by Shawn Inmon
Carrie reached out to accept it, but when she touched it, it wasn’t the cylinder any more. It was a large book. The outside of the book read simply Training Manual.
Chapter Thirteen
The last week of school was an eternity for Michael. The hours ostensibly spent learning simple division or reading all over again were bad enough, but recess was worse. Michael had no close friends, and the truth was, he had never wanted any. He had no interest in playing tetherball or four square. But standing off by himself, quietly doing nothing, made him a target.
Monday of that last week of school was a blue-sky-and-sunshine kind of day in western Oregon, and the kids of Middle Falls Elementary moved out from under the covered play area to play freeze tag and football in the expansive school yard. Small groups of girls huddled together and talked about other small groups of girls.
Michael kept his hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground, and wandered the fringes, willing the time to pass. At one point, his path veered near a group of sixth graders playing touch football.
Greg Mylie, one of the earliest recipients of puberty in the school, was running with the football. Instead of running downfield, he veered left and plowed right over and through Michael, who went down in a tangled heap in the still-damp grass. As he stood up, Mylie ground his elbow into Michael’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and bringing tears to his eyes.
“Watch it, idiot! We’re playing football. Stay out of the way, or I’ll really run you over next time.”
Michael picked himself up and looked down at the grass stains on his khakis. He brushed himself off and walked away without a word.
“You’re such a weirdo. Stay out of the way next time,” Greg said, laughing at Michael’s retreating back, as he threw the football back in. The rest of the football players laughed, happy that Greg had run over Michael instead of one of them.
Interminably, the final days of the school year passed and the last Friday arrived. Michael sat at his desk, tapping a pencil, waiting for the final bell that would free him from the burden of spending seven hours a day with children for the next three months. Every school day had been an exercise in eternity, but this Friday had been the worst. Report cards had been handed out, desks emptied and cleaned, and there were no more tasks on the school calendar.
That being the case, Mrs. Mayhew had the class play games like Heads Up 7-Up and Telephone.
Excruciating.
Michael refused to play, and the other children soon learned to skip him. This made everyone happier, including Mrs. Mayhew, who was in the last day of her long career and saw nothing but a happy retirement of crocheted doilies, evening fires, pots of tea, and Agatha Christie mysteries in her future.
Like all things both good and bad, the school day finally passed, and Michael carried his paper bag full of drawings and old papers with him to the bus. He glanced outside and saw that the buses were already idling. Children were laughing and cheering at the prospect of summer.
Michael glanced down at the paper bag. There’s no way I’m taking this shit home. No one would care.
He ducked into the boys’ bathroom, intending to dump the whole thing into the garbage and run to his bus. When he pushed the door open and hustled to the garbage can, he saw Greg Mylie go into the far bathroom stall. He paused, uncertain what to do with this opportunity.
A wet fart, followed by a deep burp, echoed off the tiled walls. Michael took a step back in revulsion.
Such a hillbilly heathen.
He turned to leave, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a mop bucket in the corner. He glanced inside and saw that it was half-filled with gray, filthy water. Several black hairs floated on the surface.
He took two steps toward the occupied stall and saw that Mylie hadn’t even bothered to shut the door. That clinched it.
Michael snuck back to the bucket and hoisted it, testing its weight.
Yeah, I can do this.
He crab-walked with the bucket between his legs until he stood in front of the stall. Mylie was absorbed in picking his nose up to the second knuckle. He pulled his finger out slowly, then flicked it toward Michael.
“What do you want, ya little shit-weasel? Another pounding? Get outta here.”
Michael didn’t speak, but picked up the bucket, pulled it behind him, and paused just long enough to enjoy the look of surprise on Mylie’s face as he comprehended the inevitability of what was to come. The stinking water hit him in the face. Since he had opened his mouth to scream, it went down his throat, gagging him.
Michael waited long enough to imprint the piece of art in front of him—young boy choking on mop water—into his brain, then turned and ran.
Mylie didn’t bother to waste his breath on threats. He jumped out of the stall, still choking and grasping at his sopping-wet pants as he did. When his feet hit the puddle of water, they shot out from under him and he landed flat on his back with a wet splat.
Michael laughed. “Perfect.”
He ran from the bathroom and jumped onto his bus just as Mr. Jenkins put it in gear. He glued his eyes to the window and was rewarded with one last view of Greg Mylie as he emerged from the school doors, pants at half-mast, soaking wet from head to toe, cussing up a blue storm.
MICHAEL WOKE UP THE next morning as close to happy as he had been since arriving back in 1966. At least I don’t have to go to school. It’ll be boring as shit around here, too, but I won’t have to read another goddamned “Dick and Jane” book.
He sat up in a bed, a lightning bolt of an idea striking him. Holy shit, wait a minute. What if I start acing all their stupid tests, instead of holding back. I remember reading about some twelve-year-old kid who graduated from college. Maybe he wasn’t a genius, but just someone like me. Maybe he knew he would rather die than spend all these years in grade school, so he did well enough on tests that they skipped him ahead. Maybe I can do that.
