Chapter 17. Product Demo
Robert aimed a rifle through the storm drain. He aimed across the street, toward the doorway where the thief, Marshall Ploof, would emerge. The beads of sweat on Robert's forehead dropped into rivulets and streamed down his face and his spine. A nervous finger squirmed on the trigger. He lined up the sights and quickly wiped his brow using his shoulder, and once again he cursed the man who had brought him to this depravity.
Draped over the doorway was a sign that read, "Pelius: Free Your Mind." The doorway itself was framed with a digital display of blooming roses, in lieu of the main attraction. A large crowd gathered on both sides of the sidewalk in front of the building. Every rooftop within viewing distance contained rapt observers and the doorway was guarded by intense police security.
Only members of the press were allowed to stand on the sidewalk directly in front of the doorway. Between two of the reporters was a slight opening for Robert to aim at the heart of Marshall Ploof.
He came to San Francisco to save the world from Marshall Ploof. Roert's alibi was anchored in a bay north of Seattle, and no one knew that he had driven south to San Francisco. Everyone at Talbot believed that Robert was fishing off the Olympic Peninsula, taking a break from research.
Although it was his hatred for Marshall Ploof that brought him to California, fortuitously, Robert also took great offense at Pelius for producing a product long stifled and ignored by Talbot because of its gross ethical problems. To Robert, all that made mankind alive, all that made the human spirit spiritual, all that had matured and evolved over the eons was about to come to a crashing halt with the unveiling of this product. Yet, unlike Robert, the media around the world were unanimously celebrating the moment, waiting with bated breath to see what Marshall Ploof would look like. In the press releases, Pelius promised a virtual utopia and clearly paid the media markets millions of dollars to assure complete coverage. A few religious groups opposed the progress of Pelius, but every media pundit and public statesman weighed in on the topic of innovation with favorable opinions. As American research tightened around itself and grew stagnant, India and China threatened to win the patent wars, thus Pelius seemed like a savior for the xenophobic. America had fallen in status. For many Americans who had always lived under the swagger of the empire, the feeling of being second-best burned at their egos, as if the undulations of the world economy attacked them personally. So this promise of Pelius and their unbelievable product could not come soon enough for some.
The newspapers said Marshall Ploof was a man of unquestionable genius, but the accomplishments attributed to Ploof were hijacked wholesale from the life of Spiro Ling. A few suspicious errors in the press release gave Ploof skills beyond his ability.
Ploof was not originally trained as a neurosurgeon. Ploof had not taken secondary degrees in electrical engineering and the floundering field of memetics. But the press said he was all this and more. Few had taken notice of the errors outside of Pelius. But Robert Lopez assumed that Ploof had managed to elbow his way past Ling, just like he had Robert at Talbot.
Journalists quickly fell over themselves to compliment the career of Ploof. They wrote that by the time Ploof began to study memetics, the entire field of 'meme research' had failed to prove a single theorem in the decade of its existence, and the memetic community was viewed by many as a group of 'funding fops,' or scientists seeking money to pursue absurd ideas. As if he had nursed a broken-winged bird back to health, Ploof's unearthly math skills took memetics from pseudo-science to bleeding-edge. Just as Sir Isaac Newton and Gottfried Liebniz discovered the mathematics of calculus in nature, Marshall Ploof discovered the math inside our brains: the algorithms of memes. He had essentially broken through the final frontier of the human body with memetics, proving in his lab work that ideas can be put into the brain using fairly simple clustering algorithms of electrical impulses. The math proved to be sensible, just as Einstein showed us the universe - simple, immutable, beautiful.
Upon this rock of math findings, Ploof's lab built a device that he had implanted into his own body in order to showcase the safety and effectiveness. In the public marketing campaign, Pelius took early and effective measures to assure the public that the device did not make 'cyborgs' out of normal men and women, but was simply the next step in tech advancement, like an extension of the smart phone, but directly in the head and wired to the synapses.
