by Nighty Philly…
I saw her. I really saw her.
Who? Why, Mona Menendez, of course. You may remember Mona from the children’s television program, The Nighty Night Show. She was the pretty young lady in the golf-style, checkered pants. The one with the sidekick, Luna. Remember?
If you don’t, that’s okay. No one else does, either. But I sure do. I grew up watching her on the Sprig Channel. I was one of the original members of the Spriglets fan club!
I’m twenty-three now and living on my own, so it’s been about ten years; but still she looks as pretty as ever. A little older, perhaps, but still as pretty as ever
I first saw her about a week ago. She was just leaving her apartment and I thought I must be dreaming. Ten million girls in Southern California and I run into the one I had a TV crush on when I first hit puberty? Only in LA.
I’ve been living at the Bon Air Motel on Hollywood and Western. You know, the apartments right across from Pink Elephant Liquor? The same ones where Buk used to live, back in the day. Anyway, I watched her as she walked across the parking lot to her car and I was ninety-nine percent positive it was her. But I had to be sure, so I became a stalker.
Just kidding. But I was keeping an eye out.
I also found some old episodes of the Nighty Night Show, and they really took me back. Okay, so at thirteen I was a little old to be watching a kiddy program; but I’d been hooked on it for years and when I sink my teeth into something, I don’t let go. I also sucked my thumb until I was twelve, so there!
I’d just about given up looking for her out my peephole when all of a sudden yesterday morning I bumped into her in the hall. She was coming back from the grocery store and I helped her with her bags. I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried.
She offered me some coffee and we started talking about all kinds of stuff. So much so, I almost forgot who she was. Didn’t matter. We were really hitting it off.
She asked me if I’d like to come over for dinner and of course I said Yes. I hurried back to my apartment to make a Nighty Night Show greatest hits DVD to surprise her with, and of course, masturbate. Three times. Ooh La La.
I picked up some wine. Red. She said she was making spaghetti. It is red, right? What do I know? I’m a twenty-three-year-old man/child who only recently moved out of his parents’ basement and sucked his thumb until he was twelve. Go figure.
We polished-off that first bottle pretty fast and I made a mad dash for the Pink Elephant. She told me she actually preferred white, and to get the bigger bottle while I was at it. Two of them. Sounded good to me. I was twenty-three years old, horny as hell, and even better: bulletproof.
I guess it was around midnight when I told her who I was. I mean, that I knew her from TV when I was just a kid. It made her smile. She said she wasn’t working right now, but memories from the show always made her smile. Then, I gave her her surprise.
We sat there and watched the whole DVD. All two hours. She was captivated. She never looked away once, not even while refilling her glass. The only thing was, she never smiled either.
“You left the show all of a sudden, I remember,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “There were difficulties.”
“Like what?” I said. I felt like it was okay for me to ask. We had become kind of close in the last few hours; and besides, I was drunk already.
At first, she didn’t answer. She just sat there, staring off into space. Then she said, “Oh, nothing really. Just artistic differences. You know what I mean.”
“Sure,” I said, but I had no idea what she was talking about.
I thought maybe after all was said and done, I might get laid. What’s so wrong with that? I am just twenty-three, remember? But I didn’t get laid. I didn’t get anything. Oh, well.
By the time I left, she was looking like some kind of zombie. She hardly said a word, and I swear she looked like she’d aged five years. Maybe she was just tired. And drunk. I told her goodnight, went home and masturbated again.
The next day, as I passed by her apartment, I could hear the TV blaring. I stuck my ear to the door and it was the same DVD I made for her. Odd, I thought. The door was open so I went in.
The place was a wreck. Seriously, it looked like a tornado blew through the place. Or Taz. But Mona was nowhere to be found.
I called out her name. I walked slowly towards her room, knocking on the door lightly; but there was no answer. I was getting worried, so I let myself in. That’s when I saw it.
On the TV in the bedroom was a whole other kind of show playing. Pornography. Hardcore, and then some.
I looked all around, but she was nowhere to be found. I sat down on the bed for a moment and watched what was on the TV. It was her. It was Mona, in a porno flick no less. Sweet Jesus.
And not just any porno flick. This was really hardcore. There she was with five big dudes pounding away at her. Weight-lifter types. All I can say is, they were no gentlemen, and they were not treating Mona like a lady. There was a timestamp on the recording: 2:13:36AM, February 2001. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen at the time.
It was then I noticed the light coming from the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open the rest of the way. That’s when I found her, hanging there from the ceiling. Her face was blue like the blood had all drained out of it. It had. This was no way for Mona to go out.
I waited until the police showed up. I told them everything I knew, that I had only met her yesterday, that she used to host a TV kids’ program, and that she’d had quite a bit to drink the night before. That’s it. I told them that was all I knew.
Oh, and what about the porno? No, I did not tell them about that. I didn’t tell anyone about that. Ever. I burned it in the trash and put on the DVD I made for her the night before. The Nighty Night Show. That’s the way I choose to remember her.