Minion

by John David Anderson

  I call and talk to Zach, but the conversation is short. Tony is still cleaning up some messes—the Forum Credit Union was under his protection—and tightening security. He says the same thing. Everything is all right. Don’t watch the news. They’ve got it all wrong. But then I look out the window and see a black SUV roll past one afternoon and know it’s Tony’s men checking up on us. Making the rounds.

  This morning a package arrives on our doorstep, hand delivered—the post office doesn’t even know we exist. My father snatches it up and takes it into the lair without a word.

  The door’s unlocked, of course. I could follow him down. But instead I finish Crime and Punishment. The ending sucked. This guy, Raskolnikov, goes all The Shining on some old lady, chopping her up like kindling, and all he gets is six years in prison. Sure, the prison’s in Siberia and he will die of frostbite, but that still seems like a small price to pay for coldblooded murder.

  Not that I care. Far be it from me to judge. What gets me is that he still gets the girl at the end.

  Even the ax murderer gets the girl.

  I close the book. I trace back the days. Today is Saturday. A good day to go hang out at the mall. Dad might let me if I promise to go with someone. A little added protection. I call Zach.

  He picks up on the first ring. I can hear a lot of noise in the background. At first I figure it’s the TV turned up too loud, but then I can tell it’s shouting. A party at the Romano residence. “Who is that yelling?” I can’t make out most of the words, but those I do are all of the four-letter variety.

  “That would be Tony,” Zach says. “He’s in a mood. He’s got me stuck here as added security. I’m not allowed to leave the compound.”

  “You said there was nothing to worry about,” I remind him.

  “There is nothing to worry about,” he tells me again.

  “Then why is he yelling?”

  “Probably because everybody’s still worried,” Zach explains. I sense he’s not telling me everything, but I don’t push it. Instead I tell him that I’m headed to the mall anyways and promise to pick up an extra bag of caramel corn for him.

  “You shouldn’t go by yourself,” he says.

  “Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll be all right.”

  Zach snorts. “Whatever. I’m just looking out for you. Besides. She’s not going to be there.”

  “That’s not why I’m going,” I say back, then add, “and you don’t know that for sure.”

  The shouting increases in volume, and Zach says he needs to go. I hang up and then go brush my teeth and tame my hair and snag two twenties from the hollowed-out copy of David Copperfield on the top shelf. It’s not stealing. Dad says the money is for both of us, for whenever we need it. I notice there’s only a couple of hundred bucks left in there. Maybe Dad has more stashed away somewhere. Or maybe it’s almost time for another ATM run. Or maybe the thing he’s working on right now is almost finished, and Tony’s men will be by with another fat envelope soon. I hope so. I could really use a new pair of shoes.

  I grab my sunglasses and head to the door, pausing by the basement.

  I should tell him, should really ask him, but I’m afraid he’ll say no. If Zach was coming with, maybe, but I don’t want to lie about that either, and I’ve got to get out of the house for a while. I open the door a crack and stand there, listening to the sound of power tools and Vivaldi. One foot hovers hesitantly over the top step and then retreats. Maybe I’ll just write him a note.

  I leave it magneted to the fridge. If he comes up, he will see it. If he doesn’t, he won’t even know.

  “Be back in a little while,” I call out in just above a whisper, soft enough that I’m certain he can’t hear me. Then I close the basement door and slip out the back one.

  Zach was right. She isn’t here, though I walk up and down each wing of Liberty Square seven times. It’s summer Saturday lunch hour: a smorgasbord of tank tops and tight shorts and too much cherry lip gloss, but nothing catches my eye. I am a man on a mission. I’m sure I look suspicious, scouting every store. I almost have her paged over the intercom—“Would the cute brown-haired girl whose family is actually not all named after musical instruments please come to the courtesy desk?”—thinking that if she were here, then maybe she would find it funny, though more likely she would be embarrassed and never speak to me again. So instead I wander, a roulette wheel spinning endlessly in my head, landing on nothing in particular: Why did I possibly think she would be here? Why won’t my father talk to me about what’s happening? What has gotten Tony Romano’s boxers in a bunch? Where did all these crazy people even come from?

