A Very Brady Apocalypse
By
George R. Zanata
It was another dreamy sun-splashed southern California morning for Carol Brady to admire. She loved being a Brady on such a joyous, groovy, far out, bluebird-on-your-shoulder, carry-a-song-in-your-heart kind of day. She had so much to be grateful for that sometimes she had to pinch herself. She had her enchanted cottage on Clinton Avenue, a loving, devoted husband, six wonderful kids, a very conscientious maid, and an obedient and faithful dog.
In fact, she believed her sheepdog Tiger was the reason her family had lived together in perfect harmony down through the years. On any of the rare occasions when a family member was down, Tiger would be there with a kind look and a friendly bark of advice. Everyone in the entire Brady clan loved Tiger. Especially her youngest son, Bobby. He sure did love that Tiger!
Carol had prepared a batch of thick gooey oatmeal raisin cookies for her kids to take to school, each one decorated with chocolate chip eyes and a big happy grin, accompanied by a note that read, 'Have an extra groovy day! Love Mom.' Her beloved kids were all upstairs preparing for school. Her beloved husband was in the den working on a project. And her beloved dog was curled in his doghouse fast asleep.
Not one weather report had predicted a drop of rain that day. It made it all the more ironic then when a dark cloud descended over Tiger's doghouse and demolished it with a lightning bolt. Tiger staggered from the rubble, looked skyward, and his ears shot up. Another bolt knocked him off his feet. He righted himself and scrambled away with the cloud in pursuit. He tucked and rolled onto the patio and frantically clawed at the sliding door.
"Tiger, is that you?" Carol asked.
A thunderclap muffled his woof. The menacing cloud bore down on him. He scampered across the artificial turf and hid under the Plymouth station wagon, but the cloud struck the chassis and chased him out. Tiger found himself cornered at the fence. He raised himself onto his hind legs, clasped his front paws together, wagged his tail, and whimpered and begged for compassion. An angry bolt catapulted him into the next yard.
Carol stepped into the den. "Mike," she said.
"Yes? What is it, Carol?"
"I'm worried."
"Oh? What about?"
"Well, I just took a look in the backyard and I didn't see Tiger anyplace. Oh, Mike, I think something has happened to him."
"Oh? What makes you think that, dear?"
"Well, for starters, there is a giant crater where Tiger's doghouse used to be."
"A crater, huh?" Mike looked up from his sketch. "Still, I wouldn't worry about it, honey. Tiger has disappeared on us before. I'm sure that crazy dog will turn up on us sooner or later."
"I don't know, Mike."
"Honey, relax. I'm certain he's okay. He's probably down the block at the Wilson's house. Remember the time we thought he was lost, then discovered him at the Wilson's with their poodle?" Mike shook his head. "I guarantee you he's over there right now having himself a great time."
"Oh, Mike, do you think so?"
Mike chuckled. "Why, yes. Look, honey, I have this very important project to finish for Mr. Phillips. How about this: If Tiger doesn't show up by the time I'm finished, the boys and I will go out and search for him. Will that put your mind at ease?"
"Oh yes, Mike. It sure will!"
Two of their boys, Peter and Bobby, were in their bedroom getting dressed. Peter was a bit down. He couldn't understand why he wasn't more popular, why he wasn't as popular as his older brother Greg. Greg was very popular with the chicks. He had cool threads, a cool car, a great perm, and a groovy singing voice. It wouldn't be long before he moved to Los Angeles to start a successful musical career under his alias, Johnny Bravo. Meanwhile, Peter was nearly seventeen and still sharing a bunk bed with his stupid kid brother. His clothes were off the rack, his voice squeaked, and he didn't know how to drive. He viewed himself in the mirror with scorn. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair!
Deep down, Peter knew the fault didn't lie with his older brother. It was his own personality. Mainly, he didn't have one. He was a worthless bum, an empty shell, a creep, a no talent hack, a nobody, and a double creep. No, no, he was worse than that. He was…he was… a triple creep!
"You know what I am?" he asked Bobby.
"What? A triple creep?"
"Boy, you said it!"
Bobby was much more satisfied with his image. He had been recently made safety monitor at school and he got to wear a buttoned-down olive green uniform with a tie, green sash, and, best of all, a brown safety patch with 'S.M.' emblazoned in red. He would guide the leaderless, undisciplined, and unprincipled student body into an age of safety and security which would be the envy of all academia. He would become a living, breathing representation of the law, and would accept nothing less than unbending and slavish devotion to his rule.
That is what the people need, he thought, and smacked his leg with his riding bridle. They need discipline and discipline is what they shall get.
"Kids!" Carol's voice rang out. "Kids, come on down! You don't want to be late for school!"
