TV or Not TV, That Is The Question


Author: Timer

A/N: I poke a little fun at our hobby in this one, but it’s done with tongue planted lovingly in cheek. Remember, I’m the author of FF who spends waayy too much time on the boards myself!


Part 5: Debriefing


Mac’s Corvette
1500 hours (local), Saturday, July 21

“Thanks for letting me drive, Mac. I know how you feel about your ‘vette.”

She’s ticked. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her reach into her barely-there bottoms. With all the drama that would normally be associated with opening an envelope on the Academy Awards, she produces a DVD.

If I pull over right now and ask her if I can hold it, would she think it strange?

Probably.

“This is what you wanted me to smuggle out of the Addams’ house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mac. That’s it. But we need to talk before we brief the Admiral and Webb.” She has to see this for what it is. Doesn’t she? Hell, a blind man could see this. Right?

“Sure Harm. Find a gas station.”

I check the fuel gauge. Plenty. Guess she needs to visit the “little Marine’s room”. God, if she knew I even thought that she’d kill me. ‘Course I would deserve it.

Well, well, well, here is a conveniently located gas station, complete with mini-market and restrooms. I pull in.

“OK for you, Mac?”

I see the look on her face and realize that somehow, somewhere I took a wrong turn in the last few minutes.

How did I do that?
I didn’t want to do that.

I didn’t mean to do that.

Damn.

Mac stalks to the back of her car and retrieves a sea bag.

“I’m changing into my uniform before we report to Admiral Chegwidden,” she states in the flattest tone I’ve ever heard from her. “I suggest you do the same.”

Sure, well, OK. Gee, what’s with the anger here?

She leans against the driver’s side of the ‘vette and extends her right arm, palm up. No question in my mind who’s turning the steering wheel from now on.

But I do wonder why she’s so angry all of a sudden. I just can’t figure out what I did. Or did wrong.

“Here Mac,” I hand her the car keys trying to clasp her hand at the same time.

She rips them from my hand pining me with a glare.

Where is this coming from? OK. Enough of this nonsense. It’s too completely weird that we’ve been dumped into a ‘60’s sitcom universe, but Mac getting all pissed off about nothing? I’m not taking it and I’m gonna let her know.

On the other hand, Grams always said ‘you catch more flies with sugar’....

“Mac,” I hope that sounds as gentle as I tried to make it sound. “I don’t know what you’re mad about, but if I caused it, I’m sorry.”

Absolutely no change in attitude. Damn, I’m in deep here.

“Really, Harm. You have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what has me ticked off?”

Oh, I sure wish I did. I’m furiously scanning my memory banks for any infractions, perceived or real.

Maybe that DVD down her swim suit bottoms rubbed her the wrong way. Oh damn! I hope not literally. But come to think of it, she did walk a little funny while she had it hidden there.

“I’m gonna get my uniform on. Ya know, Harm. Uniforms, military rank?” I hear scorpions have strong venom. They’re amateurs compared to Mac.

I take her hint, subtle as it is, and go to the men’s restroom to change into my uniform. Considering the ‘unusual’ report we’re gonna be giving, I agree that it’s best for us both to be in uniform.

Sadly I realize that means she won’t be in a bikini anymore.

Watching her walk out of the ‘ladies restroom’ I’m dumbstruck. Dumbfounded. No, I realize, I’m just plain dumb.

I’ve worked with this woman, loved this woman (yeah, admit it Rabb, no one else is around to hear your confession) for years and I haven’t let her know it? I haven’t tried to get her to love me? I haven’t touched her in a way that lets her know how much more I want to touch her?

Hey, I started to fix that, didn’t I? I thought the whole ‘her letting me hold her’ thing was the next step. Apparently not.

She’s walking, no, marching, back to the car. I’d swear I can see tiny wisps of steam exiting her ears.

She stops just inches from me. I can tell, this is Mac in command. I know better than to question.

“Sailor,” she cracks the verbal whip as only a Marine can. ‘Sailor’? Wow, this is gonna be a full-blown dressing down. I just swallow and get ready to take it.

“I hope you’re thrilled with your job performance.”

The term ‘caustic’ comes to mind only because I don’t think Marines know how to keelhaul someone. That someone being me.

“Just trying to do my duty, ma’am.”

There is no way she’s gonna let me get away with acting the stupid junior officer. She may think I am, but she’s not gonna let me use that as an excuse to get away with whatever she thinks I’ve done.

She steps closer to me. As close as she can to get into my face to issue Marine instructions.

How is it she seems taller than me when she’s doing this? I know I’m taller than her. By quite a lot. Humm....

“I suppose you think it’s appropriate for you to tell, not ask, a senior officer to stick a DVD down her ... “ she sputters.

“It seemed like the best plan at the time, ma’am.” Oh no. She is really mad if she’s pulling the ‘senior officer’ bit.

“And did you notice that the DVD you selected for me to smuggle out in my crotch was a copy of season 1 of Leave It To Beaver?”
OK, I got it now.

