The War Against the Assholes (5 page)

8

S
now. That's the first thing I saw in the street. It had started to snow. “We're going to that store,” I said. “Incorrect,” said Hob. He didn't explain further. Neither did Alabama. “I didn't even know you were coming to this party,” I told Hob. “I thought I should make my presence felt, for a few minutes at least,” he said. “Wood was just about to get laid, if you can believe it,” said Alabama.

She could make me blush. No one wants to blush. You feel weak. She had on a leather jacket and leather boots. Both about the color of her hair. When she moved, the hem of her jacket rode up and I saw the gun butt above the waistband of her jeans. Snow scraped my cheeks. “You're armed,” I said. “Do they teach you anything else at that school other than mastering the obvious,” said Alabama. “No, actually,” said Hob. “She's going to have a shiner, too,” said Alabama, “you better hope she doesn't tell anyone you hit her.” “That would be sort of in keeping with the way things went back there generally,” I said, “you have to admit.” I explained about the door. “She's never done anything ridiculous,” said Hob, “that I've seen. And her school is even worse than ours where the ridiculous is concerned.” “Oh, so now she's some noble character,” said Alabama. Two crows took off from a snow-dusted mailbox. “It's getting bad,” said Hob, “I'm glad we're doing this tonight.” “I like you guys so I hope you won't be offended if I say I had other plans,” I said. Hob released his odd, high laugh. He was hammered. “They only count as plans if they have a shot at working,” said Alabama. She was dead sober.

She made us stop to buy tangerines at the fruit store near the subway at Ninety-Sixth. Full of white light and the blazing colors of leaves and rinds. The guys who owned it were Turkish. A father and son. My mother bought fruit there. The blueberries for her pancakes. “Do you want,” Alabama said. I took one. “I don't dig citrus fruits,” said Hob. “Who doesn't dig citrus fruits,” I said. “This guy,” he said, and indicated himself with his thumbs. Even Alabama laughed. I ate my tangerine on the platform. The juice stung my cuticles. Cold air poured over my cheeks. A crack in the infrastructure. A snowflake or two. “Look at that,” said Hob, “they survived.” The train thundered in. As it slowed, Alabama tipped a salute to the conductor.
Don't hassle him
: I was about to speak. But he responded, jerking his head backward. “Last car,” said Hob. When we reached the doors, I saw Charthouse waiting inside. “Logistical perfection,” he said, “we all strive for it.” He carried a black canvas bag in his left hand and the badger-head cane in his right. I could still smell Maggie's perfume. Vincent sat behind him, legs extended, fanning open and closed a fresh deck of blue-back cards. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said when he saw me, “the daring young man on the flying trapeze.” “What is that supposed to mean,” I said. “You're losing focus,” Charthouse said. And thus we got under way.

Between Spring and Canal, the car lights went out and the ventilation stopped roaring. Hob and Vincent stood by the rear door. The inset door window showed an endless vista of rails and glaring lights. They were throwing cards. “That can of seltzer,” said Vincent, and whipped his arm floorward with a grunt. The card whistled as it cut air. The discarded can of seltzer sang when the card struck. “An overhand motion makes you look unprofessional,” said Hob. Vincent gave him the deck. “Nature of things,” said Vincent. “You have to cave to your elders and betters.” “Dr. W.,” said Hob. He meant the ad for Dr. Waldengarten, dermatologist, near the opposite end of the car. He threw. He hit the doctor's greasy, bland grin. Still whitely visible in the dimness. “So we're tied,” said Vincent. The brakes shrilled. I lurched in my seat. Vincent fell on his hands. The cards splashed. “Due to a signal malfunction at Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall, we are currently experiencing delays on the four, five, and six lines,” the conductor droned over the speakers. “Come on, really,” I said. “Calm down,” said Hob. “Signs and wonders,” said Charthouse, rising from his seat. Alabama said, “Wood here's just got blue balls, captain.” “Don't we all, one way and another,” said Charthouse. He trotted to the rear door, stepping on cards. “I just bought that deck,” said Vincent. “It's two fifty,” said Charthouse as he opened the rear door. “Or it used to be.” A steel rod glinted in his hand.

