Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

When it’s time to leave, the kids file out in twos and threes, most to continue celebrating through the night. I stand outside with the other teachers in a receiving line to wish our new graduates well. I shake hands with the boys. Nod at the girls. What I want to do is take them in my arms. All of them. Hold them and keep them safe.

  The students are finally gone. The teachers who still remain drift inside, chatting. I don’t join them. I try to push away the darkness taking hold of me. I see Philip standing outside with his back against the building and walk towards him. I stand beside him and lean against his shoulder. Philip is six foot three, a couple of inches taller than I am, and huskier. It’s comfortable standing like this with my shoulder just below his. He glances over, takes one look at my face and wraps his arm around me protectively. A little of the darkness recedes.

  “What’s the matter, Laek?” he asks me, squeezing my shoulder hard.

  “I just wish there was something more we could give our students.”

  “Something more than an education?”

  “Yeah. Some kind of magical protection, maybe.”

  Philip laughs and squeezes my shoulder again. Erin comes over to join us. I lift up my other arm, inviting her into our huddle. I feel better now, a friend on either side of me.

  “What’s going on?” asks Erin.

  “Just Laek, wishing for magical powers.”

  “Forget magical powers, I can’t even give them a hug for good luck. What sort of society do we live in where hugging a kid on graduation night is seen as inappropriate, even dangerous?”

  “It’s prom night, not graduation night,” says Erin, who’s a stickler for this type of thing. “And you know very well why these rules exist. Yes, they’re a bit exaggerated, but you’ve had enough problems with student crushes. You can’t afford to be slack about this.”

  “I don’t think I’m slack, but … What do you guys do? I mean to avoid crushes?”

  “Well,” answers Philip, acting as though he’s actually thought the question through, “I wear extremely ugly clothes. You could borrow some if you like.”

  I laugh. The real reason Philip doesn’t have this problem is that he just doesn’t notice when someone has a crush on him. His messy break-up with Dana has left him with such low self-esteem he can’t even imagine anyone, let alone a student, looking at him in that way. He’s actually a good-looking guy. Being a bit of a quirky intellectual only adds to his charm.

  “What about you, Erin?” Philip asks. “You must have them lining up at your door.”

  “It’s simple. I give them no encouragement.” I begin to say that I don’t either but she cuts me off. “I mean none whatsoever, Laek.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, a little defensively. “I’m not doing anything to—”

  “It’s your smile. The way you smile at your students when you want to encourage them.”

  “So now I’m not allowed to smile either? What am I supposed to do, glare at them?”

  “It’s OK to smile but … How do I put this? It’s how you smile at them. You have a devastating smile when you’re happy or pleased. It’s hard to resist.”

  Erin smiles too, but it’s true her smile can be distant. But I don’t have a chance to respond because just then I see something, someone, and it’s like a ghost has walked over my grave. I go very still. He’s some distance away but I can feel him meet my gaze. I watch him nod. He turns towards the section of the docks that was never redeveloped. He stops once more to beckon me. I turn my head before anyone notices what I was looking at.

  “Listen, I need some air.”

  “I thought we were going to get a beer,” Philip says.

  “Chris is meeting us,” Erin adds. “I know he’d like to see you.”

  “I can meet you later,” I say quickly, trying not to look towards the docks.

  Erin seems a little disappointed, but Philip takes her by the arm, pulls her along. “You know where we’ll be—at The Look and Hook, OK?”

  I wait until they’re out of sight and begin walking towards the docks. I go north. Leave the lively commercial section of the Red Hook waterfront district. After a while, I reach the dead-end alleyway where I saw him disappear. The street leads to a small lot hidden behind some long-condemned industrial buildings. The lot shelters a group of homeless people. A couple of wild dogs prowl restlessly. I smell some cook fires, no longer lit. Piles of junk sit on patches of yellowing crabgrass.

