Neanderthal Opens the Door to the Universe

by Preston Norton

  “Whatever,” said Aaron. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still a tool. What I’m trying to say is, if you’re not qualified for the job, a tool like me sure isn’t.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the sort of tool who goes to college, gets a master’s degree in success, and marries a supermodel. Who am I? I’m nothing.”

  “Cliff,” said Aaron, “you are the right person for the job.”

  “Why?”

  “Because God chose you, dickwipe.”

  “But WHY? I mean, is he stupid?”

  “Maybe God sees something in you that you don’t.”

  “Ugh. You sound like a Poulson.”

  “Maybe Shane put in a good word for you.”

  And that stopped me. I met Aaron’s gaze, long and hard—digging for the bullshit in his eyes. The quiver of a lie in his irises.

  His gaze was unwavering.

  It didn’t matter if it was true or not. Not really, anyway. Aaron believed what he was saying. Who was I to argue?

  I was in drastic need of escapism, so I walked directly to Hideo’s Video after school—something I shouldn’t have been able to do because I beat another kid half to literal death. This was the part where I got suspended—possibly expelled—for being a juvenile delinquent psychopath.

  Except I didn’t get suspended. I didn’t even get sent to Principal McCaffrey’s office.

  Because no one said anything.

  This was mind-boggling to me. We basically had a balls-to-the-wall MMA double brawl in front of the school. This shit was public, free admission. Not to mention the fact that I turned Niko’s face into a piñata.

  And no one said anything.

  Maybe they were afraid I was a real-life Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees or Leatherface, and if they ratted me out, I’d grab my trademark weapon of choice, the Baseball Bludgeon of Death, and beat their weasel faces into Dimension X. But even the faculty refrained from confronting Niko about the added girth to his face. He was one ugly stick beating short of the Elephant Man. Everything was bruised, swollen, and disproportioned.

  And no one said anything.

  This made me both relieved and sad. Relieved that I was off the hook.

  Sad that people could care so little.

  As fate would have it, I arrived at Hideo’s Video just as my mom was getting off early. Hideo Fujimoto insisted she take the evening off—on the grounds that she looked like shit.

  Not even kidding. I was at the checkout counter, about to rent Pacific Rim, when it happened.

  “You look like shit,” said Hideo to my mom.

  “Hideo!” said my mom—smiling, not even remotely offended.

  “You look like scary zombie. Eat customers’ brains.”

  That was just how Hideo talked. I used to think it was hilarious and teased him about it relentlessly. Once, I tried to get him to say the iconic botched video-game phrase “All your base are belong to us,” to which Hideo responded, “All your ass I am going to kick, motherfucker. Now go pick your damn movies.” Afterward, my mom said to me, “I hope you know, that was kind of a racist thing to say to Hideo.” That startled me. I mean, I wasn’t trying to be racist. When I told my mom this, she said, “Most people don’t try to be racist. It’s preprogrammed in our culture. Most people will think, ‘Oh, he speaks bad English, he should move back to Japan or wherever’ rather than ‘Wow, he can speak two languages; that is so impressive.’ Did you know that Japanese is the most difficult language for a native English speaker to learn? If you moved to Japan and tried to learn their language, how would you feel if they made fun of the way you speak? Because believe me, it would sound ridiculous.”

  Leave it to my mom to call her smart-ass son on his own bullshit.

  “Zombies good in movies, not good in movie store,” Hideo told my mom. “Go home. Take nap. Come back tomorrow. I take care of store today.”

  Suffice it to say, Hideo was a stellar human being, cleverly disguised as an asshole. To be completely fair, my mom was so overworked, she looked absolutely like shit. She had dark circles under her eyes, her skin looked clammy, and her hair was a slapdash rat’s nest, pinned up in ways that didn’t even make sense.

  Hideo seized control of the register, took my movie, and scanned it. Then he did a double take, staring at the cover. He shot me a scathing glare.

  “This movie is shit,” said Hideo. “Power Rangers for big kids. Watch Neon Genesis Evangelion instead. Better robots, better aliens, better show.”

