Jackie Wells-Fauth
I walked into a store the other day while it was still pretty early in the morning. The doors were open and the lights were on, but there were no customers except me, and worst of all, there was nobody at all in sight.
There was a ladder in the aisle I needed to go to and it looked like someone was interrupted while stocking shelves. It began to feel a little eerie. But, once I selected what I came in to get, and went up to the counter, I thought someone would surely appear: no, still pretty quiet, with me beginning to feel like the world had departed without leaving a forwarding address.
It was then that I began to replay all the murder mystery documentaries that I’m hooked on, in my head.
“At 9:40 am on a casual Tuesday, a local housewife walked into a small store and received the shock of her life. Calling out in the echoing silence, and walking through the deserted aisles, she heard nothing but the clapping of her own footsteps. Following some unexplainable instinct, she proceeded with pounding heart, to the back of the store where to her horror, she discovered the broken and bloodied body of the unfortunate clerk.” (Cue blood-curdling screams.)
Or, the much worse scenario, “Unnerved by the silence, she turned to flee the empty store, and was bludgeoned to death by the killer, who was still lurking in the silent aisles. (Cue sound of body hitting the floor.)
Fortunately, I had simply missed the on-duty clerk working in the store, who was nearby and she immediately came to help, so both of us ended the encounter alive and upright and certainly not the subject of a grisly documentary.
It started me thinking about my television viewing habits and how they might be affecting my wild imagination. I really do love documentaries of all kinds, but I find I also enjoy murder mysteries as well. Everything from Jessica Fletcher cleverly solving murder in the violent town of Cabot Cove, Maine, all the way to the investigative skills of Tom Barnaby who lives in Midsomer, England, undoubtedly the bloodiest district in the whole of the United Kingdom!
When I think of my fascination with these shows, I am a little bothered by the fact that I have become hardened to the idea that someone must die for these shows to work. “Oh, that woman is a real pill. She’s gonna die.” I can always pick out the victim. And that bothers me less than it should.
Probably worse is my enthusiastic attitude towards documentaries; history, ghosts and crime. It reminds me of the comedian who said, “As my marriage goes on, I find I annoy my wife more and more and she watches more and more murder documentaries. I hope the two are not connected.”
Because of this kind of television viewing (and although I do watch a lot, I don’t think Roy needs to worry) I run a lot of weird scenarios in my head. A strange sound late at night and I know there’s a ghost or a serial killer in my basement. A procession going by on the street makes me wonder how they will write this historic moment into a documentary.
Best of all, if you watch enough television, you never have to go to the doctor for diagnosis again. You just need to call them up, explain that the pharmaceutical commercials told you what disease you have and that all the doctor has to do is fill out the prescription.
Now that spring is here, perhaps I’ll get away from the television and get out and enjoy the fresh air. “At 10:30 on an ordinary Friday morning, a local woman went out for a walk. Alas, this decision would prove fatal…”
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