Fiction: Small World

Small World

A long time ago, in the time of raccoon coats and hot rods in a northwestern town far, far from everything two friends started an animation studio. Cartoons were new and many local businesses thought having talking livestock hock their wares was a gas. The two friends did well and soon they started making cartoon shorts just for laughs. That is until one of them created an adorable and mischievous woodland character that people went over the moon for. When Hollywood called they both hopped the first train south as a team. They made a whole mess of cartoon shorts and two great features together and then went their separate ways. The rest is history really. Classic Tinseltown: one man got all of the credit and the other just faded away. They did not speak to one another for 54 years. For most of this time one of these men lay in a box in secret in the middle of his kingdom at the center of his ever-growing entertainment empire.

This man was not dead (nearly, not all the way). By October of 1966, he had smoked his lungs like a pair of lake trout, but he was not going to roll over and die. No, not the great Milt Sidney, animation pioneer, movie mogul, and voice and creator (credited) of Rocko Raccoon, America’s most beloved cartoon character. He would see the future. Especially, one that he had had such a hand in. What Milt opted to do is fake his death and have himself cryogenically frozen. Only his wife, Suzy, and his secretary, Maggie Evans, were in the know. Milt had been such an eccentric that soon rumors began to circulate about how he had frozen his corpse. To throw people off the trail Maggie had a story planted in a select handful of screwball tabloids that only the old man’s head was on ice.

All was well in The Whimsical Kingdom as Milton Sidney slept for half a century. That is until July 17, 2020 as the hot summer sun took its nightly cooling dip into the Pacific the cryo-chamber’s ventilation system malfunctioned. Why? In short, because California. The specific reason: one of PacPower’s lines in the woods somehow started what came to be called the Eden Fire. There were rolling blackouts and outages. This little hiccup coupled with the failure of a back-up generator triggered the “Rise and Shine” sequence. The box holding the man rose from the floor of the private apartment above Main Street, U.S.A. Fire Station #1. It tilted to the easy angle of a fully engaged La-Z-Boy. A cloud of steam hissed out and the lid opened automatically. Within moments Milt Sidney stirred as if waking from a short office cat nap. He sat up, stretched, opened his eyes to a giant robot swinging a green beam of light like a sword.

Milt covered his face like Nosferatu confronted with sunlight and shrieked, “Nooooo!”

After a few short moments of silent nothing Milt Sidney slowly lowered his arms from his face. The futuristic assassin was only a billboard with tubes of neon that proclaimed, “Coming to Your Galaxy Summer 2020.” He harrumphed and smoothed the suit he had insisted on being frozen in. On melty-feeling, defrosting legs Milt walked to the window and braced himself on the sill. His first thought was ‘No way was this shiny, plastic fiend a Sidney character,’ but there was his name in script atop the wall-sized ad.

“What in the hell?” Milt croaked through his parched throat, “I told them no ro-bits.” He may have been a futurist, but he always made a point of saying, You can’t let the damned machines take over.

“Good evening, Mr. Sidney, please stay calm,” said the ceiling in the voice of Margaret Evans, his long-time personal assistant and confidant.

“M-M-Margaret?!” he stammered.

“Would you like to take a seat? There is fresh water at the sideboard,” said the ceiling.

“Margaret,” he called looking around, “Maggie where are you?”

“Mister Sidney, I have unfortunate news. This may come as a shock. It is the year 2020 and Miss Evans is no longer with us. She passed peacefully in September of 1974 of natural causes,” the voice calmly explained, “one of her last actions with The Sidney Company was lending a hand in my creation. I am called Mag-E (M-A-G dash E) in her honor”

“Where the hell are you? Show yourself ro-bit!” Milt said.

“I…am…all…around…you” Mag-E said from the west wall, the south wall, the east wall, and the animatronic Cuckoo in the clock on the north wall, respectively.

Milt had a coughing fit and collapsed or was pushed by something unseen back into the box.

* * *

957 miles north where the Willamette and Columbia Rivers meet there is a small island that is 8 miles north to south and just over 2 and half miles wide. Another amusement park the locals call The Woods covers the northern half of the island. Smack dab in the center of the property is a house-sized treehouse held aloft by a stand of stately cedars. Buddy Wentz looked out on the kingdom that he built with his own hands. He never planned to do anything other than animation. He never thought he would buy half of an island and built an amusement park to protect magic, real magic.

As he looked south to the bright lights that lit the new OlympiCorp construction site. Buddy did his damnedest to keep the bastards from getting a foothold on the island, but he just did not have the capital to outbid them on any of the properties. They wanted the whole goddamn island. Publicly, they wanted to reopen the old Wilkes Limestone Mines. Buddy knew what they were really after and there was no way he would let them get it.

