Every Monday morning I performed a little ritual whilst facing the rising sun. I welcomed the rebirth of a new week with song—or more specifically, a little Shakespearian ditty about mortality.

That’s right, Shakespeare.

I have a serious side.

Picture me, if you could, standing in the center of my sprawling penthouse—naked as the day I entered this world—looking to the east. When the first rays of the sun hit my face, I’d begin strumming along on my ukulele.

You might know the piece. It’s from the tragedy Cymbeline.

Instead of playing the music famously arranged by Roger Quilter in the 1920s, I sang along to the music of Blue Öyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper.

The first verse goes like this:

> Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

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> Nor the furious winter's rages;

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> Thou thy worldly task hast done,

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> Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:

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> Golden lads and girls all must,

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> As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Before the Changes, those words of Shakespeare reminded me to never take the preciousness of life for granted. I was well aware of the consequences in doing so. Every few years, it seemed, hubris settled upon me. Down into despair I would fall, unable to see life as anything other than a tedious routine. It was a miserable state to be in, and it took so long to escape.

Of course, after the Changes, death seemed to have, itself, died. Or at least be off on vacation.

Meditation upon memento mori no doubt had fallen from fashion across the globe—if indeed the world was still spherically shaped. But I continued to find value in my practice. Life remained precious. And work still needed doing.

As for death…well, even if Death no longer visited the living, the dead were constantly dropping in on my world. Five days a week. Death was part of my life.

We at La Vida Tower were engaged in serious work.

Today might have started out fairly standard—with my sunrise song followed by a breakfast of bagel and marmalade—but as showtime encroached, I watched in satisfaction as a new piece to my puzzle fell into place.

I am of course speaking of Morris.

For our Monday night broadcast, he had been tasked with running things up in the booth. Our director Hal was inexplicably MIA. But Morris being who he was, couldn’t stay put. Not when he was working. He scrambled down from the booth periodically to adjust a light, finesse the placement of a microphone, tape down a few cables—he always found something that needed to be addressed.

I would have expected his behavior to cause all sorts of conflict with the rest of the crew. You know—new guy promoted on his second day and showing such initiative. But Morris has a way with people. They warm to him.

Like the hair and make up team. He had that vacuous pair laughing. I didn’t even know those lifeless and colorless boobs had it in them. Somehow Morris had, at least momentarily, removed the slack from their jaws.

And then he was off again. Roving about. Giving pep talks. Cracking wise. I watched mesmerized as he took no more than two minutes to put order to the tropical tangle of dusty black cables languishing in the shadows back by the utility closet. The sort of thing Hal would never have lowered himself to do.

Strange about Hal—with only minutes to go before air, he still hadn’t surfaced.

He’d never missed a day in all the months of the show. Lord knows I’d seen him on many an occasion hunched up and grimacing with a hangover. But he was never late. In fact, he always arrived a good thirty minutes early, clutching his thermos of coffee and grimly doing his best to project an air of jocularity.

But I had confidence in Morris. There was a rhythm to this sort of production work. Not everyone could slip into it. But Morris was a natural. He was up there, checking the board while using his radio headset to engage in the rarified jargon of the techies. Even without Hal, things were running as smoothly as ever. No. Things were better.

Adding Morris to a stew always improved it. He was like MSG.

Our medley of spices was finally balanced.

Silverio, Saligia, and Morris! Together again, just like when the Changes were turning things upside-down and sideways. What wonderful days. Talk about your first light on a new week! Each morning during the Changes the sun rose on a new reality. Dozens of unexpected novelties to make your pulse sing!

Sure, Sal and Morris have had their difficulties. Their quote unquote history. Poor Sal—she never learned to appreciate a simple dalliance as joyful and life-affirming.

Sal would do well to think of Morris like marzipan. So tasty, at first. But when you’d overindulged, you no longer had the slightest interest. You were certainly not going to make a meal of it. Right?