“You don't know what inflation is these days,” said Vincent. “Questions of monetary policy do not concern me,” said Charthouse. He handed Vincent a flashlight from the black bag. He gave us all flashlights. “Get moving,” said Charthouse. I did. I stumbled when I reached the track bed. My flashlight beam danced across the ties. One palm spattered a puddle of runoff. Scuttering and quiet cries. Rats or mice. “We appreciate your patience”: the conductor, again. You could hear the announcement outside the car as the light flickered back on and the train started to move. “Is this safe,” I said. “As long as we don't dick around here too long, no question,” said Charthouse. The tunnel air didn't stink. I assumed it would. Charthouse and Alabama light-scanned the walls. “Bingo,” said Alabama. Her cone of light showed an even deeper darkness. A black doorway. “Up and at 'em,” said Charthouse. We had to climb again, onto the access path. This time I didn't stumble. Only enough room to stand single file. The door opened inward. More darkness. The air pouring out colder. “No need to be afraid,” said Vincent, “I'm right here.” Through a tight smile. I thought about punching him. Cracking him across the mouth with the barrel of the flashlight I'd retrieved. Industrial. Or a cop flashlight, maybe. I assumed Alabama would shoot me if I did. Instead I said: “That's okay with me.” “Positive thinking,” said Charthouse, “is what I and others like to see.”

Tunnels: They wash out your voice. Make it ghostly and thunderous. Like literature. “That round doesn't count,” said Vincent. “It does, in fact,” Hob said. Their argument close and racketing. The walls of the corridor pristine. White tile. Water dripped. “Let's stay focused, gentlemen,” said Alabama. She was bringing up the rear. She had her gun out. I could tell by the way she sounded. I didn't want to check visually. “It amazes me how clean these walls remain,” said Charthouse. His cane scraped and chimed. A rat banged my shoe and leaped over. I didn't mind. I like rats. Given the choice of coinhabitants city life offers, rats I prefer to roaches. They're mammals. You can understand their motivations. Charthouse's heavy, uneven gait broke our rhythm. I hoped they weren't going to make me take another suicide jump. A phone trilled. “Are you kidding me,” said Charthouse. Vincent held up his phone. “The wonders of the modern age,” he said. He was still dressed in a black suit. This time with a purple tie. He'd done that at school, too, I remembered. Even though you had to wear a uniform: blue blazer, gray pants, white shirt, and a blue-and-white tie. If you violate the law's letter while upholding its spirit, I think you can escape punishment. “Who is it,” said Hob. “It's Mom,” said Vincent. “That is touching,” said Charthouse. The tunnel ended. I saw a white, high wall in the flashlight cones. We stopped moving. Bunched up. A beam flashed across a green-painted metal door. A gold, eye-shaped scrawl graffitied near the upper lintel. “Hob, would you do the honors,” said Charthouse. Hob slid a key into the door's lock. The key glittered. “What was that thing on the door,” I said, “that symbol.” “What do you think,” answered Alabama. “Easy now,” said Charthouse. “I think this might actually be more difficult for you,” said Vincent. To me. My hands curled into fists. I thought about Alabama's gun and calmed down. Hob opened the door. Warm yellow light leafed the tunnel floor. Three rats jumped the threshold. We followed them in.

I don't know why I was surprised to see a living room. Well lit and warm. The air smelling of oranges. Some herb. Bookshelves lined the walls. English titles, German titles, French. Other tongues. I was, as I said, no scholar. Leather chairs, their wooden legs gnawed on and scarred. A black, hexagonal wooden table in the room's center. Near which stood an old man in a pigeon-gray fedora. “Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse. “Mr. Charthouse,” said Mr. Stone, “and the lovely Ms. Sturdivant, I see. Standing there against the darkness. It is always a delight, an encounter with you.” Alabama grinned and dipped her head. The door groaned closed behind her. “That's how you can tell you're dealing with a man of high quality,” said Charthouse, “is he's polite.”

Mr. Stone looked almost seven feet tall. His eyes ocean blue. He wore a gray suit and a silver-gray tie the exact color of his hair. A tiepin, too, set with a green stone. He leaned on the creaking back of his enormous black armchair. A large, tawny rat perched on the leather top edge, grooming its face near Mr. Stone's elbow. “This is the offensive lineman you mentioned,” said Mr. Stone. He had an accent. German, I thought. “Come here,” he said, “and let us see what we can see.” Vincent had no more smart remarks to make. I stumbled up to the tall man with my flashlight still on. We shook hands. His enveloped mine. I have large hands. “Menachem Stone,” he said. “Michael Wood,” I said. “I imagine you have questions,” he said. “Yes, sir, I do,” I said. “Sir! That is excellent,” said Charthouse, “that is exactly right.” “Have a seat, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “Mr. Wood and Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse, “it's the meeting of the natural nouns.” Mr. Stone sat. Another rat, gray, leaped onto the back of his chair. I sat too. A black table between us. Charthouse and Alabama grabbed the remaining leather chairs. Hob and Vincent dragged up wooden stools. A third rat, black and beady eyed, scampered onto Mr. Stone's armchair.