  “I’ve seen Evangelion,” I said. “Not really in the mood for convoluted existential psychodramas.”

  Hideo snorted as he finished checking out my movie. He handed me Pacific Rim along with the receipt. “Lucy, take your big, dumb teenager home with you. His shitty taste in movies is pissing me off.”

  Some people clear their minds through meditation. Some do yoga, some go running, and some sip a relaxing cup of chamomile. I, Clifford Hubbard, clear my mind via watching giant robots and monsters beat the shit out of each other, Gundam-style—hence Pacific Rim.

  I fully intended to walk home, but now that my mom had the day off work, I had a ride back.

  I almost would have rather walked.

  Needless to say, things were still weird between us because (1) I felt terrible about what I said to her, and (2) that didn’t change the fact she was married to a monster. Even if he was my biological father. It was hard to separate my feelings between the two of them. They were kind of a package deal.

  “I’m sorry about what I said.”

  Apparently, those were words that came out of my mouth just now.

  My mom looked at me. “About what?”

  “About Shane hating you.”

  She returned her focus to the road.

  “Maybe I deserved it,” she said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think anybody deserves to be hated. Not really.”

  My mom fidgeted her grip on the steering wheel.

  “He just wanted to be noticed,” I said.

  “I noticed him,” she said, almost defensively. But her eyes wavered, harboring regret.

  “Not when it mattered,” I said. “Not when he needed to be noticed.”

  I didn’t have to bring up my dad to make it explicitly clear who or what I was talking about. When he beat Shane, my mom was always conveniently absent. It wasn’t until after the fact—after the damage was done—that she always made her magical reappearance, in full mother mode.

  Always loving. But never defending.

  My mom sniffed. She hastily wiped away the evidence of sadness.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t notice him, either. Not when it mattered.”

  On Monday, Aaron sat with me at lunch—which, I’m not gonna lie, surprised the shit out of me.

  “Uhhhhhh,” I said, like it was the actual alarm sound of my invisible quarantine force field breach.

  “What?” said Aaron. “Am I not allowed to sit at your table?”

  “No, I just…It’s lunch. Don’t you want to sit with your friends?”

  “Oh, so I’m not your friend, is that it?”

  “No, no, it’s just…” But I had run out of arguments. I didn’t even know what I was arguing. All I knew was that Aaron was Aaron, and Cliff was Neanderthal, and we weren’t supposed to sit at the same table. It might upset the cosmic order.

  I glanced over at Aaron’s table, and—rest assured—we were getting all sorts of stink eye from the likes of Lacey, Kyle, Heather, and other esteemed members of Team Aaron. Their captain had abandoned ship to mingle with the savages. A mutiny was surely in the works.

  “Look, it’s simple,” said Aaron. “Lunch is valuable List-strategizing time. Forgive me if I’d rather talk about the List than the latest goddamn episode of The Walking Dead.”

  “Dude, I hate that show,” I said. “It’s so depressing.”

  “I know! Like, I get that it’s the zombie apocalypse, but can we cut these characters a break for once? I want to see a Christmas
special where they all have a nice turkey dinner, exchange presents, and learn a heartwarming lesson about the importance of family. No zombies. I’d watch the shit out of that episode.”

  If Aaron didn’t shut up, I was going to start thinking he was a really good guy.

  “But, no,” said Aaron. “No Walking Dead. We need to talk about the List—namely, how to fix everything we’ve screwed up so far.”

  No arguments there.

  “So how about this,” said Aaron. “We apologize to Niko.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Of course, we have to be tactical about it. If we apologize to his face, he’ll definitely beat the shit out of us. But maybe if we hire someone to apologize for us? Like a telegram?”

  “What?”

  “But that could get expensive. And I don’t even know if telegrams are a thing in Montana. And I don’t know about you, but I suck at writing apologies. So how about this: we buy a Hallmark card in the Apology section, and we stick it in his locker. It’s not much, but that’s gotta mean something, right?”

