Brightside (3 page)

“Rachel, please!”

Her throat wouldn’t close, just kept spraying screams until I covered my ears.

“I think you’re great, Rachel. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t. Just please be quiet.”

She kept wailing.

And I knew they were coming.

Rachel knew it too, but she didn’t seem to care, just curled up under the bright lights. Everything exposed. The scar on her collarbone. The two-inch wide birthmark on her lower back. She banged the floor with her head, pleading for someone to let her go.

“I just want to go home,” she sobbed. “Why won’t they let us go?”

My head was pounding from the lights and the hangover, but I kept my voice nice and quiet when I said, “Just come to bed, okay? We’ll say you stubbed your toe.”

The
bootsteps
were coming.

Rachel, get over here NOW!

I jumped off the bed, felt foolish because my dick was just hanging there. But Rachel wasn’t looking at me. She was still crying to the floor, the voice not her at all. Broken and shattered. I yanked her arm, but she wouldn’t move.

The Boots were here.

It was going to hurt like hell, but I had to get close, right up against her so my thoughts would sound like they were coming through a megaphone.

GET UP! THEY’RE HERE! PLEASE!

Rachel made herself smaller, pressed her fists against the sides of her face.

They didn’t even knock, just opened the door. Two of them standing there, all calm, like they were here to fix the sink.

Rachel screamed, “Fuck you! You can’t keep us here! You can’t!”

I told Rachel to shut up.

She did, but only to spit in one guy’s face.

The guy didn’t even wipe it off, just twisted her arm, almost snapped it. She begged him to let her go. Then she clawed him in the eyes.

I stepped forward, my hands out to show them I wasn’t looking for a fight. “She had too much to drink. Please, don’t—”

The baton cracked off my skull and I fell. The boots walked right up to my face.

“You got anything else to say?”

I kept my face to the floor, listened as they dragged Rachel from my room, her screams slowly fading until they were gone.

It was Day 39 and I was alone in my office, just Rachel’s desk to keep me company. I needed to look busy and pretended to type, my fingers tapping out nonsensical strings. I drank cup after cup of water so I could focus on my throbbing bladder, focus on anything but Rachel, the Boots dragging her from my room.

My computer dinged. A polite email reminding me of my quota.

Brightside required us to work. It wasn’t for the money. The government funded most everything. But Brightside needed us to keep busy, to feel productive. They started the jobs program after the first month. Too many
Brightsiders
had jumped off the mountain, took the easy way out.

Quotas kept us from living in our heads.

Busy people don’t kill themselves. That was the idea, at least.

I started dialing. Got twenty-four hang-ups, five don’t-call-me-ever-
agains
, and one old woman who spent three minutes asking about the weather in Greece before she realized I wasn’t her son.

I was one of the few
Brightsiders
allowed to make calls to the outside world. I’d been deemed a low risk. But everything was monitored. If I said one thing, like begged for help or told anyone the truth about this place, I’d be sitting in The Cabin dripping drool by night.

Finally, a guy actually sounded interested. I asked him if there was anywhere he dreamed of going.

The guy said, “Costa Rica. I’ve heard good things about that place.”

In three quick clicks, I was on their homepage. “Oh, definitely. Costa Rica’s great. Did you know the average temperature is seventy-two degrees?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, and they’ve got active volcanoes.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, Costa Rica is definitely the place to go,” I said, “and we’ve got some incredible getaways available at great prices.”

Brightside had given me a sales script, which was shit, but deviation was against the rules.

“I don’t know,” the guy said. “How much would it run me?”

“I’m sure you’d qualify for our no-down-payment plan. And our smaller suites are under two hundred a month.”

“That’s nothing.”

“Exactly. Less than you probably spend on gas.” I checked the screen. “Are you still in management, Mr. Crawford?”

“Yeah, home enjoying a sick day.”

“Lucky man. How are your benefits over there? Do you have much vacation time built up?”

“Tons.”

“So what do you think? Would you like to own your very own Costa Rican condo? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” They told us to emphasize the word “fun” as much as possible.

“It does, but tell me this. Is prostitution really legal over there?”

The screen said Mr. Crawford had a wife and son, but that was none of my business. For all I knew, he’d gotten a divorce. The computers were never accurate.

I told him prostitution was legal and his laugh made me sick.

“Would you be looking for a one bedroom or two?” I asked.

“Just one. So tell me more about this. Are there brothels?”

“I believe so, now I’ve got some nice villas on the Pacific Ocean.”

“And I heard there’s no age limit.”

“That’s something you’ll have to check. Now, the place is right on the water. Why don’t we get the process started? If I can get your credit card number and verify a couple details, we’ll be done before you know it.”

“How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam?”

“Good question. Goes to show what a smart man you are. Why don’t I just email over a contract? Just click on the link and it’ll take you to our site. Brightside Travel is a very reputable company.”

“Holy shit, you’re one of those guys? Tell me what I’m thinking.”

“Uh…afraid it doesn’t work like that. If you give me your email address, I’ll send you the contract.”

A door opened and closed on Mr. Crawford’s end. A woman’s grating voice said, “Paul, what are you doing on the phone? You’re supposed to be sick.”

Sounding nothing like the man he’d been when she wasn’t around, Mr. Crawford said, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

I didn’t know if he was still listening to me, but I kept trying. “Tell her it’s a surprise. Tell her you’re doing something
special for her, but don’t tell her what.” As quick as I could, I said, “You make this decision, and she’ll thank you.”

