The reel to reel tape deck hummed with a warm tone. I stood at the counter of my kitchen island and watched the narrow brown tape as it was pulled across the playhead. A single RCA cable went from the line out port of the tape machine and into my custom converter box. Then, a coaxial cable snaked out from the converter device across the counter to where it was plugged into the video input of an old analog CRT video monitor. Why wasn’t the blasted thing working?

I had no patience for a blank screen, and I was just about to give the whole contraption another whack, when I heard the bell to the elevator.

Oh God, I hoped Sal was up in her rooftop shack, and not rummaging around down here looking for a crossword puzzle book or something. The last thing I wanted was to have Sal complain to me about our poor security. I told her the other day I’d have that elevator girl fix things so people couldn’t ride up to the penthouse without a special key, but I had forgotten all about it. The truth is, I wasn’t sure how to go about that. Was there some sort of requisition form?

Besides, Sal’s fears seemed absurd. What was up with her recent obsessive talk about malignant forces, marauding maniacs, or whatever? I mean, she was the psychic around here. Why worry about the vagaries of happenstance when you’re a clairvoyant?

Probably she’d tell me her powers didn’t work that way.

Rarely did I concern myself about such matters of random violence. Still, I did turn my head in the direction of the elevator, and waited. Would I be rushed by a crazed killer or overly obsessed fan?

I was not. The doors slid open to reveal the last person I expected to see. A thrill did surge through me, but not one of danger. My ratchet crimping tool slipped from my hand, but I caught it before it hit the floor.

Morris? Morris Fisher? Here?

How long had it been? Three years? Four? More?

The bright overhead fluorescent tubes of the elevator gave his arrival an unearthly aura. If Hollywood could have embellished that moment, dry ice fog would have spilled out into the penthouse in slow motion. The ominous soundtrack of layered electronic drones would shift to deep percussive thuds that would represent the heaving heart of the protagonist (me), as his heroic beloved, thought long dead on a distant planet, makes his unexpected second act appearance—his handsome face battered and burned from the brutal proximity to neutron stars and the caresses of lusty radioactive aliens. And I probably would have swooned, just as the script demanded.

Interesting. I had not noticed before how my fantasies leaned toward science fiction.

However, even without those elevated imaginary elements, Morris made quite an entrance. He always looked as if he hadn’t shaved for three days. His perpetually unruly hair left most people thinking he had just climbed off a motorcycle. Long before I met the man, he had perfected his uniform of brown leather jacket, jeans, and engineer boots.

I felt foolish and overdressed in my electric indigo silk moire pajamas and Peranakan beaded slippers.

Once I realized I wasn’t going to swoon, I decided to play it as cool as possible. Unflappability is a universally attractive quality. I’m quite sure of it.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” I called out across the room. “But I’m happy it’s someone who might be able to help me.”

Morris stepped into the penthouse. He held some sort of oblong item in a brown paper bag. The elevator closed behind him. He looked around, uncertain, before heading over.

It wasn’t too hard for me to play it cool because I didn’t yet know what Morris wanted. Was he happy? Angry? Did he want to reconnect with me romantically? Was he just here for Sal?

I’m not sure how I did it, but I managed to hold back a massive grin that threatened to break across my face. It was Morris! How I had missed him.

“So, this is going to sound crazy,” I said in a relaxed convivial tone as I returned my attention to the electronic devices and the wires spread across the counter. “I’ve converted a video signal into an audio signal, and now I’m trying to get it back to video. But it’s not cooperating. How difficult can this be?”

Pesky emotional baggage aside, Morris was exactly the sort of person I needed. Not just to help with my current contraption, but also to round out my crack team of metaphysical broadcasting guerrillas! The man was a master of all sorts of technological doodads.

“And it’s good to see you, too, Sy,” he said in that low and soft voice of his.

“What? Oh, right. I guess it has been awhile.”

He leaned in closer. The paper bag crinkled softly where he gripped it. I thought Morris might reach out with his other hand and touch me. But he didn’t. I guess those days weren’t going to return. I wondered if I even wanted them to.

Oh, dear. Was he wearing Old Spice?

“You look, younger,” he said, sounding perplexed. Envious, no doubt. Good genes and good face cream. “I almost didn’t recognize you when I saw you on TV the other night.”

“You, I must say, look exactly the same,” I said. It gave me an excuse to look him over. “It’s been a few years, right?”

He removed a dark green bottle from his bag and placed it on the counter beside a spool of 22 gauge insulated copper wire. It was some exotic liqueur with an unpronounceable name which, were I to judge by the earthy green glass, was made with kiwi fruit and Brussels sprouts.