  “What?”

  I knew all my whats were grating on Aaron’s nerves, because his eyeball started twitching. And then something snapped inside of him, and he said something brilliant:

  “Say what again, I dare you,” said Aaron. “I double-dare you, motherfucker, say what one more goddamn time!”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You just quoted Pulp Fiction.”

  “You’ve seen Pulp Fiction?” said Aaron, surprised.

  “Are you kidding me? Quentin Tarantino is a filmmaking god.”

  “Well, have you seen Reservoir Dogs?”

  “I LOVE Reservoir Dogs!”

  So much for the List. Any attempt at planning disintegrated as our conversation derailed into the realm of schlocky, bloody neo-noir that is everything Quentin Tarantino.

  Not that it mattered. Because five minutes later, Esther Poulson sat at our table.

  “Hello, Aaron,” she said. “Hello, Clifford.”

  Heretofore, I have spent a great deal of time elaborating on the sociopath that is Esther Poulson. However, I may have left out the superficial detail of just how hot Esther is. I mean, it’s not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when you’re describing an evil, puritanical genius. So here it is:

  Esther Poulson was a babe.

  Nice boobs, nice ass, but the kicker was her face. It had this perfect symmetry that would have made Leonardo da Vinci marvel.

  I had to blink a couple of times to remind myself that Esther sitting at our table was a bad thing.

  “So there’s a rumor circulating,” said Esther. Her eyes shifted to Aaron. “A rumor that you claim to have seen God.”

  Hmph. Apparently HVHS hadn’t kept completely quiet about the Niko fiasco.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Esther. “You’re either lying—”

  “I’m not lying,” said Aaron.

  “—or,” she continued, raising a silencing finger, “you’re physically delusional. Considering the timing, I’m putting my money on the latter. You did hit your pretty head rather hard on that boat after all. I imagine that tiny jock brain of yours probably bounced around like a pinball. Got scrambled like a tiny little hummingbird egg omelet.”

  Aaron’s lips were sealed air-lock tight. Mounting pressure aboard the USS Zimmerman caused his nostrils to seethe, and his face turned a healthy shade of magenta.

  “Do you know what blasphemy is?” said Esther.

  “No,” said Aaron. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell us.”

  “Blasphemy is the act of speaking offensively against God. That’s what your”—Esther’s face contorted, like she was physically regurgitating the word—“List…is. I’ll be honest: it’s kind of sick.”

  “What exactly are we saying that’s offensive?”

  “It’s not what you’re saying. It’s who you are.” Esther’s gaze shifted to me. “Who both of you are. Don’t think I didn’t see Clifford nearly beat Niko to death. And correct me if I’m wrong, but this was an agenda on your so-called List?”

  Neither Aaron nor I had a response to this.

  “Interesting,” said Esther. “You say this List is from God; however, I’d wager it’s from the other guy. Maybe you know him? Red pajamas, horns, pitchfork, embodiment of all evil—you guys seem like his type.”

  “Why are you here?” said Aaron. “Because if you’re trying to convince us to give up on the List, you’re wasting your breath. I know what I saw.”

  “And I know the type of people who God shows himself to. Suffice it to say, you two aren’t it. You’re the sort of delinquents who get first-class tickets to hell—VIP box seats—and your only options are original recipe or extracrispy.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “Extracrispy, all the way.”

  “I’ll take either as long as there’s no coleslaw involved,” said Aaron. “God, I hate coleslaw.”

  “You think this is a joke?” said Esther. “I’ll tell you a joke: you two pretending to be servants of God.”

  “That’s funny. God basically told me the same thing about you.”

  Esther glared. The perfect symmetry of her face tweaked as her jaw tensed. “Fine. You want to play that game? You want to put your false prophethood to the test? Then I invite you to a Sermon Showdown.”

  Aaron blinked. I blinked. Between our two brains, I’m pretty sure we didn’t have half a clue what the hell a Sermon Showdown was.

