by Sarah Noffke
A kid in the front slams his hand on the glass. “Come here, sharky,” the little shit hollers. “Come here now!”
The black-eyed monster, graceful and with a deadly air about him, shoots across the tank, almost like answering the call. In all of my travels I’ve never seen a shark. Never much cared to, I guess. My dream travels have taken me all over, but I’ve always been concerned with studying people because the human condition is the least understood and the one in need of fixing. Animals have never been the problem. But now to see this menacing creature in front of me brings a rush of competing thoughts and also with it a wave of anger. Watching these animals behind closed glass is a vastly different experience than observing the elephant seals. There we were the ones held back by a fence, and they were free to the entire Pacific ocean. They made the choice to lounge on that beach. But here we are the free mammals and the sea life in front of us held captive behind glass.
“Woohoo,” a guy beside the boy yells. “Right on,” he says and slams his palm flat on the glass. The shark, who had turned its tail and was swimming away, turns around and darts for the glass, spinning downward just before careening with the glass. He must be used to the perimeters of his cage. Then the shark swims away and, as though he’s called the tuna and other giant fish to follow him, the tank wall empties in front of us. They’ve probably only retreated to the other wall where fuckers who paid too much to get in here are antagonizing the animals. This whole situation is too fucked up. I’ve never considered myself an advocate but to watch animals being put on display for our entertainment and education flips a switch in my head. I get that many are living better lives than they would in the wild. I get that some are rescues going through rehabilitation, but how often do we tell ourselves that when it’s just a caged animal. Zoos and aquariums with glass walls serve a purpose but they also teach ignorant fuckers that they are better because they aren’t the ones being held captive. When was it ever our right, because we have opposable thumbs, to put God’s animals on permanent display in every major city in the world? We might be saving a few, but we wouldn’t have to save any if we weren’t fucking up the whole planet. And believe me, I know what humans are responsible for. I stop half of the fucked up stuff they do.
Billy or fucktard or whatever shitty name his parents gave him jumps in the air trying to spy where the shark went. “Hey,” he screams, slamming his hand on the glass. “Where’d he go? Where did they all go?”
“I don’t know, buckaroo,” the man beside him says, and he’s about to slam his hand on the glass too. I’m certain the staff here wouldn’t allow this. However, they are probably too busy dealing with all the other fuckers who are creating havoc in the aquarium because they are all hyped up on ego, thinking they are the biggest fucking fish in the ocean. I teleport just in time before the man’s hand slams down on the glass. I land just in front of him. The man freezes completely, stunned by my sudden appearance.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Wait,” the fool says, looking behind him and then spinning around to look at me. “Where’d you come from?”
Behind him the fifteen or twenty people in the area gawk and begin to point at me.
“From your worst nightmare, and you better back up unless you want me to send you straight to your personal hell,” I say, sticking my probe in the wanker’s mind to understand its workings, which are unsurprisingly simple and full of useless bullshit.
“That guy just appeared out of nowhere,” someone says. Then it becomes a chorus of whispers.
“Hey, buddy, what’s with the threats? We are just looking at fish,” he says, still in shock.
“You want to see fish? You are a fucking sardine, look in the mirror,” I say.
He cups his son’s ears. “Watch your mouth. Don’t you see there are kids here?”
“I won’t watch my mouth. And I see the kids, but my saying words like ‘fuck’ isn’t the worst thing they’ll witness today,” I say, and then point out to the crowd. “You all gawking at imprisoned fish while you chomp on sugary snacks and contribute zero good to the world is the biggest injustice. You fuckers drag your imbecile asses around this planet, sucking up resources, terrorizing, and leaving your bloody trash for others to bury. You came here to see a shark or whale or a rattlesnake. Well, go out in the bloody world and see them in real life and not imprisoned for your enjoyment. And while you’re at it stop fucking around because I’m tired of watching the repugnant shit you all do,” I say. And I’m not sure where this explosion has come from, but it feels overdue.
“Who do you think you are?” the guy says.
“I’m the man who is responsible for you being alive, you good for nothing son-of-a-bitch. I’m the very reason any of you are breathing semi-passable air. I’m the man you all should be thanking, but you don’t even know it. I’m the biggest fucking shark you’ve ever met.” Then I spin around and throw a finger in the little boy’s direction. “And if you ever slam a hand on the glass of an aquarium I will haunt your bloody dreams, got it?”
Chapter Eleven
“Well, that was fun,” Dahlia says, not meaning it.
“You could have stayed,” I say, slamming the door shut.
“No, I think after a crowd witnessed you teleport and then throw a fit that it was time we all got out of there,” she says.
“I didn’t throw a fit,” I say.
“What are we calling what happened back there?” Adelaide asks from her familiar place in the backseat.
“I made a stand. I’ve just had enough of human stupidity. This is your fault,” I say, pointing at Dahlia. “Take me to a crowded tourist attraction and I’m going to explode.”
“I take full blame and should have realized you’d never be able to behave yourself in a situation like that,” she says.
The old Dahlia never would have admitted a mistake here. She would have teased me incessantly. Found another way to provoke me.
