Average Joe and the Extraordinaires

by Belart Wright

  Dahlila: "It's good! Time to get out of here."

  Joe: "What's up ahead?"

  Dahlila: "The exit I imagine, but truthfully I don't know. I've never made it this far before."

  Joe: "What if there's nothing up there?"

  Dahlila shook her head and sighed. She lifted Melissa and put her on the ladder first. Melissa looked down at Joe and smiled.

  Melissa: "Have a little faith, Joe."

  She climbed up with Dahlila trailing right behind her. Joe only hesitated for a bit before deciding he had no choice but to take his chances with the girls.

  Dahlila: "It's a long climb. If your arms start to hurt, just stop and rest. This goes for both of you. Joe, if you stop, let us know so we don't leave you behind."

  Joe: "Okay."

  Her concern for him perked Joe up a bit. He began to feel a burning in his arms only moments after starting his climb. It felt like they had been climbing for at least five minutes straight, and when that turned to almost ten minutes Joe was tapped out. They all stopped and waited for about a minute for him to get his strength back. Neither the little girl or Dahlila had looked tired. Joe wondered what the heck they were made of. Right after that, they made it to a large metal platform with wooden planks for footholds that led to more stairs. They took the stairs straight up until they couldn't go up any further. Here, there were metal rungs attached to the wall. Joe dreaded more climbing, but decided he'd be the first one to climb up this time.

  Dahlila: "Just don't fall."

  Joe: "I won't. I can see a little light up there though."

  The climb to the top was short, and Joe found a metal door with a latch on it. He pulled the old latch towards him and pushed the little door. It budged only a little.

  Dahlila: "Is that all you got? You're really going to let a little door end your hopes for escape like that?"

  For some reason, that got right under Joe's skin, like when his friend Jonathan used to tease him about his height or basketball when they were little. He pushed and pushed with all he could muster until he almost fell off the ladder rungs. Dahlila managed to do some quick acrobatics to climb up past Melissa to help him out. They both pushed together until they moved whatever was atop their exit and opened the latch door. They emerged into a room filled with construction equipment and Joe saw it was a large workbench that had blocked their exit. There were old dirty gray tarps covering nearly everything in the room.

  Dahlila: "Come on, no time to waste!"

  They raced through the room and found themselves suddenly right near the football field.

  Joe: "Oh no..."

  Ahead of them near the sidelines they spotted a group of men fervently talking. It was mostly a group of the black-suited men and the security guards. All of them seemed to be focused on the man in the center. He stood out from the rest by the sharpness of his style, and projected an air of importance as he gave the men orders. He was dressed in a crisp gray suit that was about two shades darker than his hair. He looked sort of familiar to Joe, but he couldn't remember where the heck he would've seen the man. Melissa looked at him with terror in her eyes. She whispered something under her breath. Joe barely heard it.

  Melissa: “…Grabas…”

  Suddenly the commanding man was looking right at him. His eyes were pale blue and hunter sharp. Joe knew the man wouldn't turn away no matter how much he wished for it. When his stare intensified, the men around him took note and looked over to what he was staring at. With all eyes on them, Dahlila took off with Melissa on her back, yelling.

  Dahlila: "Run the other way!"

  She darted up the stands and out of sight. Joe followed her orders, but was sure he would be caught. He ran as fast as he could up the stadium aisles and out as soon as he found the nearest exit to the lobby. There, he saw a bunch of security and knew the jig was up, but now he felt daring. He remembered the thrill of running from when he used to play football. He was never good at it, but it was fun, and now … was this fun? He ran and ran, and when a security guard tried to grab him he dodged and ran some more. He saw his exit, but after his brush with the security guard the rest now saw him. He was almost out of breath but he’d curse himself if he got caught. He’d at least distract these guys until the girls could get free. He was good for that. That’s when he noticed something odd. There were no police inside the stadium, only security and the men in black. All the cops were on the outside.

