Laugh Track

by Harlan Ellison

I loved my Aunt Babe for three reasons. The first was that even though I was only ten or eleven, she flirted with me as she did with any male of any age who was lucky enough to pass through the heat of her line-of-sight. The second was her breasts—I knew them as “titties”—which left your arteries looking like the Holland Tunnel at rush hour. And the third was her laugh. Never before and never since, in the history of this planet, including every species of life-form extant or extinct, has there been a sound as joyous as my Aunt Babe’s laugh which I, as a child, imagined as the sound of the Toonerville Trolley clattering downhill. If you have never seen a. panel of that long-gone comic strip, and have no idea what the Toonerville Trolley looked like, forget it. It was some terrific helluva laugh. It could pucker your lips.

My Aunt Babe died of falling asleep and not waking up in 1955, when I was twelve years old.

I first recognized her laugh while watching a segment of Leave It to Beaver in November of 1957. It was on the laugh track they’d dubbed in after the show had been shot, but I was only fourteen and thought those were real people laughing at Jerry Mathers’s predicament. I yelled for my mother to come quickly, and she came running from the kitchen, her hands all covered with wax from putting up the preserves, and she thought I’d hurt myself or something.

“No… no, I’m okay… listen!”

She stood there, listening. “Listen to what?” she said after a minute.

“Wait… wait… there! You hear that? It’s Aunt Babe. She isn’t dead, she’s at that show.”

My mother looked at me just the way your mother would look at you if you said something like that, and she shook her head, and she said something in Italian my grandmother had no doubt said while shaking her head at her, long ago; and she went back to imprisoning boysenberries. sat there and watched The Beav and Eddie Haskell and Whitey Whitney, and broke up every time my Aunt Babe laughed at their antics.<p>

I heard my Aunt Babe’s laugh on The Real McCoys in 1958; on Hennessey and The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis in 1959; on The Andy Griffith Show in 1960; on Car 54, Where Are You? in 1962; and in the years that followed I laughed along with her at The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Lucy Show, My Favorite Martian, The Addams Family, I Dream of Jeannie, and Get Smart!

In 1970 I heard my Aunt Babe laughing at Green Acres, which— though I always liked Eddie Albert and Alvy Moore—I thought was seriously lame; and it bothered me that her taste had deteriorated so drastically. Also, her laugh seemed a little thin. Not as ebulliently Toonerville Trolley going downhill any more.

By 1972 I knew something was wrong because Aunt Babe was convulsing over Me and the Chimp but not a sound from her for My World… And Welcome To It.

By 1972 I was almost thirty, I was working in television, and because I had lived with the sound of my Aunt Babe’s laughter for so long, I never thought there was anything odd about it; and I never again mentioned it to anyone.

Then, one night, sitting with a frozen pizza and a Dr. Brown’s cream soda, watching an episode of the series I was writing, a sitcom you may remember called Misty Malone, I heard my Aunt Babe laughing at a line that the story editor had not understood, that he had rewritten. At that moment, bang! comes the light bulb burning in my brain, comes the epiphany, comes the rude awakening, and I hear myself say, “This is crazy. Babe’s been dead and buried lo these seventeen years, and there is strictly no way she can be laughing at this moron line that Bill Tidy rewrote from my golden prose, and this is weirder than shit, and what the hell is going on here!?”

Besides which, Babe’s laugh was now sounding a lot like a 1971

Pinto without chains trying to rev itself out of a snowy rut into which cinders had been shoveled.

And I suppose for the first time I understood that Babe was not alive at the taping of all those shows over the years, but was merely on an old laugh track. At which point I remembered the afternoon in 1953 when she’d taken me to the Hollywood Ranch Market to go shopping, and one of those guys had been standing there handing out tickets to the filming of tv shows, and Babe had taken two tickets to Our Miss Brooks, and she’d gone with some passing fancy she was dating at the time, and told us later that she thought Eve Arden was funnier than Lucille Ball.

The laugh track from that 1953 show was obviously still in circulation. Had been, in fact, in circulation for twenty years. And for twenty years my Aunt Babe had been forced to laugh at the same old weary sitcom minutiae, over and over and over. She’d had to laugh at the salt instead of the sugar in Fred MacMurray’s coffee; at Granny Clampett sending Buddy Ebsen out to shoot a possum in Beverly Hills; at Bob Cummings trying to conceal Julie New-mar’s robot identity; at The Fonz almost running a comb through his pompadour; at all the mistaken identities, all the improbable last-minute saves of hopeless situations, all the sophomoric pratfalls from Gilligan to Gidget. And I felt just terrible for her.

