by Paul Auster
“He’s going to kill me, ain’t he?” I said to him once, sitting in a chair as he fed me my midday meal of baked beans and crackers. Slim was so intimidated by the thought that I’d fly away, he never let the ropes come off, not even when I was eating or sleeping or taking a shit. So Fritz spoon-fed me my grub, shoveling it into my mouth as if I were a baby.
“Huh?” Fritz said, responding in that bright, rapid-fire way of his. His eyes looked blank, as if his brain had stalled in traffic somewhere between Pittsburgh and the Allegheny Mountains. “You just say somethin’?”
“He’s going to bump me off, ain’t he?” I repeated. “I mean, there ain’t a chance in hell I’ll ever walk out of here alive.”
“Dunno about that, bub. Your uncle don’t tell me nothin’ about what he’s going to do. He just goes and does it.”
“And you don’t mind that he doesn’t let you in on things?”
“Nope, I don’t mind. As long as I get my cut, why should I mind? What he does with you is none of my beeswax.”
“And what makes you so sure he’ll pay up what he owes you?”
“Nothin’. But if he don’t do what he’s supposed to do, I’ll bust his ass.”
“It’s never going to work, Fritz. All those letters Slim’s been mailing from the post office in town—why, they’ll trace you turtles to this shack in no time, no time at all.”
“Ha, that’s a good one. You think we’re stupid, don’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think. Pretty stupid.”
“Ha. And what if I told you we got another partner? And what if that partner happens to be the guy those letters was goin’ to?”
“Well, what if you did?”
“Yeah, as if I just didn’t. See what I’m drivin’ at, bub? This other party passes on the notes and such to the folks with the cash. There ain’t no way they’ll find us here.”
“And what about him, the guy you’re in cahoots with? He invisible or something?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He took one of them vanishin’ powders and went up in a puff of smoke.”
That was about the longest conversation I ever had with him: Fritz at his most eloquent and long-winded. It wasn’t that he was mean to me, but he had ice in his veins and crackerjacks wadded in his skull, and I could never get through to him. I couldn’t turn him against Uncle Slim, I couldn’t persuade him to untie the ropes (“Sorry, bub, no can do”), I couldn’t shake his loyalty and steadfastness by one jot. Any other person would have answered my question in one of two ways: by telling me it was true or telling me it was false. Yes, he would have said, Slim was planning to cut my throat, or else he would have patted me on the head and assured me that my fears were groundless. Even if the person lied when he said those things (for any number of reasons, both good and bad), I would have been given a straight answer. But not with Fritz. Fritz was honest to a fault, and since he couldn’t answer my question, he said he didn’t know, forgetting that normal human decency requires a person to give a firm answer to a question as monumental as that one. But Fritz hadn’t learned the rules of human behavior. He was a nobodaddy and a clod, and any pimple-faced boy could see that talking to him was a waste of breath.
Oh, I had a jolly time in South Dakota, all right, a regular laughathon of nonstop fun and entertainment. Bound and gagged for more than a month, left alone in a locked room with twelve rusty shovels and pitchforks to keep me company, certain that I would die a brutal, pulverizing death. My only hope was that the master would rescue me, and again and again I dreamed of how he and a posse of men would swoop down on the hut, plug Fritz and Slim full of lead, and carry me back to the land of the living. But the weeks passed, and nothing ever changed. And then, when things did change, it was only for the worse. Once the ransom notes and negotiations started, I thought I detected a gradual hardening of Slim’s mood, an ever-so-slight ebbing of his confidence. The game had turned serious now. The first rush of enthusiasm had subsided, and little by little his jocularity was losing out to his old snappish, foul-tempered self. He nagged at Fritz, he groused about the dull food, he broke some plates against the wall. Those were the earliest signs, and eventually they were followed by others: kicking me off my chair, poking fun at Fritz’s blimpy torso, tightening the ropes around my limbs. It seemed clear that the pressure was getting to him, but why this should have been so I couldn’t say. I wasn’t privy to the discussions that went on in the other room, I didn’t read the ransom notes or see the newspaper articles that were written about me, and the little I heard through the door was so muffled and fragmented, I could never fit the pieces together. All I knew was that Slim was acting more and more like Slim. The trend was unmistakable, and once he got back to being who he was, I knew that everything that had happened so far would feel like a holiday, a cruise to the Lesser Antilles on a goddamned luxury yacht.
