I dream all the time. I dream I’m someone Denby might like better but I don’t like at all, someone who never quit school, someone who works his tail off, someone who—get this—keeps trying to get her to marry me. My drunk, dead-beat father’s around, too. I take him to AA meetings. I help pay the mortgage. Yeah, Prometheus, that particle collider, is even up and running and I’m trying to fix that, too, trying to stop it from destroying the world. I must be nuts.
I wake with stiff muscles in a hazy chill-pill of a morning. The dream images do a sticky thing, like someone opened my skull and poured maple syrup in, drowning the waffles of my thought. Hmm… must be hungry.
Dreams, go figure. Denby says they’re where you act out your hidden desires. But I keep telling her I don’t have any. That’s the point, I act them all out. Life’s what I want it to be. I’m exactly who I want to be.
I sit up on my cozy park bench, stretch, and yawn like a good homeless person. In the dream the bed’s comfier—I’ll give it that. Even better than the one I had before I left the suburbs. Comfort. That’s how they trap you in those ant-skyscrapers and McMansions. The park I slept in is in a better part of Rivendale, so I bum change until I have enough for a decent coffee, then drink it nice and slow. Now that’s dreamy!
It’s late afternoon by the time I saunter Ratward. The building, a two-story card-shaped rectangle, sits on a steep hill in exactly the kind of neighborhood you’d expect: old, worn, abandoned, iffy. Like you shouldn’t be here if you scare easy, or maybe you should if you like a little challenge. I hear it got even bigger after a lawsuit shut the collider permanently. There’s only one other business, a greasy spoon across the street. The Rat’s the draw, pulling disaffected suburban kids from three counties. Kids just like me, before Mom died and I went off-grid.
With Alek’s hearse-black SUV nowhere in sight, I figure I’m in the clear and head on in. And I am totally wrong. I practically bump into the big leathery lug.
“Alek! Been a whole month?”
He looks like he waited all night for me and isn’t happy about it. But, if everything’s a game, so’s Alek. The rules for Alek are (1) Keep things light, (2) Keep things moving, (3) Keep your eyes on the nearest exit.
Mine’s the door right behind me, but Alek shifts, blocking it. Good move. There’s also the side door to an alley, and the rear door to the kitchen. The only way out through the kitchen is into the basement, then through an old storm door. But the basement’s where that big momma rat lives, right by that door. Yeah, even though I started the rumor, she freaks me out a little, too. More than Alek does, anyway.
“Guess. What. I. Want. Wade,” Alek says in his thick voice. Like it’s a riddle.
“A sense of purpose?”
He points a meaty finger at the rear exit and says, “Alley. Now.”
I gesture for him to go first. If he buys it, I’ll just bolt out the front and maybe stay in the park a few days straight like I did last month. Between drug deals and nightclubbing, Alek rarely visits. I’m not worth the effort. Or so I thought.
“No. You. First.”
Hm. There’s something different going on. He’s talking one word at a time, like he’s trying to remember what he was told to say. Loan-shark lessons from Daddy? Bad. Alek’s dumb and lovable. Daddy’s Russian mob.
Why borrow from such risky quarters in the first place? It was fun! All I did was ask, and he pulled out a wad of bills, flipped off two, and handed ’em over. I spent most of it on candy. Still got a crate of Crunch bars somewhere. Denby was furious, but even she figured Alek for a big teddy bear. She wants me to pay him back because it’s the “right” thing to do. Plus, she’s worried his dad beats him when he screws up.
I suss the possibilities as poor abused Alek and I enter the alley, our official no-man’s-land. It’s where the elite meet to smoke joints, swap spit, beat each other up, or whatev. Not Po’s property, not Po’s business. The only cop who comes within a ten-mile radius of this neighborhood is another bit of local myth: Officer Smelser, and he’s in cahoots with Klot, a psycho drug dealer. Klot’s supposedly a frustrated artist. I don’t know what medium he worked in, but these days it’s the art of terror. Just mentioning their monikers puts fear into the hearts of everyone, everyone except me. Po says it’s only because I’ve never met them, which gives me an idea.
I nudge Alek, point at nothing, and shout, “Oh, no! It’s Klot!’
Ha! Alek nearly jumps out of his skin. What little color he has drains from his Slavic face. He looks around like a car’s about to hit him.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Just kidding, man.”
He glares. “Don’t.”
He’s pissed, but it served its purpose. We both know Alek’s no Klot, and it’s always nice to have a little humility in the air.
It’s still afternoon, but here in the shadows of two buildings, it may as well be dusk. I realize why I didn’t see Alek’s car. It’s parked here, blocking off the head of the alley. More advice from Dad?
Turns out we’re not alone. Brosius, a real stoner, leans against a sticky brick wall like he’s holding it up. He always looks like he’s focusing on some mountain range just out of sight. No point in saying hello. Don’t think he understands the word anymore. Alek, still pissed because I mentioned Klot, grabs Brosius by the shoulders and shoves him toward the head of the alley.
“Move.”