Native Americans, what we used to be allowed to call Indians when I was a kid, have a belief that if someone takes their picture with a camera, the box captures their soul. So they shy away from photographers. Amerinds seldom become bank robbers: there are cameras in banks. There was no graduation picture of Cochise in his high school yearbook.

What if—I said to myself—sitting there with that awful pizza growing cold on my lap—what if my lovely Aunt Babe, who had been a Ziegfeld Girl, and who had loved my Uncle Morrie, and who had had such wonderful titties and never let on that she knew exactly what I was doing when I’d fall asleep in the car on the way home and snuggle up against them, what if my dear Aunt Babe’s soul, like her laugh, had been trapped on that goddam track?

And what if she was in there, in there forever, doomed to laugh endlessly at imbecilic shit rewritten by ex-hairdressers, instead of roaming around Heaven, flirting with the angels, which I was certain should have been her proper fate, being that she was such a swell person? What if?

It was the sort of thinking that made my head hurt a lot.

And it made me feel even lower, the more I thought about it, because I didn’t know what I could do about it. I just knew that that was what had happened to my Aunt Babe; and there she was in there, condemned to the stupidest hell imaginable. In some arcane way, she had been doomed to an eternity of electronic res-timulation. In speech therapy they have a name for it: cataphasia: verbal repetition. But I could tell from the frequency with which I was now hearing Babe, and from the indiscriminate use to which her laugh was being put—not just on M*A*S*H and Maude, but on yawners like The Sandy Duncan Show and a mid-season replacement with Larry Hagman called Here We Go Again, which didn’t—and the way her laugh was starting to slur like an ice skating elephant, that she wasn’t having much fun in there. I began to believe that she was like some sort of beanfield slave, every now and then being goosed electronically to laugh. She was a video galley slave, one of the pod people, a member of some ghastly high-frequency chain gang. Cataphasia, but worse. Oh, how I wanted to save her; to drag her out of there and let her tormented soul bound free like a snow rabbit, to vanish into great white spaces where the words Laverne and Shirley had never trembled in the lambent mist.

Then I went to bed and didn’t think about it again until 1978.

By September of 1978 I was working for Bill Tidy again. In years to come I would refer to that pox-ridden period as the Season I Stepped In a Pile of Tidy.

Each of us has one dark eminence in his or her life who somehow has the hoodoo sign on us. Persons so cosmically loathsome that we continually spend our time when in their company silently asking ourselves What the hell, what the bloody hell, what the everlasting Technicolor hell am I doing sitting here with this ambulatory piece of offal? This is the worst person who ever got born, and someone ought to wash out his life with a bar of Fels-Naptha.

But there you sit, and the next time you blink, there you sit again. It was probably the way Catherine the Great felt on her dates with Rasputin.

Bill Tidy had that hold over me.

In 1973 when I’d been just a struggling sitcom writer, getting his first breaks on Misty Malone, Tidy had been the story editor.

An authoritarian Fascist with all the creative insight of a sump pump. But now, a mere five years later, things were a great deal different: I had created a series, which meant I was a struggling sitcom writer with my name on a parking slot at the studio; and Bill Tidy, direct lineal descendant of The Blob that tried to eat Steve McQueen, had swallowed up half the television industry. He was now the heavy-breathing half of Tidy-Spellberg Production, in partnership with another ex-hairdresser named Harvey Spellberg, whom he’d met during a metaphysical retreat to Reno, Nevada. They’d become corporate soul-mates while praying over the crap tables and in just a few years had built upon their unerring sense of how much debasement the American television-viewing audience could sustain (a much higher gag-reflex level than even the experts had postulated, thereby paving the way for Three’s Company), to emerge as “prime suppliers” of gibbering lunacy for the three networks.

Bill Tidy was to Art as Pekin, North Dakota is to wild nightlife.

But he was the fastest money in town when it came to marketing a series idea to one of the networks, and my agent had sent over the prospectus for Ain’t It the Truth, without my knowing it; and before I had a chance to scream, “Nay, nay, my liege! There are some things mere humans were never meant to know, Doctor Von Frankenstein!” the network had made a development deal with the Rupert Murdoch of mindlessness, and of a sudden I was—as they so aptly put it—in bed with Bill Tidy again.

