Godless (2 page)

Look closer now, as we come into the cone of light cast by a streetlamp. Shin is the one with the long fingers wrapped around a spiral-bound, nine-by-twelve-inch sketchbook. He is never without it. I'm the one with fat lips, freckles, and twelve dark hairs growing between my eyebrows. Like I'm half ape. Do you know who Orson Welles is? I look a little like Orson Welles. If you don't know who he is, then, never mind. Just think of me as the big, fat, pouty one.

We met in a computer workshop when we were ten years old. I was the smartest kid there, and Shin was the second smartest. That's according to a formula I devised
based on knowledge of X-Men trivia, Game Boy performance, and the ability to lie with a straight face to the teachers. I was better at lying and X-Men, but Shin could out-game me.

Shin and I collaborated on a comic book that summer. We called it
Void
. It was about a bunch of guys fighting aliens on a planet where all the buildings were intelligent and all the plants had teeth. I drew the people, aliens, and plants. Shin would draw the buildings, machines, and cyborgs. My drawings were always full of drama and action; Shin was into the details.

Inevitably, we became best friends.

There are times, though, when I wish Shin was not who he is. His interest in invertebrates, for instance, can be embarrassing at times.

The day Henry Stagg flattened me beneath the water tower we were hunting snails, or “pods,” as Shin likes to call them. That's short for gastropods, which is what you call slugs and snails if you are a science nerd like Shin. He had built himself a terrarium—he calls it a gastropodarium—and was looking to populate it with an assortment of slimers.

In case you're wondering, the reason we were looking for snails under the water tower (instead of someplace else) was because snails like moisture. It had been a dry summer, and the ground beneath the tower is always moist from the dripping tank. It wasn't really a science project. Shin just said that because he thinks science is sacred. He invokes science as if it were the name
of God. Like it should be sacred to Henry, too.

Everything makes sense once you understand it.

Anyway, I was just glad that we'd run into Henry before we found any snails. That would have been bad. Henry probably would have made Shin eat them. Escargot, sushi style.

The reason I'm going on about Henry Stagg and snails is because that particular incident was a turning point in my life—one of those magic moments where suddenly the way you see the world changes forever. That's the other reason I didn't jump up and pound the crap out of the little monkey: I was busy having a religious experience.

I was flat on my back looking up past Henry at the silver, dripping bottom of the water tower tank, my head still scrambled, when it hit me just how important that tower was to St. Andrew Valley. It was the biggest thing in town. Water from that tower was piped to every home and business for miles around. The water connected all of us. It kept us alive.

That was when I came up with the idea of the water tower being God.

“Water is Life,” I said, staring up at its silver magnificence.

Henry, shaking his head, walked away, saying, “You guys are both whacko.”

A
ND THE
O
CEAN DID NOT KNOW WHERE IT ENDED OR WHERE IT BEGAN, AND SO IT CREATED
T
IME
. A
ND THE
O
CEAN PASSED THROUGH
T
IME
.

2
 

BOCK!

I love to say my last name loud and hard and sharp.

BOCK!

It's a great name. Not great like Washington or Napoleon or Gates, but great in the sense that it is easy to remember and fun to say. Press your lips tight together and let the pressure build up until your throat is about to cramp, then let it fly.

BOCK!

Upon meeting a new supervillain or supermodel, I like to introduce myself as “Bock. J. Bock.”

“Ah!” A tilt of the polished dome, a lumpy nose, cruel, thin lips peeling back from yellow teeth. “Goot eefening, Meestair Bock.”

“Gruelmonger! I thought I recognized your wicked reek.”

“Ha-ha. Most Amusing, Meestair Bock. Would you care for a Spot of our Delectable Grinslovakian Arsenic Brandy? Most Rare; most Deadly.”

“I'll pass, if you don't mind. I am a bit tied up right now.” Handcuffed to a chair.

“No, you muzz stay! We have a fascinating eefening planned for you.”

“Sorry old chap, I really have to get back to my Aston-Martin.” I dislocate several of my knuckles and slowly draw my right hand through the cuffs, disguising the excruciating pain with a sardonic smile.

“Your Aston-Martin? Tut-tut. You delude yourself—”

“—Jason Bock?” I look up, remember where I am, and scramble to my feet. “I'm here,” I say.

The nurse beckons with her clipboard and I follow her out of the waiting room and down the hall.

My mother is convinced that I am suffering from some exotic and possibly terminal disease. At one time she was convinced that it was sleeping sickness, but Dr. Hellman talked her out of that. No tse-tse flies on this continent. Then she decided it had to be mononucleosis, but a blood test disproved that theory. Now she thinks I have something called narcolepsy. All this due to the fact that I love to sleep. I'm like a cat. I could sleep twenty hours a day. But, of course, she won't let me.

