A Boy's Hammer, page 14
“Hey! No one tells me what to...” Alan raised an eyebrow high while swerving his head towards Rebecca, “Dew.”
As bountiful and odious as the belch had been, she couldn’t help herself—it was funny. At least you’re not like Lamont in some ways, she consoled herself. Her father would have considered that burp cause for litigation.
Rebecca’s smile wavered. “So, tomorrow? Is it going to be dangerous?”
“Why are you asking?
“Because I need to know.”
“Why?” Alan asked, towering above her.
“Because I do. Can you sit down please?”
Alan obliged her.
Even then, she felt like she had to crane her neck to address him. “You’re still too tall. How can you be so tall? You used to be average height.”
“I’m tiny in other places.”
When Rebecca started giggling, a quick succession of expressions crossed Alan’s face: confusion, smirking, surprise—all tinted in a shade of red.
“No, I mean I’m tiny compared to other people and creatures in the different places where I’ve been.”
“I knew what you meant, but that phrasing was just… poetry.” Once her giggles subsided, she thought of all the years missed. All the wonderfully dumb jokes and stupid laughter they’d missed from being apart. All the good times they could have had. “It just seems—it seems unfair. I missed you.”
Alan lowered his head and looked away. “Me too, Reebs. I missed you real bad.”
Rebecca continued. “Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe all this isn’t real. Maybe it’s still twenty-two years ago and something went wrong with my surgery and I’m trapped in a place inside my own mind; some sort of loop where I dream this strange dream again and again. What do you think of that?”
“After everything I’ve seen? It’s possible. But I hope it’s not true because you don’t deserve that.”
“Yes I do,” Rebecca answered.
An emotion that Rebecca had never seen from Alan before—anger, deep and frightening—flared his nostrils and contorted his face. “Why would you say that? That’s so dumb. That’s so dumb, Reebs.”
She couldn’t look him in the face. She squeezed her interlocked fingers until her hand was nearly pure white. “I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t feel great about what you’re doing, and I know it’s not my business. I guess that’s never stopped me before, though.”
“Well… why are you worried?” The concern upon Alan’s face gave him an unsightly pallor, his skin flashing the same white as Rebecca’s knuckles. Almost like blood leaving from under the skin was a communicable disease. Alan’s breath hastened and he thought to touch her but did not. “Reebs… we don’t have much time.”
“Because it is dangerous, what you’re doing. Isn’t it? You won’t admit it, but it is. It must be. So just say it.”
“Listen to me. I’ve hurt a lot. You’ve hurt a lot. And you’re my friend…” Alan cleared his throat. “You’re my best friend. Even if I got lost a thousand times. Even if I forgot you. I would still find you. I would still find a way to remember you. Because that’s what a true friend does. It means something to me, Reebs. We were just kids, but I think we found something. And I know I’m right. I know it, down to my bones,” Alan spoke, quaking, a body containing something explosive but not destructive.
Alan shifted to face her directly. He held out his hand. It was turned upward with his fingers splayed like a wood barrel split open. Rough protrusions of thick, deadened skin made his palm leathery as animal hide. His nails were trimmed haphazardly so there were jutting edges of clean-trim keratin and dirt and indents to the nail bed. Rebecca had never seen a palm so ugly, a hand so torn. She’d always found beauty in broken things—in ugly things. They told her stories. Stories she couldn’t read on her own, without the help of their cracks, breaks, bruises, and tears.
No matter the beauty in Alan’s broken person, it was hard to meet his eyes. But she had to. Knowing the truth of what was within them was more important than the truth of his words. She’d learned long ago—mostly through her father and his acquaintances (not friends. He hadn’t had many of those)—that men often lied. Or diluted the truth. Sometimes, though, they lied because they believed themselves to be truthful. That, she could forgive.
She looked, her eyes meeting Alan’s. To see his face was to see the fallout, the aftershock of some terrible disaster. She gritted her teeth. Somewhere behind that weathered warrior’s mask, she could see the child who’d gone missing, could see the lost Alan trying to push through. But that wasn’t life. He wasn’t a child anymore. And what Alan said—we don’t have much time—suddenly made perfect sense to her. He was right. There was never enough time. You couldn’t know when the child would disappear. You couldn’t know that a ghost would appear in the child’s place. And you can never get that time back.
