I said, “I hear you have an organization to undermine the fast-food chains.”
He nodded. “I do. Burger Proletariat. You in?”
“I’m in,” I said. “I have an idea.”
“Oh?”
“For an operation. I know just where we can start.”
“Okay.”
“The first step involves a kidnapping.”
“Hardcore.”
“I can explain it all.”
“Tell me,” said Shunt.
So I did.
No one could hear us. The trash compactor banged and scraped. The scent of aging mayonnaise hung on the muggy summer air. Bees flew in and out of the palings of the fence. A few minutes later, we gave each other the high-five.
Then, agreed, we went back inside to scrub.
Some days seem perfect. By this, I guess I mean they seem like television. I thought a lot about the day when Diana and I went canoeing. When we stole apples together. Things had seemed perfect then.
The houses on the riverside had been well-painted. We could hear a lawn mower over the dribble of water from our paddles. As we went around a bend, we saw a house with pillars. A man was mowing the lawn with a beer-holder-hat on. A woman with her arm out stiff was crossing the grass in a negligee.
The apples rolled on the floor of the canoe. A spider was on one of them. When we rocked the boat and the apples clunked, the spider ran up the side of the hull.
Farther up the river, there were no houses. There were tall rushes. On either bank, there were just trees. Occasionally we saw a carton or a child’s toy draped in dead weeds. The water stank like poison.
“Swamp gas,” she said. “At night it lights up. They used to think it was the spirits of the dead.”
We washed apples in the river and ate them. The river water on the skin added a delicate hint of muck and gasoline. The spider was back on the apples.
There was a slow and steady rhythm of dipping the oars. We went under bridges. They were concrete. Usually, there was graffiti underneath. Often it was years. ’76. ’87. Class of ’92. Sometimes it was about romance. K.L. + Anita, happy 4-eva. Rhonda, I love you. Cheryl, your for me, Bob, corrected by someone to Cheryl, you’re for me.
“I am like filled with awe,” said Diana. “We’re in the complete presence of history.” Her voice echoed hugely.
“Yeah,” I said, looking up at the years floating past in green and blue.
“Nineteen seventy-six. Can you imagine it? Dating in nineteen seventy-six? Graduating from high school and you think feathered hair will never go out of style.”
“Where are they now?”
“I bet they have a flip.”
It was like we were surrounded by the ghosts of fifties guys in cars with fins, sixties girls with long-dead flowers in their hair and orthodontic headgear. People now gone, now old, now working. I looked at Diana’s back. The way stripes of light fell on it. Her arms were very real. Her hand cupped the head of the paddle. There she was, in solid flesh. Generations of American teenagerhood were telling me to seize the day before we became abbreviated numbers on the wall.
We came out into the light.
Cars rumbled on the bridge behind us.
Farther up the river, there was a factory that had been turned into offices. The river came out of a passage underneath the building where it used to turn a mill wheel. The river was very shallow. We could see the rocks and pebbles wobbling right under the canoe. The river moved faster here. We had to jam our paddles against the rocks so we wouldn’t be swept backward.
“Should we go in?” I said. “There are probably weird chemicals.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
We forced our way up against the current.
It was tough going. The current was strong. We had to paddle hard. We kicked up a lot of spray. We knocked the paddles against rocks. I was afraid we would break them. They were my parents’ paddles. I didn’t want to say anything to her. There was no light inside the tunnel. The bottom of the boat scraped rock. It was aluminum, and squealed when it was scratched.
We dug our paddles into the riverbed and tried to crawl upstream. We couldn’t see a thing. I couldn’t see her. I assumed she was still sitting up there. I kept thinking about the metal things, the rusted things, that could be sticking out into the passage.
I looked behind us. The opening to the passage was just a small bright square. The noise of the river was big all around us. There was a stink of oil and rot. The canoe was too light. We were being shoved to the side. We were swiveling.
“I said,” yelled Diana, “let’s turn around!” She was standing right next to me.
“Sit down!” I said. “You’re insane!”
With that, my paddle slipped, and the boat shot sideways back down the tunnel. Diana lurched and fell onto me. The boat hit rocks with a clatter. The river was rushing all around us. The spray splashed us. I reached up and tangled my fingers in her hair. I wondered if she’d fallen on purpose. She was breathing on my neck. We were both laughing.
“Diana?” I said.
“Ow,” she said. “Your knee is like right in my stomach.”
We shot out into daylight.
I was sitting up carefully. I didn’t want to bruise her or anything. She was crawling backward. A few people from the office building were dangling their legs over the river, eating bag lunches. Diana was straightening her shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m really sorry.”
I grabbed my paddle and started to fix our course.
The river slowed.
She had dropped her paddle. It was floating off to the side. It had gotten caught on a fallen tree. I steered us toward it.
I hoped she admired my j-stroke.
I said I could maneuver us alongside it, but she wanted to wade. I brought us to the bank. She stepped out of the boat. She walked carefully. She wheeled her arms to keep her balance on the pebbles. I could tell they were cutting at her feet. I guessed her feet were soft.
She reached out for the paddle.
Her calves glittered in the sun.