Dr. Hellman regards me wearily. “Jason, I understand that you are still having a sleeping problem.”

I shrug. “My mom made the appointment.”

Hellman sighs and looks over my chart. “Yes, I see she called and asked that we test you for narcolepsy.” He smiles. “You are still spending a lot of time in bed?”

“Not more than twelve or thirteen hours a night.”

“I see. Do you ever fall asleep in class?”

“School's out for the summer.”

“Do you ever fall asleep in the middle of the day?”

“Every now and then. Like in the afternoon.”

“Do you ever fall asleep suddenly at inappropriate times? Like while you're eating dinner?”

“No.”

“Have you ever fallen asleep while driving?”

“I don't get my permit till October.”

“I see. Of course.” He looks at me. “What happened to your face?”

I reach up and touch the tender bruise left by Henry Stagg's fist. “I ran into a door.”

“I see. Do you ever fall asleep while you are involved in an activity that interests you?”

“No. Unless I'm reading in bed. Sometimes I fall asleep even when I'm reading a good book.”

“Do you ever fall asleep when you're not in bed?”

“Sometimes I lie down on the couch.”

“Do you think that you have a sleeping disorder?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is your sleeping a problem for you? Does it prevent you from doing things you want to do? Does it affect your schoolwork?”

“Not really.”

Hellman nods and makes a note.

“Jason, I could refer you to the Sleep Disorders Clinic at the university. It would cost you several hundred dollars, perhaps more, which might or might not be covered by your parents' insurance. You would probably have to stay there for a few days or nights while they monitored your sleep activity. Would you be interested in doing that?”

“Not really.”

“The fact is, Jason, I don't think you have a problem.”

“I never thought I did.”

“Perhaps I should talk to your mother again.”

“I guess so.”

My mother's specialty is diagnosing rare diseases in other people. Not that she ever went to medical school. She has this enormous book describing every illness known to man, from nail fungus to cancer of the eyeball. She reads it the way some people read the Bible.

A few months ago my dad hit himself on the thumb with a hammer. Most people would see a swollen thumb requiring an ice pack and a Band-Aid. Mom saw it as an early sign of cerebral palsy. For weeks, she watched his every move, recording any sign of clumsiness. Dad moved through the house like a ballerina on eggs, doing everything he could to prove that he wasn't losing control of his limbs. Finally, to his relief, she lost interest in his case and began to focus on my sleeping habits.

Have I mentioned that my mom's nuts?

Naturally, she zeroes in on my bruised jaw immediately.

“Oh my god, Jason, what
happened
?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a
bruise
on your cheek!”

“I ran into a tree branch.”

“What were you doing running into trees?”

“It was an accident, Mom.”

“Are you feeling all right? What did Dr. Hellman say?”

He says you're a crazy woman, Mom
. I don't really say that. I say, “He says I'm fine.”

“Were you knocked unconscious when you ran into the tree?”

“No. I'm fine. And I don't have narcolepsy either.”

“Oh, dear.” She looks at me, touching her fingers to her lips. “I wonder what it could be?”

S
TILL, THE
O
CEAN WAS ALONE IN
T
IME, AND
T
IME WAS ENDLESS, AND SO THE
O
CEAN DREW IN UPON ITSELF AND BECAME FINITE, A WRITHING BALL OF WATER AND FOAM SURROUNDED BY NOTHINGNESS
. A
ND THE
O
CEAN PASSED THROUGH
T
IME AND
S
PACE
. B
UT THE
O
CEAN WAS STILL ALONE
.

3
 

While my mother is obsessed with
my physical well-being, my father frets over my soul. Every Sunday, without fail, he drags me to mass at the Church of the Good Shepherd. In my opinion, he's a borderline religious fanatic.

A couple of months ago I made the mistake of leaving one of my drawings face-up on my desk. It was a picture of Bustella, the Sirian Goddess of Techno War. Bustella is very busty, and at times her clothing doesn't exactly stay on her body. In fact, in the drawing that my dad saw sitting on my desk, she was wearing nothing but a scabbard for her sword.

Next thing I knew he'd signed me up for Teen Power Outreach, better known as TPO, a weekly brainwashing session for teenagers held every Thursday night in the church basement.

My father believes in brainwashing. He's a lawyer. He thinks you can argue anybody into anything.

The head brainwasher is a car salesman named Allan Anderson, who insists we call him Just Al. Or maybe he meant we should
just
call him
Al
, but the first meeting I went to I called him Just Al and it stuck. Too bad for Just Al.

Just Al likes to start off every meeting with a prayer he made up. It goes something like this: “Dear Lord, Al Anderson here. Just wanted to say thanks for giving me another day here on planet Earth, and for getting every one of these kids here safely. We appreciate it, Lord. You're one heck of a guy.”