The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine

by April Lurie

  I guess Angie reads my mind, because she reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle of Evian. I take a long swig.

  “All right, fine,” she says. “Then let me ask you something else. Why are you always trying to protect Randy? Lately all he’s been is a screwup. Even before your mother left.”

  Now, it’s fine for me to talk crap about my brother, but when someone else—even a good friend like Angie—calls him a screwup, it’s not cool. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Angie. Just give it a rest, okay?”

  She shrugs. “Fine, Dylan, suit yourself. But you know what I think? Maybe instead of trying to save Randy, you should figure out who you are.”

  I glare at her and stuff the rest of the gyro into my mouth. As I chug down more water, I see that the Yankees have finished extorting money from the crowd, and now a half-naked Australian guy with spiky blond hair and a huge sun tattoo on his chest is standing atop one of the fountainheads juggling apples. “G’day, mates!” he calls out. “For my opening act I will need one volunteer. Any whackers? Oh, I mean takers! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Without even thinking, I wipe the grease from my face, stand up, and raise my hand.

  “Aces!” The guy hops off the fountainhead, still juggling the apples. “Come on down, mate! Join me for a little fun.”

  “Dylan!” Angie says. “What are you doing?”

  I turn around. “You know what they say, Angie. Carpe diem.”

  As I walk toward center stage, the guy starts playing to the crowd. “Down Under we have an expression,” he says, “‘She’ll be apples.’ It means ‘Don’t worry, love, everything will be all right.’” He waves me on and motions toward the ground. “So lie down, mate, rest your weary bones and…” He stops juggling and gives the audience a devilish grin. “She’ll be apples!”

  Against my better judgment, I stretch out on the warm, pebbly concrete with a strange feeling that my life, as I know it, will never be the same. While the crowd thickens, the Aussie sprints to the sidelines, reaches into an army duffel bag, and pulls out a knife. The blade is a good nine inches long. I lie there frozen while he slices off part of an apple and pops it into his mouth. Chewing vigorously, he pulls out two identical knives and sprints back to me. Straddling my waist, he begins to juggle. “No worries, mate!” He looks up and winks conspiratorially at the crowd. “Remember, she’ll be apples! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Just when I’m beginning to think this guy might be on crack, I see Angie kneeling beside me. However, she’s not here to bail me out. No, my long-lost best friend has turned on her camera and is about to record my execution. Death by decapitation.

  I glance at the knives swirling above my head, hard steel glinting in the sun. “So, are you getting some good footage?” I ask.

  Angie nods. “Oh, yeah, excellent.”

  “That’s great. Really, I’m happy for you.” The bloodthirsty audience is cheering, and suddenly I feel this strange kinship to Russell Crowe in Gladiator.

  “You doing okay there, mate?” the guy asks.

  I don’t want him to lose concentration, so I nod and say, “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Okay then, let’s see what else we’ve got in the bag!” He catches all three knives in one hand, then runs to the sidelines to retrieve his next implements of torture.

  “Um, Dylan,” Angie says, “what do you think he’s doing now?”

  I watch as the guy pulls out three wooden clubs from his duffel bag. On the end of each club is a large wick. He strikes a match. “Um, he’s lighting torches,” I say.

  “Oh.” Angie takes a few steps back and continues shooting. Meanwhile, the Aussie returns looking like an Olympic runner. He straddles me again and begins to juggle. Flames billow over my head. The crowd is really going wild now, and from the corner of my eye I see Angie’s Pumas. “Dylan, this is awesome!” she yells.

  “Still doing all right there, mate?” the guy asks. He seems completely calm, like we’re just shooting the breeze, sharing tea and crumpets or whatever it is those Aussies do.

  “Yeah, dude, I’m great, just great.”

  After juggling the torches, he grabs a set of Lizzie Borden–style hatchets, and as they swing menacingly above my head I hear someone in the crowd call out, “What are you, crazy, man?” The funny thing is I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to the Aussie. Of course, I realize I can get up and leave at any time, but for some strange reason that’s the last thing I want to do.

  For the grand finale, the Aussie reaches into his bag and, one by one, pulls out three chain saws. By now, the crowd has tripled in size and the cheers are deafening. “Dylan, get up!” Angie says. “This guy’s nuts! He’s gone too far!”

