by Adam Johnson
There’s a flash of light, and my knees go weak. I must look like one of those old snipers who’s gone soft, the kind you see living in the street in his dirty uniform, selling daisies for a buck. All I can do is head for the door, steadying myself as I go.
In the hall, I lean over and breathe deep as a team of chirpy cadets passes.
Then Seema is by my side. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, hands on knees.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “I mean, I only have to come here one day a year.”
I stand straight, try to arch my back, snap myself out of it.
“That room’s just a little claustrophobic,” I tell her.
“Let’s get some fresh air, then,” she says. “I could use some fresh air.”
I’m feeling pretty shaky, so I’m thinking of what a cool sniper might say. I lean against the wall, try to stand all smooth. “Yo,” I tell her, “we could maybe grab some lunch.”
Seema casts a weary glance through the one-way glass to her father, hunched over the metal table. “Sure,” she says, and it’s that easy, we’re going to lunch.
We start walking together, debating tostadas or vindaloo, but before we even decide on a restaurant, ROMS comes cruising by, obviously headed out on a bomb disposal run. He’s pushing an asbestos supply cart and wearing his shiny Mylar blast suit.
He stops when he sees me. “What up, peoples?” he asks.
I pretend I don’t see him, even though he’s waving his claws in big hellos.
“Do you know this robot?” Seema asks me.
“Sure, we’re home-slices,” ROMS says.
It knots my gut, but I cold-shoulder ROMS. “This geek?” I ask Seema. “No way.”
ROMS pulls off his shiny hood. “Hey, homie, it’s me!”
“Shove off, drone,” I tell ROMS, who puts his hat on all wrong and slumps away. To Seema, I say, “That robot used to help carry equipment for our band.”
“You’re in a band?” Seema asks.
“Yeah, I play bass,” I tell her. “Most of our numbers are in French, though, so you probably wouldn’t understand.”
My hands are all shaking, I feel like such a fake.
“Quel chance,” she says. “Je parle français aussi.”
Then I hear this voice in my head. Get out of there, it says.
“Sorry, gotta go, see you,” I say and head back down the hall, beating it through the lockdown and central processing. I race past rows of booking tables, then stumble through the gift shop—knocking over all kinds of souvenir shot glasses and nearly killing the bail blonde—before finally ducking into the Sniper Lounge.
Inside the lounge, I’m so wound up I pace back and forth, trying to get hold of myself.
“Easy, there, Blackbird,” Twan says from his recliner.
Cedric and Henry look up from the couch—they’ve got the new Monsanto catalog, and they’re checking out the centerfold. Everyone’s trying to relax and clear their heads before the America Online convention this afternoon. They’ll need their best, if last year was any indication.
I go to grab a Nix, but the fridge’s empty. “Crap,” I say. “Someone came in here and stole our sodas again.”
I slam the cooler shut, but no one even looks up, nobody around here seems to give a turd. So much for unity. No weekend retreat to Team Mountain will fix things this time.
“I bet it was those asswipes on SWAT,” I say, furious. “They’re doing it just to laugh at us. Everyone knows the guys on SWAT all drink Buzz.”
Normally, Twan won’t give me the time of day, but he comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Blackbird, get some focus. Save it for AOL,” he tells me. “What say you sit in my chair, put your feet up, check out the Monsanto Girls?”
“I don’t think so,” I say in total defeat. “I’m only into the Sony Girls.”
“There you go,” Twan says. “You’re sounding better already.”
“Oh, come now,” Cedric says from the couch. “The Monsanto Girls are it.”
“What are you talking about?” Henry asks him, laughing. “You’re Mormon.”
“The Monsanto Girls are kosher with the hive,” Cedric answers. To Twan, he asks, “Where’s Muhammad stand on the Monsanto Girls?”
“Twan likes ’em natural,” Twan announces. “I don’t speak for the Prophet.”
I pull Twan aside, steering him over to the fireplace.
“Twan,” I say, quiet enough that the guys can’t hear. “I need some advice.”