  With one final push, Joe raced to the doors leading to the outside. This was the most exercise he had gotten in a long time and it was killing him. He pushed and pushed and pushed and knew that after it all he would pass out and die. With no breath left and no options available, Joe leapt and crashed into the awaiting security guard, sending both of them tumbling through the stadium doors to the outside. Joe tried to get up, but the man was on top of him.

  “Aye, get offa him! Come on, move—move! We’ll take it from here, meathead.”

  Joe remained on the ground even after the security guard grudgingly rose off of him. Joe looked over and saw a young officer approaching.

  Joe: “Ouch!”

  He was flipped over and made to sit up. The young officer roughly grabbed his arms and twisted his wrists together. The officer slapped on the cuffs, giving Joe a death stare the whole time. The cuffs were much heavier than Joe had expected, and a little too warm. Once he heard them snap shut, he found that they were way too tight as well.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. Do you understand the rights that I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak with me?”

  Joe: “I understand, but I don’t think I want to speak right now.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I can stand to listen to your crap, dirtbag.”

  With that, Joe was unceremoniously dumped into a cop car like all the criminals he saw on a show he watched all the time, Cops.

  Chapter 7

  Joe the Terrorist

  The ride to the police station was surprisingly quiet and, of course, hot. This was “The Sunshine State,” and heat was the norm, but this year’s temps were the hottest that Joe could remember. His whole body was racked with sweat, and it made the frying pan hot handcuffs that he sported on his wrists even more unbearable. A beet red rash was forming where the cuffs set on his wrists.

  Joe was thankful that the sheriffs had decided to cuff his arms to the front. Once the heat became unbearable, he had to scream.

  Joe: “Can you let my window down a little more? I’m going to pass out back here.”

  The officers continued to face forward. The driver chewed on something. A few more silent moments passed before Joe heard the electronic movements near his nearest window, but was disheartened when he saw the glass ascend and heard the door lock click.

  They must’ve thought he was the terrorist scum that had tried to blow up the hallowed battlegrounds of the Orangetown Pickers. He would’ve hated himself for such a thing if he didn’t know of his own innocence. He hoped his name didn’t get out in association with this; otherwise he’d attract the ire of the whole town. The Pickers were the biggest thing that came out of this town. They had won two NCAA championships, and though that had been over twenty years ago the town still had that pride from the good ol’ days. The team was always one of the town’s biggest treasures. Joe was in for a world of hurt if they put his name out in the news. He wondered how Kate and Mod were doing.

  The car came to a stop, apparently parked. Joe was marched right out of the squad car and into a holding cell. He tried to rub as much pain as he could out of his wrists once his cuffs were off. There was much fuss over the stadium explosion by both the cops and the prisoners in the cells. Joe noticed that his clothes smelled like smoke and fire. Outside of his cell he saw coverage of the Pickers’ stadium explosion on a nearby T.V. He looked on, mortified as
he saw footage of himself tackling, or rather attempting to jump over, the stadium security guard and landing on the concrete below. The caption read: Terrorist Suspect Caught. At least they didn’t get my face, he thought.

  “Hey look! This guy’s the terrorist from the news,” said some guy in the cells.

  Joe looked at the man and then to the T.V. and saw himself, face up, being put into a cop car.

  “This kid blew up the Picker stadium! Evil little scumbag, get over here!”

  Chapter 8

  An Effort of Futility

  Joe was saved by the police. They pulled him out just as his cellmates attempted to rearrange his face. Two uniformed officers then escorted him down the hall and to an empty room. They asked if he needed some coffee, which he declined. He had seen enough cop shows to know that the small table and single wooden chair in the middle of this shabby looking room signified this was the interrogation room. A sinking feeling was paradoxically rising in the pit of Joe’s stomach. It was fear, he knew.