With this new idea rattling around in his brain, Michael got dressed, found the strawberry Pop Tarts where Tess had left them, and climbed up to his tree house. He surveyed his back yard, where nothing was happening, aside from a squirrel watching him from the bird feeder, and an obnoxious Steller’s jay squawking at him for no particular reason. Then he spotted the old man next door, dancing with himself in his pajamas.
Michael stood on his small balcony and stared at the man. He was short and squat, yet moved with a certain grace. He had gray hair and eyebrows so bushy Michael noticed them across the distance. He wore black glasses and flowing Asian robes.
Soon enough, the man noticed Michael and lifted a hand in recognition.
Slowly, Michael extended his hand toward him and raised his middle finger.
The man laughed so hard he bent over double. When he straightened up, he gave Michael his own one-finger salute, but he was still smiling. He shook his head, then returned to his odd exercise.
Interesting. A little kid flips him off, but he doesn’t go crazy. I thought he might stomp inside and call my parents, but instead, he just laughed.
Michael munched his Pop Tarts and turned his mind to his biggest challenge—how to kill time over the summer. A smile came over his face. He stuffed the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and hurried down the steps. He cautiously opened the door to see if anyone else was awake yet, but the house was still quiet.
Michael crept into the cavernous garage. His father’s Cadillac and his mother’s Chrysler were in their appointed spaces. The Hollisters drove American—good Detroit steel—of course. Wish I had my Karmann Ghia back. That was a sweet ride. Eventually I will.
In the far corner were some of the abandoned toys of the household. The old refrigerator from the kitchen stood sentry, still operating, though it was empty. There were piles of tarps and unused camping equipment stacked on broad wooden shelves.
When in holy hell would my parents have gone camping? Was it some kind of company-wide retreat or something? I can’t picture either of them sleeping on the ground in a s
leeping bag.
Michael lifted the tarps, launching a cloud of dust into the air.
I know it’s around here somewhere. This is where we always kept it. Aha!
Behind a box, Michael found what he was seeking—a tiny little television with a white earpiece cord wrapped around it. It had a four-inch screen.
Perfect for the tree house. Now, for electricity.
More digging produced several outdoor extension cords that together would be long enough to reach the tree house.
Father will never sign off on this, so I’m going to have to be clever.
Michael ran the television out and up into the tree house, then retrieved the extension cords. He plugged the end of the first into the outlet on the side of the house, then strung it along the edge of the flower beds, where it couldn’t be seen from inside the house. He strung it up the back of the tree and into the tree house, then ran back and buried the cord under a few inches of soil.
He plugged the tiny television in, and a small, white dot in the center of the screen grew to a snowy, wavy picture. He pulled the rabbit ears out and moved them one way, then the other. The picture eventually became a little clearer. It was so small he had to almost squint to see it. It was black and white, but it was substantially better than the options he’d had at the beginning of the morning, which had been none.
Unnoticed, Clayton Hollister stood at the kitchen window, drinking a cup of coffee and watching Michael’s labors.
Michael sat down on the folded blanket in the corner of his tree house. Not exactly the Fortress of Solitude, but not bad. It’s dry, away from everyone else, and I’ve got a few things to keep me from going crazy with boredom.
He tuned the television to channel six and found a cartoon—The Secret Squirrel Show. He flipped it to channel eight, where The Flintstones was playing.
“Well, shit,” Michael mumbled. Maybe the TV wasn’t a great idea after all.
He heard a steady snip-snip-snip from outside and poked his head out.
The odd neighbor next door was working just below him, on the other side of the fence, trimming some bushes. He had traded in his robe for more conventional old-man clothes—blue shorts held up by a black belt above his navel, a checked shirt, and dress shoes with blue socks pulled up to his knees.
Michael watched him for a moment, then, pitching his voice so that it carried across the fence, offered, “Might use those shears on your eyebrows instead. They need it worse than that bush.”
The man continued on—snip, snip, snip—as though he hadn’t heard anything. After a few moments, he set the pruning shears down, pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped sweat off his face.
“There’s some truth in what you say. Still, I rather like my eyebrows. I’m not fond of this bush.”
He went back to work. Snip-snip-snip.
Michael shook his head. What does it take to insult this guy? Is he too stupid to know when someone is making fun of him?
Michael dropped down from the tree house and went to the flower bed, where he pushed some more soil over the extension cord.
“Are you interested in a little manual labor, my boy?”
Michael didn’t hesitate. “How much you paying?”
“How about a firm handshake and the knowledge of a job well done?”
“How about you blow it out your ear?”
“Youths, today. Always focused on the almighty dollar. All right, I’ll make you this deal. If you do a suitable job, I’ll pay you a dollar.”
A dollar. Whoopee. Still, a dollar in 1966 buys a lot more than it did in 1977. Gotta start somewhere.
“Can I see the bush?”
“Of course. Any good worker wants to understand the scope of a bid before accepting a job. Use the gate in the middle of our fences. I believe there must have been a time when people who lived in our houses liked each other, to have put that gate in.”
“Must have been before we moved here. My father doesn’t like anyone.”
Michael opened the gate and looked at the old man. Behind him, a pile of limbs spread on the ground.
