15
It’s my shocking return to work, on another night at the Clear Lake Condo Estate. The batteries in my flashlight are running low, but my uniform is ironed and pressed, with my badge and my boots, gleaming and glossy.
I punch in promptly. On my first official round, I walk down New Farm Road, past two well dressed women, both from England, who happen to meet at the mailbox.
One neighbor says to the other, “We love our new home, don’t you?”
The second neighbor concurs, saying, “Yes, yes. This place has what my husband likes to call, real storybook charm.”
In a fly by greeting, I say hello to both women.
The second lady makes the remark: “What a beautiful day we’re having.”
“Oh, yes,” says the other. “We won’t get too many more of these.”
I give them both a wide plastic grin, saying, “We’ll just have to enjoy every last warm weather moment.”
The women look at me at the same time, with a quick neck snap. Their eyes have a full red glow, like they‘re overheating robots. Then those eyes cool. Eyes retaining their natural color.
The neighbors endorse my warm weather idea with smiles of their own. They take their mail, make plans to swap cooking recipes, then walk in different directions.
I do my job by marching from condo to condo, locking those windows and those doors that are open for unknown reasons. I tell all the lights and appliances to shut off.
The dark of the night has been coming much sooner with the changing season, much to my delight.
I call Norman to see if he wants to get high. Charlie Moon is in New York, promoting his new band called, The Nightly Report. So Norman shows up to the construction site, alone.
The first day I ever met Norman Long, I had expressed my knowledge of a family living in Maine with the same last name. I then told Norman his resemblance to them was striking. I finished by saying that, if I remembered correctly, the family made for a terrific bowling squad, one in which the members each shared identical form and delivery.
In a cool way, Norman Long had stated he was of no relation to the family, and that he had a poor habit of rolling the ball into the gutter.
His last name is however, an indication of his size. He is tall, with long arms and legs, and a noticeably thin waist. He towers over those near him. His lengthy appearance not only suggests that his ancestors passed the name through entire generations, but that they passed it through their reproductive genes, as well.
Now Norman rolls the blunt. I wait for it in fiendish anticipation. We get lifted, laughing at certain things, but forgetting soon after what was funny.
Then, just at that moment, a car with tinted windows pulls up on my driver-side door. It idles there for a second, then gives a horn toot. I tell Norman to duck, hide. The other car slides its window down, so I follow their lead by unrolling mine, too.
And I’m asking, “Can I help you?” with weed smoke fogging my front windshield, billowing in the back seat.
An English lady sits in the car, passenger side, and she says, “Me and my husband are going away on vacation. We thought you should be advised.”
“Oh, you are?” I feign friendly interest.
“Yes,” she says. “Aspen for two weeks. We made reservations at a ski lodge. We should’ve been there by now, drinking hot chocolate, but a storm caused some delays, airline delays.”
“Well, have a great time,” I say, flustered with some paranoid subplot.
“Nothing could be more absolute,” she says.
Then her American husband leans over from the steering wheel to say, “We just thought you could keep an extra lookout, you know, while we take to the slopes.”
“Sure thing,” I say. “No problem. You can count on me.”
“Super,” the wealthy man says, as he drives away, bound for the airport.
I press the control panel for my power windows.
Norman Long wants to know, “Do you still have the keys to their condo?”
And I say, “You can stop ducking, they’re gone.”
“Can you get inside their condo?” my friend asks again.
“Let me guess, a party?”
Norman says, “We can tell people it’s you birthday.”
“Well, . . . ” I say, mulling over the proposition. “The condo walls are soundproof.”
Norman goes on saying, “We can tell everyone you own a condo.”
So I say, “My birthday. My condo. And if anyone asks, I work as a Technical Expert. I have a job as an expert in all things technical. Overseas.”
And Norman Long says, “No doubt.”
“They can’t fire me,” I whisper to myself. “I know enough, maybe too much. They know I’m a criminal, because they’re criminals themselves. My lie reflects their bigger lie. Their power grab connects to my cover up.”
And Norman says, “Settle down with that shit. Let’s party!”
We open our cell phones and dial the appropriate numbers, giving people directions through the next town, Central Heights.
Then we drive over to Norman’s apartment, change clothes and switch gear. I tell him about the suitcase of drugs I have in the trunk, how I plan to distribute the entire thing to anyone willing to dabble. We make one last stop to buy a keg of beer before heading back to the Clear Lake.
The party tonight is comprised mainly of hot shot, high school heroes, just graduated from college. The men are born into a tradition of family affluence. The girls are so pretty they’re pristine, allowing them to be very selective about who pays for the dinner date.
In Rockaway, I’m a street-wise thug. At The Academy On The Hill, I was part of the book smart elite. I could never fully commit to one side. Living with the dirtball derelicts, schooling with the asshole rich, I balanced both roles like a tightrope walker who dares to perform without a safety net. To fall to one side, was to drop to a sure popularity death.
From the upper-class, I received a cold shoulder and the snobbish lift of the chin. For the lower-class, I got a black eye and the stomping of a boot.
The party tonight starts at ten.
