VCR Blues

My mouth is stuck open. I look like I’m screaming, but I’m not, not really. I’m anguishing inside because no one looks at me anymore. The last time anyone even glanced my way was when baby Gary forced his piggy little fist into my now-gaping mouth and crammed a grape inside my delicate jaw hinge, breaking it. Now it’s stuck open. I can feel dust and other prickly things in my throat. My drum and my rollers are sticky. No one notices or even cares. There was once a time when I was the center of attention. My shiny black body was dusted off, turned on, and fed all day long. My moving parts performed perfectly. I whirred and clacked at first, then hummed and purred. Electricity flowed through my veins as I tasted the slick oxide surface of the Mylar they trusted me with. I have to admit, I only ate the Mylar tape twice. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. The first time wasn’t my fault. It was crinkled in one spot and it nearly choked me as it tangled around one of my heads. The second time was just before I ended up in this corner. I ate the tape so hungrily, that when it was ripped out of my throat, I felt something snap loose. I knew my time was over because of the curses that flew before I was abruptly and quite rudely unplugged. 

Oh, but how alive and loved I had felt for so long! I had no idea what they saw when I was doing my job for them. I didn’t know what caused their emotional reactions, but I was a part of it all. I could see them sitting there, curled up on the sofa under blankets in the winter, or sprawled out on their backs in the summer. They always seemed to be eating or drinking things, spilling occasionally on the couch or floor. Sometimes they fell asleep, while other times they talked endlessly, paying little attention to the screen. I witnessed all of their behaviors, some good, some questionable. Who was I to judge? I saw them pick their noses, drink too many beers, talk on the phone, or even have sex. I was there for all of it, their most personal moments. They stared at the noisy moving picture as I provided joy and tears, laughter, and sorrow. Sometimes, when no one else but Uncle Brad was in the house, he used me for his secret pleasures that only he and I knew about. It was a bit embarrassing, but I never tattled on him with my big mouth. “Different strokes for different folks,” or so they say. I’m pretty sure Aunt Stella didn’t know. Probably for the best. She was an unpleasant person. 

Once, when someone accidentally left me on, I witnessed a crime. No one got hurt, but it had become an ongoing mystery and source of contention between the family members. One afternoon, while everyone was gone for the day, I felt a tickle and a tingle. Someone had pressed the remote “play” button. My mouth was empty, so my tonsils just wiggled around in circles. Suddenly, there before me was Bosco, the family Saint Bernard. In his drooling flappy lips was the remote control. He was gently teething the buttons. I felt it all over and started giggling and couldn’t stop. I started and stopped and played and paused. Bosco looked at me with his head cocked to one side and with his mouth full said, “Bloooff!” Ropes of slobber hit the TV, which made me laugh even harder. Suddenly, Bosco took off toward the kitchen with the remote still in his mouth. He clumsily bumbled through his big doggie door and into the backyard. I don’t know what he did then, but I had my suspicions. That evening, “The Case of the Missing Remote” began. Accusations flew, and arguments ensued. As far as I know, the mystery was never solved. Only Bosco and I knew the truth, and I would never tell. Bosco is long gone now. He is probably under the hydrangeas where he used to bury his beef bones and other…things. 

I must admit, those were glorious times when I was a part of the family. Now I am just a cast-off. I sit here in the corner with my cobwebby gob, unplugged and alone. Beneath me is a stack of old People magazines, and on top of me is a pair of sneakers that Mom tossed there one day a few months ago while she was vacuuming. They were wet and stank like moldy cheese at first, but now they’re dry and dusty, just like me. I have a feeling that one of these days, she will do one of her “deep cleanings,” and I will be thrown in a box or bag with other garbage, and taken out to the trash bin at the curb. Or maybe I will be sold, although the way this family treats me, I guess I’m not worth anything now. I would use my eraser head on myself, but I’m already invisible. It’s funny how I was amazing once, but out with the old, in with the new. They didn’t think I noticed when they replaced me with that slick new contraption—the quiet one that sucks on shiny plastic coasters. She thinks she is something special, but I know better. Her time is coming, and she will be tossed aside, just like me. Junk like me, forgotten like me. I doubt anyone will shove a grape into her skinny little mouth, but she will break because eventually, we all break. I am made of plastic and bits of metal and other synthetic parts, so I won’t rot. Who knows, my big mouth might provide a home for someone someday. Perhaps a garter snake, or a mole or a cornucopia of slugs might set up camp in my broken body. I guess I’ll look forward to that. Perhaps then, I will be appreciated again.