This is the definition of ambivalence: to have struggled in the ditches for five years, to have created something that was guaranteed to get on the air, and to have that creation masterminded by a toad with the charm of a charnel house and the intellect of a lead of lettuce. I thought seriously of moving to Pekin, North Dakota, where the words coaxial cable are as speaking-in-tongues to the simple, happy natives; where the blight of Jim Nabors has never manifested itself; where I could open a grain and feed store and never have to sit in the same room with Bill Tidy as he picked his nose and surreptitiously examined the findings.

But I was weak, and even if the series croaked before the season ran its course, I would have a credit that could lead to bigger things. So I pulled down the covers, plumped the pillows, straightened the rubber pishy-pad, and got into bed with Bill Tidy.

By September, I was a raving lunatic. I spent much of my time dreaming about biting the heads off chickens. The deranged wind of network babble and foaming Tidyism blew through the haunted cathedral of my brain. What little originality and invention I’d brought to the series concept—and at best what we’re talking about here is primetime network situation comedy, not a PBS tour conducted by Alistair Cooke through the Library of Alexandria— was steadily and firmly leached out of the production by Bill Tidy. Any time a line or a situation with some charm or esthetic value dared to peek its head out of the merde of the scripts, Tidy as Grim Reaper would lurch onto the scene swinging the scythe of his demented bad taste, and intellectual decapitation instantly followed.

I developed a hiatic hernia, I couldn’t hold down solid food and took to subsisting on strained mung from Gerber’s inexhaustible and vomitous larder, I snapped at everyone, sex was a concept whose time had come and gone for me, and I saw my gentle little offering to the Gods of Comedy turned into something best suited for a life under mossy stones.

Had I known that on the evening of Thursday, September 14, 1978 Ain’t It the Truth was to premiere opposite a new ABC show called Mark & Mindy, and that within three weeks a dervish named Robin Williams would be dining on Nielsen rating shares the way sharks devour entire continents, I might have been able to hold onto enough of my sanity to weather the Dark Ages. And I wouldn’t have gotten involved with Wally Modisett, the phantom sweetener, and I wouldn’t have spoken into the black box, and I wouldn’t have found the salvation for my dead Aunt Babe’s soul.

But early in September Williams had not yet uttered his first Nanoonanoo (except on a spinoff segment of Happy Days and who the hell watched that?) and we had taped the first three segments of Ain’t It the Truth before a live audience at the Burbank Studios, if you can call those who voluntarily go to tapings of sitcoms as “living,” and late one night the specter of Bill Tidy appeared in the doorway of my office, his great horse face looming down at me like the demon that emerges from the Night on Bald Mountain section of Disney’s Fantasia; and his sulphurous breath reached across the room and made all the little hairs in my nostrils curl up and try to pull themselves out so they could run away and hide in the back of my head somewhere; and the two reflective puddles of Vegemite he called eyes smoldered at me, and this is what he said. First he said:

“That fuckin’ fag cheese-eater director’s never gonna work again. He’s gonna go two days over, mark my words. I’ll see the putzola never works again.”

Then he said:

“I bought another condo in Phoenix. Solid gold investment. Better than Picassos.”

Then he said:

“I heard it at lunch today. A cunt is just a clam that’s wearin’ a frightwig. Good, huh?”

Then he said:

“I want you to stay late tonight. I can’t trust anyone else. Guy’ll show up here about eight. He’ll find you. Just stay put till he gets here. Never mind a name. He’ll make himself known to you. Take him over to the mixing studio, run the first three shows for him. Nobody else gets in, kapeesh, paisan?”

I was having such a time keeping my gorge from becoming buoyant that I barely heard his directive. Bill Tidy gave new meaning to the words King of the Pig People. The only groups he had failed to insult in the space of thirteen seconds were blacks, Orientals, paraplegics, and Doukhobors, and if I didn’t quickly agree to his demands, he’d no doubt round on them, as well. “Got it, Bill. Yessiree, you can count on me. Uh-huh, absolutely, right-on, dead-center, I hear ya talkin’, I’m your boy, I loves workin’ foah ya Massa’ Tidy-suh, you can bank on me!”

He gave me a look. “You know, Angelo, you are gettin’ stranger and stranger, like some kind of weird insect.”

And he turned and he vanished, leaving me all alone there in the encroaching darkness, just tuning my antennae and rubbing my hind legs together.

I was slumped down on my spine, eyes closed, in the darkened office with just the desk lamp doing its best to rage against the dying of the light, when I heard someone whisper huskily, “Turn off the light.”

I opened my eyes. The room was empty. I looked out the window behind my desk. It was night. I was three flights up in the production building. No one was there.

“The light. Turn off the light, can you hear what I’m telling you?”

I strained forward toward the open door and the dark hallway beyond. “You talking to me?” Nothing moved out there.

