by S. G. Browne
“Well, thanks for enlightening us on our primal nature, Mick,” I say. “But I think it’s time the three of us got down to business.”
“Can I pick first this time?” Charlie asks, looking back and forth from me to Randy like an obedient dog.
“Be my guest,” I say.
Charlie purses his lips and looks around, then nods toward the counter, where the courtesy thug who couldn’t be bothered to hold the door open for the mother with the stroller is placing his order. “Him.”
“Randy?” I say. “Whipped cream or Beethoven?”
“Definitely whipped cream,” he says.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s teach these douche bags some manners.”
Randy takes a deep breath, Charlie closes his eyes, and I think about Steve Martin as the sadistic dentist in Little Shop of Horrors. Then we all take aim.
The hearing-impaired woman talking on her cell phone slumps over on the table and starts snoring; the monkey drops his mocha and scratches at himself like he has a flea infestation; and a middle-aged woman standing near the counter drops to the ground and goes into convulsions while the courtesy thug stands a few feet away, unaffected.
“Oops,” Charlie says.
When it comes to Charlie’s ability, it’s often oops.
Randy shakes his head. “You really need to improve your aim.”
“I know, I know,” Charlie says. “I’m working on it.”
INTERLUDE #2
Little Seizures (Pizza Pizza)
Charlie sits on the subway facing the opposite side of the train and watching the darkness of the subway tunnel flash by in the windows. He’s on the number 1 train uptown on his way to Zabar’s for some chocolate rugelach before heading out to the Hudson River to watch the sun set over New Jersey. He does this a couple of times a week, always by himself. If he ever got up the nerve to create an online dating account, he would list watching sunsets on the Hudson while eating chocolate rugelach from Zabar’s as one of his favorite things to do. Maybe he would find someone who liked to do the same thing.
He’s thinking about this while sitting next to an attractive brunette who smells like vanilla. Charlie catches her scent every time he inhales and he wants to say something about how good she smells, that she reminds him of fresh-baked cookies, but even in his head that sounds creepy. Maybe he could say it another way, ask her what she’s wearing, but he can’t seem to come up with the nerve to talk to her.
Women have always confused and flustered Charlie, with their smiles and their breasts and their long hair pulled back in ponytails. If only he could figure out how to approach them, but he’s never known what to say or when to say it. They’re a mystery to Charlie. A language he doesn’t understand. An algebra problem he can’t solve. A riddle to which he doesn’t know the answer.
Take the woman sitting next to him. She’s pretty but not in an intimidating kind of way. Still, there’s something about her long hair and smooth skin and feminine figure that causes Charlie’s brain to short-circuit, preventing him from speaking. It’s like her breasts have cast a spell over him, causing him to lose the ability to form a complete sentence.
But even if Charlie could summon the courage to speak to her, he doubts she would be interested in having a conversation with him. She seems more interested in the guy sitting across from her wearing a Boston Red Sox cap and a T-shirt that says FUCK NEW YORK. Charlie keeps expecting someone to say something to him, to give him some shit or maybe tell him that the Red Sox suck, but no one says anything.
So Charlie sits there smelling the woman next to him, becoming more intoxicated by her scent and her presence, trying to find the courage to talk to her, to let her know he’s interested, to let her know he exists. But his courage remains buried beneath a steaming pile of self-doubt and insecurity. Instead he remains silent and imagines how things would be different if he was more confident and charismatic, like Randy.
Even though his father and stepmother loved Charlie and appreciated everything he did for them, Charlie never felt like he mattered much. But then, you tend to feel that way when most of the other kids in school call you a pathetic loser and make you feel less important just because you’re not attractive or popular or smart.
Dropping out of high school wasn’t so much a personal sacrifice for Charlie as it was a much-needed vacation.
Over the past few years, Charlie has finally begun to feel like he matters. Part of that has to do with volunteering to help test drugs. Even though he’s getting paid for it, he’s doing something to help others. And that gives Charlie a sense of self-worth that working in a fast-food restaurant or delivering pizzas can’t.
But the biggest reason Charlie feels more important is because of Lloyd, Vic, Randy, Frank, Isaac, and Blaine.
Growing up, Charlie never had much in the way of friends. No one to go to the movies with or read comic books with or pal around with during summer vacations. The most social interaction Charlie had was going to Forbidden Planet and Bergen Street Comics and talking to the staff or other customers about their favorite superheroes.
Then he met Randy and Vic and Lloyd a few years ago, and for the first time in his life Charlie had a group of guys he could hang out with and joke around with and count on if he needed help. Even though they make fun of him sometimes, he still knows they’re his friends. And that makes him happy.
More than that, it makes him feel like he matters.
Now if only he could figure out how to get a girlfriend.
When they reach Times Square, the brunette gets up and joins the group of passengers getting off. Just before she exits, she turns and looks back. For a second Charlie imagines she’s going to smile at him, to let him know that she noticed him sitting there and understands. Instead she glances at the guy in the Red Sox cap and gives him a smile. Then she’s gone and the doors close and the train continues uptown.