Buddy heard the body on the bed behind him shifting.

From the shadows he watched Milt wake and pat his breast pocket for cigarettes even before sitting up (force of habit).

“You!” he said pointing at Buddy, “How the hell did you get in here?!”

“Easy, Milt. Relax and take a seat,” Buddy calmly replied.

“I’m calling security you son of a bitch!” Milt said as he reached for his desk phone (force of habit).

“Don’t blow a gasket. You are not in California; not in the park. At least not your park.”

“You mother….”

“Milton! Shut up and sit down!”

Milt knew that tone from the old times. Buddy was not fucking around. He sat down in the overstuffed leather chair that seemingly just appeared and nudged the back of his knees.

“I’m sorry Milt. You’ve been through the ringer,” Buddy said sheepishly.

Milt knew that familiar tone too. Buddy had always been quick to anger and quicker to remorse.

“Here partner, have a smoke,” Buddy pulled a soft pack of Lucky Strike straights and shook one out.

“I can’t smoke you fool!” Milt laughed without mirth. There was no post-laugh cough.

“Trust me you can. Something about the air up here.” Buddy gave him a light.

Milt inhaled. Smooth like when his lungs were only 10 years old.

Buddy began to pace and started, “Ok. Let me catch you up. In ’66, you went into the freezer…”

“How in the hell did you find out?” Milt shot.

“Suzie told me. Just in case.”

“Suzie, of course. You finally got her in the end. I knew it I always knew you wanted…”

“No, Milt, goddamn it! We were friends. That’s all. We were all friends once. Remember?”

Milt harrumphed blowing smoke from his nostrils.

“May I continue?” Buddy said and waited like a prim Sunday school teacher. “Ok. You went into that damn freezer. 54 years until the night before last. It is 2020, by the way.”

“Bullshit. You can’t be 120 years old.”

“You’re right. I’m only 118; you are 120.”

“But you look so…so....”

“Young. I’ll get to that. I see interrupting people is still a stronger habit than your smoking,” Buddy said. He walked over to a sideboard and poured a few fingers of Scotch and handed it to Milt in the hopes it would quiet down the old bastard. “Here. Shall I continue?”

Milt drank and did a little by-all-means-proceed hand wave.

“Milt…. I was going to ease you into this strangeness, but there is no good way to break this to you other than to just say it. Enchanted. This island, these woods are….don’t look at me that way.”

“Psst. Milty,” Milt heard Rocko’s say from a dark corner. A living cartoon raccoon emerged from the shadows. It was Rocko, the 1952 post-Buddy redesigned version of him complete with big eyes and dressed no longer in overalls and work boots but wearing a red polo shirt, khakis, and brown loafers. Rocko had traded his axe for a nine iron; his lunch pail for a briefcase.

“About the time you went into deep freeze,” Buddy said, “I bought this property with the last of my buyout money…”

“Milty!” Rocko pssted again.

Milt downed his drink.

Rocko pointed at the door with a big gloved hand.

“….and felt this, I guess you could call it a calling…”

Milt hopped up and exploded out of the door and ran out into the night. The rain-slicked cobblestones were slippery under his dress shoes. He kicked them off into the rain. In stocking feet, he disappeared between two old-timey alpine Bavarian buildings. After a turn or three at the end of a blind alley he saw Rocko dive through an open window. Milt struggled through one leg then the other as if he were putting on giant clown pants. He shut the window behind him through which he saw Buddy run across the mouth of the alley. He turned and squinted into the dark room. When he waved his hands out in front of him overhead lights went on. Of course, they did, this was the future after all. Milt smiled. He was sitting on the cement floor of a room of clockwork. Gears (giant and tiny) ticked arms and wheels and belts of all sizes whirred and squeed. What in the world could all of this be powering?

“Come on slow poke!” Rocko called from the hallway through the open door straight ahead.

“Shut up! You’re not real!” Milt said.

Something flew through the door and hit him squarely in the face with a dog toy squeak. Milt looked down rubbing his nose. On the floor was one of Rocko’s shoes.

“And bring that with you,” Rocko laughed.

Meanwhile…outside Buddy Wentz drove through the rain in one of the park’s golf carts calling Milt. He had to find him. The instant that Milt walked out of the gates of the park his lungs would turn back into dirty old sacks of tar and disease. And gods know what the island might do to him?

“You know you gotta find him,” said the little creature on the bench seat beside him.

“No shit Rock,” Buddy muttered.

He stared into Old-timey Rocko’s little pies-with-a-slice-cut-out eyes until the little guy looked away muttering what sound like #$!?*&#.

