Alvie Tovsky had one beer too many that SuperBowl Sunday at Foggy’s Sports Palace, and by the time he stumbled into his empty three rooms and retched out his guts, his memory of that evening was gone, dissipated into the fog that darkened the neon lights of Gypsytown, hiding his doorstep in wet shadow.
He would not be able to remember the winning touchdown, or how in hell he got home, or why he, a virtual non-drinker, had gotten so shitfaced and out of control. Somehow, he hauled his limp waggling carcass onto the futon and sank, closer to death than life, where he slept, drifting in and out of dreams til far too late for work.
Bright sparks pricked the edge of his consciousness, then a sliver of light forced his eyes open. His head felt odd, light and dull, unfeeling, numb. Something was definitely wrong. Shit. He must have really tied one on last night. Couldn’t really remember the details. He couldn’t feel his legs, or arms, either. He tried to reach for his genitals, just checking things out, and realized that he couldn’t reach or touch anything. His arms seemed to be missing, and it was dark.
He was a more alert now, and alarm bells began to ring in his head when he realized that he wasn’t alone, that an entity, a form of some kind, was within him, moving, forcing itself against his brain, his lips, his neck.
This was scary. Alvie had never been afraid of anything, after all, wasn’t he the Bergen Basher, the Golden Gloves Champ? He’d been in his share of scraps, and always came through, lumps and all, but this...this was something else.
Without warning, the thing inside him suddenly exploded in a flurry of intricate movements, forcing Alvie’s mouth into a munching, guffawing shape, and words came out of his mouth.
"Yo’ momma.."
Yo Momma? The words spilled out, he had absolutely no control over them.
What the hell is going on?
He tried to look around. He couldn’t see anything below eye level, for some unknown reason, he couldn’t force his face to look down.
It was apparent that he wasn’t in his own apartment. The lights were very bright, shining directly into his eyes, and to his horror, he could make out some people sitting at small tables just beyond the lights, all looking toward him, leering, whistling, clapping. Somewhere to his left, out of the visible circle, someone was booing.
He tried to scream, but couldn’t. His entire face and head moved again, and more words came out.
"Yo’ momma is so ugly that when she was born, the doctor slapped her parents!"
Alvie’s brain was shrieking Danger! Danger! Danger!, then a glimmer of an absolutely incredible thought intruded. Yeah, this must be it. He had died and this was Hell. What had he done to deserve this? He faintly remembered peeing his pants at the SuperBowl Party, and a couple of geeks tossing him out into the alley, then all was blank.
He tried once again to yell something, but nope, still nothing.
Suddenly he was hoisted into the air and his mouth and face mouthed the words, "Thank you. Thank you very much!"
The surroundings erupted in clapping and cheering, catcalls, whistles, and boos. He could see a little better from this elevated position, but still couldn’t look down. The horizon began to rotate, and he was turned to face a mirrored wall. Reflected there, standing with one arm raised in a hitlerian salute, stood a young man wearing a clown suit and smiling a horrible gap-toothed grimace.
It slowly dawned on Alvie that the character in the mirror wasn’t him, then once again, that thing inside him forced the words "Good night!" out his face and he watched with horror as simultaneously, the sock puppet on the clown’s hand opened its goofy buck-toothed thick-lipped mouth and said "Good Night!"
Alvie’s small universe froze at that moment. He was scared, but couldn’t tremble or quake, or even cry.
I’m a sock puppet. A god-damned fucking sock puppet!
Nothing in his life had prepared Alvie to confront this. Had he stumbled into his own personal vision of Hell, or was this real? If it was real, he wanted to talk to whoever was in charge. If he could only... if he could just... It was all too immense, and in anguish, he closed his eyes, shutting out the world.
No, this can’t be! I’ll just go back to sleep, and I’ll wake up later and it’ll all be ok.
Alvie never really slept, but he was able to think about his situation. He’s been dealt a pretty mean hand, and he simply had to find a way out of it. He was no longer on the hand, but lay still at the bottom of a Macy’s hat box.
Well, guess I’d better get moving. Wait! Moving?...
He was a sock puppet, and incredible as it may seem, sock puppets don’t move on their own.
Or do they?
Dammit, he was gonna try. It was all he had. Alvie imagined feeling his face, his head his lips and teeth. Off the hand now, he could focus all his brainpower into finding some way to move.
He strained mightily. If he’d had a gut, he would have busted it, and he nearly gave up when he realized that a sock puppet doesn’t have a brain.
So where is my consciousness coming from?
He pondered this question for an eternity, then satisfied that there was no readily available answer, he continued his mental labors.
After what seemed like another lifetime of intense concentration, Alvie fell asleep. He dreamed he was a blacksmith standing at a fiery forge, slamming a huge hammer into a red hot piece of steel. Sparks rained down from above, hot bits of metal that burned his bare chest and arms.
He clicked up a level suddenly and was conscious. He could feel something. Was that a pinprick where his lips should be? He tried to yell out. With each silent scream, the pinpricks intensified. He didn’t stop, even when the sensations became painful.
Just as he pushed the hardest, the boxtop lifted and the horrible clown, backlit by a naked bulb, reached in and picked him up. At that precise moment, Alvie’s mouth let loose with a forced "uuunhh!"
Arnie Lederschwanz, fry cook during the day and aspiring comedic personality at night, flinched and yanked his hand from the box. Christ! Was he losing his mind, or did his sock puppet T.J. just move and make a sound he’d only ever heard come out of James Brown? He looked back down into the box. The sock lay there, same as always, eyes looking unnervingly straight at him.
Well, better head for the club, couldn’t be late. Had some new material to try tonight. He snatched T.J., stuffed him in his jacket pocket, and headed for the Komedy Klub.
