GJ Hart

 

 

Winter had arrived, had squatted down hard and the old Hamerton Millhouse was frozen, filled with chills skiffed off the rump of Raven’s Ait and Dylan, perched on the table, legs wide, sniffing fingers as his steel cap sampled the door’s creak and his mouth snapped with the whys, never the hows and the best thing — Diane couldn’t care, the question was an old toad, a lifted wheel, it served only to remind her that, ignorant or not, she still got paid.

Four weeks previous, as Diane hurried along the high breach wall, the Thames hidden behind — a dog, a beloved collie, panting around the gantry piles and buoys, its fur matted with the slime sliding from the smoggy sky and Diane patted it, in her mind patted it, scratched its ear and strode on, up the beheader’s steps, around the banker’s hat and down towards the exclamation that was Hamerton Millhouse.

Dylan greeted her at the gates.

Scanned her ID and led her across a leafy courtyard, up concrete steps to an office in its attic. The office was tiny, narrow as a galley kitchen and stank from the damp that bloomed and spiraled across every wall. The room was dark, illuminated by a window no wider than an envelope and practically empty, furnished with only a wooden chair and a plastic table that to Diane seemed better suited to outdoors. Upon the table sat a bland contraption, constructed from mahogany and a stainless-steel facia plate mounted with two knobs — one red, one blue. Above each knob was an LCD bulb and from its back hung two cables, one leading to an electrical socket, the other running up the wall and disappearing​ through a hole drilled in the plaster cornice. The console looked like technology from a different era and disguised its purpose thoroughly, carrying not a single sign or symbol to indicate its function.

“Here,” said Dylan, pointing at the chair. Diane took off her coat and sat. Dylan laid a hand upon the box.

“Seems simple yeah,” he said, shaking his head.

“Sorry?”

“Simple. When the light flashes red, you turn the red knob. When it flashes blue, the blue one. But here’s the thing — you can’t faddle daddle.”

“Faddle daddle?”

“Quick, you need to be quick, you need to Con. Cen. Trate. You need to pounce.”

“Pounce?”

“Imagine a tiger, its children are starving, its mate is dead. Above the sun is devilish hot and then… moving through the grass.”

Diane had no idea what he was talking about. “Got it,” she said.

“One hour for lunch, if you take longer, I’ll know. And see those doors we passed — authorised personnel only . . . ”

“What does it do?”

“Sorry?”

“The box, what does it do?”

“Authorised personnel only,” he repeated, ignoring the question, “and you Diane are not authorised, so don’t go sniffin’ about.”

Dylan stood, looking suddenly very serious.

“Please understand, lives may depend on what happens in this room,” he said and tapping the table, took one last look around and backed out of the room, leaving her alone in the grotty half-light.

Diane pulled up her chair, rested her chin and began to watch the box. By any standard the job was odd, and it pained her that she accommodated its strangeness so readily. But desperation was its own consolation — what choice did she have since her husband’s illness had nullified the unspoken and equitable contract apportioning their endeavours. Now she jumped like a starving cat at whatever the agency offered — senseless work, gruelling work, work that left her self-esteem in shreds. No matter, as long as it secured the roof above their heads, her answer was always yes yes yes.

And then, on the fourth day, Tiffin arrived.

A cruel wind swirling outside and inside the office trilled with draughts as Diane shook before the console wearing so many jumpers she resembled a large brown egg. As she sat rubbing eyes raw from the perpetual study (still neither bulb had flashed) she heard a rustling and scratching, a scramble of tiny feet from the corner of the room. A mouse, she guessed, but was too afraid to confirm it and groping in her bag, pinched off a corner of a sandwich and threw it down. She heard it chew and sigh and called it Tiffin (due to the time) and because she loved the word and would have loved to stop for tea.

Diane begged Tiffin to stay but by lunchtime she was gone, so she sat again, before the loophole and ate and drank and watched the boats go by — the ferries like glass houses and thumping barges and swinging on two legs, lost herself to the pendulums of hull and water, until catching the time, returned to the table and settled again before the box.

Before she left that night, she crawled beneath the table, dragged herself along the skirting board until she found Tiffin’s hole. It was no bigger than a plum tomato and littered with dead insects and crumbs. No meal for a mouse, she thought and decided tomorrow she would bring the wheel of brie she’d been saving for Christmas.

