 
 John's DinerIt's About Zack...by Del Freeman
 

     Opening scene:
     
               A sterile hospital waiting room containing the sad, lone
               figure of a young, obviously distraught woman. She
               clutches a handkerchief in trembling hands and watches
               the double doors to her right. Suddenly they open, and
               a figure emerges.
     
          "Cynthia, I'm afraid I have bad news," says the white-coated
     doctor to the dewy-eyed young blond thing, now vigorously kneading
     her handkerchief.
          Mystery-music rises to a crescendo as she searches his face
     with wide, frightened eyes, making little mewling sounds.
          "Yes, doctor?"
          Louder mystery music as the doctor hesitates. "It's about
     Zack..."
          "Zack? No, doctor, please... say it isn't so. Not Zack! Not
     my darling, precious Zack!!" She crumples to the floor in a sobbing
     heap.
          "Yes, Cynthia. I can't say it isn't Zack because it is Zack.
     My terrible news is about Zack. I hate to be the one to have to
     tell you this, but the news I bring is not good and it's about
     Zack. Buck up, Cynthia. Be strong. Zack would want you to be. Where
     is Lance? Surely he would want to hear my bad news. About Zack."
     The doctor looks around, searching the waiting room in an expectant
     manner.
          "Lance is at work, doctor. He is on the cutting edge of a
     breakthrough in nasal surgery, and you know how important that is.
     Lance may well be the first plastic surgeon to successfully reform
     what is the world's only perfect nose. The tip-tilt so many have
     sought is finally within his reach. I know, however, that he would
     want to be here if only he could. Just how serious is it, doctor?"
          "Well, let's wait on that a bit and perhaps you should call
     him and ask him to come over. Tell him it's about Zack."
          Fade to black. SELL SOAP!
                                    ***
               Scene opens once again in the hospital waiting room.
               Cynthia has been joined by the chisel-featured Lance who
               stands with his arm protectively about her waist. The two
               face the doctor with trepidation.
          
