Found
A rainy day in Brazil. Heavy sheets of rain from the dirty grey sky, soaking the cracked streets and driving the locals into their tiny shacks with corrugated tin roofs offering a mote of protection from nature's mindless fury. As this chaos unfolds, a faded yellow taxi putters its way onto a weather-beaten road, coming to a sudden, jerking halt. A man in an Italian leather jacket – a contemptuous sign of wealth to the curious souls peering through their windows – steps out of the cab after handing the driver a crumpled fistful of bills and thanking him, imploring in a garbled mixture of Portuguese and English to keep the change after consulting a small traveler's book of helpful phrases. The taxi haltingly begins to putter away down the crumbling road, and the man in the leather jacket – more commonly known as Max Rogers, legendary US children's television producer – stands perfectly still for a minute or two, gathering his wits and taking in his surroundings. After this time has passed, he suddenly remembers the small burlap knapsack hanging limply on his right hand and quickly stuffs it underneath his jacket – the contents aren't waterproof, after all. He then begins to search methodically for apartment 20B in the hive of impossibly small flats making up the apartment complex in front of him. He searches without thinking, without expression as his mind wanders, recalling the circumstances that brought him to these godforsaken slums.
1987. The W.K.I.D. children's television network is enjoying its most successful season in years, drawing record viewing figures across America. A much younger Max Rogers sits at his desk, chewing a hangnail with a neurotic, nervous tension unbecoming of the television tycoon. He waits (most impatiently, in the usual manner of business executives) to have a meeting with the second most important man employed by the network. He is being kept waiting, and as the nondescript white clock above his door jarringly ticks away the seconds, one thought constantly permeates his mind: Where's Waldo? The Waldo in question is Waldo Rybinski, creator and star of Waldo's World, the flagship program for W.K.I.D. that has millions of kids eagerly tuning in every Saturday morning. Waldo's distinctive garments and wacky television antics (wholly incongruous with his meek, mild-mannered personality) have spawned a popular series of picture books, thousands of lunchboxes, and -of course- a multicolored sugary cereal. However, things have taken a turn for the worse recently. Waldo has been prone to manic outbursts and anxiety attacks during filming, and punched out several fresh-faced cameramen over the course of the last month causing hundreds of dollars in damage to the company. Max hears the muttered whispers at board meetings advocating Waldo's firing, but he just can't bring himself to cut the network's most recognizable face and risk losing all of the lucrative sponsorship deals and ad revenue W.K.I.D. has earned. Today, a handwritten note on his desk in the signature messy scrawl of Waldo himself: Let's talk today. Have lots to discuss regarding future of program. An hour has passed since the note's discovery and Max silently fumes at his desk, drumming his fingers in a frantic, exasperated rhythm indicative of his stress.
Suddenly, a familiar, hesitant face peeks into the door of Max's office.
"Max? You there, buddy?"
"Waldo! God! You certainly do know how to keep a person waiting!" Max exclaims.
"S-sorry. I've been sorting out some things," says Waldo, with a maddening vagueness to his speech suggesting a hidden meaning to his words. "Important things."
"What in the blazes do you mean by 'important things' Waldo? You can't expect a man to guess with no clues whatsoever!"
"Well . . . ," Waldo gulps cartoonishly. "I was . . . doing some thinking, y'see? And I think I've made a big decision about something, and I guess I need to tell you." He shrinks underneath Max's harsh glare.
"Out with it, then!"
"I want to quit." These words are blurted out in a sharp tone of sudden revelation, as Waldo's eyes widen in shock at his own forwardness. "The schedule, the publicity, I'm just . . . not dealing with it well. I've been talking with a nice psychiatrist, Dr. Katzwell, and she -"
"Psychiatry! What are you listening to that Freudian esoteric nonsense for, you damned buffoon? You- you can't just quit! The network depends on you, we need you, you're not thinking any of this through-"
"I am!" Waldo interjects with an uncharacteristic force to his words. "This- this isn't right for me. It never was. Dr. Katzwell says I need to take a break. A vacation. Indefinitely! And I won't let you push me around into staying here and killing myself shooting this damned silly show all my life."
"But-"
"It's final! I'm leaving the network, and you can't stop me! I'll live in- in Brazil or something, get away from it all, maybe start a family- never mind the details, I need to go! I'm tired of suffocating under the pressure, Max, it just- it gets to me, and I'll spend some nights unable to go to sleep without taking a whole damn bottle of insomnia pills and crying. I just need a break. That's all."
"Please, Waldo." Max is not used to crying, but tears are cascading down his face, onto his expensive suit (he makes a mental note to take it to the cleaners later), staining his tie. "You're the best damn guy we've got, and we're just now taking off-"
"No." A heaviness to Waldo's voice. "If I want to come back, I'll tell you. Don't you try contacting me otherwise, because I'm getting as far away from this godawful studio as fast as I can. Goodbye, Max." And with that final gesture, Waldo storms out of Max's office, out of Max's life for the next 27 years.