Over the entire previous year, Pelius broadcasted a nationwide campaign promising American prosperity. The deluge of promises put forth by Pelius piqued the interest of people everywhere, and this invention crowned the marketing effort. The memetic implant promised solutions: it would enlighten the mind, be the end of medical coverage, the end of education spending, the end of hating your job, the end of all things negative, and to Robert, all things hogwash.
In the doorway of Pelius, armed guards mingled with the waiting crowd and bumped shoulders with members of the press. The mayor of San Francisco spoke to the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to witness an event that history will always remember."
The TV networks were live on the scene, and Robert saw the reporters straining to hear every word.
Robert wiped his drenched face again and peered down the rifle sights. His bloodshot eyes stung from the sweat. He wore all black clothing, including black gloves and black polish on his face to mesh with the look and feel of the sewer.
The mayor continued. "May I introduce to you a great teacher and friend, our local hero, our embodiment of the American dream. I give to you, Dr. Marshall Ploof."
Robert flipped the safety switch of his rifle and took aim at the doorway for the hundredth time.
Suddenly Dr. Ploof emerged to make his historical exit from the building and his great entrance into the world as a phenomenon, a hero, a genius. He was a mastermind greater now than any pioneers of electricity. Ploof's name joined the pantheon of Western Civilization's most amazing minds - Euclid, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, et al.
He crossed the threshold of the doorway. The crowd surged to get a glimpse of Ploof, and in doing so the cadre of media cameramen tightened up so that Robert's clear shot at Ploof disappeared. Robert clenched the rifle and started to shake. He held his breath and attempted to remain steady while he waited for the reporters to move out of his firing angle.
Confetti rained out of the windows of the Pelius buildings, as employees took part in watching from their offices. They yelled Marshall Ploof's name. The sky of San Francisco was blue as robins' eggs and the summer heat made the crowd electric and sanguine. The audience members that couldn't directly see Dr. Ploof watched him on large flat screens, set out at intervals in the Pelius parking lot. There was hope in the air, excepting the struggling assassin, Robert, who after ninety seconds let go of his lungs and exhaled loudly. When he did, he found the stress of the moment exhausting him, and the barrel of the rifle wobbled in his clammy hands.
The crowd continued to cheer for two minutes upon first sight of Dr. Ploof, during which the mayor stammered onward with accolades for Ploof and his team. The reporters did not sway, and showed no signs of giving Robert a clear shot, until suddenly one reporter in front of Robert dropped down to her knees to adjust her equipment, giving Robert a window for a clear shot at Ploof's right shoulder, but before Robert had time to steady his aim, the reporter stood up, and once again became an obstacle to the hollow-point bullet.
Ploof waved at the crowd and said modestly, "This is too much. Thank you. I really appreciate it."
After applause, Ploof said, "Let me tell you briefly about why you have all gathered today. Let me tell you about the good things to come for this company and this country. Today we have good fortune. Not my good fortune, but ours as a collective whole."
Robert listened with disgust.
Ploof went
on, "What my team here at Pelius has done is unprecedented. We have found a way to unlock the treasures of the mind, and soon every man, woman, and child of this country will be able to harness the full ability of the finest thinkers of all time. We will have thousands of tinkerers that can take their ideas to the next level, thousands of housewives able to discuss quantum physics, and thousands of philosophers exploring the deepest insights of mankind. We will be enriched with knowledge. But we will be rich, too. The thousands of great entrepreneurs we have today, perhaps tentative because of knowledge, will be as full of business and legal knowledge as the Library of Congress."
Robert heard a cheer and saw a bit of confetti fall in front of the storm drain.
