For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun (4 page)

8

Mom was pissed about the sewing needle, but we were kids. Kids were messy and destructive, particularly boys, so while she was mad and I got in trouble for it, it wasn’t a big deal. In a few days, the whole thing was forgotten.

Bobby was fine. No puncture, no blood, nothing. He told me he’d felt the needle — jabbing at him over and over as the sewing machine did its work — but that it was more like a nuisance than actual pain. He also said that when he grabbed his hand and ran out, his skin felt hard, but just for a moment. After a few seconds, he couldn’t tell anything had happened at all.

Spring eventually arrived, and so we kept pretty busy. Between soccer, French horn lessons, homework, and school, there wasn’t a lot of time to spend at Bobby Graden’s Informal Skills Improvement Workshop. Plus, I still hung out with Tom and Steve from time to time. I never told them about any of the strange things I could do. I was a nerd with three friends. I wasn’t willing to risk losing two of them by revealing that I was also a circus freak.

I knew Bobby kept working on his physical abilities, but it wasn’t something that interested me. There are only so many ways you can creatively try to hurt yourself without making a scene.

But I started to reconsider one hot day toward the end of May. The school year was nearly over. The bus dropped us off at the usual spot, near Steve’s house, and we decided to take a side trip to the convenience store. We each had a few bucks in our pocket for just such an occasion, so we wanted to get those slushy frozen sugar drinks that kids love because they’re completely lacking in nutritional value or other redeeming qualities. Which, of course, means they’re awesome. It was only a few blocks to the store, so Tom, Steve, and I walked.

As kids do, we were talking, razzing each other, kicking rocks, basically doing anything except paying attention to what was happening around us. So we were surprised when, across the street from the convenience store, just a few feet from where I’d been hit by a car all those months ago, we heard an alarm bell. And yelling.

All of a sudden, Walter Ivory, still doing his best to look the part of lanky, greasy dirtball, came running out of the store, cradling something under one arm like a football. It looked like a plastic bag filled with bottles and other things. Right behind him, the door burst open a second time and Mr. Donaldson, the storeowner we’d known for years, ran out.

Mr. Donaldson had a shotgun pointed at Walter’s back.

“Dammit it, Walter, stop!” Mr. Donaldson worked the action on the shotgun, but Walter kept running. “I know who you are, you’re not getting away with anything. And I’m sure as hell not letting you steal from me, you son of a bitch!” See what I mean? It wasn’t just me who thought that about Walter. It was pretty much universal.

Walter and Mr. Donaldson continued along the two-lane road in the world’s slowest hot-pursuit chase. The scene was actually comical for a moment. But Mr. Donaldson was a lot older than Walter, and it was clear that he’d be outrun soon.

“I mean it — last chance!” Mr. Donaldson yelled, panting.

Without turning back, Walter shouted, “Go to hell!”

Mr. Donaldson stopped. He was furious but exhausted. In an almost reticent way, he steadied the shotgun, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

And Walter Ivory was riddled with pellets from the shotgun blast, knocking him facedown onto the shoulder of the road. The sack flew from his arms, some of the bottles breaking on the ground, spreading beer into the gutter, some rolling away with loud clinking sounds.

“Holy crap!” Steve said. “Mr. Donaldson just freakin’ killed Walter Ivory!”

Walter Ivory, town son of a bitch, was dead on the side of the road.

At least for a few moments.

Then, inexplicably, he dragged himself to his feet. Limping, he started running again, gaining speed as he headed away from the exhausted Mr. Donaldson. Jaws hanging open, we all watched as Walter disappeared over the next hill and was gone.

Mr. Donaldson stood gasping for air. But the sack of unpaid items was still on the ground, so he didn’t chase Walter any farther. He picked up the bag, mindful of the broken glass poking through the plastic like shrapnel, gathered up the remaining bottles, and slowly walked back to his store.

In the distance, sirens began to wail, so we decided we didn’t need slushy drinks after all.

9

Bobby and I were still friends, and to be honest, he was pretty freaking funny. Always cracking jokes about something or other. So it wasn’t like I
hated
hanging out with him. I just wished he’d tone down the more abrasive parts of his personality.

