Swing State (3 page)

The next time, it was back to normal: can't hit a girl, a pinwheeling dismissal from her grasp that left him sprawled in the middle of the hall as people passing kicked him on their way to class. Sometimes now he got hard just thinking about it.

If he'd had powers then, things would have been different. So he'd have to find a way to test them out.

His dad pulled into the driveway.

“Shabout time for dinner,” he said.

Zachariah could count the number of times his father had cooked since his mom left. Each time involved a grill. “I'll make us calzones,” he said.

4.

W
ALKING AROUND THE COMMON, THEN TO
the woods.

Roy used to think he'd go someplace else. Maybe Boston. Liked it there. Went for games. Sox, Bruins. Big town. Everyone said walking city. Small. But it wasn't. Big. Walk all day. Roads in grids. Up and down. Learn every street, store. Restaurant. More than three there.

Now he couldn't go. Too much.

When Roy got back from Afghanistan Artie McCoy said hey I got these Sox tickets. Artie. Went to high school together. Moved to Wilburton. Girlfriend knocked up. Got a job. Garage in Schaferville. Still making jokes. Most people didn't. Not any more. But Artie did. The guys, they would have loved him.

They took his Mustang down. Awesome. 93 South, through Concord, past the Old Man of the Mountain. Where he used to be. Remembered the day he fell. His Auntie Blake said Royal, look at the paper. Ol' Stoney is gone.

That game Ortiz struck out four times. Golden Sombrero. Sox lost but he and Artie drank beer in plastic cups. Checked out tits and asses. Good to be back. Not warm enough to take his jacket off. But good to be there.

After, they had a few beers. Basement bar down the street. Cheaper than inside. Artie said next time a flask. TV replays of the strikeouts they barely saw from the bleachers.

Artie thought getting beers would help. People would leave while they drank, he said. But they went back to the car and no one moved in the parking lot.

They sat and listened to people yell about Ortiz. Radios in other cars. Some were listening to the same talk shows. Some had music. AC/DC. “Back in Black.”

Loved them. They put them on when they went on patrol. He was always scared. Every time. But it felt good to be moving. The other guys, Peck, Long, Donaldson, singing. Rolling.

In the car, waiting, callers yelling steroids, it's over, AC/DC from the other cars in the lot.

Felt weird to be still.

They should be moving.

Shouldn't be sitting.

Moving.

He felt his breath getting fast.

“Back in Black” ended but it was Block Party Weekend so “Thunderstruck” came on and they used to listen to it when they were going out and he remembered stopping.

Being still.

Not moving.

Brain felt like it froze. Hurt.

He knew it was okay he knew he was in Boston with Artie the Sox game just got out but he had to get out even though he knew it was a Boston parking lot. He had to get out he said I'm sorry, man, and walked down the street, ran, over the highway, running, and there was a train sometimes on his right, cars stuffed with people
wearing Red Sox hats and jackets and his shitty prepaid phone rang and rang and he knew it was Artie calling to ask if he was okay and he just let it ring and kept running. Artie didn't seem too mad on the ride back, said it was fine. And Artie called a few times since, like five different days, but he didn't call back. Couldn't. Too much of a pussy. The fuckin' Sox, dude, and he couldn't sit in a car with his buddy—his best friend, pretty much his only one—who bought the ticket and beers and drove him down. What the fuck.

So no city. He wished he could but the car that time told him no. He wanted to think yes. Like it was just once. But that was the start. Couldn't predict noise. He'd be on a train and hear something. See something. Lose it. Or a job.

Donaldson never called back. Frick. Months afterward. Hey, man. Nothing. Hated email but tried it. PalCorral. They never answered.

It wasn't all him. Couldn't be. They had shit going on. Wanted to forget, too. Made him sad. Yeah. Peck and Long and everyone else. Wanted to forget that they ever went. The fucking desert. All of it.

Him.

He wished he could forget himself. Get lost in something. He did. Sometimes. When he got mad, mostly. But pool. Games. The woods. Walks.

He liked the woods. Quiet there. No people except sometimes kids with dogs. The old abandoned hearse where he drank in high school. The quarry.

Around the common every day. Hurt less now, but still there. By the library.

Wished he could read better. Before he left he did a little. John Grisham, Stephen King. Tom Clancy. Those guys were great. Now
he couldn't sit long enough. Mostly head down. School. Wished he could. Maybe someday. GI Bill. But no way. Not now. Hard to concentrate. Headaches. Couldn't. School, driving. Couldn't.