Charlie sits and thinks about the brunette as the train continues to Fiftieth Street, then Fifty-Ninth, stealing glances at the guy sitting across from him wearing his FUCK NEW YORK T-shirt and his smug expression and his carefree attitude that the woman who smelled like vanilla found appealing. Someone needs to say something to him, tell him that he should go back to Boston if he doesn’t like it here. So Charlie decides that if no one else is going to do anything, he will.
As the train pulls out of the Fifty-Ninth Street station, Charlie closes his eyes and starts to cultivate his trigger, imagining his stomach full of ice, the blood flowing through his veins as cold as a winter stream, and every breath he takes expanding his lungs with freezing Arctic air. He feels himself growing colder as goose bumps break out on his arms and the back of his neck and a shiver builds up inside of him like an orgasm, waiting to release.
When it comes to his new ability, Charlie knows he has a problem with self-control, which is another reason he’s never been good with women. And right now he can feel the ability inside of him reaching the point of no return. But then Charlie thinks about what he’s doing and why, and he realizes that his problem with the guy sitting across from him has less to do with his T-shirt and more to do with the brunette who found him attractive.
Charlie’s not a spiteful or petty person, nor the type to hold grudges or keep score. He’s always considered himself easygoing and agreeable, which is probably why people have a tendency to take advantage of him. He also knows he’s not exactly the sharpest tack in the drawer, but he’s smart enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong. And making the guy in the FUCK NEW YORK T-shirt pay for being more attractive than Charlie isn’t right. Besides, he’d probably miss and make someone else go into convulsions.
So for the first time since he discovered his new ability, Charlie tries to stop it by taking a deep breath and imagining hot air melting the ice in his stomach. At first nothing happens, but then he takes another deep breath and the ice begins to melt, his internal temperature slowly rises, and the blood in his veins turns from a winter stream to a tropica
l river.
Charlie takes one more deep breath and lets it out, the inevitable release of his ability receding, then he smiles and opens his eyes. But his elation is replaced by confusion when he sees a sexy redhead sitting across from him, dressed all in crimson and listening to her iPod, her red, leather-clad legs crossed and her right foot bouncing up and down to the beat of some unheard tune.
Charlie looks around, wondering what happened to the guy in the FUCK NEW YORK T-shirt, and notices that not only is he no longer here but some of the other people who were on the train before are gone, too. And in addition to the redhead, there are new people sharing his car who weren’t here a minute ago. When the train pulls into the Seventy-Second Street station rather than Sixty-Sixth Street, Charlie realizes that he somehow missed a stop.
He looks around the car, trying to figure out what happened, giving a nervous smile to the redhead because when it comes to women, that’s the only thing he can manage. She smiles back, but Charlie’s too insecure to do anything about it. Plus he’s still trying to figure out what happened to the two minutes he lost and the subway stop he doesn’t remember.
By the time the train reaches the Seventy-Ninth Street station, Charlie decides he must have been so focused on what he was doing that he just lost track of time. No big deal. Nothing he needs to worry about. If anything, he feels a sense of confidence and empowerment at being able to focus and control his ability. Maybe even confident enough to say something to the redhead, but when he looks at her and she gives him another smile, Charlie chickens out and exits the train without looking back.
One step at a time, Charlie thinks. One step at a time.
You can make people fall asleep?” Blaine says, the lenses of his black sunglasses reflecting the chessboard as he takes one of my remaining pawns with his bishop.
I nod and take his bishop with my knight. “I know. It’s weird, right?”
“Weird is an understatement.”
Blaine and I are sitting at one of the stone chess tables in Tompkins Square Park beneath a green canopy of American elms. The sun is out, the sky is blue, and a wino is throwing up behind a garbage can. Two skinny white guys who haven’t bathed since the Clinton administration share a forty on a nearby bench while somewhere unseen, a saxophone serenades us with “Over the Rainbow.”
There’s no place like home.
Blaine moves one of his knights to threaten both my king and my remaining rook. “Check.”
I look for a way to save my rook, but he’s done for, so I move my king to safety.
“So can you make me fall asleep right now?” Blaine asks, taking my rook.
“My lips have to go numb first,” I say. “It’s my trigger.”
Blaine looks at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Your trigger?”
“It’s what causes this ability I have to come out and play,” I say, moving my knight to protect my king.
“And everyone else has some kind of side effect they’re able to project onto others?” Blaine moves his queen. “Check.”
“Everyone but Frank. But Vic thinks he’s not telling us something.”
Blaine nods and glances at an overweight black woman in dirty sweatpants who walks past us, mumbling while waving one hand in the air and scratching her ass with the other.
While handfuls of locals and tourists and dogs help to balance out the number of homeless and drug addicts, Tompkins Square still has a higher quotient of crazy than most of Manhattan’s other parks. But it has character and free chess tables and its own unique smell. However, I wouldn’t recommend using the public restrooms. Not without a good health plan.
“And nothing’s been happening to you?” I ask as the black woman starts shouting at her invisible friend.
