by Hank Green
* * *
—
As months passed after the Carls disappeared (that’s how everyone thought about it, though for us, of course, it was also the time since April died), I kept feeling more and more like my time with April, Andy, Maya, and Robin was some kind of other life that I hadn’t really belonged in. My brain did a fairly good job of convincing me that I wasn’t actually an important part of the group. This is just impostor syndrome, of course, and I know it is, but that didn’t stop me from believing it. I mean, I built the Som. I know I did that. I also know that very little of the code was mine, and there were way too many people working on that project for anyone to claim credit. And my brain also told me that being basically a high-level employee did not mean those people were actually my friends. They were obviously too cool for that, and if I looked back, there were plenty of examples of them (by which I mostly mean April) not treating me super well.
Yeah, I knew a lot about things that April and Maya and Andy didn’t know about, but they knew things about themselves and about culture. I can tell you all about how valence electrons affect conductivity, but I didn’t even know I was queer until I hooked up with April. I didn’t even know I was queer after I hooked up with April. I thought maybe it was just that she was famous and cool and I wasn’t really sexually attracted to her, just to who she was. April and Maya had known so much about themselves and about how to imagine the world. This is maybe going to sound gross, but I was envious of them, and mad at myself for not spending more time trying to figure out who I was. I’d just gone with what I looked like and what people expected, and assumed that since I was attracted to guys I was straight. How could a person unfamiliar with her own sexual orientation possibly be cool enough to be in April May’s inner circle?
I’m trying to show you how good my brain was at convincing me that I never belonged where I was. These are the lies our brains tell us to push happiness out of our reach. What is the evolutionary purpose of that? Is happiness stagnation? Maybe. Maybe life (all life, not just human life) is nothing more than wanting something and being able to go for it. What is life with no want? Satisfaction sounds lovely, but evolutionarily it was apparently selected against.
What I’m trying to say is that the more time that passed, the weirder I felt about initiating contact between me and any of the group. Maya’s text to me from a dressing room at Cowtown had felt like a gift, a mystery, and a cosmic mistake all at the same time.
I never stopped feeling like being the first to send a text would be intruding upon the real main characters of the story. Even right now as I write this I feel like they just invited me to tell my part of the story because they wanted to be nice to me. Which is ludicrous because the things that happened to me over these months were both intense and absurd. It’s a great story! It’s just the rut my mind gets stuck in.
God, I talk too much, I’m sorry.
The point is that, before I sent off my application, I felt like I needed to talk to someone, but I didn’t know who to call, and I felt really weird about it. Finally, after pacing in my apartment, I called Andy.
“Miranda,” he answered. He didn’t sound right. It was almost like he was resigned, definitely stressed. Like he had begrudgingly accepted the reality that I was calling him on the phone.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, yes. I’m sorry, I’m great. I just got offstage, so I’m a little amped. It’s good to hear your voice.” The weirdness was gone, or he was just hiding it better, but his voice still sounded echoey.
“Thanks, you too. Where are you?” He was always somewhere.
“Cannes. Just finished giving a talk at a fancy thing for rich people. Uh. Hey, I went on a date.”
“What?” This conversation wasn’t going how I’d planned.
“I like her, she’s really nice. I wanted to tell you that before it got weird. I don’t know why it would be weird. But I guess I just made it weird all by myself, didn’t I. It’s not serious or anything, she’s just someone I met . . .” He left that trailing off like he was maybe going to tell me more but then decided not to.
Andy and I had never done . . . stuff, but I had been interested at one point, and I think he had been as well. I don’t know if those points had ever overlapped, but if they did, or if they still were, I didn’t know how to tell.
“That’s great, what’s her name?”
“Becky, but she goes by Bex, like with an x.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“She is much cooler than me,” he explained.
“That’s not that hard.” We chuckled together, and I felt like I was at least doing a good job of pretending like we were equals.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“Well, this is going to sound weird after your report, but, like, I have not been on any dates. Instead I am seriously considering applying for a job at Peter Petrawicki’s new laboratory, which I believe is building brain-machine interfaces that are several generations beyond what has currently been built. I want to go work there so I can find out what they’re doing.”
“And what will you do once you find out what they’re doing?”
He seemed so confident. A lot of new responsibility came at him after April disappeared, and he seemed to be handling it really well. But that meant he was a little less fun now, and more earnest. I think a lot of times, people become who we need them to be. I wasn’t like that, but Andy was.
“I don’t know,” I said, a little flustered. “I guess that depends on what it is! It could be anything. I just want to have an eye on that dude. Also, it’s what I’m researching here . . . kinda . . . and it’s a really big deal. Part of me actually wants to be involved.”
Andy was quiet for a long time and then finally responded.
