The War Against the Assholes (12 page)

A scream: totally human. Not mine. Hob's. He leaped—flew—from the top of the bleachers, roaring, his arms spread out. He moved so quickly I barely saw it. An undersized sparrow flickering away. Headed for a window. Pure panic. Not fast enough. The fat man lifted his ringed hand and cried out another foreign phrase while Hob was still midair. The agate glowed yellow, red, sick umber, sicker black. I comprehended nothing of what he said. Hob plummeted and hit the gym floor with a brutal, soft thud. At the top of his arc his dark head had been among the upper chains of the light fixtures. His meager shadow had crossed my face. He must have fallen twenty feet. The fat man smiled. No sweat stood out on his brow or lip. No blood dripped from his nose.

“That's how it works, though,” I said. Or tried to say. “That's how it works.” “Out of the mouths of babes,” said the fat man, “so goes the proverb. Though you might consider keeping your wisdom to yourself, laddy buck.” He showed me his wand. Floating horizontally between two upraised palms. He clapped them together. The wand vanished. “Presto fucking change-o,” he said. He strode over to Hob and prodded him with his shining shoe tip. Hob mewled. Tears flowing down his face. “You people and your romanticism,” the fat man said, “it's fatal.” All around us my unmoving classmates. Frank Santone's hands tangled with his shoelace. Wilton Opuwei's cavernous yawn. The human face and human body can be ridiculous propositions. They also can inspire love. He grabbed Hob by the collar of his school jacket and hoisted him off the floor as if he were hoisting a suitcase. Hob groaned. His tears hit the wood. I tried to reach for him. I could not move. Fat men often possess a mysterious strength. So do bald men and ugly men. Hob's fingernails scraped the oiled wood as the fat man carried him out. His head hung down. His hair. “And may I compliment your performance,” the fat man said as the door mewed shut behind him. I had no idea if he meant me or the white woman who had knocked me unconscious. He could have meant both. Or Hob. He seemed like an expansive complimenter.

The stony scent of the white woman filled my nose. She was straddling me. The small, still-clear segment of my mind was shocked at her presumption. Her right hand gently encircled my throat. Her raven was clicking and hopping next to my head. A sudden terror that the bird would jab its beak into my eyes gripped me. I lifted a hand to shield them. Or attempted to. Nothing. No movement. The white woman smiled. Her iron bracelet burning against the skin over my clavicle. She bent her face to mine and pressed her lips against mine. Her eyes closing. Her breath frigid as before. When her tongue entered my mouth I almost came. My pulse drummed against her fingers. Her breathing grew heavier, quicker. Her hand never left my throat. When she broke the kiss, the white woman licked her lips and grinned at me. She stood and her raven took wing and landed on her extended arm. Blood rushed at once into my brain and my cock. Stupidity and clarity at the same time. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and sucked in ragged lungfuls of air.

16

O
ur school had a mascot bodega. Hello Garden 72. They would sell you cigarettes and beer. They would even let you use their bathroom, if they knew you. The main guy was called Osmondo. He wore a name tag pinned to his sweater, even though he was the only employee.

There was an etiquette to dealing with Osmondo: You couldn't be obvious or loud. If you wanted beer you brought it up front only when there was no one else in the store. If you wanted cigarettes you made sure you were alone before you asked. That went for the bathroom too. Using the bathroom cost a dollar. You paid up without question. I never understood why more bodegas didn't adopt this business model.

People also believe, before crises arrive, that they'll know what to do. Universally. I didn't. I wanted to tear at my own skin. Sky. That's what I remember. I was shaking. My hands spasming. Running down Fifth Avenue. Our chapel bells rang the time: quarter till the hour. Did not know which hour. Sky harbor-gray. Or the color of cement. Crows on the branches of the bare trees and crows on parked cars. Hers. I knew it. They had to be. Surveillance drones, Hob had said. I was relieved she didn't use pigeons. Then again, pigeons are stupid. Then again, theatrics are important. Erzmund said it and I believe to this day that it's true. You can go through your youth and young manhood breaking noses and blacking eyes, as I did, or systematically deranging your senses with drugs or alcohol, as others did. Reality will intrude. Hob, for example. His disappearance made me ill with fear. Worse than cops marching him off. I considered my options. I could try to chase the fat man and the white woman down. Stupid: they were long gone. A wave of nausea. I fought it back. The muscles in my torso were still heaving. “That sucker-punching bitch,” I said. She had not sucker punched me, to be fair. I still wanted to fuck her. Just in a limbic-system sort of way. Nothing moral. Nothing aesthetic.