As always, Nick Showalter, the baseball pitching ace, comes with Matt Fraggatoni, the star quarterback. Conrad Tyler, the poet, walks through the door with a pen gripped in his teeth and a contemplative thumb on his chin. Chadwick Merriweather III, chess champion, comes with Oliver Wendell Pean, the math wizard. Mark Rubenstein shows up with his older brother, Paul Rubenstein, founders of the yacht club. Dominic Manzini, the foreign exchange student from Italy, now living in America permanently, comes alone and stands in the corner all night long. Rick Disnicky, the card shark, brings some Las Vegas poker chips for some high stakes gambling. Next to turn up is a tall black kid named Sylvan Watts, who played basketball on scholarship. Under no invitation comes Kevin Paradise and Johnny Kinklater, notorious for their party crashing, house trashing. I still sell them a cup. Next to show is a popular fat guy named, Peabody, who everyone calls Pudge. Jeff Webber, the soccer standout, is the designated driver for three drunken wastrels: Warren Castle, fencing team, Leonard Drisdale, his sparring partner, and Alan Bloomquist, the tennis title holder. Chase Livingston, the cox on the crew team, is also present, but disappears soon after without a word. Tom Goodwin, the inventor, comes to the party late with some kind of motor-powered contraption on wheels that has no specific use. At one point, members of the rugby team storm the party and try to steal the keg.
For the females, the first to arrive is Jen Coakley, the captain of the cheerleading squad. Next comes Lena Lovelace, the prom queen who was once voted Miss Massachusetts. Sara Flannigan, the drama major, arrives with Kelly Decosta, the president of student council, who, aside from English, speaks three different languages: French, Spanish, and Latin. Then comes Brooke Burns, the chorus girl, with her close friend, Dawn LaFosse, who has an ear for scandal and a mouth for gossip. Erica Everdale is here with her lipstick lesbian lover, Angelina Scott; both girls escaping to a second floor bedroom, I catch onto their secret. McKenzie McCormack, the Olympic swimmer, comes from practice wearing a bathing suit and some eye goggles, her hair still wet. And, finally, Cat Washington, the young field hockey coach, comes with Mary Ann Carbone, the blow job vixen.
The whole condo is minimalist in design. I keep telling everyone not to touch the porcelain elephant collection. Brooke Burns gets on the piano, bangs away at the keys. Jen Coakley and Lena Lovelace insist that Matt Fraggatoni and Nick Showalter join them in the Jacuzzi. I tell everyone they can be as loud as they want, just not to spill anything on the needlepoint pillows. Again and again, I tell Warren Castle not to use the tapestry as a cape or the silk lampshade as a crown. I let everyone know it’s my birthday, that I’m a Technical Expert, making money in the multiple figures. I shout that I play the stock market every day, using insider trader tips. The painting above the fireplace, I say I brought it back from Prague. The leather couches, I got them from Italy. The pottery, I picked them up in Paris. The plants, I say, are imported from Singapore. These old friends are royally impressed. Someone keeps pinching my ass. People keep pouring me shots, to celebrate my birth. Kevin Paradise and Johnny Kinklater organize the “Hot Ass” contest, in which every girl finds a partner to walk seductively up the stairs with, in front of male judges. Angelina Scott and Erica Everdale win the contest by locking lips and kissing on the top step. Rick Disnicky lights up a cigar at the card table, bluffing almost every pot into his possession. Alan Bloomquist pukes off the back porch. In the basement, I keep telling Leonard Drisdale not to play swords with the pool sticks. Every time I pass Conrad Tyler he’s reciting his poetry to a new girl. Chadwick Merriweather is having a deep discussion with Oliver Wendell Pean about string theory, talking about how the wings of a butterfly in Asia can affect the wind patterns of North America. Sylvan Watts tells me more than once that he’s about to order a stripper for my birthday, but that I should pay for it. I get stuck in the breakfast nook with Dawn LaFosse and she will not stop blabbing about some pre-law student she met in Chicago, telling me his preference for having red ants shoved into his penis hole during sex.
Thinking it’s time to open the suitcase full of drugs, I do, telling everybody to have at it. They scramble for the substance of their choice like the suitcase is a broken open piñata.
Over the entire din of the party, I vent a primal scream, “I told you not to touch my porcelain elephant collection. Condo lights. Off.”
The place goes dark and my former classmates are frantic to find themselves. Nobody moves. This is how to tame a crowd. I knock someone over as I barge my way to the front door. This is how to throw the world into chaos, stand back and watch people beg for a more predictable pattern. I leave them all lights out, like a computer hacker who attacks the electricity grid of city block substation.
In a small fraction of time, I run to the trailer office and write down false, bogus information on the security sheets.
I suddenly notice the computer at the workstation desk turn on, automatically. Video, live streaming footage of the condo party I just left, plays in slow motion. There must be cameras installed in the eyeball light fixtures. The condo party is still dark, but my old classmates huddle around the burning fireplace, while Nick Showalter strums his acoustic guitar.
Just then I see my Rockaway friends show up at the door. Ely Noble. The Rodrigo brothers, Pablo and Agusto. And Max, the gang leader. I forgot I invited them too. They don’t know my former classmates. It’s clear on the video, since I’m not still attending party, my Rockaway friends are being refused at the door. Max pulls a gun.
I can’t watch the rest.
I finger my breast pocket. I pull out the business card that Carl Busby gave me, the one with the Kingman mansion address.
The urge to go visit Kingman now is strong. It’s only thing that will help me ignore the racial clash at the condo, which looks like it’s about to escalate with guns and knives.