The First

by Scott Nicholson

  Randy reached the fence, hanging onto a post as the wind whipped his clothes. He held on until at last Wendy’s lungs were empty.

  “Wow,” Randy said. “Did you do that?”

  Wendy nodded.

  “You’re different.”

  “I’m nothing to sneeze at,” she said.

  Mom was getting upset, but Wendy didn’t turn around to look at her. Instead, she looked at Randy as Sue Ellen and Beth gathered themselves from where they had fallen.

  “Do it again,” he said, right to Wendy, his dreamy eyes crinkling as he smiled.

  Wendy said, “Will you wait?”

  He nodded.

  The wind fell off in small currents and eddies, floated between the exhausted trees, settled on the skin of the land. The wind died like an impossible love.

  Wendy inhaled, so softly that March seemed September.

  And she held her breath.

  ###

  DUMB LUCK

  Amman opened the letterbox, tugging at its silver tongue that mockingly curled out at him. If the thing had ears, it would have thumbs stuck in them, and it would be wiggling merry fingers.

  The letterbox laughed, in its slightly rusty voice, as its jaw dropped. Amman peered into its throat. A white envelope lay inside. It was another one of those.

  Amman wiped his hand on his Chinos and reached inside. He picked up the envelope as a sixth-grader would pull a dead snake from the grass, holding it gingerly and bringing it into the sunlight.

  There was no return address. Amman looked at the postmark. Riverside, California, the same as those half-dozen others, as if the letters were all spawn of the same post office, salmon swimming upstream from a tainted bay to lay their deformed eggs in the eddies of Amman's psyche.

  He stood in the street, the asphalt warming his feet through the soles of his sneakers, and ran a fingernail under the envelope's seal. He wasn't sure why he didn't just throw it away, send it to the dead letter office of his garbage bin. Perhaps it was the serialized nature of the lunacy that intrigued him.

  He pulled the letter from the envelope and read it, squinting as the sunlight reflected off the white page into his dark face.

  Hey you,

  If you don't send this letter to eight people within the next two weeks, bad luck will come to you. This is no joke. William R., of Council Bluffs, IA, didn't send along this letter. He died in a car accident the next day. Susan H., of Norwich, CT, did, and three months later her screenplay was purchased by a major studio. Avoid bad luck; act now.

  Sincerely,

  A concerned friend

  So the implied horror had escalated, and so had the rewards. The first chain letter had threatened him with a failed relationship if he did not continue the paper pyramid. And Amman had laughed, thinking it a practical joke or the work of gypsies or carnival cons. But the early letters had stressed that he should send no money. And he didn't have many clever friends these days.

  Amman did not believe in predestination. As a lapsed Muslim, he believed that Fate or Destiny or Luck were largely the result of one's own actions and not some cosmic dice roll. So when Samantha, his girlfriend of three years, told him she was ready for "a little space, to get her head together," he figured it was because she was trying to reconcile her previous divorce and her latent attraction to other women. That was cool with Amman.

  And it was only coincidence that the next letter had promised him a chance to "come into money" if he'd continue the chain. Amman had ignored the demands. The next week, his employer downsized, which had sent his pocketful of gratis stock spiraling. That was proof that luck was random and blind. Unfortunately, Amman had been one of the layoff victims, so he ended up without a job and nearly broke. Similarly, the ensuing chain letters that threatened trouble at home, a health crisis, and legal problems had nothing whatsoever to do with his burst water pipes, the skiing accident, or the I.R.S. audit.

  Now poor William R. had just been on a blind date with a telephone pole, which, like a woman at closing time, had become more attractive after the eighth Scotch and soda. Merely because he hadn't coughed up a few bucks in postage.

  And Susan H. had actually sold a screenplay, pulled at random from the slush pile that filled a back lot somewhere in Hollywood, a screenplay whose plot was exactly like "The Big Chill," only none of the characters came to any self-realizations at all. Which made it exactly like the ten million other unsolicited manuscripts that cluttered the mailrooms of the major studios.