          "Doctor, I understand you have news about Zack?" asks Lance.
          "Yes."
          Mystery music really going crazy here as the moment of
     revelation approaches.
          "Well, what is it?" asks Lance. "Tell us. We can take it.
     Somehow we'll find a way to make it all right. Just tell us,
     doctor. You must. We can't stand the suspense another moment. What
     is it about Zack? What? WHAT?"
          Plainly, Lance is a method actor.
          As Lance and Cynthia wait for the revelation, the doctor turns
     full face to the camera - no mystery music now - and says into the
     ominous quiet:
          "I'm afraid I have some bad news. It's about Zack..."
          Fade to black. SELL SOAP SCUM REMOVER!
                                    ***
               Credits roll as the voice-over announcer urges viewers
               to tune in on Monday to learn what fateful news the
               doctor has for Lance and Cynthia about their beloved
               Zack.
                                    ***
          The head writers of the hit daytime series "C. Chambers, M.D."
     gather around the conference table with their sponsors, awaiting
     the arrival of their players. A story conference has been called
     to sketch out the coming week's episodes and come up with an answer
     to the consuming question: What the devil is the matter with Zack?
          Cynthia and Lance, (actually Myrna Gutz and Charlie
     Abramowitz, bit players from Cleveland), are the first to arrive.
     Myrna, affectionately known to all as "roundheels" due to her
     propensity to lay down for producers, directors, actors who might
     have some influence in casting, and pretty much anyone else who
     shows an interest, flirts furiously with the head writer and
     mouthes the words "memory loss," hoping to inspire a feature
     segment for her character. They take their seats at the table and
     all turn their attention to the throne-like chair at the head of
     the table which remains empty for several moments. In time, a
     fanfare is heard stage left and writers and soap players stand in
     unison for the entrance of the star of their show. 
          "LAYDEEZ AND GENTLEMEN," shouts the voice-over announcer,
     "HERE, ON THIS STAGE, DIRECT FROM A PERSONAL APPEARANCE AT THE BUY
     HERE-PAY HERE PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE PET SHOP IS THE ONE... THE
     ONLY... THE MAGNIFICENT COSMO CHAMBERS!"
          Cosmo saunters onto the stage wearing a velveteen smoking
     jacket with elbow patches, a small unlit pipe protruding from his
     beak, mini-aviator sunglasses shading his eyes. He takes his seat
     at the head of the table. The assembled group remains standing
     until he indicates with a nod that they may be seated.
          "O magnificent one," the head writer addresses Cosmo, "we'd
     like your input for next week's resolution of the burning question
     of Zack's mystery ailment."
          Cosmo looks thoughtful. Puffs on his unlit pipe. Opens his
     mouth. The assembled party stare raptly at him, waiting for his
     pronouncement.
          "He's dead," announces the STAR.
          "Dead?" asks the head writer.
          "Dead?" repeat the bit players in unison.
          "Did you say dead?" questions the soap scum remover sponsor. 
          "Dead as a pet rock," Cosmo says flatly.
          "O magnificent one," says the soap sponsor tentatively, "while
     I certainly wouldn't question your judgment... um, do you think
     that will sell soap?"
          "What do I care if it sells soap?" Cosmo demands. "I could be
     doing Shakespeare, you know. The London Theatre Group approached
     me just last week. I don't have to stand around wearing this stupid
     white coat and fondling a stethoscope."
          Cosmo clears his throat ostentatiously and intones: "To be or
     not to be... that is the question... . And speaking of questions,
     this one is resolved. Zack is not to be. Zack is dead."
          "Dead," agrees the head writer.
          "Dead," intone the bit players.
          "Dead as a mackerel," pronounce the sponsors.
          "O MAGNIFICENT ONE, YOUR LIMO IS AT THE SIDE DOOR," says the
     voice-over announcer. 
          Cosmo stands and waits for his minions to place his camel-hair
     overcoat over his shoulders and saunters toward his Limo, dictating
     notes to his secretary on the way.
          "... call my tailor, and make a note to replenish the beak
     blusher on my make-up table. I noticed a shine in today's close-
     up. And for God's sake refill the cashew dish. Do I have to do
     everything around here?"
          As the voice fades away the assembled group avoid one
     another's eyes, breaking away singly and in pairs, and disappearing
     from the darkened stage, Myrna hastening after the head writer with
     a bottle of cold duck and a mesh bag of grapes, muttering under her
     breath with varied inflection, "Who am I? Who am I? Who...".
                                    ***
          "Cosmo, take off those stupid sunglasses and put down that
     pipe," Lucia orders. "You're just another pet around here even if
     you are the star of that stupid soap opera," she says.
          A chastened Cosmo does as he is ordered.
          "By the way, Cos, speaking of your starring role... what have
     you done about getting Zack a walk-on?" John inquires.
          "Done," pronounces Cosmo. "Of course, it's only a cameo."
          "So what part is he going to play? I sort of see him as a
     fellow colleague... maybe a neurologist from Senegal, here in the
     states to make some world-shaking breakthrough in the medical
     field," John suggests.
          "Well, it's nothing so large as that," hedges Cosmo.
          "So, what is it?" John asks.
          "He's sort of dead," Cosmo admits.
          "Dead?" asks John.
          "Pretty much," Cosmo confirms.
          "Dead as in no longer living?" asks Lucia.
          "That too," says Cosmo.
          "This is not funny, Cosmo. You'd better be pulling my leg,"
     John threatens.
          "Nope, you'd fall on your... sorry, wrong joke," says Cosmo,
     replacing his sunglasses.
          "COSMO, TAKE OFF THOSE DUMB GLASSES AND TALK TO US!" shrieks
     Lucia. "Have you seriously encouraged those fluffheads you call
     producers to introduce a dead Zack?"
          "Well, look at it this way," invites Cosmo and promptly swings
     upside down, peering at the Chambers from his new angle, "it IS his
     only trick, isn't it?"
          The Chambers lock eyes as each recalls the myriad of times
     Zack has obligingly flipped over onto his back for John to rub his
     tummy. They say nothing more. Cosmo rights himself and again dons
     his sunglasses. He hops onto the corner table where he methodically
     places one foot on the open inkpad and then onto a stack of 8X10
     glossies of himself in scrub greens.
                                    ***
          "Amazing Bird Trick," reads the headline of U.S.A. Today.
          "Reclining Bird Raises Ratings," headlines the Washington
     Post.
          "Well, Bryant," chirps Katie Couric on the national early-
     morning show, "today's guest is none other than that famous bird
     who's become an overnight television sensation, Zack Chambers."
          Cosmo sits brooding on his perch as Zack's face appears on
     camera. He belts back a shot of John's best scotch and ponders this
     nasty outcome of his best-laid plans. He reads again the formal
     notice from his sponsors cancelling his show. He stares balefully
     at the beaming Zack on the television screen.
          "Roundheels!" he screams.
                                    -end-
                        Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman
                                    