The bus ride home was hot and wet and so violent, Diane wished she owned a brace. As she stepped down to the pavement, she decided to take the long way home and wandered past the cemetery and butcher’s yard, the abandoned building site, giving each her full attention and finding these studied places, normally obscured by familiarity, far too strange. As she turned into her road, she saw Doctor Murray’s ancient green convertible parked outside her house and her guilty heart sank.

To Diane, her dissidence felt like a sty, a shoe stone, a skelf wedged between nail and skin: she hated the Doctor, hated that he called so often, but had to admit the succour he brought, to her husband and by extension herself, was beyond price. He would be in the lounge now, treating him, snipping away the fibres grown thick as party straws from his belly and groin. Then moisturising the holes and blocking them with the grey putty he carried in jam jars around his neck and that later Diane would spend hours picking from the sofa.

Diane turned her key carefully and crept inside, attempting to avoid summoning the doctor who would, whenever possible, corner her, place hands upon her shoulders and whisper to her in a language she didn’t understand. He terrified Diane, huge beneath his cape, a wardrobe of a man, his eyes like paws, his moustache looped about his ears and bulging like a bird feeder. And always that reek, his cologne, a mixture of lavender and yeast. It had infiltrated the house so conclusively, to Diane’s disgust, it now smelt like home. To save herself, she learned to skulk from room to room, like an intruder in her own house.

Her husband was no help, he became more distant each day. ‘I’m a discreet fellow’ he would say whenever she enquired after his health and clutching his head, would roll into a ball and remain that way until she left. Later she would hear him pacing and singing, typing and shuffling papers — his illness had become his opus, Diane would find watercolours and poems stuffed behind radiators and cushions all dedicated to it and although thematically mawkish and crudely executed she studied them avidly since they afforded her the only insight into his suffering.

 

 

As Diane crept past the lounge she heard snippets of conversation — Chopin — such a fool, Graston cottage what a view! And that idiot baker — no perspective, and Diane, Diane, Diane — mouth like two horns and how do you stand it. Ignoring it all, she walked through to the kitchen, opened the French doors, and headed down to the shed.

Three barrel locks, one padlock — she had to be careful. And then, despite the spiders and rats, she sat before the console​ she’d built from a gramophone and two candles, turning dials over and over, hour after hour, until she heard the front door slam and the Doctor’s cars fire up and buzz away. Only then would she blow out the candles and return to the house.

 

 

Soon a routine developed beyond the common peg and each day Diane would bring cheese for Tiffin, who, prompt at eleven, would arrive to eat, then curl around her feet, bringing warmth and happiness and Diane reciprocated, bringing her rarer, more delicious titbits each day.

Four weeks of numbness and silence passed before Diane saw Dylan again. She heard the clip of his cork lifts, his door cards clonking and throwing open the door, down he sat, without introduction and immediately she asked him about the box, what it did, and Dylan replied with important and all of its synonyms but still made no sense.

“Work, work work,” he said, “there’s more to life, Diane,” and apropos of nothing, began to rhapsodise about his love for hunting. “We go out most nights,” he said, and turning his phone, showed her pictures of his dog — Buster — and his trophies — rabbits and foxes lined up and limp and lit by headlights. Diane leaned back, away from the stink of his words.

As he droned on, Diane heard Tiffin scratching and munching on the Stilton she’d bought the previous day and thrown by Dylan’s presence, she turned, searching her out and Dylan’s eyes followed and seeing Tiffin, he yanked something from his pocket and flicked it down, hitting her with a thump and pinning her to the skirting board.

Diane flinched, saw Tiffin wasn’t a mouse at all and wondered how it had ever contained life, ever drawn breath.

“Filthy fucking things,” said Dylan and bending down, plucked up the weapon and whipped it against his sleeve.

Diane grabbed at the edges of her chair, a bone anchor no match for the waves of rage and tearing up the box, swung it, striking Dylan’s temple. He stood a moment with a baffled look, then thrust out a hand, placing his full weight on the table’s edge so it pitched and spun and but for his boots, covered him as he fell upon the floor.

