A Lively Weekend

I have no problem going to the top of the highest building or riding the tallest roller coaster. As long as they are in an enclosed case, I’m okay with snakes. Let one loose and I may freak out a little.

I’m not afraid of open spaces or of closed spaces. I’m not a hydrophobe or an airophobe or even a dirtophobe.

The greatest fear in my life is that one day, when I pass away, two strangers will come along and Weekend at Bernie me.

In my dream – or nightmare, if you will – I can never identify the people who play the parts once graced by the sublime Andrew McCarthy or the long-forgotten Jonathan Silverman. They are two faceless strangers that walk into my place where I am plopped on the coach. The only known thing about the situation is that I am playing the role once adored by Terry Kiser on the silver screen; a dead man wearing sunglasses, living (?????) by the beach. My greatest fear is ripe for comedy and classical slapstick.

Once they discover I’m dead and not napping, McCarthy and Silverman fear they might be accused of murder. So McCarthy and Silverman tie their legs to my legs and place their arms around my back as we walk up and down the beach, getting ourselves into various beach capers. People smile and wave. McCarthy takes my arm and wave back, flapping my arm around from side to side. People on the beach notice my limp wave and merely think that I’m a little down on life at the moment, but still very much alive.

Things start off innocent enough. Lounging by the pool or lying on the beach, always a half-filled glass of lemonade nearby to further the illusion that I am still alive. Everyday I’m wearing the same white pants and blue button-down shirt; others on the beach just assume I’m going with what works so why change it? Even though it is my greatest fear and my worst nightmare, I still look rather hunky in blue.

Soon, McCarthy and Silverman get bored with my deadness and send out invitations for the hottest party on the beach, a party that I will never be able to enjoy in my present condition. As the young hotties arrive, McCarthy and Silverman, with my ankles tied to theirs to simulate movement, walk around and awkwardly wave to all those in sight (for some reason, I always seem to be waving at people). But as the party moves on, I get dumped on the coach. People walk by and wave (people always seem to be waving at me too. It’s a vicious cycle, it seems. I guess that’s what makes it my greatest fear). Despite my lifelessness, people still look at me and say, “Hey!”

I say nothing.

Two scantily clad women in bikinis sit on the coach, one on each side. As my head tilts slightly to the side, one remarks how lifeless I look and how I remind them of that one guy from that one movie. Is it the aviator glasses? The manly mustache? I can’t say for certain what gives it away. The women, however, will never realize just how accurate they are in their comparison. It’s just another case of vintage bimbo-ism for which there is no cure.

As word of the party gets out, mullet-sporting mob members arrive, armed with syringes, thinking that I have the money when in reality, I am merely a plot device. McCarthy and Silverman are unaware of the mob men’s intentions; they sense things could get ugly. They pick me up by the arm pits, wave goodbye to the bimbos, and we soon escape to my laboratory.

In my greatest fear, I own a laboratory.

With no regards to my reputation, McCarthy and Silverman begin work on a cure for small pox, even though one already exists (I think). They grab my arms and mix various chemicals in beakers. Take some of the red goo, pour in some green liquid. Mix vigorously and see what happens. To view the results, McCarthy and Silverman lower my head towards the microscope and they’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. Being away from the mullet-sporting mob men is of great relief to them.

As my research on small pox progresses, the two start to publicize my results. They’ll even issue press releases about my breakthrough in my small pox vaccine. I will be humiliated. People will view me not as the man curing an already cured disease, but rather, as the man who issued a press release that the AP ignored.

Because of McCarthy and Silverman’s stupidity, the Mullet Mob finds out where I am hiding and they come after me. Naturally, I have very little to fear. McCarthy and Silverman, on the other hand, evidentially have a reason to live – mainly due to their ability to live. This contrasts nicely with my inability to live since I’ve been Weekend at Bernie-ed.

It gets complicated, but stay with me…

We soon escape to a yacht floating just off the beach. Due to a clerical error by the yacht captain – played by Gilfrod Godfry in an unforgettable cameo – I am entered in a shuffle board tournament with the middle-aged, single beauty, Holly. Unaware of my condition, Holly stands behind me, sensually grabs my arms and pushes the shuffleboard thingy towards the end of the shuffleboard court as we try to score a goal and put some points on the shuffleboard.

As we get to know each other, Holly falls in love with my great listening ability. Because of my quiet sensitivity, we soon are lying on the beach below the full moon. Waves are crashing on the beach, wetting the sand and exposing the clams.

Before it gets too kinky, McCarthy and Silverman reappear and interrupt our night swimming. They pick me up, make the idle excuse that I passed out drunk, and leave Holly alone on the beach, waving goodbye. My greatest fear only gets worse as I am pried apart from my shuffleboard seductress, unable to wave back. My only hope is that some day the love of my life gets Weekend at Bernie-ed “too.”