Bro, stick of a guy, stumbles forward like a floppy marionette, muttering “Oh, wow” over and over. He heads out, leaving his pot-haze hanging in the air. I stand in it and inhale deeply, hoping for a contact high. Not that I envy Bro’s otherworldliness, but I can always use some stray thoughts.
When Bro reaches the SUV he stares at it for a while, like he can’t figure out how to get around. It’s wedged in pretty tight. Finally, he shrugs, opens one door, climbs in, and gets out the driver’s side. Sometimes the only way around things is through them.
Alek rolls his eyes, then steps up close, showing me his height, his strength, his dull eyes.
“One. Thousand. Dollars. Now.”
A grand? Geez. High interest rate. But things are not so bleak. I just move to the Advanced Rules for playing Alek. When he thinks, he does it slowly. If I talk fast, time it right, give him something to do, it’s like his brain can’t keep up. It’ll start to confuse what I’m saying with its own thoughts.
“Alek, you got a pen?”
He pulls out a Bic. I slip it into my pocket. See how I did that?
“Been. Ten. Weeks.”
I put two fingers against my lips and nod toward a crumpled pack jutting from his duster pocket. “Can I bum one? A cigarette?”
He pulls out the pack. “No. More. Time. Tonight.”
I nod vigorously. “Light?”
He hands me a yellow disposable lighter, also a Bic. “Nothing. Personal.”
I light up, puff, pocket the lighter, and wonder if he’d give me his watch. Wait. Better idea.
“Hey, Alek, got another hundred I can borrow?”
He almost does it. His hand moves toward his wallet, but then he stops, bundles up a fistful of my T-shirt in his hand, and pulls me toward his face.
The next sentence is his own: “You think I’m an idiot, Wade?”
“You? No. No way.” But, yeah, sure I do. I do think he’s an idiot. Big and stupid as they come. I mean, who has the pen, the lighter, and the cigarette, me or him?
“I need that money. I did something that really pissed off my father, okay? If I don’t make up for it by tomorrow, he takes the car keys. I need that money to help make up for it.”
Bingo. The last puzzle piece. Alek’s life is nothing without the wheels.
“What’d you do? Forget to take out the recycling?”
He pulls me closer, his hamburger breath dispersing the pot smell in the air.
“You don’t want to know. I need the money tonight.”
“Okay, but really, man, what’d you do?”
He tightens his grip. Whatever it was, it’s not as easy to get out of him as a pen or a lighter.
“Got it,” I say. He lets go, leaving behind a rumple the size of his fist’s inside. He pats it down. I’m about to ask to borrow his jacket, but don’t get a chance, because he slams his big fist up into my diaphragm.
“Just. To. Make. Sure. We’re. On. The. Same. Page.”
Daddy again. Alek’s not a hitter. He was even holding back. I crumple against the wall just to make him feel better.
“Hey, Alek?” I moan. “Got that extra hundred?”
He pulls a single bill from his wallet and tosses it. It flutters, lands at my feet, touches my sneaker. I think, like Bro, “Oh, wow.” I could probably get him to jump off a cliff.
“Tonight.”
“No problemo.”
Like they say, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Alek steps aside. I snatch the cash, pretend to give my body and my self a moment to get reacquainted, then head back in. What did he do to get Daddy so pissed? Ah, screw it.
No need to pretend to hurt anymore, so I straighten. The crowd’s picked up in my absence. Having customers to deal with doesn’t keep Po, who apparently watched me leave with Alek, from telling me how wrong I am. “Going to get yourself killed this time, Clown-boy.”
“Po, man, I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” he says. His laugh sounds like a small animal wheezing. “One day you’re going to wake up in a motel with a kidney missing, just like my uncle!”
Right. He loves to tell me about his stupid kidney-free uncle.
Denby’s not here. Good. She works after school doing data entry to pay her rent. Left home a few months ago, after a big fight with her folks over, well, me. That’s when all her commitment thinking started. She keeps inviting me to her place, but I won’t go. It’d be like a first step toward a real relationship. Hell, I didn’t ask her to leave home.
And right now it’s easier to move without her sense of right and wrong, easier to feel my way through the ether, easier to just ask, without judgment, “Oh where, oh where could a thousand bucks be?”
There. Good old Ant is playing pennies-on-the-elbow. The pile in front of him is even bigger than before. It’s at least a thou.
I saunter up. “Gambling again, Ant-man?”
He smiles widely, unable to hide the fact that he’s happy I’m paying attention to him. “It’s a living, Clown-boy.”
I want to grunt. I generally only allow Po and Denby to use that nickname, and then only when they’re mad at me. But I want him to keep smiling.
“Want to try?” he says, antennae wiggling.
Hm. I was just going to ask him for the money, but winning it could be more fun. It’s a weird game, the penny-elbow thing, but I’ve seen them do it often enough.
I grab a copper with my left hand and bend my right arm so the elbow’s up and my wrist is near my ear. It’s almost like a yoga position. Then, with my left hand I carefully place the penny flat on my right elbow. Now all I have to do is move my right hand forward fast enough to catch the penny while it’s in midair. I do—snap—only I don’t.
The penny hits the floor where the light doesn’t go.
