Much like a child, jubilant and exhilarated, and seemingly ignorant to what it all meant, I ran wild from the store. I was content with this new type of vision with which I could sacrifice my view of the past. My unfixed, roving eyes blurred the parking lot, turning it to a wave of color on wheels, glean-glows, and sparks of sun off windshields and painted plastic. My heavy breath was fitful with lust. I ran out of the parking lot. I ran down the hill. My starched white canvas sneakers kicked up mud and fine granules of salt-laced gravel, poxing my pants with winter’s filthy sediment. I ran without grace. My gut writhed like a pendulum.
I could hear thoughts. I wanted to hear them. I wanted to be curious again, driven to learn. The gift would break me from the mold of my daily rituals. I had a new appetite, for the unknown, for change, for this exciting difference in my life, for this power. With the gift I felt brilliant and ingenious, and full of hope, of plans to see truly what drove the lives of each of us, and as a bonus to see secretly the impression I had on people. To Bosco I was a lunatic though, but he is just one. I felt chosen, fueled with power and all I had done to gain it was want it. I felt as if all my life I had been an unsuccessful fisherman, far out in the unbordered ocean, repeatedly casting my line into a deep that housed no fish at all. But now, the sea is changed and I have cast my line and I have felt it pull tight, and I would reel in the glory that could appease and soothe me. I thought of the universe, about my life, now stocked with potential catches…. This is how I felt…ignorant to the true, brilliant, deadly storm that threw the waves against this fisherman…and I would never see it coming, never truly see it.
I was still running down the hill when I heard the phrase again.
A tornado is reflective reason
I tripped, tumbled over a melting snow bank. My hands fell into a black puddle that splashed up over my face little pieces of wet dirt. I got to my knees quick. My ravaged eyes catalogued the street, looked for the source of the phrase, for a face to put with that soft voice. Cars passed and some drivers turned to see the fallen man on his knees in dirty, wet snow. The sinking pitch of their engines was all they left behind. Sounds approaching and rising, and disappearing and falling.
My will was unabashed, my great strength unaffected. I was determined to find that thought, the one thought that became the cause, became everything. It was the only thing bigger than me. It was the only mystery left.
The street had only a few people walking on it. Two women, with similar height, build and boots, were on the opposite side of the street. One was black and one was white. They held hands and weren’t saying anything to each other. They both smiled as they swung their palms to the beat and the sway of their walk. Their minds had no words. I heard nothing, and I knew that they were just plain happy.
Not far from them, two high-school aged boys walked out of a drugstore. Each was dressed in black with metal chains attached to their clothing, and black boots. One had green hair and the other had fruit-punch red hair. The green haired one had a post through his septum, the other had a ring through his eyebrow. They looked at each other, smirked, and nodded their painted heads as they looked at the two women. The red haired guy thought, muff-divers, jungle fever dykes. The other thought the black woman was beautiful.
…..
Not them. Where is the phrase? Where the hell is it? I just heard it. It can’t be far. Keep looking Bear. If you find the person who thought it, you can learn about it. And then I’ll understand it…. The black woman really is beautiful.
…..
There was only one person on my side of the street. He was walked towards me. It was a man, maybe in his fifties, dressed in khakis which were cuffed and they broke over his polished loafers. He had on a red wool, v-neck sweater that he wore over a white button-down shirt. The double Windsor knot of his striped tie was large and had a pronounced dimple. He was tan, with white hair and wrinkles through his forehead. His nose was crooked and bent down like it had been broken many times, and his face was serious…and his eyes showed pain. His voice was coarse in my head.
That sonofabitch I’ll kill him…I’m going to kill him…that miserable bastard I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him. I …am…going to murder…him.
Holy shit, I freaked out. My heart jumped, the adrenaline surged. The man was about five feet from me, and approaching. I looked down the hill and saw the policeman I had seen earlier. He lingered, oblivious. I had to get his attention. I didn’t know what to do, but I had to react. I had to stop a would-be murderer.
“Help,” I screamed, and pointed down the hill.
The cop turned and looked in my direction.
“Help,” I screamed again.
The old man in front of me stopped and was startled. I looked at him, right into his eyes…and then I tackled him.
I fell on top of him, and he was on top of dirty wet snow.
“Get off me?What the hell?” he said.
He tried to push me off.
“I know what you’re going to do.”
“What the hell are you?”
“I heard you say it. Who is he? Who are you going to kill?”