But he went to the library. Sports pages. Liked those better than on the computer. Box scores on screens didn't work.

They had DVDs. But it was hard to find stuff. Military history didn't work. Sports did. Even the stuff he didn't like. Notre Dame football. The fucking Yankees. So pissed he forgot he went over, he realized after. But he was starting to run low on sports. After that maybe science of the mind stuff.

His favorites before were action films, but he didn't want to try those.

He wished he liked the computer more. All the guys talked about it. Online dating. Frick talked about all the girls he met. Easy, man, Frick said. Send pictures of your junk, they come to you. Roy didn't believe it. You take dick pictures? Sure, Frick said. All the time. It works.

Frick named a few pages. PalCorral he knew. Tried to friend the guys. The others he didn't know. He looked. But he didn't want a profile. On PalCorral he didn't fit in at all. Just name and town. Roy Eggleton, Armbrister. Didn't talk about his likes. Or history.

The computer would help with jobs. If he knew where to look. He sat and tried. Made a resume. Mailed it to people. Security. Already had firearm training. Landscaping, carpentry, mill. Nothing happened. So he went to the unemployment office. Nothing for you, every time.

Before he left he thought he had it made. Auntie Blake's friend's friend, from Massachusetts. Plenty of work when you get back. Houses. Growth potential. Even in the winter. You'll be on
your feet in no time. But the first houses weren't finished. They just sat there. No glass. The market, everyone said. No jobs. No home sales. No need.

So he walked. Leg hurt. When it wasn't the common or the woods it was the roads. Just go. No sidewalks. Sometimes cars got close. Walked against traffic. Wanted to see it coming. No surprises.

He walked to Wilburton a few times. Long. Twelve miles. But his leg hurt. Never went away. Doctor said it probably never would. He wanted to do Schaferville. Further. Hadn't done it yet. Fifteen, maybe longer. Before it would have been easy. But he wouldn't have walked it before. He would have driven. Now, walking. But it got dark. Maybe he'd sleep in the woods. Bring his bag and a tarp. He used to camp. Before Artie knocked up his girl and he went over. They always talked about the three Bs: baseball, beer, and boobs. Used to laugh. Camp by the river. Have a fire. Talk about Boston. The Sox. Moving there. Maybe Artie would come. Meet him somewhere. Drive out. The car there, but if he walked who cares. Carry the stuff on his back.

Wilburton wasn't bad. Their common was better. More stores. Better kept. No leaves. He thought he could do that. Rake. Sent applications. Schools. Public Works. Better than being inside all day. But no one called. He tried back. Knew he had to. They all said no openings. He wondered. Looked as much as he could. Want ads, library computers. There used to be more.

He thought about leaving. Why not? Be someplace new. Wilburton he didn't mind. Or Schaferville. Maybe Artie could get him a job. He'd been under the hood a little overseas. Remembered stuff from high school. He could learn. Good with his hands. Grateful for the opportunity. Get a place. But bills and
all. Moving van. Deposit. Didn't have one now. Or last. Weekly. Schaferville had places like that. Had to. Would the garage be hot like the desert? Hoped not. It would suck in the winter. Freeze. Plastic over the windows. He'd need a hairdryer. Still cold anyway. Oil heat. Everything he did overseas and too expensive to heat a house. Maybe four good months.

There was a bar. Irish place. Did they have a pool table? Couldn't remember. Maybe. He'd go. Check it out. See how he felt.

Talk to Artie. Duh. That was it. Stop by his place. Tell him the plan. No contracting work. No security. No landscaping, janitor. Cars. Artie knew he could do it. Work hard. Study. Learn.

He could get more books. Cars. Engines. He saw that stuff. Knew it. Recognized it. The names faded. Didn't know what things were called. But he could get it back. Easy. Thinking about it made him feel good. Didn't give him a headache. Like when he thought about the contracting. Thought the whole time he had work. Got back, there was none. Just a little check. Thought he'd have it made. A porch, cable. Watch the Sox. iPhone. Grill. Instead, a check. And headaches.

Cars, though. He could do that.

Rather be outside. In the sun. But garage doors opened. Cold in the winter. Probably better than his apartment.

Hoped Schaferville had pool. If not he'd have to walk in for games. Just for fun instead of money. But he could get a bike. That would work. Exercise. Stay in shape. Look good. Start a real profile. With pictures. Wait for them to come. Could it be that easy? Frick was full of shit. Had to be. But the way he talked. There was something in it. Wasn't all lies.