He leans against the humidor, considers me. “Yeah?”
He looks very fatherly, with the bookshelves behind him. I feel I can trust him.
“There’s this girl, and she’s not like other girls. She’s different, but I keep screwing everything up.”
“Different how?”
“She’s got these big eyes. Man, when she looks at you, she knows the real you.”
Something I say contains a certain gravity for Twan.
“This girl,” he asks, “she a friend, or you talking love?”
“I just met her,” I say. “How do you tell?”
“Look at her,” Twan says. “Really look at her. Not just check out her body. You need to see the real her. Then you’ll know. You can’t help but know.”
* * *
After work, I grab a sixer of Buzz, to work up my nerve, then I head to the old Iridium Satellite Tracking facility near Stanford. The company went belly-up, but its tower is the tallest fixed object in sight. At the padlocked gate, the dish above is mongo, a sniper’s dream. I sling my rifle, hop the fence, and start to climb the huge frame, monkey footing it up the diagonal struts.
When I reach the lip of the giant white dish, high above Palo Alto, I swing a leg over and slide through the dust to the center, where I find the remains of an old campfire. There’s like fifty cigarette butts strewn around and some used condoms, so I watch where I step.
At the leading edge of the dish, I dangle an arm off the side and assume a Thompson side cradle stance, which keeps your legs from going to sleep during prolonged situations. After my scope calibrates, I crack the six-pack and begin scanning the neighborhoods for Seema’s house. It’s funny, but when I finally drink my first can of Buzz, it tastes just like Nix.
Combing the storybook neighborhoods and canopied streets for her house, I guess I’ve got it in my head that I’ll find Seema in some perfect state—wearing a flowing gold and pink sari as she swings in a hammock, reading one of those really long novels, in French maybe, and she has a foot dangling, just sweeping the grass as she rocks. She’s probably eating a crepe, very elegantly.
On my third can of Buzz, I spot a guy washing an old-timey station wagon, and when I see he’s wearing generic white sneakers with blue dress socks, I know this must be Gupta. I dial in the focus, careful not to start my countdown or anything—I mean, Krugers don’t come with safeties.
Sweeping to the backyard, I spot Seema. She’s wearing khaki pants and a khaki polo with the insignia of the local animal shelter, and she’s doing a pretty weak job of cleaning the barbecue. She scrubs for a while, stops to look around, accidentally wipes a dark smudge on her cheek.
I know what it’s like getting stuck doing chores no one else wants to do, and I get this urge to tell Seema she’s not alone, that I’m here, too. I want to place my crosshairs on an apple or pear above her, to shoot through the stem and have it land perfectly in her hand, so she’d know someone’s looking out for her. It’s a pretty stupid thought, I guess. Gupta doesn’t have any fruit trees, and there’s only so many ways to show affection with a rifle.
I crack another Buzz, and even though it’s warm, there’s something really snappy to it. I don’t even down my first sip before I start to get the sense that I know Seema in a special way. It doesn’t hit me in a flash, but sort of grows on me. I’m doing what Twan says, really looking at her through my scope—the way the splashing water makes her feet glimmer, how she squinch
es her face when she works a gross spot on the grill—when I get this sense that she’s ahead of the kids her own age, a little smarter, more mature. She doesn’t really have friends who know the real her. So she has to pretend she’s someone she’s not, acting older, tougher. Then her father’s trying to make her follow in his footsteps, shoving French classes down her throat, steering her toward debate, toughening her with jiu-jitsu. Through my scope, I watch her hose the spider webs out of the burner, and it’s clear that Gupta’s trying to make her the world-class negotiator he never was. It’s like she has to live someone else’s life. Maybe all she really wants to be is a UN monitor, to travel to other countries on peacekeeping missions, wear cool uniforms, and try to make a difference. This is the real her, without any poses, a girl who really likes to help animals, who just wants to go out and make the world a better place without having to shoot anyone.
Suddenly my legs have a mind of their own. I jump up, and I’m balancing on the edge of the dish, and if I fall, I’m like, whatever. I feel that light.
