by Ike Hamill
James cleared his throat.
Bo pulled his weight up and swung a leg over the railing.
“You look a little startled. Sorry about that,” Bo said.
“You scared me. In the future, you might yell to me before you climb up.”
Bo nodded. He took the other chair.
“Tell you the truth—I did yell. In fact, I hit you with that newspaper. When you didn’t move, I kinda figured you might have passed away. I’m glad to see I was wrong.”
“Oh,” James said. He looked down. There was a newspaper in a plastic bag at his feet. He shook it from the bag and glanced at the date. “September 10. Good.”
“Something good happening today?” Bo asked.
“No,” James said. “Sorry. I’m still shaking off that nap.”
“You’re schedule is crazy. What do you do, work all night and then sleep during the day?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s not natural, man. People evolved as diurnal. You go messing with that and you’re going to throw everything off. My cousin worked third shift down at the Fasspro plant a few years back. He just about went insane. Actually, now that I think about it, he wasn’t very sane before he started that job. Maybe that’s a bad example.”
James nodded and rubbed his face. He felt strange. He felt like there was something slightly unnatural about the day. “Wait—it’s not Thursday yet, is it?”
Bo laughed. “Man, how much did you drink last night.”
“Not much. I don’t think.”
“You’re experiencing lost time, sir. Either you got piss drunk, or you were visited by aliens.”
James looked back to the paper. His eyes found the day in the corner. “Wednesday,” he said. “Wednesday. Why did I think it was Thursday?”
“That’s between you and the aliens,” Bo said, with another laugh. “You know what I bet it was? You asked me to deliver more booze on Thursday. Did you think I was here to drop off more booze?” Bo asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “No, today isn’t booze day. I’m just checking up on you to make sure you hadn’t died. You sure seemed dead from the sidewalk.”
“I appreciate that,” James said. “Thank you.”
“Just being neighborly. Besides, can you imagine that story? I would dine out on that for a month—let me tell you about the time I found a dead guy on a balcony.”
James smiled. He’d only met Bo a few times, but the young man had a way of insinuating himself. James glanced at Bo and wondered about his age. He was a little overweight. His chubby face made him seem pretty young, but Bo could have been anywhere from 20 to 35. He had one of those constantly smiling faces that was difficult to pin down.
James glanced at the year on the newspaper and tried to calculate his own age. He was either forty-two or forty-three. He couldn’t decide.
Bo had said that he would, “…dine out on that for a month.” That was an expression that his mother had used. Was it a southern thing?
“Oh, wait, what about your date?” James asked.
“That was last night. It was hot!” Bo said. He winked at James.
“Yeah?”
Bo nodded. He glanced over at James and then back to the trees.
“You want to hear about it?” Bo asked.
“Yes,” James said. He was trying to sound casual, but he really did want to hear. Friendships and easy conversations were things he really missed.
“You know I’m gay, right?” Bo asked.
James shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it. But, I can’t say I care one way or the other. I mean, it doesn’t lower or raise my opinion of you.”
“Fair enough,” Bo said. “You’d be surprised at how many people around here aren’t as open minded.”
James shrugged.
Bo warmed up to his story. “I had to drive all the way to Charlotte. Jeff doesn’t have a car, so I had to pick him up. We didn’t have a formal plan, but I believe we were both on the same page. We were going to bang out a quick one at his house, then maybe get something to eat, and then have a nice long night. Not as long as your night, apparently, but nice. I brought along a change of clothes and everything. I was going to drive back in the morning and go straight to work.”
“So you and Jeff are pretty serious?”
“No, not really. Anyway, I show up and his sister is there. His sister! She’s a teenager, and she’s having a tough time with her stepmom, so she ran away. Her folks knew she was at Jeff’s house, but everyone agreed she could stay the night there and cool off for a bit. When I showed up, I thought the night was ruined. Turns out, it was even better.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely! We got some takeout, played some cards, and just talked, you know? It was nice, like we were a little family or something. I never really pictured myself as a parent before, but I started to think it might be nice. Somewhere in the future, but it might be nice. I ended up leaving by midnight. Jeff was going to drive his sister home in the morning, and I didn’t want to interfere with that, so I got to sleep in my own bed last night. It was nice. A nice evening.”
“I thought you said it was hot?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bo said. “It was completely hot. After she went to bed, Jeff and I banged like thunder. ThunDERRRR!” Bo said, turning the end of the word into a growl. “Knowing we couldn’t wake up his sister made it even hotter.”
“I bet.”
“I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t know that sex exists. She’s in high school for fuck’s sake. Why do adults always tiptoe around sex when they’re talking to kids?”
James shrugged.
“Seriously. Have you ever thought about it?”
James hadn’t. He’d barely had a single sexual thought since his father had died. He shook his head, vigorously, realizing how strange that last thought would sound if he said it out loud.