Or maybe get a car. Boston was a one-time thing. It would be okay. Get a job, settle in. Not worry so much. Move away from it,
no headaches. News on the radio. Lose himself in his new thing. Be okay to drive.

He walked behind the L'il Bee to the woods entrance. School day. Didn't like to go in after. Kids. He remembered cutting school. Going out there. The hearse. The quarry. Crushed cans. Rick Robards worked at the grocery store. For twenty bucks he'd leave a twelver on the loading dock. Expensive. But beer. Artie wanted to save the cans. Return them. Sixty fuckin' cents. Where were you supposed to return beer cans? Small town. Crush them. Keep drinking.

Beginning of the summer. Couldn't remember the exact year. The quarry. Artie brought his girl out there. Heat lightning. Thought they'd get electrocuted. A sign or something. Carrying the twelve-pack so Artie could hold hands with his girl. They were okay. Not too cute. Thank God. He saw dudes and their girls at school. Tough dudes, like voc, cars, mushy. Wearing Slayer shirts, being pussies. Artie never did that. His girl Christa was okay. She could drink. Finished her four quick. Before him. Before Artie. Belched like a man.

Heat lightning flickered. Granite peaks named in spray-paint. Tall one was “Tits.” Made no sense. Should have been “Dick,” maybe. Two peaks? Tits. But no pairs. Just singles. Granite. Sharp on the edges. People wore shoes in. Too sharp not to. Hurt less when you hit.

Artie couldn't swim. And girls didn't jump. One did once. What was her name? Got fucked up. Rocks. Hit her head. Wore all black now. Walked every day. Like him.

He jumped. That night. Heat lightning, four beers. Never did it before. Could swim okay. Learned when he was little. Didn't know he was going to. Just stood up, pulled off his shirt, jeans.
Socks, shoes. I'm doing it, he said. Christa said no, Roy, wait. Wait a minute. It's dark. They heard splashes. People jumping. Don't. You'll get hurt.

He walked toward Tits. Artie said wait, man, do a small one first. Do Cunt. But it was like he wasn't in his head. Like in the tent. Someone else. His body moving and he could see it even though it was dark. Watching. Like he was dead. He walked to Tits and stood on the lip. They were right. It was sharp. Bloody feet later. All the feet that had jumped off and still sharp.

Felt like a long time before he hit. In the air for days. But just a second.

It hurt. Knew why people wore shoes. Only for a few seconds but it hurt.

He was in. Or was he? Cold. Tasted like dirt. He thought he was swimming up but it was cold and dark and tasted like dirt. Maybe this was what it was like to be dead. Maybe he was. Maybe they buried him.

Nothing under his feet. Swimming up. Or not. Dirt taste. Dead.

Then his head broke. He was up.

The path back took ten minutes. Water still like dirt in his mouth. Hard to see but he heard voices and heat lightning lit everything. He got back and they said how was it? Awesome he said and did it again. They didn't tell him not to anymore.

5.

I
WENT TO THE CAFETERIA AT
lunchtime. The nerd table gave me like twenty bucks! I sat right down with them and said hey, I hope you guys can help me out. My mom needs some medicine. She's really sick. And they knew I was kidding but they gave me the money anyway.

* * *

I just listened back. I forgot to go to the library to see how much football players make.

* * *

Ross came home early today.

He said I hear you've been hanging out with Ding.

I wanted to say only for more than a year. Then I wanted to say I went looking for him yesterday but couldn't find him. But I didn't. Instead I said yeah.

He goes cut the shit.

When I asked why he said Ding's been to jail.

Here's what we said:

So what?

You think it's good to hang out with someone who's been to jail?

I don't care.

Think of how it looks.

I was like how'd you hear, anyway? and he said I have my ways.

So I was all like whatever and he went no, seriously, think of how it looks if my sister is hanging with a guy like that.

I said I barely even see him.

Just when you do your business, right? I heard about you and your business.

So I was all like fuck you, Ross.

He goes seriously, that guy is bad news.

I left.

I don't know what Ross's deal is.

Tomorrow I'm gonna find Ding and get rid of that iPod.

* * *

I remembered to go to the library today. There were so many nerds. Tietz was there and he turned white when I walked by.

Those quarterbacks make a lot of money. Wide receivers and running backs, too. There are a few defense guys who make some loot—that's the position he plays, defense. Five million, ten million.