By early June, he’d pushed himself close to the snapping point. Even Fritz, the ever placid and unbudgeable Fritz, was beginning to show symptoms of wear and tear, and I could see in his eyes that Slim’s razzing could only go so far before his fellow dunderhead took offense. That became the most fervent object of my prayers—an out-and-out brawl—but even if it didn’t come to that, it gave me no small comfort to see how often their conversations were erupting into minor squabbles, which mostly consisted of Slim needling Fritz and Fritz sulking in the corner, staring down at the floor and muttering curses under his breath. If nothing else, it took some of the burden off me, and with so many dangers lurking in the air, to be forgotten for even five or ten minutes was a blessing, an unimaginable boon.
Each day, the weather grew a little hotter, bore down a little more heavily on my skin. The sun never seemed to set anymore, and I itched almost constantly from the ropes. With the coming of the heat, spiders had infested the back room where I spent most of my time. They ran up and down my legs, covered my face, hatched their eggs in my hair. No sooner would I shake one off than another would find me. Mosquitoes dive-bombed into my ears, flies wriggled and buzzed in sixteen different webs, I excreted a never-ending flow of sweat. If it wasn’t the creepy-crawlies that got me, it was the dryness in my throat. And if it wasn’t thirst, it was sadness, a relentless crumbling of my will and resolve. I was turning into porridge, a moondog boiling in a pot of spit and ragged fur, and no matter how hard I struggled to be brave and strong, there were moments when I couldn’t help myself anymore, when the tears just fell from my eyes and wouldn’t stop.
One afternoon, Slim burst into my little hideaway and caught me in the middle of one of these crying fits. “Why so glum, pal?” he said. “Don’t you know that tomorrow is your big day?”
It mortified me for him to see me like that, so I turned away my head without responding. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about, and since I could only speak with my eyes, there was no way I could find out. By then, it hardly seemed to matter anymore.
“Pay day, chum. Tomorrow we get the dough, and a pretty little bundle it’s going to be. Fifty thousand dancing girls lying cheek to jowl in a battered straw suitcase. Just what the doctor ordered, eh kid? It’s a hell of a retirement plan, let me tell you, and when you throw in the fact that them bills is unmarked, I can spend them all the way to Mexico and the feds won’t be none the wiser.”
I didn’t have any reason to doubt him. He was talking so fast, and his nerves were so jangled, it seemed clear that something was up. Still, I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so I continued looking away. After a moment, Slim sat down on the bed opposite my chair. When I still didn’t respond, he leaned forward, untied the gag, and pulled it away from my mouth.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said.
But still, I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to return his gaze. Without any warning, he sprang forward and slapped me across the cheek—once, very hard. I looked up.
“That’s better,” he said. Normally, he would have smiled over his little victory, but
he was beyond such petty antics today. His expression turned grim, and for the next few seconds he stared at me so hard, I thought I’d shrivel up in my clothes. “You’re a lucky boy,” he continued. “Fifty thousand bucks, nephew. Do you think you’re worth that kind of dough? I never thought they’d go that high, but the price just kept climbing, and they never even flinched. Shit, boy, there ain’t nobody in the world who’d cough up them apples for me. On the open market I wouldn’t fetch no more than a nickel or two—and that’s on a good day, when I’m at my sweetest and most lovable. And here you got that Jew crud willing to fork over fifty grand to get you back. I suppose that makes you kind of special, don’t it? Or do you think he’s just bluffing? Is that what he’s up to, nephew? Making more promises he don’t intend to keep?”