  Joe was starting to get hungry, and the heat and constant sweating had accelerated his thirst. About an hour passed before he even had contact with anyone, and they told him the detective would be with him soon. He sat back and wondered what they would do to him next.

  Joe wondered how long they would leave him to his own devices. His thoughts were everywhere: Beauty, Dahlila, Melissa, and all that had come from meeting those incredible women—and girl. They were nothing but trouble, he thought. Even while he despaired his current fate, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement about it all. Initially, it was his endorphins and the constant threat of danger. Now the excitement came from piecing together the events from the stadium and trying to make sense of it all. No matter how hard he tried to get it all to make sense, he simply couldn’t. All he could do was ponder over events he didn't understand. He found himself wishing for some company.

  Chapter 9

  The P.I.

  The silence was broken along with Joe’s current train of thought as two voices came closer. They seemed to be getting louder and angrier as they approached.

  “Remember that favor you said that I had.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not gonna call that in now. This is hot stuff! Big time terrorism, and this boy has something to do with it.”

  “This boy has nothing to do with anything. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Now that they were right by the doorway, their voices became hushed, but Joe could still make out what they were saying.

  “Whatever the case, this guy is my prisoner, and my detectives will interrogate him and get his statement.”

  “Listen Carl, I don’t want no damn statement. I just want five minutes with this kid to see if he ran into one of my colleagues in there.”

  Carl: “That’s why I brought you here. I didn’t walk you down here for my health.”

  There was a bit of silence.

  “I’ll be honest, Carl. Some of what we’ll be talking about you shouldn’t be hearing.”

  Carl: “What’s the point in us even arresting this kid then?”

  "You can ask him anything you want, I just want to get him off the record."

  The one named Carl let out a huge sigh.

  Carl: “Hank, if you do anything to mess up this case, I’m gonna deck you. Your big ugly gray mug is gonna go spinning into orbit.”

  Hank: “Five minutes, Carl, that’s all.”

  Carl: “You got your five minutes. Use ‘em wisely. And he better be in usable condition once you’re done with him.”

  There was silence followed by footsteps, then more silence. The wooden door creaked open and in entered one of the talking men. Joe guessed this one to be Hank, who, to Joe, looked very old and tired. The man’s clothes matched his hair, gray and unkempt. He bore down on Joe with his grayish green eyes and Joe struggled to meet his gaze briefly and resigned to stare at the floor. Joe’s brief glimpse showed him that the man wasn’t too tall. The way his shoulders set and all of the frown lines on his forehead gave Joe the distinct impression that this Hank was not a patient man.

  Joe dared to look up at the man again; his grandpa wouldn't approve of him looking away. The man’s gaze was fiercely trained on Joe, and Joe began to fidget and squirm in his chair. He tried to sit as still as he possibly could, barely managing to breathe in the process. Joe let out all the air as slowly as he could. As the man approached, Joe tried to offer a bit of awkward stilted conversation.

  Joe: “Hello, sir. How can I help you, sir?”

  Hank: “By dropping the crappy pleasantries, this ain’t the prom, kid. You’re wasting both of our time. Now, you can answer my questions like a good little boy.”

  Joe’s stomach twisted and turned. He didn’t know what this man wanted or even if he had the answers that he was looking for. It had just dawned on him how much trouble he was in. He was a terrorist — to the rest of the town at least — and would be tried as such. They’ll probably give me to a firing squad for treason or something, he thought.

  The old guy loudly snapped his fingers.

  Hank: “Pay attention, Joe Shmoe! I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Joe looked the man in the eyes and nodded.

  Joe: “Yessir.”

  The old guy pulled a chair from outside the room and sat. He studied Joe for a moment and found his opening.

  Hank: “What happened in that stadium, kid?”

  Joe didn’t know where to start.

  Joe: “Well … um … me and my friends wanted to see the Pickers, and Mod—”

  Hank: “Enough foreplay, kid. Start from the explosion. You were there for that, right?”