Potash. The fat man. Had to be. He matched Hob's description. I had no idea what Hob had taken. When I had struggled to my feet in the gym, the white woman was gone. In the hall, no trace of her, Hob, the fat man. Other than blood drops. Hob must have left these. Warm silence, the hall air smelling like dead fruit, as usual. Whatever fluid they used to clean the floors stank sweetly. My classmates and Coach Madigan statue-still in the crosswired windows of the gym doors. I assumed Potash's handiwork was not permanent. Verner Potash. It's always a fat man in the end. Mr. Stone had called him the de facto head of his community. Sounded archaic. Quinn Klayman. That perfectly toolish name. Potash had called him his nephew. At which point I stopped walking and muttered, “Goddamn it.” Another fact Hob had failed to inform us of. A woman pushing a stroller, in which slept a gaunt dark-haired child, stared and veered to the other lane of foot traffic. I called Alabama. It went right to voice mail. “You know the drill,” said Alabama. Then the shrill tone. “Just call me,” I said, “like now.” I fished a brown cigarette out of my bag. I had two left. I figured it would help with the pain. “And of course I don't have a lighter,” I muttered. Before I remembered. I just cupped the tip in my hands so passersby wouldn't see. They probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. The smoke helped. My head cleared a bit. The cold didn't bother me as much. I was still wearing my blue-and-white gym clothes, under my parka. Army surplus. Forest green. With paler patches indicating where insignia of rank once had been sewn. Nothing is worse than waiting for your phone to ring. Not even the smoke from the cigarette could calm me down.

That's when I saw. Or noticed. Or observed. Or lucked out. A rat. Grayish white. Waiting by the curb. Darting its head up to look at the sky. For crows. It froze when it saw me. When I got close, it moved. Slow. Careful. It stopped. Looked at me. I followed it another step, another two, another three. It led me. I let it. We kept up our weird pace. At moments I had to visually seek it out again: it got lost among the legs. “Good Christ, the size of that thing,” squeaked an old woman, leaning on a cane. She'd seen it. I rushed past her. When the rat turned on Seventy-Second, it sped up and darted under an access alley fence. I looked up. The
HELLO GARDEN
sign shone, gold and green.

Osmondo nodded at me when I came in. There was no one else in the store except for an old man. As usual. Osmondo's father, the rumor went, who slept in a chair all day and all night, a newspaper tenting his lap. I wandered the aisles. I took down a can of onion soup and blew dust from the metal top. A crow perched in the naked sidewalk tree across from the bodega doorway. “How long has that crow been there,” I asked Osmondo. He shrugged. His father, or whoever the old man was, cried out in his sleep: a high whine. “Bathroom,” I said. Osmondo held out his huge, pink palm. I laid a damp dollar in it. The lore said he used to let junkies shoot up in there, during the heyday of junkies. A brown scrawl crossed the ceiling. The lore said it was blood. Whatever it was, they never cleaned it off the tiles. The bathroom, otherwise: nothing special. A mirror. A toilet. A poster of a green valley cradling a white house. A narrow door in the rear wall, inset with a brass lock, a cramped figure in yellow paint in the upper right corner. The same alien, faint smell I'd detected on every previous visit.

My piss sang against the porcelain. I pissed for a long time. Groaning with relief. The bell by the bodega door rang. The old man rustled his paper. Osmondo said
la puerta
. The door. I kept pissing. My balls ached. As the toilet flushed, Osmondo mumbled more. I couldn't even catch one word. I propped myself on the rear wall. The metal of the door cooled my forehead. I wanted to sleep. I find sleeping uncanny, as I said. To sleep and wake, and return to the simple, violent routine of my life: school, football, fights, failures with girls enlivened by the odd success. I didn't mean the white woman. I wasn't thinking of her. I was thinking of Maggie. How chance had intervened. I caught another draft of the Osmondo-bathroom scent. Not disgusting at all. Fragrant and dry. No one had knocked. I had time. I wanted to sleep. My eyelids slipped. The scent lulled me. The patch of door cooling my head got warm. So I shifted. The yellow mark flicked through my peripheral vision.

