Chapter Three Freak Accidents
Chapter Three
Freak Accidents
Beverly
“One million views in less than twenty-four hours.”
I blow out an unsteady breath. “Oh my God, stop. I’m gonna vomit.”
“Bev, look.”
I turn from the limp fleece in my hands to Finch’s cocked head. He extends his tablet toward me, with its size fifty-thousand font and blinding backlight.
“Finch, I don’t—”
“Just look.” There’s a little line between Finch’s brows that says he’s not mad at me for refusing the tablet, just disappointed. That’s somehow worse.
I take the tablet. On the screen is a still frame of Griffin Harvey and Bernie Bird.
After the variety show, I slept just long enough not to hallucinate while driving, and when I woke up, this video had exploded.
It was sent to me by anyone I’ve smiled in the direction of since high school, and I’m a very generous smiler.
I have texts from most of my hometown of Elk Grove, including my nana, who sent it twice just in case you ignored it the first time.
In the video’s snapshot, Griffin’s lips tilt up, showing just a sliver of his white teeth behind the rugged beard. Bernie’s feathery hand—well, my hand slipped inside—rests on his forearm.
Griffin and Bernie do not match in any sense of the word. Griffin’s long hair and black shirt are the antithesis of Bernie’s blue feathers. Griffin looks hesitant to be happy. Bernie is ecstatic to be brought to life.
“It’s incredible,” Finch says.
My stomach twists into a tangled mess, and a swallow catches in my throat.
“Psht” is all I can jokingly respond. But yes, it is incredible.
Puppeteers search their entire careers for this type of chemistry: irritated versus bubbly.
Serious paired with silly. Midnight and sunshine.
It’s the perfect duo, guaranteed to get those knee-slapping-type laughs.
The ones comedians would cut off their right arm for.
Seriously, ask me. I’d do it, if I could still puppeteer afterward.
Below the paused video, a ticker showcases more than one million views. I want to laugh in disbelief. I also want to vomit. For now, I’m somewhere in between with a nervous grin.
“This was a freak accident,” I say, handing the tablet back.
Finch blinks. “Freak accident?”
“Yeah, like if…I don’t know, if a piano fell from the ceiling right now.”
“That only happens in cartoons.”
“You’re telling me a piano has never fallen on top of someone before?”
“Sure, maybe once or twice.”
“See? That’s my point. Possible, but freaky.”
“Oh, Bev…” There’s that cute-old-man disappointment again. He knows how to work me.
I stroll over to the coffee maker in the opposite corner of the workshop, far from my guilt and away from the rolls of fabric, felt scraps scattered on wooden workbenches, and the off-duty puppets hung on rods.
I’ll miss this place. I only had enough funds to purchase the Birds on the Block intellectual property and to gain ownership of our nonprofit, Flock Workshop.
But I couldn’t rescue all the assets—not the bins and bins full of felt, feathers, fleece, and foam, and not this renovated warehouse that acts as our workshop. My little slice of home.
“One hundred more views in the last thirty seconds,” Finch calls over to me.
My hand shakes when I grab the carafe’s handle, and it isn’t because I’ve had too much caffeine. (I’m only on my third cup, which is honestly child’s play.) No, it’s because one million people now know my name, nestled in the comment section of that video.
Bernie Bird, puppeteered by Beverly Lark
That thought sends the shivering glass carafe knocking against my mug.
One million people.
I acknowledge Finch’s awe with a musing “That’s a lot of people.”
One million.
I dump two packets of sugar into my coffee (okay, maybe three) and fill the rest with creamer before reaching over and rolling the dial on the workshop’s speakers.
The music plays louder, creating white noise over my thoughts.
But Sir Elton John serenades me for only two seconds before Finch starts talking again.
“Listen to these comments!” he yells over the music. “ ‘Who knew Griffin Harvey has a sense of humor,’ ” Finch reads. “ ‘I’ll whip out a puppet, too, if he smiles at me like that.’ ”
I reluctantly lower the volume on my precious Elton John. “Mm-hmm. He has good comedic timing.” I pace back over with my coffee, setting it on the windowsill and away from my project.
Finch lowers the table. “That’s all you can say?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “What else do you want me to say?”
“This could be big, Bev.”
“How?”
“This is exposure. This could save Birds.”
“I mean, sure,” I sort of agree, but I feel my eyebrows stitch together.