“You are wondering,” he said, cracking his protuberant knuckles, “why young Mr. Charthouse brought you here.” I was. “It is not as simple to explain as it looks,” he said. “I have to admit that it doesn't look simple to me,” I said. “That is encouraging,” said Mr. Stone, “you lack preconceptions.” The three rats crouched. The black rat scampered toward his hand, and he stroked its pointy head. “Are you familiar with the works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” said Mr. Stone.
Vulfgong
: his accent. “Not really, sir,” I said. “Happily, that is a matter of complete irrelevance,” said Mr. Stone. “The point I wish to impress upon you is that not anyone can be Mozart. But we all have a modicum at least of musical ability. This young Mr. Charthouse here understands.” I began to wonder if this guy was an escaped Nazi. Lived in a secret tunnel. German accent. Fancy suit. It made sense to me. “Not that,” said Mr. Stone, “very much the other thing, I am afraid.” “Are you talking to me, sir,” I said. “You know very well that I was,” said Mr. Stone. “We all have ability. That's a beautiful sentiment,” said Charthouse.

Everyone was looking at us. Alabama, Hob, and Vincent. “Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “we are in the middle of a war.” I laughed at that. I could not help myself. No one else laughed. So I stopped. When you're that age it's frightening to laugh on your own. “I assure you it is not funny, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “I've never served,” I said. “There is no reason a man cannot don multiple hats,” said Mr. Stone. He had a point. He palmed his long chin. “You do understand,” he said, “if you say no all this is forbidden to you.” I nodded. “And you understand this is quite real,” he said. “That's the part I sort of have difficulty with,” I said. “Do you have a cigarette,” said Mr. Stone. I offered him the bundle of brown ones I had with me. “I'd like you to smoke one,” said Mr. Stone. I set one in my mouth. Slapped my pockets. “I can't find my lighter,” I said. Vincent snorted. I looked. Hob was holding it up: clear red plastic. “This is not a problem,” said Mr. Stone, “put the cigarette in your mouth and light it, that is all. I am not asking you to perform an impossible feat. I am not asking you to
fly
.” He grinned as he said
fly
. His teeth huge and white. The rats on his chair chittered in glee.

“What do you mean, ‘a war,' ” I said. “We're in a war against the assholes,” said Hob. He had not spoken much to me so far. I think he was worried I'd make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Stone. “Makes sense,” I said, “nobody likes assholes.” “Mr. Callahan is correct, I am afraid,” said Mr. Stone, “and I know an excessive amount about, as he puts it, assholes. Light the cigarette, please.” The black rat danced. The gray rat chattered to the brown one. “And who are these assholes,” I said. “They run the world,” said Charthouse, “although you've never met any of them, I doubt.” “Will Alabama shoot me if I don't,” I said, “light it I mean.” “You never know,” said Alabama. The gray rat ran down from its perch. It crossed the black table and sat at my elbow. I admire rats. I still had to struggle not to flinch. “Wittgenstein likes you,” said Mr. Stone, “I take that as a testament to your good character. And no. She will not. I have never permitted violence in my home. Light the cigarette, please.”

The deck of cards was in my hands. I found myself shuffling it. The way you might find yourself biting your nails. The cigarette dangled from my mouth. It was still not lit. “Against the assholes,” I said. I admired the phrase. I was not fond of assholes at that point in my life. Wittgenstein sat there eying me. As did my human companions. “It is a question of precision, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “Hob tells me you are an athlete. So you understand precision. Light the cigarette, please.” His voice resonant and his eyes clear. He had not blinked once. So I sat there, pondering what to do, the cigarette hanging from my lips.
Well
, I thought,
if I can fly there's no reason that can't happen
. It's easy to let go of your prejudices when you're young. I tapped the deck to even it out. I shot the cards from hand to hand. My parents at home. With their shows about apes and dragonflies and their tennis rackets. The nuns at Saint Cyprian's adrift in their brown habits. My heartbeat slowed. Mr. Stone's voice smeared. I compressed the deck again. It felt alive against my palm. The cards arced out. Slow enough for me to count. They arced in a clean curve from my left hand to my right.
Professional
, I thought. I could see the fine lines of Alabama's ribs expanding and contracting beneath her white shirt, which said the words
BIKINI KILL
across her breasts. The light in the room changed color. I swear. Amber to bloody orange. Reminded me of a forgotten phenomenon. From physics class. Couldn't say what, precisely. I heard: the flutter of the cards. I smelled: sweet smoke. The cigarette blazed. For a second. It died almost at once.