Outcasts

by Nick Wisseman

  Of course.

  After the transaction’s wordless completion, Tammy scanned the cafeteria for the most isolated seat she could find, made for it, and ate in silence.

  Talk about feeling invisible.

  * * *

  Magnified a hundred-fold by the grain-finder, the image was nothing but blobs of varying darkness melded together. The artist adjusted the focus knob until the blobs became distinct specks, and then stood back to evaluate the larger picture. The black and white girl on the bench stared back at him in perfect clarity. He shook his head.

  Not quite the same, is it? Stealing the spark instead of kindling it…

  He removed the grain-finder, switched off the enlarger, and pulled out a sheet of light sensitive paper. After ripping it into four equal sections, he placed one of the squares roughly where the image of the girl’s head had just evaporated. Setting the timer, he flipped the enlarger back on. The girl flashed back into existence for five brief seconds before winking out again. Then the artist spotlighted the second square for ten seconds, the third for fifteen, and the fourth for twenty.

  This is all you have left, though: theft and imitation.

  Gathering the test strips together, he slipped them into the developing tray and swished the liquid by lifting one of the bin’s corners. He watched each piece cling to its dull white nature before bowing to the inevitable and springing into definition as their excited silver ions morphed into jet black, fresh ivory, and every shade of gray in between. The artist exhaled unevenly as four floating heads emerged, each set in that determined, depressed expression from the day before. He let them drift a moment longer, and then hurriedly pulled them out with his favorite tongs as the pictures began to blink in unison.

  It’s irrevocably in motion, then…Start to say your goodbyes, child.

  Deciding on the ten second exposure, he set the now superfluous tests shots in the trash can as softly as he could, wincing even so. The shots were frowning now, crinkling their noses. Breaking his heart.

  You’re mine, now…For better or worse.

  * * *

  Did you not see my hand? I actually nerved up to answer a question…

  “If we’re not better prepared on Monday, a quiz may be in the offing. Have a good weekend, but make sure you squeeze some reading in there this time.”

  The chorus of notebooks closing, binders snapping shut, and mechanical pencils clicking off filled the room. Tammy was swept up by the exodus, nearly losing her balance as the line jammed through the door and burst out into the already congested hallway. Midway to her locker, she remembered a paragraph she’d wanted to go over with Mrs. Swanson. Changing direction, Tammy began maneuvering back through the chaos and almost walked into her English teacher. She opened her mouth to voice a question…and heard the intended words come from behind her.

  “Hey Mrs. S? Can I talk to you real quick? About my story? I need to take my mind off math for a while…”

  Kathy?!? That misfit dunce put pen to paper?

  “Did you get another quiz back today, Kathy? Don’t worry. It’ll come. Go ahead and step inside my office for a few minutes. I’m not in any hurry.”

  Tammy watched the two walk off together through the press of frenzied bodies, her jaw tightening as she noticed the hefty manuscript Kathy held with both hands.

  She wouldn’t…

  “I’m worried about the title. Is ‘Dance for Whose Amusement?’ a little too heavy-handed?”

  You sneaking little bitch.

  “Actually, I think it’s perfect. But sit down and tell me why you’re so worried about it.”

  Mrs. S’s classroom door shut out the hallway jumble with a reverberating thud. Tammy stood frozen amidst the bustling sea of adolescence, torn between bursting into tears and confronting Kathy.

  “Heya, star. You wanna figure out the dance details now?”

  Jared…

  Tammy turned to answer his comforting voice…and found herself preempted again, this time before she’d even parted her lips.

  “How ‘bout you take me to practice and we figure it out on the way there?”

  Molly!

  “Sounds good to me.” Jared’s arm was around Molly’s shoulders, their faces close and getting closer.

  The tears finally came, and Tammy went.

  * * *

  The cleanly cropped photograph sank lazily to the bottom of the stop solution, its weak acid freezing the picture’s development. The artist kept his focus on the clock above the enlarger, preferring the awkward jerking of the second hand to the frantic scene unfolding in the clear fluid below. His peripheral vision could still make out the girl’s bounding hair, however, and soon enough he was watching her headlong sprint, willing her to avoid the traffic she seemed so blind to.

  It won’t be much longer, child…

  Fishing with a fresh pair of tongs, the artist snared the picture’s corner, lifted it from the tray, and held the dripping image aloft until the excess stop streamed off. Looking at her as little as possible, he shifted the weeping, running girl into the fix tray to complete the evil process. But he couldn’t help noticing her stumble as she tried to take a flight of stairs four at a time.

  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

  * * *

  The office looked so wonderfully pristine, so familiarly neat and tidy. Sunshine pooled in from the monstrous windows, reflecting off the back of the picture frame she’d bought last Christmas.

  “Tammy, was it? I’m sorry, my secretary didn’t get any more than your first name…Sit down and catch your breath a minute. There’s fine.”

  Dad???

  The graying man gestured again at the empty leather chair in the corner. Tammy stood trembling for several moments before complying with halting steps and a violent collapse.

  “Is everything okay? You’re on Molly’s soccer team, right? I haven’t had a chance to make too many games, lately, but…Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay…Here, use all the Kleenex you need. Do you want me to call someone?”