Not new. An old element of visual clutter. I'd never paid any attention to it. That day I examined it. I had to squint. But when I saw it, I saw it. An open eye. The symbol from Mr. Stone's tunnel doors. The symbol Alabama had decorated my arm with. The symbol, I supposed, of our war. Such as it was. “Hob's an asshole,” I said, “an asshole in the hands of other assholes.” I cracked myself up. Osmondo murmured again, to his father.
La puerta.
I knew what to do. I hooked the bathroom door latch. I unhooked it. If my idea worked, I didn't want anyone to be prevented from taking a piss. I slipped the silver key Hob had given me the day after the salto into the lock on this yellow-marked door.

Melior Audere
: it's better to dare. The silver key fit. To my surprise, I would say. Except I was not surprised. I knew it would work. A small shock traveled up my arm. I turned the key. I turned the handle. Warm, sweet-smelling air blew into the bathroom. Grass and citrus. I pushed open the door. Orange light greeted me. More of the same scent. Richer and purer. I stepped over the toilet brush in its white holder. I stepped across the threshold. Into a short corridor lined with bookshelves. It ended in a long, low-ceilinged room. Leather armchairs. A hexagonal black table. I'd guessed right. I looked behind me. The door was closing on the brown-tiled bathroom at Hello Garden. You never know about people. Osmondo the silent. Rats chittered. Wittgenstein scampered up to my white tennis shoe and lifted his front paws. At least I thought it was him.

17

L
et me put it like so,” said Charthouse. “This is an absolute fucking catastrophe.” He'd never said
fucking
before in my presence. He lifted the badger-head cane. He tapped his chin with it. That made me nervous. “I would say that
catastrophe
is putting it mildly, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. I had spilled it all. The party. Quinn and the mirror. The owl theft. Mr. Stone balanced his silver-­gray hat in his hands. That frightened me more than Charthouse's business with the cane. Charthouse kept quiet as I explained everything. I assumed he'd be furious. He sat, not speaking. Getting more silent. If that makes sense. Then he started in with the cane business. Bad enough. But when a figure like Mr. Stone begins fingering his hat, you can't help assuming the trouble you're in is serious. A rule of life. Charthouse had gotten a haircut over the holidays: trimmed almost down to the scalp. His beard gone, too. He looked younger, despite the streaks of gray. “I admit,” I said, “I'm culpable.” “Culpability, that's just narcissism by another name,” said Charthouse. “He came in with a woman,” said Mr. Stone. I explained again: the woman had appeared before Potash arrived; they did not come in together. Tall, white skin, white hair, a scar on her throat. Wearing a business suit and heels. A pet raven. I left out the part about wanting to fuck her. Didn't seem right to repeat. “And did you recognize her,” Charthouse asked. “No,” I said. “You can do better than that, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “I didn't, okay,” I said. No reason for me to be protesting. “Come on, Mike, let's commune with the ancients before we make any rash decisions,” said Charthouse. His breath smelled like spearmint gum. Mr. Stone was scanning his bookshelves as he talked to me. “Here we are,” he said. He held a book at my eye level, in one palm. It had an iron-looking latch. “Is this mug shots,” I said. “Not exactly,” said Charthouse.

Smell of old paper. No title on the cover. A metal emblem inset: the open eye. The book was written in German. It took me a long time to realize that, because the writing was spiky and hard to decipher. Even then I could only tell from the umlauts. Long, blearing passages of text. Diagrams: I saw a tree, rooted in the earth and reaching to the sky. Concentric spheres. A symbol that looked, to me, like a stick figure with horns and a unibrow jumping up in the air, its arms spread. There were actual illustrations. Images. A long-haired young man standing in an empty amphitheater. His left hand resting on a globe and a rose clutched in his right. A donkey and a lion yoked to a cart, in which rode what appeared to be the sun, wreathed in fire. “What is this,” I asked. “It's a book by Erchaana of Dachaaua,” said Charthouse, “which clearly makes no difference to you. Keep flipping.” I did. I saw a woman, tall and slender, naked, with long colorless hair covering her nipples. At her feet a raven. A skeleton astride a mountain, lifting up a sword. I turned back to the naked woman. “Yes,” I said, “it's her.” “Well, that's just marvelous,” said Charthouse, “I leave you alone for a week and it's the end of the world.” “The crows work for her,” I said. “You are a master of the astutely irrelevant,” said Mr. Stone. “I dreamed about her, I think,” I said, before I even realized it was true. I could not recall anything other than fragments: a stone basin, stars, a throat. “I'll wager you did,” said Charthouse, “she feels at home in the dreams of young men. Me? No longer troubled.” “Nor am I,” said Mr. Stone.