Ploof continued, "There is a profound saying by William Blake that I have often pondered and had mixed feelings about. If you'll bear with me, I'd like to preface this occasion with this great poet's verse, which states simply enough, 'The cut worm forgives the plow.' I say again, 'The cut worm...forgives the plow.' This is a verse often pondered by great minds. Given Blake's penchant for religion, the saying is usually interpreted in a Christian sense. I interpret it in a spiritual sense, as in the human spirit. To me the saying is about progress. Progress is the plow. Of course, that makes you and me the worms, unfortunately." Ploof paused and laughed.
"The plow of progress is yet again upon us, moving us toward a better life, a better world. Historically, we have always forgiven the plow after it cuts us, because progress eventually gives something back to us. Although at first the progress may seem threatening, it promises a new day. When the invention of the wheel first came about, those men, women, and beasts of burden that carried everything on their backs had to face progress. When the aqueducts of Rome were built, the water bearers lost their jobs. When the light bulb first illuminated a room, candle-makers suffered. When the Internet created an office economy, we found out the power of immense information at our fingertips. Today, you will see this power increased exponentially.
"Today, for the first time in human history, the worm will become the plow, with a simple attachment of a harmless device to our bodies. With this invention, no one will be left behind due to lack of knowledge or maladjustment. Knowledge will be readily available, downloadable, and memorize-able by the entire population. Progress will no longer be a divisive and cutting misfortune separating Americans into groups of haves and have-nots, but instead it will be a uniting and self-liberating, self-actualizing force."
The crowd remained silent as Ploof turned to face a different section.
"If you've ever wondered how to do calculus or differential equations - you will know it in a matter of minutes. Not only will you know how to solve the problems, but you will also comprehend it. For anyone interested in the legal system, you will have encyclopedic, instantaneous case-by-case knowledge of any state or area of law. If you are religious and want to memorize the Bible, thy will be done. If you want to write poetry like William Blake, the study of all the Romantics can be accomplished in minutes. We can all have PhDs in multiple subjects. Depression, dyslexia, addictions, and attention deficits are soon to be artifacts of our culture. Medical problems, such as infection and insulin regulation, can all be managed by this powerful device that harnesses the vast power of the brain. Our limitations, set by our brains, will now be liberated by this device. We have mapped a new universe."
Pointing to his head, Ploof said, "My fellow citizens, let me give you a demonstration of the power of the Pelius device, a device that we have named 'Nikolai' in honor of Nikolai Tesla, the great inventor and my personal inspiration for learning and discovery."
Robert adjusted his position in the hammock and noticed that his arm supporting the rifle stock had fallen asleep. He swore under his breath and attempted to steady the aim, but even when he lined up the sights with the storm drain, the reporters stood like statues in front of him. The longer the speech continued, the more doubt he had of accomplishing the assassination, and he started to wonder how he had ever come to hide out in a sewer without planning for the contingency of TV crews.
Ploof continued, "For an example, I'm going to display the power of Nikolai. Prior to our meeting here today, I asked the mayor of San Francisco to select several topics of any subject matter, so long as the topic is knowledge that is in the public or academic domain. Nikolai does not do one thing, and that is read the personal thoughts of others. Telekinesis and ESP are still outside the realm of modern science, to be sure. At least for now." Ploof placed his hand behind his ear.
The crowd waited in silence.
"I'm now powering up Nikolai. With the flip of a switch, Nikolai goes to work," Ploof smiled. "And even though I can't tell the difference in my head, I now have the memory of trillions of pieces of data, as if I've always known these things. All I have to do is be posed with a question or think about a topic and the answers come pouring forward. So I now ask you, mayor, to fire away with your questioning of myself and Nikolai."
The mayor came to a podium that faced Ploof and said, "Here is the first topic I came up with. Recite the 29th through the 31st amendments to the United States Constitution, and please recite them word-for-word." The mayor beamed at Ploof.
In front of Robert, the same reporter that squatted earlier shifted her weight once again, allowing Robert a glimpse of Ploof. It occurred to Robert that the woman holding the camera seemed agitated. Hher hands shook nervously, much like his own, as she manipulated the buttons of her camera.