  Joe: “Yessir. It happened during the second quarter. I was watching the game when it happened.”

  Hank: “What happened to your friends?”

  Joe: “I don’t know. I didn’t see them after.”

  Hank: “But they were sitting right next to you, right? How did they get out but not you? What the hell were you doing in there that whole time?”

  Joe froze. He didn’t know what to say. Most of what he did earlier was probably very illegal. The old guy was sharp as a tack. He was quick to notice Joe’s hesitation.

  Hank: “What the hell were you doing in there, kid! Talk!”

  Joe pushed his chair back and spelled it out for Hank.

  Joe: “N-no. I want a l-l-lawyer.”

  Joe tried his best to sound a lot bigger than he actually was or felt. Hank had risen out of his chair so fast and with such fury that he looked like a man half his age. Joe sprung backwards and out of his seat as he tried to scramble away. There was venom in the old man’s glare. He screamed at Joe.

  Hank: “Do I look like a damned cop?”

  After that his voice lowered to a subdued growl, but his demeanor was no less intense.

  Hank: “I wasn’t born yesterday, Joe. I do know that you were somehow a part of the day’s activities. You wouldn’t have come out of the building nearly a whole hour later if you weren’t. Why were you so scared of those security guards at the stadium? You ran from them like you were running for your life, and the way that you tackled that last one to get outside … you weren’t just scared of getting into trouble or getting a little roughed up. If that were the case you wouldn’t have so willingly surrendered yourself to the cops outside.”

  Joe stared at the floor and gave a soft shrug. He honestly didn’t know if he should answer that.

  Hank: “Why’d you give up once you made it outside? If you wanted to get away so bad, why didn’t you try to keep running once you made it out? What about those guards inside frightened you so much?”

  Joe looked at Hank for a while before he decided that he was better off not talking. He wasn’t sure if it was a bit of savvy that he’d picked up from all those cop shows he watched, or fear that stayed his tongue.

  Hank took a moment to reassess the situation and let out a sigh. He wasn’t dealing with the hardened criminals that he was acc
ustomed to dealing with. He was dealing with a young teenager. He needed to change his approach.

  Hank: “Listen, kid — Joe. Anything you say to me now won’t be used against you or those you care about. I just want answers. I lost someone in that stadium and I just want to know if you saw them. Now, can you level with me, kid, we don’t have much time.”

  Joe: “Who — who are you?”

  Hank: “My name is Borland, Hank Borland. You’re a kid, so use my last name.”

  Joe: “Are you a—”

  Hank: “I'm not a cop, but I used to be one a long time ago. Right now I’m looking for a woman named Dahlila. Did you see her in that stadium? About yay high and tougher than Kevlar.”

  Joe’s heart and stomach jumped at the name. He was sure that everything that happened under that stadium had just been an alcohol-induced dream. He was sure he’d never see nor hear of or from Dahlila. Now Borland was tossing that name out like he knew the woman.

  Joe: “Blonde hair?”

  Borland: “Where did you see her?”

  Joe paused. He didn’t want to put Dahlila in any danger, and he remembered how he found her, all tied up in the underground part of that stadium. Who put her there? Joe’s face must’ve given away his thoughts, because Borland pursued the subject more aggressively.

  Borland: “Listen, kid, Dahlila is important to me. Please! Tell me where she is.”

  Joe: “How is she important to you? Answer that for her sake.”

  Borland pulled out an old and worn-out wallet, and in it sat an old and worn-out photo. Borland took out the photo and showed it to Joe.

  Borland: “That little girl there is Dahlila when she was younger. I helped raise her. She’s as precious as my own daughter. I need to know where she is. Please, tell me where she is!”

  Borland pleaded his case, not only with his words but with his eyes as well.

  Joe had sympathy for the man, and felt he could trust him. He told Borland about everything except the shape-shifting, because he hardly believed it himself. Borland was ready at the end of his tale with questions.