“Is that why we couldn’t fly? Because you’d take people out if you were locked in a small compartment with mindless blokes?” Adelaide says.
“Well, if that was the reason then you wouldn’t be with us anymore,” I say.
Instead of responding to the insult she says, “Hmmm, that’s not the reason, huh? Flying is easy, convenient, and would have cut our travel time and therefore your torture. So—”
“Would you shut up about bloody planes,” I say, my anger at a new level since I haven’t had a chance to cool down after the aquarium.
“Why? What is your deal with planes?” she says, her tone playful.
“I don’t have a deal with planes, so cool it,” I say, my voice sharp and about to break.
“Hmmm,” she hums. “Is it possible, just maybe, that you’re afraid to fly?”
I press my head into the cushion behind me. “No, that’s not possible, you worthless detective.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve gotten pretty good at observing based on your instructions and I noticed a few micro expressions in you that are linked to fear responses,” Adelaide says.
To hell with this girl. Why do I ever teach her anything? “You’re wrong,” I say.
“Then why did you just lie? I saw that micro expression too. Wow, this training you gave me is super valuable and helpful,” she says.
Fuck! “Look, I have zero reason to fly. I can teleport, remember. Something that will make you combust if you try it,” I say.
“But there’s also the fact that you, the man afraid of almost nothing, are obviously afraid of flying,” Adelaide says, and she’s using that voice. My voice. The one I use when I’ve figured someone out against their better efforts to thwart my invasion.
“I don’t get it though. If a plane started to go down you could just dream travel away,” she says.
“Apparently you’ve never had to dream travel under incredibly stressful factors. It’s about like trying to fall asleep at a rock concert,” I say.
“So
you may not be able to get away. And then you would plummet to your death like a Middling,” Adelaide says.
“I never do anything like a Middling,” I say in response.
“But you are afraid of flying, aren’t you?”
I snatch the magazine that Lucien was chewing on earlier and Adelaide left on the center console. “Flying is unnatural. And planes are a bunch of daft technology,” I say.
“They’re built using science,” Adelaide says, enjoying this too much.
“Enough said,” I say.
“Well, it looks like we’ve found your weak spot. You’re afraid to fly. A Dream Traveler who can soar through space and time as long as his toes don’t leave the earth and he has to depend on science or technology or anything besides himself,” Adelaide says.
I turn and scold her with a single look. “You may think you’re being cute, little girl. However, when you find yourself on the side of the road, and that burden you’ve bestowed upon yourself your ball and chain, ensuring you can’t dream travel away, you may not be laughing so loudly,” I say.
“You wouldn’t desert Lucien,” she says.
“No, but I may make him endure an hour or two alone on the side of the road with your grouchy ass to make you suffer. And just imagine that people can’t pass a stranded woman and child. You’ll have truck drivers lining up to help you. So many your tiny brain will explode trying to use mind control to get them all to bug off,” I say.
She slides down in her seat. “It’s not any fun to tease you when you act like that.”
“Like what? The person with way more power?” I say.
Chapter Twelve
“She just quit,” Dahlia says, disconnecting the call. “After twelve and a half years, Monet, my personal shopper, just quit.”
The SUV’s tires rub the curb when we park.
“Did she order my suits first?” I say.
“No, Ren,” Dahlia says, annoyed. “Your damn suits are the reason she quit. She said no matter what she did she couldn’t get them to you. She blamed the universe, saying there was something preventing it.”
“I blame incompetence,” I say.
“Well, Monet has always been a bit of a mystic. Anyway, she said she placed three orders and something different happened to each of them,” Dahlia says.
“So no suits waiting for me at the hotel?” I say.
“I’m afraid not,” Dahlia says.
“Fine, I’ll just have to deal with this on my own,” I say, pushing up the wrinkled sleeve of my stiff shirt.
Travelers reuniting with their families or friends clog the curb at San Francisco International Airport.
“He’s right there,” Adelaide says with an unusual squeal in her voice. She bolts out of the backseat and rips across the next ten feet until she’s thrown herself at a man who is my same height and build. He also has a full head of hair like me but his is mostly gray.
I think to get the child out of the car, since his mum is too absentminded to remember such things. I thrust the sticky, drooling mess into Adelaide’s hands just as she pulls back from my pops.
“Son, look at you. Vacation is treating you well, you’re even bonding with your grandkid,” Pops says.
I clap him on the back and grimace at the observation.
“Hi, Pops,” I say.
“But what happened to your suit?” he says, pulling back and looking over my wrinkled jacket and shirt frayed in places from the various “adventures” I’ve been on lately.
“Incompetence, that’s what happened,” I say.
And then Dahlia is at my side and my pops’s earnest eyes switch to her. “Oh, sweet Dahlia. How are you, my dear?” And he wraps her in his arms, holding her longer than usual, really pressing her into him.
“I’m wonderful, Reynold,” she says when she steps back but only an inch. The crystal blue of his eyes seems sharper as my pops regards Dahlia with a solemn stare.
“Wait, he knows?” I say to Dahlia.