Blaine watches the woman a moment, then returns his attention to the board. “Like what?”
“Like anything strange or out of the ordinary?”
“You mean, have I been making people throw up or fall asleep or get hard-ons? No. Not that I know of.” Blaine takes my knight with his queen. “Checkmate.”
I study the chessboard for a few moments, trying to see my way out of losing. Blaine rarely beats me at chess. At best, he usually gets a draw one out of three games. But he’s right. It’s checkmate.
Blaine and I meet up once or twice a month to play chess—sometimes here, sometimes in Central Park, sometimes in Union Square. But none of those places have crackheads getting into arguments every ten minutes or an army of rats that comes out at dusk.
“Another game?” Blaine asks.
“Sure.”
“How about we play for lunch,” he says. “Loser buys.”
“You’re on,” I say and start putting my pieces back in place.
“Did you know that the term checkmate originates from the Persian phrase shāh māt?” Blaine says. “Which literally means the king is helpless, not the king is dead.”
“Thanks for clarifying. I’ll sleep better now.”
In addition to the etymology of checkmate, Blaine has also explained that chess is a descendant of the ancient Indian game of chaturanga, which is apparently named for something having to do with infantry and cavalry and elephants. I think my knights are supposed to be the cavalry and my bishops the elephants, but I can’t remember.
My thoughts seem kind of muddled today and I’m having trouble focusing. I wonder if it has anything to do with this whole making-people-fall-asleep thing. And if I should be worried.
“So what are you guys doing with these newfound abilities of yours?” Blaine asks.
I tell him about the smokers and litterbugs and people talking on cell phones in restaurants whom we’ve been teaching lessons.
“Sounds like you guys are cleaning up the city,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic, but I move the white pawn in front of my queen out two squares to start a new game. Blaine counters with the pawn in front of his king to threaten me, so I protect my pawn with my knight.
“What does Sophie think about all this?” he asks.
“She doesn’t. I haven’t told her yet.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure she’ll understand.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Blaine says. “And you told me.”
“It’s different with you. You’re a guinea pig. You’re one of us.”
“That I am,” he says. “That I am.”
After a handful of moves, I’ve brought out my knights and bishops and castled my king. Blaine has done the same and aggressively taken out two of my pawns and one of my knights, countering each of my moves in half the time it takes me to make mine, like he knows what I’m going to do the moment before I do it.
A blonde in a sundress walks past us with a pair of shapely legs and some kind of dog on a leash. She glances at us as she passes and Blaine returns her glance with one of his own, lowering his shades to watch her go.
“You ever wish that instead of making people fall asleep, you could read their minds?” Blaine watches the blonde walk away before he turns back to the game and takes one of my bishops.
“You mean like a psychic?” I look at the board, trying to remember where I was going with my last move.
“No, I mean really read people’s minds,” he says. “Not just flip over some cards or look at someone’s palms and come up with some hocus pocus about their future, but actually know what they’re thinking. Know what they know.”
“I don’t think I’d want to know what other people are thinking,” I say, threatening one of his rooks. “People keep a lot of secrets and the last thing I want to do is go into their closets and start sifting through their skeletons. You never know when you might find something you wish had remained buried.”
“I don’t know.” Blaine moves his queen across the board with seeming indifference. “I think the more you know about someone, the easier it is for you to gain the upper hand.”
“Is that how you beat me last game?�
� I say, kidding around. “By reading my mind?”
“Just playing to your tendencies, Lloyd.”
“I don’t have tendencies.”
“Sure you do,” he says. “Everyone has tendencies.”
The overweight black woman suddenly starts shouting and waving her hands in the air, as if fending off some invisible attacker. The two white guys sitting on the nearby bench decide they don’t want anything to do with her and slink away in search of another forty while the woman continues to play Crack Addict Charades.
In the background, the saxophone plays “Still Crazy After All These Years.”
“Did you know Still Crazy After All These Years was Paul Simon’s fourth studio album?” Blaine says.
“No. I did not know that.”
“It produced four Top 40 hits and won a Grammy for Album of the Year.”
“Did you get all of that off the Wikipedia page?”
“Just something I picked up.”
Blaine and I continue to play, maneuvering and jockeying for position, though it seems like Blaine is no longer interested in the game but is just playing recklessly, taking my pieces without worrying about losing his own.
“So you think you guys have started to exhibit these abilities because of all the drugs you’ve tested?” he asks.
“That’s the theory,” I say.
“What happens if you stop volunteering? If you stop taking all of those drugs?” Blaine asks. “Will the abilities go away?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe.”
Blaine nods, then takes my last bishop with his queen. “You know those tendencies I mentioned?”
“What about them?” I study the board and see that I almost have the match won.
“I’ve noticed that you’re afraid to sacrifice your higher-valued pieces to get one of mine,” he says. “You position yourself but you never make the first move. You always let me attack first.”
“Is this going somewhere?” I ask, taking his queen with my rook and putting myself one move away from a free lunch.
