The Ratings War

Twenty seasons's worth of prayers for eternal peace all turned to ash when our focus group came back beaten to a pulp. They bore the dreaded message from the Trekkers: War.



"Twenty seasons since a ratings war. Twenty!" I confided to Burt, my best friend since the days we fought in the last ratings war against the Stooges. "I just so hoped to go into reruns before we saw war again."



Burt clapped a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It's a long, hard climb, but we are going to get there. Remember, Ernie, we Streeters climb to the morning sun."



"You always know how to comfort with the holy words, Burt, but today they sound like only words beginning with w. I cannot understand why our focus group's canoes were burnt, their bows broken and their faces blackened ---"



"That's three good words beginning with b," pointed out Burt.



I shook my head. "It is not right to take praise for thinking up words beginning with b when war looms. What choice did we have but go into other shows' timeslots for hunting? Our crops failed. Our bellies are empty. Other shows have made guest appearances in our timeslots when they hungered and that was all a-okay. Friendly neighbors there and everywhere in those days. Why not today?"



Burt shrugged. "Who knows the ways of Trekkers?" He laughed the sacred rapid laugh, "eh-eh-eh-eh", but today I could not laugh with him.



"Even the great fore founder Henson would not be able to figure these Trekkers out." I kicked a stone in frustration, scuffing my moccasin.



"Do not take Henson's name lightly at the contract negotiations," Burt advised, sensible as always. "But now it is late. Everybody sleeps, Ernie."



"Yes. Everybody sleeps, my friend. May your dreams be brought to you by the Children's Television Workshop."







But, alas, we had no choice but to enter a ratings war with the Trekkers. I hoped the Tellys, the spirits who watched, would choose a winner before there were many actors who would go into reruns. The great elder executive producers of the Streeter show told us long, long ago people hurt other people with terrible weapons that would erase even grandmothers and little children. The Ancients were truly award mad, to bring into ratings wars those who were not actors in the war.



Then the Tellys came and revealed they watched all the shows on all the networks of the Earth, but they favored the ones they watched the most. We Streeters have since strove to be worthy of watching. Because of the Tellys, so they say, mankind abandoned weapons and embraced dialogue, plot and special effects. This would keep our ratings high.



I used to always believe. I sang the songs, learned the letters and triumphed in my vision quest when I came of age. I fasted, sang the sacred song that Rubber Ducky was the One, and Rubber Ducky did come to me and give me my character's name, Ernie, and the right to carry the yellow talisman. Things were good. The Tellys watched us often. The guardian agents seemed to always watch over us, too, playing their harps along with our songs.



But now it seemed all of the agents had fled. What had we done to anger the Tellys so they would not watch us anymore? The crops failed. We hungered. Deep down inside, I knew we Streeters had done nothing wrong.



My heart grew heavy. But as a veteran of the last ratings war, I was expected to co-direct the other actors of the Street with Burt. Now was not the time to talk about my anger toward the Tellys with anyone, even myself.



A ratings war was simple for the Tellys, but hard on the actors and their casting directors. Our show's actors would put on our best wardrobe and perform our most powerful scenes. The Trekkers would do just the same. The winner was the show with the last actor standing. Last time, only Burt and I were left standing. We proved that the Tellys had chosen our show over the Stooges, and the Tellys were alright right. Everyone knows that the Tellys decision is always final.



Many actors entered the reruns in that last ratings war with the awful Stooges. I still have nightmares filled with their chants of "nyuk-nyuk-nyuk." Every day since the war, I stood before the Walk of Fame stars of those fallen actors and asked them to plea with the Tellys to want to watch us live in peace.



But, the time of war came. In my best black headdress and striped leggings, the yellow talisman in hand, I joined Burt and the other actors on the dreaded field known as the Sweeps.



Before us stood dozens of the insufferable Trekkers, in their vivid shirts and bizarre markings. Some placed ridges on their foreheads. Some wore pointed ear masks over their round ears. What kind of demented people would disfigure themselves so?

And such eerie words from their mouths, even more nightmarish than the Stooges' "nyuk-nyuk-nyuk." They cried over and over, "Beam me up! Beam me up!" these words that had no meaning.



We countered with one of our most sacred scenes to remind the Tellys of our past glory. We did the Rubber Ducky scene, hurling the song defiantly over the heads of our enemies. I squeaked the yellow talisman, taking courage from the familiar sound.



The Trekkers taunted, "He's dead, Jim!"



It began to rain on them. Unfortunately, it also rained on us. The winds blew. I moved beyond cold to numb. Many wanted to fall, but we directors kept the actors moving. The children and old producers who watched from the wings retreated from the horrible storm to safety.



Hours passed. Many sickened. We kept on with our scenes bravely, proud of the words, the letters that started the words and the yellow talisman.



Burt fell. He slipped in the mud and I heard something crack. "One of these things is not like the other!" he gasped, and I knew his acting days were done.



No! Not Burt! Great Henson, not my best friend! But now I was expected to be the stage director with Burt's fall. Wanting to grieve, I instead went on with the show.



I spun and clapped, urging the Tellys to witness the magic of C is for Cookie. My actors coughed, retched, and shook with the cold. We tried to cheer each other, but in the driving rain our hopes melted away. I knew this must soon end. The curtain of night was falling. The cold would put us all into the reruns.



Somehow, I saw one tall director with the pointed ear masks bend over a young actor who could have been his son. Gently, he shut the man's staring eyes. He raised his hand in a strange salute, making it look like the split hoof of a goat. Clearly, I heard him say, "Live long and prosper."



In those words I heard all of the pride and love of a father at his son's final curtain call. Now that I understood.



And I stopped. I raised my hand and ordered the others, "CUT!"



They stared. Perhaps they thought I was regrouping them for another scene, but they were all too exhausted to argue.



I walked over to this director and raised my hand, imitating his salute. "Live long and prosper," I dared to say.



I could have been stoned for speaking their holy words, and rightfully so. I did not care. Stoning would have been blissful compared to the cold and the wet.



The tall director raised his left eyebrow and asked, "Have you come to join us, Streeter?"



"No," I answered. "I love being a Streeter. But what you just said to your fallen -- those words -- they move me. If these one, two, three, four words could move my heart so, then perhaps there are more words of yours that can as well."



He held the other actors back from me with only a wave of his hand. "You, a Streeter, are capable of logic. We did not think it possible."



"Do not cause a technical difficulty, Spock!" a muscular ridge-head behind him roared. "The Tellys will not stand by!"



"Silence, Klingon!" roared Spock. "Perhaps the Tellys are tired of our episodes. We have faithfully done the same ones for generations. Perhaps it is time for new episodes." Here he turned to me and bowed his head.



I bowed mine, my heart singing. My faith in my guardian agent revived. I thanked the Trekker director and told him how to get to Sesame Street.



It was most fortunate we told the Trekkers how to get to Sesame Street, for soon the Tellys would have us face on the field of Sweeps the mightiest show on the Earth -- The Simpsons. But it is time to go back to your regularly scheduled program, already in progress.