Boob Tube

Marty believed that his success could only be measured by three things: One, a career - not a job, mind you, a career, two, a good relationship with his mother and, three, a healthy, vibrant sex life. At fifty, things weren't adding up. Marty had the career, his evil, bitch of a mother was long dead and he had a marriage with twenty-five years of great sex (perhaps, servitude) behind him, coupled with three beautiful, intelligent daughters. For all intents and purposes, from the Bird's Eye View, all was successful, all was well.

But what Marty really wanted was a TV.

A rough patch developed between his youngest daughter and her boyfriend. Marty felt inclined to impart his wisdom to the boy. He took the C train and no more than two buses to the boy's railroad apt. set high on Central Park West. It was a walk up, six floors and, out of breath, Marty kicked aside the stoned artist on the top stair. He approached the avocado flavored door, covered in nicks and scratches, knocked and emerged (yeah, through the looking glass) into WONDERLAND. Carroll had nothing on this place.

The face, framed by thick dark hair, eyes alight with youth, did not deter Marty's focus. He sank into a worn yet plush chair - the kind someone looking for immortality would replace with a piece much more streamline and modern, giving perfection a pauper's burial, unceremoniously left to rot on the corner of 117th and Riverside Dr. The kind of chair young dreams are made of.

Marty took a moment to look around. Next to him, on a makeshift table of cardboard, he spied a series of randomly placed remote controls. He could hear the boy speaking but could not decipher the sound. The lure of the Queen of Hearts was too profound. He stared at the epicenter of the railroad - a gleaming 52 inch LCD flat screen.

How could he ever go back to his 28 inch tube?

"Could you put the game on?" He heard himself mutter, as if in a dream.

Later that evening, when the bottle marked 'Drink Me' had been drained, he took the buses and the train back to his brownstone. The East Side had its pleasures but there was a high price to pay.

Marty removed his coat, hung it on the cheap, metal rack adorning the inside of the small closet door as he had a million times before. He reached into his pocket, felt around for the stowaway keys and dropped them into that fussy, little dish Judy insisted on. Marty, with every being of his soul crying out, tread with heavy feet into his living room and picked up the black remote with the thick, clicky buttons. Judy was upstairs. He didn't bother waking her. Marty fell asleep in the doldrums of an 'I Love Lucy' he had watched a thousand times before.

Patterns of sunlight fell through the plantation shutters. That stupid, salt and peppered kid had forecast rain but it was clear and bright. Marty clicked the top right button on the box that was assaulting his hand. He looked around. Six pairs, right there, in the box near the kitchen. Four more on a low shelf in the hall. Shoes. Prada, Louboutin, Gucci. Struck by a truth as sharp and deliberate as lightning, Marty found his waking legs and pounded the stairs.

"What is wrong with you?" Judy was pleading. Marty couldn't help but notice that even just rolling out of bed, her hair was still perfectly coiffed.

"What's wrong with me?!" Marty's question was rhetorical as he pulled shoebox after shoebox, most embossed with gold labeling. "What the hell do you think is wrong with me, Judy, huh? FUCK!" He returned to his pillaging, "one after another," Marty yelled, continuing, " I worked my ass off! I established myself as a cocksucker! I became an enemy to my friends and colleagues, for what? So you could have the best collection of designers, immortalized by the inseams of your damn shoes?"

"Marty!" Judy screamed, pleading, "please... I..." But Marty had no ears for it.

He ran down to the kitchen, threw open the pantry door, grabbed a GLAD bag and headed back upstairs, to the closet.

"What are you doing?!" Judy shrieked through tears. "No! Please, don't take the Prada boots! NO! I love those! Please! I can't wear my green suit without those! WAIT!"

Marty refused to hear her protests.

"So many shoes," he swore, "so many damn pairs of shoes! I could have had a flat screen if it weren't for all of these damn shoes!"

A free man is a successful man, Marty finally realized. It probably wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't run across an electronics store on 102nd that just happened to be going out of business. With only his coat and his wallet, his keys left sitting placidly in that stupid china, Marty entered, pointed and left to his studio apartment, utterly alone, wearing a smile even the Cheshire Cat would envy.