I was looking at him now, but that didn’t mean I had any intention of answering his questions. Uncle Slim was nearly on top of me, coiled like an infielder on the edge of the bed, thrusting his face right against mine. He was so close, I could see every bloodshot vein in his eyes, every craterlike pore of his skin. His pupils were dilated, he was short of breath, and any second now it looked as if he was going to lunge forward and bite off my nose.
“Walt the Wonder Boy,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t it? Walt … the … Wonder … Boy. Everybody’s heard about you, kid, you’re the talk of the whole fucking country. I’ve seen you perform myself, you know. Not once, but several times—six or seven times in the past year. There ain’t nothing like it, is there? A runt who walks on water. It’s the damnedest trick I ever saw, the slickest bit of hocus-pocus since the radio. No wires, no mirrors, no trapdoors. What’s the gimmick, Walt? How in hell do you get yourself off the ground like that?”
I wasn’t going to talk, I wasn’t going to say a word to him, but after staring him down through the silence for ten or fifteen seconds, he jumped up and whacked me in the temple with the heel of his hand, then slapped me across the jaw with the other hand.
“There’s no gimmick,” I said.
“Ho, ho,” he said. “Ho, ho, ho.”
“The act’s on the level. What you see is what there is.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you there’s no trick.”
“Lying’s a sin, Walt, you know that. Especially to your elders. Liars burn in hell, and if you don’t stop feeding me this bullshit, that’s exactly where you’re going. Into the fires of hell. Count on it, boy. I want the truth, and I want it now.”
“And that’s what I’m giving you. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
“All right,” he said, slapping his knees in frustration. “If that’s how you want to play it, that’s how we’ll play it.” He bounced up from the bed and grabbed me by the collar, yanking me out of my chair with one swift jerk of his arm. “If you’re so goddamn sure of yourself, then show me. We’ll step outside and have a little demonstration. But you better deliver the goods, wise guy. I don’t truck with no fibbers. You hear me, Walt? It’s put up or shut up. You get yourself off the ground, or your ass is fucking grass.”
He dragged me into the other room, yelling and haranguing as my head thumped against the floor and splinters jabbed into my scalp. There was nothing I could do to fight back. The ropes were still fastened around my arms and legs, and the best I could do was Writhe and scream, begging for mercy as the blood trickled through my hair.
“Untie him,” he ordered Fritz. “The squirt says he can fly, and we’re going to hold him to his word. No ifs, ands, or buts. It’s show time, gents. Little Walt’s going to spread his wings and dance in the air for us.”
I could see Fritz’s face from my position on the floor, and he was looking at Slim with a mixture of horror and confusion. The fat man was so stunned, he didn’t even try to speak.
“Well?” Slim said. “What are you waiting for? Untie him!”
“But Slim,” Fritz stammered. “It don’t make no sense. We let him fly into the air, and he’ll fly clear away from us. Just like you always said.”
“Forget what I said. Just undo the ropes, and we’ll see what kind of bullshitter he really is. I’m betting he don’t get a foot off the ground. Not one measly inch. And even if he does, who the fuck cares? I’ve got my gun, don’t I? One shot in the leg, and he’ll fall down faster than a goddamn duck.”
This cockeyed argument seemed to persuade Fritz. He shrugged, walked to the center of the room where Slim had deposited me, and bent down to do what he’d been told. The moment he loosened the first knot, however, I felt a surge of fear and revulsion wash through me.
“I ain’t going to do it,” I said.
“Oh, you’ll do it,” Slim said. My hands were free by then, and Fritz had turned his attention to the ropes around my legs. “You’ll do it all day if I tell you to.”
“You can shoot me dead,” I blubbered. “You can slit my throat or burn me to ashes, but there ain’t no way I’m going to do it.”
