What an ape!
I know!
Did you hear what Petey said to that guy?
What’d you say again, Petey?
He said, Dude, it’s your lucky day!
Peter smiled a bit.
Ha! Laurie laughed.
You know what we should do, Star said through giggles. We should do a reenactment! For Deirdre! For our class presentation!
Ha! Stop making me laugh!
Dude! Star imitated. It’s cool!
Laurie laughed harder then shrieked awkwardly. Oww! It hurts! She grabbed her arm.
We should take a look at that, Star said.
It’s my shoulder, Laurie said. I definitely pulled something.
Is there swelling? We should see if there’s swelling. You might have torn a muscle.
No, no, it’s not that bad. I’m okay.
Laurie was holding her arm awkwardly. The adrenaline of the night was wearing off. Peter wondered what time it was. It’s not like he wasn’t used to late nights. He often stayed up till 3 or 4 am playing Nintendo with his roommates.
C’mon, Star insisted. Let’s get that jacket off. Laurie leaned back and let Star unzip her blue windbreaker. Star slipped it off and Laurie breathed a pained oww as the sleeve tugged her arm straight. Now the T-shirt, so we can check it out, Star said.
But —
It’s just Petey! Star said.
Peter stared straight ahead, pretended to be trying to make out the titles of a column of books stacked on the dirty carpet.
T-shirt off, Laurie sat in her bra as Star prodded her shoulder. Does that hurt? That? Star massaged the affected area. It’s definitely swollen, said Star. Maybe we should put a heating pad on it or something.
Ice, Peter said, still peering into the gloomy disarray of the living room. You want to put ice on it if it’s swelling. Heat it later, after the swelling’s come down.
Abruptly he turned to look at them. Star was kneading Laurie’s bare shoulder. Laurie’s eyes were closed. Her small breasts pushed against the lace of a flesh-colored bra.
Okay, ice, Star said. Petey, see if there’s anything in the freezer?
Peter got up, made his way to the kitchen. When he came back empty handed — there was nothing in the freezer but a package of tofu dogs and a tub of chocolate ice cream encrusted with frost — Star was straddling Laurie’s lap. Laurie was leaning back on the couch, flushed. Peter stood there watching. He wanted to leave, but his legs wouldn’t move. He felt like he was sinking into the carpet. He would always remember that feeling, that moment — a submerged imprinted memory; a longing gone so deep it was almost painful. Thirty years later, at the funeral of his wife, dead of breast cancer a month after Peter’s fifty-second birthday, he would feel that desperate needy longing sinking into him again. He would break down sobbing.
Star kneaded Laurie’s naked shoulder. How’s that? she asked.
It’s my lucky day, Laurie murmured.
Both girls giggled.
Peter cleared his throat.
Uh, he said . . . there was no ice.
Star hopped off Laurie’s lap.
We’re ignoring poor Petey. She went over to him, pulled him into her. Are you okay, Petey?
He nodded into her.
Here, she said. Have some more wine. Star pushed off him, grabbed the bottle and poured, spilling liberally as she filled up the mugs. Laurie tugged on a sweater.
I went to high school with Petey, Star said, swinging her arm around his shoulder.
Aww . . . Laurie said. That’s so cute.
Deirdre never started class by asking if there were any questions. Nor did she, as was customary with Peter’s other instructors, recap key points and suggest where they could go for help and more information. She just marched to the podium and started talking.
