What You're Made Of

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

FADE IN  

NARRATOR (VO)

In the words of Oscar Wilde, 'Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.'

Meet Arvid—a man tired of blending into the background, yearning to be someone who commands the room, someone worth remembering. But in his search for admiration, he may find that wanting to be someone else means leaving something behind. In Port Kalakeitto, a man’s reflection is a fragile thing, and envy, like a shadow, can consume you whole.

EXT. ARVID'S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT - LONG SHOT

An oddly angled crescent moon hangs above.

TITLE GRAPHIC

The camera slowly zooms toward ARVID'S bedroom window. We pass through the window into the interior.

INT. ARVID'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

ARVID is in bed, rolling around, pulling the covers over his head.

The camera TRACKS down the writhing bed covers, continuing down to the floor.

ARVID'S FEET land in frame.

Some mornings, you get up and everything's a splash off. The birds gargle, a little clanging. There's a fibrous rainbow film on the last sips of Sanka in your tea cup. And a bangle of squishing pink wobbles low in the east. This is how it is for Arvid, on a regulation Friday for everyone else in Port Kalakeitto.

He chalks the vibe up to a manic collective energy in the air anticipating the weekend. Trick moon and the Autumnal Blitzspiel, almost everyone would be out playing carnival games, eating cloud candy and hammering an armful of mugs at the Scand Legion Beer Hall. A transitional event and opportunity to get loose and social before the heavy freeze of Wintertime, Arvid isn't sure he's up for the festivities, but not going would only make him feel worse.

Looking out the bedroom window he tenses his jaw. Nothing good is going to happen at the office today. Work wouldn't feel so bad if it wasn't for Hurley, who only by existing, makes Arvid feel diminished and overlooked. Hurley effortlessly levitates through life attracting warm attentions and fraternal nudges. He is a man made of magnets, though Arvid doesn't want to find him especially charming. He thinks he's smug and irreverent, an unserious man with an overly effervescent personality. It feels forced like he's pushing it through a sausage maker. Look, ooh what a tasty meat package, he mutters to himself, pretending he is one of Hurley's adoring fans, gnawing on the imaginary frank like a fat cigar.

His clumsy fingers button up his olive gray work shirt as he squints through the blinds. The light comes in like knives, stabbing Arvid in jest, further perforating his already weakened ego. He moves into the dull shade and sits on the corner of the bed. His mundane meditation— one foot after the other. Pack lunch, catch bus, walk a block, get through the day and home again.

At the Keckabec Construction building Arvid and the other admin staff fill in the boxes of their cubicles. Hurley is already here. Early. Brought donuts and made coffee. Arvid wonders how he manages to conjure the good mood when Sal Paticakes has already told them they are working late tonight on that monster Crumb project.

At the coffee maker, Arvid pours the brew down the sink, hoping someone will see him making some more. But no one notices. 

He tries to engage with Beth Unger booping with the buttons at the microwave station, "Looks like nice weather for the weekend. What are your favorite pancake toppings? I hope they have raspberry syrup this year"

"What's that?" she says over the wah of the exhaust fan, barely acknowledging him with a side-shrug-glance.

"Nevermind," he mutters walking back to his desk.

The day thumps along. In the lunch room Arvid studies Hurley surrounded by the folks from Sales hanging on every syllable as he tells some vapid story about his time in Sea Cadets. Arvid bites into his butter sandwich and imagines what it would be like to be Hurley for a day. He chews slowly, milling like a gizzard until there is nothing left to swallow but a grainy paste. 

While Arvid and Hurley's interactions are generally limited to Hey Hey small talk and the odd functional work transaction, tonight would be different. Sal purposely teams them up to give Arvid a chance to show he can keep up with a high value employee like Hurley. Arvid is on his second performance improvement plan this year and probably wouldn't make it to the Holidays if he doesn't buck up and show her what he's got, as she put it. And he will show her. He has to. This is his last chance. He'll stay late and embrace the challenge though he isn't sure how he’s going to do it without grinding his teeth to nubs.

