by Mark Alpert
He threw two more planks on the ground and used them as stepping-stones. When he reached the spot where Dorothy had stood, he poked his last plank in the mud. He shoved the burnt end a couple of inches into the ground and made a deep gouge. Then he made another. He was looking for the black spike. He made a dozen gouges, crisscrossing the area. But he didn’t find anything. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, he didn’t want to take any chances, so he threw his last plank on the ground in front of him and stepped on it to approach the mud pile.
Joe grasped the cardboard box and pushed it aside. Then he stared at the mound, trying to remember exactly where he’d buried the satellite. He assumed the thing had cooled down by now. He doubted he’d be able to carry it very far, not in his condition, so he planned to wrench the sphere out of the mud and roll it down the hillside. He wasn’t sure about the next step, though. Should he take the satellite to a science museum? Or maybe to the headquarters of the company that built it?
The simplest option would be to alert the police, who could get in touch with NASA or whatever government agency had launched the thing. But Joe didn’t trust the Inwood cops. They loved to harass the park’s homeless people, shooing them off the benches and away from the soccer fields. The worst one was a big redheaded cop named Patton. He liked to poke Joe with his nightstick and threaten to arrest him. He said he had friends who were prison guards on Rikers Island and someday soon he was going to send Joe their way. The guy was a real bastard, stupid and cruel. If Joe told him about the satellite, Officer Patton would either laugh in his face or try to snag the reward for himself.
Joe glanced to the left and right. He was alone on the hillside. The sun had just set and the woods were darkening. When he was certain that no one else was nearby, he bent over and picked up the plank that was closest to the one he stood on. Then he started using it as a shovel, digging into the mound.
He scraped away the top layer of mud. Luckily, the ground wasn’t hard. Joe had finished building the mound just twelve hours before, so it was still as soft as putty. After less than a minute the end of his plank banged against the satellite. The jolt made him a little uneasy in his stomach, and the feeling intensified after he shoveled away enough mud to expose the top of the sphere. Even in the fading daylight it gleamed like a jewel, blacker than onyx. But he kept digging. After another few minutes he’d uncovered the upper half of the thing.
Now it looked the same as it had when he’d stumbled upon it the night before. Joe’s chest ached from all the bending and shoveling, but he plunged the plank into the ground again, scooping out the packed dirt around the satellite. He could endure the pain because the sphere was his salvation. It was going to give him enough money to get his old life back. Once he had the reward in his hands, he’d say goodbye to Inwood and return to Riverdale. He’d find a landlord willing to rent an apartment to someone with no references but lots of cash. Then he’d hire a lawyer and try to recover his medical license. Almost anything was possible if you had enough money. He might even be able to persuade his ex-wife to forgive him.
After ten more minutes he’d shoveled almost to the bottom of the satellite, making a deep circular trench around the thing. It was ready to come loose. He just needed to apply a little elbow grease to pry it out of the ground. Joe lowered the burnt end of the plank into the trench and wedged it into the mud below the sphere. Then he pushed down on the other end of the plank, trying to lever the satellite upward. But it didn’t budge. He pushed down harder, leaning all his weight on the plank. The pain was so bad it felt like his chest was on fire, but he didn’t let up.
Then the plank cracked. Joe had to lean backward to stop himself from falling face-first into the mud. Jesus, what’s wrong? How much does this thing weigh?
He clutched his side, cursing under his breath. When the pain finally eased he picked up the cracked plank and peered into the trench he’d dug. It was tough to see anything in the fading light, but after a few seconds he noticed something glinting in the deepest part of the trench. He bent over to get a closer look. A thick column of black metal jutted downward from the bottom of the sphere, anchoring it to the ground.
Joe shook his head in frustration. He thrust the plank into the trench again and dug into the mud at the bottom, trying to see how deep the column went. It looked like a black pipe, at least three inches in diameter, and made from the same material as the rest of the satellite. He scraped away the mud around the column, exposing more of it, but instead of uncovering its bottom end he saw several thinner pipes branching off from it. They angled downward from the central column, delving deeper into the ground, like metallic roots.