  What am I doing here?

  I look down at my shoes, toes peeling, splitting along the seams, thinking about what Zach said. About being too afraid to even use my powers. I kind of hate it when he’s right.

  I head to the Starting Block and breathe in the smell of new leather, flipping price tags on the cross-trainers, all of which cost fifty bucks or more. Dad says it costs about five dollars to make a pair of tennis shoes. He says the world is full of robbers and thieves but that most of them wear loafers and neckties. I look over at the counter to see the store’s sole employee, a forty-something man with almost no hair. He has a small gold ring on his finger and a much larger doughy one around his middle. He looks impressionable. I find my size and settle down on a bench to try them on.

  Beside me, two kids about my age start whispering to each other. They are staring at a display of new high-tops. Those fancy ones probably cost fifteen dollars to produce, which I guess is why they cost a hundred twenty. One boy takes a box and just holds it, reverently, as if it’s some golden idol and he the brazen archeologist who unearthed it. I slip one foot inside my new shoe and wiggle my toes to make sure there is room.

  “Just take ’em,” one of the boys hisses.

  “Is he watching?”

  The short kid—the one not holding the box—glances over his shoulder, and I do the same. The sales guy is ringing up a mother with three toddlers. “Naw, man. Just take it.”

  I shake my head. I shouldn’t get involved.

  Then I hear my father’s voice and think about the last time I sat and watched and did nothing.

  With a sigh, I lean over and hiss at the kids to get their attention. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  They both turn and glare at me, realizing they’ve been overheard, their intentions revealed, and uncertain what to do next. If I was an adult, no doubt they would drop the box and take off running, but I’m one of them. Just another punk kid.

  “Come on, man,” Shorty pleads, but the kid holding the shoes doesn’t move, just stares at me.

  “Mind your own damn business,” he says at last.

  It’s good advice. I know it is, but I can’t help it. I shrug. “Fine,” I say. “Do whatever. But you will get caught. Probably before you even leave the mall. The store has cameras.” I nod toward the dark half globes hanging from the ceiling, thinking how maybe I should start bringing the Scrambler with me everywhere I go. “And the shoes have security tags. You’ll trigger alarms. The mall cops will be waiting for you by the front door. Odds are you’ll be taken downtown. Your parents will have to come pick you up. You’ll go to court. Pay a fine. Do some community service. That is, unless you’ve done something like this before.”

  Shorty purses his lips and blows me off with a wave, but I look at the kid holding the shoes, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that this isn’t his first time. He’s been caught before.

  “In that case,” I say, “they might ship you off. Somewhere they can watch you better. Maybe military school. Or juvie. And all for a pair of shoes?” Shorty tugs on his friend’s arm, but the other kid doesn’t move. He just stares at me with his big brown eyes getting bigger by the second. I shake my head and then snap my fingers, breaking the trance.

  “Give them to me,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Just give them here and wait for me outside.”


  The kid looks like he can’t decide between taking a swing at me and making a mad dash for the exit. Finally he hands over the box.

  “You’re sure this is your size?”

  He nods. I nod back. Then I take both of our boxes up to the counter.

  The clerk looks at me a little strangely and asks me if I found everything all right. I nod, and he scans both pairs, removing the security tags and stacking them one on top of the other. “Your total is one hundred seventy-three dollars and eighty-three cents,” he says mechanically. I can sense the two kids on the other side of the glass. I take the money out of my pocket and set it on the counter.

  The man smiles. His name tag says he’s Chad. He looks like a Chad.

  “One hundred seventy-three dollars . . . ,” he repeats.

  “And eighty-three cents,” I finish for him. “I know. Except you forgot about the buy-one-get-one-free special.” I look into his eyes. They are mud colored, though I’ve found it makes absolutely no difference what color the eyes are. Blue, brown, green, hazel, they all impress the same. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, and there are acne scars on his forehead. Probably had a rough go of it in high school.