  But lucky Susan H. had the foresight to send off eight copies of her chain letter, instead of wasting the time and effort to line up a good agent and develop an original plot.

  Amman chuckled to himself. He had a half-finished screenplay lying around somewhere, and probably a novel outline and a recipe for mass-market salsa. That was what had brought his family to America, the rags to riches potential, the overnight success stories, and the self-made millionaires. And he supposed everyone who'd ever made the bigtime had passed along their chain letters as well. Sure. Did people actually believe in this stuff?

  He balled up the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. He glanced at his watch and decided it was time to head down to the automatic teller machine and draw out a little pocket money. There was no reason to deprive himself just because he was jobless. He backed his Fiat out of the driveway and headed down the palm-lined street. He had the top down, but the Pacific breeze barely ruffled his thick black hair.

  "Insufficient funds? Account closed? What the—"

  Amman pounded on the ATM.

  "Give me my card back, you stupid box of wires."

  Amman kicked at the machine.

  "I know I've got a couple of hundred in there. Give it up. It's mine. Mine, mine, MINE." Amman noticed that the middle-aged couple in line behind him were staring at him as if deciding whether to run or call the police.

  Amman tugged at his necktie and walked back to his Fiat. He picked his cellular phone off the passenger seat and dialed the bank.

  "Account number?" the teller asked after Amman described his problem.

  Amman heard her entering the numbers as he recited them. "Sorry, sir. That is an invalid account number."

  Red rage flared under Amman's skin. "I've been dealing with your bank for six years now. Let me talk to the manager.

  "The manager won't be back until three. Your name, sir?"

  "Mahmoul. Amman Ibn Mahmoul," he hissed, spelling it for her slowly as if for a child.

  "Sorry, no customer by that name in our records. Have a good day."

  "But—"

  The broken connection hissed back at him.

  On the way home, the Fiat went funky. Amman was weaving through the interstate traffic, cursing the Americans in their long awkward cars, when a pickup with a camper top suddenly slowed in front of him. He stomped on the bake pedal, but his foot encountered as much resistance as if he'd stepped on a tomato. The pedal descended to the floor.

  Amman cursed the God he didn't believe in and swerved into the outside lane, then eased over onto the grass median. Pieces of cast-off tire rubber flapped under the Fiat's chassis as Amman downshifted forcefully. An overpass loomed ahead, its concrete pillars rising in glistening solid defiance. Amman spun the wheel and the Fiat turned sideways, spending its momentum by plowing black arcs into the earth. The car came to a rest by bumping lightly against the broad base of a pillar.

  Amman gripped the steering wheel, his normally-dark hands white with adrenaline. The engine hiccoughed and stalled. The passing traffic slowed as the drivers gawked, but, seeing no blood, they continued on with their frantic missions. After Amman's hands stopped most of their trembling, he picked up his cellular phone to dial for help.

  "Of all the rotten luck," he moaned weakly to himself.

  He was watching the smog-laced clouds drift by and listening to the buzz of the cars on the overpass when he suddenly remembered the fate of William R.

  The next day, two letters arrived. The first was from his
insurance company, telling him his auto coverage had been retroactively terminated last week due to insufficient balances in his draft accounts.

  The second was from his "concerned friend." Amman opened it with trembling hands.

  Amman:

  Old pal. Let's get real. I'm getting tired of fooling around here. And you're getting tired of the accidents. So let's come to some kind of agreement. Namely: Send eight copies of this letter today, and I won't have to ruin your life. And for a limited time only, you can be like Brandi D. of Akron, OH, who found her engagement ring behind the washing machine after finally continuing the chain. (After four years of stubborn resistance.) Now if she could only get the engagement back as easily.

  Take a hint, pal.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Friend

  From Riverside again. Coincidence. But Amman shuddered anyway. Where had they gotten his name? And how did they know about the accidents?