As he stared into the trench Joe’s frustration turned to disbelief. How the hell did all those pipes get down there? Did they automatically extend from the bottom of the satellite sometime after it landed? And why would they do that? What was the point?
Then he thought of the spike again. He started to shiver, even though the temperature in the park was still in the nineties. He didn’t bother to fill in the trench. He just reached for his cardboard box and rested it on top of the sphere. The damn thing is spreading underground. It’s putting out feelers.
The woods were dark now. Joe looked behind him at the planks he’d laid out as stepping-stones. He turned around and jumped from one plank to the next, careful not to step on the mud. Then he ran down the hill, away from the clearing.
* * *
He bolted out of the park. At first Joe didn’t know where to go. His mind was so full of panic he could hardly think. He raced along Payson Avenue, the street that separated Inwood Hill Park from the rest of the neighborhood, and then headed for Broadway, which was busy and brightly lit. Dozens of people gawked at him as he came charging down the sidewalk, a crazy homeless dude sprinting past the drugstores and bodegas. Some of the people laughed. Others scowled and shouted. Joe ignored them all.
He passed a car wash, a supermarket, and a hardware store. Then he stopped and leaned against a brick wall, his ribs aching as he tried to catch his breath. After a few seconds he looked up and saw a sign on the wall: NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, INWOOD BRANCH. Although he hadn’t consciously decided to come here, his instincts had led him to the right place.
Back in April, when the weather was still chilly, Joe had spent several afternoons at the Inwood library to keep warm. He knew the library’s computer room was open to the public. If one of the computers happened to be free now he could search the Internet. There was bound to be some information online about the missing satellite. With a little luck he could find out who’d launched the thing, and maybe even get a phone number. Then he’d be just a step away from collecting his reward.
But there was a problem. It was after 8:00 P.M. and the library was closed.
Joe placed his hands on his knees and doubled over, dizzy and nauseous. All he needed was a little computer time, just ten minutes! It was the kind of thing he’d always taken for granted in the old days, before he lost his job and started living on the streets. Back when he worked at St. Luke’s Hospital he could’ve searched the Web on the computer in his office, or on his MacBook or iPad or iPhone. Now, though, he had nothing. He was completely cut off. The people on the sidewalk detoured around him, edging toward the curb.
Then he heard a siren. He looked down Broadway and saw a police cruiser a couple of blocks away, its blue lights flashing. Joe’s knees trembled under his hands. He was so frightened he almost threw up. But he managed to stand up straight and walk past the library, away from the cruiser. He tried to look casual, as if nothing was wrong.
The car slowed as it caught up to him. Joe glanced sideways and got a shock: the guy in the passenger seat was Officer Patton. Worse, the redheaded bastard was looking out the car’s window and eyeing Joe suspiciously. Patton pointed his nightstick at him and said something to the car’s driver. But he didn’t say anything to Joe, didn’t make his usual threats about Rikers and his prison-guard friends. After a few secon
ds the cruiser accelerated and sped toward Dyckman Street.
Joe relaxed a little but kept walking. When you’re living on the streets, the best way to avoid trouble was to always keep moving. He’d crisscrossed Inwood so many times during his daily wanderings that he could draw a map of the neighborhood from memory. In his mind’s eye he could picture every street corner and storefront between the Hudson and Harlem rivers. And as he crossed West 204th Street, still trembling from his close call with Patton, he remembered one of those storefronts. A new copy shop had opened a month ago on Tenth Avenue, and inside the shop was a computer that customers could pay to use. Joe was sure of this because the shop’s owner had put a sign above the window: SUPER-FAST INTERNET $5 PER HOUR.