But who’s perfect? So Bobby always wanted me to try to set him on fire or break his neck. So what? Tom was the kind of guy who’d take your allowance money if you left it sitting out, then plop down next to you for two hours playing videogames, thinking nothing of it. And Steve did these insufferable little dances about everything that he liked, thinking he looked cool. Other than Michael Jackson, can you think of any dancing 12-year-old who looks cool? Yeah, me neither.

I envied my friends for having me as a friend — perfect in every way. Humble. Respectful. Brilliant. Ha ha. I told endless lame jokes, usually on rapid repeat, and complained endlessly about every little thing I
didn’t
want to do. So I was a pain in the ass, too.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Walter Ivory got shot, and then stood up and ran off like it was nothing. That was a little odd, right?

A few days went by, and Bobby and I were back at the self-storage building. Bobby was rubbing Izzy’s tummy as the dog flopped on the floor of level four, where we’d found an open, abandoned unit. Ike was sniffing around and peeing on a pile of old magazines and other junk. Should he be peeing indoors? I didn’t know. Did he have any way to get outdoors? Probably, but I wasn’t really sure. In any event, not my dog, not my magazines, not my problem.

I was bored, so I went exploring, a few levels higher.

The building was really big — wide and tall, with eight floors total. I mean, it might be small compared to a New York City skyscraper, or Nova Scotia, or Uranus, or something, but to us kids, it was huge.

From above, the building must have looked like a fat lowercase letter “b.” There was a single hall that ran north to south, the longest part of the building. On the north end, there was a small door for people and a much larger door for the mobile storage pods that got moved in and out. Another door stood at the south end — it was the one Bobby had learned to jimmy open. Off the main hall, two long rows of bays shot to the east, connecting at the end with another short north/south hall.

There was plenty of space to explore, plenty of space to get lost. We were never concerned we’d bump into Mr. Gerald. There was just too much space, too many floors. Even on a single level, it was easy to hide, just by disappearing around a corner or ducking behind something large. But usually, the stairs were our primary getaway. When he was actually out doing work, done with his stories for the day, Mr. Gerald almost never took the stairs. He preferred the noisy industrial-strength elevator, meaning we could always hear him coming. Plus, he worked alone and liked to sing to himself, and he was really bad at singing.

The elevator was pretty cool, in a sci-fi-movie kind of way. It was huge — big enough to carry a storage pod plus the big rolling rig Mr. Gerald used to move them — and not the least bit posh. No carpet, tile, or mirrored panels like at my dad’s office downtown. This was strictly business: thick corrugated metal floor and sides, with two sections of metal grating serving as the gates, like a chain-link fence on steroids. The gates came down from the ceiling and up from the floor, meeting in the middle. On the rare occasion when Bobby and I used the elevator, it felt like we were boarding a spaceship. But usually we left it alone, because you never knew when Mr. Gerald would be moving a pod.

Pods were the latest craze when it came to the storage of unwanted possessions for the well-to-do materialistic pinhead. Big, heavy metal boxes that could be rolled via a cart, delivered to some glutton’s home, filled with crap, and brought back. There were dozens of pods around the building. In fact, there were so many that Mr. Gerald kept a bunch of them on the roof of the building. (In a cleverly economic use of space, the elevator went to every floor, including the roof, allowing all-weather storage up there, too.) Bobby and I got to know a lot of the pods by number and by sight, meaning there were always a couple that we knew how to jimmy. Same thing went for the storage bays, which ranged in size from hall closets to small car garages, but it was harder to get those open. Luckily, people were always moving in or out, or failing to pay the rent and getting tossed. In other words, we always had somebody else’s stuff we could rummage through.

Out of habit, I walked as quietly as possible up the stairs. I was looking for Pod A26, which had a particularly bad lock and was usually filled with interesting things. I’d last seen it on the sixth floor, so that’s where I ended up. Windows were set in the east and west walls on every floor (another economical decision — it meant less need for electric lights), so as I exited the stairwell on the sixth floor, I turned to look out over the town through the dirty glass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move behind a pod down the hall.

Instantly, I retreated through the doorway to the stairwell, then peered nervously back down the hallway.