The reporter stood up, squatted down, and stood up one last time, allowing Robert fleeting glimpses of Marshall Ploof each time. Robert had Ploof lined up in the gun sights, but the reporter continued to move, and Robert could not pull the trigger with any guarantee of hitting Ploof. Finally the reporter stopped moving, hoisted the camera on her shoulder, and aimed it at Marshall Ploof.
Posed with the question from the mayor, Ploof inhaled, smiled at the cameras, and opened his mouth to speak. The reporter suddenly stood still in front of Robert, blocking his chance at a shot. Robert heard an electrical hum, like the sound of an X-ray machine, for one second, and then the sound stopped.
The left side of Ploof's face drooped. Drops of blood started dribbling out of his nose and ran down to his lips. Ploof's expression flattened on both sides. His head fell backwards, and his knees buckled underneath the weight of his body.
The great scientist fell on the ground in a violent seizure.
The horrified crowd gasped and cried out for doctors to make their way to Ploof, who twisted and contorted into awful positions, jerking so violently that Robert heard the sound of bones cracking. Red foam formed on Ploof's mouth and slid onto the hot pavement. The mayor attempted to assist Ploof, but the convulsive strength of the flailing body threw the mayor to the ground.
The cadre of cameramen continued to record the moment, except for the agitated reporter who had been blocking Robert's view. She walked away, seemingly distraught by the horror as he fled the scene, but the rest of the media stayed put.
Ploof's body wrenched backwards and forwards, flopping as if possessed. People from the audience attempted to stop the seizure to protect Ploof from himself, but it was to no avail. After thirty seconds, Ploof's body became limp. A crew of San Francisco paramedics pushed through the crowd and carted Ploof's body away. From Robert's view, Ploof already appeared dead.
Robert watched with amazement from his perch in the sewer. His immediate thought was that his gun had gone off by accident, but when he looked into the chamber, the bullet was still locked and loaded. Not sure what to do next, Robert pulled out his jack-knife to cut himself loose from the hammock. When he cut through the ropes in the first corner, Robert's obese body fell six feet onto the filthy sewer floor in a painful belly-flop, which knocked the
wind out of him. He lay supine with his mouth gaping for air, thinking perhaps he'd stabbed himself, and terrified between the equally bad outcomes of suffocating to death or being spotted in the sewer by the police. His tongue rolled out of his mouth as he pathetically tried to taste the air. After thirty seconds of this gaping, his airway opened again, gradually, and he made no attempt to be quiet with his lustful and gasping inhalations of fresh sewer air.
His escape plan involved cleanup and recovery of evidence, but in his nervous state, he opted for a new plan: he ran in terror. Leaving the rifle, hammock, knife and all, Robert took only his crowbar and fled down the pathway of the sewer tunnel. Since Robert weighed two hundred fifty pounds, his run soon lapsed into a jog, and then became a walk. He scrapped all his plans. In fact, everything about his plan to stop Marshall Ploof had been scrapped due to the incredible event that had taken place right in front of his eyes. For a brief moment he wondered what went wrong with Ploof's invention, but then forced himself to consider his situation, and he ran until his chubby legs pumped lactic acid through his muscles.
The manhole that Robert had used to descend into the sewer wasn't the same place he intended to escape from, but given the proximity and his growing paranoia about staying in the sewer, he had no qualms with going out the same way he came in. When he reached the ladder to climb out, he leapt up to the second rung and climbed. At the top of the ladder, Robert stabbed the crowbar into the manhole grommet and lifted with all his remaining strength. The manhole lid lifted up a few inches and fell back into its groove. Robert's arm, still asleep, barely had enough blood circulating to be of any use. Robert climbed another rung of the ladder and threw his shoulder into the manhole lid, lifting it up halfway. He brought his other foot one rung higher and grunted and pushed until the manhole cover flipped noisily onto the street and wobbled in circles until it clattered flat on the pavement. Without concern for being quiet or stealthy, Robert climbed out of the sewer and stood petrified in the street looking around in confusion. His heart thumped in his ears along with his fear as he turned his head around in all directions, expecting to see the San Francisco police waiting for him, but instead the street was empty.
