Wired Man and Other Freaks of Nature

by Sashi Kaufman

  “You should grow your hair out if it bothers you when people stare,” Tyler said casually one Saturday in the middle of a particularly gruesome Call of Duty battle.

  “What do you mean?” Ben was picturing one of those terrible ponytails his dad’s friend Barry-the-Massage-Therapist had.

  Tyler obliterated two of his best guys and then said, “You know, like a skater haircut, shaggy.”

  “I’m not a skater,” Ben said.

  “Pretty sure no one’s going to check on that. Everyone had them in California.”

  The long hair felt like protective gear—like a helmet of normalcy he could hide under. It wasn’t the first or the last time Ben felt rescued by Tyler.

  Their friendship began in fourth grade when Tyler was the new kid and the only nonwhite kid in their small suburban town twenty miles west of Boston. His mom was from the Philippines, but when he first got to Easton a lot of kids asked him if he liked Chinese food. It got meaner from there, with whispers of “ching-chong” in the halls and when the teacher’s back was turned. Ben wished in the history of their friendship that he had been the one to stand up for Tyler with some grand gesture like beating up one of the kids who picked on him, or at the very least explaining that no one in Tyler’s family was from China. Maybe then their friendship would feel more like one of equals. But really, it had been the other way around. Tyler, who never seemed bothered by what kids said about him, was the one who reached out to him.

  It was a windy, cold day in late November, but they went out for gym class anyway. Ben remembered running the required lap around the baseball field, hanging in the middle of a pack of boys, which is where he always ran. There were a few girls who sprinted ahead, but most of them jogged in the back so they could chat. And there were always a few walkers—kids too out of shape to make it all the way around the outfield. Ben’s strategy was simply to run with the pack and never get noticed for falling behind, or called out for being first.

  Whenever they played kickball, Mr. Colpitts let whichever boy and girl finished the lap first be captains. So the run around the field had a decidedly more competitive edge on those days.

  Tyler was the new kid, coming in midyear, but even so, once he learned about this opportunity he never missed a chance to be captain. Not once. He was kickball captain every single time in the second half of fourth grade and midway through fifth grade, until Mr. Colpitts moved to the middle school and his replacement believed in giving everyone a turn to be captain. Ben remembered how Colpitts had reacted to Tyler’s unflagging determination to win the position. Impressed and then annoyed—“Give other kids a chance sometimes”—and finally, resigned admiration. To his credit, Colpitts never changed the rules.

  On that particular windy day, Tyler picked Ben first. And on every subsequent kickball day, he picked Ben first. By the fourth time that Ben was invited to Tyler’s house, he learned not to be intimidated by the huge white columns or the shiny stone countertops in the kitchen and in every bathroom. So he asked him the question that had been bugging him: “Why do you always pick me first?”

  Tyler shrugged. “Because you’re good,” he answered simply. Ben decided that this answer covered the other question that had been bouncing around in his brain. Why are you friends with me? Tyler thought he was good, either a good person or good at kickball, maybe both. Those were the terms of the friendship according to Tyler. It had been enough to get Ben through middle school and to give him confidence to go out for high school soccer. His friendship with Tyler and his family was the binary star system around which the planet Ben revolved.

  The day of the playoff game against Chelmsford was as windy and cold as that day when Tyler plucked him out of fourth grade obscurity. Ben checked the batteries on his hearing aids and threw in a new set for the game. The idea of having to stop play to make a switch was as horrifying as missing an easy goal. He put on his jersey and his soccer jacket along with a pair of khaki pants—required by Coach for home and away games. He looked in the mirror at his hair, which had never once in the past six years been shorter than his earlobes. He couldn’t do a Mohawk. Tyler was right; goalies were different. That would have to be enough for the team. Being a senior, even a gimpy half-deaf senior, he didn’t think anyone would give him too much shit about it. He blinked several times at his reflection; another one of his long eyelashes had bent in and was driving him crazy. He rubbed at it and blinked a few more times, hoping it would come away on the pad of his fingertip. It did. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was around. He thought for a moment, then made his wish and blew the eyelash off into oblivion. Don’t let me blow the game.

  It was the only moment of fear or doubt he would allow himself before the game. Goalies had to be brash and egotistical, not nervous and insecure. But these weren’t the traits that made Ben a good goalie. His obsession with perfection, with the perfect art of projected normalcy, was what made him a good keeper. Keen observation, attention to detail, and the expectation of perfect performance. These things might make him a paranoid lunatic in life, but it meant a ball rarely slipped by him on the field. He was completely, 100 percent invested in maintaining that perfection.

  He shouldered his backpack, lifted the strap of his soccer bag over his shoulder, and went downstairs to grab a snack and his water bottle out of the fridge. There was probably time to come home after school ended and before the game if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to. Better to stay where the energy would be most intense and he could get pumped up for the game. His dad came into the kitchen. He was carrying a section of the paper, and Ben heard the telltale sound of the toilet running.

  “Can I give you a lift this morning?” his dad offered.

  “Nah, I’ll ride my bike.”

