They say everyone sometimes dreams of a monster chasing them, but now one’s caught me. Horribly pleased, he comes closer. Even if I didn’t have his stolen toy, even if he hadn’t cut off HIS pinkie, I’d still be paralyzed. There’s something about him, the size of his head, the way his eyes are different sizes, the way his skin looks fake, that makes him seem as if he were designed to be a machine that generates fear.
Klot brings his giant head so close I have to lean back.
“Blew it again, kid. Officer Smelser, bless him, spent the last hour—the last hour, can you imagine—trying to convince me all I should do is take my car, maybe one more finger, just because you didn’t call like you were supposed to, and go. Isn’t that right, Officer?”
“I did my best,” he says with a shrug.
“Then I’m told you’re the one who took it in the first place, but they could be lying, so I come here to check it out myself, peer down into this crap-hole, and what do I see? You and your friend trying to take my car apart to sell the diamonds! That’s not just a crime against me, that’s a crime against the craftsman who built it. It’s a crime against art. I mean, there must be some law against that, right?”
“Defacing stolen property,” Officer Smelser puts in.
“You don’t understand,” I say. My voice is horribly shaky.
“What? What don’t I understand?” He brings his head still closer, so we’re almost touching. My skull aches, like I’m being drawn into its gravitational pull.
“It was broken. I was fixing it,” I tell him. “The wheel… came off.”
He claps his hands together like a delighted child. “Oh! You were fixing it!”
He leans to my left, puts his off-eyes nearer to the vise. “Ah. Fixing it.” He reaches a finger over and flicks the car’s wheels, one at a time. They all spin. “Bullshit, Clown-boy. You don’t even know how to blow your nose. But that’s not the most troubling aspect of this situation, is it, Officer?”
“No,” Smelser says, “it’s not.”
“We heard you…” Klot raises a finger and jabs it toward his flat ear. “Heard you say you were going to try to trap me for the police. Now that, that’s not just against art, that’s a crime against nature. You know what the punishment is for a crime against nature?”
“A strangelet that devours the Earth?” I think.
Klot smiles. “A game. That’s the punishment, a game. It’s all a game, remember? Everything. Time to play.”
He’s already pinning me against the table, but Smelser steps up and grabs me, too.
“Leave him alone!” Po shouts, but he’s scared and doesn’t sound like he means it.
Klot takes the car out of the vise, pulls out a handkerchief, wraps it gently inside, and lays it in a safe spot on the table. He nods at Smelser. Together they force my right wrist into the vise and tighten it. Cold metal presses my flesh, squeezing the muscle to the bone.
I want to apologize, beg for mercy, but I can’t get the words out.
Klot nods. The vise is finally tight enough for him.
“Clippers?” Smelser asks.
“Nah. Not for a crime against nature. Not good enough.”
Klot looks around. He spies the rusty hacksaw and grabs it.
“Leave him alone,” Po says again. This time he sounds more like he means it. Even Klot and Smelser have to admit maybe he does, because Po has his little gun pointed at them.
Smelser steps up, towering over a hunched Po.
“Back off. I’ll kill you,” Po says.
“Really?” Officer Smelser says. “Going to kill a cop, are you? You know what they do to people who kill cops?”
I don’t know what someone willing to shoot somebody looks like, but I don’t think they’d look like Po. He steps back, to keep some distance, and tries to put in a good word for me: “He’s a stupid clown. Don’t mean nothing.”
“I know,” Klot says. “He’ll live. I just want to give him a lesson.”
Po shifts, like he’s cornered. “He’s a guitar player. He needs his hand.”
Klot shrugs. “A foot then, okay? We’ll take a foot.” Klot nods at Po, like, “That’s okay with you, right? That’s fair. I mean, we’ve got to cut something off, yes?”
My anxiety’s finally infiltrated HIS body and taken command. I feel dizzy.
Smelser chimes in. “They can even sew it back on, like his pinkie. What do you say? Put it down or you’ll both get killed.”
Po shivers, shakes, then makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He lowers his little gun. “Just his foot.”
Smelser grabs Po’s gun. In the movies they’re usually gentle about things like that, afraid the gun may go off by accident. Smelser just yanks it away. Po slouches back into the wall, like a sack of dirt.
“Now,” Klot says, turning back to me, “where were we?”
He lowers the hacksaw against my wrist. Could’ve seen that one coming. Po screams and rises. Smelser puts the gun on the table, then shoves him back against the wall, hard.
“Oh? Is this not his foot?” Klot says. “Too bad.”