Finch squints at me. “You don’t think so.”
I smooth my palm over laid-out felt. “The all-powerful companies have spoken,” I explain with a sardonic laugh. “We’ve pitched multiple times over the past two years. They all passed. No grants. Merch isn’t selling either. And PBN’s funding is cut, too, so…”
My words fade. He can fill in the blanks. We’ve had this conversation too many times.
Flock Workshop is the nonprofit that funds and creates the educational children’s puppet show Birds on the Block.
We were funded in three ways: merchandise, federal grants, and partnerships.
But the culture is different now. Merchandise doesn’t sell like it used to.
Our reliable source of government support, Public Broadcasting Network, doesn’t get as much funding anymore.
Our only savior would be a big partnership.
When our last corporate sponsor dropped us two years ago, we went out and pitched to everyone and their mother who had a drive to do good and some spare money to put in good places.
I personally sought out different educational programs, landing on their doorsteps with a smile and a puppet armed to make jokes.
But we came up dry. Slimming down our staff turned into mass layoffs; then it was just a few writers and puppeteers until our lone streaming platform didn’t renew our contract.
That was the last nail in the coffin. Flock Workshop couldn’t stay afloat.
My colleagues moved on to other projects.
Finch is retiring. I’m out of a job and moving back home.
Finch formed the connection with the producer of The Late Night Laughs Show to get us airtime.
It was a hope that maybe, just maybe, a sponsor would notice and reach out to us.
But we talked to a network executive after the show, and they said they didn’t have the bandwidth to bring on such a big intellectual property.
Now that we’re packing up the workshop, this viral video feels more like a last hurrah.
“You should reach out to him,” Finch says.
“Who? The producer?”
“Griffin.”
My stomach twists at the thought. “Oh, please.”
“Maybe he’ll want to get involved,” Finch insists, taking a step closer. “He could have some contacts. This looks good for him, too, you know.”
“He probably doesn’t even know this is happening. This’ll all blow over in a few days.”
“One last push, Bev.”
“He’s a famous rock star, Finch,” I say, sharper than I want. My cheeks heat, and I immediately wince. “Sorry, I just don’t really think he cares, to be honest.”
Finch clears his throat, sets down the tablet on a workbench, and shuffles to the coffee maker. He doesn’t push the topic, but we both know what I’m not saying out loud.
This is still about Beau.
Finch knows only vague details about my ex-boyfriend.
Beau and I were high school sweethearts, but when he got his big break as a musician, his life moved on from small towns and small-town girls.
He made that clear when I caught him at a club with his backup singer perched on his lap and sucking the air from his lungs like they were both the human version of that scream-stealing machine in Monsters, Inc.
I’m not an angry person, okay? I don’t yell.
But I may have let out a really embarrassing sobbing wail that’ll make me cringe even on my deathbed.
Long story short, our messy blowout was caught on video.
Beau called me a gold digger, and the internet believed him.
I deleted all social media, but I was still called every horrible name under the sun by anyone who recognized me on the street in LA.
Griffin Harvey is a famous musician, too, just like Beau. Arrogant, morally bankrupt, and the type of attractive that he’s fully aware of.
And yes, I noticed. I have eyes. I’m ashamed of it.
From the floor, I noticed more of Griffin Harvey’s lower half than anything else.
Mostly I noted that his jeans smelled like fresh denim and his boots were real leather.
It was a pleasant combination that reminded me of home.
I tried not to look any higher than his knees because I know how tailored jeans fit on men who smell that good.
I’ve worked in television a handful of years, and I’ve been eye level with too many people’s crotches.
Okay, so maybe I stole a look.
I don’t get starstruck anymore. Working in TV normalizes a lot of celebrities when you see them sweating under bright lights and splitting donuts in half like everyone else on set. But I’m still a woman, and Griffin is still a goliath of a man.
He’s also still a human, though. Flawed, just like the rest of us. A simple sack of meat, if you will. Much like Bernie’s sack of feathers. And if that makes me sound like a serial killer, so be it.
I watch Finch pour himself coffee. My gut wants to say I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing for. He’s done a great job at rehoming us displaced Flock Workshop employees. He only wants good things for me. But now, he looks so defeated.
So to stop those basset hound eyes, I ask, “Okay, what else are the comments saying? Anything about Bernie?”