I grab the tower’s guy-wire cables, and in a slow-motion jump, rappel all the way to the ground, a move that leaves my crotch and one armpit black. Before I know it, I’m over the fence and heading down the street. I find myself jogging, and it’s like I’m wearing headphones that only play static. There’s a silver fire hydrant, and for no reason, I go up and kick it. I’m running along, turning into her neighborhood, and have you ever taken a good look at your hand, I mean really stared at it?
“Howdy, Gupta,” I say as I trot past the mist of his hose. At the door, I ring the bell, and I’m kind of jogging in place. I ring it again. At my feet, there’s a flower bowl of puffy-faced dahlias and aster, all purple and trippy. Normally I’d get sort of queasy, and my ribs would be tightening. But I feel great, like I’m ten years younger.
It takes long enough, but Seema finally answers. She’s sort of smiling at first.
“Look, Seema, wow,” I say. “I am so into peace. And animals.”
“Blackbird? What are you doing here?”
“I’m a Cancer, you know,” I tell her. “So it’s hard for me to talk. And I have all these weird dreams, not the ones with the Sony Girls—ha-ha—but mostly where I mow the lawn. Sometimes I just wash the car, like Gupta! But there’s this voice in my head, and Lt. Kim thinks that once we get it to go away, I’ll stop worrying that the good things in life are destined to fail, like you and me. But I’m up in this satellite dish, and I’m thinking: what if this is the voice that still believes things can be okay, that believes in good and warns me away from bad? It wants to protect me, just like the United Nations.”
“Dad,” Seema says.
“You win a lot of awards, you know,” I say. “And you think you’re Aladdin, cruisin’ on that carpet, showin’ off with some loop-the-loops, but the real question is—what about the evil genie? Honestly, Seema, I’m no Aladdin. I’m more like the little monkey.”
Gupta comes up the driveway, wielding a soapy brush.
I admit I’ve been gesturing kind of wild with my rifle. I pull the last Buzz from my back pocket, all hot and shaken. It goes everywhere when I open it, and I lift a finger to say gimme a sec while I suck the overflow.
“Pardon moi,” I say with foam on my face.
“I think it’s time to leave, Tim,” Gupta says.
“Okay, that was a lie, I admit it. I don’t really speak French.”
“Dad, let me handle this,” Seema says. “Get lost, stalker-boy,” she shouts and goes to slam the door.
“Hey, wait,” I tell her. “I really have to use your bathroom.”
I still need to explain how I don’t like to shoot women, but Seema assumes a jiu-jitsu stance, so I decide I’ll maybe just down my Buzz and go.
* * *
The next morning, I wake on the lawn of the police station with a blistering case of dry mouth. The sprinklers have run, and I’m clueless how I got here. My rifle’s gone. When I sit up, it’s like there’s rock salt in my joints, and maybe I cracked a couple floater ribs—sure signs I’ve been on the losing end of some grappling. Wringing the water out of my shirt, flashes start coming to me from last night—tank tops, cutoff shorts, and lots of mustaches, all broomy and stiff—evidence I tangled with SWAT. I’m pulling my sneakers off to shake them out when I spot a rifle barrel sticking out of a Dumpster beside the station.
My poor Kruger. I shake a banana peel off the scope and try to clean coffee grounds out of the breech with a wet sock. Can I sink any lower? I decide right there to lay down my pride and squish out back to the bomb shed to see ROMS.
The bomb shed’s really just a nickname for a complex series of bunkers behind the station that house all the equipment we don’t want the media to know about. The walls are three feet thick and the ceiling is satellite proof, so this is where ROMS goes to hide out when his feelings are hurt.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, ROMS is parked alone in the middle of a dark corridor where we store the blanket cannon, a device that fires sheets of steel wool at incredible velocities. The protesters call them “drapes of wrath,” but most everyone agrees there’s no faster way to induce good citizenship.
The air is damp and smells faintly of rust. ROMS has his screen saver on.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“You must be lost,” he answers. “Your new, cool friends aren’t here. Why don’t you check the SWAT Rec Room?”