  Why aren’t you hugging me? Comforting me? Recognizing me?

  “I…I don’t know.” Tammy sniffled into her second tissue. She started to angle around to view the picture in the frame—the picture that should be of him and her—thought better of it, and pulled away.

  “Well…How ‘bout this: I’m about to knock off early to run over to the field and get Molly out of practice for a nice dinner. If you’d like, I could give you a lift.”

  Tammy composed herself momentarily, darted a glance at the picture, and broke down completely.

  “Hey, now…You’ll be all right…Why don’t we just get you home. How does that sound?”

  Please…Tell me this is all a joke…Say “home” like it’s something we share…Look at me like a father looks at his daughter…Tell me that picture of you messing up Molly’s hair is just a stupid joke.

  “Could…Could you just take to me to the field?”

  “Are you sure? Okay…But if you need me to drop you off somewhere else…Well, all right then. Maybe soccer is what you need to take your mind off things…I’ll be ready in just a second.”

  “…Thanks.”

  Briskly, the man pulled on his coat, swept an immense collection of papers into a briefcase, and rose to leave. “And it really is no problem at all. Molly shouldn’t be playing today, anyways. Her toe’s been killing her.”

  * * *

  The artist laid the glistening print atop the dryer’s rollers. Inch-by-inch, they fed the picture into the machine’s heated innards, and the scene of the girl slumped on that same bench as laughing figures jogged by in the background was slowly consumed.

  A few seconds more, child…Just a few seconds more.

  The girl lifted her head from her hands, her puffy eyes searching the distance beyond the photograph’s borders.

  They can’t even see me at all anymore…No one can…What did I do?

  Completely mesmerized, the artist watched the picture until it disa
ppeared into the hungry dryer. Then he roused himself and took three anxious steps to the machine’s other side to await the reemergence of his latest handiwork.

  It’s all but done…My familiar vice springing eternal.

  The picture slowly churned from its kiln, the girl’s dangling right arm, dejected head, and slouching shoulders rolling back into existence. He grasped the completed piece with quivering fingers, carried it carefully out of the studio and into the warehouse, and pinned this new prize in its rightful place at the end of the long line of his earlier efforts. Each of these predecessors depicted a central figure arranged in his or her final repose. Run to completion. Watched to extinction.

  His heavy breathing and her soft sobbing accounted for the only sound and movement in the cavernous hall.

  Can you really watch her and still justify stealing back your own like this? Seeing her tears? All their tears…But she’ll forget. They all did…And I created you, child. I created all of you. Fashioned your images after the divine. After perfection…And so what if I added Their spark without permission? It was the logical completion, the finishing touch…And for that I’m doomed to this? Ancient history…Let it go. Focus on the present…Help her through.

  What did I do? What can I do?

  “Go on, child. Live your life. As you would have. As it should have been.”

  The artist watched in fascination as the girl jumped, looked around anxiously, and opened her mouth to respond to his disembodied words. But—all too quickly—her fear faded, her knowledge vanished, and her questions died. Black and white winked out; an inferno of colors blazed in. The picture became a new reality: his and hers, and no one else’s.

  C’mon, Mom. This is ridiculous…Twenty-five minutes late and counting.

  A reluctant sun peered out from parting clouds, offering perhaps an hour of paltry illumination in compensation for an otherwise grim, gray day. Tammy tapped her feet to an erratic beat, her arms crossed sharply over her rumpled jersey.

  And the ultimate voyeurism begins anew: another stolen story to suck dry for your own amusement…In return for my theft, child, I offer this solemn promise: I will watch, listen, learn, appreciate, and in my own twisted fashion, validate your life. This is your existence now. Forget the transition. For you, it’s as if it never was. Continue as you were, as you are, as you will be…The Exiled Artist of the Gods will bear witness…as he’s done so many times before…for so many others.

  What little traffic there was sped by her bench indifferently; she’d counted a grand total of eight cars in the last ten minutes. Her cleats dangled by her side, their laces joined by a bowknot that lay atop the seat’s armrest like a blooming white flower. As the sweat permeating her jersey began to chill, Tammy huddled further into herself and glanced at her watch.

  From here on out, child, no breath is ever pointless…I will see it, hear it, and understand it…I watch, therefore you are.

  It’s six o’clock, Mom. We practice from four to six everyday…Do you really forget, or just not care? Even Kathy’s trailer trash parents remembered her. How hard is it to remember me?

  PERMANENCE

  “You’re kidding me, Terrance. This is beyond ridiculous.”

  Four right hands clasped at right angles, forming the sweaty spokes of a human wheel.

  “Randy…Just do it. We need a clean start.”

  A reluctant fifth hand joined the web of palms and fingers, ruining the symmetry and weighing down the whole.

  “We will work together. We will be rescued. We pray for strength, resolve, and fortitude. We steel ourselves against fear, infighting, and divisiveness. Let us begin as one.”

  Finally beginning to emerge, the sun beat down through the gaps separating the five arms.

  “Preachy and longwinded, Brad. I think all we really need to do is agree not to kill the pig, slit its throat, or above all spill its blood. Cool?”