  “Buy one get one free?” he says, confused, his pupils widening.

  “The promotion just started today,” I remind him.

  “Oh,” the clerk says. He lips are twitching. One finger starts to tap on the counter. Involuntary resistance. I get it all the time. The body reacts when the mind can’t.

  “And you forgot my frequent-shopper discount, too. I’m in here all the time. It’s fifty percent,” I say firmly.

  “Fifty percent?”

  “I’m a preferred customer,” I whisper, as if it is our little secret. I’ve actually never stepped foot in this store until today. There is a pause, and I feel the sweat beading on my back. This shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve done worse.

  “You are,” he agrees finally. His finger stops tapping. I can tell he’s locked in. I try to ignore everything else around me and just stay focused on those muddy brown eyes. The man smiles and winks. Rings up my purchases. I notice he rings up the cheaper ones as free and I correct him. “No, Chad. The high-tops are free.” Chad apologizes and recalculates. The register claims I owe twenty-seven bucks. I could probably get out of that too, but I’m already starting to doubt myself, so I fork over what’s due.

  “You are a good man,” I say, taking the bag from him as he closes the register and hands me my change. He rubs his temples with his fingers and stares at the display for a moment. He knows something doesn’t add up, but he gives me the receipt anyway.

  I meet the two boys just outside the store. I take the bigger box from the bag and hold it out to the taller one, but he just stands there.

  “Just take ’em, man,” Shorty says again, and I wonder if that will become his mantra. If he will grow up to be one of those thugs spray painting his symbols on the brick walls outside the Techno Tree, stealing loose change out of unlocked cars, no ambition at all. Nothing to believe in except the shoes on his feet. I push the box into the other kid’s stomach, and he instinctively grabs hold. I don’t let go yet, though.

  “A box can be almost anything,” I tell him, but I don’t bother to look him in the eyes. I don’t have to. I’ve got his attention already. “But once you open it, things will never be quite the same.”

  The kid nods—as if he has the slightest clue what I’m talking about. Even I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just know a kid on the edge when I see one.

  I start to leave, but the kid with the new pair of hundred-dollar high-tops reaches out and grabs my shirt.

  “Dude, are you some kind of magician or something?” he asks. I realize I’ve gone too far.

  I look him in the eyes this time and tell him he has no idea who I am. That he’s never seen me before in his life.

  I step outside and check my watch. It’s only two o’clock. I should head back. It’s pizza night. Except, for some reason, I’m in no real hurry to get home. The breeze has taken the edge off the sun and my new shoes hug a little tight, constantly reminding me that they are there. I decide to break them in by taking the long way home.

  I detour away from the cracked pavement that would lead me back and head north, walking in almost the opposite direction from my house. I don’t know why. I’m drawn by the smell, maybe. The air is fresher up here. Trees will do that for you. After a while I pass by a string of shops specializing in junk normal people can’t afford: custom framing, a bakery just for dogs, a store that sells nothing but scrapbooking supplies. The sidewalks are made of terra-cotta tiles painstakingly laid by hand. I think about the shoes I bought. Nearly two hundred dollars on the price tags. Twenty bucks total to make. I paid nearly thirty. Someone somewhere was cheated.

  I make another wrong turn on purpose and soon find myself in a neighborhood I’ve never even seen before.

  It looks surreal. Too artificially perfect. Like a paint by number. The dogs sit docilely behind invisible fences. The lawns are all carefully manicured, and equally well-groomed kids run through sprinklers while their mothers plant marigolds in window boxes. The privacy hedges are neatly trimmed, there only for decoration. They won’t keep any masked men out. I take another random turn, relishing in the fact that I am more than a little lost, the incessant chatter in my head quieting to a dull rumble. I feel like an explorer discovering El Dorado.

  Or a thief breaking into a high-security vault.