She waited for them at the foot of the staircase with her trusty maid Alice by her side. The kids trampled down the stairs in single file from youngest to oldest: first Cindy, then Bobby, then Jan, then Peter, then Marsha, then Greg. Each of them received a peck on the cheek from their golden-haired mother and a brown lunch bag from their silver-haired maid.
"Bye, Mom! Bye, Alice!" they cried as they dashed for the front door. None of them wanted to be late, especially Bobby, who as safety monitor, thought it essential he be on time to set an example for his peers. He was so preoccupied with order and discipline and the rule of law that he failed to notice his loyal companion wasn't there to see him off.
After they had left, Alice turned to Carol and said, "Well, that's odd."
"What's odd, Alice?"
"It's not like Tiger not to be here to see the kids off to school. He's always been a very prompt and reliable dog."
"I know, Alice. Bobby certainly takes after him. Oh, I'm worried. I haven't seen or heard Tiger all morning."
"Me neither, Mrs. Brady," she said. "Come with me into the kitchen. You need to take a look at this."
"Oh, what is it, Alice?"
"I set out Tiger's doggie bowl like I do every morning, called for him, and look…"
The bowl sat untouched.
"It's not like Tiger to skip breakfast," Alice said. "He knows it's the most important meal of the day."
"Oh, you're right, Alice. I didn't want to say anything in front of Bobby before - you know how much he loves that dog - but I believe something terrible has happened to him."
"Have you told Mr. Brady?"
"Yes; he thinks Tiger has run away again. He thinks he may be at the Wilson's house. Oh, Alice, do you really think he's over there?"
"That could very well be, Mrs. Brady. It is spring, after all."
"Maybe you're right, Alice. Maybe I'm just worrying needlessly. I'm sure everything will turn out all right just like it always does for our happy little family."
"That's the spirit, Mrs. Brady," Alice said. She picked up her overstuffed laundry basket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a full plate of chores to attend to. You know, the washing, the ironing, the sewing, the dusting, the vacuuming, and the dry wall stripping. Then maybe I'll take a break for lunch."
"Oh, Alice! What would we do without you?"
"It's my pleasure, Mrs. Brady. Gosh, you and Mr. Brady have always been so fair and charitable to me, letting me stay in the spare room in the kitchen and sharing your meals." Her eyes misted. "It's more than any overburdened, underpaid, and frustrated maid can ask for."
Carol gave her an empathetic pat on the back. Then she headed for her bedroom to lie down and get in her afternoon's worth of fretting.
Bobby's day had been a safety monitor's dream. On just his first day at the helm, he had given an auditorium lecture on the evils of loitering; confiscated a pea shooter; and broken up the infamous fake hall pass ring, an outfit that had operated with impunity for years. He had gone from just another little kid to the most hated and despised figure at Westdale elementary and maybe even in all of Westdale.
He didn't care, however; he didn't need the respect or admiration of the corrupt student body. Bobby had all the love and positive energy he could handle from the bunch of folks who mattered the most: his parents, his brothers and sisters, his maid, and most of all, his beloved dog Tiger. He sure loved that dog. He couldn't wait to get home and see the look on Tiger's scruffy little face when he told him all about how wonderful his day had been.
The Brady's next door neighbor, curmudgeonly old Mr. Dittmyre, schlepped into his kitchen to pay his wife a rare compliment. "Say, whatever it is you're cooking," he said, "for a change, it smells delicious."
"I'm not cooking anything, you putz," she said.
"You're not? Well then what the hell is that on our barbeque grill?"
"How should I know? Why don't you get off your lazy ass and take a look?"
All afternoon, Mike had labored in the den on the latest design for his firm: the grand Westdale Pavilion, a two hundred story high, fifty-five block wide, thirty thousand ton solid steel edifice modeled after the Great Wall of China. The Pavilion was dedicated to the prevention of urban sprawl and waste in Westdale, which he conservatively estimated would take twenty-five years and sixteen trillion dollars to build. The project would be a bit controversial since it would be built directly on sacred Indian burial ground; replace the sites of the Westdale Conservation League, the Sierra Club, the Women's' Auxiliary, and the Steelworkers Union; and run right through the heart of Westdale Park.
He knew that the boys would be crushed; the girls, too, at the loss of their favorite park. He would have to sit them all down and explain to them that sometimes he had to do things he didn't particularly like but knew were right in the name of progress for the community, and he'd smooth things over by inviting the whole family to the annual architect's ball in Barbados. Families normally weren't permitted to attend the balls, which were swanky and had a tendency to get out of control, but Mr. Phillips always made an exception for the most productive member of his staff.