  Perhaps it was time to ease his mind and mail the damn letters. Maybe then he'd be left alone. But that would be giving in, actually admitting to himself that this crap had credence. Brandi D. notwithstanding, he didn't believe he had much left to lose anyway.

  He went inside and turned on the television. A CNN anchor's bland white face filled the screen, droning about unrest in some faraway armpit in Africa. Then the picture flickered in gray and blue zigzags. Was the cable company cutting off his service already?

  "Amman."

  Amman looked around. It wasn't the answering machine. He'd turned that off when the creditors had started filling the tape with stern warnings. He only hoped he hadn't missed Zeke's call.

  Zeke was supposed to set him up with a sweet opportunity. "Hey, I'm talking to you, you dot-headed heathen." Amman swiveled to face the television set.

  "Yeah, it's me, you low-down antisocial sonuvaswami. Your concerned friend."

  Amman's eyes bulged. He could feel them swelling like boiled dates in disbelief. The television was talking. To him.

  "You're starting to disappoint me, Amman. I've given you every chance in the world. I've gone way out of my way to help you along. Admit it," came the thin, compressed voice from the television speaker. The TV talked like Robin Williams doing an amphetamine-laced impersonation of Billy Crystal.

  Amman stared at the snowfield of static, his jaw gaping. "Haven't I?" the speaker blared. Amman nodded dumbly.

  "But did you heed my advice?"

  Amman shook his head from side to side, mechanically, hoping he was dreaming, wondering if one of the neighbors had spiked his bottled water. This was California, after all.

  "Of course you didn't," said the Magnavox. Amman noticed that the squiggly bands of color vibrated in sync with the words. "You want to know why?"

  "Uh...." Amman wasn't sure he wanted to actually talk to his television set.

  "Come on, come on, pal. Time is money. You've got to meet me halfway on this thing."

  "Okay, then," Amman said, feeling like he was taking the first soft step into madness. “Why don't I, er—take your advice?"

  "Because you don't keep the faith, man. You're wire-walking without a net. Because you're stubborn, see?"

  "Stubborn?"

  "Look at everything I've offered. And tell me, what have I asked in return?"

  Amman glanced at the sofa, wondering if the remote control was lying on one of the cushions. It had probably slid between the cracks, down there into the twilight zone of stale popcorn kernels and loose change and junk mail.

  "What have I asked?" the speaker razzed, in a thin, whining voice. The television spoke as if berating a child.

  "Not much," said Amman. He wondered what would happen if he actually touched the control console on the set. He didn't know what any of the buttons did, but one of them had to be a volume control.

  "Not much," the speaker mocked. "A few measly bucks in postage. And that you believe."

  "Believe?"

  "What are you, a freaking Arabian parrot or something? Yes, believe. You think I'm going to all this trouble just for my own little kicks? Well, let me clue you in, pal. All these accidents are a lot of work for me. Bad luck doesn't just fall out of the sky. Somebody's got to rig the jury, you know what I mean?"

  Amman nodded again, even though he had no idea what his television meant. He looked around at the coffee table. There, the ceramic Buddha lamp that Samantha had bought for him, back in their more carefree days. It was ugly and fat and weighty, everything that Amman needed in a religious icon at the moment.

  "You gotta work with me, pal," said the television, with renewed vigor. "Just pass on the letters. Works like karma, man. You know, what comes around goes around, do unto others, an eye for an eye, that type of jazz."

  Amman lunged for the Buddha lamp and jerked its cord out of the wall. He pivoted and hurled the smiling statue into the face of the Magnavox. The glass exploded with a satisfying flush and silver shards rained onto his carpet. Amman almost leapt for joy as the shattered Buddha collapsed among the wires and circuit boards inside the set.

  He ran to get his Dustbuster from the closet, humming happily. He hadn't felt this good in weeks. He was stooping to clean the mess when the mangled Magnavox spoke again.