“I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I can’t figure it out. You have this biological imperative that happens to you when you reach a certain age,” Bo said. “You get this drive to fuck. For some people, it’s about reproduction. For most people, it’s just about pleasure. Fruit tastes good so you’ll eat it and spread the seeds. Sex feels good so you’ll do it, and spread your seed. But you have to develop into it. Nobody wants to bang anything when they’re six. When you hit puberty, and everything starts working the way it should, you want to bang everything.”
“Makes sense,” James said.
“Right,” Bo said. “That’s not what I have a problem with. The problem is that before you’re ready to bang, and then long after you’re ready but the world doesn’t deem you mature enough, sex is a prohibited conversation. Mamas are constantly running around telling their children, ‘Get your hand out of your pants. Get your hand out of your pants.’ Pretty soon, the kids understand. They’re not to touch themselves, look at themselves, look at someone else, and for fuck’s sake, don’t let anyone touch your bathing suit area.”
“That’s to keep them safe,” James said.
“Sure, but from what?”
“Something inappropriate?”
“Around the world, people are teaching their kids that sex is forbidden. What could possibly be more inappropriate than that? Do you see any other animal species doing anything even remotely that screwed up?”
“So you think kids should be out in public touching themselves?” James asked.
“Why the hell not? It’s not sexual to them, it’s just something that happens to feel good, like eating an apple, or laughing. The people making it sexual are the adults. They’re looking at an innocent child and imagining some lascivious behavior. How crazy is that? We should teach kids to say please and thank you, and to not scratch their asshole before they eat, but the crazy taboo we put around sex, no wonder so many people are screwed up.”
“You can tell a kid not to touch themselves, but they do it anyway,” James said.
“They do it anyway,” Bo said, turning the point against James. “They
do it anyway, so what’s the point in making them ashamed of it?”
“You’re going to be a great father someday,” James said.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me,” Bo said with a laugh. “You’ve got three important things in any person’s life: eating, shitting, and fucking. From the tip, you’re not allowed to talk about two of the three. Can you believe that? People talk about some breakfast they had for three hours, but nobody wants to know if you had a good shit this morning, or got reamed out last night.”
James laughed. “It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Oh yeah, for sure. What’s more important to think about than the invisible constraints of the society around us? How are we supposed to make progress if we don’t know where all the boundaries are?”
James laughed harder. “I’m glad someone is out there, making the world a better place for people who want to talk about taking a shit.”
“I’m a warrior,” Bo said. “I’m on the front lines of that cause. I’m going to get out of here, and leave you alone. Don’t drink anymore of that gin. I think that stuff erased part of your brain.”
“No worries,” James said. “See you tomorrow?”
“You bet,” Bo said.
He was growing bolder at climbing up and down. James wondered if that was a bad thing. As long as he kept the door locked, it should be okay.
At one point, before James had inherited the stacks and stacks of boxes, they had lived in his father’s study. Anyone could walk through the door, pop open a box, and just start reading one of the terrible stories there. That’s what had happened to his father’s best friend, Ron George. Ron was also a journalist, but his type of story took him to remote islands, and wind-swept glaciers. Thomas inhabited police department record rooms and condemned jail cells.
James had been there the day that Ron George had invaded the privacy of one of the boxes. His father was in the living room, drinking beer and watching baseball. Ron was coming down the hall from the bathroom. This was in either 78 or 79. James couldn’t remember for sure.
# # # # #
“Hey, Tommy, what are all these boxes? Did you raid a law firm or something?” Ron called down the hall. He was standing in the doorway to the study. James, playing on the floor of his room, looked up at Mr. George. He was a huge man, with a thick beard and smiling eyes.
When he saw James, Ron tipped the neck of his beer and gave him a smile. They both heard the reply bellowed from the living room. “It’s a story I’m working on. Boring shit.”
Ron addressed James in a softer tone. “How are you doing, Jimbo?”
“Fine,” James said. He was playing with some trucks. He knew he was too old for such things, but lately all he wanted to do was remember what it was like when he was younger.
“You doing okay in school?” Ron asked.
“Yeah,” James said. “I guess.”
“Your old man is turning into some kind of hobbit here,” Ron said. He gestured with his beer bottle towards the stack of boxes. He tilted up the lid and looked inside.
James went back to his trucks. There was a spider riding in the bed of his little dump truck. He jabbed his finger down in there and smooshed the spider against the yellow plastic. When he looked back up, Ron had a few paper-clipped pages in his hand. He read the first page and then flipped it up to start on the second.
James didn’t know if Ron was talking to him, or to nobody. “This is some really twisted shit.” Ron shook his head. “I knew he was in a dark place, but Jesus.”
“Hey, Ron?” his father called from the living room. “You’ll never believe who just got on base. Get in here—you’re going to miss the collapse.”
Ron was engrossed in what he was reading. He flipped to the next page and didn’t reply.
“Ronnie?” his father called again.
James heard footsteps. His father was coming down the hall.
Before he was halfway down the hall, Thomas was already yelling. “Ron, no! Put that down! You can’t read that. What the fuck are you doing?”