The street was too quiet, allowing paranoia to flood his head. His black outfit clung to his body from so much sweat. He took off one if his black gloves and wiped his bloodshot eyes. After wiping his face, his hand wore the black polish he had smeared on every bit of his pasty white skin. Robert's impressive capacity to think in normal circumstances failed him. From side to side he swiveled his head, looking for an answer to his dire need to find a place to hide. The manhole cover stayed flipped over in the street. He ran to the edge of a building and peered down the adjacent street. A handful of people going home from the death of Ploof were walking in his direction. Robert's entire body shivered. He held the crowbar in his hand and considered beating the people with it. How many were there? Six of them - way too many.
Pinning his back to the wall of the building, he closed his eyes, hoping for an epiphany to arrest his thought. When he opened his eyes, he turned his head toward an alley near the manhole and saw his salvation - a Waste Management dumpster sitting outside the back door of a Thai restaurant. Robert heaved his body into a plodding run toward the dumpster, but halfway there, he froze in the street. A motorcycle drove directly toward Robert.
As the motorcycle approached, his rubbery legs turned rigid. Frozen, he could not even blink as the motorcycle swerved deftly around him. As the motorcycle passed, Robert turned to look at the driver. Suddenly Robert realized that the driver of the motorcycle was the same agitated reporter who had obstructed his view of Ploof.
It was Julia.
Now he did not have time to think about her.
As the group of people rounded the corner and caught sight of Robert, he flipped the lid of the dumpster and jumped inside. He pulled the lid down on himself and waited in fear, clutching the crowbar in his sweaty, shaking palms.
Two of the approaching people were San Francisco teenagers who switched their conversation from the violent seizure of Marshall Ploof to the dumpster-diving bum. Robert listened in silence as they passed by him.
A voice said, "Oh my God! Mom, did you see that?"
"See what?"
"That dude who just dove into the trash headfirst? It was hilarious."
"How can you even talk about a bum at a time like this?" the mother scolded. "Is that the first bum you've ever seen?"
"No, but you're the biggest bi..."
She slapped the side of her son's head. "You know what?"
"Ow!"
"You're going to church with grandma this weekend."
"Bullshit I am!"
"Bullshit you're not."
The family crossed to the other side of the street, away from the dumpster. Robert's nerves were slightly abated by their waning voices. He leaned backwards onto the trash with a sigh, not bothered by the smell of hot, rotting Thai leftovers. One of the trash bags split open as Robert's large body pressed into it. A wet box sagged open and spilled onto Robert's legs. This brought Robert's olfactory sense into working order, followed quickly by his gastrointestinal system. Inside the dumpster, Robert added to the mess by vomiting and cursing himself for not having an alternative plan of escape. He searched for used napkins in the trash bags and wiped his face, feverishly trying to remove the black polish.
"Idiot, idiot," he whispered, "Oh, what a damn idiot you are. What are you gonna do now? What now? What am I gonna do now?"
Robert's breathing quickened until he started to hyperventilate, and he became dizzy from the heat and the stress. Like a drowning man, he took one last breath, and then swooned into a heavy-dark slumber, there in the garbage on the San Francisco street, on the date of Marshall Ploof's unfortunate demise. His last thought before passing out was of his wife, Rachel.