  Eventually I come upon some community baseball diamonds. Today they are filled with softball teams dressed in uniforms sponsored by local butchers and banks. I figure I still have a little time, so I find a seat in the back row of some bleachers, behind a host of moms and dads and whining brothers, plucking away on pads and phones, only half watching the game. It feels weird sitting here, doing something so ordinary, when just last week I sat and watched a SWAT van swallow the business end of an RPG just a few miles away. Though it seems like much longer than a week from where I’m sitting now. I take an exaggerated breath of suburban air and watch.

  The game is close. Already the last inning, according to the chatty couple below me. I can feel the buzz even though I have never played organized sports (forms required). The girl at the plate hunkers over, her blond locks fanned out from her helmet, her pants crusted in dirt. She rockets a pitch deep into right field, over the heads of the opposing team, scoring the girl on third and winning the game. I clap and cheer with the rest, doing my best to blend in. Somebody’s mother turns and gives me a high five. It’s uncomfortable and strangely comforting at the same time, touching this stranger. The girl runs and leaps into her team’s arms, triumphant.

  There is a moment—a perfect moment—where I sense this is how things should be. I close my eyes.

  Then it’s over. I just sit there as the bleachers empty. The families full of siblings and tag-team parents gather their daughters and deposit them in their hybrid cars. I’m alone again. And I suddenly realize I have a very long walk home. If I can even find my way. I deflate, hunched over. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I spin and look, and everything locks up inside me.

  Honey and cinnamon. Dark hair dipping just past her ears, slightly golden tinged in the sun. Blue jeans ripped at the knee. White shirt with top two buttons undone. I’m staring at an impossibility.

  She smiles.

  I must be hallucinating. The heavily oxygenated atmosphere has gone to my head. Yet there she is, standing right in front of me.

  “Come here often?” she says.

  I’m speechless.

  “Michael, isn’t it?”

  “Um. Yeah,” I manage to squeak out. “You’re . . .”

  “Viola,” she says, pretending to be offended. At least I hope she’s pretending.

  “Sorry,” I blurt. “For a moment I thought maybe I was just imagining you.”

  She looks at me like I’m insane. Or an idiot. Or both. I should convince her that I’m no
t insane—just start with that. “Yeah, no, I mean, I don’t really, you know, come here that often. Ever.” No. Not insane. Just an idiot. “You, you know, come here often?”

  “I play,” she says, looking out over the field. “I mean, I used to. Before I got busy with other stuff. I still like to come cheer on my friends.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” I say, wondering when was the last time I cheered Zach on for anything. Probably the time I dared him to see how many marshmallows he could stick to his face.

  Viola’s face narrows into a smirk, and I see the dimples working their way to the surface again. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”

  Oh, god. She does think I’m insane. I put up my hands, backtracking. “No. I swear.” But she makes an exaggerated production of looking around anyway, as if she expects a posse of henchmen to leap out of the dugout and kidnap her. “I was just walking home and got turned around and stopped to watch the end of the game. I had no idea you were here. Seriously.”

  She squints. “So you expect me to believe that we just met each other again by accident?”

  “Chance occurrence,” I say, shrugging.

  “Total fluke.”

  Dad says there’s no such thing as fate. That what we ascribe to fate is just dumb luck, a fickle wind steering your ship through the ambivalent seas of chaos. But I start to question if everything Dad says is true. Viola smiles and waves good-bye to some of the other girls in uniforms, all walking off with their families. Some of them wave back.

  “Are your parents here?” I ask.

  “My dad’s at work and my mother’s at a wedding.”

  “And you weren’t invited?”

  “I hate weddings,” she says, stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “So fake. Everything is planned, down to where people can sit, what they can wear, what color the bow on the toothpicks in the little sandwiches are going to be. It’s a big illusion.”

  “The wedding?”

  “All of it,” she says. “Wedding. Marriage. This idea that it’s going to be perfect. With everybody smiling all the time.”