The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “C’mon, Dad, I’m like two-sixty-five. You make out like I’m some kind of fat ass—at least it’s muscle.”

  “Well, what do you want? Can’t you see I’m checking my email?”

  The youth’s eyes fell to the monitor. Stewart’s shaky finger tapped the mail button every few seconds. Hans smiled—he knew the routine.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Dad. It’s important—it’s good news, I think.”

  “Uh-huh.” Stewart’s feedback was monotone and distant.

  “Yeah, it’s like totally life-changing. I’m really nervous—and I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  The older man continued to tap the screen, and the progress bar expanded and shrunk.

  “You see, Dad . . . uh, uh, . . .”

  Stewart revolved in his chair.

  “If you can’t look me in the eye and talk like a man then get the hell out of my office. I already told you I’m busy with my email.”

  “Fine.” The youth looked at the floor. “I guess it’s time to see if you practice what you preach. Kim’s pregnant.”

  Stewart’s head tilted to a side, and a grandfatherly twinkle lit his eyes.

  “You stud, you!” He grabbed his gray hair, then slapped his hands together. “Well, hell yeah! Hell yeah!” His eyes wandered around the room in disbelief, and there was silence for several moments.

  The youth smiled, and his face was red.

  “So, wow, oh my God, that’s wonderful news,” his father continued. “Did you propose to her already?”

  “Not yet. But she’s definitely the girl for me. I’m gonna do it soon—I just have to get creative and think up some kind of romantic setting or something.”

  “Your mother is going to be so thrilled! Nine months from now you’re gonna have a handsome little boy or beautiful little girl, and your mother and I are gonna have a grandchild! Mark my words,” his face was suddenly severe, “we’ve gotta haul our asses and get this revolution underway, because I don’t want that baby of yours being born into a hell-world like the one we live in.”

  “I know, Dad. That’s what’s been bothering me. I’m scared about the future. Not for me, but for Kim and the baby.”

  “Son, everything’s going to work out just fine. Just fine! You watch and see. We’ll overthrow Swan’s regime. We’ll reinstitute Old America. And the baby Kim’s carrying will be the first of four you two are going to have. Four! And you’ll get a good job, and have a nice house—you’ll be a happy man. That’s your future, Hans. So don’t worry so much.”

  “How can you be so sure? Since when did you know the future?” The youth’s hands were wedged in his jean pockets, and his face was skeptical.

  “Prescience was never one of my skills, son.” He laughed. “I don’t know—I just have a feeling, that’s all.”

  “Well, I hope your feeling’s right, Dad. Because it sounds pretty damn good to me.”

  Chapter 23

  Marisela drove her knee into her assailant’s padded groin. But he kept advancing, wrapped his arms around her, tucked his heel behind her calves, and brought her to the mat. The girl’s head hit the cushion with mild force—her eyes winced, and the instinct to cover her face and ball up was repressed. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his pillowed midsection and careened an elbow off the general locale of his temple, obscured by thick headgear.

  “Don’t pull guard—get back to your feet, girl,” a deep voice murmured from behind the mask. “You don’t want to grapple with an attacker. And don’t forget to scream for help.” He lightly drove his knuckles into her abdomen, then crawled his hand, spider-like, across her mouth, nose, and eyes for realism.

  Pushing against his headgear to create distance she kicked up with her feet into his face and midsection. Rolling free, and yelling for aid, she got to her feet but felt the thick arms entangle her waist. Winding in a half-revolution, she hammered a spinning elbow into his head, broke free of the grip, and ran off the mat to her mother, her shrill vocals echoing through the gym.

  Hugging Rosa, she turned to observe her coach. He had removed his headgear, and sweat was rolling off his bald scalp. Smiling, he shook his head quickly as if to orient himself from the blow, his full, bronze cheeks slushing comically.

  “You’ve got mean elbows and knees,” he remarked. “Must be from our Muay Thai training. And you’ve also got a killer instinct. That will serve you well in life.”

  “Thanks, Eduardo.” The girl laughed. “But you’d kill me in a real fight.”

  “Well, I’ve got height and weight. That’s why you don’t want to stand and fight an attacker. You want to get away. You have to escape.”

