The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Mary. Can you keep a secret?”

  Her icy-blue eyes bore into mine. “Of course.”

  “I’m serious now. I’m asking you as…as my friend.”

  She glances over her shoulder, then steps out of the way as a man dressed like a human block of cheese struggles to fit himself into row 24.

  “Yes, Edger,” she says, her features unusually tense. “You can trust me like a friend.”

  I swallow and then blurt the words before I can overthink it. “I spoke to my dad.”

  Her mouth drops open. “What?”

  “It’s true. And I think he left me something. Wait here.”

  I leave her standing there gaping, and slide into row 25. I sidestep along the seats, counting as I go.

  Eight, nine, ten…

  “Where did this happen?” calls Mary.

  “I found him in the—” I stop and look around. Besides Human Block of Cheese, there are easily fifty people within earshot. “I found him in that one place.”

  “You mean that…” Mary also looks around, then lowers her voice, “…that one place?”

  Seat fourteen—an envelope is beneath it! I carefully slide the envelope out from beneath the seat.

  “What is it?” calls Mary. “Edger, what is it?”

  Human Block of Cheese’s head turns in response to her urgent tone. He cranes his neck around, then heel-toes his feet to the right, turning himself around so the tip of his stupid cheese wedge is pointed at me. His arms are straight out on either side like a dancing Oompa Loompa.

  I hold the envelope up and smile. “Scavenger hunt.”

  Human Block of Cheese frowns.

  “Nothing terrorist-y or anything like that,” I say, forcing a chuckle. “Go Packers!”

  Sparing me one last wordless frown, Human Block of Cheese’s feet begin the slow tiptoe turn around shuffle, his arms bouncing at his sides. I smile and nod, and, once his back is to me, I tear open the envelope with shaking hands. Inside, there’s only a piece of paper. I slide it out, unfold it. The words are in Dad’s handwriting:

  Don’t trust Mary.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “What is it?” asks Mary. “What does it say?”

  I cram the paper back into the envelope.

  “Nothing. It says nothing.”

  I try to get around her, but the space is too narrow, and we’re forced together. Her breasts press into me. Her hands gently cup my elbows. My synapses misfire in a weird and thrilling tangle of pheromones: I’m tasting her toned physique; seeing her lavender shampoo; hearing the moisture in her breath; feeling her crystal blue eyes. I stagger backward.

  “Edger—stop. What is going on with you?”

  I swallow. Clear my throat. She holds her hand out, demanding the packet. I shove it behind my back. Her gaze sharpens.

  Bouncing arms in my peripheral vision give me an excuse to look away. Human Block of Cheese is turning around again. His left arm careens in between us, separating us, and sparing me the ice in her eyes.

  “You should just give her the thing,” he says, his voice shockingly nasal.

  “What?” I ask. “Why?”

  Mary’s head starts bobbing up and down. “Yeah, Edger. Because that’s what friends do. Friends trust each other.”

  Human Block of Cheese also nods. “Friends trust each other, Escher,” he says, for all the world like he knows me, and like the three of us came here together.

  “Okay, first, it’s Ed-jer,” I reply.

  “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’!” blurts Human Block of Cheese, sparing a sheepish smile for Mary. “Teamwork! Scavenger hunts don’t work without teamwork, Escher.”

  Mary smiles back at the Human Block of Cheese. She lowers her chin and gazes up at him flirtatiously.

  “Oh no,” I say, pointing at her. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team,’” she says, her eyes going round. “Escher.”

  “My name is Mainard,” says Human Block of Cheese, shifting so one of his Oompa Loompa hands sticks out in front of Mary. She shies away, staring at the hand for a second only before taking it and shaking. “Mary,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, Mainard.”

  “Oh my God.” I roll my eyes and tuck the envelope into my waistline at the small of my back. “Okay, fine. You can watch the game up here with Mainard, then.”

  Mainard smiles.

  I leap over row 25 and into row 24 and scoot around the first person I come to, making apologies as I go, and pushing to the opposite end of the row, away from Mary.

  “Edger! Edger!” calls Mary.

  “Forget about him,” says Mainard. “Hey. Want some cheese curds?”