Diane ran from the office, twisting along the corridor, shouting for help and hammering doors and when no answer came, she flung them open to find others like her, sitting wide eyed and shivering before identical boxes. “Please Help me,” she begged, but none responded, would even turn, so on she ran, down the steps, through the gates and all the way home.

She hit the head of her road expecting to see the Doctor’s car ticking down, parked askew, but the pavement was clear, an uncanny void before the laurel bush and she dismissed it — a burst tyre, a dead battery, a taxi taken and flinging open the door, called for him, needing him, this fucking once, but no answer came and she flew from room to room, concerned for her husband, never the Doctor and finding no one, walked through to the kitchen and here, on the table, balanced between condiments, she found a once folded, hand written note.

 

My dearest Diane,

 

I am very much afraid I have left you and placed myself entirely under Jeff’s (Doctor Murray) care. Jeff (Doctor Murray) opines that his constant attention will be my only salvation and so to facilitate, I will live with him henceforth at Graston cottage. Unfortunately, I see no sense in pretending it would be pertinent for us to meet or talk again, so this, my dear Diane, is my final goodbye.

 

Your loving husband,

Gerald

 

Diane folded the letter and placed it back between the salt and pepper pots. She poured a glass of wine and sat awhile, listening to her house, the hallway ahead, its silence officious between the clock’s clonk and above, the bathroom’s orderly drip and beneath, the lounge, the Doctor’s room, covered in boot marks and cologne and empty now, it muttered to her, sleepy and soft.

Behind her, the garden, tethered to darkness by birch and maple and to Diane, unknowable. Simple? It really is simple, she thought and finishing the last of the wine, she turned off the lights and stepped outside.

 

 

 

 

GJ HART currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

Holt Clark

 

 

With a running start a strong jumper can leap from the roof of the Wexler building onto a thin cornice attached to St. Anne’s Cathedral next door. Zorf Rierden discovered this possibility while scoping out new territory for his crew. Zorf covered the distance in a surging instant, but it took him twenty minutes of careful climbing, freezing against the cold bricks, to get back down. He stood shivering on the wet pavement after, his breath rising up like steam. He removed a little notebook and a chewed-up golf pencil from his shirt pocket. Eleven feet wide and sixty feet up, he recorded. A beautiful gap.

Jumping was part of a new movement that emphasized the primacy of physical courage above all else. It was a rejection of the digital, the cultural, the cognitive — these were control. A generation of young people had recoiled from the influence of the screen. Technology in any form was unfashionable, passé, meant for old people. Celebrating the human body and its potential was the noble cause of a new age.

Their parents were mystified by it. The logic of this new rebellion was opaque. When asked, their children spouted shibboleths. They spoke of the majesty of biomechanics and the beauty of the human form. Whatever violated their ideology was condemned as anathema to the movement. Beyond this, details were scarce.

Zorf ran with a crew of jumpers known as The Sudden Stop, and their territory was all of Calaveras County. Zorf was known for his discipline, and for his emphasis on what he called, “knowing your architecture.”

“Now your roofing tile patterns are a crucial aspect,” Zorf told his crew. The team had assembled in an alleyway downtown. It was hot, late August. They were seated on trash cans with their legs folded, listening to Zorf lecture. Zorf was all nervous energy, vaulting from ledge to ledge, chattering, boosting off the lid of a dumpster and flying thirteen feet up to a marble sphere that hung from the old dry-goods building and latching on. His two callused hands squeezed it like a balloon he might pop.

“Kylee,” he grunted, quizzing her. “Define imbrication!”

Kylee closed her eyes. “An arrangement of tiles such that each one overlaps the next, as on the scales of a fish. Or on rooftops.”

“Significance?”

“It can affect landing dynamics. Landing with one’s momentum against the pattern is safest. Landing in the direction of the tiles can be sketchier, and with ceramic or slate tiles can dislodge them. You could fall, Zorf.”

“That’s right you could fall!” Zorf said, and then to everyone: “And what happens if you fall?”

“It’s not the fall that kills you,” they replied in unison, “it’s the sudden stop!”

Zorf released his grip on the marble ornament and fell to the asphalt with total grace. “Footwear inspection,” he barked, “line ’em up.”