He paused for a moment. His eyes became large and broad. I had him pinned on the ground, my hands on his shoulders, pressing them into the bank of melting snow. His tie had come out from under his sweater. He smelled like Old Spice.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
His lips pursed and he breathed full, long hisses.
“Shut up?I know. OK.”
“You don’t know anything. Are you a lunatic son?”
“Shut up…I heard you,” I said.
He became calm, his eyes still wide but now focused and aimed only at my pupils. I felt a chill.
“Son…if you do not get off me right now, then you leave me choice but to remember your face.”
“What?” I said.
“If you do not let me up…right…now…. I will remember you…. Do you want me to remember you?” he said.
He raised an eyebrow. His voice did not waver and he spoke slow.
“Shut up. I heard you. You’re gonna?”
My voice was high and panicked and my words moved quick.
“Son…I don’t know what you think you heard…or how even, but the best thing you can do, right now, is to make me forget about this…and you can do that by simply…letting me go…and leaving. You’re crazy…yes…but this that you’re doing?it’s suicide.”
I froze. I really didn’t know what I was dealing with.
The police officer was running up the hill. I looked at him, but my body was still frozen, pinning down the old man. The cop was about ten feet away when he yelled, “Hey!” It was a matter of seconds before he grabbed my shoulders to pull me off. He was a much smaller man than me, and he didn’t have the strength to pull me off. He couldn’t have budged me, but I didn’t want to hold the old man anymore. I didn’t want to touch him at all. The thoughts in his head were frightening. He was constructing my face in his mind, and I felt like I was looking into a mirror. I was seeing my own face, projected in my mind by a dangerous old man who was constructing it for himself. He imagined blood on my chin, and I saw it. He thought, shall I remember you, shall I remember you. Shall I kill you too?
I let the cop remove me without struggle.
“Get off him,” he said as he pulled up on me.
I moved off the old man and stood up slow. The cop looked me over, closely, worried that I may have had a weapon. He knew who I was. It’s Benny Bouchard. He took his eyes off of me and helped the old man to his feet.
“What’s going on here?” the officer said. “I heard you (pointing to me) yell for help and then you tackled this guy (pointing to the old man). What’s the problem? It looked like you assaulted this man Mr. Bouchard. Is there a reason? If not, I have enough to bring you up on charges.”
Once again he pointed to me.
I did not want to talk. I couldn’t. I couldn’t construct a single thought of my own. The cop was actually more amused than he let his face show us, and the old man was still picturing my face, putting more blood on it, and carving one of my eyeballs out of its socket. Inside my head there was only the voice of a cop who wanted to laugh, and a picture of my face being mutilated.
The old man spoke.
“Officer, it’s my fault. I said something I shouldn’t have and this gentle man took offense. I’m not a very polite man, and for some reason I couldn’t silence myself. I know it was impudent of me, but…just look at him. He’s ridiculous, that big gut waddling down the street. He’s whipping his head around back and forth. He has an idiotic face…and right before I insulted him…he passed gas,” he said.
“Wait, you said?”
The old man interrupted me.
“Officer. I’m willing to forget this awful man, with his violent temper. He’s obviously a loose cannon, strung out on something. He’s an unpredictable brute, and if I know one thing…I know that one shouldn’t have anything to do with an unpredictable character. They’re dangerous. Therefore, I do not wish to press charges, nor do I wish to see this matter go any further than right here. I do not even want to see this man anymore. So…goodbye.”
“Wait a minute,” the officer said.
“No sir,” he said. “I have broken no law and I do not wish to press charges on this man. Therefore, I am no longer involved. I leave this man to you…Goodbye.”
“Sir…I…”
“GOODBYE,” he hollered.
He walked up the hill. Both the officer and I watched him until he disappeared behind a crest in the hill. The officer turned quickly to me. He was angry, and felt no dignity because of the old man’s rudeness.
“Did he do anything to you?” he said.
“No sir.”
I erased my demented feelings for a moment.
“He said something insulting to me and I just lost control…so I tackled him,” I said.
“Then why did you cry for help?”
“I was just trying to scare him. You know, mess with his head a bit, psyche him out. I overreacted though.”
“Yes. You did. You can’t just go tackling anybody who insults you.”
“You though it was funny though. Right?” I said.
“Mr. Bouchard, I’m not laughing, am I?”
“No sir.”
I bowed my head. He wanted to lecture me, and he wanted me to be subordinate while he did.
“Listen. I’ll forget about this, but if I ever see you do something like this again, I will lock you up. What you did could constitute an assault charge. You got it?”
“Yes. Officer. Thank you.”