Morris had never been well versed with social niceties. To show up with a gift was so out of character. Maybe he had matured.

He leaned against the edge of the island, crossed his arms, and gave me that familiar warm smile. It made you feel as if he had a secret to share, but first the two of you should retire to some place quieter, more private. My eyes drifted to the bottle. Should I go get a couple of cordial glasses? Maybe undo the top button of my pajama top?

But of course, I’m forever misreading body language.

Morris reached up and pushed a white stubby button on the video monitor.

“There’s your problem,” he said.

The screen came to life.

“How’d you do that?”

The man was a genius! Well, when he wanted to be.

“It looks like this funky antique Soviet video monitor has a manual format switch. You were in SECAM. Never put your trust in anything other than the tried-and-true Trinitron broadcast monitor.” And then he laughed. “What am I saying? You’re re-inventing the wheel with…what the hell is all this?” Morris tapped a finger on my transcoder box.

Before I could answer, his eyes drifted to the TV screen. A gray and silver image undulated into view.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, moving around to look closer. “Looks like a NASA transmission back from Tranquillity Base, but with, you know, some tentacled alien.”

He had his face inches from the screen.

“What are you into these days, Mr. Moreno?” Morris whispered.

“’Tis but Cleo,” I told him. “Recorded on quarter-inch magnetic tape.”

I then pointed across the room to the large fish tank.

“That is Cleo,” I said.

Morris ambled over and hunkered down. He rested his forehead on the glass and squinted in at my beloved pet octopus.

“Cleo? But wasn’t that your dog?” Morris stood up and turned to me. “Wait. Is this Cleo, you know, after the Changes?”

“Don’t be absurd. It’s only a name.” I walked over and stroked the side of the aquarium. “A name I quite like. Cleo. Before my dog, I had a parrot. Guess what her name was?”

“I’m thinking that this isn’t just any squid.”

“It’s an octopus. Australian blue-ringed octopus.”

“Ah, an exotic, poisonous pet. Why am I not surprised? It’s not like Silverio Moreno would have fantail guppies. Too mundane.”

Seems we’d shifted from playful banter to glib barbs.

“Is this where I say, ah, Morris, how I’ve missed you?”

“Jesus, Sy.”

Morris stepped back and looked at me up and down. Then he scanned the huge apartment.

“Jesus,” he repeated, but in a tired whisper.

I watched him walk over to one of the conversation areas. He sunk down into a sofa and looked over at me. Now he looked older. Just a bit.

“The last time I saw you, Sy, you exploded.”

Ah, that.

“Were you blown clear?” he asked.

I crossed over and took a seat in an armchair.

“That was quite a day,” I admitted.

“I just…look, Sy, if I had thought for one second you were alive, I would have hung around.”

“No need to explain,” I told him.

“But it was such a strange day.” He furrowed his brow, bringing those memories back. I had a feeling he had been tormenting himself in this manner over the last few years. “The stegosaurus, the meteor coming down and destroying the production truck—”

“A meteor?” How awesome! I never knew a meteor had been involved.

“Well, that’s what it looked like to me.” Morris shook his head grimly. “And then that manuscript you said you had back in the motel.”

“Motel?” What was he going on about now? “Manuscript?”

“Our motel in Fort Stocked. The day of the explosion. You told me you had this manuscript of a book by this physicist.”

“Oh, right. Dr. Marjoko’s Anomalous Quantum Fluctuations and Scalar Field Instabilities and Their Role in the Manifestations of the Changes.” I had to laugh out loud. I was able to remember that ludicrous book title, but I couldn’t recall more than three of the Seven Dwarfs.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Morris said, leaning forward as if this was something important. “Someone had broken in to the motel room and stole it. So, clearly, I thought—”

“Please, Morris, don’t give it a second thought. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to bring me that old manuscript. The bottle of green liqueur was more than enough. Besides, that was ages ago.”

He was shaking his head, not wanting to let it go. Before he could start spinning out some patchwork of whatever stale conspiracy theories he had been cobbling together over the last few years, I made another attempt to let him know I held no grudge for whatever action he had done or imagined that he had done.

“Look, Morris, if you haven’t noticed, the world has quite literally changed since those days. The very fabric of reality rewoven with, for all we know, candy floss and corn silks.”

“I guess I’m just rattled,” he said. “You being alive and all.”

“Still in one piece,” I said, lifting up my arms so he could see, not just me, but the whole place. “Tip-top shape, and living at the top of the world. Well, top of San Antonio, but it’s a start.”