She spoke without notes in her clipped tone about the commodification of dissent, the rise of the pseudoindividual and the Borg-like nature of contemporary society. She devoted a lengthy tirade to the tired passive-aggressive postmodernism of dead faggy Frenchies hiding behind the defeatism of their own self-perpetuating methodology of helplessness. Peter followed along by studying Star’s expressions and frantic note taking. Star smiled, nodded, grimaced. Every time Star changed expression he wrote down another seemingly disconnected phrase. Frenchies. Allayed apparatuses. Borg-like (Star Trek?). There were moments when he thought he knew what Deirdre was trying to get at, but the impassioned, emotionless flow of words kept coming and he was soon lost. Peter was starting to dread what he was sure was the inevitable announcement of a final exam. The course ended in early December and no essay had been assigned. There would have to be a final. What questions would be asked? Despite the course description, very little of what Deirdre said seemed to do with terrorism. Deirdre had not once mentioned 9/11, al-Qaeda, the Taliban, George Bush Jr., Iraq, Israel, or even the Middle East. She just droned on, as if the constant barrage of her words alone would destroy the SUVs, the fascist forces of Chad, the university, everything. Peter looked over at Star. She was biting her lower lip, moodily contemplating something that Peter knew she wouldn’t explain even if he asked. He wouldn’t ask. He looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes of class time had passed. Maybe Deirdre had forgotten about group presentations? Part of him hoped she had. But then they’d just have to go on Friday. His stomach twisted, twisted again: tighter.
Deirdre stopped talking. The class rustled, spooked out of their torpor by the sudden silence. All right, who’s up? she snapped icily. Who’s next?
Star slipped from her seat and before Peter could react she was down in front of the class with her laptop. Petey, she called to him, will you make this work? His stomach lurched. Star stood in front of the in-class projection unit. They hadn’t talked about anything like that. Deirdre scowled at the delay. Embarrassed, Peter lumbered down the rows. He crouched behind the display console. It only took a few minutes to connect the laptop to the projector. He lowered the large in-class screen and Star logged in to the ‘Net. She clicked on a bookmark that linked to a photo-sharing site. Star hovered the pointer over “start slide show” and Peter’s stomach knotted. Star put her hand on his shoulder. Petey, you’re in the way. She led him to the side. Laurie dimmed the lights.
The slide show started with scenes of smokestacks and clear-cut patches of forest. Quickly it moved on to various famines and swatches of desert. And then a series of cars, each one getting larger and larger and culminating in a parking lot of oversized SUVs. Finally, it ended with the glowing yellow Humvee, the shots he’d seen in Laurie’s apartment. The class was totally silent as the destruction of the vehicle was documented. Only the final shot of their spray-painted slogan — SUV=Death — elicited a whispered holy shit and a nervous giggle from a cluster off to the side. The darkness obscured the whisperers and Deirdre didn’t react at all.
The slide show ended. Laurie turned on the lights. Peter blinked. Star was already moving to the center of the room, talking. Star was wearing overalls, a baseball cap and light blue eye shadow. Peter looked at her, the way her curves pushed against denim. He looked down at his shoes.
Think global, act local, she said in a voice inflected with cheerleader cheer. That’s our group’s motto. Our plan, as you could probably tell from the slide show, is to engage in a war of intimidation against the gas-guzzling pollution-spewing SUV. We are systematically targeting locally owned vehicles in order to discourage purchase, cause an increase in insurance costs, and destroy resale values. Ultimately we hope to destabilize the market for these vehicles, leading to the extinction of the SUV. Star ended triumphantly, her voice tinged with righteousness. Dierdre sat in the front row, scowling. Peter felt himself start to sweat. He just wanted to disappear. Star seemed unperturbed, a faint pink sheen on her freckled cheeks. Then Laurie stepped forward. She held a small sheaf of note cards. To date we’ve destroyed two vehicles, she reported matter-of-factly. In each action we completely vandalized the interior and spray painted our slo
gan on the dashboard. The attacks have been documented for use in the next phase, a propaganda campaign.
Let me stop you right there, snapped Deirdre. Your documentation may be . . . here Peter was surprised that Deirdre, staring directly at Star, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Uh . . . it may be . . . it’s very . . . impressive. But of course, as I’m sure you’re aware, in this class we don’t deal with . . . uh . . . actualities. Deirdre was still staring at Star, her flat tongue darting out to lick her lips. After all, we must always remember the terrorist adage: Trust no one. Even in this classroom there could be those who are not fully . . . uh . . . committed to the causes and projects, individuals who might seek to disrupt that which is, of course, entirely and utterly hypothetical in its construction.
