Tales from the "dead zone"

[matthew r. sciaini]

Act I, Scene II (following up to the Florsheim "din-din"):

The sun never looked so good as it made its way off the scene in the "dead zone"....penetrating the tasteful blue of the daytime sky with the somewhat more outrageous oranges and pinks and violets of the color spectrum as its rays, lengthening, negotiating the curvature of the earth.    More particularly, in the Florsheim's area, it bathed the otherwise unspectacular scene in pink, orange, even accentuating the dollops of green (the few plants around the area;  the hills looked even better, with their lush green turning to gold).   Even the paint factory, sitting a few hundred yards away from the train track, seemed to shimmer and change with the descending of the sun on its way below the horizon.  

But it could do little good for the asphalt, black as it was.  Even the potholes there would not reflect the fading sunlight now shining upon them.  Nor was it much better for the solitary figure coming out of the employee entrance of the factory, shutting the door behind him and easing his cell phone (the "candy-bar" type)  into his pocket, hoping not to scratch his phone on the keys, coins, and the other daily denizens there.  Looking up, he saw the sunlight and felt the fleeting heat but, try as he might, Papa Florsheim could not give the appreciation due such a scene.  For, in his eyes, the light was white, and was bathing the whole scene in a series of whitish grays, while the asphalt remained black as ever.  His misfortune was to be a plant manager in a paint factory while being as monochromatically "color blind" as they come,  and it hung over him like (what else) a black cloud every day.  

But, as bad as this was, work itself was not the thing bothering him at this particular moment.  Rather, it was this SITUATION that his wife had gotten him into.  He had been working at the paint factory for over six years, and it had been a good six years, but he still didn't like the idea of his boss, Mr. Stain, and his boss's wife coming over for din-din.  Furthermore, his wife had just called him to get a few more things at the store.  She knew about his condition but thought that with time he could be trained to recognize even minute distinctions in color.  Nothing could dissuade her, so he gave up trying to do so.   Still, as he walked to his (white?) two-door jalopy with white-walls,  why now, he thought...

Papa Florsheim: can't believe it..Mr. Stain and his wife, coming over in about an hour and a half..and I have to go to the store for beets and buttermilk..well, at least buttermilk has a label, and beets are distinct in their shape.....at least THIS TIME she isn't asking me to get GREEN apples...why doesn't she understand my limitations..

(opens the door to his car and gets in; starts it up)

Papa Florsheim:  (pulling out and driving away, still muttering to himself)...gotta turn on the radio and check out the traffic report..at least I don't have to go on the freeway, and I'm glad stoplights move when they change from go to stop....

(turns on radio)

Radio announcer:  tonight, traffic is pretty light...smooth sailing...and now for the weather..tonight, lows in the forties with a chance of rain, tomorrow, rain all day and possibly into Sunday as well...goodbye, blue skies, at least for a while...

(turns off radio)

Papa Florsheim:  Good, I'm glad when it is cloudy and rainy.  At LEAST I'm seeing things as they look to other people, in the sky anyway..as for that "goodbye, blue skies"  remark..

(plops an 8-track into the player and turns it on)

Singer:  Sunshine, on my shoulder, looks so lovely...sunshine, in my eyes, can....make me cry....

(turns it off)

Papa Florsheim:  Ah, shut up....

(pulls up to Basket-case Market;  phone rings)

Papa Florsheim (answers):  Hello?  Oh, hi, honey.  Yes, I just pulled up to the store.....you want what?  Corn muffin mix and blueberries?  OK......(listens)...no, I don't think......wait, you want me to pick up new cloth napkins?....They don't sell them here....yes, I think Mr. and Mrs. Stain will be okay with what we have.....and honey, PLEASE DON'T call them bigwigs to their faces..I prefer your not doing it all..I'll be home in about 15 or so..OK...bye...Oh, honey......please tell Blue and Red to be extra good.  I don't want our darling daughter to be looking at our guests as her latest science project...OK.....love you too.  Bye.