“No ma’am. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t, ma’am. No disrespect intended, ma’am.”

“In the heat of the moment, with thousands to choose from you just happened to choose that one?”

“Ma’am, given the situation I just wanted to get us both out of there safely.” I sneak a peak and see her mouth starting to do that funny little thing it does when she’s trying to hide something.

She knows I’ve seen it. She knows I know she’s seen me see it. Here’s where it gets interesting.

I watch her make a decision.

“Someday, sailor, someday soon, I’m going to task you to an undercover assignment with me. You will be expected to perform well above and beyond the normal call of duty. It will be a very special op. You *will* distinguish yourself. And the Cleavers will be nowhere around. Have I made myself clear?”

I sure hope so. “Yes ma’am!”

Good thing she’s driving or we’d be nothing but tangled sheet metal on the highway.


Adm. Chegwidden’s office
JAG HQs
1545 (local), Saturday, July 21

“Sir, I honestly don’t think there is any national security breech from the Addams.” I stop myself just short of saying “Family”. “Their ‘interesting associates’ seem to all imitate characters out of ‘60’s TV sitcoms.”

I can see AJ’s having a bit of a difficult time with this. But I have faith. He did read Mad Magazine, right?

“Could you be more specific, Commander?”

Here goes. I take a deep breath. “Well, Mr. Addams’ first name is Gomez, at least he says it is. His wife’s name is Tisha, but he always calls her ‘my Tisha’. A trusted family friend, who Gomez thinks of as an uncle, is a Franciscan monk named Chester. They have neighbors named Rob and Laura. A neighbor named Ginger had just lost track of Gill, again. Two teenage cousins who are physically identical but polar opposites in demeanor were at the party. A newly oil-rich friend is named Jed. And the butler is at least 6’9” tall and gray.”

I’m not quite sure how to interpret AJ’s face.
“Oh, and yeah, the butler’s Webb’s inside man.”

Now why was it that last piece of information is the one that has grabbed AJ?

“Anything else?” he asks.

What, that’s not enough?? OK, I’m convinced. I *am* the only sane person left in my world.

“Sir, they were all mostly dressed in black and white...”

“and gray, “ Mac chimes in.

“again. And, well, their fashion choices were as odd today as they were last night. All vintage ‘60’s and ‘70’s and totally inappropriate for a pool party. I mean Ginger was in sequins and had the pointiest ahhh...”. Whoops, backed myself into that corner pretty tight, didn’t I?

Mac’s eyebrows are reaching yet new heights. AJ’s doing that stoic I’m-not-gonna-let-them-see-me-laugh thing. Webb, clueless as always, jumps in with both left feet.

“Pointy what, Rabb?”

“It’s the fashion nowadays for a more natural look for a woman’s bustline.” Hasn’t he noticed?

“Was this Ginger dressed in black and white too?” The Admiral queries.

Finally, an intelligent question.

“No, of course not, Gilligan’s Island was in color.” How can that answer sound so ridiculous yet so perfectly matter-of-fact at the same time?

Fortunately for me, I can see AJ’s getting on board.

”I didn’t know you were so into fashion, Harm.” How is it when Webb says that it somehow sounds dirty?

Hey, it’s not like I have a subscription to GQ but I do pick it up a couple times a year. Usually at the beginning of the spring and fall seasons. With a body my size you’ve got to dress right. There’s no shame in wanting to look your best. (Then why do I always hide any copies I might have laying around when someone visits? Hmmm.)

Well, no matter. The ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy doesn’t apply to metrosexuals. Does it?

Nahh.
“Admiral,” Mac steps up to the plate. “The butler led us to a room with thousands of DVDs and VHS tapes.”

“Ah ha! See, just as I suspected. They’re smuggling national secrets out of the country on DVDs and VHS tapes!”

Not that I recall Webb ever mentioning DVDs or tapes. Glancing at Mac and the Admiral I see they’re both thinking the same thing.

“Sir, a quick inspection revealed they were labeled with the titles of TV sitcoms from the ‘60s and ‘70s. The Beverly Hillbillies, Petticoat Junction, The Andy Griffith Show, Leave It To Beaver...”

Webb cuts Mac off. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“You’ve never heard of Leave It To Beaver?” All three of us say at once, in various degrees of disbelief and volume

Webb gets this strange expression. “Mother didn’t let me watch much television.”

The look Mac, the Admiral and I exchange says it all: Webb has finally secured himself a permanent, irrevocable designation as a weenie.

“Sir, Mac was able to smuggle a DVD out.” Hey, have to give her credit, it was her crotch that walked it out. I have a feeling I’m gonna think about that a few more times before I’m done with it.

Webb snatches it out of Mac’s hand. “Great, good job. I’ll rush this to our cryptologists right away,” he says as he speeds out the door.

Hey, at least he did say “good job,” right? Ungrateful little jerk. We put our butts on the line and he’s gonna take all the credit. I just know it. But wait a minute, I did get to see Mac’s almost naked butt. And I still have the strongest feeling there isn’t gonna be any credit for cracking a terrorist cell going around on this op.