  The four original hands dropped in concert, leaving the fifth hovering by itself.

  “Wouldn’t now be a good time to stop being a jackass, Randy? At least while we figure out how to help Keith?”

  Four pairs of gentle hands cupped his body, spread out evenly to provide maximum support. Shutting his eyes, he felt himself ascend…then sway…then glide.

  “Wouldn’t now be a good time to stop being a permanent PMS bitch, Linda?”

  Eight hands gripped him a little tighter, but the gentle rocking continued, as did the smooth, womblike glide.

  “This is no time to act like a child, Randy. I suggest you bite your tongue…I think that is far enough. Keith, can you hear me? We are going to set you down now.”

  He started to sweat in anticipation of the landing, soft though the hands were attempting to make it. When the impact finally came, he tried to scream, but found his mouth and lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Interesting phrase there, Brad. Should I bite hard enough that we can have ourselves a nice, flopping little dinner? Or does somebody have a better idea of what we’re going to do for food? What do we have, one knife between the six of us? Does anyone even know where the hell we are? What about you, Mr. Acting Captain?”

  A long, slow stream of air was inhaled and then exhaled near his feet.

  “You’re pushing it, Randy, you’re really pushing it…We’re all tired, we’re all scared, and we’re all damn near to punching your dumb ass. Will you stop being so fucking selfish for five minutes, for Keith’s sake if no one else’s? All right? Our first priority is cleaning him up…Being an idiot is secondary.”

  A snort of disgust sounded somewhere to his front as a gentle hand brushed his temples.

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n Crunch.”

  “Randy, I swear to God—”

  “Boys! Cool it!…Thank you. George, that flap of your uniform is about to come off. Could you tear it so I can use it as a compress for Keith’s forehead? It feels way too hot.”

  An assenting grunt. A rapid ripping. A damp cloth.

  “So what do we do now, cap’n?”

  “Randy—”

  “Ignore him, Terrance; we need to get moving. I’ll take care of Keith. Why don’t you work on making a shelter while Brad and George look for something to eat? If Randy cuts the bullshit, he can help.”

  “This whole situation is bullshit.”

  “So stop adding to it.”

  “Randy…Linda’s right: we need to get things going…Is everyone okay with what she suggested?”

  “You’re the cap’n.”

  “God dammit, Randy! Will you quit—”

  “Shit, I think Keith stopped breathing!”

  The pain roared back…And then there was nothing.

  * * *

  Log: Day 2—Terrance

  Of course. Of course, of course, of-fucking-course this was the only bag whose seal the storm didn’t pop. We don’t have any real food, but we have a notebook. Hot fucking damn…But with any luck this will be the first and last entry. The Citizen’s Brigade always looks after its own, and even with all the chaos, that last transmission went through. No question. They know where we are, and we should be off this rock in a day…Two, tops.

  Which might not be soon enough to keep someone from strangling Randy. Fucking moron…But he did manage to patch together a decent lean-to. And George and Brad found a few roots and berries Linda swears are edible, so we’re getting by…I’ve already walked up and down the beach three times this morning looking for wreckage we can use. That scene in Swiss Family Robinson where they raft out to the sinking ship and float back barrels and livestock keeps playing in my mind…Why can’t it be that easy?

  At least Keith looks a little better; he’s breathing easier. Hopefully he’ll be able to talk again soon…And maybe be captain again. If nothing else, I’d like to get his advice on a few things. Not that he’s had any more training for this than the rest of us…

  Once folks start waking up, maybe we can brace the lean-to and explore the area (island?) a little and find the best spot for a chop
per to land…And maybe figure out where this damn war took us. If I’d known joining up would mean dealing with

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

  “What the fuck, Randy? Why the hell are you so god damned inconsiderate? Jesus, man…I can’t believe you just did that!”

  He leaned back against his pillow of leaves and sand, watching the latest drama from his shady vantage.

  “You asked me for some kindling. I got you some.”

  “You know what I fucking meant, Randy. Twigs, god dammit. Fucking twigs…Why are you such an ass?…You’re this close, asshole, this fucking close—”

  “Randy, why are you always starting something with somebody?”

  Looking back down, he resumed drawing with his good arm, re-tracing each line where sand had trickled back in.

  “He burned fourteen pages of the journal, Linda. Fucking burned them…Ripped them out and used them to start the fire…I didn’t realize until I saw the last page all crinkled up and black…Jesus, Randy. What the hell’s wrong with you? Seriously.”

  He glanced up, reacting to the sharp, meaty noise of a slap. Randy was recoiling with a bemused look in his eyes, his hand pressed to his jaw. Linda’s fists were balled at her hips.

  He went back to his sketch.

  “How on earth can you be such a prick?”

  “The signal fire’s lit, right? So who cares? And it’s not like Terrance is Robinson Crusoe or anything. No one will care what we write, because no one’s going to find us. Or anything we leave behind. The whole damn world’s probably killed each other off.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, Terrance. Terrance? Terrance! Cool it. And Randy, self-pity doesn’t give you the right, you little dip shit.”

  “I think you’re overreacting, Linda. And it’s shocking, really shocking.”