“I didn’t go to your funeral,” she admitted. “I couldn’t go. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. It hurt too much.” She clenched her jaw again as the past rushed back to her, splinters jabbing her memory like raindrops in a harsh wind.
She looked up at him. He was smiling.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Is that all you felt bad about?” His grin grew wider. “Because I don’t know if you noticed this, but I’m not dead.”
The way he said it—it made her feel absurd. Then, it seemed funny. She saw his stupid wide grin growing wider. He couldn’t even help it.
“I know that!” Rebecca shouted. She hit his chest very hard. If Alan hadn’t been looking at her, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. “You idiot!” Then, she started laughing. It was that good laughter. Laughter from surprise, from shared experience. Best of all, it came on after her sadness. When you laugh after feeling so low, it’s like being rocketed to the moon.
“Besides, I didn’t go to my funeral either,” Alan said.
“Asshole!” She hit him again. But she was still smiling.
They sat there for a long time, happy, thinking to themselves, enjoying their bond in comfortable silence. Then, Rebecca’s mind returned to the injustice of it all. It seemed wrong to see an old friend again only to lose him within the week. Wrong in that it shouldn’t have been possible, like it violated some cosmic principle of existence. He’d already missed so much of his own life. And here he sat, telling her that he was willing to give the rest of it up if there was a chance he could reunite with his mother. At least, that’s what she’d gathered. She couldn’t fathom it; she had nothing to compare that longing to in her own life. Rebecca loved her own mother very much—that was true. But when she thought of her father, and the years of joy he’d stolen from her—she would never give another second to that man. Not a meaningful one.
There was a selfishness to her sorrow, she knew. She’d finally found her long-lost friend. The sole friend she’d had who had understood and accepted her as she was. It was just so hard for her to think, to be here-now when she knew he was leaving again.
Too much thinking, too much thought. She placed her hand in his ugly giant’s palm. It was warm. Even if it scratched against her skin, she found enough comfort in it that she didn’t care.
Alan spoke quietly. “I think that, out of all the infinite ways that, you know, we could have been, and all the infinite versions of the worlds where we’ve met—in all of those, we’re friends. We’re friends here and we’re friends there because we were meant to be friends.”
Alan paused for a moment. She felt the hesitation in him. But she pressed her hand into his, urging him to speak, and he did.
“I—I have these little points in time where I remember clearly what happened to me. I remember Tuonela. But I spent time in—well, maybe the right way to say it is… the cosmos? I was out in the cosmos. It sounds stupid. That stuff, I can remember sometimes, but then I lose it. I don’t really know how to explain it to you…” he trailed off for a moment, then sighed.
“I remember my time in Tuonela vividly. I don’t remember a lot of what I learned from the old man who… who stole my mom. I know it’s in there, somewhere, the memories—the knowledge. Look, maybe you can understand now. I forgot things about here when I was there. I’d have times where I could remember things better. But I always remembered my mom. And Aunt Mimi. And… and you. When I could.” Alan’s head drooped and he heaved a sigh. “But yes, I have to go.”
“Okay.”
The two stood, and Rebecca reached up—and how she strained, even as he bent to accommodate her, to reach—and put her arms around Alan’s neck, pulling him down to her so they could hold tight, tight enough to share memory. She finally spoke through her blinding sadness.
“I know you need to go alone, right? I can’t go with you?”
“No. I couldn’t put you in that position. You didn’t have twenty years in hell to… prepare,” he said with a sad smile.
“I did. It was just… here,” she replied. “I want to see what’s out there. If there’s anything. I mean, I believe you, but… but I want to see.” She did. She had little that kept her bound to the earth. She had a degree in biology but could never find a way to put it to use; this would be the closest thing to putting it to use. All she did was leech off her father’s questionable income and assets, and then travel, enjoying the more impulsive side of herself. This impulse was stronger. Maybe because it wasn’t an impulse. Maybe it was reason and love both, telling her in an infinitely small moment that her inclination was the right one. Leaving the world—what a thing.
