By Sara P. Nolan
© Details Magazine, October 1998, p.196.
What did you want to be when you grew up?
Definitely someone with a position under a powerful man. Somehow I just
What was your first job, and how did it end?
I've only had the one job: Charles Montgomery Burns's right-hand man.
From moistening his eyeballs to steaming his toast to covering up Homer
Simpson's various meltdowns, Three Mile Islands, and China Syndromes.
What did you collect?
I'm the proud father of the largest Malibu Stacy collection in the
world. I've got 'em all, even that Mommy model that lactated that
corrosive. Tragic really . . . . I love my Stacys so. They know me so
well. Sometimes I can hear them singing to me. But when I turn the
light on, they always stop, the little angels.
Have you ever had a nickname?
The guys in my college fraternity called me Cruiser. I never quite
understood what they meant by that. Great guys, though. We're still in
Have you ever been arrested?
Once, but it was only for trying to kill Mr. Burns. But if I had killed
him, I would have just as quickly taken my own life. A no-brainer --
gun in the mouth and bang. Hey, "gun in mouth" . . . "no-brainer."
Get it? I should write that down.
What's the scariest thing that has ever happened to you?
Well, my Miata broke down in this horrible neighborhood and I was
attacked by a mean street gang. They chased me down and slashed me
savagely with a box cutter. I woke up with only a machine keeping me
alive. It was then that I realized I hadn't fed Mr. Burns's peacocks.
My heart almost stopped. I was a wreck.
What's the best thing you've ever done?
I fed those peacocks, dammit. Of course, it meant checking myself out
of the hospital and later going into shock . . . again. The birds
didn't seem very hungry. But Mr. Burns appreciated it. He never said
anything, but that's his way. We're very, very close.
When did you first get drunk?
About a week after the peacock incident. No particular reason. Just
felt like drinking all of a sudden. Who says I need a reason for
What's the one thing you believed at eighteen that you wish you still
That love will find a way. I want to believe so badly, but sometimes
it's so hard.
What's hardest about being a man?
Living with a secret. For example, a secret all-consuming desire that a
certain special person would take you passionately in his withered arms
and say, "Smithers, you are everything to me!" And you would say, "Yes
sir, Mr. Burms!" And we'd get a place together, somewhere quiet with
hardwood floors and a lot of natural light. And every Sunday morning,
Monty and me, we'd do the crossword puzzle in bed. I'd read the clues
out loud, and he'd furiously yell out the solutions for me to write in.
What a mind on that man. Maybe we'd meet up with some friends later for
brunch. "I always knew you two'd end up together," they'd say . . . .
Great, just pour your heart out to any random . . . Look, let's say this
conversation never happened.
What will you never do again?
Answer personal questions after drinking five glasses of Merlot on an
Playboy or Penthouse? And where did you keep your issues?
What is that supposed to mean? I don't think I like your tone.
Who was the first woman you were sexually attracted to?
You ask a lot of questions for a taxi driver. And why are you talking
into your jacket?
When did you first make love to a woman, and how did you do it?
Forget it. Just drop me off at the next corner -- I can walk the rest
of the way.
Submitted by William Weller