A sudden clap of thunder brings Max back to reality. The remaining history flashes momentarily before him – the abrupt cancellation of Waldo's World, the bankruptcy of W.K.I.D. (no loss to Max, of course – he was snatched up by a rival network in an instant), and the reason he came here, searching for a disheveled apartment 500 miles away from Los Angeles. The letter. Sitting on his doorstep in an inoffensive cream envelope with Max's address on it in that unmistakable scrawl. Please come see me ASAP need to talk address down below. The allure of the letter and its long-lost sender goaded Max into canceling all of his prior appointments and flying to Brazil at the last moment, hailing an airport taxi on short notice, and . . . here he stands in front of a faded blue door in the middle of the rain and the thunder and the wind. 20B scratched in imitation brass on a tiny placard stuck to the wall. He hesitates briefly, imagining all of the negative permutations of the scenario about to unfold (nobody there, someone new having moved in, a dead body behind an unlocked door) and then knocks with slight trepidation. An familiar – but aged – voice calls, "Just a minute!" Max hears the sound of multiple deadbolts unlocking with faint clicks and suddenly, the door creaks open on its rusty hinges. There. In the flesh. Wearing a ratty striped hat and a disheveled army jacket along with a pair of tattered jeans, glazed-over green eyes fixing Max with a look of momentary distrust before lighting up with glee.
"Max! Shit! I didn't – um – think you'd come so soon, and, well, jeez, I should've fixed this place up more or something. You always were the kinda guy to come quick, eh?" An old, tired-looking man masquerading as Waldo gestures awkwardly towards what appears to be the main room in his apartment. "Well, don't just stand there, you knucklehead! Come on in! Lemme show you around!" Max cautiously steps inside, glancing around the room, taking in the details. Hundreds of Waldo's World posters covering the walls like wallpaper, official Waldo merchandise strewn about the floor. A small, mute TV with a bent clothes hanger antenna providing a fuzzy picture that Max discerns to be a cat of some sort. A water-stained couch that Max sits down on as he continues to scan the room, noting the pile of empty liquor bottles sitting in one corner. "Well?" Waldo asks. "What do you think? A swell old place for only 40 real a month!"
"Mmm," Max affirms. "Tell me, what exactly have you been doing these past 27 years? Crocheting? Writing your life's memoirs?"
"Well, no, nothing like that-"
"What, then?" Max asks with a rising level of anger. "What on earth have you been doing?"
"I've been thinking, and- I- think I want to get the show back together. A reunion."
"You didn't answer me."
"Well, I don't have to answer you. Anyways, I thought maybe you could find the Waldo Gang again, and we could all meet up and start filming, and-"
"Do you think you can just pick up where you left off? That the world has stood completely still while you've taken your endless sabbatical?"
"I'm just saying, Max, I think kids would-"
"You can't just restart the whole process over again!" Max is surprised to find himself yelling, his bellows seeping through the paper-thin walls and into about 10 other apartments. "The network died when you left! We had to do a damned 'special episode' and pretend that you moved away from bloody Waldoland or whatever it was called! We lost all our funding, all our sponsors because of your nervous fucking breakdown!" Waldo's voice sneaks over the din.
"I- I didn't know that."
"Of course you didn't! You went off to God knows where for nearly thirty years and never wrote! Never called! Never gave us any indication where you were, whether you were alive or dead for heaven's sake!"
"Well- well, I-"
"What?"
"I just wanted to be lost for a little while. Without being found. I felt so oppressed, boxed in working-" Waldo pauses to let out a messy, choking sob. "I had to get away! Don't you understand? The work was killing me!"
"Yes, you told me something to that effect all those years ago. And I still have a hard time believing you. You were doing fine-"
"No I wasn't! Don't LIE to me!" Waldo is breathing heavily. "I saw how people talked about me. They thought I was-"
"Now, I'm sure you didn't hear them right-"
"CRAZY! I heard them!" Waldo collapses into a crying, hyper-emotional mess. "I just- did- did-"
"Did what, Waldo?"
"Did- did anyone care about me? When I was gone? Ask where I was, or anything? Did I really ever matter to anyone?"
"That reminds me. I came here to give you something." Max pulls out the burlap knapsack from his jacket. "In case you'd forgotten what you meant to all the kids you left behind." He tosses the knapsack at Waldo's feet. "Quit crying, you look ridiculous. Clean yourself up and maybe we can go get some coffee once the rain stops."
Waldo examines the knapsack carefully and dumps out its contents on the floor in front of him. A cascade of multicolored envelopes, all addressed to the old W.K.I.D. station building. "W-what are these, Max?" He begins to rip them open quickly. Hundreds of letters in the cryptic handwriting of children. Some scribbled in crayon, others with abstract stick-figures depicting the cast of Waldo's World, still others in sloppy cursive, but all saying the same thing. Where's Waldo? And as he rips open more and more envelopes, Waldo Rybinski is crying his heart out, feeling found at last. Feeling warm. Feeling . . . whole.