“The light. Slow; you’re a very slow person.”

Being Catholic, I respond like a Pavlovian dog to guilt. I turned out the light.

From the deeper darkness of the hallway I saw something shadowy detach itself and glide into my office. “Can I keep my eyes open,” I said, “Or would a blindfold serve to palliate this unseemly paranoia of yours?”

The shadowy form snorted disdainfully. “At these prices you can use words even bigger than that and I don’t give a snap.” I heard fingers snap. “You care to take me over to the mixing booth?”

I stood up. Then I sat down. “Don’t wanna play.” I folded my arms.

The shadowy figure got a petulant tone in his voice. “Okay, c’mon now. I’ve got three shows to do, and I haven’t got all night. The world keeps turning. Let’s go.”

“Not in the cards, Lamont Cranston. I’ve been ordered around a lot these last few days; and since I don’t know you from a stubborn stain, I’m digging in my heels. Remember the Alamo. Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Forty-four forty or fight.”

“I think that’s fifty-four forty or fight,” he said.

We thought about that for a while. Then after a long time I said, “Who the hell are you, and what is it you do that’s so illicit and unspeakable that first of all Bill Tidy would hire you to do it, which puts you right on the same level as me, which is the level of graverobbers, dog catchers, and horse-dopers; and second, which is so furtive and vile that you have to do it in the dead of night, coming in here wearing garb fit only for a commando raid? Answer in the key of C#.”

He chuckled. It was a nice chuckle. “You’re okay, kid,” he said. And he dropped into the chair on the other side of my desk where writers pitching ideas for stories sat; and he turned on the desk lamp.

“Wally Modisett,” he said, extending a black-gloved hand. “Sound editor.” I took the hand and shook. “Free-lance,” he said.

That didn’t sound so ominous. “Why the Creeping Phantom routine?” Then he said the word no one in Hollywood says. He looked intently at all of my face, particularly around the mouth, where lies come from, and he said: “Sweetening.”

If I’d had a silver crucifix, I’d have thrust it at him at arm’s-length. Be still my heart, I thought.

There are many things of which one does not speak in the television industry. One does not repeat the name of the NBC executive who was making women writers give him blowjobs in his office in exchange for writing assignments, even though he’s been pensioned off with a lucrative production deal at a major studio and the network paid for his psychiatric counseling for several years. One does not talk about the astonishing Digital Dance done by the royalty numbers in a major production company’s ledgers, thereby fleecing several superstar participants out of their “points” in the profits, even though it made a large stink on the World News Tonight and everybody scampered around trying to settle out of court while TV Guide watched. One does not talk about how the studio frightened a buxom ingenue who had become an overnight national sensation into modifying her demands for triple salary in the second season her series was on the air, not even to hint knowingly of a kitchen chair with nails driven up through the seat from the underside.

And one never, never, no never ever talks about the phantom sweeteners.

This show was taped before a live studio audience!

If you’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it at least twice. And so when those audiences break up and fall on the floor and roll around and drum their heels and roar so hard they have to clutch their stomachs and tears of hilarity blind them and their noses swell from crying too much and they sound as if they’re all genetically selected high-profile tickleables, you fall right in with them because that ain’t canned laughter, it’s a live audience, onac-counta This show was taped before a live studio audience.

While high in the fly loft of the elegant opera house, the Phantom Sweetener looks down and chuckles smugly.

They’re legendary. For years there was only Charlie Douglas, a name never spoken. A laugh man. A sound technician. A sweetener. They say he still uses laughs kidnapped off radio shows from the Forties and Fifties. Golden laughs. Unduplicable originals. Special, rich laughs that blend and support and lift and build a resonance that punches your subliminal buttons. Laughs from The Jack Benny Show, from segments of The Fred Allen Show down in Allen’s Alley, from The Chase & Sanborn Hour with Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy (one of the shows on which Charlie mixed it up with W.C. Fields). The laughs that Ed Wynn got, that Goodman and Jane Ace got, that Fanny Brice got. Rich, teak-colored laughs from a time in this country when humor wasn’t produced by slugs like Bill Tidy. For along time Charlie Douglas was all alone as the man who would make even dull thuds go over boffola.

But no one knew how good he was. Except the IRS, which took note of his underground success in the industry by raking in vast amounts of his hard-earned cash.

Using the big Spotmaster cartridges—carts that looked like eight-track cassettes, with thirty cuts per cart—twelve or fourteen per job—Charlie Douglas became a hired gun of guffaws, a highwayman of hee-haws, Zorro of zaniness; a troubleshooter working extended overtime in a specialized craft where he was a secret weapon with a never-spoken code-name.