That said, continued Deirdre, still staring at Star but now picking up speed, returning to her usual laconic yet rapid-fire delivery, I’m sure that the documentation we saw today is entirely conjectural in nature. Again she looked at Star, this time with a trace of a smile on her thin lips. Star was half smiling too. Peter didn’t get it — what was she smiling about? Deirdre was going to fail them. She hated them. The class rustled again, a herd of beasts disturbed by Deirdre’s pronouncements about a potential snake in their midst. Now, Deirdre said, let’s look at the issue of creating grassroots terror. You are aware, of course, that your plans hinge on copycat groups and increased public participation in your campaign. A few wrecked SUVs a week is hardly going to cripple the industry.
Star stepped forward. Our plan from here is to escalate our own attacks even as we use the Internet — taking into account security risks — to attract new, loosely affiliated cells who can act on their own. We’re still trying to decide how best to do this — we’ve been talking about creating a website, posting videos, starting a chain e-mail and a few other possibilities.
Peter looked from Star to Deirdre and back again. They hadn’t been talking to him about any of that.
The media is deliberately not reporting our efforts, announced Laurie, again reading from her cards. It’s a way of suppressing the possibility of the revolution spreading. Laurie went on with the pros and cons of their future plans. While she talked, Peter watched Deirdre. He didn’t like the way her pointy tongue kept licking her lips. When had all this planning happened? Maybe after he left that night? Had they kept talking then? They could have at least told him.
What about you? What do you have to say for yourself?
Laurie nudged him with an elbow. Petey, she hissed.
Huh?
Wakey wakey, Deirdre said contemptuously. You are a part of this group, yes?
Uh . . . maybe we could . . . put it on YouTube? Peter saw Star nod like she thought that was a good idea. Encouraged, he continued. Because . . . then it could go viral? And . . . and like Star said, we could get more members. We could put up an e-mail address or something, some way for other people to contact us. It could maybe even spread to other cities and countries . . . and . . .
Peter trailed off. He wasn’t big on talking in front of groups. But Star seemed pleased with his concept.
How do you keep from being infiltrated by law enforcement? Deirdre asked flatly. She blinked slowly. Peter felt a welling of dislike moving from his stomach to his throat. She thought she was so smart. He swallowed.
We could post from different Internet cafés, rent computer time at Kinko’s. Nobody would know who we were. We could have an account with Gmail or Hotmail under a fake name. Anybody who wanted to join could join, and we could talk via e-mail, but we’d never meet anyone. Not unless they proved for sure they were for real. We wouldn’t tell them too much too soon.
Peter stopped, surprised at his own rush of words. He’d made sense. He was thinking like a terrorist. There were lots of ways to do it. Lots of ways to, as Deirdre kept saying, use the system to destroy the system.
Deirdre nodded, seemingly satisfied. Keep working in your groups and be prepared to give updates starting next week, she drawled. Peter exhaled sour breath. Class was over. He just wanted to get the hell out of there. But Deirdre focused her buggy eyes on their group and approached them. You people are going to give me a heart attack, she hissed. Peter saw a faint, lascivious grin playing at the corners where her bloodless lips met. Star smiled widely, showing teeth. Can I ask you a question? she chirped. I’m wondering about what you were saying about Foucault’s concept of power and its relationship to the rise of postmodern holistic terrorist activity? Deirdre’s eyes narrowed. Come to my office, she ordered.
Peter set up a fake Gmail account and posted the slide show and a few other pictures to YouTube. A week went by. Three people viewed the clip. So Peter sent anonymous messages with the link to various sites specializing in highlighting videos of random destruction, juvenile pranks and blurry couples screwing on security cameras.
A few more days passed. Before heading over to Laurie’s apartment to meet and maybe, as Star had cryptically put it over the phone, do some stuff, Peter logged in again. A new number: 12,349. Peter stared at the screen, feeling the number in his belly as if he’d just dry-swallowed a giant pill.
When Peter walked into the apartment, Laurie and Star were sitting side by side on the couch. Peter stood nervously over them. Guys, we need to . . . he paused and breathed deeply. I want to tell you something. He told them about the download number. Peter’s heart beat to the acidic pulse of his stomach
Holy shit, Laurie said.
