by S. G. Browne
“Sophie?”
“It’s because of everything,” she says, her back to me, her voice low and subdued. “But mostly it’s because you didn’t respect our relationship enough to share what was happening with you. You didn’t respect what we have enough to be honest with me.”
As she puts on her coat and slips her arms through her backpack, I try to think of something to say to fix this, but I realize at this point I’ve said enough. Probably too much. While Neil Young might not be around to lament about needles, the damage is done.
Fucking Randy.
Sophie turns around and looks at me and I realize she’s been crying.
“Can you stay with one of your friends for a while?” she asks.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
She nods once and purses her lips. “When I come home from work, I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t here.”
I consider arguing that this is my apartment, too. That I’ve lived here for five years and I shouldn’t have to leave, but that would just make things worse. So I nod and say, “Okay.”
Sophie looks at me a moment longer, then turns and grabs her umbrella and walks out the front door.
She kicked you out?” Frank says, then bites into his third piece of pepperoni pizza. Or maybe it’s his fourth. I’ve lost count. We ordered two large pies from Domino’s and had them delivered to the hospital. From the looks of it, Frank intends to eat at least one of the pies by himself.
In the aftermath of Charlie’s seizure and stroke, Frank has ballooned to over 250 pounds.
I can’t say I expected to be spending Thanksgiving in the hospital cafeteria eating Domino’s with Frank, Randy, Isaac, and Vic, but it’s nice to do something to support Charlie, even if he doesn’t know we’re here.
“I’m staying at Charlie’s until Sophie and I can work things out,” I say, taking a bite of pizza and wishing it was Sophie’s gluten-free vegan cornbread and wondering who she’s spending Thanksgiving with.
“Why’d she k-kick you out?” Isaac asks.
“She was upset that I waited three months to tell her about everything,” I say. “And that I wasn’t honest with her from the beginning.”
I leave out how I told Sophie she was responsible for Vegan’s health problems and that she was killing the houseplants with her pixie dust. And that I used my superpower on her cat.
There are some things your friends don’t really need to know.
“So what are we going to do about Blaine?” Randy says. He’s been mostly silent and serious and hasn’t made any obscure references to classic rock bands or his sexual exploits.
“Who?” Vic asks.
Isaac snickers. “Every t-time you say that you s-sound like an owl.”
“And every time you open your mouth, you sound like a jackass,” Vic says.
At least we’re all supportive of one another in this time of crisis.
The good news is that Blaine apparently didn’t have enough time to permanently erase our memories about how to access our superpowers. The bad news, other than Charlie suffering a seizure and a stroke and being in a coma, is that Vic’s memory of Blaine is still MIA.
“I have an idea about Blaine,” I say.
“Let’s hear it,” Randy says.
It’s an idea that’s been brewing in my head for the last few days, something that started percolating when Vic and I took care of a couple of would-be muggers in Tompkins Square.
“Blaine and I used to play chess a couple of times a month,” I say. The five of us are sitting far enough away from everyone else in the cafeteria so no one can hear our conversation. Still, I lean forward and speak in a conspiratorial voice. “We’d play at Tompkins Square, Bryant Park, all over the city. Sometimes we’d play for drinks or doughnuts.”
“Dunkin’ Donuts?” Frank asks, licking his fingers.
“Doughnut Plant,” I say. “Jesus, who cares? It doesn’t matter what kind of doughnuts. What matters is that most of the time, I’d win. Until he developed his superpower.”
“What was his superpower again?” Vic asks.
“Memory loss,” I say. “Anyway, I was thinking I could convince Blaine to meet me somewhere by suggesting we play for something a little more substantial than drinks or doughnuts.”
“Like w-w-what?” Isaac asks.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But once I convince him to meet me, preferably somewhere with lots of people, then the four of you sneak up and surround him so he doesn’t see you coming. Then we all hit him with our superpowers at the same time.”
“I’m in,” Randy says.
“Just like that?” Frank says. “You don’t even know if it will work.”
“It’s like believing in a higher power,” Randy says. “I just have faith.”
“This coming from a guy who once had sex in a confessional booth with a virgin,” Vic says.
“That he remembers,” Randy says.
“So what do you want to discuss?” I ask Frank, who digs into the second pizza.
“For starters,” Frank says, his mouth full of pepperoni and melted cheese, “we don’t even know if Blaine will agree to meet you.”
“I think I can convince him,” I say.
“What m-makes you so s-sure?” Isaac asks.
“Blaine is power hungry and greedy,” I say. “All I have to do is come up with something he wants. And considering that he wants everything, that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“All right,” Frank says. “Presuming you can get him to come out and play, what makes you think he’ll be willing to meet in a public place instead of somewhere private?”
“Blaine knows that the five of us don’t want our identities revealed, so meeting in a public place with lots of people around indicates we’re not likely to try anything,” I say. “Plus Blaine believes he’s so much more powerful than us that I doubt he’d even consider we were plotting something against him. And even if he did, he wouldn’t think he would lose.”
“Typical supervillain hubris,” Randy says.