Mike searched for his English-Barbadosan dictionary. Drat if he couldn't find it. Tiger would have known where it was. Then his lovely wife Carol made her second appearance in his den that day. She wore an extremely worried look.
"Oh, Mike, I just got the strangest call," she said.
"Oh? Who was it from, honey?"
"The Dittmyres."
The first Brady to leave for school was also the first Brady to make it back. Bobby made a triumphant dash into the living room, flung his book bag and jacket onto the couch, and hollered for his parents so he could share with them the joyfulness of his day. "Mom! Dad!" he cried over and over. "I'm home! I had a great day narcing at school!"
His parents failed to respond to his repeated shouts. He shrugged and made a beeline for the kitchen to treat himself to a glass of warm buttermilk and his mother's cookies and instead share his joy with his faithful companion.
"Tiger? Tiger? C'mere, boy. C'mere, Tiger. Where are you, boy?"
The first sign something was wrong was the bowl of dog food in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was Tiger's favorite dish: chicken parmigon flavored biscuits with flakes of watercress salad and a hint of tarragon, and it just sat there, filled to the brim, untouched. Next, Bobby discovered the desperate claw marks all over the sliding door. Third, he saw the blackened and pockmarked lawn that looked like it had been the victim of a meteor shower.
He ventured into the backyard. All the patio furniture had been overturned. The family station wagon was blanketed in ash. The artificial turf, the site of many a potato sack race, now resembled the surface of the moon: dark, barren, and uninhabitable. Worst of all, Tiger's doghouse was a smoldering ruin.
"Tiger?! Tiger?! Where are you?!" he cried. He stumbled into the crater in a daze and dropped to his knees. "Where are you, boy?! Where are you, Tiger?! Where are you?!"
His anguished cries went unheard by the rest of the Brady tikes, who rocketed straight up the staircase in order to get an early start on their respective homework assignments and failed to notice his belongings on the couch.
Shortly, his parents slumped home. Carol appeared crestfallen. She trudged over to the couch and wearily sat down next to her youngest son's things and sighed.
"Oh, Mike, what are we going to do?" she asked. "What are we going to tell Bobby? He's going to be crushed."
Mike ran a hand through his permed hair. "I wish I had an easy answer to that. I'm afraid that no matter what we tell him, honey, he's going to be devastated, as are the rest of the kids. We're just going to have to face it together as a family."
He went over to the staircase and called for the rest of the Bradys to assemble in the living room for a family meeting. The kids rumbled down the stairs in their usual formation and gathered expectantly on the couch to hear what was always good news. Alice soon followed suit.
"Wait. Where's Bobby?" Carol asked.
"He's in the backyard screaming," Cindy said helpfully.
Mike went into the family room. The sliding door was open and he could hear his son's weak rasp. He saw Bobby meander in and out of each crater, calling for his beloved pet, a vacant look in his eye. "Bob," his father said, "Bob, will you please stop playing in that crater and come here so we can start our family meeting?"
"But I'm searchin' for Tiger," he rasped.
"I'm not going to repeat myself."
Bobby dragged himself into the living room and flopped down angrily into formation between Cindy and Jan on the sofa. His father then went before the assembly. He wasn't entirely sure what he should say. He cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair again, paced, looked to the ceiling for guidance.
"Gee, what is it, Dad?" the kids asked.
"Well, I'm afraid your mother and I have some very sad news to pass along to you and it's not going to be easy for you to hear."
"You can tell us, Dad, " Greg advised. "Whatever it is, we can take it."
Mike had never practiced, much less given, a speech to his kids like this before. All his speeches were packed with the same old fool-proof messages of positive reinforcement to make them feel better about themselves, as in 'the noble and beautiful' oratory he had once given Marsha so she could play Juliet. It proved too difficult for him to explain what he and Carol had seen; he made several false starts, and more tufts of his hair fluttered to the carpet. Then, remembering he was an architect, he fetched the drawing board from his den and rendered a fairly graphic depiction of what had happened to the family dog.
Right before his eyes, the family became unhinged. Horrified, ear-splitting screams pierced the room. Alice wailed into her apron. Greg and Peter bit their lips and grimaced, while Marsha and Jan cried in each other's arms. Cindy ripped the head off her Kitty Karryall doll.
Bobby remained frozen on the couch, eerily quiet, in a trance. Then his eyes flashed. A strange look of defiance crossed his face. He ripped off his safety patch, the patch he had once been proud of, and crumpled it in his fist. No longer was his obsessed with rules and regulations and the law. No longer was he part of the establishment. He whipped around, elbowed his brothers and sisters aside, and began tossing the couch cushions and screaming Tiger's name.
Then he fainted.