He did not wake again until dusk, when police noises surrounded the street. The faint barking of dogs, German Shepherds, echoed through the street, and he knew immediately that the dogs were underground, in the sewer. The dogs and the reality of his situation touched him like electricity and his lips tingled. His bones felt like crackers, and wherever he moved, however he repositioned his spine, some sinew within threatened to snap. The barking continued, scaring him enough that, in order to cover his scent from the dogs, he smeared some of the rotting Thai food onto his face, his armpits, and in the crotch of his pants. Flies buzzed by his ears before landing on his face to suck at the sloppy garbage, but Robert dared not make a sound by swatting them away. Thus he sat with the insects buzzing, landing, feeding, taking off, buzzing louder, and landing for more feeding. He felt something crawling on his hand. Through the rusty holes in the sheet metal, beams of light shined inside, and Robert managed to lift his hand up into one of the shafts to see what the creepy feeling was. He'd rather not have looked at all. Maggots squirmed on the back of his hand. He covered his mouth with his other hand to choke back his disgust.
One of the rusted-out holes in the metal dumpster was near enough that by elevating his head a few inches, he could view the street. Yellow police tape cordoned the area surrounding the manhole. Guards stood watch with determined looks on their faces. Robert heard some of the police radios sound off with updates on the sewer search.
"It's clear. Nothing in here, Detective."
A detective in a drab suit paced back and forth over the manhole, eagerly listening to the radio and taking notes on his phone.
An officer standing guard polled the detective with questions. The detective ignored him.
Another officer approached the detective and said, "Something just came over the radio about a major sting in the Pacific Ocean - some cargo ship. I guess they found the kidnapped scientists."
The detective said, "That's terrific news. It's about
time."
The officer said, "Yeah. That's your case, right?"
"It is."
Robert felt a strong urge to weep. He began to question the feasibility of escaping. The police would clearly remain staked out on the manhole long after the first day. Even if he tried to crawl out, the suspicious nature of his appearance incriminated him beyond doubt. He also doubted that his ability to pass as a vagrant would succeed twice. Even worse, Robert needed to be back in Seattle by the following afternoon to catch his flight home to Chicago. His deep-sea fishing alibi came closer to shore with each passing moment. The chartered boat was scheduled to return to dock by 9 AM. His entire plan fell through, on every level - a complete failure in every sense. Robert considered himself a pathetic embarrassment.
The hours passed. He remained frozen in his fearful state. Nightfall crept inside and Robert knew that falling asleep would be a mistake. If he snored or rolled around at all, the police might take notice. The dumpster sat no more than thirty yards from the manhole. Perhaps the only positive aspect of his situation was that the cover of the dumpster opened away from the police. If he decided to attempt a getaway, opening the lid of the dumpster at least provided him brief concealment from the watching eyes. But whatever scenario where he imagined himself escaping, the only conclusion he arrived at was imminent capture. His overweight body hampered any chances of a quick and noiseless rush from the scene. His crowbar stood no chance against police pistols. He decided to wait until the early morning hours to consider a run for it.
The passage of time allowed Robert to mull his dubious decision to come to San Francisco in the first place. The 'whys' of his rationale to assassinate Marshall Ploof spurred his brain. Why had he thought himself a Blocker? Why was he laying among putrid trash bags when he could be in Chicago watching the San Francisco catastrophe on the television with his wife? His goals suddenly seemed juvenile.
It dawned on Robert that perhaps Ploof's neurological invention had failed on its own. Perhaps his sins culminated in his own demise, or Spiro Ling had his revenge.
Local news vans crowded the street near the manhole cover, giving Robert even less hope for a chance to escape. The noise in the street allowed him to shift his body around in the trash. The time on Robert's digital watch read 4:00 AM. The sun was still an hour or two under the horizon. Still on his back, Robert looked up at the top of the dumpster and tried to imagine scenarios that could aid his exit. A sharp element of doubt punctured any hope, though he knew that somehow he had to make an attempt, and make use of what he had in his favor. The crowbar was his only tool. If he'd at least brought the knife or the rifle, he'd have a glimmer of hope in crawling out, or perhaps taking a hostage. He wondered how long he could lay there before someone came to discover him. He wondered when the restaurant opened up. He wondered everything and solved nothing.