“Well, yeah,” she says, taking my hand. “I figured that he might be able to help you. To advise you on—”
“I don’t need fucking advice,” I say, cutting her off.
“Son, she just thought I might—”
“I don’t want to hear it. This conversation is over,” I say, interrupting him.
“Wait,” Adelaide says, her knuckle in Lucien’s mouth. “He knows what? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say at once.
“Again, you’re lying. Why are we being left in the dark?” she says, angling her head at the little monster in her arms.
“It’s just you. We already told Lucien,” I say.
“What? No you didn’t,” she says like she half believes me.
“We did, because he doesn’t forget to close car doors or withhold information that keeps us from getting stranded,” I say.
“Shut up. Tell me what’s going on,” she says, looking between me and Dahlia.
“Actually, we need to get going. I planned a fun excursion and don’t want to be late,” Dahlia says.
“Your fun excursions leave me wanting to hang myself,” I say, walking back to the SUV, taking the passenger seat.
***
“It’s just up here,” Dahlia says, breathless, a few paces ahead of us. She has the whole clan following her down Marina Boulevard, the bay on our left. She halts in front of a woman holding a clipboard and wearing an indignant expression. I realize when I stop in front of the woman that she is close to my height. She’s wearing a blue ball cap on top of her smooth light brown hair. The embroidery on the hat says “Colman’s San Fran Tours.”
“Oh, for fuck sake,” I say to Dahlia. “You’ve got to be bloody joking. Did you learn nothing from the aquarium experience?”
“Ren, this will be fun. I’ve always wanted to be a tourist in San Francisco. Do you know how many times I’ve per… been to this city?” she says, correcting herself. “I want to know details. See it on foot in a way that Bobby wouldn’t allow.”
She’s referring to her head guard, Bobby, whom she can thank for keeping her alive. And what do most do the second they’re away from their protector? Go against all their best initiatives.
“Sounds like you need to tell Bobby to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge,” the tour guide woman says. “No man should tell you what to do.”
“Oh, Bobby and I aren’t together. He’s… a friend,” Dahlia covers. “A protective one. Ren is my guy,” Dahlia says, taking my hand. The woman looks down at Dahlia, a bit of an exaggeration in the movement. Then she swivels her gaze up to me.
“Really? You’re with her? I pictured you with someone your own size,” she says to me.
The remark is so off the cuff and similar to something I’d say. It catches me off guard. Maybe it’s for that reason that I don’t respond.
When Pops and Adelaide, who is thankfully carrying her offspring and hasn’t left him in a city trash bin, arrive the woman clasps her hands behind her back. The street is fairly busy but still she manages to make a path around us like a wolf circling its prey.
“My name is Stephanie Colman. I go by Ephanie. Don’t call me Steph or any other version of my name if you want to live with both kidneys. I go by Ephanie and I get enough name-calling on these streets that I don’t put up with anyone’s shit. Now this tour is approx—”
“You want me to go on a tour with a woman who misspells her last name?” I say, pointing at the cap on Ephanie’s head.
Dahlia actually laughs at this. The woman, Ms. Colman, doesn’t.
“As I was saying, this tour is approximately sixty-eight minutes long. There are no breaks for the potty or refreshments and I don’t take questions. If there’s any problems with these rules then leave now,” the tour guide says.
“Wow, way to find the guide overflowing with charm,” I say to Dahlia.
“You want charm? Go take the rainbow tour down the block. Wesley will even braid
your hair at the conclusion of the tour. If you stay on my tour then count yourself lucky if I don’t throw you in the bay or push you out into traffic,” the woman says.
Dahlia turns and even under her disguise I spy the raised eyebrow and tentative look. I shrug and acquiesce to these dreadful plans she’s made. She wants to be a tourist, fine. Hopefully she’ll realize how horrid it is and get it out of her system. The only reason anyone ever seeks a tourist experience is because they think their own life is underrated. Usually waiting in a queue and having a commercial experience shoved down one’s throat makes people retreat from the notion for a year. That is, until their faulty memory forgets and they find themselves lined up for something ridiculously expensive that comes with a matching T-shirt. I shiver at the idea. T-shirts are the absolute worst. Another dumb idea the masses clung to instantly.
“All right, this is a walking tour, so keep up or get left behind,” Steph says. She turns and begins trotting down Marina Boulevard. The woman throws her hand at the building on our right.
“We start this tour of San Francisco at the Grand Ole Opry,” she says, indicating a brand new bank skyscraper. “This is the oldest building in San Francisco or as the city is commonly nicknamed, Papillon Escargot,” she says, her last words flaring with a French accent.
“None of that is true,” I say, flatly.
The crowd in front of us begins to part as we walk on the wrong way of the busy thoroughfare. A cursory glance at my back tells me that unfortunately Pops and the other monsters are still in tow. I take Dahlia’s hand, sensing she’ll like the dumb gesture as I turn back to the lady still babbling on.
“There’s roughly two hundred and seventy million people who call San Francisco their home,” Stephanie says.
“That’s absolutely false,” I say over the rush of traffic on the street.
“The city was founded by pioneers who were trying to escape the oppression of the English crown,” she continues.