They stuck their feet out in a row and Zorf passed along it.

“This sole is cracking,” he said, “glue it.”

“Scrape off that gum, Tara.”

“Frayed shoelaces, funky smell.”

“Learn to tie a knot, this isn’t kindergarten.”

And then, “Alright, good enough” he said. “Treasurer, read the accounts.”

Bianca Folks opened her binder and recited the numbers. “We owe Tar and Mineral three hundred dollars for the broken window at their Cedarview plant. I got another call about it. That’s not going away. We owe six hundred and fifty dollars for the new crash mats. A hundred more for medical tape. Fifty for incidentals and sundries, not including food. We owe twelve hundred dollars to St. Francis Hospital for Keaton’s broken elbow.” There were dirty looks at Keaton, who’d been careless on a huge abstract sculpture in the park.

“I’ve said sorry like a million times,” Keaton said, still in his cast, “you wish I’d zonked?”

“Keaton’s fall was unfortunate, but noble,” Zorf reminded his crew. “Let’s not be assholes about it.”

Bianca continued. “Food costs remain high. We’re looking at another four hundred this month just to cover weekly grub. As I’ve said before, a base camp would cut down on costs significantly, and — ”

“Thank you Bianca, that’s enough for now,” Zorf said, and stretched like a cat to close his hands around the last rung of a fire escape. “OK people,” he continued, “in case you’ve forgotten, paying a debt is not anathema to the movement. It’s praiseworthy. So let’s hustle. Any ideas for revenue growth?”

Nathan removed his sunglasses. “The McCabe Concert hall is re-painting its ceiling. They need scaffold monkeys with steady hands. I’m going down there at four.”

“Take Tad and Monika with you,” Zorf said. “Find out what they’re paying, and if it’s noble, send for two more of us.”

Fiona, the smallest member of The Sudden Stop, beamed and shared a recent accomplishment. “I made some scratch climbing the new cell tower for BellComm,” she bragged. “You should have seen their faces when I unclipped from the safety line.”

“Noble risk,” Zorf said, and nudged her with his elbow, “keep it up.”

“That’s been disbursed,” Bianca said flatly, “and it barely put a dent in our accounts. We need something bigger.”

“Well shit.” Zorf said. “Damn.”

 

 

The firefighter’s union held a fundraising gala each year for the families of men killed in the line of duty, and all the best people attended. At nine o’clock Zorf and his crew were at the stage entrance waiting to be let in. They were stretching and hopping in preparation for a job. They’d been hired to help re-enact one of the worst disasters in the city’s history, a horrendous warehouse fire dating back to the 1960s. The warehouse had been packed full of greasy sawdust and steel canisters of liquid nitrogen. The night’s production was titled Fire and Ice: A musical for Heroes, and Zorf’s crewmembers were to play the acrobatic firefighters who scrambled over the facade dodging flame jets and ice blasts controlled by the FX team.

 

 

“OK,” Zorf told them in his pep talk, “we have an opportunity here. Eight men lost their lives fighting this blaze. They saved ten city blocks. When you’re up there tonight, remember their sacrifice. Remember their steely nerve and the steadiness of their feet on the ladders. These were strong, vigorous public servants fighting a terrible enemy of the urban landscape. Do your best for them, and for all the martyrs to physical courage in our time.”

“And for seven hundred and fifty dollars.” Bianca said.

“Yes, and for that” Zorf said. “And we get paid after, so no screw-ups.”

 

 

The program booklet listed them as the Sudden Stop Stunt Players, and the mayor was curious about them. “Who are these guys?” he asked his wife at intermission.

“Oh, just some neighborhood kids,” she said, “they’re playing the firefighters, the heroes.”

“Are they actors?” he asked.

“No, not really. They’re one of those new street gangs, the ones who jump off buildings.”

“Off buildings?” asked the mayor. “Onto what?”

“Onto other buildings, mostly. They’re daredevils, dear.”

The mayor frowned. “It’s like our Shannon then,” he said, “kids today have gone crazy.”

“Shannon is perfectly fine,” his wife said, “she’s only going through a phase.”

“That’s a phase?” the mayor asked. “Walking from Alaska to Florida is a phase? She’s been gone three years.”