Petey! Star proclaimed, jumping to her feet. You’re amazing! Star hugged him, bobbing excitedly up and down in his arms. Peter closed his eyes.
So, uh, what should we do? he said when Star let him go.
What do you mean? Star smiled at him.
I mean, it’s . . . everywhere.
Laurie frowned.
It’s fine, Star said. It’s great. We should put more pictures up. And video!
Yeah, but someone could trace it back to us or something.
Could they? Laurie asked.
They couldn’t. How could they? Petey’s too smart. Star took Peter’s hand. C’mon, Petey, you’re doing amazing. No one’s going to find out about us. There’s no way. Star put both of her small hands around his big one and gently stroked. You’re such a worrier. Everything will be just fine. I promise.
Would everything be just fine? Peter didn’t know. He thought of what Deirdre had said: Trust no one.
By now the process of finding a monster-sized vehicle and wrecking it had become weirdly ordinary. Laurie bashed in the window. Star took pictures and little movies. Peter reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. Tonight they were trashing a forest green Chevy Tahoe. Star eagerly hauled open a huge door. She squinted into the tan interior, wrinkling her nose. New car smell poured out, extravagantly chemical. Star’s face wasn’t covered. They had discussed the chance they’d be caught, or at least caught on camera. Low risk, they all agreed, but not completely nil. The biggest danger would probably be some passerby with a cell phone. They didn’t talk about what they’d do if someone started taking pictures and speed dialing the police. Peter was wearing the classic bandanna over his face. But after he unlocked the door he abruptly pulled it down and let it hang around his neck. The fringes tickled his chin stubble. Star seemed to like the gesture. Let’s do this, she said dramatically. She clambered into the SUV.
Peter pulled out his Swiss Army knife, a present from his uncle when he turned fifteen. He had forgotten he owned it until Star leaned into him in the middle of class and breathed into his ear: Do you have a knife?
In the backseat Peter stabbed with the blade, dragging it through the upholstery. The leather was thick, tough, the blade of the knife short. Peter felt himself sweating, breathing through his mouth. He tried to control his breathing. He thought about Star. In high school she was polite, pretty. She smiled at him when he handed her a dropped pen, giggled when she swept past him in the hallway, on her way to the pep rally, homecoming, the prom. They were older now and e
verything was different. Peter slashed one more time, harder, deeper. Then he scooted forward, leaned in between the two front seats. Again, he became aware of his heavy breathing and sweaty brow. He’d been slashing away without pause. Really doing damage. Star spray painted their slogan on the dash. Laurie glued the glove compartment shut.
After, they went back to Laurie’s place. Laurie poured wine and suggested that they look at the pictures. But Star kept jumping up from the couch, pacing around the living room, checking her cell, disappearing into the kitchen, the bathroom. She strode back into the living room, her lips shiny pink with a fresh coat of cherry gloss. She said she had to leave. She said she was meeting a certain someone at a certain apartment. She said it coyly, like she was sure they’d know what she was talking about. She gave Peter a big hug. He let his hands rest softly on the small of her back. He wanted to put his face in her hair. Star twirled away from him. Peter watched the door swing shut. Her presence lingered, the smell of fake fruit, the afterimage of a camera flash. Laurie was looking at him. She patted the empty spot next to her. Forget her, she said. Let’s have some more wine.
Peter lowered himself onto the couch. So, do you have a girlfriend? Laurie asked him. He was surprised by the question. They’d never talked about anything personal.
Uh . . . not . . . not right now. Peter raised his mug to his lips.
I broke up with my boyfriend, Laurie offered. He was too clingy. He didn’t give me my space.
Peter nodded. Yeah. That’s . . . He trailed off, not knowing what to say.
So you went to high school with Star?
Yeah . . . he agreed. We weren’t really friends or anything.
Laurie looked on attentively, waited for him to continue.
Look Down, This is Where It Must Have Happened Page 2