At 6pm, the airhorn in the backlot signals the end of the shift and everyone in the office clip clops out of the bull pen and into the lobby, there, premixing and planning for the weekend. Hurley makes sure he's there to back pat and hand shake as they exit the building. What a guy, they think, working late to help his co-worker. So selfless, so generous.

Arvid swivels around and around in his desk chair, procrastinating, waiting for Hurley to get back so they can get to work on the Crumb presentation. For a moment, as the blood beads away from his brain center, he entertains the idea that tonight they'll bond and find common interests, maybe go fishing one day. Two inseparable buddies, Arvid and Hurley, like peas in a pod. Crazier things have happened.

"Whoa there buddy, you're gonna spin right off that thing," says Hurley, grabbing the chair and snapping Arvid out of his fantasy.

"Heh, yeah, I was actually just unwinding a bit before we got down to it, you know?", Arvid can smell the sandalwood cologne on Hurley's wrists still gripping the backrest behind his head.

"Unwinding, ha! Good one Arvid. Well—no rest for the wicked eh? Come over to my desk and we can plan out our next steps. Maybe divide and conquer?", Hurley loops around the partition to his side of the cubicle, "However you want to do it big guy—your wish is my command”

Arvid locks eyes with him. Does he love him, like everyone else? Does he hate him—for being so perfect. It's hard to resist Hurley's seductive charms.

"Sure Hurley, what ever you say—um, my wish is your command", Arvid stutters, reflecting in Hurleys’s icy blues, feeling his anxiety crank and the fine hairs on his forearms twitch awake.

At Hurley's desk it's a bit brighter than the other workstations, illuminated by the skylight, it's like he's touched by the rays of sun gods.

"Here buddy, have a seat in my chair. Make yourself at home.  I'll go get us some sodas from the fridge," says Hurley striding away toward the office kitchen, humming his highschool fight song.

There's a hockey player bobble-head wagging near a neat stack of color coordinated file folders, an oversized ‘I Climbed Mount Chub’ mug of pens, and a family portrait with Mom, Dad, Sister, Hurley and a Golden Lab. Arvid picks up the picture frame and traces the contours of their faces. Particularly Hurley and his strong swooping nose that sits above his beautifully formed philtrum adorning his broad muscular lips. The eyes, half empty and vacuous, refract the light like rare jewels in shallow pools.

He swings his feet on the stubby pile and starts to swivel again. Hurley's superior chair picks up speed even better. Push, he spins faster, Kick, again faster until he pulls up his feet and let's the world turn. He holds the family to his chest and wonders why he can't have the things that Hurley does. 

The drop ceiling fluorescents strafe like lasers in his periphery as he tornados wildly. If only I could have a bit of you in me, he repeats to himself. Just a bit of you—

Arvid pulls his legs up to his shoulders and let's the rotations spin down. Maybe he's just dizzy, but there's a tightening in his chest and a bloat in his belly. Realizing he's been holding his breath he exhales slow, and let's the words escape, "—In me"

The discomfort wanes quickly and in it's place, rejuvenation. His skin prickles all over. He's lighter, stronger, smarter. He hears Hurley's voice somewhere, distorted and perturbed but is quickly distracted by a euphoria that spreads across his body. He can sense the blood coursing through his extremities and surrenders to a smile that peels across his face like no other display of emotion has ever done before. 

He scratches his armpits and rubs his stomach. Some squirming weirdness inside sends him running to the washroom. Something is off again. He hears Hurley's voice, this time, muffled and distressed. Maybe the donuts were tainted. Something in the air ducts. Maybe he's just flailing, in a fugue state—a fever dream

After a few more unsettled trips to the toilet, checking the mirror, untucking and re-tucking his shirt, now with the obvious realization that Hurley is in as much trouble as he is, Arvid leaves the building pinching and grabbing himself awkwardly, then makes his way home, stopping at the dollar store to pick up some heavy duty packing tape. Gotta do what you gotta do, he thinks, starting to embody his new found resourcefulness and looking forward to the Blitzspiel family breakfast at the fairgrounds in the morning.