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” a voice booms over the PA system. “PLEASE RISE FOR THE NATIONAL ANTHEM!”

  “Edger!” calls Mary. “Edger!”

  The shirtless, hairy-nippled, and body-painted guy in front of me stands, then lifts his enormous tower of nachos out of the way, nearly crashing it into his buddy on the other side and drenching him in hot yellow cheese. “Hey,” he says, then releases a massive belch.

  “Wow,” I reply, fanning beer and nacho molecules away from my face.

  “Hey,” he says again, his tone more annoyed this time as he juts his chin out at the field. “It’s the goddamn national anthem. Have you no dignity?”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  I freeze and turn, awkwardly sandwiched between two slathered-in-face-and-body-paint Chargers fans, one holding the nachos, the other holding a twenty-three-ounce plastic beer cup with foam pouring out over the side, and all three of us facing the field with our hands on our hearts.

  “Oh-oh say can you see-ee…”

  I’m sweating. My brain is racing.

  “By the dawn’s ear-ly li-ight…”

  What was my dad thinking, leaving that note and not the booster? Had he meant to leave it, then spotted me with her, and decided it wasn’t safe?

  “By the twi-light’s last glea-ming…”

  Does he think Mary is the mole? I cast a quick glance around twenty-three-ounce-beer guy. She’s still stuck behind the lovesick block of human cheese.

  “Whose broad stripes and bright stars…”

  Okay, Edge—think, think. Compartmentalize. If Dad is here, he’s not going to let me die. He knows I’m in trouble.

  “And the ro-ckets red gla-are—”

  Dad would want me to find InstaTron Tron. Probably.

  “The bombs bursting in air-rr—”

  Dad would want me to give my life, if it meant changing the world. Wouldn’t he?

  “Gave proo-oof through the ni-ight…”

  I grit my teeth. My back finds its steel. The music washes over me, and my throat swells and my eyeballs are stinging. My left hand, the one that isn’t over my heart, searches for the Z-ring lump in my pocket. The crowd erupts in applause. The guys on my left and right are screaming like maniacs and splitting my eardrums. I wince, frown, and then smile back at them before pushing my way to the end of the row where three short steps lead to the concession area.

  “Edger!”

  I glance over my shoulder. Beer and Nachos are hogging the aisle, holding Mary hostage to the belly-painted manliness working overtime to charm, smiling, talking, winking. Mary veers left, veers right. She’s a prizefighter in a skirt. I frown, suddenly uncertain. Would she kick those guys’ butts to get to me?

  Forget it, Edge. Move! comes a familiar voice from my subconscious.

  Bruce Lee?

  Yes—it’s time to hurry. Tron-Tron just popped up in the Collective Unconscious.

  What? How—?

  He sacked a cow in the locker room.

  Okay. I’m not sure that cleared anything up.

  I scan left and right for the men’s room—there! I make a beeline, not chancing another glance for Mary. Inside, I find the first available stall. I slam the door and lock it. Digging out the ring, I take a deep breath and slip it on.

  The world explodes i
nto a sonic boom of stars and stripes.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Wang ducks behind the postcard rack in the gift shop. Once the two security guards race past, he spins to face Shmuel, who is wearing a pair of Chargers sunglasses, a Chargers ski hat, three Chargers chain necklaces, and four Commemorative Chargers rings on each hand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” snaps Wang.

  “Shopping?”

  “Put all that stuff back!”

  “Imma get me some gold front teeth,” says Shmuel, grinning into the mirror at the top of the sunglasses rack.

  “Dude, we don’t have time for this! Those guys are going after Chicowgo right now!”

  “They are?” Shmuel takes off his shades and puts them back on the rack. “Now? How do you know?”

  “I heard it on their radios. Chicowgo is in the visiting team’s locker room.”

  “Well, that’s right over there.” Shmuel points without looking over his shoulder in the correct direction. Wang bites his lip, then drags Shmuel around to the other side of the sunglasses rack, so they’re obscured from the guard sitting next to the door with the big letters over it that spell: OFF LIMITS. Shmuel pushes Wang’s blocking arm down and peers around the sunglasses rack to where the guard is finishing his lunch from a Cluck-n-Pray bag.