“Ssshh!” his wife said, “it’s starting.”

 

 

As the house lights were brought down the air in the theater chilled and clarified like filtered water. The audience re-entered its heightened, hyper-oxygenated state. By now the musical’s main characters and their sympathetic back-stories had been artfully established and the chief conflict — that deplorable fire — had been hinted at. An aching suspense had been masterfully built up and was now ready for release. When the curtain parted on act three and the flames were pouring from every window of the four-story prop representing the doomed warehouse, the audience gasped. It was ecstasy.

The Sudden Stop Stunt Players clambered like lemurs along the wooden facade, impressive in their shiny yellow coats and bright red hats. The FX men had primed them on the pattern of the flames and the blasts of ice (which simulated bursting nitrogen tanks) so that they would know which windows were safe at which times. None of them wore microphones, so Zorf had to yell his instructions above the crashing, apocalyptic music coming from the orchestra down in the pit.

“Higher on the left side!” Zorf called out, and they climbed up one story. “Two points of contact!” he said, “No dangling!”

The spotlights and the fire had the stage up over 100 degrees and when a blast from the ice cannons swept by it was like the window of a stuffy apartment opened in winter. They lingered when they should have ducked, but no one noticed. The FX men were laughing and winking at them as they arrived at each window, which Zorf considered unprofessional. These FX men had no discipline, Zorf decided. Their boss was a drowsy slob munching on a cigar backstage, barely engaged with the production. He had no gravitas, no duty to leadership.

 

 

Their scene was three-quarters over when the accident happened. One of the flame guys was off his mark behind the facade, his cell phone in one hand and his torch in the other. He was texting. He wore a thin smile on his face over some remark he was reading.

“Hey Donnie,” his boss called out, “hit window eleven!”

But Donnie was out of position and too far from window eleven, so when he launched his jet of flame it licked the wooden construction of the prop. The fire liked what it tasted, and began to devour it. In ten seconds the entire right corner of the faux warehouse was ablaze and burning sheets of cardboard painted like bricks were curling up and falling onto the stage as ash, spreading fire wherever they landed. In twenty seconds the panic was a tangible force in the theater and Zorf realized that the music had stopped and that all he could hear was the animal breathing of the fire and the screaming of the audience behind him. He pointed his canvas hose at a patch of conflagration and pulled back on the handle to release a deluge of water, but nothing happened. Oh yes, he remembered, it was all pretend.

 

 

The fire exits disgorged the crowd exactly as designed. The city’s entire upper crust came streaming out of the burning theater and onto the sidewalk in their tuxedos and evening gowns. They were covered in black soot but otherwise unharmed. They ran wildly until they were clear across the street. From this spot they began yelling “Fire!” and “Help, quickly!” into their cell phones. They were calling the members of their local fire department, most of whom were standing next to them in formal dress. They were calling about the great warehouse fire of 1965. It was burning again.

 

 

Inside the theater Zorf and the Sudden Stop were still roped-up on the façade. They couldn’t get their harnesses off. The FX guys had tied impossible knots behind their backs. Zorf pulled a pocket knife and cut his straps, then made his way to the others and set them free in turn. By now the stage had entirely collapsed and a smoking cavity had burned clear into the theater’s basement. From above it looked like the roiling mouth of Hell. The only direction clear of fire was up, which is where they climbed.

“Head for the catwalk!” Zorf called out.

The long steel platform stretching above the stage was close enough that they could reach it if they jumped. Zorf was the last person over the rail after boosting the others. Moments later the whole facade tilted and fell like a domino into the dark rows of purple seats.

“Run!” Zorf screamed, directing them off stage.

The grating on the catwalk was scorching hot and their shoes were melting so badly it was like sliding in mud, but finally they reached the access door to the roof. They took turns kicking at it until the deadbolt broke and they could fall onto the flat gravelly rooftop in exhaustion, momentarily safe.

They had suffered minor burns and their hands shook with adrenaline. Their heads were empty like the sky. They focused on taking clean air into their lungs and circulating oxygen-rich blood through their bodies. They stayed like this for a long time, spread out like stroke victims in wonky positions across the roof, listening to the fire growing inside. They all knew the roof would collapse at any moment.