After a few adjustments, Arvid slept better than he's slept in years. Maybe decades. In fact, he couldn't remember ever feeling this good waking up. The birdsong was clear, the apartment was spotless, and the pristine white petals of daybreak warmed his cheekbones as he lay in bed feeling recharged and blooming with playful spirit and overclocked confidence.

He walks to the Blitzspiel with fresh legs and a gliding gait. An unfamiliar ambulation compared to his ordinary shuffling locomotion. He clips along, practically joyous. 

People notice too. At the corner, raking leaves, Wilhelm can't help but give Arvid a, "Whoa boyo, you're really goin' places today. Lookin sharp for the fall fair I see I see"

And he is looking good, though he doesn't feel like he's doing anything special. This must be what Hurley feels like everyday. Charmed and chock full of the charge of allurement, he attracts the unfamiliar  attention from every passerby. Miss Helgason, the kindergarten teacher almost has a bicycle accident gawking at him with a too-long gaze.

And though his chest feels tight, and he doesn't seem to have room for a full breath of air, Arvid is beaming ribbons of good cheer by the time he rolls into the festival like a drum major leading a parade.

Children scurry to catch up, the women's curling team giggle-whisper in tow and the seniors electric wheelchair brigade hums behind as he leads a procession of Kalakeittoans into the pancake pavillion.

He'd normally shrink away from this kind of attention but not Arvid Nouveau. He took it all in and radiated it back out with all the pantomime and patter he'd seen Hurley act out daily.

"You did something new with your hair," to Mrs Kulpka, his hand on her shoulder.

"Your dog is so well behaved," to Kevin the pastor, scratching behind the poodle's ears.

"Not a day over thirty-nine," to Anita McKeen, with his hands on his hips.

And to the sugar-buzzed tots, "Hey kids, I'd race you again but I'm pooped,", he doubles over puffing.

And he was exhausted, though he could just manage to not show it with his upgraded stamina. Who knew it took this much effort to be popular? But it didn't feel real. Every interaction inauthentic, glazed with the performative shellac of small talk and cliche consideration.

Looking for some small reprieve from the self inflicted hub-bub, Arvid manages to sneak away behind the Malt Shack and leans against the refrigeration unit, catching a small moment to himself and wondering if anyone else was missing the jovial spectacle that was Hip Hip Hurray Hurley. Perhaps Arvid as proxy was enough to distract from any gossip or curious notions.

He pushes back his hair and tries to fill his lungs but can only manage to gulp a pitiful amount of oxygen. "Can't breathe," he says to himself but the words don't feel like his. His lips continue, involuntary and possessed, mouthing, "Show them, show them"

"Show them what?" he snaps.

"You alright there—Arvid, isn't it?" says Max Peters, town Marshal, appearing around the corner, "You're gonna have to pace yourself, it's a big weekend. Don't wanna burn out before noon on the first day, ya?"

Arvid pops back to attention and finds himself again, "Sure sure, just takin a breather is all. Those kiddos had me running ragged on a belly full of cakes and sweet butter. But I'll take your good advice Marshal and keep it as even as i can"

The Marshall satisfied, nods away toward the casino tent and Arvid tries to nonchalant over to a threesome of women near the Hurl 'n Whirl ride, careful to avoid a few pockets of work colleagues along the way.

"Looks like you need a fourth," he says with his now peaking personality, already ushering them into the spinning quad compartment and finding his seat. Arvid is astounded at the fluidity of the social engagement. Was it always so easy?

"Do you have something for the talent show?" one of them asks, blinking wide, as the machinery starts to spin up.