But she felt forever connected to her family. Chained to them. And that wouldn’t have been so bad. Without Lamont.
The darkness resided in a corner of her mind; it was heavy and trapped behind some cerebral keep, just beyond a dark door that was creaking open. Rebecca shook her head. “Can we watch movies tonight before you go?”
“As long as you don’t mind Aunt Mimi watching with us. I just want to—”
“Alan, you don’t have to explain. I love your aunt.”
“She at least had the decency to show up to my funeral.”
Rebecca laughed again. “Prick.”
Radisson Hotel Philadelphia Airport—Ballroom
The ballroom at the airport Radisson was a few thousand square feet, and half of it was patterned in squares that lit up when someone tapped their feet on the dance floor. Juhani waited behind the curtain at the stage—really, it was a few raised “DJ platforms” pieced together with wood and “duct tape”—while Omar hooked a small black object to his lapel.
That small object was a “mic,” according to Omar. That was short for “microphone,” which was an object that could make one’s voice loud and domineering without the person having to actually raise their voice. It was astounding!
Juhani had learned very much about technology for his premier training session with the men (and unfortunately, women) of the Kalman Society.
“Alright, bruh. You should be all ready to go.” Omar looked over at his cousin Jay, who was manning the “sound mixer.” Jay had fallen asleep with a large, brown-papered roll of marijuana in his mouth. It still smoldered as the sloth-like man rested.
Juhani nodded and held his hands out to Omar, who took them into his own. “Mr. Juhani, would you like to say some words of inspiration?”
The duo had formed a kinship during the killer’s extended stay at Four Seasons. That Henneman-Hedley fellow was initially hesitant regarding an “outsider” being involved in activities related to their organization—he eventually acceded to Juhani, saying that Omar could “onboarded” as a “consultationist” for the Kalman Society.
“Yes,” the Finn replied, sighing deeply and closing his eyes. “I have heard your people say—Americans, say—that a man must be the change he wants to see in the world. So, at this hour of our choosing, let us be an instrument of revolution. Dear Queen Kalma, please ensure that your followers are obedient like an Estonian, hearty as a Lithuanian, and as filthy as a disease-ridden sailor come to port for the first time since setting to sea aboard your great vessel of mayhem and buttfuckery. May we mercilessly assfuck all those who stand in our way, without condoms or regard for the elasticity of their bums, and cause consternation to those who would oppose us by raping their faces until our collective cocks are limp from the effort. Omar, do you have anything you’d like to add?”
“Uh… hmm. Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, I got somethin’. Dear Queen Kalma, please keep and protect our sports franchises, especially the Eagles and the Philadelphia 76ers, and watch over Allen Iverson, wherever he may be…”
“In your name we pillage,” Juhani added.
“And let us say,” Omar replied, “Go Birds.”
“Go birds,” Juhani repeated.
With solemnity, Juhani gave Omar’s hands one last squeeze before dropping them. “Okay, I am ready.”
“Hit it Jay!” Omar yelled. Cousin Jay didn’t move. “Jay! Yo Jay! FUCKIN’ JAY-JAY!”
Omar’s cousin jumped up like he’d been kicked off the top bunk and started flipping switches on the mixer. Sirius by The Alan Parsons Project began to play. Juhani ran out onto the stage and started clapping his hands together. Soon, the few hundred Kalman Society members in attendance started clapping in the same rhythm.
Henneman-Hedley watched from backstage, giving Juhani a nod of approval. The man had assisted in planning the exhibition, to an extent; he stated he wanted to be as hands-off as possible. But Juhani couldn’t piece together a “powerpoint,” which Henneman-Hedley claimed was the foundation to any great presentation.
Sirius faded right as the short guitar solo that closes out that song began.
“Alright, Kalman Society! How are we all feeling tonight?” Juhani said, enthusiastically. He spoke in the manner Hedley had coached him to when he was before large crowds who needed to be persuaded or further enticed.