Carrying with him from studio to studio the sounds of great happy moments stolen from radio signals long-since on their way to Proxima Centauri.

And for a long time Charlie Douglas had it all to himself, because it was a closely-guarded secret; not one of the open secrets perhaps unknown in Kankakee or Key West, like Merv Griffin or Ida Lupino or Roger Moore; but common knowledge at the Polo Lounge and Chasen’s.

But times got fat and the industry grew and there was more work, and more money, than one Phantom Sweetener could handle.

So the mother of invention called forth more audio soldiers of fortune: Carroll Pratt and Craig Porter and Tom Kafka and two silent but sensational guys from Tokyo and techs at Glen Glenn Sound and Vidtronics. And you never mention their names or the shows they’ve sweetened, lest you get your buns run out of the industry. It’s an open secret, closely-held by the community. The networks deny their existence, the production company executives would let you nail them hands and feet to their office doors before they’d cop to having their shows shot before a live studio audience sweetened. In the dead of night by the phantoms.

Of whom Wally Modisett is the most mysterious.

And here I sat, across from him. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and gloves. And he placed on the desk the legendary black box. I looked at it. He chuckled.

“That’s it,” he said.

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

I felt as if I were in church

In sound editing, the key is equalization. Bass, treble, they can isolate a single laugh, pull it off the track, make a match even twenty years later. They put them on “endless loops” and then lay the show over to a multi-track audio machine, and feed in one laugh on a separate track, meld it, blend it in, punch it up, put that special button-punch giggle right in there with the live studio audience track. They do it, they’ve always done it, and soon now they’ll be able to do it with digital encoding. And he sat right there in front of me with the legendary black box. Legendary, because Wally Modisett was an audio genius, an electronics Machiavelli who had built himself a secret system to do it all through that little black box that he took to the studios in the dead of night when everyone was gone, right into the booth at the mixing room, and he didn’t need a multi-track.

If it weren’t something to be denied to the grave, the mensches and moguls of the television industry would have Wally Modisett’s head right up there on Mt. Rushmore in the empty space between Teddy Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln.

What took twenty-two tracks for a combined layering on a huge machine, Wally Modisett carried around in the palm of his hand. And looking at his long, sensitive face, with the dark circles under his eyes, I guess I saw a foreshadowing of great things to come. There was laughter in his eyes.

I sat there most of the night, running the segments of Ain’t It the Truth. I sat down below in the screening room while the Phantom Sweetener locked himself up in the booth. No one, he made it clear, watched him work his magic.

And the segments played, with the live audience track, and he used his endless loops from his carts—labeled “Single Giggle 1” and “Single Giggle 2” and slightly larger “Single Giggle 3” and the dreaded “Titter/Chuckle” and the ever-popular “Rim Shot”—those loops of his own design, smaller than those made by Spotmaster, and he built and blended and sweetened the hell out of that laugh track till even I chuckled at moronic material Bill Tidy had bastardized to a level that only the Jukes and Kallikaks could have found uproarious.

And then, on the hundredth playback, after Modisett had added another increment of hilarity, I heard my dead Aunt Babe. I sat straight up in the plush screening room chair, and I slapped the switch on the console that fed into the booth, and I yelled, “Hey! That last one! That last laugh… what was that… ?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, tinnily, through the console intercom, he said, “I call it a wonky.”

“Where’d it come from?”

Silence.

“C’mon, man, where’d you get that laugh?”

“Why do you want to know?”

I sat there for a second, then I said, “Listen, either you’ve got to come down here, or let me come up there. I’ve got to talk to you.”

Silence. Then after a moment, “Is there a coffee machine around here somewhere?”

“Yeah, over near the theater.”

“I’ll be down in fifteen minutes. We’ll have a cup of coffee. Think you can hold out that long?”

“If you nail a duck’s foot down, does he walk in circles?”

It took me almost an hour to convince him. Finally, he decided I was almost as bugfuck as he was, and the idea was so crazy it might be fun to try and work it out. I told him I was glad he’d decided to try it because if he hadn’t I’d have followed him to his secret lair and found some way to blackmail him into it, and he said, “Yeah, I can see you’d do that. You’re not a well person.”

“Try working with Bill Tidy sometime,” I said. “It’s enough to turn Mother Teresa into a hooker.”

“Give me some time,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.”