  Slowing down my pace, I suddenly feel conscious of my exposed skin. The back of my neck tingles. Am I being watched? I look around discreetly. Everybody seems very much in their own world. Even the man sitting on the dock waiting for me.

  I look up suddenly to see the Statue of Liberty out in the bay, unnaturally large and bright. The majestic woman of the harbor is gazing directly at me. There’s a combination of pity and disappointment in her eyes. Broken phrases from Emma Lazarus’s poem jump into my head. The conquering limbs astride from land to land. The teeming shores. The tempest-tossed homeless. Whose limbs? Whose shores? Whose homeless?

  I walk to the end of the dock. He’s sitting close to the water, his back to me. I sit down beside him. Without looking away from the water, he gives me his sign. I nod my head but don’t give him mine. I haven’t used that sign in fifteen years and won’t show him what I use now.

  When I knew him, he was a vigorous, wiry man in his mid-forties. The oldest among us, but strong and tireless, full of life and humor. The man beside me looks older than he could possibly be. I’ve never seen anyone sit so still. His eyes are the same, though, bright and lively. I steal another sideways glance. He looks like any homeless man. Is this a disguise? He certainly smells like he’s homeless. So many questions go through my head. I’m tempted to wait him out, see what he has to say, but this seems pointless. Plus, I need to hear his voice. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  I wait, but he says nothing more. “Why are you here?”

  “To tell you that. That it wasn’t hard. To find you, I mean.” Silence again.

  I’m not in the mood to play this game, so I say to him, with more anger in my voice than I intend, “I thought you were dead.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint.” My face snaps towards him as though I’ve been slapped. He looks away. Was that remorse I saw on his face for a moment? “Look, I didn’t think it would be wise to contact you too soon after what happened, even though I knew you’d be concerned, would no doubt assume the worst. Then I lost track of you—a good thing too.” He looks up now. “But you’ve been careless recently. That can be dangerous.”

  “I’m fine,” I say curtly, suddenly very angry at his presumption.

  “Yeah, you look good, Laek. You’ve made a nice life for yourself—teacher, father. Cute kids, by the way. And Janie’s good people.”

  “Don’t talk about my family.” I say this coldly, but what I feel is fear. Just as he intends. “They have nothing to do with … with before. I have a new life. Family, friends. Real friends.”

  He looks at me with a smile that’s half mocking, half indulgent.

  “Yeah, your friends at school seem nice. I saw you over there with them earlier. They don’t know much about your past though, eh?”

  I don’t answer. I feel cold inside, but at least my brain is sharper. The way it was before I got so complaisant. Thoughts of a beer with friends are far, far away. I look him full in the face.

  “Been spending some time in Canada?”

  “Yes,” he admits without hesitation. “You were always good with accents, speech patterns. I was in New Brunswick, other places. A person can still lose himself over there.”

  He stops, but I don’t say anything. I’d rather keep him talking, see what he’s up to.

  “Things have gotten interesting up north.” he continues. “Like Montreal, declaring themselves an international sanctuary city. They’ve gone a lot further than o
ther North American cities that’ve tried this. Not surprising maybe, with the province’s history. The independence movement and so on. Well, I’m sure you know all about it, being a history teacher.”

  He pauses, gauges my reaction carefully. I bring my knees up to my chest and fold my arms around them, a look of polite disinterest on my face. In fact, the topic has fascinated me since reading about it in The New World Citizen’s English edition.

  He continues. “They’re doing their best to be not only an international political refuge but a green, solidarity city. But with the U.S. to the south, and the current Canadian government the U.S.’s biggest lackey … I’m sure it’s a lost cause. But still, maybe your type of thing. You’d have to learn French, but learning a new language has never been difficult for you.”

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  “I thought we could chat about a few other interesting places in the world. Evaluate the chances of getting a European passport. Discuss certain promising Latin American and African states. And which regions to avoid at all costs. Although again, with your background, you could probably teach me a few things.”

  “You may find it’s harder to manipulate me now than when I was younger.”