Slim chuckled briefly, then sent the point of his shoe flying into my back. The breath burst out of me like a rocket, and I hit the floor in pain.
“Aw, lay off him, Slim,” Fritz said, working on the last knot around my’ ankles. “He ain’t in the mood. Any dope can see that.”
“And who asked your opinion, tubby?” Slim said, turning his anger on a man who weighed twice what he did and was three times as strong.
“Cut it out,” Fritz said, grunting from the effort as he raised himself off the floor. “You know I don’t like it when you call me them names.”
“Names?” Slim shouted. “What names are you talking about, fatso?”
“You know. All that tubby and fatso stuff. It ain’t nice to mock a fella like that.”
“Getting sensitive, are we? And what am I supposed to call you, then? Just take a look in the mirror and tell me what you see. A mountain of flesh, that’s what. I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em, fatso. You want another name, then start shedding a few pounds.”
Fritz had about the longest, slowest fuse of any man I’d ever met, but this time Slim had pushed him too far. I could feel it, I could taste it, and even as I lay there gasping for air and trying to recover from the blow to my back, I understood that this was the one opening I’d ever have. My arms and legs were free, a hostile hubbub was brewing above me, and all I had to do was pick my moment. It came when Fritz took a step toward Slim and poked him in the chest. “You got no call to go on like that,” he said. “Not when I asked you to stop.”
Without making a sound, I began crawling in the direction of the door, inching forward as smoothly and unhurriedly as I could. I heard a thud behind me. Then there was another thud, followed by the noise of scuffling shoes on the bare wood floor. Shouts and grunts and foul words punctuated the sandpaper tango, but by then I was pushing my hand against the screen door, which luckily was too warped to fit into the jam. I opened it with one shove, crept forward another half foot or so, and then tumbled out into the sunlight, landing shoulder-first on the hard South Dakota dirt.
My muscles felt all strange and spongy. When I tried to stand up, I scarcely recognized them anymore. They’d gone stupid on me, and I couldn’t get them to work. After so much confinement and inactivity, I’d been turned into a spastic clown. I battled my way to my feet, but no sooner did I take a step than I began to stumble. I fell, picked myself up, lurched forward another yard or two, then fell again. I didn’t have a second to waste, and there I was wobbling around like a wino, belly-flopping between every third and fourth step. By sheer persistence, I finally made it to Slim’s car, a dented old jalopy parked around the side of the house. The sun had turned the thing into an oven, and when I touched the door handle, the metal was so hot I almost let out a scream. Fortunately, I knew my way around cars. The master had taught me how to drive, and I had no trouble releasing the hand brake, pulling out the choke, and turning the key in the ignition.
There was no time to adjust the seat, however. My legs were too short, and the only way I could get my foot on the gas pedal was to slide down, hanging onto the steering wheel for dear life. The first cough of the motor halted the fight inside the cabin, and by the time I got the car in gear, Slim was already bolting out the door and racing toward me with his gun in his hand. I spun out in an arc, trying to keep as much distance between us as I could, but the bastard was gaining on me and I couldn’t take my hand off the wheel to shift into second. I saw Slim lift the gun and take aim. Instead of swerving right, I swerved left, barreling straight into him with the fender. It caught him just above the knee, and he bounced off and fell to the ground. That gave me a few seconds to work with. Before Slim could stand up, I’d straightened out the wheel and pointed myself in the right direction. I threw the car into second and pressed the pedal to the floor. A bullet went crashing through the rear window, shattering the glass behind me. Another bullet thumped into the dashboard, opening up a hole in the glove-compartment door. I groped for the clutch with my left foot, shifted into third, and then I was off, I pushed the car up to thirty, forty miles an hour, bouncing over the rough terrain like a bronco buster as I waited for the next bullet to come tearing through my back. But there were no more bullets. I’d left that shitbag in the dust, and when I came upon the road a few minutes later, I was home free.