I didn’t hear from him for a year and a half. Ain’t It the Truth had gone to the boneyard to join The Chicago Teddy Bears and Angle and The Dumplings. Nobody missed it, not even its creator. Bill Tidy had wielded his scythe with skill.

Then just after two A.M. on a summer night in Los Angeles, my phone rang, and I fumbled the receiver off the cradle and found my face somehow, and a voice said, “I’ve got it. Come.” And he gave me an address; and I went.

The warehouse was large, but all his shit was jammed into one corner. Multi-tracks and oscilloscopes and VCRs and huge 3-mil thick Mylar foam speakers that looked like the rear seats of a 1933 Chevy. And right in the middle of the floor was a larger black box.

“You’re kidding?” I said.

He was like a ten-year-old kid. “Would I shit you? I’m telling you, fellah, I’ve gone where no man has gone before. I has done did it! Jonas Salk and Marie Curie and Lee De Forest and all the rest of them have got to move over, slide aside, get to the back of the bus.” And he leaped around, howling, “I am the king!”

When I was able to peel him off the catwalks that made a spiderweb tracery above us, he started making some sense. Not a lot of sense, because I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but enough sense for me to begin to believe that this peculiar obsession of mine might have some toe in the world of reality.

“The way they taped shows back in 1953, when your aunt went to that Our Miss Brooks, was they’d use a 1/4” machine, reel-to-reel. They’d have directional mikes above the audience, to separate individual laughs. One track for the program, and another track for the audience. They they’d just pick up what they want, equalize, and sock it onto one track for later use. Sweetened as need be.”

He went to a portable fridge and pulled out a Dr. Pepper and looked in my direction. I shook my head. I was too excited for junk food. He popped the can, took a swig and came back to me.

“The first thing I had to do was find the original tape, the master. Took me a long time. It was in storage with… well, you don’t need to know that. It was in storage. I must have gone through a thousand old masters. But I found her. Then I had to pull her out. But not just the sound of her laugh. The actual laugh itself. The electronic impulses. I used an early model of this to do it.” He waved a hand at the big black box.

“She’d started sounding weak to me, over the years,” I said. “Slurred sometimes. Scratchy.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Impatient to get on with the great revelation. “That was because she was being diminished by fifth, sixth, twentieth generation re-recording. No, I got her at full strength, and I did what I call ‘deconvolving.’”

“Which is?”

“Never mind.”

“You going to say ‘never mind’ every time I ask what the hell you did to make it work?”

“As Groucho used to say to contestants, “You bet your ass.’”

I shrugged. It was his fairy tale.

“Once I had her deconvolved, I put her on an endless loop. But not just any kind of normal standard endless loop. You want to know what kind of endless loop I put her on?”

I looked at him. “You going to tell me to piss off?”

“No. Go ahead and ask.”

“All right already: I’m asking. What the hell kind of endless loop did you put her on?”

“A moebius loop.”

He looked at me as if he’d just announced the birth of a two-headed calf. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. That didn’t stop me from whistling through my two front teeth, loud enough to cause echoes in the warehouse, and I said, “No shit?!?”

He seemed pleased, and went on faster than before. “Now I feed her into the computer, digitally encode her so she never diminishes. Slick, right? Then I feed in a program that says harmonize and synthesize her, get a simulation mapping for the instrument that produced that sound; in other words, your aunt’s throat and tongue and palate and teeth and larynx and alia that. Now comes the tricky part. I build a program that postulates an actual physical situation, a terrain, a place where that voice exists. And I send the computer on a search to bring me back everything that composes that place.”

“Hold hold hold it, Lamont. Are you trying to tell me that you went in search of the Land of Oz, using that loop of Babe’s voice?”

He nodded about a hundred and sixteen times.

“How’d you do that? I know: piss off. But that’s some kind of weird metaphysical shit. It can’t be done.”

“Not by drones, fellah. But / can do it. I did it.” He nodded at the black box.

“The tv sitcom land where my dead Aunt Babe is trapped, it’s in there, in that cube?”

“Ah calls it a simularity matrix” he said, with an accent that could get him killed in South Central L.A.

“You can call it rosewater if you like, Modisett, but it sounds like the foothills of Bandini Mountain to me.”

His grin was the mutant offspring of a sneer and a smirk. I’d seen that kind of look only once, on the face of a failed academic at a collegiate cocktail party. Later that evening the guy used the smirk ploy once too often and a little tweety-bird of an English prof gave him high cause to go see a periodontal reconstructionist.

“I can reconstruct her like a clone, right in the machine,” he said.

“How do you know? Tried it yet?”