  I turn and look her square in the eye. “Sorry, Angie, I’m not leaving. Not now.”

  Before turning on the saws, the Aussie juggles them over my head, testing his dexterity. Next he sets them on the ground beside me and flips on their switches. I look into his face, hoping to see that tea-and-crumpets calmness, but it’s not there.

  He raises his hands and calls out to the crowd, “Has anyone seen that movie Texas Chain Saw Massacre?”

  The audience is yelling, but I can’t make out what they’re saying because all I hear is the buzzing of the saws. I turn to make sure Angie is shooting. She is.

  “Well, guess what?” he says. “I’ve bloody well seen it three times! Ha, ha, ha!”

  As he picks up the first live chain saw and tosses it over my head, I close my eyes and concentrate on the colors swirling beneath my lids. I’m not sure how much time goes by, but the next thing I know, the Aussie is pulling me to my feet. “Mate,” he says, “I forgot to ask, what’s your name?”

  The sun blinds me. I blink a few times and see that the saws are lying motionless on the ground. I touch my chest and realize that my body is in one piece. “Um, Dylan,” I say. “Dylan Fontaine.”

  He turns to the crowd. “All right, you bloody blokes! Let’s hear it for Dylan! Mr. Dylan Fontaine!”

  The audience cheers, and for a moment I feel like a celebrity. But soon the Aussie is handing me his empty duffel bag. “Okay, mate, now you’re going to collect the cash. Do a good job and we’ll split the loot fifty-fifty. Or, uh, something like that.” He pushes me toward the crowd and says, “Now, I expect some compensation for this fine act of bravery! So dig deep, pull out those tens, those twenties! Lord knows it’s not cheap living in this city!”

  I guess it’s been a pretty fine show, because as I make my way up the steps, people are patting me on the back and stuffing lots of bills into the bag. Even A-Rod, who stuck around for the act, throws in the singles he extorted from me earlier, plus a few more. I look for Angie and see her waving to me from the sidelines. She’s still shooting.

  When I’m finished collecting money I give the duffel bag to the Aussie. He smiles, reaches in, and hands me two tens. Of course this is nowhere near half the loot, but it doesn’t matter. As I’ve mentioned before, I, Dylan Fontaine, am not a materialist.

  “See that, mate,” the Aussie says, plucking an apple from his pile of weapons. He tosses it to me. “Just like I said. She’ll be apples.”

  Six

  WITH THE PROCEEDS from my near-death experience, I take Angie to Orgasmic Organics on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal and order two banana–passion fruit smoothies. I’m not deluded enough to think this drink will stir up actual passion in Angie for me, but I do know a few things about the extra shots they can add for fifty cents a pop. So while Angie makes a quick trip to the ladies’ room, I ask the guy behind the counter to add a shot of ginseng (natural aphrodisiac of the Orient) to each cup along with a scoop of free-radical-fighting spirulina to combat the effects of the gyro.

  When Angie returns I hand her a smoothie, raise my cup in a toast, and say, “Here’s to the new Dylan Fontaine—most spontaneous dude on the planet.”

  Angie nods. “You rocked today, Dylan.” We each take a long drink. The ginseng is tasteless, but the spirulina is kin
d of earthy. Angie makes a face. “Dylan, what’s in this thing? Cow manure?”

  “Well…” Since a cow’s main staple is grass, and spirulina is rather grasslike, I say, “Yeah, something like that. It’s supposed to fight free radicals.”

  She hands me back the smoothie. “Here, you drink it. I’d much rather die young.”

  It’s getting dark by the time we hop on board the D, and as we cross the Manhattan Bridge toward Brooklyn, I peer out the window and watch the lights sparkle along the water. Strangely, there’s something peaceful about being on a crowded subway car, gazing at the Manhattan skyline, especially when Angie is pressed up against me and I can smell faint traces of her green-apple shampoo.

  She sighs and leans her head against my shoulder. The double whammy of ginseng is really kicking in now. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Dylan,” she says. “I’m leaving for New Jersey tomorrow. Gotta spend the last week of summer vacation with the G-rents.”

