WEIRD STUFF :: Goodnight, Mr. Walters

This series has primarily explored stories of coincidence and chance, of intersections and strange things told, and which is which and who only knows. But Saved by the Bell and Bugs Bunny's dick aside, sometimes the Weird Stuff is merely just a feeling, a mood. Something inside ourselves that either can or cannot be explained. These instances can derive from dreams or feelings of déjà vu or whatever mild helping of Extra Sensory Perception with which we've been blessed. And sometimes (maybe most times) they come from some external stimuli to which we react in abstract ways. One stimulus in particular for me came from Nick at Nite. 

Spending this Summer revisiting the reruns of the reruns, I became constantly and aggressively reminded of the closing credits to Taxi. Following the credit roll is the show's production title A JOHN CHARLES WALTERS PRODUCTION over a brief shot of the enigmatic John Charles Walters himself, walking away from the camera with his back to us. We know this figure is the namesake because an off camera female voice exclaims, "Goodnight, Mr. Walters!" to which this character gives an unintelligible grumble of an acknowledgment. And, scene.

   

So I suppose the first big question is, "Who's John Charles Walters?" (distantly followed by the second, less pertinent question, "Who gives a shit?" but we'll get to that). JCW was, indeed, a television production company founded by David Davis, Stan Daniels, Ed. Weinberger, and James L. Brooks (all formerly producers of The Mary Tyler Moore Show) and ran under its parent company, Paramount. Taxi was their only hit series during their existence and the two became synonymous, as though Mr. Walters was like a regular cast member on the show. The truth is "Charles Walters" was the name of a local bar and the producers repurposed it as their title - though not to be confused with movie director Charles Walters (Please Don't Eat the Daisies, The Unsinkable Molly Brown) they added the forename "John." The idea was to have a "venerable Protestant name" that felt more accessible than its parts. (Weinberger plays the on camera Mr. Walters.) 

And there it is: John Charles Walters never existed. ::lightning flash/thunder clap:: I suppose you could digest this paltry Hollywood backstory as some Weird Stuff but that's never where I was going with this. The truly weird thing for me was and continues to be the brief vignette depicting Mr. Walters leaving his office. 

As a child, I was under the impression that he had just arrived home in this shot, walking down the hallway to his apartment and the disembodied interjection "Goodnight, Mr. Walters!" was the voice of a nosey neighbor in the vein of Louis Tully in Ghostbusters (which probably helped warp this scenario in my head). In my mind, the nighttime taxicab ride immediately preceding this scene was a depiction of Mr. Walters's journey home, followed by a brief interruption of the brightly lit corridors of his late 70s apartment building, and then predictably into his dark dwelling. And that's when I would always become filled with a mix of mild anxiety and pure melancholy. 

The closing credits to a lotta shows (particularly All in the Family, Cheers, M*A*S*H, Dragnet, and of course Taxi) projected a desolate, spooky vibe that I was never able to shake, due (in part, I'm sure) to that it's always sad when something ends, especially right before bedtime. But they all carried different music that was separate from their opening theme songs, often played over eerie B-roll that was empty of people. It was in this otherworldly realm through which John Charles Walters would make his way to his lonely home, despite the chipper disposition of the unseen woman who wished him well. And I'd picture him entering his place, no one to greet him, the dim twinkle of neighboring skyscrapers filling the window, just a lonely and sad and scary space that left me feeling uneasy but with a side of coziness; a real monster-under-the-bed mood to help me fall asleep. My greatest sadness came from his apathetic response to the lone friendly voice who was clearly trying to connect - I felt this woman's disappointment in her unrequited salutation, but just witnessing this failed connection as an objective thing was heartbreaking. 

It wasn't until very recently that I deduced that John Charles Walters isn't in an apartment building, he's in an office building, and the woman calling to him isn't a neighbor but a coworker, most likely a secretary. And so while I really should make the necessary adjustments in my mind, it's really not that difficult (or necessary); most of what I said can be salvaged: the time of day, the dynamic between the two players, the solitary lingering notes of Bob James's "Angela," the existential foreboding of the architecture and fluorescent lighting that leads into darkness. For all we know he's gonna go out and get in the back of Marilu Henner's cab and be driven home to his apartment and then the proposed scenario still stands. There's all this framing around it and the scene itself is just under 3 seconds, but in that short time they establish context - a context I got wrong and so I subconsciously created a subtext to support it. And while that may very well be a trait of human nature, it's still the Weird Stuff: not only our ability but our compulsion (and sometimes obligation) to ponder and intellectualize the gaps in the genetic code of existence; that place where dreams and ideas live and all the other things David Lynch could better explain. Revisiting Taxi (or any other nostalgic endeavor) reminds me of a substantial time and place in my life; evoking memories of a physical location and an approximate calendar date. But this company callsign is more intuitive than simply reminiscing about school nights in 1993 - it forces me to revisit a state of mind which is something we keep with us in a dormant state until the appropriate trigger is pulled. They make movies and books about this phenomenon and they're typically labeled as "weird" so I feel certified in my inclusion of this "stuff." 

Goodnight, Mr. Walters, wherever you are. 

- Paul