“It’s your aunt, not mine,” he said. “I told you I’d get back to you. Now I’m back to you, and I’m ready to run the showboat out to the middle of the river.”

So he turned on a lot of things on the big board he had, and he moved a lot of slide-switches up the gain slots, and he did this, and he did that, and a musical hum came from the Quad speakers, and he looked over his shoulder at me, across the tangle of wires and cables that disappeared into the black box, and he said, “Wake her up.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “Wake her. She’s been an electronic code for almost twenty-five years. She’s been asleep. She’s an amputated frog leg. Send the current through her.”

””

“How?”

“Call her. She’ll recognize your voice.”

“How? It’s been a long time. I don’t sound like the kid I was when she died.”

“Trust me,” he said. “Call her.”

I felt like a goddam fool. “Where do I speak?”

“Just speak, asshole. She’ll hear you.”

So I stood there in the middle of that warehouse and I said, “Aunt Babe?” There was nothing.

“A little louder. Gentle, but louder. Don’t startle her.”

“You’re outta your…” His look silenced me. I took a deep breath and said, a little louder, “Hey, Aunt Babe? You in there? It’s me, Angelo.”

I heard something. At first it sounded like a mouse running toward me across a long blackboard, a blackboard maybe a hundred miles long. Then there was something like the wind you hear in thick woods in the autumn. Then the sound of somebody unwrapping Christmas presents. Then the sound of water, like surf, pouring into a cave at the base of a cliff, and then draining out again. Then the sound of a baby crying and the sound suddenly getting very deep as if it were a three hundred pound killer baby that wanted to be fed parts off a freshly-killed dinosaur. This kind of torrential idiocy went on for a while, and then, abruptly, out of nowhere, I heard my Aunt Babe clearing her throat, as if she were getting up in the morning. That phlegmy throat-clearing that sounds like quarts of yogurt being shoveled out of a sink.

“Angelo… ?”

I crossed myself about eleven times, ran off a few fast Hail

Mary’s and Our Father’s, swallowed hard and said, “Yeah, Aunt Babe, it’s me. How are you?”

“Let me, for a moment here, let me get my bearings.” It took more than a moment. She was silent for a few minutes, though she did once say, “I’ll be right with you, mio caro.”

And finally, I heard her say, “I am really fit to be tied. Do you have any idea what they have put me through? Do you have even the faintest idea how many times they’ve made me watch The Partridge Family? Do you have any idea how much I hate that kind of music? Never Cole Porter, never Sammy Cahn, not even a little Gus Edwards; I’d settle for Sigmund Romberg after those squalling children. Caro nipote, quanta mi sei mancato! Angelo… bello bello. I want you to tell me everything that’s happened, because as soon as I get a chance, I’m going to make a stink you’re not going to believe!”

It was Babe. My dearest Aunt Babe. I hadn’t heard that wonderful mixture of pungent English and lilting Italian with its show biz Yiddish resonances in almost thirty years. I hadn’t spoken any Italian in nearly twenty years. But I heard myself saying to the empty air, “Come te la sei passata?” How’ve you been?

“Ti voglio bene—bambino caro. I feel just fine. A bit fuzzy, I’ve been asleep a while but come sta la famiglia? Anche quelli che non posso sopportare.”

So I told her all about the family, even the ones she couldn’t stand, like Uncle Nuncio with breath like a goat, and Carmine’s wife, Giuletta, who’d always called Babe a floozy. And after a while she had me try to explain what had happened to her, and I did the best I could, to which she responded, “Non mi sento come un fantasma.”

So I told her she didn’t feel like a ghost because she wasn’t, strictly speaking a ghost. More like a random hoot in the empty night. Well, that didn’t go over too terrific, because in an instant she’d grasped the truth that if she wasn’t going where it is that dead people go, she’d never meet up with my Uncle Morrie again; and that made her very sad, “Oh, dio!” and she started crying.

So I tried to jolly her out of it by talking about all the history that had transpired since 1955, but it turned out she knew most of it anyhow. After all, hadn’t she been stuck there, inside the biggest blabbermouth the world had ever known? Even though she’d been in something like an alpha state of almost-sleep, her essence had been saturated with news and special reports, docud-ramas and public service announcements, talk shows and panel discussions, network extra alerts and hour-by-hour live coverage of fast-breaking events.

Eventually I got around to explaining how I’d gotten in touch with her, about Modisett and the big black box, about how the Phantom Sweetener had deconvolved her, and about Bill Tidy.

She was not unfamiliar with the name.