He turned right at the next corner and headed for Tenth Avenue. Halfway down the block he ducked into an alleyway and took off his left sneaker. Tucked inside his tube sock was his ten dollar bill, folded in half and damp with sweat. He unfolded the bill and flapped it around to dry it. Joe hated the idea of spending the money at the copy shop. All he could think about were the forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor he could buy instead. But he told himself it was an investment. Just think of the reward. You’re gonna spend a few dollars now, but in a day or two you’ll get thousands.
Five minutes later he arrived at the copy shop. To his immense relief, it was still open. He peered through the window under the SUPER-FAST INTERNET sign and saw no customers inside. At the front of the shop was a self-service copy machine and next to it was the computer, an old Hewlett-Packard PC. A counter ran across the middle of the store, and beyond it were the bigger copy machines that did the customized jobs. The manager of the store—a twenty-something bearded guy—sat behind the counter, reading the New York Post. He had pierced eyebrows and tattooed forearms and wore a black T-shirt.
Joe was glad the shop wasn’t busy. He wouldn’t have to worry about offending any other customers. Holding the ten dollar bill in his right hand, he opened the glass door and stepped inside.
The bearded guy looked up from his newspaper. He started to smile, but then his face wrinkled in surprise. “What do you want?”
This reaction was typical. Very few stores in Manhattan welcomed the homeless. And Joe was sympathetic. He knew he smelled awful. He knew it better than anyone. He raised his hand and waved the ten dollar bill, offering it as a kind of consolation prize. “I have money. I want to use your computer.”
The manager narrowed his eyes. “You want to use the computer?” His voice was slow and full of contempt. “You’re joking, right?”
“I have money.” Joe waved the bill again. “Ten dollars, see?”
The guy shook his head. “Sorry, the computer’s broken.” He put a mock-apologetic look on his face.
Joe looked at the computer. Its screen saver displayed a swirl of undulating colors. Then he turned back to the manager. “It doesn’t look broken to me.” He stepped toward the chair in front of the computer and pulled it out. “Let me give it a try.”
The guy closed his newspaper and stood up. He held out both hands like a traffic cop at an intersection. “Whoa, get away from there. I said it’s broken.”
Joe ignored him and sat down in the chair. He pressed the space key on the computer’s keyboard. The undulating colors disappeared and the screen showed the usual Windows icons against a blue background. “Seems to be working fine.” He rose from the chair and placed his ten dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll take an hour of Internet time, please.”
The guy frowned at the bill as if it were a piece of dog shit. Then he turned toward the wall, bent over and pulled an electrical plug out of its socket. The PC let out a squeak and its screen went black.
Joe clenched and unclenched his hands. “Why did you do that? Turn it back on.”
The manager pointed at the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Look, this isn’t fair.” Joe leaned across the counter. “My money is as good as anyone else’s. I have a right to—”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the cops.” The guy pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m not gonna sit here while you stink up the place.” He punctuated the sentence by flicking Joe’s ten dollar bill off the counter. It fluttered to the floor.
Joe felt a surge of anger. This guy was even worse than the teenagers who’d attacked him. They were just stupid kids, but this asshole was old enough to know better. He should know that terrible things could happen to anyone. That it was easy, hideously easy, to become a drunk. But the guy was too arrogant and thickheaded to see it. Joe leaned a little farther across the counter. He wanted to tear the fucker’s head off.
The manager stepped backward. He raised his cell phone and punched a few keys. “I’m calling 911 right now,” he warned. “You better get the fuck out of here.”
Joe glared at him. He looked at the counter between them and seriously considered climbing over it. But who was he kidding? His chest ached every time he took a breath. He was in no condition to get into a fight. And even if he could, the cops would come to the shop and arrest him. They’d cart him off to either the jail on Rikers Island or the nuthouse at Bellevue.
No, he couldn’t win. He had to figure out another way.
He turned away from the counter and glanced at the computer’s blank screen. So close and yet so far. Then he picked up the ten dollar bill from the floor and left the shop.