He tilts his planetlike head and grins at me, as if he’s a magician about to do a really great trick and he’s being nice enough to warn me that I should watch this next part very carefully, to keep him honest.
He presses the blade against my flesh. My flesh. My fear. So I do something HE would never do, something totally beyond HIS smug self-assurance, something I’m much, much better at, even better than I am at soldering.
I faint.
There isn’t much of a to-do about it. My eyelids flicker and I go down. The weight of my crumpling body pulls the vise free from the bench. I hit the floor with my knees, then go forward on my face. Thud.
My nose may be broken. Hard to tell. The only thing I see is the cool grayness of concrete. A dank, musty smell fills my nostrils, but feels dim and far away.
I hear Klot sigh. “That’s no good. I want him to watch.”
Po howls. I hear a struggle.
Klot tsks. “Hold the old idiot. I’ll do this part myself.”
The dark floor goes pitch-black as Klot stands over me. The airy sound of the basement muffles as he kneels. I feel his hands grab my shoulders and turn me roughly over. I see him, the monster, hazily through the slits of my eyes. I wonder if he sees me.
“He’s out,” Klot says. He doesn’t. The monster doesn’t see me.
“So shoot him,” Smelser replies, voice strained. Po’s putting up a struggle.
“No!” Klot says. “I know what to do. Take a second.”
His hand vanishes into his pocket, returns with a small glass capsule. He crushes it between his fingers. Smelling salts.
“This’ll bring him around,” Klot says. “Wuss kid, fainting like an old lady.”
He’s right about one thing, I am a wuss. But he’s wrong about something else. I didn’t faint. I pretended. Details, right? No fun for me if you don’t stay awake. Even though I was scared, I faked my collapse to buy some time, hoping Po would grab his gun from the table. But that didn’t work out.
Funny thing, as Klot brings the salts closer, I really do start to faint. My heart jackhammers, the tiny slit of my vision starts to wobble, and that falling sensation takes hold. But as that big, ugly cow head hovers over me, something new happens. Something unexpected. The falling stops.
I still have the fear, but I feel like I’ve landed, hit bottom. I’ve hit the bottom of my fear, and I’m still here, still in charge of myself. Is this what letting go is like? Or is it just that the longer I stay in HIS body, the more like HIM I become? Whatever. Something in me says screw it, screw it to the remaining fear, screw it to the consequences, and I obey.
The metal vise is still clamped around my wrist, so I pull my right arm back and whack Klot in the head as hard as I can with it. It’s not as if anyone could miss a target like that. It feels like I’m smacking a side of beef with a sledgehammer.
His head shivers and lopes sideways. My right wrist feels cut as the vise slides off, but I’m not done yet. It’s as though I’ve spent so much time listening to the “flight” half of my fight-or-flight instinct, that the “fight” half is dying to prove itself.
I’m still lying on the floor, but while he’s staggering, I pull my knees up, roll my back, and slam my heels into his nose. Klot flies up and backward, led by his skull. It’s a short trip. The edge of the table is closer than it looks, because even before I fully stretch my legs, the back of his head hits it hard. This give me an extra second to kick his head into the table again. And again.
Klot sways, head lolling to the side. The rest of him follows it to the ground.
“Son of a bitch!” he growls dizzily. “Get him!”
Before I can stand, Smelser’s on me, holding my wrists with his hands, squeezing the wounded one, shoving his knee into my gut. His badge is right up in my face, glowing silver in the light of the bulb, filling my field of vision, reminding me that, damn it, this man is a police officer, he’s supposed to protect people, this man is…
Wait. Wait a minute. I don’t believe it. It is all about the details.
By this time Po has his gun back. “Get up! Get off him!” he says.
Klot is still on the floor, grabbing his huge head with two hands.
Smelser rises, hands up. He’s panting from our struggle, but his posture remains perfect. He should have been a dancer.
Po looks shaky. “Look, just let us get out of here, okay?”
“We can talk about that,” Smelser says. “But why don’t you lower that thing? Don’t want to shoot a cop, right?”
“No,” I say to Po. “Go ahead. Shoot him.”
“Eh?” Po says.
I stand, staggering, nervous, but clearheaded. “His badge. It’s fake.”
For a second, Smelser looks shocked, worried, but he buries it under a practiced mask. “You’re hallucinating, kid.”
“Po, look. The number on it is 007. 007? Think he’s really James Bond? He’s a jerk in a costume. Ask him for some ID.”
Po’s eyes narrow. “Officer” Smelser’s terrified look returns, this time to stay. He tries one last lie, but you can tell even he doesn’t think it’ll work.