After all, hadn’t she been stuck there, inside the all-talking, all-singing, all-dancing, electromagnetic pimp for Tidy’s endless supply of brain-damaged, insipid persiflage?

I painted Babe a loving word-portrait of my employer and our unholy liaison. She said, “Stronzo! Figlio di una mignotta! Mas-calzone!” She also called him bischero, by which I’m sure she meant the word in its meaning of goof, or simpleton, rather than literally: “man with erection.”

Modisett, who spoke no Italian, stared wildly at me, seeming to bask in the unalloyed joy of having tapped a line into some Elsewhere. Yet even he could tell from the tone of revulsion in Babe’s disembodied voice that she had suffered long under the exquisite tortures of swimming in a sea of Tidy product.

What Tidy had been doing to me seemed to infuriate her. She was still my loving Aunt Babe.

So I spent all that night, and the next day, and the next night— while Modisett mostly slept and emptied Dr. Pepper down his neck—chatting at leisure with my dead Aunt Babe.

You’ll never know how angry someone can get from prolonged exposure to Gary Coleman.

The Phantom Sweetener can’t explain what followed. He says it defies the rigors of Boolean logic, whatever the hell that means. He says it transcends the parameters of Maxwell’s Equation, which ought to put Maxwell in a bit of a snit. He says (and with more than a touch of the gibber in his voice) it deflowers, rapes, & pillages, breaks & enters Minkowski’s Covariant Tensor. He says it is enough to start Philo T. Farnsworth spinning so hard in his grave that he would carom off Vladimir K. Zworykin in his. He says it would get Marvin Minsky up at M.I.T. speaking in tongues. He says—and this one really turned me around and opened my eyes—he says it (wait for it), “Distorts Riemannian geometry.” To which I said, “You have got to be shitting me! Not Riemannian ge-fuckingometry!?!”

This is absolute babble to me, but it’s got Modisett down on all fours, foaming at the mouth and sucking at the electrical outlets.

Apparently, Babe has found pathways in the microwave comm-system. The Phantom Sweetener says it might have happened because of what he calls “print-through,” that phenomenon that occurs on audio tape when one layer magnetizes the next layer, so you hear an echo of the word or sound that is next to be spoken. He says if the tape is wound “heads out” and is stored that way, then the signal will jump. The signal that is my dead Aunt Babe has jumped. And keeps jumping. She’s loose in the comm-system and she ain’t asking where’s the beef: she knows! And Modisett says the reason they can’t catch her and wipe her is that old tape always bleeds through. Which is why, when Bill Tidy’s big multi-million dollar sitcom aired last year, instead of audience roaring with laughter, there was the voice of this woman shouting above the din, “That’s stupid! Worse than stupid! That’s 6ore-ing! Ka-ka! C’mon folks, let’s have a good old-fashioned Bronx cheer for crap-ola like this! Let’s show ‘em what we really think of this flopola!”

And then, instead of augmented laughter, instead of yoks, came a raspberry that could have floated the Titanic off the bottom.

Well, they pulled the tape, and they tried to find her, but she was gone, skipping off across the simularity matrix like Bambi, only to turn up the next night on another Tidy-Spellberg abomination.

Well, there was no way to stop it, and the networks got very leery of Tidy and Company, because they couldn’t even use the millions of billions of dollars worth of shitty rerun shows they’d paid billions and millions for syndication rights to, and they sued the hell out of Bill Tidy, who went crazy as a soup sandwich not too long ago, and I’m told he’s trying to sell ocean-view lots in some place like Pekin, North Dakota, and living under the name Silas Marner or somesuch because half the civilized world is trying to find him to sue his ass off.

And I might have a moment of compassion for the creep, but I haven’t the time. I have three hit shows running at the moment, one each on ABC, NBC, and CBS.

They are big hits because somehow, in a way that no one seems able to figure out, there are all these little subliminal buttons being pushed by my shows, and they just soar to the top of the Nielsen ratings.

And I said to Aunt Babe, “Listen, don’t you want to go to

Heaven, or wherever it is? I mean, don’t you want out of that limbo existence?”

And with love, because she wanted to protect her bambino caro, because she wanted to make up for the fact that I didn’t have her wonderful bosom to fall asleep on anymore, she said, “Get out of here, Angelo, my darling? What… and leave show business?”

The Author would like to thank Franco & Carol Betti, Jody Clark, Bart Di Grazia, Tom Kafka, Alan Kay, Ann Knight, Gil Lament, Michele D. Malamud, and the Grand Forks, North Dakota Public Library reference staff for invaluable assistance in getting the details of this story written accurately.