  “Height, weight, and a lot of skill,” complimented Rosa. “How’s your training coming? Do you feel ready for next month?”

  “Oh, definitely, Mrs. Guerrero.” The warrior walked forward, pulling on Velcro and belts to free himself of the padding.

  “It’s down to the finale, right? Just you and three other guys?” Marisela questioned.

  “Yeah. Me, Alvarez, Choi, and Stewart. I’m glad my belt’s not on the line—because with that kind of competition, I just might lose it.”

  “Oh, Eduardo, you’re too humble!” The girl smiled. “You’ve beaten Alvarez twice in the Ring of Aztlan. Choi’s got good striking but his ground game sucks. And I’ve never even heard of the other guy. You’ll waste them.”

  “The other guy—Stewart—he’s some white boy from Pennsylvania. Big dude. Took out both his opponents early with strikes to get this far in the tournament.”

  “So what kind of permutations are we talking about?” Marisela asked, her mind beginning to calculate.

  “You mean brackets? Well, me and Alvarez are gonna square off again. Then Choi is gonna fight Stewart. The winners of those fights are gonna fight each other at the end of the night to determine the champ—the so-called ‘King of Aztlan.’”

  “Who’s this guy from Pennsylvania? You say he’s white?” Rosa was incredulous.

  “Yeah. He’s huge. Looks like he’s juicin’ but he passed all his drug tests no problem. He must train and workout like a maniac.”

  “So he’s for real? I mean, he’s not just some kind of sacrificial lamb that was invited to rile up the crowd?” The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Nope, he’s legit . . . damn legit. Haven’t seen him on the ground but his standup’s killer.”

  “Does my husband know about this guy?” she asked.

  “Don’t think so. Not many people do. But it’s only a matter of time before they do, ‘cause the kid’s got skills.”

  “I think Manual would be interested in this Stewart character.” Rosa nodded.

  “Well, whoever he is, I bet he can’t hang one round with you, Eduardo,” reassured Marisela. “No one can beat you—you’re the captain of daddy’s Eagle Knights.”

  “It’s just a rank, Marisela. It doesn’t make me invulnerable.”

  “Well, I think you’re invulnerable,” she said. “And I’m glad you’re going to be there for my Quinceanera.”

  “It will be my honor.” He bowed dramatically. “Oh, and tell your father I’m enjoying the TV acting role he’s given me. When my wife saw some of the episodes, she laughed. I don’t know what those white kids in America are going to think. Hope I don’t scare them.”

  ***

  Blake reached into his bag of popcorn, withdrew a buttery handful, and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, like a thorough machine, his eyes blankly staring at the television screen. An illustration of a knight wielding a sword decorated his blue sweatshirt. It had been given to him by Mr. Stewart, and was among the first hundred sweatshirts produced by the new FCP clothing line. He had received it yesterday—the rest were distributed to some of the poorer European immigrant children. For many, it was the only warm clothing they owned.

  The boy enjoyed living at Stewart’s house. It was a huge, imposing residence. The architect must have had a fondness for European castles, becau
se both the exterior and interior were reminiscent of one. There was plenty of good food, and he had befriended many of the other FCP children his age that lived nearby. He and his new friends would regularly take long walks deep into the surrounding forest and farmlands, armed with imaginary swords and guns. There they would slay dragons and save princesses, repel shuffling patrols of undead, rout Muslim armies, free captives from beheading, and boast of their desire and ability to save the “homeland.”

  At first the other boys’ banter was alien to Blake. Who was the toughest? Who was the smartest? Who was the best at sports? Who’s father was the best fighter? Who’s father was the best shot with a rifle? Who among the FCP girls their age was the prettiest? Prior to moving in with the Stewarts, Blake had been accustomed to being dropped off at friends’ houses to bake cookies and argue over the prettiest fashion for Gaiety Gray dolls.

  Shortly after the trauma at the business party, Blake dressed his doll one last time. He outfitted Gaiety in a tuxedo, then worked Stewart’s dog, Argos, into an uproar with invocations of “bad guys” and “grays.” When Argos was cavorting at full energy output, he hurled the doll down the hall. The beast gave chase, caught the figure in its jaws, and shook it triumphantly. “Kick his ass, Argos! Kick his ass!” The boy had urged, and the dog obeyed by fanging the toy until the flirtatious, lipsticked grin was punctured to obscurity.