  It figures that just when Angie gets back, she has to take off to her grandparents’ million-dollar mansion in boring old New Jersey. There’s a cute little frown on Angie’s face, and I have a sudden urge to kiss her. I manage to restrain myself. “That sucks,” I say. “When will you be back?”

  “Labor Day. After the big backyard barbecue shebang with all the relatives.”

  “Oh, well, it’s going to be rough, but I suppose I can survive one more week without you.”

  “Yeah, but I might not make it. God, I hate the suburbs.”

  We transfer to the R. Angie’s tired, so I put my arm around her. She closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep. I’m wiped out too, but I stay awake, holding her close, imagining what it would be like if she was actually my girlfriend. When we pull into the Ninety-fifth Street station, I pat her knee and say, “Come on, Sleeping Beauty, it’s our stop. I’ll walk you home.”

  We head toward Shore Road and take the scenic route to Angie’s house, strolling along the path beside the New York Bay. Angie looks beautiful in the moonlight with the Verrazano Bridge as a backdrop. I begin to wonder if I should tell her how I really feel about her, but as usual I chicken out.

  When we reach her house I say, “So I guess we’ll take another trip into the Village when you get back from the burbs, huh?”

  “Of course.” She grins. “Seeing that you’re the star of my short film and all.”

  “Oh? So now I’m your leading man?”

  She nods. “You always have been, Dylan.” Standing on tiptoe, she plants a kiss on my cheek. “Like I said, you’re my best friend. I don’t ever want that to change.” She reaches up and tousles my hair. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  One advantage of my father’s camping out at the hospital and my mother’s taking off with Philippe LeBlanc is that I can come and go as I please. So instead of heading home, I walk along the water, sorting out the events of the day, and after an hour or so I reach the same conclusion I always do: I will never understand girls.

  I’m exhausted now and ready for bed, but when I arrive at my house I see two police cars parked directly out front, and my father’s Volvo sitting in the driveway at a lopsided angle. At first I think it’s Officer Greenwood come to take his revenge, but when I step inside and see the members of the Dead Musicians Society lined up on the sofa and two unknown cops talking to my father in the foyer, I realize it’s not me the law is after.

  “Dylan!” my dad says. “It’s after eleven, where have you been?”

  The cops turn around. One is a woman, and even though I shouldn’t be having erotic thoughts at a moment like this, I can’t help it. She’s hot. “Um…” I look at my dad. What I’m thinking is When was the last time you even bothered to notice what time I came home? But I’m not about to give these officers a reason to call in the Bureau of Child Welfare. “I’ve been in the city, with Angie,” I say. “She’s shooting a film and wanted me to come along.”

  My dad’s eyes widen. “A film? With Angie? Well, that explains it, then.” He turns to the cops. “Angie is Dylan’s friend who spent the summer at NYU. She’s a very responsible girl.” I guess my dad is trying to prove that he has at least one son who is not a juvenile delinquent, but the cops don’t seem very impressed. He clears his throat. “Dylan, this is Officer Mertz and Officer Olson.” The three of us nod hellos. “They may want to ask you a few questions. Why don’t you have a seat with the others for now?” He motions toward Randy and his friends. I’m wondering what all this is about, but considering the fact that my brother and his band engage in illegal activities on a daily basis, I figure it can’t be good.

  “Um…okay, Dad.” There’s no room left on the sofa, so I take a seat on the armrest next to Headbone. Chloe, I notice, is sitting cross-legged on the floor at the far end playing with stray carpet threads. I give Randy a what’s-up look. He nods as if to say Chill, bro, it’s all gonna go down easy, you’ll see.

  While my dad and the police officers continue their hushed conversation in the foyer, I take a closer look at Officer Olson—a stunning brunette with exotic eyes who looks incredibly sexy with that gun and holster strapped around her hips. Mertz—your typical middle-aged New York City cop, complete with beer gut and cynical smile—has scored big having her as his partner. Lucky guy.

  While I’m in the middle of a fantasy that involves unbuckling the aforementioned holster, Headbone elbows me. “Dylan, we’re all counting on you to smooth this police chick. Just turn on your studmeister magic and she’ll be putty in your hands.”