* * *

On the way home I saw Ding's car parked in front of the L'il Bee. I said gonna be here in fifteen minutes? and he said I can be. I told him I had something for him at the house.

Don was passed out on the couch when I got home. I went in, got the iPod and the watch and went back.

When I got there he was like wanna go for a ride?

I said where?

Nowhere.

I got in. We drove past the school. The football team was practicing in the field.

He said got something for me?

I took out the iPod and the watch.

He said I don't know how you get all this stuff.

He totally knows. He just pretends he doesn't.

He always asks what I want, even though he knows I'm done with that fireworks shit. But it's way cheaper for him to give me a few M-80s every time, so I can't blame him for trying.

He tried giving me M-80s and Silver Salutes. I said no, cash.

We drove around for a while. Neither of us said anything. I like that. Being quiet. If I ever go out with anyone it'll be like that. I don't want to have to talk all the time. All those girls at school, always telling their girlfriends everything about their boyfriends. It's like, why do you have to talk all the time? About everything? But driving around quiet, I like that.

Fifty, he said. For both.

He usually goes forty on an iPod.

I said you can go higher.

He tried throwing in some M-80s.

I told him no.

He said no one wants watches right now. And iPods aren't as big as they used to be.

I said fine, pull over.

He stopped on this stretch of road that was all trees and put his hazards on. I felt like we'd stopped in that exact spot before, maybe a few times.

I pulled up my shirt and pulled down my bra. He looked at me with these big eyes the way he does. He never comes right out and says it. Always has to bargain. And every time he tries
to put his hands on them, and every time I'm like yeah, right, asshole and pull my shirt down. He can look all he wants as long as he pays big, but he can't touch. I'll give him another bloody nose.

I'll take you back, he said.

So we drove back and didn't talk. He pulled around the L'il Bee dumpster and pulled out a wad of bills. He counted out four twenties.

For the iPod, the watch, and something extra, he said. Always like that: something extra. He said you know you could get more. And I was like do you want me to kick your ass again?

He said you want those M-80s? I was like sure.

He got out. I saw the trunk pop open in the rearview. He came back with a brown bag. Maybe Mom made it at the mill.

He said see if you can get a laptop. Or one of those pad computers.

I said see ya and got out of the car.

* * *

I went to the library again today. Nerd city.

Anyway, I'm fucked.

I've got eight hundred dollars. Concord is like seven hundred a month. Manchester is about the same. And they need first, last, and security. That's a ton of money. Then I need to buy food and stuff.

Unless I get a job I'm stuck, even if I do find a bunch of laptops.

* * *

I'm at the development, down in the basement of one of those houses. It's a few down from where I was last time. This is the first one I could find that was open.

Cold in here. There's plastic over where the windows would be. It doesn't help.

This is a Silver Salute. After this I only have two left, then the bag of M-80s Ding gave me yesterday.

I won't miss this at all. I need money.

I'm gonna put it on the basement floor. Here goes:

(sound of explosion)

That was fucking LOUD.

Let's see.

Nah, the floor still looks the same.

Okay, now the M-80. Different place this time.

Here we go!

(sound of explosion)

AWESOME.

I thought maybe there would be a crater. There isn't, but there's something. Burn marks.

* * *

I wonder what demolition is like. Get a bunch of explosives and figure out which ones would blow shit up the best. That would be a cool job.

* * *

I forgot to talk about school.

I failed another test. Geometry. Maybe I should've stuck with nursing. But anatomy is harder than geometry.

Trombley says it's early enough in the semester so I can still pass, but I'll have to apply myself.

That's what teachers always say. But no matter what happens, I wind up in the next year. So whatever.

* * *

The first place I should go is the L'il Bee. But I don't want to because of Mom. No way do I wanna work with her. Even if I am getting paid for it.

Same thing with the mill. So I guess it's restaurants.

* * *

At school today I went outside to the corner where all the voc kids hang out.

I told all those guys I have M-80s and Silver Salutes. I thought I'd sell them. But no one wanted any.

One guy was like that's kid's stuff. Where were you when I needed you in sixth grade?

Everyone laughed.

I almost went to the nerd table inside. But those guys are all afraid of me. I'm surprised no one's ever ratted me out. If one of those dumb shits lost a finger or an eye because I sold ‘em an M-80 I'd be fucked. So forget it.

* * *

I'll go back to the library tomorrow and find out how to apply for jobs. Then after school I'll come home and change and go around.