  “I should hope so!” he says cheerfully. Then he changes his tone again. “Look, Laek, I’m not trying to manipulate you. I’m trying to get you to see something. It’s not the same thing.”

  “Yes it is. It’s exactly the same thing.”

  “What would you have me do, then?”

  “I don’t know, Al. Maybe just say what you came here to say in simple, clear words. Then you can pop back out of my life again.”

  “Fine. How’s this? I believe your ID will soon be compromised and that the government’s going to find you. I think you shouldn’t stick around to see if I’m right, that you should go underground or, if you can, to another country. With your family, if possible. Clear enough?”

  “So I should take my family … or leave them. Whatever, right? Just disappear. Only thing is, I’ve been fine all these years. Sure, I’ve had to be careful, but I’m more or less living in the open, leading a pretty normal life. I’m a teacher, for fuck’s sake. I practically work for the government. But you come out of some hole after sixteen years and tell me it’s no good. That I have to go into hiding.” I unclench my fists, surprised at how furious I am. “My ID isn’t even fake. Not strictly speaking. It uses my real iris scan and DNA print. That’s what I was told.”

  “Yes, thanks to your age and that cult you grew up in, you weren’t in the system yet, so we could do that. That doesn’t mean they can’t track you now, though. There’s the little matter of the biometric data they took from you while you were in custody. You remember that, yes?”

  Yes, Al, I remember when they grabbed me, my face still bloody and swollen from the beatings, and forced my eye sockets against their scanners, three of them holding me down while I twisted and kicked. And the dozens of times they came for tissue samples, frustrated at their inability to find a match in their database. They took a good deal more flesh and fluids from me than they could possibly ever use. Yes, I think we can safely say I remember all this. The question is why Al is forcing me to recall these details. Because he never does anything without calculation. Is it so I’ll be angry? Afraid? Whatever it is he wants me to feel, I’ll try hard not to feel it. Not out of stubbornness, but because otherwise, I won’t trust the conclusions I reach.

  “Yeah, I know they got my data and could possibly match it to my ID. Even with the hack that was done. But that’s why I hardly ever use my Uni. I never received government benefits. I don’t have a credit card or a high-rail pass. I don’t travel. Don’t go to the doctor. Don’t even go shopping, except for food, using cash. I hardly use my personal screen—just for school and emergencies. I don’t even have a fucking bank account. My salary is deposited into Janie’s. People probably assume I’m too incompetent to manage my own finances.”

  “But Laek,” Al says gently, “that creates its own red flags. Such light use of a Uni isn’t normal. And even with minimal usage of your ID, there’s still a build-up of discrepancies. Over time, it’s almost inevitable that these discrepancies will be found, traced. Especially now that better auditing programs exist.”

  “I did what I was told. I thought I was being safe.”

  “Whoever let you believe that there was such a thing as safe? Look, forget the technical details. All you need to understand is one simple principle. Any system, no matter how good, can be hacked. This is how you’ve been able to live in the open all this time, yes? But this principle applies to the hacker’s system as well. And not only can it be hacked, it can also be bought and sold. Or simply given away.”

  Here we are finally, back to the subject of betrayal. The elephant in the room. But as much as I don’t want to go there, not again, I can’t seem to keep myself from asking.

  “But why would anybody do that, and now, after all these years?” I’m ashamed at how young and anguished my own voice sounds.

  He doesn’t answer. I sense that maybe he’s through trying to convince me of anything. So I go quiet too. I let myself think in careful, little chunks of memory about our tight group. And all we’d hoped to accomplish in the short time we had before we were arrested so many years ago. I think about “Papa Al,” and his role in all that. I bow my head, pressing my face into my knees. The memories overwhelm me.

  After a moment, I feel him lightly place his hand on my head. He begins to stroke my hair. I tolerate it, even though it feels like he’s put his hand inside my chest and is squeezing my heart. I close my eyes to this pain, to the memory he’s awakened. And suddenly, he has both of his hands around my throat, his thumbs pressing down firmly against my windpipe.