“From a dead man to a penthouse apartment.” Morris scanned my massive home—no doubt impressed.

I caught sight of a slight graying at the temples of his auburn hair. He must be about forty by now, but to me he was still that adventurous and reckless man in the full flower of youth.

“And beloved by millions,” I thought to add, to clarify my importance.

“Millions?” Morris’ eyes returned to me. “Are there that many people left?”

“That I don’t know,” I told him. “I don’t get out much these days. But they tell me our ratings have never been better. Of course, I’d like to think that millions of people are obsessing over me.”

We’d slipped back to the banter. Which was fine. I guess. But Morris was so cagey. And so damn serious. He probably thought he had something to do with that explosion. Perhaps he had. I knew that Sal believed Morris was responsible. Sal! Now that would be an interesting reunion.

And then I had an excellent thought.

“Please, Morris, tell me you’re looking for a job.”

“If you’ve been reduced to using that antique equipment,” he said, “I don’t know how useful I could be around here. But, sure, I have nothing but free time these days.”

“Tell you what, old chum, I’ll turn you over to my director, Hal. I’m sure he can use your help with the camera or audio departments. As for the vintage technology…it seems that after the Changes ended, there was nothing left but analog television cameras. And only live broadcast. Videotape, gone. Digital? Don’t even dream about it. We’re lucky we can broadcast in color.”

“But you’ve found a workaround.”

“Pardon?”

“Your reel-to-reel octopus footage.”

“Ah.” I turned in the direction of that the mess of wires and electronic components covering my kitchen island. The man must think I’ve gone bonkers. “Well, I’ve hit a wall in my knowledge of video technology. I was never the best student.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But you’re an excellent teacher.”

“What?” Me? Silverio Moreno teaching Morris Fisher about technology? Clearly he was making a joke, but it had zoomed right over my head.

“You taught me to dance.”

Ah, we were no longer talking about electronics. I would think he’d be curious as to why I was recreating the video tape recorder. But, no. Morris was reminiscing about that weekend trip we took years ago. Morris might be shy at times, but I’d always found a way to get him to loosen up. In fact, back in the day, he never questioned my impulsive plans—such as on that trip when we dressed up in cassocks and slow danced in the courtyard of Santa Fe’s historic San Miguel Chapel.

“It was windy that day,” I said, playing black in my mind that lovely memory. “And then there was that unexpected updraft.”

I did it! I could still make Morris Fisher blush. Clearly he also remembered that we hadn’t been wearing anything under those cassocks

“We shocked some tourists, as I recall,” he said with a wistful smile.

“Well, I probably should put away my little experiment for the time being,” I finally said, standing up. “I have a show to prepare for. I guess I should say, we. We have a show to prepare for.”

Morris stood up as well.

This was turning out to be a great day.

“So, Hal?” he said, switching gears into his professional persona.

“Yep. Take the elevator down one floor. Ask around.”

I opened a lacquered box on the coffee table and pulled out a neck lanyard with a card in a plastic pouch displaying the logo for my production company.

“Put this on and you’ll be official.”

As Morris slipped the credentials over his head, I wondered, what next? A hug? Handshake? High five?

Morris is an odd one. He’ll be, one moment, a chummy touchy-feely backslapper, and then an aloof hands-off stoic. The man takes intimacy entirely too seriously.

The hell with it. We’re grown men.

I slapped him on the buttocks and walked back to the kitchen island.

“Welcome to the team,” I said over my shoulder.

He returned to the elevator and headed back down.

That all went well. We’d established our roles.

Then I realized we had never spoken about Sal. The one topic we definitely should have covered. And more than that, we should have gone up to see her or called her down. She had as much emotional investment in Morris as I did—probably more.

I could imagine the scene now, her grousing on and on about how men are so caviler when it comes to the emotions of other people…the entire male gender’s obligate inability to recognize nuance and nicety.

What had she once said?

“Men are blunt, selfish heathens.”

Something like that.

So, should I go up to the roof? Tell Sal about the new developments? It’d be all tears and shouting, no doubt. The return of her old beau who had left our lives years ago without ever having said goodbye.

No. Best to let things develop at their own pace. Besides, I didn’t want my stomach in knots before I even had lunch. Conflict can kill an appetite.

But first, I needed to straighten up. Or at least put a tarp over my experiment so I wouldn’t get mustard over everything.

As I rewound the tape of that muddy and gray footage of Cleo, my Plan was taking on greater form and clarity. Still a bit fuzzy, granted. But with Morris back in the mix, I’d have things in a sharp focus in no time.

Right?

Absolutely! Nothing could stand in the way, now.