He walked several blocks uptown, then wandered aimlessly across the darkened neighborhood. His stomach churned with disappointment. He lowered his head and stared at the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Most of all, he avoided looked to the north, toward the tall apartment buildings in Riverdale. The last thing he wanted to see now was the building where his daughter lived.
After fifteen minutes he found himself on the corner of Broadway and 215th Street. His instincts had led him to the right place again. Just down the block was Duarte’s, a bodega that sold cigarettes, lottery tickets, beer, and malt liquor. He walked into the place, and the guy behind the counter nodded at him. Joe was a loyal customer, maybe the most loyal one they had. He opened the refrigerated case at the back of the store and pulled out four forty-ounce bottles of Olde English 800. About a year ago he’d settled on Olde English as his preferred brand. It cost only $2.49 per bottle, including tax, making it a cheap and efficient way to get drunk. And the stuff was sold all over the neighborhood, at every hour of the night.
At the counter Joe handed over his ten dollar bill and got four pennies in change. He felt a twinge of regret as he shoved the coins into his pocket. He’d just spent the money he was supposed to invest in his future. Now he would drink his forties until he was drunk, and sometime after midnight he’d pass out and sleep it off. Then he’d wake up tomorrow morning with his head throbbing and his mouth as dry as dust, and the whole cycle would start again. He wouldn’t be any closer to changing his life.
But he had no choice. He simply couldn’t function without a drink. He made a promise to himself that he’d return to the public library as soon as he woke up the next day. He’d get the information he needed and collect his reward. It could all wait till tomorrow. Everything was still good.
He slipped the four bottles under his Yankees jacket and zipped it up. Feeling better now, he cradled the forties against his chest and headed back to Inwood Hill Park.
* * *
Joe passed out again on the same hillside, about thirty yards from the clearing where the satellite had landed. He chose this spot because it was neither too close nor too far. He was close enough to keep an eye on the clearing and yet far enough to be out of range of the sphere’s metallic roots. To give himself an extra margin of safety he lay down on one of the thick slabs of rock jutting from the mud. Although it was uncomfortable, he felt better knowing there was three feet of hard stone between himself and the ground.
He slept restlessly for the first hour. When he closed his eyes he pictured Dorothy limping away from the clearing. Then
he saw the teenagers standing around him, shouting in Spanish and pointing their screwdrivers. The asshole from the copy shop stood with them and called the cops on his cell phone. Soon a police cruiser drove up the hillside, its blue lights flashing, but the cops inside the car also had screwdrivers in their hands and green bandannas around their heads. Startled, Joe woke up for a moment and rolled onto his side, the rock slab pressing mercilessly against his cracked ribs. But he’d drunk so much Olde English that he couldn’t stay conscious for very long. Within seconds he passed out again.
Luckily, his next dream was less jarring. He pictured his daughter Annabelle sitting on the beige sofa in their old apartment in Riverdale. She was just five years old in this dream, a curly-haired moppet in pink pajamas, sitting beside her mother. Their right hands were hooked together for a game of thumb war. They started the game by reciting the traditional opening lines, “One, two, three, four, I declare thumb war,” Karen’s voice chanting in unison with Annabelle’s, “Five, six, seven, eight, you drool and I’m great.” Then their thumbs swept back and forth, darting and feinting, Karen’s large thumb bent like a fleshy 7, Annabelle’s tiny thumb wriggling like a worm. They looked so beautiful together, laughing and playing. That was their happiest time, Joe thought, their very best year. Before Annabelle started kindergarten and Karen started cheating and Joe started drinking.
The intrusion of this thought changed the tone of Joe’s dream. Karen stopped laughing and faded away. Annabelle vanished too, except for her right thumb, which detached from her hand and grew unnaturally long, even longer than the sofa. It also changed color, turning dark brown, then black. It became a thin black snake, but with Annabelle’s blue eyes. The snake stared at Joe for a second, watching him curiously. Then it lunged forward and sank its fangs into the crook of his neck. His right arm went numb and a bolt of pain tore across his chest. It was real pain, too intense to be part of a dream.