Not that it was Morris’ fault. Some were born to be the entree, others dessert or finger food. Myself, I don’t doubt that people saw me as a fizzy apéritif, over-sweet with notes of paprika and lavender.

Anyway, Morris as a friend was so much better than Morris as a lover. When that man wasn’t trying to second guess your feelings, he was able to be more dependable, more honest.

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Oh, but Sal and Morris would work it all out. They had to, because, well…how was it said in the movies?

We’re putting the band back together!

Yeah, it felt like that.

I should have told Sal. You know, about Morris being back. I did have the whole weekend. Actually, I should have pulled them both aside on Friday, before the broadcast. But, to be honest, I wanted them to encounter one another, in the hallways, or on set. Naturally. Like creatures in the wild.

Probably not very sensitive of me. I mean, chance encounters with creatures in the wild often resulted in explosive savagery.

The other glaring problem with my plan of letting nature take its course in such an unplanned manner meant that the surprise meeting between Sal and Morris could well occur when I wasn’t watching.

Which was pretty much what happened. As the clock nibbled away the minutes, I was preoccupied with checking my game board interface, and then—BLAM! Sal caught sight of Morris like a water buffalo spotting a sneaky hyena creeping through the grass.

And did she let him have it!

Sal was whisper-yelling, right in the center of the studio. I don’t know why people do that. It puts everyone around them in that awkward position of pretending they didn’t overhear what was so obviously said. It certainly got the attention of everyone in the studio.

Sal vented for a considerable time until, spent, she retreated to her lair behind the black curtain. Lick her wounds. Gargle with honey water. Regain her composure. Like a wild animal…who just happened to be the host of a monumentally popular game show.

Unfortunately, I was too far away to enjoy the nuance of the drama.

Quite a bit was going on. For instance, there was Rose standing off to the side with her mouth agape, as she watched the unexpected and strange (well, to her) dressing down of the “new guy” by her gal pal Sal. I realized Rose had not yet seen Sal in rage-mode.

And then it occurred to me that Sal’s tirade was captured on my homemade video tape recorder! I would be able to watch it again and again. Well, I wouldn’t be able to see Morris’ expression. But I couldn’t have everything.

Video recording!

Now I’d be able to have videotape archives of my show. It would allow me to gather reliable information about the contestants. Their histories, what they all might have in common, when they lived…. There had to be a logic behind it all. Such as why were they sent to us? It couldn’t just all be random. For instance, did we only receive people who died once the Changes began? We never got people from ancient history or anything like that. But some seemed to have died well before the Changes, maybe a decade earlier. Of course, there was the possibility that the Changes had been going on longer than anyone thought, just too slight to be noticeable.

Questions. So many questions.

I had begun to realize that there were similar themes in the lives of all of our contestants. So subtle, I wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed. I was doing my best to catch them. Sort them out. Things were falling into place. With the action recorded, I could transcribe everything. It would make it much easier to find the answers I needed, the grand answers that I knew were just around the corner. I could feel it!

The energy felt good.

I pulled up the mirror bolted to the side of my electric piano on a goose-neck stand. I peered into it. Not too bad. I used a squirrel hair bush to apply a light dusting of sheer translucent face powder to my nose and forehead—keep that sheen down! But that was it for makeup. My thinning dirty blond hair I kept buzzed to a stubble. It helped when taping on my white pompadour toupee. That famous toupee which matched the scalloped mother of pearl sequins on the lapels of my black velvet dinner jacket.

I was good-to-go and camera-ready in my standard outfit, complete with wig. I stepped back a bit so I could see more of me in the mirror.

Good, but it could be better. Maybe one day….

No! Today. Today was that day.

I peeled the toupee from my head.

Raul watched me with a puzzled expression.

I returned my white pompadour to its head-shaped stand, and swapped it for another similar stand that was stored in a low cabinet beside my vintage Vox AC30 amp. The second wig stand held another pompadour, but this one was red, more bright than burning charcoal on a windy day.