"I sure do," Arvid says, "I never thought I'd have it in me, but I'm feeling especially bold today. Must be the lovely company," he says patting her hand. 

They all bump and titter, but stop suddenly when Arvid's harmless pat pat turns into hammering spasmodic hand convulsions, now groping his torso and pulling at his shirt. The ride throws them full swing and all four passengers scream like sirens until the operator stops the whirling contraption a couple minutes later. 

The terrified women clamber out and dart away leaving Arvid a little shaken and confused, trying to regain control of his appendage. He grabs his wrist and holds it to his knee until the resistance dissipates.

"Show them, show them," says the voice again. This time like a sickly radio station broadcasting from somewhere inside. In a dark cavity under the skin.

Arvid shushes it away, pulls himself together, shakes it off and heads over to Feats of Strength, thinking some maximum exertion might quell his tremors and simultaneously impress Linda Van Classen who is standing nearby.

He winks at Linda but it’s weird, picks up the hammer, puffs the hair away from his eyes and easily hits the high striker. A small crowd is gathering so he does it again. Ding! And again as his audience starts chanting his name.

Arvid is rippling with an energy that feels unnatural to him, like something has wound him up and let him go. He moves around the grounds, chatting, joking, cajoling like a man struck with the hot spike of vigor, void of the thinnest sliver of anxiety.

The talent show has started, so he makes his way to the stage to sign up. 

"Just fill this out and we'll get you up soon" says the stage coordinator, handing Arvid a pen.

Arvid starts to fill out his name, but loses control and writes 'SHOW THEM' across the form in bold letters.

"Whoa there bud, I'm quite sure you'll show them alright - gettin' excityed ya?" says clipboard guy

Heddy Norman is tripoding on stage, upside down with her dog, Mullet, in a balaclava, everyone looks worried. But they're trying to get Mr. Chumbles up quick because who doesn't like a good fire breathing spectacle. 

The competition is fierce and Arvid’s excitement can't contain itself. He smacks his own buttocks with both hands and shouts to present company “My nipples are itchy!”

He doesn't know why he does it. Like his skin and muscles are jumping ahead of his brain. 

There's nowhere to hide, and he’s ready for the finalé so, he tells the DJ to cue up Leaving On A Jet Plane.

Mr. Chumbles is already on deck, and starts the pyrotechnics. The stage blazes alight.

Arvid doesn't know if he's really in control any more. He’s not. Mullet starts howling. The banana moon hangs like a big fairy in the afternoon sky. 

The acoustic guitar intro sprinkles through the PA system and the Blitzspiel freezes. All eyes follow Arvid transforming to the stage.

♬ All my bags are packed, 

♪ I'm ready to go

Arvid is at the mic, firelit and singing. 

♬ I'm standing here outside your door

LInda sways and swivels. The audience sings along, And Arvid just lets the music take us for a moment while he starts to undress.

♪ Already I'm so lonesome I could die

♬ So kiss me and smile for me

Shirt’s off, he's gyrating and pulling at his bare torso. The crowd is swaying and careening into the chorus—

♪ Hold me like you'll never let me go

There’s a yowling at his sternum.

♬ Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane

♪ Don't know when I'll be back again

Arvid is now unsticking packing tape from his body, unwrapping in gluey clumps revealing the extruded face of Hurley, unfurling in spools of spiral pink meat rolls. 

In Arvid's last moments he wants to show them

—show them what he's made of.

♬ Then close your eyes

♪ And I'll be on my way

But his head slumps to the side and the big chest face unseals its captivated grin, finishing almost the rest of the song. The dog is howling again and the winking moon smiles back. 

(ZOOM OUT)

NARRATOR (VO)

“Today, Port Kalakeitto saw what Arvid was made of—a man who tried to show them more than he could manage, only to lose himself trying.  What do we sacrifice when we envy others instead of cultivating our own qualities. And are there limits to who we can become? Perhaps we will all get to know what we’re made of, one way or another, and sooner or later.