“So we use his arrogance to our advantage,” Frank says.
“Exactly,” I say.
“If this Blaine can steal our thoughts,” Vic says, “won’t he know what we’re planning?”
“Not if we pick the right pitch,” I say.
“What does that m-mean?” Isaac asks.
“The pitch is where buskers and panhandlers set up shop to attract an audience,” I say.
“Yeah, but we’re not jugglers or musicians looking to fleece people out of their hard-earned money,” Vic says. “And if we’re off, we’re not going to just drop a bowling pin or miss a note.”
“The performance isn’t always what matters,” I say. “You can use the same sign or perform the same show in different locations with completely different results. But if you pick the right pitch, that can make all the difference between success and failure.”
“So where are you thinking?” Randy asks.
“Union Square,” I say. “There will be so many people around that Blaine won’t be able to read everyone’s minds all at the same time. There will be too much external noise for him to be able to focus on us.”
“But you’ll be sitting right across from him,” Frank says. “Won’t he be able to steal your thoughts?”
I hold up a single index finger, then reach into my backpack and remove five pairs of mirrored sunglasses and pass them out to everyone. “Blaine stared at Vic when he stole his memory and he looked all of us in the eye when he showed up at Randy’s, which is when I think he temporarily blocked our ability to access our superpowers. I’m also pretty sure it’s how he beat me at chess and won at poker.”
“That fucker,” Randy says. “I knew he had to be cheating.”
“You think Blaine needs to make eye contact to use his superpower?” Frank says.
I nod and pick up the sunglasses. “I think if we all wear a pair of these, we should be okay.”
“You think,” Fra
nk says. “But you don’t know for sure.”
Randy picks up his pair of sunglasses and puts them on. “How do I look?”
“Like a cop,” Vic says.
Frank stares at his reflection in the mirrored lenses. “If we all gang up on Blaine out in front of a bunch of people, won’t that essentially out all of us?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Don’t we want to avoid that?” Vic says.
“Yes,” I say. “But someone once said that in order to be a superhero, you have to be willing to make sacrifices and be willing to lose something you care about. Otherwise, you’re just a guy in colored spandex and a satin cape.”
I look at Randy, who gives me a nod.
As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already made my sacrifice. I’ve already lost something I care about. I just hope I can figure out a way to get her back.
“W-what if one of us ends up l-like Charlie?” Isaac asks.
“Good point,” Frank says. “Maybe this is taking a physical toll on all of us and we don’t even know it.”
“I feel fine,” Randy says. “And it seems like Charlie was having seizures for a while before he had his stroke.”
“I agree with Randy,” I say. “What happened to Charlie was probably going to happen with or without Blaine.”
“But what if you’re w-w-wrong?”
Everyone sits and mulls Isaac’s question in silence, the only sound among us that of Frank’s constant chewing.
“I’m still in,” Randy says.
“Anyone else?” I say.
Frank finishes off another slice and sighs. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s thinking about his decision or just trying to make room for more pizza.
“I have my doubts,” Frank says. “But I’ll do it for Charlie.”
Isaac tosses his sunglasses into the middle of the table.
“C-count me out,” he says.
“What?” Randy says. “Why?”
“Muggers and s-stalkers is one thing,” Isaac says. “That was f-fun. But this thing with B-B-Blaine . . . this is more than I signed up f-for.”
“Come on,” Randy says. “We need you. You’re one of us.”
“N-n-no, I’m not,” Isaac says. “You g-guys have the ability to actually incapacitate s-s-someone. I just g-g-give guys erections. That d-doesn’t exactly strike f-fear into anyone’s heart.”
“Unless you’re homophobic,” Vic says.
“I’m s-sorry. But I don’t w-want to end up l-like Charlie.” Isaac says. “I guess I’m just a guy in s-s-spandex and a c-cape.”
Isaac stands up without looking at us, then turns around, his head down as he walks out of the cafeteria, leaving the four of us sitting at the table.
“Well, that sucks,” Randy says.
“Vic?” I say. “What about you? Are you in or out?”
“I guess I’m in, too,” Vic says, taking off his glasses and putting on a pair of the mirrored shades. “I don’t want the three of you to have all the fun. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
What are you doing here?” Sophie asks in a low voice.
I’m standing just outside the employee break room at Westerly at the end of Sophie’s shift while she gets ready to go home.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you but you haven’t returned any of my calls,” I say.
“That’s because we’re on a break and I need some space,” she says, putting on her parka. “And talking to you kind of defeats that purpose.”
It hasn’t even been two weeks since she asked me to move out and it already seems like two years.
“I thought the break was just temporary,” I say.
“It is,” she says. “But I still need some time to figure things out.”
“Okay.” I stand there looking at her, not knowing what to do or say next. “So what did you do for Thanksgiving?”
“I spent it with some friends,” she says, brushing past me out of the employee break room.
“Who?” I ask, following her through the aisles, past the hormone- and antibiotic-free meat and poultry; past the organic produce; past the nutritional supplements; past the all-natural, environmentally friendly and cruelty-free body care products; past the self-service nut grinders and the bulk containers; past the checkout counter and out of the store.