A loud chorus of woo-hoos and yeahs belted back at Juhani. The music slowly faded and the powerpoint presentation was projected on a large drop-down screen behind him. The first slide read: THE PEDAGOGY OF CHAOS IN AN INTERSECTIONAL MULTI-DISCIPLINARY WORLD OF GLOBALIZED DISRUPTION AND THE SYNERGY OF SYNERGISTIC SYNERGIES (GLOBALLY).
Juhani smiled. “You know, one of my favorite speakers, Creflo Dollar, once said: The process of change is made up of subtraction and addition. Taking something off and then putting something on. What do we think Mr. Creflo means when he says this?”
Someone at the very front of the room raised their hand. Juhani pointed to the woman and said to Omar, “Let’s get her a mic. This is good. We’ll do some synergized engagement. Or, as I like to call it, SYNERGIGAZEMENT.” As Omar handed a wireless mic to the woman, Juhani clicked a small remote and the next slide appeared. At the top of the new slide was Juhani’s neologism, SYNERGIGAZEMENT, and under that was a stock photo of a man sitting at his desk, deep in thought, with a cartoon bubble linked to his head that said, “How can I help destroy Philadelphia? I’m just one man/woman/non-binary demon from the Swamp of Doom.”
Omar turned on the woman’s wireless mic and feedback squealed through the PA system. Juhani smiled encouragingly. “Yes, miss—please, go ahead. What does Mr. Creflo mean when he talks about adding and subtracting in the process of change?”
The woman’s lips were mashed against the microphone and she was mouth breathing. Then she spoke. “Um—I-I-I think he means that you have to subtract the things that aren’t useful, like the end slices on a loaf of bread, and add things that are more useful. Like a toaster.”
“A toaster isn’t the same as bread, though,” a voice called out from the crowd.
“It’s not supposed to be the same, it’s supposed to add usefulness to the bread,” another voice called out.
“I can’t eat gluten unless it has gluten-free gluten in it,” a young, educated-looking fellow added. “And I feel like white bread has gluten with gluten in it.”
“Should we be calling it white bread?” Another voice. “Isn’t that triggering?”
“I don’t toast my sandwiches and I don’t want anyone to make me toast my bread…”
“NO!” Juhani shouted. “No. We’re getting away from—listen… adding and subtracting—think of them in the abstract. If we’re trying to create chaos, what things do we need more of and what things do we need less of?”
Another man raised his hand. Omar brought the mic over to him.
“Yes, you,” Juhani prompted the new questioner.
“Universal healthcare?” the man with the mic said.
“…What about it?” Juhani replied.
“If you subtract healthcare, then it’s just universal.”
Juhani waited. The man didn’t feel that any more explanation was needed. “And…?” Juhani asked.
“Well, you know… that’s good.”
“What’s good?”
“Universal,” the man offered.
“Universal is just a word, though.”
“Exactly.” The man handed the mic back to Omar and sat down. Light applause filled the ballroom.
Juhani shook his head. He hadn’t anticipated how soft-headed some of these kids would be. In his time, an educated man was expected to have a broad knowledge base—universities were the domain of the privileged, and only the lucky few were destined to acquire the secret teachings dispensed in the keep of those ivory citadels. Here, though, there wasn’t a single university student who was even a tenth as useful as Omar. In fact, it seemed to Juhani that higher education may have been designed as an asylum for well-heeled imbeciles—nicely dressed tools who used twelve words when one would do.
Suddenly, something stirred in Juhani—he felt something, felt someone. The nostrils of his bulldog nose twitched, his eyes searched the room. There was a killer in here. He could feel it in his bones. Then, Juhani saw him in the back—a young man, probably no older than nineteen, although the kid had the waifish build of an androgynous thirteen-year-old. A darkness came from him—Juhani could smell the animal desire, the bloodlust secreting from the boy’s pores. He wasn’t with them—wasn’t with the Kalman Society. The manboy was hovering around the end tables, looking through people’s purses and jackets that they’d left in a heap at the back of the ballroom, pulling out cash from wallets and other valuables from the inside pockets of people’s coats.