  “Is that…is that one of our brownies?”

  Wang nods.

  “Well, that’s convenient,” says Shmuel, his eyebrows going up. “I mean, the one guard we need to sneak past to get Chicowgo back just happens to be eating one of our Very Special Brownies?”

  Wang turns around to face him. “What’s your point?”

  “Just doesn’t seem very plausible is all I’m saying.”

  “Plausible? Plausible?” Wang frowns. “What are you, a fucking movie critic? Look. Just chat him up for five secs. I’ll slip by, take the elevator down, and get your damn cow back. How’s that sound?”

  “I think it doesn’t sound very plausible?”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s what they said about Donald Trump, and look how that turned out.”

  “Shit, dude. You think the Russians are gonna make the Green Bay locker room great again?”

  Wang’s eyes narrow. “Can you do your part of the job or not?”

  “Chat up the security guard while you get Chicowgo back? Sure. But I don’t think it’s such a good idea to talk politics? I don’t know who he voted for.”

  Wang shoves him toward the security guard. “Big surprise. You don’t know who you voted for either, now get going!”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The soul-stars materialize and surround me. The light is blinding. I’ve got ten minutes. That’s how long the sleep timer on my suit is set for. After that, I’ll wake up and find out whether anyone has beaten down the door of the bathroom stall, or if I’m still safely passed out on the crapper in my costume like a constipated narcoleptic cosplayer at Comic-Con.

  The light thins and stretches and becomes like pale smoke. The outline of a man takes shape. Bruce Lee. He’s in that yellow-and-black tracksuit he wore in Game of Death. He waves the smoke away from his face, blinks and coughs, and then turns a bright smile on me.

  “S’up, Edge,” he says. “Tron-Tron blown up the planet yet?”

  “Not funny,” I reply.

  Bruce Lee gives me a tight smile.

  “Can you help me find him?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He closes his eyes, and the smoke around us thickens. It isn’t the choking, black smoke you get from a bus. This is phantasmal and limitless, like a fog rolling out to sea. It envelops us, dissolving first our arms and legs, then our bodies, necks, and heads. Soon I can only feel Bruce Lee in my mind. We’re formless. The world is gone beneath our feet. My skin feels charged like I’m storing static electricity. I gather more of it, like rubbing wool on my hair except on the inside of my brain. Tiny sparks erupt as errant particles release. Strange and innocuous sensory experiences flash through my mind’s eye.

  The smell of beer.

  The raw-in-the-back-of-your-throat taste of a cold.

  A tongue-sizzling bite of a Spicy Wrath of God Deluxe sandwich.

  The dizzying bite of a marijuana brownie.

  I concentrate. A clearer picture begins to form: the silky material of an official NFL jersey. A name on the back. Montana. But this jersey isn’t worn by Caleb. It’s worn by a fan screaming his lungs out over a call on the field.

  Brain zaps. Releasing energy. Streaking pinpoints of light.

  I’m on the field. I’m wearing a black-and-white-striped shirt, black pants, and a hat. My lower back hurts from a bad night’s sleep. I’m grouchy, and I’m taking it out on Coach Lynn, whose face is distorting like a…a lava lamp.

  The world is a swirl of colors. The pins-and-needles intensity in my head diminishes. The bright fog returns. My hands and arms and body are back. And here’s Bruce Lee in his yellow-and-black tracksuit.

  “What’s happening?” I ask as the fog dissipates completely. Bruce Lee’s eyebrows lower.

  “This is dangerous,” he says. “But I’ve found them. So it doesn’t matter.”

  “If there’s something dangerous, I think it matters,” I reply. “I should know about it.”

  “It’s what you already know. Accessing too much of the Collective Unconscious will overload your brain.”

  “But that was amazing! I mean—it was like I was actually in their bodies! I went into a referee! I was yelling at Coach Lynn!”

  Bruce Lee sighs. “You weren’t yelling at Coach Lynn. The referee was yelling at Coach Lynn.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “But it was like… I was him. It felt like I was him.”

