing still, to end her life. So, without further ado, we’ll proceed to the LIVE Capp where anything can happen.”

I am standing where the second pole was, the star held loosely in my right hand, both arms behind my back. Brian escorts Dawn from the stage over to me. I see the doctor and paramedics are still standing by the snack table. I study Dawn’s neck. It will be a left sided strike. I feel the camera man right behind me. Dawn’s jugular vein is throbbing nicely. This won’t require a very deep cut. I pull away until I see Dawn’s whole face. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know, but despite trying not to, I look into her eyes. They are hazel, they are wide open, and they look terrified.

I move to Dawn’s left side. I bend down and have her move her feet. I push on Dawn’s back to get her to stand straight. I tell Dawn to breathe calmly. No big breaths.

I check Dawn’s position in relation to the rest of the line, first looking up the line, then down. I look again at Dawn’s neck and walk to my throwing spot.

I am standing 20 feet in front of the first of the barechested men. I stare down at the line assembled before me. I am holding the shiny star with the five white sharpened points up by my chest. I take a deep breath. I am doing this for my sister, I remind myself. While I normally hide my left hand, I must extend my arm out full-length to get the balance I need for the throw. I cock my right arm into its throwing position. I am doing this for my sister. I look down the line as I prepare to throw. Everything looks good except Dawn, who is shaking too much. A voice in my ear says, “Sixty seconds.” Damn earbud works fine now.

I lower my arms and walk over to Dawn. Without any prior shows to watch, this must all seem so strange and overwhelming to her. I wonder what they even told her about how she was going to die.

I am taking too long to do the Capp, but I am confident the station will keep this show on the air for as long as it takes. Isn’t this what everyone wants to see? If Dawn dies or not? The eleven o’clock news will have to wait. I lean in close to Dawn and whisper in her ear, “You don’t have to do this. If you change your mind, step away. The star won’t hurt you if you step away.” Dawn stares straight ahead without a change in her expression.I am not sure she even heard me. Or understood what I said.

“Fifteen seconds.”

I walk back to my starting position and cock my arm. My left hand aches, and the scar on my right itches, but I ignore them both. I am doing this for my sister. I throw the star. It flies straight at the first man. With a clang and a spark, the star bounces off the collar around his neck and continues at a slightly different angle.

The star cuts the rope hanging from the first post as it passes by on the way to the second man. The cut portion of the rope falls tothe ground as the star bounces off the second man the same way it did the first. It flies on toward Dawn, grazes by her, cutting her neck in the process. Dawn’s body shudders, falls to the ground, blood streaming. I stare at the ever-increasing pool of blood as another clang is heard, then a thud.

The Capping S’ers theme music starts up as the doctor rushes over to watch Dawn bleed out. The studio audience is so quiet I can hear her gasping for air. I did it for my sister. The in-line men all turn to watch. The camera is hovering two feet away from Dawn’s face. I can see it clearly on the big screen.

Phil and Brian are standing on the stage, looking on. The doctor leans down to check her pulse and is finally satisfied. He gives Brian the thumbs up that she is dead. The audience erupts in cheers. Dawn is lying on the ground, her eyes still wide open. The star is stuck in the last post.

I walk over and look down at Dawn’s body with her terrified eyes. I still have bare feet, so I avoid stepping in her blood. Why did she have to die? Why was being pregnant such a mistake? She not only killed herself, she also killed her baby. Why do I care? I don’t. I only care about my twin.

Commercial.

We are off the air. I walk over to the square final post and pull out the embedded star. I walk back to my trailer with my head down, ignoring the cheering and shouts of congratulations. I don’t talk with anyone until I am just outside my trailer.

“Hi, Steven.”

“Hello, Ms. Fordham.”

“Thanks for bringing my sister backstage.” I bend down and gently kiss my sister’s cheek. I can see from the light in her eyes how excited she is.

“I did this for you,” I whisper.

“Thanks for bringing her to the show and taking care of her, Steven. I’m going inside now and get out of this monkey suit.”

“Of course, Ms. Fordham. Great show tonight.”

“Thanks.” I wait as he wheels my sister away and then enter my trailer. My assistant peels me out of my costume, and I sit down naked in front of the mirror. I don’t like my breasts. Across the top of them is what looks like freckles. I touch one of the spots. They are burn splatter marks. My breasts either need to be bigger, so I look like a girl or not there at all. Presently, they are just a bother.

There is a knock at the door.

My assistant answers it. “Oh, hello, Mr. Goldstein. Ricky isn’t dressed yet.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies as he forces himself in. “She hasn’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”

He walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Great start to a great show tonight. I think this is going to be huge!”

“Brian, my eyes are up here.”

“Ah, yea. Right.”

“And get your hand off my shoulder or I swear I will punch you in the balls.”

“Oh, right. Well, I really must be going. We’re off to a great start here.”

I continue to sit and stare into the mirror. My assistant asks if I want some fruit or champagne, but I decline. I don’t get it. I just watched someone die from my throw and then I am fighting off Brian’s advances and refusing complementary gifts. Are we mourning or celebrating? Why didn’t she step away? I dress slowly, not knowing what I am supposed to be feeling.

The door pops open and Phil sticks his head in. “Oh, you’re already dressed.” He disappears and the door closes.

I go out and the limo drives me to my studio-provided condo.