Finally, someone spoke. “Now what?” Bianca said. They all laughed. Wasn’t it obvious?

“We jump,” Zorf said.

“To where? There’s nothing.”

This was true, or seemed to be. Zorf gave the order to break into groups of three. Each group was responsible for checking one side of the building for a landing zone.

 

 

By this point in the city’s life, urban renewal had almost entirely demolished the grand old buildings that had once bordered the theater. On two sides The Sudden Stop were met by only a wide expanse of asphalt. The remaining two sides each had an adjacent building, but neither one was attractive. There was Kellerman’s law firm, located in a squat, hopeless strip mall. That jump demanded a sixty-foot fall. The better option was east: St. Anne’s Cathedral. A portion of the church’s footprint extended across Dewbury Street and into the realm of possibility for a jumper. One of its five domed turrets was only twenty feet below the edge of the theater’s roof, maybe fifteen feet distant. Still not an easy leap. Broken bones were possible. In addition, the curvature of the dome would make for an extremely difficult landing. Someone would almost certainly fall.

 

 

A crowd had formed on the sidewalk below. They were waving up at The Sudden Stop and filming with their cell phones. A few people called out encouragement. “Hold on!” they said, and “rescue is coming!”

“Don’t film us!” Zorf yelled back at them. “Is nothing sacred?”

“I hope you have a plan,” Bianca said, “because we need to go.” Flames were shooting from the door they had escaped from and little tremors in the surface of the roof could be felt when they stopped to feel for them. They had minutes.

“We’re jumping to that tower,” Zorf told his crew. “That’s our exit.”

“It’s too far,” Monika said, “I’ve never made a jump that far.”

“You’ll make it this time,” Zorf told her.

Kylee was worried about the landing surface. “It’s round,” she said. “It looks polished.”

“Aim for the spire and grab hold of it,” Zorf said. “I’ll go first, followed by Bianca. After we land, we’ll tie our clothes together in a rope and secure it to the spire. We’ll throw the rope to you as you jump, in case you’re off target.” Zorf could feel their doubt, but no one objected. There was nothing else.

Zorf crouched at the edge of the roof and assessed the gap. It was wide, at the limit of what he’d done with the team. He’d made longer jumps alone, but never onto such a tricky surface. Zorf tied his shoelaces into a tight, triple knot. He retreated several yards. The team watched this in silence. Zorf took a moment to visualize his success: his hand would grab the wrought iron spire, the cold metal tight in his palm. He imagined pulling himself towards it, battling the momentum, which would try to carry him off the dome. Then he would hold it close, his face and lips crammed against it, the taste of oxide in his mouth. He imagined the relief, which would then wash over him.

Zorf sprinted hard and in a matter of seconds reached the edge, planted his right foot, and launched himself into the sky. At which point he began to float, as he always did on a jump. His soul, suspended over nothingness, exulted. It lasted less than an instant, was infinitesimal, but for a split second he was totally alive. Euphoric. He was every organism that had ever lived. He was mortal, but undying.

And then the downward arc began, and the shiny metal dome hove into view beneath him, rapidly increasing in size between his legs. And then there was a crash, and darkness. And pain, though not overwhelming. A shaft of light filtering down into a black room filled with dust. He’d broken through the skin of the dome. It hadn’t been a substantial cap of metal, as he’d thought, but a thin veneer with a void inside, where he was now. Zorf coughed. His eyes itched from the insulation. It was very quiet.

“Hello!” he said, his voice echoing sharply in the chamber. “Can you hear me?” he yelled. The wind played at the tattered opening above him like a dry flute.

Zorf limped around the room, looking for an exit. He was inside an architectural flourish, a windowless, doorless ornament. It wasn’t meant for people. His predicament at first panicked, then calmed him. He was alone, and responsible for nothing. He sat down, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing.