Buddy stomped the accelerator. As the cart engine whined in protest he recalled the last time that he had been out in shit weather desperately looking for Milt. Right before the move to Hollywood it had been a night just like this only much, much colder. They had been in the old office above the Rockwood Feed Store. Buddy was putting the last few pen strokes on what would become the third Rocko Raccoon short and Milt was busy at the ledger figuring what bills they could pay and dreaming up wild excuses for the ones they couldn’t when there was a knock at the door. Milt didn’t budge or even look up. Buddy got up with a sigh and answered it. It was Joey Mums, the telegraph runner, who never made a peep. Buddy handed the boy a silver dollar and said keep the change.

Before Buddy had a chance to pull the slip from the yellow envelope Milt stood up as if he was oblivious to what was happening and said, “Well, I’m calling it a day. Got some running around to do. See ya in the morning Bud.”

Milt walked out of the door. After a beat, Bud grabbed Milt’s coat and poked his head into the hallway and called, “Milton! You forgot your….”

The front door downstairs slammed.

That was quick, Buddy thought, he must have run the whole way.

Buddy read the telegram:

Get packed–(stop)-Murray loved new short–(stop)-

-California or bust fellas–(stop)-.

Buddy whooped, grabbed his coat as well and ran out of the office and out into the street not even bothering to lock up. It was raining to beat the band, so Buddy ran awning to awning and ducked door to door as he made his way down Stark Street.

He decided to pop into the Tree-Topper Tavern and see if he might buy a bottle off old Pete and then go knock down the door of Milt’s apartment if need be. He heaved open the heavy door with the carved Indian by the axe handle and then did a whole slapstick routine sliding in on his heels until the carpet stopped his feet pitching him headlong the three steps down into the bar. The good old jukebox saved him from a faceplant. The record skipped. When Buddy looked up all eyes were on him. He popped the box a good one with the heel of his hand and the Carter Family started right back up, “…going where there’s no depression, to a better land that’s free from care…”.

Buddy made it safely to the bar. “Pete, can I buy a bottle of rye off ya?”

“No.” Pete said pointing “That fool partner of yours is draining the last one.”

Buddy looked around the line of men. At the very last spot in the corner around the elbow of the oak bar sat Milt with his wet hat drip, dripping onto the bar.

“Shit, Pete, you let him have the whole bottle?”

“He looked pretty low.”

“Thank God you’re not a druggist. You know what a lightweight he is,” Buddy said under his breath as he stamped away, “Got a problem, pal? Pour some whiskey on it!”

“Fucking church lady,” Pete muttered.

Buddy took the empty stool next to Milt. He waved at Pete for a glass who shook his head but brought one anyhow. Buddy poured a couple fingers of rye into the glass, then exchanged it with the very full one sitting in front of Milt.

“Thanks, pal,” Buddy said.

“Don’t thank me. I spent the electric bill money on it,” Milt said stiffly.

“Shit, that’s ok Milt. So…the telegr….”

“Hey, Pete can I get a beer back of Henry’s?” Milt called out.

“Goddamit Milt! Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“Eh…” he shrugged. “If it is a yes, there is too much work to do. We’re just not ready, Buddy. And what leave Suzy here? If it is a no, then we are stuck in this shithole!” he looked up sheepishly at Pete who was just setting down the beer. “Sorry, Pete. I meant shithole town. Not your place.”

Pete walked away, shaking his head, “Fucking church ladies.”

* * *

Milt followed Mid-Century Rocko into a locker room.

“Get some dry duds, bud,” Rocko said tossing a pair of coveralls and boots to the old man.

As Milt began to change he asked, “Rocko, am I dreaming? Dead? This just doesn’t make any sense. How is Buddy….how are you alive?”

“Hmmm…. twenty questions huh? Relax,” Rocko laughed and tossed a pack of Luckies to the old man. “No, you are not dead. Yes, you are dreaming, but you are also awake. Like old-stick-in-the-Bud said it is this place. And, yes I’m real, Knucklehead! Real enough. See?” He threw a shoe which dog-toy-squeaked upon impact with the side of Milt’s head and again when it hit the floor.

Rocko walked on, “Bring that with you.”

Milt lit a cigarette and snatched up the shoe thinking #$!?*&#.

They when down a few flights of stairs and then a couple more.

Rocko told Milt to grab a flashlight from a small shelf where the finished walls of the work tunnel gave way to rough stone. The raccoon and the man crossed a void on a catwalk. Nothing could be seen through the grating, even when Milt aimed the flashlight beam straight down. However, when they stopped their clanging steps for a moment Milt could hear the faint trickle of water far below.