“You know I don’t have any cool friends. I’m here to see you, man.”
This cheers ROMS up enough that his green light comes on. He smiles a bit, and I know it’s cowardly, but when he doesn’t say anything about the way I dogged him, neither do I.
“Heard you had quite a night last night. Tried to fight the whole SWAT team?”
“I keep screwing everything up,” I say.
“You know, Tim, turning to sodas and martial arts never solved anything.”
I hang my head at the truth of ROMS’s words. “Look, I need your help.”
ROMS grows serious. He points his dish at me.
“Okay. Tell me about it.”
“There’s this girl, and maybe I’m in love with her. But every time I try to talk to her, I turn into an idiot.”
ROMS starts to pace the room, rolling past bushels of finely wound laceration wire. He turns suddenly to face me.
“I have much experience in the realms of amour,” ROMS says. “My years in demolition and negotiation have taught me firsthand about the effects of love, with my specialties being rampages, revenge bombings, and murder-suicides.”
I sit on an empty canister of laxative gas. “Go ahead,” I say.
“Here are a couple tips. First, love and firearms don’t mix. That also goes for drugs, alcohol, or artificial stimulants.”
“Too late for that one.”
“Next, when making decisions in matters of love, avoid ledges, bridges, rooftops, towers, and open windows.”
“Strike two.”
“Most important,” and here he pauses. “Never, ever diss a friend over a girl.”
“Ouch,” I say. “Point taken. But those are all don’ts. I need the dos, man.”
ROMS thinks on this. He sniffs the vacant air as if for wisdom, then continues.
“To begin with,” he says, “She might be hungry. Supply her with pizza. People need food to make good decisions. Sharing food is also an ancient ritual of trust and friendship. Next, show your good faith—give her something, a gift perhaps, no strings. Then, open the lines of communication and be prepared to listen. Finally, give her space and time to make up her own mind, without any pressure. If all else fails, offer yourself in exchange.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Um,” ROMS says, “the hostages?”
“Hostages? There aren’t any hostages. You don’t know anything about love, do you? You don’t know the first thing.”
My voice cracks when I say this, and I tromp off.
* * *
Th
e rest of the week is hard to take. Cedric and Henry quit the force to start snipers.com, a private “consulting” firm that provides just-in-time sniping to Silicon Valley companies. Because they do all their shooting in-house, everyone’s spared the media attention. Henry leaves me a note that reads, “He who hesitates, masturbates,” which is what the SWAT guys are always saying, and only too late do we realize that Cedric copied all our training videos and gave them to America’s Zaniest Sniper Bloopers.
Twan and I put in lots of overtime, which means I have to shoot all the females, and it gets to where I’m barely able to focus on the targets in my scope. Forget about replacement imagery—it’s everything I can do not to set the Kruger on autosnipe mode. Gupta gives me the silent treatment, and the Sniper Lounge is like a ghost town. My mom buys stock in Cedric’s IPO.
Then ROMS is killed in a blast at Ikea. It’s one of those savage detergent bombs. The explosion is broadcast live, and the video has the same color-leaked quality as my scope. ROMS lets out this sad little moan when he realizes he’s snipped the wrong wire, and knowing what’s coming, he turns himself off. He mutters something as his arms droop, his screen blips green, and all that’s left is a halo of static. Then his video feed stops. Flowers, I think. Flowers, flowers.
I’m a zombie, I’m so sad—I find myself eating breakfast burritos morning, noon, and night, and I about OD on Nix. But no one seems to care. Hewlett Packard digs up its poppies, and rebeds with snapdragon. CalTrans installs speakers on the fronts of its trains that blare “Ode to Joy” all day. And each shift, after I hang up my Kruger, is nothing but another star next to my name at the detail desk, and I don’t even care about the perfect attendance award anymore. You know, when a K-9 is lost in the line of duty, he gets like a twenty-one-gun salute, but ROMS is simply swept up with an electromagnet so they can recycle his parts.