 

 

After Zorf disappeared into the tower The Sudden Stop gave all four sides of the building a second pass. They found the fire escape right away. It was narrow, and painted green. They’d overlooked it in their panic to find a suitable jump. The whole team took it single file all the way down to the street. They felt sheepish in front of the crowd, which cheered. A few minutes later the theater’s roof collapsed and the beautiful structure was reduced to a pile of smoldering debris. The fire department, which had come from two counties over, finally arrived and put it out easily with fat spouts of water. The Sudden Stop told them about Zorf, and asked if he might be alive. They said it was worth checking, and so a ladder was raised against the tower and a team of able men scaled it. They dropped a metal basket into the opening and extracted Zorf like a clog from a drain. He was deposited on a limestone bench in the church’s courtyard.

Someone filmed your jump,” Bianca told him. A foil blanket was draped around his shoulders.

“What?” Zorf said, “Who?”

“Just someone watching,” Bianca told him. “It’s already online.”

“Oh my god,” Zorf said.

“Ask me how many people have seen it.”

“I don’t care,” Zorf said. “This is anathema beyond anything.”

“Seventeen million,” Bianca said. “They’re calling it the leap of faith. You know, because of the church.”

“Even worse,” Zorf said.

“I know, totally,” Bianca said. “But there’s all this money now, is the thing. From donations.”

“No,” Zorf said, “no way.”

“We didn’t set it up, OK? It just happened. Zorf, it’s up over a hundred thousand dollars. And still growing.”

“Give it all back,” Zorf said. “It’s bad money.”

“Not if we spend it on something good,” Bianca said. “We could pay off our debts. Grow the team!”

Zorf stood up. “I don’t want our team to grow.”

“But we could buy an old gymnasium, like we’ve dreamed about. Fill it with our gear. We could put down roots.”

“No,” Zorf said. “You put down roots, and they can get at you.”

Bianca shook her head. “Who?” she asked him. “Who can get at you?”

“The order-keepers,” Zorf told her. “The protectors of the status quo, the powers-that-be. All those establishment jerks we nearly got cooked for today. Even those brainless zombies watching us online. All they want is to control us. Make us ‘safe,’ legitimize us.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Bianca asked. “We aren’t criminals, are we? If we had a place of our own, we wouldn’t need gigs like this. And no more trespassing.”

“I like trespassing,” Zorf said. “It reminds them of the score.”

At this point the team sensed something important was being decided, and gathered to listen.

“Look,” Bianca said, “I’ll be eighteen this year. No more school. No more money from my parents. Do you feel like sitting behind a desk? Because I don’t. This could be our ticket. We could make a living at this.”

“I don’t want a living,” Zorf said.

Bianca stared. “I have no response to that.”

Zorf adjusted his stance, his eyes wide. “You think you can hook up to their digital panopticon and live off the charity of its attention span? Please. It will destroy you.” Zorf made a gesture so as to include the whole team. “Ask yourselves what we stand for,” he said. “Is it comfort? Is it praise? Or is it struggle. Challenge. Risk! We’re cliff-dwellers, Bianca. We’re way, way out on the edge — no, beyond it! That’s our habitat. State of nature. Pure physicality. If that isn’t what you want, then you aren’t Sudden Stop. You’re anathema.”

When he’d finished, Zorf looked around and saw that his teammates were all frowning. They looked sorry for him.

Bianca placed her hand on Zorf’s shoulder. She patted it gently once, twice, and turned away. The team followed her. Zorf, having said what he had to say, could only watch them go. He listened as their bright conversation echoed back to him off the storefronts.

“First thing we’ll do is find a good bank,” Bianca was saying, “then contact an ISP, and I’m telling you I want a blisteringly fast connection . . . ” and so on.

When it was dark and the first-responders had gone home and the caution tape was in place around the smoking ruin of the theater, Zorf stood up. The only people left on the streets were staggering drunks and their caretakers. A bank of rolling clouds blotted out the stars and the wind was icy and swift. Zorf buttoned his jacket, rolled up his trouser legs, and climbed the radio tower on 7th Street. From this height he sat watching the sky, mindlessly tying his shoes over and over and hoping for a cold, soaking rain.

 

 

 

 

HOLT CLARK survives by working as a tech writer for some of the largest companies on earth. You’ve probably thrown out his instructions before. In his free time he writes fiction. His work has been published in Gone Lawn and Abstract Jam. You can contact him at holtclark@gmail.com

Jason Peck

 
 

The background specialist called a dozen people this morning, his Rolodex spinning like a saw blade. But he saved this woman’s interview for last. In hushed tones he tells her that she alone knows the character of Stephen Pusateri, a potential hire for the specialist’s client.