Thomas arrived in a fairly inebriated stagger. He slapped the document out of Ron’s hand and then fell to his knees to flip the thing over, so the type faced the floor.
“Oh, Jesus, Ron! What did you do?”
“Take it easy, Tommy, I was just curious what you’ve been so engrossed with.”
“You don’t understand, Ron,” Thomas said. He looked up and saw his son looking at him. He reached up and closed the door to his son’s bedroom. James hustled over to the door and pressed his ear against it, so he could heard the rest of the conversation.
“This story is dark, Tom. I don’t know what you’re planning on doing with it, but you’re going to pigeonhole yourself into a very small set of magazines if you keep writing stuff this sinister. Maybe you could flesh it out with some more character development and take some of the edge off?”
“No, Ron, it’s not like that.”
“When did you start on fiction, anyway?”
“It’s not fiction,” his father said. His voice changed as he stood up. “Ron, we have to figure out what to do. You’re in deep shit and you don’t even know.”
“What? What do you mean? Wait, is this some confidential record of a crime or something? Who said I can’t read it?”
“Shit, shit, shit. I don’t even know where to start,” Thomas said.
James heard a door shut and then feet moving down the hall. When he was sure they had gone, James cracked open his own door. The door across the hall was closed. James looked back and forth once more, and then slipped across. The knob turned but the door wouldn’t open. His father had locked it for the first time.
James crawled down the hall and stopped at the corner in order to hear.
“You can’t be serious,” Ron said.
James couldn’t hear his father’s response. Whatever he said made Ron laugh.
They argued. James could only hear the tone—his father was angry and Ron sounded concerned. James considered risking his luck with a dash to the back of the couch. If he could duck behind that, he could creep close enough to hear what they were saying. He debated too long, and the next thing he heard was the front door shutting.
Feet paced in the living room.
James peeked around the corner to see his father walking back and forth. One hand was on his stomach, the other against the side of his head. His father looked like he would be ill.
Before his mother had died, James had maintained a clear, steady picture of his dad. The man was happy, hard-working, and kind. He worked a lot, but always had time for his wife and son. Ever since his mom had died, James didn’t know what to think about his dad. He seemed liked seven different people—one for each day of the week.
Thomas spotted his son, hiding behind the couch. He walked over and crouched in front of James.
“You need to make me a promise,” Thomas said.
James looked at him and didn’t say a word.
“You can never, never go in that office, do you hear me?” Thomas said.
James nodded twice.
“Good. It’s very dangerous.”
Thomas stood up and looked towards the door. He seemed unsure of what to do with himself.
“Why do you go in there?” James blurted out. The question had been on his lips for weeks, but he didn’t know how to ask it.
“Pardon?” his dad asked.
“Why do you stay in there all night writing? I know you’re not on a job, because you never talk to your editor anymore. What are you doing in there?”
“You’re too smart for your own good, Jimbo. I can’t talk about this, but you have to trust me. What I’m doing in there is very important, and it’s something only I can do.”
“Why?”
“I can’t talk about it. I’m going to write down everything. You can read it when you’re older.”
“It’s not fair, Dad,” James said. “Everyone else gets a mom and a dad. I don�
��t have either.”
Thomas dropped his head. James felt triumphant for a second. He’d meant to hurt his father, and he’d succeeded. When Thomas looked up at him again, James regretted it. The pain in his father’s eyes seemed to be double his own. Whatever his father was contending with, James had just made it worse.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“No. Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who’s sorry. None of this is your fault, and you don’t deserve it. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong and you’re paying the price. I’m sorry.”
“Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
Thomas didn’t answer. He moved back to the door and looked out the small windows cut into the upper half.
James went back to his room.
The door of his father’s office was jarring to look at. His whole life, he couldn’t remember seeing it closed.
# # # # #
James shook the memory from his head. He had been about to fall asleep again, and it was no time to sleep. He had things to do to get ready. If he could go back now, he would have so much to talk with his father about. Maybe if his father had someone to commiserate with, he wouldn’t have been so depressed. Maybe they could have found a way to share the load of the transcription. They might alternate nights, or swap every-other week so they could both lead a somewhat normal life.
It wouldn’t work, and James knew it.
The transcription ate a person up, like a motor draining a battery.
And Thomas wasn’t driven mad by the process, he was driven mad by the mistakes he had made. Early on, while still discovering the nature of his duties, Thomas had been careless, and his best friend Ron had died.
CHAPTER 6: PRISON
Diary of Thomas Hicks, 1977
WHEN I FIRST EXPLAINED my theory to Jeremy, it took a lot of convincing before he agreed to help me out. Jeremy works as a freelance fact checker, and if you’re looking for a review of numbers, he’s your guy. He works part-time at the University, so he has access to some number crunching machines to run his simulations through. I wrote a story last year on large-scale hog farming, and Jeremy actually found a mistake in the farmer’s calculation of feed-to-meat ratios. He probably saved that farmer ten-thousand dollars, and all in the name of making sure that my article was correct.
