Power Button

Paul gripped the butter knife uneasily as he plunged it into a tiny black rectangular socket where the power button for his television set once was. After this initial jab he grew more bold, slowly becoming confident that he would not be electrocuted. He soon was fiddling blindly and violently with the knife, wedging it in the power button socket and blindly thrashing against whatever was in there. Nothing. Paul then grew more methodical, manipulating the knife slowly and softly. He felt inside the television for gadgets that moved and prodded them sensitively. Nothing. Paul continued to work the empty power button socket with the butter knife until, silently cursing the task for its hopelessness, he rose to his feet. Of course, standing, Paul quickly realized that his television set was not plugged in.

So Paul plugged in the television. He smiled, his hope renewed. The television would be on before long. Without a power button, there would be no way for the rodent to turn it off. Aside from maybe unplugging it again. He would have to tape the cord to the wall. Yes, that was an excellent idea. Cord taped to the wall, it would be impossible for the television to be unplugged, and there would definitely be no way for the rodent to turn it off. Paul was very pleased. He laughed a little. Paul told himself that he was better off with the power button having been stolen. He had been done a favor. While the television set was inactive, Paul had spent time gaining valuable insight. Yes, the rodent had slipped up this time. With this in mind, Paul dug right back into that empty power button socket armed with his new store of knowledge, and, of course, with the same sense of security he'd had while the television lacked an electrical current flowing through it. The television, now fully juiced, responded by blasting Paul with a healthy dose of electricity. Paul shrieked. He jerked his arm back with such force that the butter knife in his hand went sailing across the room and shattered a window. He sniffed the singed hairs upon his arm as a look of horror danced upon his face. Eyes wide. He stood up, paced for a little while, sat down on the sofa, and stared at the blank television screen. So be it.

Although a seemingly bright rodent, Wally did not respond to his name. Paul knew very little about the nature of ferrets, and as such had no appropriate means by which to determine whether or not responding to its name was a characteristic that an intelligent ferret should embrace. Logic, as Paul saw it, dictated that any creature of capable hearing and of sound intellect should be able to eventually understand its own name. Yet Wally did not respond to his name. Experience had also proven that Wally was neither deaf nor idiotic. The evidence was contrary to logic, and Paul chose to pretend this did not bother him.

Paul lived by himself aside from Wally and considered the rodent his roommate. Wally had free reign over the apartment. He could do and go about as he pleased. Paul had believed that this limitless freedom would assist in quickly fashioning a strong bond between himself and the ferret. This was unfortunately not the case. Wally was free to do whatever he pleased within the confines of Paul's apartment, and what seemed to please Wally more than anything else in the world was to steal what few items managed to bring Paul pleasure. Several weeks ago Wally had managed to remove the power button from Paul's television set.

Paul wanted a hobby. And one day, while sitting on his sofa, pondering over what few entertaining options his life seemed to offer, Paul decided that watching television would suit him nicely. And it did. Paul was never an avid watcher of television, but he believed that he could become one if he tried. And try he did. For about a month Paul tried, eyes glued constantly to that television. He became an avid viewer of channel four, which was the default channel on his television set. Paul wasn't much for changing channels, more a sitting and watching type of guy. So Paul watched that channel four like no one had ever watched it up to this point in the station's history. I mean, he really watched it. You have to understand how literal I'm trying to be. When I say Paul watched channel four, I don't mean Paul sat down and followed every bit of programming they had to offer. Paul rarely understood entirely what channel four was trying to tell him. Did someone just die? Are they going to have sex? Where did that toaster come from? Who cares? Television brought to Paul's apartment a window. A window into the lives of people who were far more capable at keeping themselves amused and entertained than was he. Paul watched channel four constantly, and he conversed while doing so. Aloud. Presumably to Wally.

"That painting is very colorful. How long has that maple leaf been lying in the grass do you think? That dog certainly looks interesting. I wonder what you would feed it? I should buy some of that. I bet it tastes pretty alright. The dog seems discerning. I mean, look. Look at that nose. That's the nose of an intelligent eater. That dog wouldn't eat just anything. That's not one of those dogs you see in the dog parks, sniffing around in the shit of the other dogs, giving it a taste. Or even eating day old French fries it finds behind the couch. Nope. That's the sort of dog a Danish king might keep around to test his food for poison. Definitely. It wouldn't eat just anything. A very noble creature."

This went on until Wally stepped in and swiped the power button from Paul's television set. Without the power button to his television set, Paul was again at a loss for things to do. Back to doing nothing. Before too long, however, Paul realized that he could turn the television on via the use of remote control. And he did so. For about a week Paul turned the television on and off at his leisure. At first, Paul had walked right up to the television, got the remote good and close, and then activated the set, sort of simulating the whole power button experience so as to communicate to his rodent roommate that he had not, in fact, lost out.

Soon after, however, Paul began to take full advantage of the "remote" feature of his remote control. Paul began to activate his television set from further and further away, until Paul no longer cared where he was when he activated the television set. The act of television activation became, in fact, such a drawn-out ritual that Paul spent very little time watching the television anymore. What gave Paul satisfaction was using that remote control and using it with gusto. Paul kept the remote control tucked away in the right-hand pocket of his trousers and tossed it from hand to hand like a Wild West gunslinger. He threw it up into the air and tried to catch it at just the right moment so he could zap on the television. Nine times out of ten, this sent the remote control crashing to the ground. Paul would snatch it up quickly and casually, as if he'd meant to do that. He and Wally would then spend a few awkward moments exchanging looks. Wally staring down Paul with the unchanging visage of a ferret, Paul staring down Wally with that twitchy scornful look he seemed to always have.

Paul began to use his remote control to spite Wally. Whenever Paul was aware that the rodent was nearby, Paul would activate his television set. Sometimes, he would then immediately deactivate the television set. And then reactivate it. And then deactivate it. And leave it off. And then activate it again. Paul prided himself for a time on this remote control unpredictability.

Wally returned the power button. He left it on the floor before the television set early one morning. Impossible to miss. Yet Paul left it there for several days. Paul would sit on the sofa. Maybe stand with one foot on top of the button while fiddling with his remote control. Take the batteries out. Put them back in. Take the batteries out. Sniff them. Observe them closely. Put them back in. Sit back on the sofa. Spend a little time staring at the button. Glance at Wally. Glance at the power button. Glance at the television. Glance at the remote. Glance at Wally again. These sessions of mockery made Wally furious, but the helpless creature had determined a cease-fire was necessary by any means and therefore endured this torment.

After several days of harassment Paul decided that Wally had likely learned his lesson. Paul went to retrieve the power button. It was no longer there. This realization froze Paul dead in his tracks. He'd taken it too far. The apartment was quiet. Paul remained frozen. Petrified. What had the rodent done? Something sinister no doubt. A plot against his life? Poison? Paul remembered the poison-tasting dog. That is what he needed. Paul had stretched the ferret too far and now it was plotting to kill him. No. Ridiculous. A smile crept over Paul's face. He flopped down onto the sofa and went to activate the television set but the power button on his remote control had been removed. Such was the nature of the association between Paul and his ferret Wally.

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