  I tolerate this too. It feels about the same as it did when he was stroking my hair. After a few moments, he releases me, disgusted.

  “You trust too much. You always have.”

  I don’t answer but open my eyes to gaze out at the bay, at the statue. After a long while, I look back to where he was sitting, knowing he’s gone. Satisfied, I look out at the water again. I try to order my mind. I can still feel his ghost fingers in my hair. Just like I felt them that afternoon, in the police van after the raid.

  I’d been alone in the house where we’d all been living off the grid. The others had been due back hours ago. I was on edge. Should I stay put or should I flee? When the terror squad finally burst in, wearing full riot gear, I was almost relieved that I didn’t have to make this decision anymore.

  They started off by trying to convince me that there was no harm in my telling them everything. That they already had the names and identities of the others and were only seeking confirmation. That everything could go relatively easily for me, given my youth, if I cooperated. Then they claimed my friends had already betrayed me. Why was I trying to protect them? I’d been trained to expect these kinds of mind games. I knew they were lying. Even so, I was self-aware enough to realize that I wasn’t good at this sort of thing. So I decided to cut it all short by spitting in their faces. Of course they beat the crap out of me after that, but at least I wasn’t worn down and confused by hours of their psychological warfare.

  I didn’t tell them anything. Not even my name and age. I remember feeling proud of this, when suddenly Al burst into the room. My first, childish, reaction was one of relief: Al would know what to do. That lasted a few seconds until I realized not only did this mean that he was caught too, but that things were about to get worse.

  Al shouted at them to leave me alone. That I was only a kid and didn’t know anything. I was surprised at this behavior. Didn’t he realize they’d use this against us? For that matter, why didn’t he know not to come in to begin with? He must have seen the unfamiliar vehicle or other signs that all was not well.

  Sure enough, one of them grabbed me around the neck and held me while another federal agent shoved a gun between my legs. He threatened to blow my balls off if Al
didn’t give them a complete list and last known whereabouts of everyone staying in the house. I called out to him not to tell them anything. That I wasn’t scared. This was a lie, of course. The gun was huge and when the bastard shoved the inch-and-a-half-wide muzzle tighter against me as though he were about to shoot, I pissed myself in fear. I was fifteen at the time, and up until that moment, I’d thought I was pretty tough.

  Al gave them all the names. All but two, but at the time, I didn’t notice the missing ones. The agents laughed at us. Said they’d captured the rest of our group already. That we’d betrayed our friends for nothing, repeating again that they’d betrayed us too, and that we were all cowards. When they loosened their hold on me for a minute, I threw myself at them, hoping they’d kill me. Anything but live with what just happened, with my weakness, and what Al did as a result. They didn’t kill me though. Only beat me until I was unconscious. That didn’t take too long.

  I started coming to when they threw us into the back of their van. I saw it was true that the others were already taken. They were handcuffed to the floor of the van. I didn’t realize right away that two of us were missing. The same two Al had neglected to mention. So I didn’t come to any of the obvious conclusions. In any case, I was crying so hard I could barely see. Al had pulled my head onto his lap and was attempting to clean my face off with his shirt so I could breathe more easily. Covered with blood, mucus and tears, it was a pretty impossible job. He gave up at some point. Simply tried to hold me as still as possible with one hand, while the van swerved towards our destination. With his other hand, he was stroking my hair, trying to comfort me. He kept repeating in a soft voice that it was OK, that no one had betrayed anyone. That he’d been tipped off and knew who’d already been taken, had only given those names. That there was no point in letting me continue to be beaten.

  I wouldn’t accept what he was saying. How could he have told them anything? I knew it was all my fault. There were my friends, handcuffed and helpless. Even me, barely conscious and with my right arm broken in the beating, even I was tightly bound in handcuffs. How then was it possible that Al’s fingers could be in my hair, his other hand holding tight to my shoulder? Why was he the only one not in handcuffs?