“Where are we headed?” Milt asked. “How much farther?”

“Come on old man!” Rocko said nearly dragging him into an elevator and punching the button for down.

* * *

The night Buddy learned that he was going to die, it had poured rain so hard in such fat drops that it fell in fatter drops when it penetrated the vast canopy of the woods. Buddy was having a hell of time trying to sleep for all the racket. He watched his old analog alarm clock flip-flip-click-click to 3:30am. Then, there was a pounding at the front door much louder than nature’s cacophony. He sat up, stunned for a long moment. No one had ever knocked on that door. Not only had no one ever called, moreover knuckles had not touched the wood since Buddy himself jammed his on the jamb when he, himself, hung the damn thing. Buddy was under the impression that no one in town knew that the treehouse was an actual residence. There was another barrage of pounding.

For fuck’s sake, Buddy thought, but said flatly, “Ok! Ok. Let me put some pants on.”

The knocking stopped.

On the way to the door he switched on every lamp and overhead light, just in case. Also, he grabbed the fire poker and stowed it in the hinge-adjacent corner, just in case.

“Who is it?” Buddy said in what he meant as a growl.

“Um…uh…Just Orson Keller, Mister Wentz,” the door said.

Buddy swung the door wide, so that his right hand would be within reach of the poker. There Orson Keller stood shivering. Something, Buddy could not articulate in thought to himself, something about the young man’s eyes was not crazy, no they read: true. True. That is the word Buddy remembered later. This is why he invited Orson in and sat him at the hearth and stirred and built up the fire.

Through chattering teeth Orson began, “M-m-m-mister W-wentz…”

“Hold tight, my boy. Wrap that quilt around your shoulders and warm yourself,” Buddy said, “I’ll pour you a Brandy.”

Buddy Wentz placed the drink in the young man’s ice-cold hands. He watched Orson take a sip, grimace, then take another, and grimace.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Wentz.”

“Orson Keller, what brings you to my secret abode?” Buddy said.

Cutting to the chase, Orson said, “Well, you are going to die. Get your affairs in order.” He must have seen the fear in the old man’s eyes because he added, “Oh no, Mr. Wentz, I’m not going to kill you. I just know that your end is very near and I know that you want the park to live on as much as the park itself does.”

Buddy did not doubt a word. Orson had said many times that the town (not the people) talked to him. His predictions were never wrong. He knew that Jack Littlefield would lose his hand; he knew of the OlympiCorp disaster beforehand; and even expecting mothers went to him to find out the sex of their babies. He was more accurate than the doctor.

Apparently, he got the message about Buddy from a portrait of Bill Murray that had been stenciled on one of the walls of the old storage shed in Lewis and Clark Park; the one with the caved-in roof everyone called the Hermit’s Shack. Orson said that he was just walking through earlier in the evening before the rain. He saw from a distance a candle burning on the ledge under Bill Murray. Orson approached. He reached up and touched the actor’s face. Murray told him to tell Buddy Wentz to expect a visitor from Hollywood and that he was going to die.

Orson had been right. Buddy was much more concerned about the park, his life’s work, than his impending death. He was not exactly ready to die but had been thinking lately that 118 years was a little greedy.

When Mag-E called saying that Milt was in trouble he knew what had to be done. Milt could stay alive and healthy here in The Woods and as much as he hated to admit it Milt would be the best person to protect the park from the encroaching threat of OlympiCorp’s destruction of the island. It may have not been fool-proof, but it was a plan.

* * *

Knowing that the stone Rockos would ri-chi-chi, if Milt got anywhere near the gate, Buddy and Old-timey Rocko searched everywhere else. They hiked up the inside of Mt. Blanc along the track of the toboggan ride. Then, they dirt-biked through the woods, ransacked the witch’s cottage, ran up and down the grand staircases and through the rooms of Black Spire Castle, and asked the Lady of the Lake (the animatronic one because the Lady herself, as per usual, was AWOL). They sat down heavily on a bench at the water’s edge. Rocko skipped rocks mumbling more #$!?*&#. Buddy sat there head in hands and remembered his last day at the Milt Sidney Company.

He had been sitting on another bench outside of the head office after walking out of a particularly hellacious board meeting. They had just released their second feature, Little Red Riding Hood in the Black Forest, and the box office had been bonkers, a full-blown blockbuster. Milt promised that next they would make The Phantom of the Opera. Buddy had been so excited to make a film that he would be proud to call art. It would be their masterpiece. Talking animals were fine and all and Buddy had always loved making the Rocko shorts, but he was ready for a real challenge, something which would finally bring animation the respect it deserved.