(puts away phone; gets out of car and goes into market)

Papa Florsheim picks out a cart and walks through the aisles looking for the things his wife wanted him to buy.  The beets and buttermilk, as the corn muffin mix and blueberries, proved easy to be found.  Basket-case Market was a very easy place through which to negotiate, despite the strange-sounding name.  It was founded by eccentric millionaire and one-time (or more) mental patient Richard (Buzz-Tripout) Basque, known as Buzz to his friends.  His vision was that of a shepherd looking out over acres and acres of grassland and sagebrush (as his ancestors were shepherds in the Great Basin) looking out over his thousands of sheep and knowing that there was not a snowball's chance in hell that these creatures would be able to find proper grazing on their own or know the good from the bad.  His store was set up on the premise that most people are like that as well.  

Just how his store was set up will not be explored right now, but suffice it to say that Papa Florsheim was smarter than the typical sheep that would be grazing in the deserts of the Great Basin.  He bought his items, paid for them, and left the store.  By now it was twilight, a freaky time of day for Papa Florsheim.  He just wanted to get home.

Papa Florsheim (heading home):   I can only hope she and the children won't embarrass me in front of my boss and his wife.





Stay tuned for Act II.  

[matthew r. sciaini]

Scene II:

It is now twilight in the dead zone.  The outrageous oranges and pinks that half an hour or so before harrassed the clear blue sky have toned down their screamings, allowing the navy blue of night to have its sway as almost everything else in the color spectrum was fleeing the scene apace, along with that master culprit, the sun.

The vanishing rays of the sun pierced a spot along the upper part of the hills in the dead zone.   They shone upon a man pulling out of the driveway of his very well-appointed dwelling in his upscale SUV, with his beautifully dressed and processed wife sitting next to him.  The last ray of the sun's farewell hit him right in the face.  Reflexively he put down the sun visor, then realized the futility of his action and put it up again.   

Mr. Stain (for this very same man was Papa Florsheim's boss) had this love-hate relationship with the sun and any other light-emitting entities.  Having been in the paint and color business his entire adult life,  he knew full well the delicate relationship between the human eye, color, and light.  (to be continued).....


 

[matthew r. sciaini]

Act II (continued):

But it still never ceased to amaze and horrify him that light could have such an effect on material things, to make them even more desireable than they already were.  This was not lost on the woman sitting next to him, dressed and processed though she was. 

Mr. Stain:  (driving)  Well, the sun has gone down. 

Mrs. Stain (looking at herself in the mirror):  That doesn't mean we aren't going car shopping after dinner at your underling's house.  Car lots have lights, you know.  And they are even open until 10:30 pm these days. 

Mr. Stain:  You know I don't like buying a car in the evening.  In fact, why do we want to look at cars again?  This one is only six months old and yours is only a year old, if I remember correctly.

Mrs. Stain (looking at him with widened eyes):  You have to ask?  You own a paint factory.  You work with color all day long.  I told you that I don't like the color of my vehicle.  Selling paint,  selling cars....no difference.   

Mr. Stain:  Yes, dear, but most people don't paint their homes every year, either.  And you seemed to like the color of your car at the time we bought it.  What happened?

Mrs. Stain (shaking her head):  You just don't get it, do you?

Mr. Stain:  I don't get what?

Mrs. Stain:  Well, when you recommend colors of paint for customers, you take into account wet versus dry paint, right?

Mr. Stain:  Right, but....

Mrs. Stain:  In the same way, when we looked at the car in the showroom, it was perfect.  However, after driving it off the lot and looking at it in the sunshine, and watching its color fade over the past months, I find I don't like it anymore so I want a car of a different color.

(aside:  this was one of the reasons for Mr. Stain's love/hate relationship with the sun and with light in general.  He was glad that light made color possible to be seen, but he was distressed that it registered changes as well.  His wife, the original Material Girl, reminded him of the vagaries of light and the color spectrum....just when he thought he had her nailed down.....)

Mrs Stain (interrupting his thoughts):  So do you know what your underling's wife is cooking for dinner?

Mr.  Stain:  Not exactly, but he says it promises to be a colorful meal.  Oh, and they call it din-din.

Mrs. Stain:  How.....NICE.

Mr. Stain:  Apparently his wife has great taste in cooking and in furnishing as well.

Mrs. Stain:  Hmmph!  If they had any kind of taste at all they wouldn't live down in the valley with the rest of the losers.

Mr. Stain's thought:  I just hope she won't humiliate me and everyone else tonight at the table. 

Stay tuned for Act III.