“Kid, you don’t know what—”
There’s a sound like a firecracker pop, and a rush in the air. Po fired the gun. Almost hit Smelser.
“Get out of here, now!”
Smelser stumbles backward, hands up.
Then Klot rises and straightens his bruised head. He’s nowhere near ready to surrender, even if Smelser is. Klot holds his ground, showing that furious monster-gleam in his oddball eyes.
“Give me a break, little man. You’re not gonna—”
Klot’s shoulder flies back like it’s been hit by a wrecking ball. The hole in his coat is neat and round. The blood that gathers beneath it, staining the fabric, is not.
Realizing his partner’s been shot, Smelser runs for the deep pile of cardboard blocking the concrete stairs. Klot wavers, glances at the blood like it belongs to someone else. For a second I worry he’ll go after Po, wound and all. Instead, not so much the monster now, he pivots to join Smelser. They wade through the fetid cardboard, trying to reach the short staircase to the storm door.
Po fires into the ceiling, bringing down plaster. Smelser, moving even faster, reaches across the last yard of boxes and pushes open the door. The basement floods with sunlight so strong it pushes us all back.
Klot and Smelser look briefly relieved, but when Klot tries to put his foot on the steps, something under the cardboard pulls it back. He screams. He claws at Smelser, trying to use his cohort’s straight back to keep himself from being yanked down. Still screaming—bellowing, really—he yanks twice more before a huge furry blur rises with his leg.
The rat.
Startled by the light, it lets go, revealing huge tears in Klot’s pants and a deep toothy wound above the ankle. The hairy blur disappears into the cardboard as if it were water, then makes two impossibly high leaps. The jumps are so high, the blur so big, it blocks our view of Klot’s head as he and Smelser scramble up the steps.
The rat, its hiding place hopelessly destroyed, scampers after them.
I stand there, shocked and fascinated, until Po pulls at me. Together we make our way through the trash and up into the alley. Klot and Smelser are still running, Klot limping, his wounded shoulder sloping down.
We shake our heads in wonder. Po starts to say something, but doesn’t. He stands there, swaying, staring. For a second I worry he accidentally shot himself. Then I see what he sees. We’re less than two yards from the rat.
Not caring about us, it jumps halfway up a brick wall, then shimmies up and over. Po and I creep to the wall and look down. Far below, there’s a vast junkyard that looks sort of familiar. We see the rat slip among the garbage, a living shadow in the harsh daylight. It passes a huge dog that stops gnawing on a bone to stare at it, too, as if it’s seeing Bigfoot live and up close. Might as well be. The rat’s nearly as big as the dog.
Soon the rat vanishes among the hills of garbage.
“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Po says.
“Got that right,” I tell him.
Po trots into the street and I follow. Klot and Smelser race toward a yellow Hummer. I think it’s all over, but then I remember something Po said.
“They’ve still got Anthony! We have to at least get their license-plate number!”
Po fires a shot into the air above their heads.
“Leave the car,” he tells them. They do. They leave it and run down the street.
“So, go get the license number,” Po tells me. “And see if there are keys.”
Obeying, I walk up and look inside. No keys but, in the backseat, I see what looks like a pile of clothing, only it’s a pile of clothing with a head of hair and two dreadlocked antlers.
“Anthony!” I scream at Po. “He’s not moving!”
He trots up. “Don’t stand there like an idiot, get him out!”
I tug the handle. Locked.
“I’ll shoot it open,” Po says.
I hold down his gun wrist and say, “No, no, no. I’ve got it. Thanks.”
There’s half a brick lying at the edge of the building. I slam it into the window. The safety glass shatters. The air fills with a bleating car alarm.
I open the door and claw at Anthony. In my rush of concern it’s a little easy to forget how angry I am at him—well, how angry I am at my Anthony. This one looks much the same, a little sloppier maybe, but I even recognize the shirt his mother gave him. He’s bound, gagged, and blindfolded, but alive, shivering because he still can’t see who I am. For all he knows, I’m Klot. I take the blindfold off first, untie him, and pull him out.
He staggers to his feet, breathing heavily. Putting aside everything he did to me in my world, I put my hand on his shoulder, happy to see him. He does not feel likewise.
“Don’t touch me,” he says.
What? He’s mad at me? About what? The things HE said to Klot? What could it have been? Before I can ask, Anthony hobbles off. It’s just as well. How would I have explained?
I look at Po, helpless. He grunts and catches up with Anthony. They talk. Po hands him some cash, then comes back to me.