  “Two weeks from Friday,” said Esther, “after school, we will both give sermons to my congregation. Whoever gives the better sermon—whoever proves to my congregation that they are God’s true spokesperson here at Happy Valley High—wins. If I win, you publicly renounce yourselves.”

  Admiral Ackbar was surely at it again, assessing the trap-tacularness of the situation. Of course Esther would win. They were her congregation! We would be preaching to the most biased group entity on the planet Earth.

  “If we win,” said Aaron, “you resign as student body president.”

  What?!

  “Deal,” said Esther. She stood up and smiled, like she’d already won. “Four p.m. at the Quad. Two weeks from Friday. I look forward to seeing you then.”

  Translation: I will devour your immortal souls.

  Esther left. I redirected my look of utter whatness to Aaron.

  “What just happened?” I said.

  “I know, right?” said Aaron, chuckling. “Sermon Showdown? Who came up with that? Sounds like a shitty Southern Baptist reality show.”

  “Are you out of your skull? Esther is going to eat us for breakfast.”

  “Well, technically we’re doing this thing in the afternoon. So she’d be eating us for lunch.”

  “It is my medical opinion that you are an idiot.”

  “It’s cool, man. We got this!”

  “No, we most certainly do not got this. I have two great fears, Aaron. Number one: little people. Number two—by like a centimeter—is public speaking.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, kind of breathless. “Just the thought of…speaking in front of…a large group of people…makes it hard for me to”—I actually had to stop and inhale and exhale deeply—“breathe.”

  “You’re afraid of little people?”

  “Horrified. But that’s aside from the—”

  “Dude,” said Aaron. “That’s messed up. Those are actual people with a real medical condition.”

  “Can we just not talk about little people? My heart is beating so fast right now, and I can barely breathe.” True story. I was on the verge of a panic attack. “The point I was trying to make is that public speaking is my second-greatest nightmare.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about it.”

  “Actually, I don’t want to talk about that either. I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. Or pass out. Or hyperventilate and then pass out. There’s no way I’m doing this with you. No. Way. The line is in the sand, and I’m standing on the o
ther side—far, far away.”

  “C’mon, man. This is number two on the List. It’s like the door’s already been opened for us. All we have to do is walk through!”

  “No,” I said. “If this is the metaphor I think it is…Just. No.”

  “Don’t you want to see what’s on the other side?”

  “Guuuuuhhhhhhhhhh.”

  “Is that a Yes, Aaron! I would love to walk through this Door of Life and give a co-sermon with you at Esther’s cult gathering?”

  “Not all doors should be walked through,” I said. “You know that, right? Like, sometimes you’ll come across a door with a biohazard symbol? That means deadly bacteria and viruses are on the other side.”

  “If your pessimism could be turned into optimism, you would be the most optimistic person in the world.”

  Here was the thing: Aaron knew I was in. I knew I was in. Aaron knew that I knew that I was in. So he wasn’t so much asking me to do this as he was asking me to stop bitching about it, because how often do you get to speak your mind to a malevolent cult of psycho zealots?

  I sighed. “I’m in.”

  The next day, I didn’t even make it to my first class before I got jumped. But not by Niko. I could at least fight that asshole.

  I got jumped by Lacey Hildebrandt.

  She shoved me against my locker with both hands, grabbed my wrists, and pinned them to my side. Her Manic Pixie Dream Girl face morphed into a Don’t Fuck with Me scowl. Lacey was on a mission, and there were only two items on her list:

  1. Kick ass.

  2. Take names.

  “I’m done with the bullshit,” said Lacey. “Everyone’s talking about how Aaron says he saw God, and that God gave him some list of things to do, and that you’re helping him. So you’re going to tell me—right here, right now—what’s really happening, or I’m going to rip your testicles out of your scrotum with my bare hands and wear them as earrings.”

  This confrontation was so simultaneously terrifying and sexy, I didn’t even know what life was anymore.

  “What if I told you that that is what’s happening?” I said.

  “No,” said Lacey. “Don’t even.”