It had only been a week later that she’d draped Turner’s jacket around her shoulders and rolled on a couch while they were drunk. That day with the canoe seemed like a perfect day to me. I don’t know whether it seemed perfect to her. Later I had to ask myself: The whole time, was I just a paddling fool? Or did she have as much fun as I did? She was laughing. That’s proof. Laughing is fun.
I wondered what she was thinking as she lay on top of me in the dark. Did she expect something I didn’t do? Was she disgusted, thinking I was taking the chance to grope her? Did she think I was this clumsy sicko, trying something on? Or did I seem too clean, too slow? I didn’t know what she had thought. I didn’t know what Turner had done to get her to do what he wanted. I didn’t know what I had wanted that day on the river.
When you’ve spent a perfect day, how could it improve?
When I am feeling rotten, I like to walk. When you walk, there’s a kind of rhythm. Your mind slows down to match your body. Your thoughts start to go in lazy, comfortable circles. I like to walk in the woods especially. Sometimes hiking through the forest you can see a doe or a hoot owl out by day.
I was walking through level B of the municipal car park. The halogen lamps buzzed. Moths nuzzled them. Big floppy-legged mosquitos were hanging on the walls. My footsteps echoed even down on level A.
There was a guard box on level A. Cars paid there. Level D was open to the air. You could get your ticket validated at one of our many excellent local businesses. You could park here up to a full day. The whole place was made of concrete and tar. I walked the height of it, all the way up to D, and down again. I had come to feel sorrow.
Diana and I had picnicked here together. We had spread the blanket on level C, near the wheelchair ramp. We had eaten egg salad sandwiches by candlelight. She had worn a red-checked shirt and ponytails to look like a girl advertising margarine. I had worn
a strobing plaid. We curled our fingers together and read bumper stickers at eye level. We watched the senior citizens of the local euchre club file past like swans. We lay side-by-side, holding hands, humming the song “Memory” from Cats in unison until the exhaust got the better of us and we had to go retch on the roof.
Now I stood there, looking at the empty spot, C-24, where we had spread out our good basket of things. I thought about her. There were some jokes which she made and which I made that other people just wouldn’t get. I thought about Turner. He really wouldn’t get a Fume Picnic. I could see him thinking it was dumb and sissy. What the —?!? Oh, cute. Real cute. His head was made of meat.
I started my walk again. I picked up my pace, thinking about his head and its stupid, unfeeling, pockmarked steak. It was the kind of meat you wanted to hit. Your fist would make a nice smack. I couldn’t see how he kept thoughts in meat. Only one at a time. One thought, wrapped in meat and strapped in with twine, like a roast. A chuckhead grinning above a jacket of green sateen.
Her kissing him. I saw it. She wanted to kiss that meaty face. That sneer. Sticking out his tongue. She had the tongue in her mouth like bad sirloin. She wanted that. I don’t know why. I asked myself:
Why?
But I didn’t know the answer. I was pacing faster and faster, up and down the spiral parking lot.
I was telling myself about my master plan. I was thinking about how it would be genius. It was so genius it was maybe even capitalized (Master Plan). I was thinking about every detail. The first stage — the kidnapping with Shunt — me, disguised ingeniously, providing the diversion while Shunt would do the deed. The second stage, waiting, sending letters through the U.S. mail. The third stage, the final revenge when Kermit O’Dermott came to town. Turner wouldn’t know what hit him. No clue who’d pulled the stunt. Even Shunt wouldn’t know the extent of the thing. If he knew it all was for revenge, he wouldn’t help. He had to think my motive was hatred for the corporation. That way he’d help. I’d leave no spoor. This was the mastery of the Plan: Even Turner himself would never know it was me. No one could ever trace it all. I would make him cry.
I will make you cry. I thought about him getting pouty. I thought about his chin wrinkling. His mean eyes blinking. And tears.
“I will make you cry!” I roared. My laughter echoed through the empty car park as if in a tomb. It echoed better when I tried nearer to the central air shaft. I experimented with some guffaws facing away from the air shaft. I moved about ten feet to the right and chortled. I took a few steps back. I cackled.
After some trial and error I decided that to sound really maniacal, I had to laugh at about knee level, five feet away from the central air shaft. That was fine, except that the evil rarely hunker.
I got on my knees. I stretched out my arms. I said, “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” I cleared my throat. Sometimes I get this phlegm.
Then I had great peals of laughter. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Yes, yes, Mr. Turner, I shall make you cry! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Four frightened finches shot up the air shaft. “I SHALL MAKE YOU CRY!”
I could have used some lightning.
For hours before stage one, I worked on my disguise. It was impenetrable. I did not let my parents know what I was doing. I asked them if I could borrow the car. They said yes. When I had on my makeup and my special clothes, I sat patiently in my room. I sat on a chair in the middle of the floor. They walked from one end of the house to the other. They were calling to each other in different rooms. I waited until they were both in the kitchen.
Then I darted down the stairs and out the front door. “Bye Mom! Bye Dad!” I yelled.
“Have a good evening, honey!” I heard them call. “Say ‘hi!’ to Diana for us!”
I was not, of course, going to see Diana. That was just a clever ruse.