“You have to be very careful. This is almost certainly industrial espionage that you’re talking about here.”
“Why do you think I called instead of texting? Fewer records.”
“Fuck, Miranda, how long have you been thinking about this?”
“A while. I’m scared, though. I think I called you to talk me out of it.”
He laughed then.
“Well, maybe in spite of my better judgment, I’m not going to do that. You have to go.”
“Why?”
“I can’t—” he stammered. “I mean . . . I don’t know. It’s just a gut feeling. This isn’t over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something strange is happening. I think it might have something to do with April.”
He said it fast, like he wanted to get it out before he stopped himself. I did not respond quickly.
“Andy . . .”
“It’s not just that either. I think the Carls leaving, I think that wasn’t the end. I think it was the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“I don’t know, but if you think Peter is working on something big, I think we need to know about it. I think you need to go.”
I hit send on the application.
“Well, I guess we’ll see how that goes.”
It did not go how I expected.
Andy Skampt
January 5 at 2:30 P.M.
I wanted today to only be a day of good feelings and it was. It was until I was woken up with the news. I’m pulled in two directions right now. The first is that I do truly believe that human cruelty is the exception, not the norm. This is so important to remember.
But the other is that these things are happening more and more. Yes, each one is just one person, and no, their actions never make sense. But this is part of a broader trend in disconnection. It almost never ends this way, but almost never is becoming more and more common. We are disconnected from each other, and we are losing all our old ways of feeling like we matter. That tears people up inside. Usually, they act inwardly, but sometimes th
ey lash out and hurt the people who are close to them. Even less often, they hurt strangers.
Does it help to know that? Maybe not. Maybe it only helps to know that we are all part of something great. And that’s the danger of acts like this. Not only is it, in part, a symptom of a loss of faith in the human story, but it also perpetuates that loss of faith. I haven’t lost it, though. In response to this, please share a story that keeps your faith in people strong. I have thousands, but I want to hear yours.
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MAYA
After I was reasonably sure that I didn’t look like a complete, crumbling mess, I left the dressing room. The kind woman from the booth came over as I exited.
“Honey, are you OK?”
“Yes,” I said, barely making eye contact. “Do you know where the nearest ATM is?”
“Sure, it’s out by the cow.”
“The cow?”
“The big red cow? Outside?” she replied, like it was obvious.
“Oh, of course, the cow.”
I went and got as much money as I could get out of the ATM: $600, $200 at a time. And then I went back to the vintage-dress place.
“This is very weird, and a lot to ask,” I said when I got there, “but there is a vendor that is selling something I would like to buy, but he does not want to sell it to me.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like Cowtown. The whole point is that everything is for sale. If it isn’t here, you don’t need it!”
“I don’t think it’s a matter of the thing, more a matter of . . .” I trailed off, looking down, half playing it up, half still really feeling it.
“Are you saying . . . ?” she whispered.
“Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this—”
“Who was it? Al Johnson, I’ll bet,” she interrupted in a whisper.
“It was the guy selling the crystals and fossils, just a few tables down.”
“Hmm, I honestly have no idea who he is. It’s a big market,” she said at full volume.
“So, what I was wondering is if you could go and buy all of the smooth white things he has. They’re really pretty, like opals or pearls, but light like plastic. Also, if maybe you could ask him where he got them and play it up like they’re really valuable and you’re getting a deal. And if by any chance you could get his name and the name of his business . . .”
She looked skeptical. “Why would I pretend like they’re valuable? That’s just gonna bring up the price.”
I took out a wad of twenties and said, “I don’t know if they’re valuable, I just want him to think they are. There’s six hundred dollars here, keep whatever you don’t spend.”
She looked at me like I was a little nuts, which, fair, but she took the money.
“Well, I don’t see how this hurts anybody,” she said. “And you’ll watch the shop while I’m gone?”
“You’ll only be thirty feet away, and I’m not going to think you’re racist if you take your cashbox with you. I’ll think you’re a prudent businesswoman.” That was true—for all she knew this could be some kind of elaborate scam.
“Oh!” I said. “And once you buy them, tell him you’ll buy as many more of them as he can find.”
And that’s all it took. She was off.
Less than ten minutes later, she was back.
“I got them all. He wanted to keep one of them, but I upped the price until I got all four.” She handed me the bag. “I had to fight every instinct to not bargain more, but I think he thinks they’re something special. But I got them for a hundred and eighty, so I can’t keep all your money.” She started to pull some cash out of her pocket.
“No . . .” I realized I didn’t know her name.
“Clara,” she said kindly.
“Clara, I’m Maya. I don’t know how to explain it to you, but what you did for me today was worth way more than four hundred twenty dollars.” I was smiling—I couldn’t stop. I needed to put my hands on those rocks again.