Raul raised a hopeful eyebrow.

I nodded and called across to him.

“Let’s do this!”

He grinned and clapped his hands. With no further delay, he reached into a garnet bag hanging from the crowded clothing rack beside him.

I unpeeled a fresh slip of toupee tape. By the time I had on my new vivid hair, Raul was behind me clutching a bright green velvet dinner jacket festooned with fiery red sequins.

“The most assertive of all color combinations,” Raul whispered in my ear, as he helped me with the jacket. “Lime and scarlet make no apologies, they take no prisoners.”

He stood back to admire me.

“Thank you, Silverio. You’ve made my day. My week!”

I saw Sal emerge from her sanctuary. She didn’t glance over at me, but she appeared composed and sound of mind. Ready for the broadcast. She was fine. Just fine.

Raul stepped away from me as Myra took her position between cameras one and two where she always began the countdown.

“We’re doing this without Hal,” she told us all. “But we all know what to do. So, take a deep breath everyone. We’re on the air in five, four, three—” She continued silently by holding up two fingers, one finger, and then she pointed that lone finger up at Morris in the booth.

And we were live.

The show proceeded as smoothly as could be hoped. I decided to think it was propelled by my high enthusiasm. New hair, new jacket, trusted friend up in the booth. Sal did eventually shoot me a few scowls, but moodiness was nothing new with her.

The chosen contestants, Jerry and Susan, exuded the perfect combination of sedate befuddlement and curious attentiveness. They sat still in their seats and watched with rapt consideration as Michael and Rose reenacted scenes from their lives—it all seemed to come back to them, their past lives, in a slow-dawning reveal. Our two contestants might sob one moment, and then smile broadly with swelling joy the next.

When the first commercial break rolled around, even Myra was feeling the energy.

“All right, everyone, we’re out,” she whispered into her headset. And then she added, “Three minute commercial break, people. So don’t go anywhere!”

I watched Sal walk up to me. Her face was impassive.

“Still no sign of Hal,” I said quietly. “How odd.”

“We have to talk,” she told me, tilting her head back so she could look down her nose. She hooked a thumb up towards the booth behind her.

I guess she had not come over to compliment me on the change of hair.

I looked up at the booth. I tried to catch Morris’ eye but he was busy doing stuff. I gave him a thumbs up anyway. He was running on all cylinders today!

“Talk?” I looked at Sal. “Certainly not now during the commercial break.” I reached down to my drawer of snacks and began nibbling on a handful of almonds.

“This is not the mindset I want when doing this sort of work, Sy. And you know it.”

“But you’re doing great, Sal. Better than great. I’ve always said, you thrive amid chaos.”

“You damn well could have warned me.”

I was tempted to suggest that Sal turn her attention to the odd one in the stands, August. That one would be sure to distract her mind from indignant thoughts brought to mind by the appearance of an ex-lover. Of course, that would have made things worse.

And in my defense, I had assumed that with her mind-reading skills, Sal would have learned all about Morris’ return by now. I really don’t think I should be held completely responsible just because she can’t bother to peer into my brain every so often.

My eyes wandered back to Miles who was in the middle of delivering a commercial. He extolled the virtues of a sugary breakfast cereal which was both puffed and flaked. And also frosted with chocolate. I had to admit, it didn’t sound half bad.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sal asked.

I smiled at her and pointed to the clock high on the back wall.

“Ten seconds,” I told her. “Turn that charm back on!”

“You’re an ass,” she said. “And that thing on your head looks ridiculous.” At that, she spun around and moved to return to mark on the stage. She turned her attention to camera two and gave it her softest and most earnest smile.

I hit the applause button at the same time I launched into the theme music on my piano. I tried my best to ooze compassion and universal love for the audiences at home, but Sal’s comment about my hair had been unkind.

“Welcome back to Serpientes y Escalerrrrrrras!”