“But I haven’t seen Steve in twenty-five years,” the woman protests over the phone.

From the specialist’s well-maintained desk, a file eight inches high. At his right hand, three pens — blue for positive news, black for neutral, red for negative. He switches pens mid-sentence with a dexterity that terrifies his co-workers. He alphabetizes to the sixth letter.

“We’re a different kind of agency,” the specialist says. “Most companies contact the three references provided by the applicant. We catch candidates off guard by contacting everyone but those three.”

“I’m not sure,” she hesitates, and the specialist hears the muffling sound of a phone pressed to cheek. “The cuts still bleed.”

But the specialist never doubts her compliance. He holds her file as well; her children are in school for another three hours. Her husband usually cancels their Tuesday lunch date. Plenty of time.

“Steve broke my heart,” the woman says, her bitter voice in desperate need of a mournful soundtrack. “I wasted no time, told him no lies. I kissed his cheek in shadowy corners, my hand squeezed his in forbidden seconds. I asked him for marriage. After uncountable moments he gave me his answer — ‘OK.’ Never had two letters sounded so sweet.”

“But his façade soon cracked,” the specialist says, “like the crust on a crème brûlée.”

“More like the ice of a frozen pond in spring,” the woman corrects him.

“I saw his impish eyes from across the room,” she continues. “I caught his smoldering, tormented interior growing beyond his control. Bursting from its barriers, in retrospect. And then the double life emerged.”

“Good, good,” the specialist says, blue pen a blur.

“He had a blond on the side,” she says. “A redhead, too. A virtual collector of women, accumulated without concern. I wept and confronted him. I reminded him of our marriage pledge, but these others — the goddamned harlots — had begged as well, and each in turn secured the pledge reserved for me: ‘OK.’ Still I embraced this would-be bigamist before he dismissed me with a shrug of the shoulders that shattered my young heart.”

“And how old were you?” the specialist asks. Switch to red.

“Four,” she responds. “Then we graduated from St. Aloysius Preschool. He moved away for kindergarten, on to other conquests. Miss Kowalski pulled me aside in class and said he’d write. But no letters. Not to this day.”

“Not a one?” the specialist asks. He thinks of her as a young girl, crying in the church pews with a heart crushed to powder. The specialist would have observed the scene, had he attended the same class as the woman, his notepad tattooed in black ink. Since childhood — always noting the longing stares passed between couples, cataloguing the graceful arc of a classmate’s football pass, making inventories of the cliques and circles of others — lifelong friendships growing solid like cement.

An education, he claims. As an observer, he learned the moving parts of people.

“Have you ever experienced such heartbreak?” the woman asks him.

He sets the pen aside. He searches for a moment in his own life where love was strong enough to hurt him. He wonders if he himself can boast of a transgression-free background — intentional or otherwise — that the lives in his files cannot.

He instead thinks of his desk. Of his three colored pens. The job usually deflects such personal questions. But now his cue escapes him.

“No,” the specialist responds with perfect honesty. He takes a breath. “But please — remember the interview’s real purpose.”

“It’s good you’re thorough,” she says. “People think their actions don’t matter, they can plow through regardless of consequence. But these little things do matter, don’t they?”

“Yes they do,” the specialist says. “It’s my life’s work to find the answers.”

He thanks her and hangs up. A sliver of Steve’s file moves from inbox to outbox. The folder’s still thicker than the specialist’s fist.

Time to dig again, back to the clues that really count.

He flips his fingers through what’s left — Steve’s transcripts from a graduate school that’s not Ivy League, but grows the vines. Executive reports, sworn deposition from a man whose popsicle stick castle Pusateri destroyed in a jealous rage. The winning entry in a sixth-grade anti-drug poster contest — negated six years later by the discovery of marijuana. Goals never adhered to, opportunities never pursued. What to say of the subject?

The man hides somewhere in here, the specialist thinks, looking toward his papers. I’ll find him sooner or later.

 
 
 
 

JASON PECK’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Smokelong Quarterly, Cheat River Review, Bartleby Snopes and 100 Word Story.