“That can’t be true, dear.”
“It can be. And it will be extra worth it if you tell me everything you found out from that man.”
“He was perfectly nice to me. We talked some about the market and how business was going. He lives outside Philly and he says he bought these from his brother-in-law and doesn’t know where his brother-in-law got them, but honestly, that’s vendor code for ‘I don’t want to tell you where I got these.’ But when I told him I’d buy as many as he could find, his eyes did light up a little. I chatted him up a bit—he does cable and internet repair for his day job.”
This was not new information to me, but I tried not to show it.
“Did you get his name?”
“Oh, yeah, he gave me his business card, it’s in the bag.”
I opened it up. The rocks were wrapped in tissue paper, and indeed, there was a business card sitting on top of them.
“Just . . . thank you,” I said, giddy with the success. It finally felt like something was happening.
“Thank you, sweetie.” And she winked at me.
I went and got a hot sausage sandwich. I sat down at a picnic table and dumped the stones out. They twinkled up at me like they were alive—like they had plans for me.
Someone sat down at the table, and I scooped the stones back into the paper bag.
“You’re Maya.” I looked up and saw a guy in his thirties with dark, styled hair and Oakley glasses perched on top of his head.
“I am,” I said skeptically.
“I remember you from April’s videos.”
I wasn’t in any of April’s videos, so this was one of the most terrifying things he could have said to me. He knew who I was, and he was lying about how.
I tried to act calm. “Look, I’m just here to eat my hot sausage, then I’m headed home.”
“Did you do some shopping?” he continued, not taking the hint.
“A little.” I started wrapping up my sandwich.
“What did you buy?”
“Just a bracelet,” I lied.
“I’ll buy it from you,” he told me.
“What?”
“The bracelet.”
I was standing now.
He continued, “Five hundred bucks.”
“I don’t know what you think is happening right now, but none of this makes any sense, and I’m going to go.”
“OK! OK!” he rushed. “I’m sorry, this is going different than how I expected.”
“Yeah, well, same,” I said, backing away from him.
“Let me explain!”
For some reason I stopped. It was weird enough that I did want an explanation.
“I do an alternate reality game. It’s called Fish. Do you know what RGs are?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I was roughly familiar with folks who paid a monthly subscription for clues to be dropped into their lives.
“Well, I just got a text from Fish saying that if I found you and got you to give me what you bought at Cowtown that I would advance two levels instantly. So, can I have it?”
“No!” I said.
“A thousand,” he said.
“No, it’s not a price thing. This is just weird and I don’t like it.”
“Ten thousand.” He was taking out his cell phone like he was going to Venmo me ten grand.
“No! And stop asking.”
His frustration was turning to anger now.
“Just let me buy it! It’s a good deal!”
He was at least six inches taller than me, and every step I took back, he moved forward into. His hand reached out for the bag, and adrenaline pumped into my body. I panicked, threw my hot sausage sandwich at his face, and ran back into Cowtown.
I ran through the booths, jumping around and dodging people, not taking tim
e to look behind me until I was halfway through the massive building. When I looked back, the Oakleys guy was nowhere to be seen. I started walking more normally now, afraid people would be suspicious, but I was also winded. Fitness was never my focus.
Another guy locked eyes on me, this guy was middle-aged with his dark hair close cropped where it wasn’t balding.
“Are you Maya?” he asked. I was still catching my breath, so I did not reply, about to start running again.
“Did you buy anything at the market today?” he asked. I took off as fast as I could, which is not particularly fast, but I did not stop until I got to my truck. I hit the push-button starter on the rental and did everything I could not to drive too erratically out of the Cowtown parking lot.
I considered just driving home to Manhattan, but the rocks sitting in their little bag on the passenger seat were whispering to me. Something was happening, and I couldn’t give up now. Plus, as I drove in circles, trying to figure out if someone was following me, I got an idea.
* * *
—
Now a note because it feels necessary:
When we think about the first anniversary of the arrival of the Carls, we mostly think about that shooting. But really, the whole day was a pretty good and normal day until that evening. Yeah, people were mad on the internet. And yes, there were a couple little skirmishes at a parade. But it only takes one person shooting their way into a nightclub to change the story.
We gave everyone in America that power when we decided that basically anyone can buy an assault rifle. I don’t pretend to understand the motivations of these shooters, but ultimately it has to be at least a little bit about power, right? They’ve been convinced that having power is how you measure your worth, and they are sad or angry or, as is so often the case, both, and they see that there’s one way they can definitely change the world. They’ve seen a dozen other guys do the same thing, so why not them?
I hate that I even have to write about it here because, ultimately, billions of people decide every day to be decent and kind, but one person decides to be powerful for a moment and now I have to talk about it or people will be like, “But what about the shooting?”