I
Roman knocked on Carl’s door repeatedly. There was no response. If it wasn’t for Roman’s injured shoulder he probably would’ve turned and walked home. Instead we entered the living room—Carl’s door was never locked—and searched every room including the cluttered basement. It was hours after the bar closed and Carl was nowhere to be found. We even drove up and down the route he took to and from the bar—alas no Carl.
After a couple hour search of every side street, whorehouse, and possible location we could think of, I drove Roman back to his house. Heather’s Mustang sat in the driveway and I could see her fingers tapping the steering wheel nervously. She knew Roman was okay for the most part—I called her when we left Extravaganza—but nights such as these tend to bring out the pessimistic side of people. Roman took two steps up his driveway and stopped. His head rose to the perfect full moon above it.
Me and Heather looked up as well, trying to see in that bright bulb in the sky what Roman saw. I wondered what it was like for him to think. When I think I can actually hear words in my head. Did Roman hear words too only at a lot faster rate, like a speed speaker or a tape in fast-forward? Whatever the case I knew after almost nine months of interrupting, it was best to just let him finish.
“Carl said that around the time of every full moon he begins to feel sick,”
Roman said.
“Yeah,” Heather started. “And that it was because the aliens cast some sort of spell over him.”
“He wasn’t sick at all this week. He was as lively as I’ve seen him. He also said that that time in the jungle they asked him to go with them. Like they couldn’t force him to go against his will,” Roman said again.
“What are you getting at?” I asked.
“Maybe the aliens were making him sick because he refused to go with them.”
“Like when they choked him in the jungle,” Heather added.
“But he wasn’t sick at all this week,” I said. “Even tonight he was as happy as a clam.” The image of Carl standing in front of the Tavern with his hand held up flashed in my mind.
“Maybe he wasn’t sick because he agreed to go,” Roman said.
“He was talking crazy, saying his time here was up and he wouldn’t be surprised if they came for him tonight,” Tony said. “You know what though? I’ve had it with all this aliens and serial killers and fucking secret agent bullshit. I’m going home and going to bed. If you need me to whip Johnson’s ass later tonight, just give me a call.”
Roman smiled.
“Honestly do you think you’ll be all right? Do you need to go to the hospital? I’ll stay here if you want me to,” I said.
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“I’ll be fine. Tony, thanks for everything. I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you.”
“Yeah, about twenty more nights like tonight and I’ll be even with you.”
I drove off as Heather and Roman walked into his house.
II
As much as I wanted to go home, the Pinto had other ideas. I found myself at Sally’s house, climbing the downspout of the gutter and hoping like hell it didn’t rip off the side of the porch. People in the movies always seem to shoot right up these things like they’re Spider-Man. I had a more difficult time of it—slipping several times and falling back to the bushes on others. My determination won out though, and I crawled along the porch roof, keeping myself invisible as I passed under her parents’ room.
I tapped on Sally’s window for what seemed like hours. It was a fine line I was walking—tapping hard enough that it would wake her, but not so hard that her parents would hear. Eventually the light came on in her room and she appeared in front of the window. Her grogginess was replaced by anger when she saw who it was. She opened the window anyway. We had to whisper on account of her parents’ room right next door.
“Is something wrong?” Sally asked as she picked up a brush and began to comb through her hair. It wasn’t to look pretty for me—just instinct to look her best at all times—something women are born with I guess.
I proceeded to tell Sally the events that transpired early that night, of Roman and Heather, Max Sheehan and Agent Johnson. She seemed to be genuinely concerned, even wanted to call and make sure Heather was all right, but my sad story really got me nowhere.
“So why are you here again? Couldn’t you have called and told me all this?”
Why was I here? As much as I wanted to blame it on the Pinto, I knew it was more the man behind the steering wheel. I just stood there and looked at her.
“It’s 2:00 in the morning. If you’re not going to say anything I’m going back to bed. I’ve got a test first hour in British Literature. 1984. Fun, fun.”
“I don’t know why I’m here. I just felt like I needed to see you. I can’t explain it. I’ve got stupid little thoughts running through my head. Look, maybe you’re right, maybe I should just go.”
“What kind of stupid little thoughts?”
“I don’t know, like maybe I’m sorry for the way I treated you when we were dating. Maybe I was a fool for breaking up with you.”
“That’s just it Tony, it’s always maybe with you. You didn’t come here to apologize. We didn’t date; it was more like you trying to get in my pants every second of the day. And there is no maybe about you being a fool. It’s not a matter of you being able to say the things in your head; it’s that you won’t say them.