“Tell you what, mister. I’ll trim it all the way to the ground and put all the branches into a pile for you to burn for two dollars.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t love this bush, which aspires to take over my entire yard, but I have no need to murder it. If you’ll just cut it back to behind the surrounding bushes, then stack the residue at the very back of the yard, I’ll pay you a dollar and a half.”
“Whatever. I need the money, so I’ll do it.”
“Got a bubble gum habit you need to feed?”
Michael fixed him with a glare. “Nope. Heroin. My dealer insists on cash, and I’m a buck fifty short.”
The man tipped his head back and laughed. The sound echoed around the yard. When the laughter passed, he looked at Michael shrewdly. “I think you are not what you present yourself as, are you lad? What’s your name?”
Michael considered saying “Luke Skywalker,” but said “Michael,” instead.
“Michael, my name is Jim Cranfield. Here are the tools of your trade,” he said, handing the pruning shears off.
The shears were a little big for his hands, but by holding them in the middle, he managed to make them work. He set to snipping away the branches and soon lost himself in the work. Kind of nice to have something to do, instead of just waiting for time to pass.
Half an hour later, the bush was pushed well back into its proper boundaries. He looked around for Cranfield, found him sitting at a table in the sun on his back deck, sipping on a can of something or other. Cranfield waved him over.
When Michael set the trimmer down on the deck, he felt a pain in his right palm. He looked down to see the beginnings of a small blister.
“Come on, Michael, sit down and have a Coke. Your mother won’t care if you have a Coke, will she?” He pushed a small bottle of Coca-Cola across the table toward him.
“My mother only cares where her next happy pills are coming from. As long as the doctor keeps those coming for her, she doesn’t give two shits where I am.”
“So that explains your rather adult vernacular as well, then. In any case, here’s a Coke to celebrate a job well done.”
Cranfield reached his hands out, letting them hover over the table for a moment. He turned them this way and that, so Michael could see they were empty. His fuzzy eyebrows lifted, a silent plea to watch carefully. When he turned his hands over again, each had three quarters in them. He passed his left hand over his right, and all six were neatly stacked. He placed them on the patio table with a small grin.
Michael nodded his thanks for the small magic show and scooped the money off the table. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
Jim nodded.
“Why do you think an eight-year-old is going to understand words like ‘vernacular’?”
“Do you understand it?”
Michael nodded.
“There you are. I don’t assume that all children are incapable of understanding. What else?”
“How come I see you dancing with yourself?”
“Ah. That is not dancing. It is tai chi chuan, sometimes called the ultimate of ultimates. It is a form of a discipline I learned in Taiwan many years ago. It is good for this old body.”
“It looks weird.”
“As do so many things to people who do not understand what they are looking at.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Yes, of course, your heroin dealer awaits.”
Michael granted him something close to a smile and went back to his tree house, where he stashed his money. He turned the television on again, hoping for something other than kids’ cartoons. Channel eight was playing a gardening show, but when he flipped to channel six, he saw a movie was playing. It was one he had seen before, but it took him a few minutes to recognize it.
Two Roman centurions were on horseback, making an announcement of some sort. Michael turned up the volume ju
st in time to see Tony Curtis jump to his feet and say, “I’m Spartacus.”
Of course. Pretty good movie. No idea why a group of men would offer to die to save someone else, though. I’d just point at Kirk Douglas and say, “Here you go. Can I go back to work now?”
THE FIRST TWO WEEKS of summer vacation dragged, but life was better when Michael didn’t have to deal with the children of Middle Falls Elementary. He had fallen into a set schedule—wake up early, eat whatever breakfast Tess made for him, then be out in the tree house before his father came downstairs. He spent his day either in the tree house, reading and watching television, or sitting on Jim Cranfield’s back porch.
Michael didn’t trust him, of course, because he trusted no one. He did find him amusing, though, and Cranfield was the only person who had ever treated him like something other than a kid, so he found himself spending more and more time with him.
Sitting on the back porch again one sunny afternoon, Michael asked, “What do you do for a living? You never go to work. Did you kill your wife and live off the insurance now?”
“I kill many, many people, but I have no fear of arrest. I am a writer. Not an author, nothing that highfalutin, but a writer. I write what people call pulp fiction. I just happen to be somewhat successful at it.”
“What’s that?”
“Pulp fiction is the stuff people actually want to read, not the stuff they’re told they should read.”
“Really? Tell me something you’ve written.”
“I write a series of books about a hero called The Magician. He uses sleight of hand and illusions to solve crimes. The first one is called Abracadaver. The second is Hocus Corpsus. You get the idea.”
“Can I read one?”
“Wouldn’t you rather read something more enlightening? Like the back of a cereal box?”
Michael shook his head.
Jim sighed, stood, and went inside. A minute later, he returned with a paperback book in his hand. The cover showed a tall, handsome magician with a thin black moustache, waving a wand over a prone, floating woman wearing a colorful costume. Large, bright red letters proclaimed, “Abracadaver!” Below that, in equally bright yellow letters: “The Magician, Volume One.”