Ant loves it! Finally, something he can do that I can’t.
“Slow down,” he says.
I balance, slow. I wait, slow. I snatch, slow. Thud. Falls just as fast.
“No, no,” Ant says. “Watch. Imagine yourself catching the penny, then do it.”
I’ve never seen him so focused. He’d probably be a doctor or a lawyer or a computer geek if his brain let him stay on the same subject for more than a minute.
Snap! One second the penny’s on his elbow, the next it’s not, like a magician palming a card. Where’d it go? Did it… disappear? Ant unrolls his fingers, revealing the penny in the center of his palm. I whistle.
“Ant-man, what’s the most you’ve ever caught at one time?”
He shrugs. “Nineteen. Twenty, once.”
“Twenty, ha! No one saw that except you,” a sniggering penny-snapping pal says.
“Fine. Nineteen,” Ant says, vaguely deflated.
“Now, now,” I say. “He is an Ant of honor. He says twenty, it was twenty. But the thing is, Ant, would you give me ten-to-one odds if I did twenty-one?”
He blinks for a second, not sure he heard me right, then his antennae set to shivering. “Geez, Wade, I’d give you twenty to one!”
He laughs. I laugh. His friends laugh. We’re all laughing our asses off.
I put the hundred down on the table.
“Ten to one’s good enough.”
“Oooo!” say his pals.
Ant twitches and stares. “Wade, this is my game. Don’t throw your money away.”
One of his friends pats me on the shoulder. “I think he’s challenging you.”
“Then it’s a hundred easy bucks for you, Ant-man. Unless I win.”
I’m not hustling him. I really did miss twice. I’ve never caught a single thing off my elbow. I’m just counting on Trickster to side with me because, well, because it would be funny.
Ant looks at my money. “No. Forget it. I’m saving you from yourself.”
I push it. “What are you, a penny-wimp? Wussy?” I tap him on the shoulder. “Pound-wise and penny-foolish? Penny saved is a penny earned? Penny for your thoughts?” I tap him harder and harder, trying to get those antennae to move. I’m not making any sense, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s snickering at him. He’s totally embarrassed, almost beet red, and he doesn’t even know why.
“Fine!” he shouts, swatting my hand away. “Your funeral, Clown-boy!”
He counts his money, then realizes he knows exactly how much he has. He pulls a twenty off the top, then pushes the rest toward me.
“When you gotta go, you gotta go, Ant-man.”
He grabs some pennies, counts, and stacks. I eye the little tower and say, “Drumroll, please.”
The gang at the table pounds with fists and fingers on what ever’s handy—didididididididididididididididididi. Soon, the whole Rat joins in.
I pull up my sleeve. I narrow my eyes. With great ceremony, I lift the stack. I practically hear Ant thinking, “He can’t do it… Can he? Nah… Can he?”
The drumroll gets faster, louder. The Rat-people add eerie hums and cymbal crashes. You can’t pay for incidental music like this. I’d better get this over with fast before someone starts playing air guitar and I feel like busting a move.
I put the stack on my elbow and remove my fingers. The second I do, I realize there’s no way that penny-pile will stay balanced for more than half a second. Uh-oh. The tiny tower already flops, ready to fall like a house of cards when I… snap!
The drumroll stops. And?
The pennies are snug in my palm. Twenty of them. One, just one, separated. But I haven’t dropped it yet. It’s wedged between my fourth finger and pinky, threatening to slip out. I pivot my wrist. It stays.
“Hail, Trickster!”
The Rat cheers! There are thundering claps and stunning air-guitar riffs. They like this better than my songs. Ant-man? He looks like I ran over his mom. Well, he’s old enough to make his own decisions. Game over.
I snatch the bills and turn to my adoring Rat. “I’m here every night through Tuesday!”
I head back to the alley. Alek’s there, talking on his cell, probably about that thing I don’t want to know about. Whatev.
“Calm down, I’m not scared. My dad won’t let me bring it myself, Sergei. I’ll get you the money, but why can’t you meet me? Wait, got an idea. A messenger okay?”
“Al?” I say. He looks up like he doesn’t remember me until I hold out the wad of bills.
I put a hundred in his hand. “That’s what you just gave me.” I count. “Here’s another nine hundred dollars. That makes a thousand. So we’re square, right? All paid up?”
He looks at the pile. For a second I think he may figure out I’m only paying a thousand when I owe him eleven hundred. But he doesn’t. He just grins, says, “All even,” and goes back to his call. I pocket the extra hundred and head back inside, free as a bird.
Ant-man’s gone. Probably licking his wounds but, geez, you’d think he could shake it off. Any gambler knows you win some, you lose some. It probably just stings a little more because it was me.
Po eyes me from the bar. “Trickster. Ha. You think you’re a cartoon, like Bugs Bunny or SpongeBob. You think Trickster loves you like a brother, but sooner or later he’s going to do to you exactly what you do to everyone else—take you apart, piece by piece.”
He shows me his back, makes a motion like a knife slashing against the skin of his lower abdomen, where I guess the kidney is. “Just like my uncle.”