That’s the way it was and will always be. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m flying back to France with Jacques the day after graduation and spending a month with him. I’ve always wanted to see Europe.”
“With Frenchy?”
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Sally didn’t respond to the slang term I used for his name. Instead she walked over to the light switch, shut it off, climbed into bed, and pulled up the covers. “If you’re not going to say what you came to say you may as well leave.”
“I’m trying to tell you. You’re just not listening.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening.”
I stared at her for more than a minute. “Fuck it,” I said and opened the window back up. I put one foot out but when my second one hit the roof I slipped and slid head first toward the edge. I tried to stop myself but there was nothing to grab onto. I fell off and landed in the bushes a good twenty feet down. It did not feel good. After pulling the twigs and sticks out of my clothes and skin, the front porch light came on. I limped quickly to the Pinto, and as I drove off I could hear Sally’s father cursing me.
III
Part of me did not expect to see Roman again when I pulled out of his driveway. Even though he laughed at my jokes and seemed not to be angry about Carl’s absence, I could easily see him packing up his baseball cards and few other belongings, and disappearing into the darkness of night. I could see him traveling to somewhere unlikely, driven by the winds of chance and the pursuit of one Agent Johnson.
Over the next few weeks he proved that part of me wrong. Roman was as carefree as I’d ever seen him. He talked more, laughed often, and put down his never-ending stack of books to join those of us who lived in reality. He told me that a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders because of the confrontation with Max Sheehan. Roman would never see his parents again but at least it was some sort of closure. It seemed to me that he traded one burden for the other—the monkey of Max was off his back, but a much heavier Agent Johnson had just jumped on. I suggested at one point that maybe Johnson didn’t escape the inferno of Extravaganza, that maybe the roof fell in on him, and he burned alongside Max Sheehan. Roman gave me the look at that comment—a gesture that told me I was an idiot if I believed it. There was no doubt that Johnson and his NN loomed on the horizon. There comes a point when you just have to say, “fuck it”. I think Roman was at that point, and whether his happy face and attitude were more for us than for him, it served everyone well.
May to us meant baseball. It meant there were conference championships to win and state titles to get ready for. It meant working on the baseball field less because the monsoons of April had finally dried up. It meant trading in jeans for shorts. It meant skin on the females for as far as the high school eye cared to look.
You could smell graduation in the air and the classroom part of high school was on full shutdown for us seniors. The prison guards gave up with teaching and homework assignments—our minds were already somewhere else.
Heather moved herself one Mustang load at a time into Roman’s house.
Whether it was the fact that she couldn’t bring herself to stay in the mansion that Max Sheehan once haunted, or because she just wanted to be close to Roman those final days of school, Gina did not fight her. She even sent little goody baskets along with her daughter—food and snacks, even books for Roman. Heather who 333
was always looking for some cause, found one in our missing friend Carl. She plastered the city of Collingston and its surrounding area with pictures of our odd friend. Every gas station, barnyard, schoolyard, outhouse, doghouse, store, convenient mart, and church displayed his likeness. I imagine that every citizen in Collingston whether they liked it or not, knew the face, name, height, and weight of Carl Stumot. Heather even made her mother rent several billboards around the area. It was no surprise to see Carl’s giant face staring down at you as you drove down the highway. When there wasn’t a response Heather only doubled her efforts, branching out to neighboring cities and creating a website devoted totally to finding him.
Roman kept up Carl’s property during those days in May—mowing the grass, cleaning the house, even making sure the bees in the basement never ran dry on their honey. He ran with Heather every morning at six, claiming he was staying in shape for baseball. I wondered if it was training for something else.
Roman couldn’t lift his arm the first few days after battling Agent Johnson. He couldn’t throw a ball the first week. By week two he was playing light catch. By the beginning of week three he was throwing in bullpens. More than anything, more than the gray matter between his ears or the quickness in the weapons he called hands, Roman was a survivor.
The Silver Streaks did falter—our perfect record was spotted with a few losses here and there—but the guys stepped up nicely in our ace’s absence. Johnny the Killer went a perfect 4-0 in those two weeks. Our offense got a boost from guys like Sam Peterman in the bottom of the order. We averaged more runs in that span than the rest of the year. It wasn’t something the guys wanted to do but had to if they wanted to win.
I turned over a new leaf as well—nothing but smiles for Jacques and Sally.
