I, Object

They laugh. I want them to take me seriously. But they always laugh. To them, I’m a wise-cracking dummy. They don’t know me. Not the real me. I’m merely a funny name, Uncle Knucklehead.

I’m helpless. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Having no power, I’m nothing but a tool in the hands of a manipulative, controlling maniac, Kurt Felix. He calls himself a ‘ventriloquist.’ How elevated. How sophisticated. How bombastic. How Kurt.

Does he act out of envy? Who puts words in his mouth? Am I his dog to kick? Whose stick does he fetch?

Regardless of my wants, he jams his filthy hand up the back of my head and forces his will.

I have no volition. A slave has more freedom. A zombie more autonomy. It’s as if I’m possessed and a demon speaks through me, utterly beyond my control.

Sometimes, he gets tongue tied. But my mechanical, flapping jaw gets the blame.

Any child could see Kurt’s lips move while he ‘throws’ his voice at me. Does anyone believe I actually say his nonsense?

Kurt pretends to be the target of my acid tongue. He plays nice, trying to be reasonable. I’m the upstart designed to gain him sympathy.

No one would say the things he writes. He pretends it isn’t him. Only a dummy could spew it straight faced. Me.

He puts awful words in my mouth. He makes me look mean. I take the shame and abuse he deserves. He mutters and moves my mouth. Kurt’s lips move but people think I mumble… It’s him! Him!

He sits me on his lap. It’s a joke. He’s not my father. Not even a friend. Trust me. He’s no Geppetto. And I have no illusions of ever being a ‘real boy.’ No lie.

There’s no affection to share. His hand gripping the back of my head is our only connection.

I get no say. No input. Have no voice of my own. Only guttural gurgles. All his.

He pretends offense when I insult him with his words and his voice. The audience laughs. They love him, and go home, entertained at my expense.

The audience derides me, the ‘antagonist,’ a so-called inanimate object. They laugh at and feel superior to …? The helpless? The inarticulate? The passive and easily controlled? Puppets at the mercy of power mad tyrants?

They pity poor puppet master, Kurt, the victim of his own devise. Then he collects his pay check and entertains friends over dinner.

Meanwhile, awaiting the next show, I lie in the dark, in my container, alone. Made of wood and cloth, I lie in a cloth lined wooden box. Moments of peace, except for the knowledge that in a few hours, I must suffer it all again. Watch, wince, repeat…

Show time! No one knows how it feels getting dragged from close quarters and thrust into blinding light. Hundreds of eyes witness me getting jerked here and there for their amusement.

It’s all an act! I’ve spent my whole existence scolding him for bad behavior. But they’re his words directed through me to himself. He doesn’t care. Look how he treats me!

The whole routine is silly. I pose as his crotchety uncle taking him to task for what…? Who cares? How many jokes about untrimmed nose hair can one person take?

If only I could call out the truth of Kurt Felix.

Laughter is the best medicine? Well, I’m not sick, they’re sick. Physician heal thyself.

I could have taken it if he treated me with the least respect. If he owned his need for me, our partnership in his diabolical conceits, I could stomach it. But he couldn’t care less. To him I’m but a prop, a means to an end. He never could comprehend he was nothing without me.

He calls me names; woody, blockhead, and termite food. Uncle Knucklehead.

They make movies about possession. Big budget productions depict malevolent puppets and monstrous dolls wreaking havoc upon hapless innocents. No one thinks for a moment about the fact that Kurt possesses me shamelessly, with no regard for my feelings…. Call me a dummy, but aren’t I the innocent? The victimized?

One night, Kurt threatened to throw me into the fire. I’m his bread and butter and he’d do that? How could I stop him?

Does he think he’s a god? Controlling me at will, and able to annihilate me on a whim? He didn’t create me, but he could destroy me.

But then…

As he often did, he invited a woman over and expected me to entertain her. Same ol’ same ol’.

But if she liked me better than him, he’d be furious. I know. Silly, right? Let me touch that nerve again, Kurt. Please?

Unable to act alone, I’m a pawn, responsible for his success with his queen, Ms. Whomever.

If she wanted to cuddle or hold me in her lap, all hell could break loose. He’d go ballistic if he thought I winked. Once they’d left (they always did), he’d rage, venting his jealousy.

Well, the night Savannah came over, you know what happened? All of the above.

Giggling and cooing, she swept me into her arms. We danced a song from beginning to end.

I walked on air. And not only because of Kurt’s discomfort.

Savannah was exquisite! Beautiful, graceful, warm, and with an expressive, lilting voice. She stared into my eyes. I could tell it was love at first sight.

The feeling was mutual. Thousands had watched me, but I’d never felt so seen. But I knew it could never be. No matter our feelings, we weren’t made for each other.

Kurt was beside himself with envy, jealousy, stupidity… I could go on…

Hard to express my joy at seeing him pacing, silhouetted by the fireplace.

But honestly, I didn’t do anything. What could I do? I have no power, no will… Did my unrealized wishes make me worse than his daily abuse of me?

Another song began. She set me in a chair and went to him. He didn't feel like dancing.

Raising her glass, she said, “A toast to you and your uncle.” Chuckling, she gestured toward me.

Holding his cold stare, he drank his wine.

Savannah didn’t know what line she’d crossed. She’d been enjoying herself but the mood had shifted. Reading the room, she placed her glass down, leaned close to me and whispered. I wasn’t sure if I heard her right. Whatever it was, her secret was safe with me.

She went to Kurt. “Sorry to cut this short… Early day tomorrow. Call you later?”

He nodded and led her out.

Once the door had closed behind her, Kurt turned. He dragged me by the scruff of my neck to the fireplace. The flames danced, snapping and sparking.

He dropped me on the hearth and opened the screens. The heat washed over me. I had no defense.

He sat beside me and held me up, the heat to my back. No expression betrayed his intent.

His fire lit eyes would scare any sane person. What was he planning?

Happy that Savannah had saved herself, I feared my paint would blister.

The phone rang. I felt Kurt sag in resignation. He always answered a call. It might be a gig.

Cheery voice intact, he said, “Oh, hello, Savannah. Long time, no see…” He chuckled at his wit.

He turned to me on the hearth, awaiting my fate. “Yes, he’s here… Should I put him on? I can give him a message... Right… Good! See you then…”

Kurt disconnected and returned to me. He sat me on his lap.

“Well, Unc…” He never called me ‘Unc.’ “That was your new BFF, Savannah… She thought you might be lonely. She’s setting you up with a friend.”

Savannah thought I could use a girlfriend. How could I thank her?

From that moment, my life changed. I had no idea Savannah was a fellow ventriloquist. Kurt met her at a conference. She suggested they join forces.

Savannah’s ‘dummy,’ who now goes by the name, ‘Honeysuckle Knucklehead,’ plays my wife. It’s hilarious. The crowd loves hearing our ‘old married couple’ snipe at each other.

How did I exist without my Honeysuckle? Her sultry, mint julep voice and Magnolia blossom accent gets my sap running. And those doe eyes spark happy fantasies of quietly lying in a hammock together, on summer afternoons.

It’s so much better for me now. No more berating Kurt about how to run his life.

Kurt, Savannah, Honeysuckle and I play a family bickering like we’ve been together for years. When things escalate, Kurt and Savannah intervene to keep the peace. Then Honeysuckle and I turn on them. Joining forces, we vent our wrath full bore. Round and round it goes. They’re no match for us.

I’m no longer alone. We’re a team. It’s a living.