“I know who you are, and I see you a lot. So, don’t think I won’t be watching.”
“No sir,” I said.
“OK. You can go.”
“Thank you sir.”
I walked away from the lecture-cop. He stayed put, and watched me leave.
He couldn’t help me at all. In between his own feelings of belittlement, the low feelings that the old man’s curt action had brought upon the cop, between that and his overall judgment that I was a lunatic, there weren’t any thoughts in his head that made me feel like asking him for help, like telling him what I knew. He only ran a list of things that he’s supposed to say. This list he had long learned to follow. Assault, Disturbance of the Peace, Disorderly Conduct…etc. There was nothing original or inspired that surfaced in his mind, other than how he should handle things. He and the law were inseparable. How he was going to give me a break. In his mind were mundane lectures that harbored pre-constructed rules as his creed. He could not help me. I was too new a beast. I was above his rules.
…..
This is what they will remember me for. For my power. They will forget any pain I ever caused anyone. They will forget how I have done nothing for a while. They will forget about my fights, and how I abandoned the future they had planned for me. They will only remember this day, and what I was given to give back to them. It’s great to no longer be thinking only for yourself.
…..
I moved slow as I walked down the hill. Birds chirped dissolute spring songs. The sun was hot, the air was mellow, and some grass could be seen in patches where the snow had all melted. I peered over my shoulder, hoping to see where the old man had gone. The cop was still watching me. I kept walking.
I had to do something. It seemed like my gift had shown me a purpose for its arrival. I had come in contact with the old man, heard his evil thought because it had to be heard, because he had to be stopped. I was the only person who knew what he planned. I was the only person with this gift of insight and therefore I was the only person with cause enough to stop him. I was the only one who knew that he was dangerous. But, I was scared of him, and would have to find the courage to chase him down. He could kill me too…or I can win, and nobody dies. If I caught him I could kill the fear. I could run with fear and have it always, or chase it away by catching it.
Who was he going to kill? Some stranger? What if the stranger deserves it? Does anyone deserve to die? Did I? Was I willing to risk my life, willing to lose my gift?
Yes.
I should have felt as if my life was the most important treasure on earth. I was a seer, a soothsayer, an anomaly capable of truth and persevering knowledge. I knew the thoughts of man, but why risk it? Why be willing to face something that might kill you?
I would never feel the power unless I used it. Power is kinetic.
I was still walking away when something changed inside of me. I was taken again. I immediately felt very faint. Something was wrong. I felt sick again, but different. In my office it was stabbing and electric, but this time is was more cold and like drowning. A glow covered my eyes and the street disappeared into a blur of light and shadow. My hands were moist and a chill seeped through me. I had to get home, quick.
My door was about a tenth of a mile down the hill. I ran again, this time with a clumsy stagger, down, closer to my door. There wasn’t much time. I could see the door now, the shadow of it, the blur of the entrance. I was almost there.
But there was a silhouette of a being in front of my door.
Closer, I could tell there was a boy at my door, just standing there, looking larger with each awkward stride I made. I could still barely distinguish his detail, his face, his clothes. The white light blur was, at times, blinding. A pure white screen and I knew it meant I would faint soon. As I squirmed closer yet to my door, the face of the boy became clearer. I could make out his little white squares, his teeth, I knew, because I saw one black square, just left of center, where he had lost a tooth. He watched me stumble and squirm closer, but I couldn’t even say hello. I had no strength and was about to pass out. And as I opened the door, I heard his thought.
Wow! He’s big.
His voice was pure and soft. It was a curious voice, a dreaming voice. Pure and easily risen, pure and inspiring, free of certainty, free of sarcasm. It was beautiful.
I crawled up the stairs. Pain began to swell in my head. The white glow had almost entirely shelled my eyes, and I could barely see shadows anymore. Pain came to my gut. Sweat was a layer of slime on my skin. Time was fading. I got to the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall. It was tiring to pull my keys out of my pocket. I could smell the pizza from across the street. My keys were hard to handle in the grip of my glistening fingers, but with my crouse-clumsy-ill arm I undid the lock and tripped across my living room. Everything was white light and the smell of pizza.
I swerved and felt my way to the bedroom. I hit a glass and hear it break, not a sharp sound, but muffled and low. I was faded. I was as weak as I could be, approaching the blue bedroom, the sounds of traffic.
And I fell into the soothe of my crimson sheets.
Silence. Sleep.
And … as I lay, passed out and overcome, the tick was feeding. It grew as it gorged, still, focused and slow. No hurry … it was enjoying its meal.