I never let his slick-tongued accent get to me, or let her eyes tell me our story together wasn’t done. It was always “how are you”, “that’s great”; I even laughed at his stupid jokes and misuse of words.
It wasn’t until one day at lunch that my efforts were rewarded. It came in a way I would’ve never expected. It was during one of those few and far between moments of silence at the lunch table when all the conversations and laughter had some how burned themselves out. Johnny the Killer had no chauvinistic jokes, Brunno had no stuttering business math questions, Pick and Sam weren’t arguing over Babe Ruth’s significance, the cheerleaders weren’t comparing their newly acquired cancer-bed tan’s, and Roman wasn’t telling us of how all mammals have the ability to hibernate if only the right genes were turned on in their DNA. The only sound was hungry teenage mouths chewing food.
I bit into the piece of pizza in front of me, scanning the round table for the next potential speaker. I worked my way around counter clockwise, searching for budding conversation in someone’s eyes. All were blank except for one. Frenchy was already staring at me three seats away with some slanted-ass grin like he knew something I didn’t. I felt my blood pressure rise until he spoke.
“Tony?”
“Yes Jacques,” I rolled the J sarcastically. It was habit now I guess.
“I would like to make an offering of peace.”
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“And what would that be?”
“I want you to take Sally to your spring dance.”
“You mean Prom.”
“Ah yes Prom.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Sally objected.
“You and Tony should go to Prom together. I’m only an underclassmen and don’t know of such American customs.”
“It’s just a dance,” Sally said.
“I have been reading in your magazine called YM. It says that you will remember Prom date for the rest of your life. That you should go with someone that knows how to have a good time.”
“You know how to have a good time,” Sally argued.
“Yes but I don’t know the customs of Prom. You should go with Anthony, I mean Tony, because you have been friends for a long time, no? Besides he has no date and you will be mine for a month in France.”
“Thanks asshole for reminding me,” I whispered to myself.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Heather cut in.
“Why do I feel like I’m being pimped out?” Sally said.
IV
Washington D.C.
Agent Johnson limped into the theater room and placed his hand on the crystal palm mold. The reflected light coming from the surface of the room began to darken, melting into the brown and black shadows of the hologram courtroom he had visited so many times before. He couldn’t think of a time he had been less anxious to talk to the Voice.
The man known as the Voice sat atop his judge-like throne. Johnson could see the man’s hands as they typed and pushed different buttons, but his face was black and non-existent, tucked away behind shadows. There was a long silence—
longer than Johnson could ever remember—before the Voice spoke. And as much as Johnson prepared himself for the deep thundering boom of the Voice’s speech, it always seemed louder than the time before.
Finally the Voice spoke. Johnson thought the words would vibrate right through him. “By the looks of you Agent Johnson, would it be safe to surmise that your apprehension of Roman Swivel has failed.”
“It would be safe to surmise that, yes sir,” the agent responded.
“Can we also assume that our satellite images are not lying to us, that Swivel still lives?”
“Yes sir.”
“The last time you stood in front of me you said that Swivel might be more powerful than we once thought. You said that you took him for granted the first time and it wouldn’t happen again. What is your assessment of Swivel now?”
Johnson tried to choose his words wisely, both to protect Roman and himself. “He is remarkable. But in talking to him I can tell you he has no interest 335
in our line of work. In all honesty sir, I had a gun to his face, and he would rather me pull the trigger than be captured alive. He will never join us.”
“I sense an uneasiness with you Agent Johnson. Rest assured that Swivel will join us. There are ways around his reluctance. Our scientists have been dabbling in a new technology that uses electromagnetic pulses to manipulate brain chemistry. The three subjects we have experimented on so far have no recollection of past events in their lives, they don’t know where they’re from, they don’t even know what their names are. But their cognitive reasoning seems to be intact.”
“With all due respect sir, I would like to be reassigned. I’m too close to the situation and I’m afraid my judgment is suffering because of it.”
A long silence. And then the deep bass boomed again.
“There is no need to batter yourself over the failure to eliminate Swivel.
We are after all protectors of the peace, not monsters. Your decision may have been wise indeed. Keep in mind that America stands because of you and me.
America stands because of our sacrifice. Though it goes unnoticed it is a sacrifice nonetheless. We cannot jeopardize the security of the nation for the mind of one young man. I will however compromise with you, Agent Johnson. I am putting Agent Stenworth in charge of the mission; you will accompany him and the other Agents in apprehending our allusive ally.
“Other Agents?”