  Stewart was a resourceful man, and he fashioned a world for himself largely insulated against the intrusions of a society he found repugnant. But he couldn’t change television broadcasting. The cartoon that Blake watched depicted a mixed group of children at recess. Among them was a solitary white boy. As the children announced their intention to play kickball, and a decision to pick teams, Blake exhaled loud and slow.

  “Nobody’s gonna want the white kid. I already know this stupid story,” he murmured to himself. His prediction was soon fulfilled, and the white boy was left alone, pouting, between the two teams.

  “What a loser!” mocked a white girl, flanked by an Aztec and an Asian boy, her hair jagged and green according to animation trends.

  “C’mon, guys, let me play!” pleaded the boy.

  “No way!” she dug. “You suck at everything, David! You’re stupid, you’re slow, you’re weak, and most of all, you’re ugly! Look at that big nose of yours. Why do you think you should be able to play with us? You’re a freak—and Divine Color hates you!” The sound of laughter, as if from a live audience, played from the speakers. Gibbles had intended this to trigger sympathetic laughter from his viewers. Blake’s eyes narrowed.

  “Mrs. Howard,” David whined, “they won’t let me play with them. And Jenny called me ‘ugly!’”

  A gray woman strode up to the children, arms folded.

  “Well, David, I’m going to give Jenny a firm reprimand. Nobody has the right to treat . . .” She hesitated, and scrutinized the dark haired, fair skinned child. “By Divine Color, you are ugly!” she exclaimed, and the audience laughter foamed again.

  Blake’s posture straightened, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Listen,” the teacher counseled, “life has been unkind to you. You’re a white boy, and nobody wants to be one of those. But David, there’s hope. If you become an American, everyone will like you! You could become a kickball team captain! Jenny would like you! You’d do well in school, and no one would pick on you. And you wouldn’t be ugly anymore.”

  “Really?” asked the boy, his expressive blue eyes large in relation to his face.

  “Yes—you can be equal with the rest of us. All you have to do is tell your parents that you want treatment. And then . . .”

  “Shut up, shit face,” Blake interjected, and changed the channel. “I don’t want to play your stupid game anyway.”

  He dove his hand back into the popcorn bag, shoveled some into his mouth, and chewed vigorously.

  “I’d rather watch the Aztec channel any day than watch you,” he mumbled in an afterthought, as the television tuned to Channel Aztlan. “You tried to hurt me. Squeezed my shoulders and tried to punch me. But I was too fast and you didn’t get me.” He shuddered momentarily, and looked cautiously around the room. “Then you hurt my mom and dad. I hate you. Someday, when I’m big, I’m gonna’ fight you.”

  He wiped buttery fingers on a napkin, and stretched out the sweatshirt against his chest. The knight brandished a sword, and there was a cross emblazoned on his shield. Blake smiled at the illustration, and made a fist with his right hand. He clenched it until his little forearm shook.

  As his eyes returned to the colorful pane of light, his fingers began to relax. His mouth parted, and his brow furrowed. There, on television, was a well-animated cartoon depicting a heated game of soccer. A white boy was masterfully weaving the ball between defenders, and the crowd was cheering him. His build was strong, and as he neared the goal, a pretty white girl yelled from the sidelines, “Go, Michael, go!”

  Blake rose, and walked in front of the hovering picture. A few defenders made last ditch efforts to forestall the blazing attacker, but were handily bypassed. The goal shot was perfectly executed, and as the goalie hit the ground in a missed dive, the net recoiled from the ball’s impact. A roar sprang up from the crowd, the clock expired, and the scoreboard displayed three-to-two in neon numerals. Michael was hefted up onto the shoulders of his teammates—a mixed array of Hispanics, whites, and blacks. The opposing team was composed exclusively of grays, who were dour and grumbling in defeat.

  “That’s not fair!” cried the gray coach. “Aliens shouldn’t be allowed to beat Americans. It’s against the law!” He threw off his sunglasses, and his black eyes lit in supernatural hellfire. Marching over to the referee, who was also a gray, he gestured toward the scoreboard. The referee nodded, pressed a button twice, and the neon that had read three-to-two now read three-to-four.