“It doesn’t matter who,” she says once we’re standing on the sidewalk, the foot traffic on Eighth Avenue light in the early hours of the first day of December. “All that matters is that we didn’t spend it together and I don’t really want to talk anymore about it.”
“Okay,” I say.
She looks at me a few moments, then lets out a sigh. “Good night, Lloyd,” she says, then walks away from me across Eighth Avenue.
“Wait!” I say and catch up to her on the other side. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“I’m tired, Lloyd,” she says as she keeps walking along Fifty-Fourth Street. “And I don’t really want to hear it right now.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry. But I wanted you to know that we’re going after Blaine. Me, Frank, Randy, and Vic.”
She doesn’t say anything at first but just keeps walking until we reach Seventh Avenue, where she stops at the corner in front of the Famous Oyster Bar.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asks.
“I wanted you to know,” I say. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“In case anything happens to me,” I say. “In case I don’t remember you the next time I see you.”
When Vic made his comment about the worst that could happen, I know he was just being Vic, using sarcasm to lighten the mood. But more than anything, the thought of forgetting Sophie and all of my memories of her is the worst thing I can imagine.
“Why are you doing this, Lloyd?” she asks.
I look around Seventh Avenue and notice several homeless people among the late-night deli patrons who are coming and going from Benash and Stage and Carnegie Deli.
I look back at Sophie and shrug. “Because I have to.”
She lets out another sigh and nods, then steps forward and gives me a hug, holding on to me for several moments before letting go.
“Be careful, Lloyd,” she says, then turns and walks away from me across Fifty-Fourth Street.
I watch her go until she’s out of sight before I head in the opposite direction to catch the subway.
When I get to Union Square just past noon on a relatively warm day in early December, the Hare Krishnas are camped out across from the subway entrance, burning incense and playing an incessant melody on drums and bongos and finger cymbals to accompany their Maha Mantra.
“Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna!”
On the opposite side of the subway entrance, several dozen young men and women sit on the steps beneath the statue of George Washington on a horse—eating Subway sandwiches, reading books, or plugged into their cell phones or iPods. Near the statue, a bearded man in baggy pants and a sweater plays the “Skye Boat Song” on the bagpipes, the low, droning sound and the high-pitched melody mixing with the Hare Krishnas’ chanting and drums to create an oddly harmonious tune.
At the foot of the steps below the statue at street level, a dozen chessboards are set up on small folding tables and plastic dairy crates, with players sitting on either side on folding chairs or portable stools. Everyone’s playing speed chess. This isn’t a competition. It’s just something people do here. Like eating lunch or playing bagpipes or chanting a mantra to a Hindu deity.
I walk past the chessboards, all of them occupied by men caught up in the intricacy and strategy of a fourteen-hundred-year-old Persian board game, until I come to a chessboard with one empty seat facing Fourteenth Street. Without waiting for an invitation, I sit down behind the white pieces and look across the chessboard at Blaine from behind my mirrored sunglasses.
Maybe it’s just his helmet of hair, but I swear his head looks bigger.
“Hey
Lloyd,” he says from behind his own sunglasses, which are, appropriately, black. “I see you came prepared.”
I shrug. “I thought it might be a good idea if I accessorized.”
While I wasn’t positive about Blaine needing to make eye contact to steal my memory, I’m feeling pretty good about my plan. Still, I avoid thinking about anything but the game, just in case.
“Should we play one for fun first?” Blaine asks.
“Why not?” I say, then move the pawn in front of my queen out two spaces. “So I hear you’ve been busy.”
Since I last saw Blaine, there have been increasing reports of people getting robbed and burglarized or losing their valuables without any memory of what happened. In addition, numerous people have experienced a complete loss of their own identity and preexisting memories. Retrograde amnesia, they call it.
“You know what they say about idle hands,” Blaine says and brings out one of his knights.
I move my bishop to threaten his knight and Blaine counters with one of his pawns.
“So what should we talk about?” Blaine says. “Holiday plans? The Jets’ chances of making the playoffs? World domination?”
“Let’s just stick to chess,” I say, taking his knight and making sure I keep my focus on the match.
“Fair enough,” he says. “By the way, I dig the salt-and-pepper look you’ve got going on. Very distinguished.”
Why does everyone keep saying that?
We continue playing, both of us setting up our pieces, preparing for the attack. It almost feels like old times. Except that Blaine’s a supervillain and I’m here to depose him.
I initiate a series of attacks, which Blaine counters, and when the exchange is over, he’s taken one knight, a bishop, a rook, and a pawn, while I’ve taken one of his pawns along with both of his knights and bishops.
“You’re more aggressive than usual today,” he says. “What’s gotten into you, Lloyd? Or should I say, Dr. Lullaby?”
I look around to see if anyone heard him, but no one is paying attention.
“Worried about someone finding out who you are?” Blaine takes another of my pawns. “Don’t believe your press. No one cares about you or your little band of super zeroes.”