“I am sending every available Agent to assist with the mission. Though it won’t be all of our manpower, it will ensure our success. It will also make things less messy I suspect.”
“Forgive me sir, but I have one request. Roman asked that he be able to at least graduate. That’s less than a month from now.”
“And if he runs?”
“The satellites are recording his daily movements and I placed GPS tracers on all of his belongings. Besides I don’t believe him to be a flight risk anymore.
He feels…he thinks that he is at home.”
“So be it. The wait will give your wounds time to heal and time for us to gather more available Agents. You are a good man, Agent Johnson. Godspeed on your journey.”
V
Sally was pissed at Frenchy for his so-called peace offering. I don’t think she really minded going with me. She was angry because French Boy, even though his intentions were good, was telling her he really didn’t care about going with her to the Prom. Women hate rejection, maybe more than anything.
I’d played it cool like it wasn’t a big deal. Truth was I was happy as hell.
I don’t put much stock in all the mushy bullshit about fate and destiny, but this did feel right. We had come a long way since that day in Heather’s pool and while a part of me would always want her, I was just content to be going with someone I was close to. It sure would beat going stag like Jack and Brunno.
I decided to do one more thing where Prom was concerned. When the ballots were cast I voted for myself as Prom king. Maybe that’s unethical. Maybe it was selfish. I didn’t give a shit. The crown was up for grabs these days with 336
Johnny the Killer losing his place on the mountaintop and who deserved it more than me? I’d put in my time. I was a nice guy. People liked me. Why not reap the benefits for once?
Heather and Sally made all the Prom arrangements of course. Women always love shit like that—the planning, the dress buying, the gushing over jewelry, Saturdays at the mall. It would take them weeks to finalize something that could’ve been done in a day. Let’s face it, they weren’t planning a wedding.
That was fine with me and Roman. We had more important things to deal with, like baseball and state tournaments. The regional started without Roman’s healthy right arm, but we managed. We won the regional, demolishing each of the three teams we played by the ten-run rule and without Roman ever taking the mound. Johnny the Killer pitched in the third game and had an impressive performance, giving up only two runs in seven innings and striking out seven.
Every person in the line up had an RBI, even Sam Peterman, and our defense was close to perfect, committing only one error in that three-game span.
Roman worked as hard and quick as he could at getting back; spending time with the trainer everyday after school and throwing simulated games every three days. He was scheduled to start sometime in the sectional. Roman had another project going also, something that took him to Mr. Buttworst’s house every evening.
He wouldn’t elaborate on his nightly trips. It was only after my questioning and begging that he let me come along. I drove us up there of course and was surprised when Roman went into the good teacher’s garage instead of his house. Things got stranger, not only did Roman hand me a shovel upon exiting the garage, but I found myself following him through the forest behind Buttworst’s house.
The woods went on forever and it seemed that we walked every inch of it.
“Is this like the fishing, because I’m getting good grades now? I really don’t need another lesson.”
“No lesson,” Roman responded.
We stopped finally at the bottom of a hill. Spread out on the ground next to a wheelbarrow and an ax, was a large tarp. Roman walked over and lifted it up.
Underneath it was a large hole that Roman had apparently been digging for the last couple of weeks. It was probably twenty feet in circumference and five feet deep.
Not three feet in back of it was a large rock outcropping that formed a wall and seemed to seal us off from the rest of the forest—a mountain in the middle of the trees.
“So what do we have here?” I asked.
Roman somehow answered my question without answering it. “I’ve got it wide enough, I just need it a couple feet deeper.”
We took turns—one of us would scoop the dirt out of the pit, the other would empty the wheelbarrow a hundred or so feet into the woods. It wasn’t the easiest work in the world, but Roman seemed to be in no hurry. He scraped his shovel, putting little effort into it, as if his persistence was more important than the pressure of the spade.
“Feels like we’re digging a giant grave,” I said and laughed.
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Roman didn’t crack a smile.
“So me and Sally, what do you think?” I said as I returned with the empty wheelbarrow.
Roman was down in the pit. He stopped shoveling at my question, placing his hands over the knob of the handle and resting his chin above them. He leaned on the tool and stared up at me like I just asked him to explain a black hole.
“Can I tell you something that’s been bothering me for about nine months now?” Roman countered.
“Sure.”
“Every time you refer to yourself and another person you always put yourself first.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“For instance, you said ‘me and Sally’.”
“Yeah. So?”
“You should say ‘Sally and I’.”
“What’s the difference?” I really didn’t get it.