  “No way!” yelled Michael, who began a march toward the gray coach. His teammates followed him. “We’re not putting up with your lies and cheating anymore. Change that score back to how it was, or else.”

  “Or else what?” The coach laughed. “Everyone knows white boys are sissies and can’t fight. So what are you gonna do? You’re just a pasty subhuman!” He poked Michael’s chest with his finger.

  “Michael!” a woman screamed from the sidelines. “Remember, fighting solves nothing!”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Michael yelled without taking his eyes off the gray coach, “you’re wrong on this one. Because, sometimes, it solves everything.” He drew back, and hammered a straight right into the coach’s jaw. It landed with a bony crack, and pen, digital pad, and hat were sent flying. The grays swarmed forward, and they were met in two-fisted melee by Michael’s teammates.

  Blake was so inspired by the scene that he began to throw punches at the air. He had never seen anything on TV like this before. His most fervent hope was that Michael and his teammates would win. He had lost appreciation for the intangibility of the animation—for him, the outcome of the battle was real and determinative.

  “Watch you don’t punch a wall and break your hand,” Max admonished while passing down the hall. “Have your father hold up focus mitts for you to punch instead.”

  “Hey, Mr. Stewart, c’mere!” the boy yelled, abandoning his punches to wring his hands. “You’ve gotta see this awesome show I’m watching!”

  “You know I don’t watch that cra. . .”

  “It’s got a strong white kid and he’s fighting the grays.”

  The older man stopped and looked skeptically at the boy. Even though Stewart was in his early sixties, he still retained some of his rangy strength, and was a powerful figure in the doorframe.

  “C’mon. You gotta see the big fight,” Blake pleaded.

  Stewart walked in, boots clicking on the wooden floor, and folded his arms in front of the set. The battle was winding down, but the color lines were unambiguous. Michael polished off a final gray with a one-two, then high-fived a teammate.

  “That’s Michael,” e
xplained Blake, “he’s really good at soccer and he’s really tough. His mom didn’t want him to fight but he did it anyway.”

  Stewart rubbed his chin and protruded his bottom lip.

  “There’s gotta be a catch,” the man remarked cooly. Victory music playing loudly, the white girl from the sidelines rushed forward and threw her arms around Michael. The young couple kissed amid cheers and hoots from the team.

  Stewart was consternated, and his arms fell dumbly to his sides. He hadn’t seen anything remotely akin to this before—except, perhaps, on archived film from the turn of the millennium. But the presence of the grays stamped the animation with a very recent birth. The show concluded with cheers and handshakes as Michael draped the girl in his letter jacket, and walked with her from the field.

  As the couple faded, a new, non-animated image appeared. A bronze, giant of a man stared at the audience. His face was scarred and primeval, and his eyes were brown like raw, gritty earth. He wore a jade uniform, reminiscent of those issued to members of a vaunted Order from centuries past. A helm, shafted with feathers, covered his bald head.

  “Hello,” his manner was dignified and somber, “I am Eduardo Tlaxtatl, captain of the Eagle Knights of Aztlan. In today’s episode of Go, Michael!, Michael and his teammates were faced with a tough question. Should they back down, and let people walk on them, or stand up for their rights and fight?

  “As fans of the show know, Michael is a junior in an American high school. He studies hard, is a good athlete, and doesn’t use drugs. He’s loyal to his girlfriend, Julie, and goes to church with his parents. Michael’s a good kid, and a good role model—he obeys the law, his teachers, coaches, religious leaders, and parents.

  “But today, he chose to disobey. When his mother told him to back down, he chose to fight instead.” A different camera portrayed the warrior from a side angle, and he turned to face it.

  “It seems like everywhere you turn today, people are telling you to back down. Your priests and ministers tell you to turn the other cheek, and let the grays have their way. Your parents tell you that fighting is always bad—that things should be resolved through words, and not action. And your gray teachers tell you to back down—then they beat you down. Usually, they hurt you on the inside with mean words. But sometimes, they hurt you on the outside with their fists. Well, let me tell you the honest truth.” The camera zoomed on his face. “Sometimes, fighting is good. Sometimes, fighting is the only way to stop people from hurting you. Because sometimes, bad people don’t listen to words.”