  “Okay. I won’t ask you if you’re nervous.”

  Ben grinned. “Great, ’cause that would be really annoying.”

  “Wouldn’t it though?” his dad agreed. “We’ll be there,” he added. “I hope you have a lot of fun out there, Benzer. Really enjoy it.”

  “Okay, Dad, I’ll try.” He smiled and shook his head as he walked out the door. His dad was the master of the noncompetitive pep talk. The one season in elementary school that he coached Ben’s team, he provoked the ire of all the parents by playing each child for exactly the same number of minutes, regardless of ability.

  Ben got on his bike and pedaled out of the driveway, shifting his weight around on the seat to balance his various bags. There were no big hills on the mile-long ride to school. He turned right at the end of his street. Park Street was a long, sloping ride past the municipal golf course. He let his hands play loosely on the handlebars, sitting upright to get the bright cold breeze full in the face.

  He could feel the wind numbing the tops of his ears. He loved the sound of it, whistling and hollow as it flowed like a river past his ears, lifting the back of his hair. It was an equalizer. On his bike, moving swiftly toward school, he was like everyone else.

  Learning was a lost cause that day. He managed to focus in English class, because they were watching a movie version of Romeo and Juliet. Calculus seemed particularly impenetrable, as did the many causes and effects of World War I. So he was relieved, even a little excited, when the teacher’s phone rang during AP Bio and he was called out of Mr. Nichols’s thrilling explanation of the structural differences between vascular and nonvascular plants.

  It didn’t bother him to be called to the office. He knew he wasn’t in trouble. Maybe he had left something at home and his dad had dropped it off. He checked his phone, but there were no messages. He walked into the office, blithely unaware of what might be waiting for him, and walked right into Abby Simmons.

  She was beaming at him and standing with a few other people he didn’t recognize. He ignored her super-grin and walked up to the counter to find out if there was a message. Suddenly Abby was at his elbow. “I had you paged, Ben,” she said cheerily. “I’m sorry. I have a copy of your schedule, but it must not be cu
rrent. We went to the gym but, of course, you weren’t there.”

  “I had to change it,” Ben murmured, “to fit in the lab for bio.” He studied the people with Abby. There was a kid, maybe eighth or ninth grade. He wore hearing aids, and standing on either side of him were two anxious-looking adults. Slowly Ben’s mind began to put the pieces together.

  “So, this is Shane,” Abby said. The kid stuck his hand out and gave Ben a limp, cold handshake. In addition to hearing aids, he wore wire-rimmed glasses over his big, unblinking, watery blue eyes. “I thought you could take him on a tour while I go over some things with his parents about our program here.”

  Suddenly Ben remembered their conversation earlier that week in the hall. A cold sweat broke out on his lower back, and his knees felt like a loose connection between the two parts of his legs. This must be what he had agreed to.

  “Um, yeah,” Ben said, stalling for time and looking helplessly around the office. “That’s why I came down. But I can’t miss class right now. We’re having a test.”

  Abby’s sunny demeanor clouded over. “But Mr. Nichols said he was lecturing.”

  Ben shook his head. “Yeah, on Friday. The test is on Friday, but we’re reviewing so I really can’t miss it.” He ventured a glance up at the kid and his parents. “Um, sorry,” he said. The parents looked like they might even be relieved—as though the lack of a tour might mean their kid would never have to start high school. “I’m sure Kitty Hudson would do it,” he suggested to Abby, ignoring the painful look of disappointment on her face. He turned and walked out of the office without waiting for her to respond.

  Chapter 6

  He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. But for the rest of Bio, and the rest of the day, his head was hot and buzzing. He told himself it was the game and the pressure he was feeling, but that wasn’t true. All he could think about was Shane. Sad little Shane. Was the kid even a hundred pounds? And those giant ears—worthless ears. Those glasses and those big scared eyes. In his nightmares he was Shane. Wasn’t that how everyone saw him? Thinking about the parents was almost worse. How could he not think of his own parents? Of all the crap they’d had to go through, all the extra meetings, all the times they’d had to work so hard to get him involved and included. He swallowed hard on the acid tide rising in the back of his throat.

  That was one advantage to going to college, he supposed. They wouldn’t be around to see him fail. He stood up. What class was he in anyway? He glanced up at the board. French. The day was practically over. He threw his backpack over one shoulder and mumbled something incomprehensible at Madame St. Clair. Foreign language teachers never knew what time it was anyway. She looked mildly confused at his exit, but she didn’t stop him.

  He walked slowly down to the gym but paused at the entrance to the locker room. Coach would be the only one in there, and he really didn’t feel like a heart-to-heart with anyone right now. Running alongside the locker room was a small hallway, an equipment room, and a door that led outside. He walked past the locker room quietly. The hallway and equipment room were empty, and he kept walking until he pushed through to the outside into kind of a brick alcove. He’d never been here before, though he knew the stoners who hung out there regularly called it the Bridge. On three sides of him were the walls of the school, and in front of him was a paved path that led out to the athletic fields. There was a huge piece of machinery—clearly some part of the heating system—and on either side of it, the brick walls of the school rose up toward the blank sky. As he looked around, someone pushed past him fast, bumping into his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” he said, annoyed at the skinny skater kid with his sideways trucker hat and blue hair.