“It’s just correct English. If you and someone else are the subject of a sentence you should say ‘so-and-so and I’. If you’re the object of a sentence you should say ‘so-and-so and me’. But you should always refer to yourself last,”
Roman said.
“Sorry, not everybody has the luxury of your brain.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah whatever,” I muttered, as much to myself as to him.
Roman laughed.
“So anyway, Sally and I, what do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?”
Roman was a master of sidestepping questions. No matter how many times he gave me a question as a response, no matter how many times I knew it was coming, I always fell for it. “I don’t know what I think. I used to think she was just some hot girl I was lucky enough to mess around with. I never thought about her much past that. Now though it’s like everywhere I look she’s there.
Every time I turn on the radio the song playing reminds me of her. I know it’s corny as hell.”
“Why? You’re human aren’t you? Even the toughest guys have feelings, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I’m not the type to open the car door for a girl, or send her cheesy-ass love notes, or go to dinner and a movie. I’d rather kick somebody’s ass on the baseball field and then go drink beer with the guys.”
Roman threw another shovel load of dirt over his shoulder out of the pit and next to my feet. He continued to work as he talked. “Look you’re asking the wrong guy about women. I’ve only been with one you know? The best advice I’ve ever gotten was from you actually. You stood in my doorway a couple of days before Christmas. I believe you said I was pretty fucking stupid for a genius.
Something to the effect that you weren’t going to waste your senior year watching me waste my life. It’s the same thing with love, isn’t it? You can be scared of it or ignore it, but in the end it’s still there.”
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“Love,” I said out loud. “It can’t be. Where did I screw up?”
VI
We hosted the sectional at Collingston Stadium and walked through all three games of it. Roman pitched in the sectional championship—his first game back—and threw a shutout against a team that averaged seven runs a game. His velocity was back to a hundred percent, and though it took a couple of innings to regain his pinpoint accuracy, Roman had the game in hand when he stepped on the mound.
The city of Collingston came out in droves. Five thousand-plus fans packed the stands—a record to this day that has not been broken. It was to support their local high school to some degree, but mostly I think it was because of Roman. They wanted to be a part of the things he could do, to watch him turn throwing a little white ball into pure magic. And maybe it was more than just his pitching. Maybe it was to see a skinny kid with long arms defy logic, defy nature.
Maybe it was just to be around that aura of his—the intangible element some people had in them that granddad called the spark of life.
The scouts came crawling back as well. Most of them had written Roman off as damaged goods when he injured his arm and now they were babbling excuses to Coach Demera on the whys and wherefores of the their absences.
Demara, of course, no matter how stupid he thought they were, was always polite and cooperative, never ruining Roman’s chances for stardom. Roman brushed them off as he always had, never committing verbally or otherwise to any one team. He did commit to one thing however, not to a scout or coach, but to Heather. He filled out the necessary paper work to enroll at Northwestern along side her.
It was getting down to crunch time for me as well. Most colleges were out of money that late in the spring. And while a couple of schools wanted me to come and walk on, I took my chances that someone would see me in the right place at the right time.
School wound down for us. The last day for seniors was the day before our super-sectional game in Mattoon. I’d spent twelve years—counting grade school—wishing, hoping, and planning a way to get out of prison, to escape the boredom. I remembered how several teachers the first day of that school year commented on how this would be the best year of my life. I remember how stupid I thought they were for saying it. As I sat at lunch that final time, I looked around at the people, and thought of the many memories we shared that had come to be a part of my life, and at that moment I knew what the prison guards meant. I knew that things would never be the same, that our round table would vanish into history, and some new group of seniors would take our place. I sat there when the bell rang for lunch to end, watching as my friends gathered their bags and books one last time. I waited until I was alone in that vast cafeteria and I tried to get one final breath of it all, holding back the lump in my throat. I finally got it. It wasn’t about the building, or the walls, or the classes. It was about faces. About friends.
In Mattoon we walked through the super-sectional. Roman threw another shutout in the championship and then Johnny the Killer won the first game by two 339
runs. The unlikely pair had become a rather formidable one-two punch. I drove in seven RBIs in those two games. We turned ten double plays, hit .420 as a team, and committed no errors. Sam Peterman struck out five times.
After the game Coach Demera played off the wins, stating that everything we had done up until now meant jack shit. Yes, there were only four teams left in the state, and our season would be one for the Silver Streak record books. But people don’t remember who made the final four; they only remember the champion. Two games left. Two games that Coach Demera had spent his entire career waiting for. Two games that would either make the Silver Str