  Suddenly Chloe’s head pops out from behind the sofa. “Hey, I heard that, Headbone!”

  “Oops, sorry, Clo,” he says. “It’s just, well, the Vagina Head doesn’t seem to be doing too well at the moment.” He peers toward the foyer. “Hey, you don’t think Olson’s one of those lesbian cops, do you? I mean, not all of them are butch, you know.”

  “God! Why do I tolerate you morons?” Chloe stands, gives us all a disgusted glare like she is fed up with the entire male population, and storms into the kitchen.

  Moser, whose eczema really flares up under stress, is scratching away. On the coffee table is a tube of prescription cortisone cream that my dad must have given him, but it doesn’t seem to be doing the job. The left side of his face is swollen, and it looks like he may need a shot of Benadryl, maybe even epinephrine. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you guys drag me into that shower! Look at me!”

  Nick is sitting at the far end next to Moser, and for a guy who’s usually cool and unflappable, he’s looking rather peaked. Beads of sweat cover his forehead and upper lip. This worries me.

  I lean over to Randy and whisper, “What’s going on?”

  He sighs. “Nothing much. That old lady across the street, Mrs. Underwood, called the cops on us. Said her poodle was freaking out from all the noise over here.”

  I glare at Headbone, who always smashes his drums and cymbals way too loud. He shrugs. “Sorry, dude, I was in a zone, what can I say?”

  But still, this doesn’t explain why Nick is sweating bullets. “And that’s it?” I say. “They’re here because of some noise?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Randy says. “Mrs. Underwood also told the cops that she smelled”—he pauses and rolls his eyes—“mar-i-juana coming from our house this morning when she was walking her yappy runt.”

  Headbone shakes his head. “I swear, people need to mind their own business in this neighborhood.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” I say. “Anything else I should know?”

  Randy looks away while Moser picks up the cortisone tube and squeezes a gob onto his finger. “Um, Randy?” Moser says. “You might want to tell Dylan about the golf cart situation. You know, just in case the cops ask.”

  “Golf cart?” I say. I know Randy and his friends sometimes sneak out in the middle of the night and get high on the golf course, but I didn’t think they were stupid enough to take any joyrides.

  Randy frowns. “Yeah, well, it seems there’s a golf cart missing from the Sh
ore Road Golf Club. They’re asking if we know anything about it.”

  “And…do you?”

  No one says anything, but soon Headbone is grinning. “Dyl, no sweat, man, we just had a little fun last night. We were gonna give it back.”

  Now Mertz, Olson, and my dad walk over to us, and even though my dad looks at women’s bodies in his office all day long, even he can’t keep his eyes off Olson’s holster swaying from side to side. Apparently Olson is a take-charge kind of lady, because without consulting Mertz she whips out a pen and pad of paper from her back pocket and says, “Okay, Dylan, I’ve already spoken with your brother and his friends. Now I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Headbone elbows me again and whispers, “All right, Dyl, kick it into high gear.”

  Olson slides the pen cap off with her teeth. Her lips are covered in shiny pink gloss, and I try not to think about how kissable they are. “Your father tells me that your mother is in Paris with a friend. They have an art show together? Is this correct?”

  I look at my dad, but he’s staring at the floor. “Um, yes, that’s correct,” I say, “but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  She holds up one hand. “I’m just trying to establish a few facts here, Dylan. Both you and your brother are juveniles, so I need to get an idea of your living situation.” She scribbles something down. “Now, moving right along, we’ve had some complaints from a neighbor, not only about the noise, but about the smell of marijuana coming from this house. Also, there’s a golf cart missing from the Shore Road Golf Club. Do you know anything about these incidents?”

  “Um…” I furrow my brow, like I’m deep in thought, wondering if a cop like Olson can give a kid like me a lie-detector test against my will. “No,” I say, “I don’t know anything.”

  She nods and takes a few more notes. “All right, then. Officer Mertz and I are going to have a few words in private with your father; after that we should be finished.”

  While the three of them disappear into my father’s den, I glance at Nick, who looks like he’s on the wrong end of a firing squad. “What’s the matter, Nick?” I say. “I mean, this isn’t your house. It’s not like your ass is on the line.”