“Seinfeld, P.I.”

Originally published June 5, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1281

And now, the pilot of Jerry Seinfeld’s next series…

seinfeld, p.i.

“I got us a client, Jerry.”

I looked up from my Superman comic book, as my partner, George, walked into our impeccably neat office. The door had the words “Seinfeld and Costanza, Private Investigators” stenciled on the glass. George clapped his hands together briskly, swinging the door shut behind them. “Her name’s Elaine Benes. Says her husband’s cheating on her. We got a client!” His excitement seemed to convulse his entire stubby body.

“That’s nice,” I said calmly. Never helped to get too worked up about whatever it was George was going on about on any given day. Last time he said he had a client, it turned out to be an old woman wanting us to investigate the theft of a roll of marble loaf.

“If we’re going to investigate anything,” I added, holding up the comic book, “let’s investigate who came up with the crossover stuff. Used to be ‘continued next issue’ meant next issue of the comic book. Now it’s next issue of a comic book I never even heard of. And if I buy that comic book, it’s continued from the issue before, which I have to get, which is continued from another comic book I never read.”

“What about newspapers?” he asked. “You can read one newspaper or another, and there’s stories continued that you might not have read from the day before. You buy newspapers, right?”

“Yeah. But I only read the comics.”

“I rest my case,” he said triumphantly, plopping down in the seat opposite me, the chair creaking like the coffin hinges of buried secrets. Then he glanced around and squinted through his glasses. “Why’s it so dark in here? We forget to pay the electric bill?”

“We’re noir,” I said.

“We’re nwaaarr?” he repeated, dragging it out in that thick New York accent. “What’s nwaaarrrr?”

“It’s French. Like film noir.”

He shook his head contemptuously. “It’s always like that with the French. They always have to call everything something else.”

“Well, it does come with speaking another language.”

“Like they invented this film nwaaarr.”

“Well, they invented the term. It was how French critics described ‘black films’ made between the 1940s and ’60s that were downbeat crime stories. Instead of the cheerful, happy endings of most films of the time, they were depressing and sometimes the good guys didn’t win.”

“They invented the word. Big deal. That’s not inventing anything. That’s like coming up with gas and saying you invented Mexican food. Figures. It figures. We invent something, they name it, they act like the invented it. The French, they invented guillotines and eating snails. That’s the French mentality right there.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Can you imagine being the first French guy to look at a snail and say, ‘Wow—I think I’ll suck the inside outta that, baby.’ ”

“It’s sick,” George said, his rage rising. “Sick, Jerry! Sick. It’s… it’s…”

“Food noir?” I suggested.

“Exactly. The French, they take our films, they take Jerry Lewis, and they think they invented it. They have EuroDisney, probably think they invented Disney, too.”

“Two thousand French Disney employees trying to be polite to tourists wearing Goofy hats. Talk about Fantasy Land,” I said.

The door exploded inward. We both went for our gats, hitting the floor and sucking in the clean, Lysol-tinged aroma, a floor as freshly and purely waxed as a virgin’s gams.

It was Kramer, the next-door detective. He didn’t seem to notice we were on the ground with our guns drawn. “A British science fiction musical, Jerry.”

“What?” We holstered our pieces.

“A British science fiction musical.” He ticked off the elements on his fingers. “British because that gives it class. Science fiction ’cause you can do the effects. And musical to have a good soundtrack. It’s going to start the next wave in filmmaking, and I’m going to write, produce, and direct the first one.”

“Will it be nwaaarrr?” asked George.

“No.”

“Then I’m there.”

“What’s it going to be about?” I asked.

Kramer’s hands trembled as he sketched vague pictures in the air to illustrate his vision. “Okay. The Spice Girls—they’re rocket scientists…”

“That’s science fiction, all right,” I agreed.

“They’re testing out an experimental rocket ship—and one of the girls accidentally sets it off. They hurtle out of the solar system and seconds later, boom, they’re in an uncharted area of the galaxy with no idea how to get back home.”

“You have a name for this masterpiece?” asked George.

Kramer nodded eagerly. “Lost in Spice.”

“Lost… in Spice…”

“Isn’t it perfect,” said Kramer. It wasn’t a question. “Lost in Spice. You can’t even say it out loud without sounding like you’re British.”

“Lost in Spice,” I said experimentally. “Cor blimey, gov’nuh, we’re Lost in Spice. You know, you’re right.”

The door opened once more. No one ever knocked.
A broad was standing there, with a face that looked like it had been flattened by a frying pan, a massive head of hair, and radiating enough attitude for a hundred Frenchmen. “I’m Elaine Benes,” she said. “My husband’s cheating on me.”

“My condolences,” I said.

“My lawyer says I need proof,” she said.

“How about pictures of him with his mistress?”

“Great idea,” she said.

“Do you have any?” I asked.

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s certainly going to make it tougher,” I said.

“Can you… get some?” she asked slowly.

“You mean take them ourselves?” George asked her. She nodded. George scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose we could. Do you think they’d be willing to come by our studio?”

“What?” She looked stunned. “I figured you’d follow them! Take pictures from hiding! You’re supposed to be private dìçkš!”

“I hate that term,” I said. “We’re not dìçkš.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” George said quickly.

“No, of course not, being a dìçk is a perfectly acceptable alternative term. But we don’t like to call ourselves private dìçkš.”

“It’s better than being public dìçkš,” Kramer pointed out. “There’s less of a stigma attached.”

Then we heard slow footsteps, the floorboards outside the door creaking. Slowly it opened.

He was standing there. Our arch enemy—

The Fat Man.

“Hello, Newman,” I said in thinly veiled disgust.

His glance encompassed the office and then he grunted. “One warning, Seinfeld: Stay off the Benes case.” And with that, he turned and waddled away.

George and I looked at each other. “Well, I guess that’s that,” said George.

“Yup. Sorry, Elaine,” I shrugged.

“You mean—that’s it?” She looked at us incredulously. “A guy comes in, tells you to stay off the case, and you stay off it?”

“He seemed rather insistent,” George pointed out.

“That was certainly my read on it,” Kramer said.

Elaine threw up her hands in disgust. “I can’t believe it! You guys just sit around here—and you accomplish nothing! No good is ever served! No people get helped! You just talk! It’s completely pointless!” And she turned and stormed out.

We watched her go.

“Now that,” I said, “was noir. Who’s for lunch?”

“Me, definitely,” said Kramer. “For some reason, I’m suddenly in the mood for snails…”

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.