It’s the final frame, the one that freezes before the credits roll.

Finger pointed at Veronica Cartwright, at the camera, at us, at the entire world, Donald Sutherland opens his mouth like some undiscovered fish scooping muck from the deepest parts of the ocean and screeches a sonic hell-sound that could never be properly replicated by mankind.

In this moment, these few nerve-ripping seconds, the primal fears of humanity are jerked screaming from the shadows of hope where they cowered and into the searing reality of pure and ultimate terror. Well, maybe not that dramatic, but it made quite an impression on me.

I wanted that power.

The various identities I had tailored for myself in the past were ill-fitting, an annoyance like a shirt that was too short and exposed the stomach when the arms shifted for any reason. I had tried Pete Rose, complete with gambling habit and the propensity of eating dirt diving for third base. I tried Howard Hughes and had no problem embracing neurosis, but the money to fund the endeavor never came. I needed something more focused, something I could practice and perfect. A childhood memory of urine leaking through my Knight Rider pajama bottoms as I sat in front of the television, a full spoon of multi-colored cereal trembling in my hand, led me to Donald Sutherland. Not Donald Sutherland the man, father of Kiefer, but Donald Sutherland as Matthew Bennell, the doomed health inspector, the celluloid image caught forever in 1978 at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Almost thirty-two, I knew it was an odd time to focus on something that nobody else could really understand, but I had no choice. My life was like an old television screen after the power is cut off, but before the picture completely blinks out of existence. I was there, but fading rapidly, a vague memory of myself that would soon be sucked into the static void.

I studied the scene for an entire year. A recording of the otherworldly carrion call on my MP3 player helped me get as close as possible to imitating that mind-murdering sound. I grew my hair out, styled it with the rough curls of Donald Sutherland, and grew the best mustache I could manage. At a thrift shop in Lexington, Kentucky, I found an overcoat that was the color of wet sand. I wore it every day.

A small group of schoolchildren getting ready to go back inside from recess were the first to see my performance. I walked over to the fence, caught their attention by mumbling something about fruit snacks, and extended my finger. When all of their eyes were finally on me, I tilted my head back at the correct angle, unhinged my jaw, and let loose with the noise of alien accusation.

Of course, the police were notified.

I started selecting my audience more carefully after that incident, with well-adjusted adults as my primary target. Once, while I still had my job at the bank, I emitted a small whisper version of the Sutherland sound at an elderly woman who handed me a giant plastic Coke bottle filled with pennies. She appeared confused, then concerned, and asked to speak with the manager.

After losing my job, I had more time to focus on my imitation. After a few more months, I thought it was almost spot-on. That’s when some kid, high school age, insulted me outside of Dairy Queen, my onion rings forming greasy silhouettes on the bag that I held in my free hand.

“Man, are you trying to act like that kid from The Grudge, or something?” he asked, and his buddies laughed the loud laughs of goons who have no respect for cinema.

I dropped my finger and closed my mouth.

“Maybe you should return to your clubhouse and hone your circle jerking skills while watching ‘American Idol,’” I said.

I was in the hospital for three days.

The nursing staff, which included a wide-hipped blond that reminded me of Kim Novak, must have been impressed by my pod person act, as I am certain I received far more Jello than the wet-coughing roommate that paid no mind to my pointing finger.

The brutal heathens and their attack did not bring an end to my Sutherland days, however. My undoing, an upstaging if you will, came a short time after my release from medical care.

I was walking past the courthouse square when I noticed a girl I knew from college on the other side of the street. She smiled when she saw me, which I welcomed, as it was an unusual facial expression for people who come in contact with me in full Sutherland regalia.

“’Welcome Back, Kotter!’ I get it,” she said, and waved. “You look ridiculous. It’s great.”

My good mood ruined, I raised the damning finger and prepared to lower my jaw-bridge to oblivion. Before the first hiss of sound could make its way past my teeth, a man came from inside a deli that was next to college girl and handed her a small white cup, then, noticing her now befuddled expression, he turned to face me. I managed to force every bit of compressed air from deep within my lungs and expelled it in the loudest reverie of screeching that I had ever released. The man put his hand on college girl’s shoulder, said something, and then staggered out into traffic like a drunken fawn. I tried to keep up my high-pitched bellow, but it was lost under his shouting. All of it was lost.

“They’re here already!” he shouted, and slammed his palms down on the hood of a car that stopped just short of his knees. “You’re next! You’re next!”