The detective on the street left the scene for some time, but returned at 5:30 in the morning. A forensics team blanketed the manhole under the detective's direction. After only ten minutes of searching with their equipment, a voice yelled out to the detective, "Found a hair right here. Looks to be a sandy brown."
The detective said, "Maybe we can find this guy in the database."
"Well, it's definitely a man. A white man. A white man with sandy brown hair. We won't be able to piece together a likeness for a little while."
"Pass it here," The detective said, referring to the capsule that contained the newfound hair. "I want the evidence in my hand to take to the station myself."
Robert grimaced at the words and watched the young officer hand over the capsule. On the other side of the dumpster, he heard a voice speaking Thai. He grabbed the crowbar in his fist. A door slammed shut and footsteps neared. Robert prepared himself to swing at whoever opened the lid. The sound of someone rummaging through boxes permeated the metal walls. The rustling sound grew louder.
"Stop!" a policeman yelled. "Who are you?"
The voice spoke English with an Asian accent. He stood very close and spoke to the policeman in confusion. "Are you talking to me, officer?"
The policeman's voice became aggressive as he approached. Inside, Robert clenched the crowbar and held his breath. A fresh sweat started on his forehead as he heard the policeman's footsteps crescendo with the voice. "What's your name? What are you doing out here at this time?"
The young man said, "I get here every day this time, to prepare food with my Dad."
The cop asked, "You own this place?"
"No sir, my father owns it."
"Did you see anything happen in the street yesterday?"
"We were closed for yesterday. We haven't been at the restaurant since the night before."
"All right." The officer softened his tone. "If you hear or see anything suspicious, let me know."
"I will."
The footsteps of the police officer moved away. Robert exhaled slowly, quietly, waiting for the next phase of the encounter to ensue. The first light of morning beamed through the rusty holes in the wall. The lid opened away from the police, so Robert knew they would not be able to see him, initially at least.
The young man lifted the lid to throw in the morning garbage. Robert gripped the handle of the crowbar tightly. An arm propped up the lid, and Robert waited for a face to come into view.
The boy lifted the bags of garbage with his face turned away from Robert, and Robert sat up and swung the iron rod's curved end into the young man's cheek, and he crumpled to the ground as silent as his dropped bags. Robert caught the falling lid with his outstretched arm and rolled himself out of the dumpster so that he fell to the ground on top of the unconscious man. Upon getting a closer look, the man was a skinny teen, causing Robert to pause. He lifted the lid, using it as a shield from the police and peeked around the corner of the dumpster. Two police officers stood in the street, but neither moved. Tucking the crowbar down the front of his pants, Robert let out a nervous sigh and mustered whatever courage he had left. He stepped over the boy on the ground, softly placed the lid down on the dumpster, and moved away from it, attempting to act nonchalant. He walked toward the back door of the restaurant, praying that it would be unlocked. He expected to hear the dogs at any second. One glance from a cop is all it would take. When he reached out for the door handle and pulled, he did not turn to look back into the alley behind him.
The back door of the restaurant swung shut behind Robert and he stood quietly in a dark hallway.
A voice from another room started giving orders in Thai. The owner of the voice thought that his son had come back inside. Hearing the foreign language, Robert pulled the crowbar out from the front of his pants and held it at the ready once again. The voice came from the kitchen and Robert hoped to avoid contact with the father at all costs. Robert noticed the restaurant bathroom door on his right side, so Robert pushed open the door and locked himself inside. He carefully set the crowbar on the sink, turned on the hot water, and scrubbed his face wildly until most of the black polish was gone. No matter how he scrubbed, the polish and stench clung to him. The smell of his armpits nearly gagged him. The body sweat, bacteria, and Pad Thai noodles had combined into a synergistic stench. He scrubbed until he felt moderately clean, and then he quietly unlocked the door and went back into the hallway of the restaurant, near the kitchen. He shut off the bathroom light before exiting the door to hide his face in the dark restaurant. With the crowbar firmly in his grip, he knew that his only avenue to independence was with the crude steel and more violence.