“Commander, Colonel, I hope you enjoy the rest of your weekend,” is the Admiral’s dismissal.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Exiting his office we run into Bud.

“Hey Bud, what’re you doing here this afternoon?” Mac inquires.

“Harriet’s having the carpets cleaned and I just wanted to get out of the way,” Bud sighs. He’s a good friend, but Harriet sure does have him whipped. Oh yeah, like I have room to criticize? Me, the guy whose latest fantasy involves turning himself into a DVD of Leave It To Beaver?
Bud brightens. “Harriet told me you two went to the Addams’ weekly cocktail party last night. What was it like?”

Mac and I share a look. “Really weird, Bud,” I say.

“Really, really weird,” Mac underlines. YESSS!!! She’s finally gotten it. She’s fully on board. There is another sane person in my world.

I’m convinced there’s nothing more than old sitcoms and decidedly strange people involved here, so I give Bud a run-down of the doings at the Addams’ Manse.

“But what I can’t figure is if Addams is really just bootlegging old TV shows, how could that possibly account for his obvious wealth?” I conclude filling Bud in.

He starts to nearly vibrate with excitement. Uh oh. What Bud-ness have I tapped into?

“Sir, those old shows have enormous cult followings out there in cyberspace. They have web sites, discussion boards, even some of the characters have web sites dedicated to them.”

I can tell he’s itching to get to a computer.

“Well, yeah Bud. I’ve heard some actors have web sites, but...”

“No, sir. Yes, sir.” Classic Bud-ism here.

“I mean plenty of actor’s have web sites, or fans that host web sites about them, but a lot of characters do too,” he explains.

“What, like Gilligan has a site dedicated to him?” Surely he must be kidding.

“No doubt, sir. And Gilligan’s site would be different from the Bob Denver one.”

There must be a whole lot of people out there with too much time on their hands.

“Fandom is a big part of the Internet, sir. Discussion boards where people chat about series, characters, review episodes. Some shows have conventions, but they’re usually called ‘cons’ or ‘fests’. There’s even this whole subset of fanfic...thousands of stories out there on the Internet.”

I have a feeling Bud should have stayed home with the carpet cleaners. He’s in danger of exploding.

“Fanfic?” I ask.

“Yes sir. Fans write stories using the characters of a TV show and post them on the Internet.”
“Bud, I thought that was just the ‘Drekkies’, the people obsessed with ‘Star Trek’.” Oops. Bud’s one of those, isn’t he?

“That’s ‘Trekkies’, sir. And no, it’s not just them. I could pull up dozens of stories based on The Brady Bunch in the time it takes to download them.”

“Bud, that’s the scariest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” What is this new technology doing to us? I wonder.

“Gee, Harm, I don’t know. Maybe it just shows how really bad the current programs are. Besides, it’s good to have a hobby.” Mac’s loving my discomfort, I can tell. “Baby Boomers rebelling against the awful stuff that is foisted on the public under the guise of ‘new programing’? And since when does the age of a program or its fans have anything to do with artistic value?”

“Mac, we’re talking about computer geeks obsessing over sitcoms that were canceled 40 years ago, not scholarly discussions about Renaissance art.”

“Some would argue there’s no difference in merit, Harm.”

“How can you say that, Mac? You didn’t even watch these shows!”

“Yeah, but it’s so much fun watching you get all worked up,” she coos while favoring me with a sexy smile. Well, when you put it that way...

I hear Bud clear his throat. Focus Rabb, focus on the case, not the luscious woman in front of you. “Bud, if there’s such a big market for DVDs of old TV shows, why don’t the studios put them out? Why would they leave that much money on the table?”

“Well, sir,” oh oh, I can see Bud winding up for one of his conspiracy theory spiels. “There’s a lot of speculation about that on the Internet. Why indeed would someone walk away from that much profit? But mostly it’s not the studios, it’s the original producer. Sometimes that person’s dead and the rights are tied up in estates. But other times, well,” Bud lowers his voice, looks around and leans a little closer. “Some people think ...”

I hold my hand up to stop him. “OK Bud, that’s enough. It’s bad enough we’re caught up in this bizarre ‘60’s sitcom world; I’m not going down the Internet-speculation rabbit hole as well.”

I love Bud as a friend. I respect him as a talented lawyer. I envy him as a father and husband. I also know that anytime Bud gets on a subject that includes the words ‘Star Trek’, ‘alien’ or ‘Internet’ we’re in trouble.

Yet somehow he’s managed to get us standing behind him while he boots up his computer.

“But sir, look at this,” Bud hits a few keys and the computer screen changes.
“What am I looking at Bud?”

“I just Googled The Addams Family. Look at that!” He points at a number in the upper right of the screen.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Over two and a half million hits for The Addams Family!?!

“That, sir, is a pretty strong motive for bootlegging.”

Well, when you put it that way....





concludes in Part 6: Nick at Night