Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(7)

We do the best we can. I figure because TV is what I want to do with my life, I might as well do it right. Also, Arliss gives us exactly two takes before he deems it “good enough for access” (short for “public access”) and then it airs in all of its broken glory. We hear this phrase a lot.

We discovered this the hard way one night when both Delia and I were loopy from lack of sleep and hopped up on sugar and caffeine, and I accidentally said “grost” instead of “ghost” during the second take on a segment. We tried to keep it together. Delia shuddered with silent laughter, turning red, her hand over her mouth and nose, tears streaming from her eyes. I tried to keep talking, but my voice started to wobble and tip like a drunk tightrope walker, and we both lost it completely. For a solid minute, we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe, making a “cut” motion across our necks while Arliss glowered at us, shaking his head grimly, mouthing Good enough for access. This only made us laugh harder. The segment ended with both of us in fetal position on the floor, racked with laughter. It aired like that. Good enough for public access, indeed. Yeah, we got letters.

Delia removes her septum piercing. We fit our vampire fangs over our canines, perform last-minute touch-ups on each other’s makeup, and take our seats.

Arliss gets the lighting right and stands behind the camera, counting down on his raised fingers. “And we’re rolling in five…four…three…two…one.”

“Gooooooooood evening, boys and ghouls, zombies and zombettes, witches and warlocks, this is Midnite Matinee, and we are your hosts, Rayne Ravenscroft…”

“And Delilah Darkwood,” Delia says.

“How are you doing tonight, sister?”

“Well, sis, I’m feeling pretty great considering I’m two hundred years old.”

“You don’t look a day over a hundred and eighty.” We pause. Arliss will insert a rim-shot sound effect here. “So, Delilah, what do we have for our viewers this week?”

We both pause. This is where Arliss will insert a peal of thunder sound effect.

The twins and Lawson stand behind Arliss as he works the camera. The twins look deathly bored. Or merely vacant. Hard to tell with them. Lawson, however, wears a childlike expression of wonder, as though he’s watching the filming of a show about people getting punched in the nuts or whatever MMA guys enjoy watching. I guess if you’ve never seen a TV show being filmed, even ours is impressive.

I get it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a rush every time I was on this side of a camera. Ever since I was old enough to remember, I’ve been fascinated by strangers on TV. How they’re beamed out to the world and become part of people’s lives. How they connect with millions. I knew I wanted that. Aside from a hot two weeks when I was nine and I wanted to be a marine biologist, I’ve never wanted to be anything else.

It’s nice to know your thing.





“Folks, tonight’s movie is the 1972 classic Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things, directed by none other than Bob Clark, who you may remember from a little film called A Christmas Story,” I say.

“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” Josie says.

“That’s the one, Rayne! Boy, you’ve seen a lot of Christmas movies for a two-hundred-year-old vampire.”

“I’m a Christian vampire, Delilah.” (We’ll get letters for that one.) “Anyway, folks, this movie is a little different, as you’ll soon see. No leg lamps, Red Ryder BB guns, or Ovaltine here. Instead, we have a motley crew of actors wearing some pretty amazing seventies garb, who go to an island off the coast of Florida, where they perform a ritual to raise the dead. And it goes…well…watch and see.” We pause for Arliss to insert a boing sound or a descending slide whistle.

“I bet it’s called Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things for a reason. So, Delilah, if children aren’t supposed to play with dead things, can they play with us?”

“What do you mean, Rayne?”

“Well, we’re technically undead.”

“Good point! The movie’s title specifically says dead things, not undead things.”

“So I guess children can play with us!”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course, we’ll suck their blood if we get the chance, so it still might not be the best idea.”

We leave space for Arliss to insert more comical sound effects. We know our show is goofy. We’re working within a tradition here. Elvira. Tales from the Crypt. Vampira. Svengoolie. Zacherle. Dr. Gangrene. Your humor has to be a mirror of the movies you show: it can’t be too good. It can’t be too mean-spirited. You can poke fun at the films, but you have to fundamentally respect them and honor that your show might be the first and last time people see that movie—something that someone poured their heart and soul into.

Arliss keeps track of the time, and he gives me the signal to wrap up the intro.

“All right, wolf men and wolf ladies. Without further ado…Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things.”

We let several seconds of silence pass so there’s time to fade out on us and fade into the movie. I spend these seconds doing what I always do: praying that he sees. Somehow. Some way. Somewhere. Topeka, Macon, Greenville, Des Moines, Spokane, Fargo, Little Rock. Wherever he is. I can’t tell you what I hope he does if he sees. I don’t know if I want him to regret leaving. If I want him to come back. If I want him to be proud.