I ducked so the neighbors wouldn’t notice me. In my costume, they wouldn’t recognize me. They would think I was somebody stealing the car. My costume was very complete. When you are going to get some revenge, you must be a master of disguise.
I started up the car and backed it out of the driveway. It was still early evening. It wasn’t yet completely dark. The sky was still strange colors over the Mastersons’ jungle gym and TV dish.
I drove to pick up Shunt. I was hunched in my seat. I didn’t want my wig to get static by brushing the ceiling. Small details are an important part of any sting operation.
I made my way toward the center of town. I slit my eyes and watched carefully. No one around me appeared to suspect anything. I was right on schedule.
Shunt lived in the bushes next to the QuickBank automated teller. I pulled up and honked the horn. He came out of the bushes, looking suspicious and professional. Something about him and his anger made me realize how protected I had been. He opened the door and slipped inside the car.
“Nice costume,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
He pulled the seat belt on with several sharp jerks. I looked around at the QuickBank kiosk. I said, “Shunt, ah . . . this really where you live?”
He nodded, evening reflecting on his shaved head. “Yup,” he said.
Trying to be polite and conversational, I said, “Do you, um, have an account here or something?”
He gave me a funny look. “No. Parents kicked me out of the house. Couldn’t stand the no hair and the being weird.” He looked at his hands. He felt his knuckles.
“Man,” I said, feeling sorry for him. “You okay out here?”
“Sure,” he said. “Ma and Pa Butthole just slowed me down anyway. This a good place to crash.”
“Great.”
“It’s convenient to a produce stand. There’s a Port-a-Potty over there where I can take a dump. Hey, someone’s old subscription to Road & Track comes monthly.”
“I didn’t mean to sound like you don’t have a nice place here. Like that the bushes aren’t nice or anything. They’re really great bushes.”
“Juniper,” he said with some pride. “They’re actually shaped professionally.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Berries poisonous?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately. But no one promised me a rose garden.”
“Man, Shunt . . .”
“That was a joke, pal. The rose garden.” Shunt threw both his arms backward over the seat. He strained and cracked his back. He grunted and pulled his arms back around. Then he said, “So what’s the checklist for stuff to do before the operation?”
“We have an hour before strike time.”
“We’ve got to cover the license plate.”
“Right. I have some black construction paper in the back.”
“Perfect. You’re a real professional.” I was proud he said that. Shunt had a hard streak that made you want him to take you seriously.
I said, “This is going to be easy as pie.”
“Won’t know what hit them.”
“I’ll provide the diversion while you grab the victim,” I said.
He nodded. “This is going to be ace.”
“We rule.”
“High-five for solidarity.” We gave each other a high-five.
He looked at me from head to foot. He was taking in the costume. He nodded with satisfaction. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “I admire your strength.”
Strength. Now we were talking. My strength. I was excited about the operation. This was adventure. Here we were, lurking in a parking lot, about to drive off and do things illegal and tricky. This was Living. Just thinking of it, the way I’d make Turner cry when everything came together, I felt a grim strength bubbling inside me, felt like I should be throwing back my head and roaring with laughter to show the full brilliance of my Plan. No more wimp. No more wussy.
Shunt said with admiration, “It’s not everyone who would dress up as a female clown for the cause.”
I laughed and the bells on my collar tinkled. “Yes, it’s a masterstroke, isn’t it? It will be perfect for the diversion. I’ve been practicing my cont
ortionist act. We are masterful. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
He scratched his lower lip. “So why a female clown in particular?”
“Ah! Ah ha!” I said. I held up a finger. “Because there aren’t too many contortionists in town. I don’t want to be spotted.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you. You go that extra mile.”
“What about you? You were supposed to be wearing black pants.”
“Oh,” he said. “I have to get them. They’re in my closet.”
I squinted into the darkening bushes. “Where’s your closet?” I asked.
He nodded his head over to the left. “Over in the Appledale development, five-sixteen Granny Smith Street. Can we swing by?”
“No prob,” I said. I pulled out of the QuickBank parking lot.
It took us about ten minutes to get to Appledale. There was a big sign with a happy worm. I was saying, “I called ahead to the place to confirm our timing. I pretended to be someone invited.”
“Genius, man. You’re wasted on little gigs like this.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Not at all.” I glowed.
We turned onto Granny Smith Street. I was excited, nervous. I tapped the steering wheel in rhythm. Shunt picked up the beat and did some syncopations with his cheeks and breath.
We drove past his parents’ house once slowly. There weren’t any cars in the driveway.
“Go around the block,” he said. “There’s a culvert around back.”
We drove to the back. We cased Golden Delicious Avenue. We could see the house through a few trees.
“Park here?” I said.
“Yeah. Turn your lights off.”
We got out of the car and I locked it. It was dark now. We could hear a little stream running through the strip of woods behind the houses. We made our way down the back. I tripped several times. My shoes were big.
We hopped across the brook. No lights were on in the house. There was a little lawn with a dark wooden fence on either side.
Shunt and I made our way up the bank of the culvert and came out on the lawn. “Okay,” said Shunt. “It’ll just take me a minute to go in and get the pants. I’ll be right out.”