In the kitchen, an old man mumbled with a Thai accent, saying, "Stop dawdling out there. I know what boys your age do in the bathroom. You think you can turn the water on and I will assume nothing is going on. Ha! I was a boy once, too, you know."
The man continued rambling as he prepar
ed the kitchen for the work day, and Robert took slow steps toward the door from which the voice emanated.
"'Idle hands do the devil's work.' That's what they say in America, and it is a good saying. They also say you can go blind from it."
Robert looked toward the front of the restaurant, hoping to escape without having to use any more violence. The man continued talking in the kitchen, and Robert decided to make his move. He took two big steps past the open kitchen doorway and walked toward the front entrance of the building.
"Oh, you should know I'm only kidding you. You're too sensitive. I like to tease you. Now come help your father, would you? You wash your hands, didn't you? No, I'm teasing, just teasing."
Down the sidewalk Robert ran, away from his misery, toward the first bus stop and a chance to restore his marriage and his life with Rachel and their children. As swiftly as his chubby pins could move, he pounded the pavement with the dream of a clean getaway, until he passed a store window and saw a reflection of his attire and guilty outfit. He might as well have wore black and white stripes. Feeling at a loss, he ran to a pay phone, ducked into an alleyway, and called Julia Bentley-Blackwell.
He asked for her help.
"Where the hell have you been?" she answered, making him feel like a small boy. "Why didn't you call earlier?"
Robert blubbered into the phone. "I didn't have my phone. How did you know I would call?"
"I've been worried sick about you," she said. "Isaac and I have been up all night. Are you in trouble?"
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
"I don't know." He observed the street signs and mentioned the names.
"Ok, I'll come get you," Judith said sharply. "Just hang on. Do not move. Robert, do not move from that spot."
In a nearby alley he sat against the wall and folded his arms. Tipping his head back, he prayed at the heavens and drops rolled out from the corners of his shut eyes. A wave of memories came back to him, as it does in a contrite person, all at once, in racing thoughts, one upon the other, crashing the mind with too many requests. The snapshots of his life reeling in his lobes, all the wholesome days with Rachel forsaken for a single act of malice. Every vacation that he and Rachel took together before their marriage, every elementary school concert, the birthday parties and sleepovers, the camping trips, the funny moments at the breakfast and dinner tables, the spasmodic pets they kept, the weekends of watching movies and keeping the shades drawn, and most of all, the simple constancy of Rachel and her kisses goodbye, every morning for as long as he could remember.
A buzzing sound started in his head, and he thought that soon he would pass out again. However, it was not his head that was vibrating, but the sound of a motorcycle, which tore around the corner with a reckless driver leaning, who slammed on the brakes and squealed to a halt. Startled, Robert stood up in the alley and braced himself against the wall. At the end of the street, the driver spun the rear wheel around in a sharp turn and the bike lunged forward again. Shrinking against the wall, he cringed as the motorcycle aimed straight at him, and as the engine roared upon him, he cowered in a ball.
The motorcycle screeched to a halt. The driver flipped up the helmet shade, and Judith stared down at him with a cruel mouth.
"Get your ass up, or I'll let the pigs eat you."
He jumped to his feet and climbed on the back of the motorcycle. Before he clasped his hands together around Judith's waist, she hit the gas. He nearly tumbled off the back of the bike.
Robert hugged Judith and started to cry. He said, "I'm sorry."
Judith yelled over her shoulder. "You smell awful. And don't be sorry. You just don't understand the war or the stakes."
"I'm so sorry." He hyperventilated, smiled, and cried all at once. "I owe you everything," he said, as images of his family, Rachel and the kids, resumed dominating his thoughts.
"Robert, you owe me nothing. That was my last Block."
"You did that?" said Robert. "How? What did you use?"
"Me and Isaac. Never mind how. Just hold on."