Messaline. That was the name—once I'd deciphered the thorny script of the title plate—under the naked woman's feet. “And you hit her,” said Charthouse, “as in your fist made contact.” I nodded. The ancillary pain of her blow had faded. Where she'd landed the punch still ached every time I breathed. “She must be slipping, in her dotage,” said Mr. Stone. “You have hidden talents,” said Charthouse, “not to mention the fact that you're walking around. Lift up your shirt.” I did. “Holy mother of god,” he said. “What,” I said. I assumed he'd be deliver­ing a death announcement. “It's just a bruise,” said Charthouse, “you got off easy.” “So she's a sorceress, or whatever,” I said. “We've seen indications that she was present in the city,” said Mr. Stone. “She was one of von Sebottendorf's consorts. Although it would perhaps be more accurate to describe him as one of her many consorts.” “The crows,” I said. “It's better,” said Charthouse, “not to talk about them. There's a large crow community in the tristate area. They're diligent.” Charthouse was pacing and hammering his palm with the cane. Mr. Stone sat in his chair, spinning his hat on a finger. I looked at the image of Messaline again. “Aren't you guys going to do anything,” I said. Wittgenstein and his brothers and sisters took note. My voice echoed: Mr. Stone's house had strong acoustics.

“ ‘You guys,' ” said Charthouse, “misses the facts of the case. There's no you guys here. There's only us.” “Well, then maybe we should hit back,” I said. “How would that go,” said Charthouse, “you don't know where he is. You don't know what he took. I assume he's hidden it somewhere. They want us to hunt it up for them, I'd say. But there's a real knowledge deficit here, no, Mr. Stone?” Mr. Stone stopped spinning his hat. “ ‘A knowledge deficit,' ” said Mr. Stone, “does not begin to capture the situation.” This is what I mean. You find the secret key. You stumble on the secret door. And no revelation awaits you. Mr. Stone's hat spun on his finger and rats leaped over Charthouse's shoes. For the first time I wished I'd let Hob sell me out. Just to be done with this. Then my head wouldn't hurt all the time, my lungs and muscles wouldn't burn. “Sheer sentimentality,” said Mr. Stone. “Look, I understand you're a wizard or whatever,” I said, “but could you not do that. I can't do it to you.” “Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “you go right now to Mountjoy and sign their contract. You have to, before they admit you, you know. In blood. With an iron pen. You would have an excellent chance of admission. Their standards are, despite their pretenses, low. They seek the obedient, nothing more. They themselves are obedient. Like all cowards they dress up their cowardice as bravery. I can alter your face,” said Mr. Stone, “if you are so inclined.” “Fuck you,” I said. “That is the spirit, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “we all are in pain. And I am considerably older than you. So please do not complain until you better know what it is of which you speak.” His accent increased. Just for his last exhortation. Accent shifts happened to my grandmother and father too, when they got excited. Except they sounded like they were from Canarsie. Mr. Stone sounded like a movie Nazi. “I told you that anyone can whistle. That everyone does. That this does not mean we are all Mozarts. You understood.” I nodded. “Hob Callahan could be described as Mozart. A talent of such depth and breadth,” he said. Stopped. “In fact, to describe his abilities would only demean them. Language being, as you will discover if you attain your maturity, eternally insufficient. He is a potential champion of this cause, in which we serve as mere soldiers. You understand, I trust, our concern. So, Mr. Wood, let me ask once more: are you an asshole?” said Mr. Stone.

