I sat in front of the TV,
while the sky was turning grey,
hoping that the rain above,
would kindly go away.
The kettle clicked, the windows shook,
the afternoon was cold,
and there upon the television,
a gentleman appeared in gold.
He smiled at me.
“Good afternoon. What’d you like to see?”
I have colours, shapes and pictures,
many channels by the score,
I have cowboys from Montana,
and a thousand wars or more.
Broadcast weather for the farmers,
and football for the men,
I have women selling perfume,
and I send that news again.
I have presidents in Washington,
judges in their gowns,
see some riots in the cities,
or some quiet little towns.
I’ve everything imaginable,
everything you’ll need,
For I am Mr. Television,
and I decide what you will see.
I looked at him.
“You decide?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then who’s in charge of the news?”
“The people.”
“What people?”
“The people watching.”
“But how can they decide if you’re the one who chooses it?”
Mr. Television laughed. “Ah. You’re a bright one.”
Then he sat beside me,
though I knew he wasn’t there,
and straightened up his little tie,
and artificial air.
“You must understand, young boy,
that news is rather strange,
there are millions of things that happen,
and I choose the ones that change.
A farmer may die in Nebraska,
a child may drown in Maine,
a senator may whisper something,
in a room no one can name.
A factory may close in Ohio,
a river may turn grey,
a soldier may come home from tour,
and never leave his bedroom again.
But I cannot show them all to you,
the day is much too small,
so I take the world and cut it down,
until it fits inside this wall.
“That sounds like lying.”
“No.”
He smiled. “That sounds like editing.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A lie is when I tell you something false. Editing is when I decide which true thing gets there first.”
The rain began to strike the glass.
I said, “But why the shouting?”
“The shouting?”
“The newsmen. They’re always shouting.”
“Because nobody remembers a whisper.”
“And why do they argue?”
“Because nobody watches agreement.”
“And why do they keep showing angry people?”
“Because anger watches itself.”
He changed the channel. A man in a blue suit was shouting that the country had been stolen. Mr. Television watched him carefully.
“Do you know why I like him?”
“No.”
“He’s useful.”
“How?”
“He makes people angry.”
“That doesn’t sound useful.”
“It’s immensely useful. A frightened man watches longer. An angry man comes back tomorrow. A confused man watches both sides just in case one of them is right. You call it political division. I call it very good television.”
I stared at him. “So you make people hate one another?”
“No, young boy. I provide them with something they may hate one another about.”
He changed the channel again. There was an advertisement for a large American truck. A gentleman drove it across a desert while a deep voice spoke of freedom.
“Why’s that on the news?”
“It isn’t. It comes straight after it.”
“Of course it does. Why?”
“Because you’ve just watched a story about the world being dangerous. Now I show you something that makes you feel powerful.”
The truck roared across the screen.
“Fear,” said Mr. Television, “is an excellent salesman.”
You worry about crime, so I sell you locks. Worry about strangers, so I sell you walls. You worry about your neighbours, so I sell you a gun. And you worry about dying, so I sell you vitamins. And when you’ve finished worrying, I’ll sell you something shiny.”
“That sounds evil.”
“No.” He smiled again. “That sounds American.”
I frowned.
“But don’t the companies pay you?”
“They do.”
“Then aren’t they telling you what to show?”
“Sometimes.”
“And aren’t the politicians paying you too?”
“Sometimes.”
“And don’t they own pieces of the companies?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then who owns you?”
For the first time, Mr. Television stopped smiling.
Then he said: “Everybody.”
I didn’t understand.
“The businessman wants his advert. The politician wants his voters. The journalist wants his audience. The audience wants its anger. The network wants its money. The producer wants his programme renewed. The shareholder wants his profit. The viewer wants to feel clever. And I want them all to stay.”
He leaned closer. “No one has to own me, young boy. They only have to need me.”
Outside, a siren went past.
I asked him about the internet.
Mr. Television laughed. “Oh, I taught that one everything.”
“You don’t control the internet.”
“No. But I taught it the trick.”
“What trick?”
“How to keep you looking.” He changed the screen. Now there were hundreds of little boxes. A man cooking. A woman screaming. A soldier crying. A dog falling into a swimming pool. A politician smiling. A celebrity getting married. A house burning. A child dancing. Another war. An advertisement. Another advertisement. Then another advertisement. “They call it social media,” he said.
“But it doesn’t sound very social.”
“It isn’t. It’s a mirror factory.”
“A what?”
“I show you what you already like until you forget there’s anything else. You dislike one man, so I show you fifty people who dislike him too. Fear one idea, so I give you a thousand reasons to fear it. You believe something foolish, and I surround you with people who believe it beautifully.”
“So you make an echo?”
“No. An echo eventually stops.” He smiled. “I make a room.”
“What’s the difference?”
“In an echo, you can hear yourself. In a room, you forget there’s anything outside.”
I looked towards the window. The rain had stopped.
Mr. Television continued. “You believe my greatest trick is lying. It isn’t. My greatest trick is selection. I don’t need to invent a war. Only show you the war until you believe war is the whole world. I don’t need to invent a criminal. Only need to show you criminals until you believe the country is full of them. I don’t need to tell you that everyone is corrupt. I need only show you the corrupt ones.”
“And the good ones?”
He shrugged. “Too peaceful.”
“And the truth?”
“The truth comes in many sizes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a man can say something true and still tell you nothing.”
I thought about this for a while. “So you lie without lying.”
Mr. Television smiled. “Now you’re learning.” He turned towards the screen. A presenter was announcing another crisis. A banner flashed beneath his face. BREAKING NEWS.
I asked, “What’s breaking?”
“Nothing.”
“But it says breaking.”
“Everything’s breaking.”
“The country?”
“No. The programme.” He switched it off. The room became black. For a moment there was nothing. No politicians. Or adverts, wars, experts, and cheerful woman telling me which yoghurt would improve my life. Then Mr. Television whispered from the darkness. “Do you know what frightens me, young boy?”
I said no.
“That one day you might stop asking me questions.”
“Why?”
“Because then you’ll begin asking them yourself.”
I looked at the black screen. Then I looked at the window. The sky had cleared. And for the first time that afternoon I wondered what I’d missed while I had been watching.
Mr. Television was silent. I was silent too.
Then, from the darkness, he said: “Shall I turn the news back on?”
I thought about it. Then I said: “No.”
And Mr. Television smiled. Not because I’d defeated him and he knew I would be back again tomorrow.
Mr Television (Ⓒ J.P. 2026)
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