There, in an open bay on the sixth floor, tucked between two pods, was Walter Ivory.

I started to sweat. I mean, my family didn’t exactly have a great history with Walter, but now he was wanted by the police for attempted robbery. Oh, and he probably should have been dead.

I watched him for a minute or two. He looked to be setting up a little place for himself, shifting things around, reorganizing the space in some way I didn’t understand. But it was clear what I was seeing: a couple of backpacks of gear, a little bedroll, a cooler. All arranged so that a grown man could stretch out on the floor, in the middle of the bay. It wasn’t just for storage anymore.

Walter Ivory was living as a fugitive in Bay 6-13.

I had to tell Bobby.

Quietly, I ran down the stairs, to where Bobby was sitting with the dogs in a ray of sun coming from a side window. “Bobby!” I hissed. “ Come here, and be quiet!”

Bobby looked up from petting Izzy. “What?” he said, too loudly, and I
shushed
him, gesturing silently for him to follow me. Without another word, we both crept to the sixth floor, crouching like we were in a war movie. Kids are always ready to sneak around.

As soon as Bobby saw Walter, he froze, mouth hanging open. We watched as Walter opened the cooler and pulled something out.

“He’s not hurt,” Bobby whispered. I just nodded. I’d told Bobby all about the shooting. I mean, it’s not like I was going to see that and
not
tell everyone about it, right? I practically gave nightly performances. Bobby continued watching, mouth still slack. “Do you have
any idea what this means
?” he asked.

First I smiled, knowingly. Then my smile faded. I gave a moment’s thought, scratching my head. “Um… no?”

Bobby pulled me down to sit beside him, our backs to the wall of the stairwell, so we wouldn’t be seen. “He might be
like us
,” Bobby said.

I blinked. I hadn’t thought of that.

Walter had been shot. But he seemed no worse for wear. And I was pretty sure that if he’d been patched up at Davidson Regional, his next stop would have been the county jail.

But I refused to accept it. First off, I secretly believed that the car accident had something to do with me and Bobby changing, although I didn’t know how. I knew there was still a lot to think about, regarding
why
we changed, what it meant. But I was young enough to just go with the flow. More important, I didn’t
want
to think of myself as being anything like Walter Ivory. I hated him. “No way,” was all I said.

“Then how’d he get shot and then get up and run away?” Bobby asked. For a moment, he looked wistful. “Ah, I wish I’d thought of that, Johnny.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he had on a bulletproof vest under his clothes or something.” I was grasping at straws. “Wait — what? You wish you’d thought of what?”

“Getting
shot
!” Bobby said, a big smile breaking across his face.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re nuts. Besides, we’ve got more important issues: Walter Ivory. He’s wanted by the law. We’ve got to turn him in.” I didn’t say it very convincingly. I wish I had. Maybe Bobby would have agreed.

“No way, I wanna see what he’s doing.” I had to admit, I pretty much wanted to do that, too. Spying? On an adult? In a place we knew like the back of our hand, where we already felt invincible? Hell, yes. Bobby pushed ahead: “Besides, if we turn him in, people will start asking what
we
were doing on the sixth floor of the self-storage building. You want that?”

He had a point. “Okay,” I said, nodding. “But, if he does anything illegal, we’ll have to think of some way to turn him in.” I was still a nerd, in case you forgot.

“Fine,” Bobby replied offhandedly.

Just then Ike and Izzy came racing up the stairs toward us.

“Oh crap,” Bobby said as the dogs ran past us and into the hall toward Walter Ivory. Bobby tried to grab Ike’s collar but missed.

I expected mayhem. Dogs growling and barking, Walter shouting. Maybe he’d get bitten. Maybe he’d hurt one of the dogs. We jumped up and poked our heads around the corner, anticipating the worst.

But Walter didn’t budge. He sat on a large cardboard box, pulling something out of his cooler. When Ike and Izzy got close, he tossed something toward them. Some kind of food. They each snatched up a mouthful. Walter absently waved them away, growling, “Now get outta here!” The dogs obeyed.

“Damn,” Bobby said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Those dogs really suck at their jobs.”