  “No problem,” said the kid, glancing over his shoulder. Jesus, was that eyeliner? Ben stared at the face, but it turned away and ducked back under the brim. His eyes dropped down the length of the kid’s body. It was a girl. He watched her slide through the door back toward the gym and the locker room. She was carrying a long skinny green plant in one hand, the root ball shedding crumbs of dirt on the tile floor as she went. The smell of cigarette smoke hung behind her. Cigarette smoke and something else. Ben inhaled deeply. Cinnamon.

  Weird, but Ben shrugged it off. Stoners were weird. He sat down against the wall. It was cold but not too windy, and he was protected on either side by the high brick walls. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a textbook. He opened it to a random page of French verb conjugations, afraid to look like he was just sitting there having some random freak-out.

  He stared down at the incomprehensible lines of text on the paper. He felt like crying, but that wasn’t an option—hadn’t been for years. He did what he always did in these situations. He played the whole thing out to its worst conclusion in his head. He imagined touring that Shane kid around the school. What if he couldn’t even speak right? What if he tried to sign to Ben? He imagined each of these possibilities, taking care to note the horror and disgust on his classmates’ faces. He repeated this process over and over again, relishing the sick pit of churning acid his stomach had become. Then he imagined Tyler.

  He knew what the look on Tyler’s face would be. He would love the kid. He pictured him giving high fives and wrapping his arm around the kid’s shoulders while introducing him to every hot girl who would, of course, be cooing as if Tyler had brought her a fluffy puppy instead of some freak who’s not even a freshman. He tried to go back to the other image, the gut-stabbing one. But he couldn’t. Just the thought of Tyler gave him a way to imagine a better outcome for the whole thing.

  The door opened and Ben looked up to see Peter, their freshman equipment manager, struggling to pull out a net bag of soccer balls and another one of cones. He jumped up and stuffed the textbook back in his bag, glad to have a purpose again. He helped Peter bring the balls and cones out to the field.

  When the team took the field, it was 3:15 and the wind was blowing harder than ever—an advantage for Ben since everyone would have a hard time hearing. Ben was trying to keep his mind on the game, trying not to imagine that Shane kid and his parents sitting in the bleachers, sad and lonely, by themselves in some cold corner of the stands. Half the stands were full of crimson and white, the Chelmsford school colors. Their side was all black and yellow for the Easton Fighting Hornets. Will DeGrazio was running around in his bee costume, trying to get people fired up by cheering and attempting to start the wave. The crowd was a pretty good one already—certainly a better turnout than their usual weekday games. But it was the playoffs.

  Shit, this was the playoffs! He shook his head and ran out to stand in goal and take some warm-up shots from the defense. The first two he saved easily, but then a low corner ball caught him by surprise and sailed just past the tips of his fingers into the open net. No one said anything as he jogged to the back of the net to grab the ball. But he could hear them thinking: it was a shot he should have had. Another ball went wide of the net, and he ran after it. It bounced against the black chain-link fence. As he scooped it up, he came face-to-face with Julie Snow. She was cradling a cup of hot chocolate in her red mitten–covered hands. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her hazel eyes seemed brighter. “Ben Wireman,” she said, as though both amused and surprised to see him there. There was another girl standing with her.

  He looked over his shoulder. Coach was working with the offense. He bounced the ball off his chest and down to his feet. “Don’t act like you didn’t know I’d be here,” he said. It sounded stronger and more flirtatious than it had in his head.

  “Darcy,” said Julie, “this is Ben Wireman. He doesn’t have a plan for college. Ben,” she continued, “this is Darcy. She was my freshmen buddy last year. Now we’re just friends.”

  Darcy rolled her eyes and smirked at the introduction. Then she met his eyes and seemed to hold his gaze a little longer than normal. She had freckles and dirty blonde hair, and she was definitely cute. She was wearing a light fleece and looked like at any moment she might start shaking. He was
about to offer the girls his jacket when his parents appeared just behind them, waving frantically with excitement. “See you after the game,” he said casually before his mother could yell something embarrassing like, “Good luck sweetie!” He nodded again at the girls before he kicked the ball to the defense and ran back toward the net.

  Brandon Rosetti fired a line drive at the back corner of the net, which he leaped for and punched away. He didn’t miss another shot during warm-ups. It felt like new blood was flowing through his veins. Talking to Julie and her cute sophomore friend had given him a transfusion of energy. After he dove for another ball, sending it wide of the net with just a touch of his fists, Coach called them into the huddle.

  The first half of the game was pretty flat. Both teams played cautiously, trying to feel each other out and find a weakness. Ben only touched the ball twice, and once was when the defender kicked the ball back to him so he could send it past the midfield with a dropkick. Chelmsford had their best player marking Tyler, and the guy was sticking to him like glue. Tyler looked bored and almost angry when they came into the huddle for halftime.