I almost said yes. Charthouse was watching. Wittgenstein was watching. “I am not an asshole,” I said. “Then you must decide whether you're in or you're out,” said Mr. Stone, “equivocation, my boy, will not do.” Wittgenstein quirked his whiskers and his pink nose. I thought of the white woman. Of Potash. Of Hob. Of my mother and father, inexplicably. I didn't know what they wanted. I didn't know what would be asked of me. Only that it would be. That, when you're a child, is sufficient. “I'm in,” I said. “We don't work with contracts, you understand,” said Charthouse. I nodded. “You are a man of your word, Mr. Wood, I can see that. A rare thing in this unpredictable life,” said Mr. Stone.

Image of the lithe, naked woman. Or girl. It was her. A raven at her feet, a fountain next to her. Above her head the crescent moon.
Messaline, die Verräterin.
“She was a witch,” said Mr. Stone. “That's an archaic term,” I said. Mr. Stone shook his head. “It is a term of perverse respect. It means merely a user of the art who refuses the yoke they offer. I cannot blame her for accepting it. Most of her colleagues died, if this text is accurate, at the Massacre of Amiens in 1172.” “They never taught us that,” I said, “in world history. No massacre.” “It has nothing to do with the teaching of history,” said Mr. Stone, “it is a fact.” “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” said Charthouse, “unless you give her a job. And you really hit her,” he said. “She works at Mountjoy House,” I said. “We believe so,” said Mr. Stone. “Head of enforcement, is our best guess,” said Charthouse, “as to what her business card says.” This made sense. “And she's immortal,” I said. “All men are mortal, and Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal,” said Charthouse. “She seems to have grasped the essentials of longevity, however,” said Mr. Stone. “What does verraterin mean,” I said. “
Verräterin
,”
said Mr. Stone. His Nazi accent alive again. “It means ‘traitress.' ”

A silverfish crawled peacefully over the naked woman's long body. I watched its pointless progress. Mr. Stone reset the fold in his silver-gray hat. He could have been any quiet and irascible old man of the Upper West Side. Except we were in what could only be called his lair. “And the wands,” I said. “They make the pain stop. If you use them. I'm right, aren't I,” I said, “instead of just doing it.” “Insofar as pain on this earth has an end point,” said Mr. Stone, “then yes. Congratulations.” “And it's just a philosophical difference,” I said. “All differences are philo­sophical, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “They will absolutely kill you though if you lift your head up too much,” said Charthouse, “and that's not metaphysics. It's just a tyranny-of-the-majority thing.”

He had a point. That is how the human race functions. The strong crush the weak. No matter what people say. “Can't we just murder him from a distance,” I said. “I cannot,” said Mr. Stone, “can you? Would you care to attempt this feat? You will find that you have no idea where to begin. It is not an improvisation with a mirror. Say we succeeded. What good would it do Hob?” I didn't argue. He was of course correct. “And Potash said nothing more than that: you have something of mine,” said Mr. Stone. I nodded. “So why does she have a scar across her throat,” I said. “It is one of their punishments, or it used to be,” said Mr. Stone, “for violating their law. Silencing. Some it renders power­less. If they have become dependent on incantations. It comes with the first offense. There are other more serious penalties.” “She didn't
seem
powerless,” I said. “Some cases,” said Charthouse, “and you see what I mean about the tyranny of the majority. I bet they had her in bracelets, too.” Cold, tumorous metal: that I remembered. Her tongue in my mouth: that I remembered. Wittgenstein was running around in lunatic circles. His siblings watched in suspicion.

“Mr. Wood, why do you care what happens to Hob,” said Mr. Stone. I did not speak immediately. I knew the wrong answer would be fatal here. Not only to me. To the whole endeavor. Or maybe this was just another test. I was sick of tests. Of guessing. “Professional courtesy,” I said. It was a phrase my father used to describe the obligation binding him to other lawyers. Even those who outpaced him in his craft, who were always running ahead. Charthouse started guffawing. “I appreciate that answer more than you know,” said Mr. Stone. “Professional courtesy,” repeated Charthouse. He took down a decanter and three glasses from a high cabinet. The decanter tall and graceful. Filled with liquor. In which swam a single delicate aqua­marine eel. “And what about those,” I said as he poured. “Do you actually want to know,” he said. “Not really,” I said. “Few do,” said Mr. Stone. “Happy new year,” said Charthouse. “You're late,” I said. “Spirit of the season,” said Charthouse.