“Boy, he’s pissed at you,” Po says.
“I figured. Will he be okay?”
Po shrugs. “Gave him cab fare. He wants to go home, show his mother he’s alive, then call the real police. Sounds like a plan to me.”
We head inside. After calling a cab for Anthony, Po actually calls his own mother, just to tell her he’s alive. He’s kind of likable, in a way.
Then he calls the Rivendale police. I understand what he’s saying to them, since we just went through it together, but he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I take the phone and give it a try. The first thing I talk about isn’t Klot or Officer Smelser, it’s the fact that I have a diamond-studded Hot Wheels car. Someone must be looking for it, right?
Twenty minutes later, a squad car shows. Two clean-cut, polite, professional, and, happily, authentic officers emerge. Once they see the shiny little diamond-car, they’re more than eager to hear all about Klot and “Officer” Smelser. Especially Smelser. They take copious notes. Ask many questions.
“We don’t like it when someone impersonates an officer. It’s bad for everyone.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, holding up my pinkie.
“You willing to testify?”
I hesitate, not because I don’t want to, I’d love it, but I’m not sure what HE would say. If we switch back, it’ll be HIS problem, not mine. But Po elbows me sharply, so I agree. It is the right thing to do.
Before they’re done, they get a call about someone with a huge head showing up at the clinic with a gunshot wound and a rat bite. Apparently he’s being treated for rabies. I hear rabies injections are pretty painful. No sign of Smelser yet, but his fake uniform was found, and the police seem pissed enough to find him.
Once they leave, I turn to Po. “Doesn’t anyone around here know who the real cops are?”
He shrugs. “That’s the thing. We don’t get many real cops around here.”
He cooks us a meal (after he agrees to let me wash the dishes and the utensils first—I’m calmer but not crazy), and we talk.
“Think I’m gonna paint a new sign. Put a big ‘no’ symbol through the rat.”
“This place was named after the rat in the basement? I figured it was just short for Ratskeller, German for ‘pub.’”
He looks at me like I shot his best friend. “Don’t tell anyone that, all right?”
“Fine,” I say. I also don’t tell him I’m not exactly who he thinks I am, but once I wash the dishes, I think he suspects. After eating, we’re beat, so I head upstairs for a rest. He gives me a new blanket and a pillow.
“So, Po, thanks,” I tell him. He grunts. “I mean for everything.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like good-bye. Going somewhere?”
I shrug. “Don’t think so. ‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’”
He furrows his brow and heads home himself. The place is quieter without him. Hell, I’m quieter. The constant fear is gone. My world might still be in danger but, somehow, knowing for sure I can’t do a damn thing about it helps me… let go.
Upstairs, I find a closet door I remember from my dream. Looking inside, I wonder how HE could live here, even for one night. Then I wonder how many nights I’ll be here. Despite my clever Shakespeare quote, I have no reason to think I won’t see Po tomorrow morning and every morning after that. I was hoping that with HIS problems solved, I’d be heading home, but I could just as easily be trapped here. It’s possible home was the dream and this the only reality. At least Denby’s here. Can’t wait to see her in any world. Anthony I’ve got problems with in both places, but what can you do? Then there’s…
… something I have to do before I go to sleep, something I’m not sure HE’d like. I’m pretty sure HE wouldn’t. Too damn bad. If we switch back, who knows what I’ll find waiting for me? I’ll probably wake up in a jail cell. And, really, it seems like the right thing to do, like testifying. Totally. So I do it.
I head downstairs and make some calls to old family friends. Finding him is easier than I thought, and feels even better. When I’m finally really finished with this screwy day, I pass through the main room, wander by a pile of wood that might pass for a stage, and spot HIS guitar. Mine, actually, same one I had three years ago. I think it’s still in my closet somewhere.
For the hell of it, I snatch it up and try to remember a few chords. I sound terrible. No lie. Really terrible. The pinkie wound doesn’t help. But some lyrics pop into my head, and a half-assed tune. Something I wrote, tried writing, a long time ago, before Mom died. Which maybe means we wrote it. Finding the stub of a pencil and a piece of scrap paper in the kitchen, I scribble down what I remember from all those years ago, change it around a bit.
As HE likes to say, “Whatev.” I shove the pencil and the mess into my pocket.
Exhausted, completely, I head up to the closet mattress and pretend to get comfortable. It’s worse than Schapiro’s couch. Still, it is familiar, downright homey, in a completely awkward way. Head crunched against the wall, finger throbbing, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Depending, of course, on what you mean by “dream.”