But he’d already hung up.

I’d told Carlos, my boss, the website’s name was hurting our ability to sell. Carlos said it reminded people Brightside allowed us to live productive lives. Again, I told him, it was hurting sales. Carlos said the P.R. was worth it.

Brightside wasn’t very profitable, but we only needed to make enough to cover what the government wouldn’t fund, like the ice cream parlor, movie theater, and electronics store.

If this had been BMW, I would’ve had papers everywhere, stacks of sales contracts, important phone calls to return.

My Brightside desk had one piece of paper, a blue Post-It Carlos had stuck on my phone. A completely unnecessary reminder of our three o’clock meeting.

I’d never worried about a review before Brightside, got salesman of the month five times in a row. Worst thing my ex-boss, Saul, ever said to me was slow down a little. Leave something for the other guys. Some of them have families.

Here, I shared an office because I sucked so hard.

I made another call, but it just kept ringing. I stared at the door, waiting for it to open, to see Rachel and that red skirt, her legs glistening with the piña colada lotion. The only thing that entered the office all morning was a note card, slipped under the door. It told me I had an appointment with Sharon, Brightside’s
resident shrink. Sharon liked to say there was beauty in everything. Look at it all. Breathe it in.

But she could keep her fucking Kool-Aid. Self-help wasn’t going to save me. It was too late for that. It might have worked when I was a kid, when everything started.

* * *

It was winter and I was in kindergarten, my very first day. The bell rang and class began. Miss Parker assigned us seats. Corey thought I smelled like a girl. Tameka asked to be moved because her dad told her never to trust a honky. Jennie thought I looked weird and stupid.

I knew all this before naptime, and it only got worse.

I’d been hearing other people’s thoughts for a few months, but never this many at one time. Miss Parker had told us to be quiet, to try and fall asleep. The ones who couldn’t would just lie there and think. A million voices blasting straight into my head. It was like standing behind a jet engine. I covered my ears, mashing my palms until I thought I’d crack my skull, but that’s not how thoughts entered me. They just shot in, and I screamed. Miss Parker ran over, thinking I was having a nightmare. She saw my pants covered in piss. Some kids laughed, they all thought I was a baby.

I kept my hands over my crotch. Miss Parker told everyone to be quiet. She took my hand. Her skin was dry and
scaly, covered in chalk. She took me to the bathroom to get cleaned up. She said there was a change of pants in the teacher’s lounge. This sort of thing happened a lot. I remember my little pecker rubbing against the corduroy because the school didn’t carry underwear. Miss Parker had to cuff the legs because they were too long. I wondered how many other peckers had touched this zipper.

Miss Parker held my hand again, her skin cutting into mine, and we went back to class. The kids were quietly thinking I was a retard, except for Steven, probably the only Chinese kid in Columbus. He thought the other kids were jerks, but he just sat there, said nothing. I would’ve done the same.

When the day finally ended, I waited for everyone to leave the room then slipped on my red rain boots because Mom said comfy winter ones were a waste of money. I put on my puffy blue jacket that was my Hulk jacket when I wore Dad’s green sweatshirt over it and growled at the mirror. I left my gloves in my pocket and headed to the door. I hoped it wasn’t too cold out. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait long. Mom had promised she wouldn’t forget. But she said not to worry enough times for me to know better.

The snow was coming down hard, the sky a dark cloud. I put on my gloves that were only just mittens, the kind without fingers because they were cheaper.

Over half the class had already been picked up, their parents waiting out front. The rest of the kids were lined up along the fence with Miss Parker folding her arms and hopping up and down looking like a skinny Big Bird. She had the same puffy
yellow hair, too, but hid most of it under her brown hat with the giant ear-flaps.

She said it was the rule to wait by the fence, but there were kids spilling out by the street. I headed over to the end, squeezed in between Steven and the giant mound of snow.

Steven was dressed for success, a bright blue snow coat and matching vest, a light blue button-down beneath it. No one had told his parents dressing like that came later in life. Maybe they knew Steven’s life would be a short one.

He never looked up from his six-inch tall Superman, the strongest man on the planet.

I had both hands in my jacket pockets, holding each other and my belly because the lining was ripped and Mom didn’t sew. I kicked away a circle of snow. My boots were too thin and I was going to be there a while.

Steven aimed Superman at the ground and thought,
Melt this with your heat vision.

“What?” I said.

“I didn’t say nothing,” Steven said.

“Sorry,” I said.

I’d learned to apologize when I mistakenly thought someone had said their thoughts out loud. People got angry when I didn’t. They called me crazy.

Every night I prayed for God to make it go away, but it was always there, the noise inside other people’s heads. I never
listened on purpose. Never reached in and stole people’s thoughts, like some believed. For me, it’s like hearing a person’s true voice, the things they really believe. It’s a whisper from six feet, a scream at just inches. The more focused the thought, the louder it gets.

You know that silent awkwardness when someone is holding their tongue, stewing in anger after someone does something awful, because they don’t want to cause a scene? Well, for me, it’s like being face-to-face with a wailing psychopath. An endless
scream
of all the horrible things people really want to do to each other.

Back then I was still getting used to it. Part of me wanted to turn to Steven and see if his lips were moving. The other part was smart enough to know the things he was thinking weren’t things anyone would say. He was pointing Superman at Corey, the kid who thought I smelled like a girl and that Steven was a fucking chink.