  “This is something you shouldn’t be doing. Your supersuit must have given you this power. Maybe because it’s supposed to have InstaTron Tron programmed into it to safeguard against blowing up your brain. This is out of my wheelhouse, Edge. Maybe Killmaster would know more—”

  “You said you found him,” I cut in. “Did you mean you found InstaTron Tron?”

  “Yes. He’s in a football player. He’s in one of the Packers. Big guy. Has a taste for…grass.” Bruce Lee frowns.

  “Huh. Okay, whatever. Hey, Caleb said Nostradamus might have spies playing for the Packers.”

  “Well, that’s the other problem.”

  “Other problem?” I ask. “What other problem?”

  “The spies. Nostradamus agents. They’re here too. And they’re not playing for the Packers.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I said,” Bruce Lee snaps. “Shut up and listen. InstaTron Tron is in a Green Bay Packer. But Nostradamus spies are converging on the Packers’ locker room. They believe InstaTron Tron is in a cow. But your father is here also, and he is after the cow too.”

  “Cow? As in, Cow Phil Collins?”

  “Will you forget about the cow? Your father is on a collision course with Nostradamus agents.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” I ask. “Wake me up! Wake me up!”

  “I can’t. You’re in the suit. This encounter is being controlled by the suit, not me.”

  My stomach knots in frustration. Dad’s out there right now. He needs me.

  “Listen, Edge. InstaTron Tron isn’t going anywhere. He’s got a football game to play. May I suggest we focus on the Nostradamus agents?”

  “You mean the ones after my dad? Good idea!”

  “Good. Now listen. They have guns.”

  “So what? You’re Bruce Lee. You can handle guns.”

  Bruce Lee rolls his eyes. “Sure. If I had guns. You must think I’m as crazy as the people who designed your supersuit. What were they thinking, not giving you any firearms? Probably watch too many kung fu movies.”

  “Says the king of kung fu movies,” I counter. “Look, I’ve got ninja throwing stars.”

  Bruce Lee rolls his eyes again. “Which would be great if we were living in feudal Japan.” Bruce Lee pause
s. His eyes flit up and left. He strokes his chin. “Hey. Wait a minute.”

  “What?” I ask, sensing a sliver of sunshine cutting through the gloomy psychic outlook he’s been projecting. “What is it?”

  He smiles. “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

  History of the Ninja: Han; Cookie Thief of Destiny, by Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)

  Being the deadliest martial art known to humankind, and a secret society where stealth was valued above all else, the true history of ninjutsu is like a mystery wrapped in an enigma, which is then wrapped in yaki nori, cream cheese, cucumber and carrot slices, and then pressed firmly into a bed of sticky rice and served with a side of wasabi and pickled ginger. No living historian has accurately traced ninjutsu’s origins.

  One theory, put forward by the late German historian Gunther von Gunthervon, has ninjutsu originating in China in the ninth century, and advances some flimflam about dragons, jade chopsticks, fireworks, rickshaws, pagodas, and—because he had a thing for offensive stereotypes—Mickey Rooney, from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  This theory is false.

  Another theory, this one posited by the late Joseph “Jo-Crusty” Pages, has ninjutsu originating in the camps of deserters from the Yamato-Goguryeo War (391-404). In this theory, bested Yamato soldiers hid in the mountains and developed various survival techniques to avoid capture, including whittling bamboo caltrops and shuriken, and drafting on the backs of lotus leaves plans for a superior weapon, the differentially hardened katana blade which wouldn’t be invented for another thousand years.

  This theory is also false.

  The real origin of ninjutsu began with a cunning five-year-old boy.

  The founding father of ninjutsu grew up in a small village near Yamashiro. His name was Han. Like many children in his day, Han possessed an insatiable passion for freshly baked cookies. So did his four brothers and five sisters. Together, they shared a hut with extremely creaky floorboards, a tiny mouse, and a mother possessing the hearing powers of a bionic beagle. On those occasions when the mouse didn’t get the cookies first, Han and his siblings would conspire on how best to work around their mother’s formidable hearing—but never with success. His mother’s aural gifts were too great, and her retribution—a swift kick to the butt—too swift. One by one Han’s siblings gave up, abandoning Han to his lonely obsession. Finally, Han was the only child left with the grit to continue. It was then that Han went solo.