  "Amman," it said, sighing. The paper cone of the speaker was actually fluttering in exasperation. "Amman, Amman, Amman. You've got to learn to deal with your anger, old pal."

  Amman grabbed the set and hurled it to the floor. The box burst apart, and Amman saw the speaker in its plastic shell. He jerked its lead wires and stomped the cone.

  It gasped as his foot rose and fell. "Hey, is...that...any way...to treat a concerned...friend...?" Then the voice trailed to a hiss of white noise before fading altogether.

  Amman left the ruins in the living room and poured himself a double Scotch.

  He retired early, hoping if he went to bed, he'd wake up and find that it had all been a dream. The second drink had served him so well that he took the Scotch bottle to bed with him. He nursed it as he leaned against the headboard.

  The phone gargled from the night stand. Apparently they hadn't cut off his telephone service, either. He lifted it, wondering if it was some collection agency or other. No, it was after sundown. Those guys were button-down types these days, nine-to-fivers. They didn't need the hassle of late-night merchandise repossession.

  It had to be Zeke. Zeke had his fingers in a lot of pies, and he'd been promising to dish some to Amman. Phone scams, long-distance porn, Internet rip-offs, Zeke was on the cutting edge of white-collar crime. No blood on his hands, no fingerprints, no felony raps. Just quick money.

  Amman figured he'd need two grand to get the Fiat back in action, plus a couple of grand to grease the wheels that had been squeaking over his delinquent accounts. Then he'd be in shape to go legit again, find some middle management position and build up the old surplus. In and out fast, that's what Amman wanted. It reminded him of his nights with Samantha.

  He flipped the talk button and pressed the phone to his brown ear. He didn't get a chance to speak first.

  "Hello, Bedouin-breath."

  "Zeke? That you, dude?" Zeke had been known to play games. Thought of himself as a poor man's Eddie Murphy.

  "I thought we were reaching an understanding. Then you go and lose your temper."

  "Zeke. It's okay, the line's clear. Drop this code nonsense and talk straight."

  "It's not okay, pal. Only one thing will make it okay. And we both know what that is."

  The voice sounded familiar. Reedy, compressed, and—condescending. Amman froze, unable to move the phone from his ear.

  "What goes around comes around, you camel-riding raghead. How's about a little faith? Hmm, old pal?" the phone bleated.

  Amman's muscles uncoiled and he flung the phone against the wall, puncturing the sheet rock. The earpiece popped off and rolled across the floor and the phone cable pulled free from the wall outlet.

  "All it takes is a little faith, friend," the tiny speaker buzzed. "No
where to go but up. When opportunity knocks, you gotta answer.

  Amman tossed his pillows over the phone. He could hear the muffled pleas fighting through the foam pellets.

  "All you gotta do is believe, Amman."

  He wrestled his mattress off the box spring and flipped it onto the phone.

  "I'm starting to get really concerned about you, pal." Amman fled from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  He danced across the broken glass in the living room, his bare feet aflame with sharp pain. He collapsed on the couch and huddled in a ball. The pieces of the television were strewn around him like bones in a technological graveyard.

  Mercifully, exhaustion soon claimed him and he slept without dreams.

  When Amman awoke, head throbbing and feet prickling, he decided to beat his concerned friend to the punch. He shoved his computer into the hall closet, removed the smoke detectors, put his stereo system in the garage. He drowned his Walkman in the toilet tank and tossed the answering machine over the shrubs to his neighbor's Doberman. Then he went to the kitchen window and drew the shades.

  He waited in the dark, peering between two slats at the bright, warm, insane world outside. The mail carrier was only a few minutes late. He waited until the postal jeep rattled down the street, then he tiptoed to the door and crept outside.

  Amman told himself that sometimes checks showed up in the mail. The old cliché had to have some basis in fact. He was desperate. He could use a break. It didn't have to be the Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes. He'd take a five dollar incentive check, the bribes that the long distance companies sent if you switched. He would switch a thousand times if he could. He never planned to use a telephone again.