by Tom Twitchel
On his seventh or eighth try, he had been running out of patience and wad material. Rather than calling it quits or, more intelligently, recognizing imminent disaster and averting it, Baff had given it one more try. Whether it had been too much air or nervous hands misdirecting the angle of the straw, Baff's last attempt had gone high, missed the light and upon reentry to table level, landed in someone's food at the next table. That would be Rusty Witkowski. At the age of fourteen, Rusty was a year older than most seventh-graders and already close to six feet in height, long sandy hair and a complexion that reminded me more of a pizza than someone's face. He was big-boned and raw looking, which probably had a little to do with the fact that his family had been farming in King County for decades. The backstory on Rusty was that his parents were long divorced and that his father was a belligerent drunk. Even though we shared some common ground, we were about as different as two people could be. Rusty spent his days in school just marking time between sports seasons. His intellect, or lack thereof, screamed Neanderthal. Despite his intellectual limitations, Rusty had had no trouble determining the source of the spit wad.
Fast forward to Rusty standing in front of Baff on the opposite side of the table, palms flat on the table's surface, spread wide as he had leaned forward so that his face was inches from Baff's. The predictable wisecracks and slurs had flowed freely. The verbal barrage had continued for a few moments and when it had become clear that Baff didn't have a comeback, Rusty had decided to take it to the next level. Reaching out with a rawboned hand, he had grabbed a bowl from Baff's lunch tray that contained chocolate pudding. At this point, I had been dialed in. I don't like bullies and watching someone tee off on somebody smaller and weaker seriously messes with my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I'd noticed that the teacher who was supposed to prevent what had been about to happen, look up from her phone, woken up from her social media induced stupor. She had looked right at Rusty and just begun her journey in our direction. That would have put her in the vicinity about twenty seconds too late. I, on the other hand, had been very close and prepared to take action, covertly of course. I had been the new kid after all and Rusty would have no trouble beating the crap out of me. I had prepared to put another one of my gifts to use.
In his adrenaline-fueled glee, Rusty had extended his body completely over the table. He had showed the bowl of pudding to Baff and explained what was going to happen next. He had been resting all of his weight on his left hand while he threatened pudding Armageddon on my soon-to-be-friend. It hadn't been difficult for me to mentally nudge his left hand out, essentially removing his support; nor had it been difficult to also nudge his right hand so that as he fell forward he face-planted into the chocolate pudding. Hilarity and high drama had ensued with the teacher arriving just in time to take control of the aftermath.
Minutes later, as Rusty had been led away to the vice-principal's office, Baff and I got acquainted. Rusty, had glared from under his low, sloped forehead, shooting daggers in our direction.
“That was close.” Me the loquacious one.
Baffle had looked like he had just won something but wasn't sure he wanted it.
“I don't even know what happened. I mean, I know but not about the pudding. I didn't do that.”
“Just lucky, huh?”
“Yeah, lucky. Rusty's a piece of work and he's gonna blame that on me.” While Baff had fretted, I got a clean read on him. Decent, through and through. A little angst, but what teen doesn't have an account at that bank? He had felt remorse coupled with a little fear. I had decided to take a risk, a small risk with very little downside, or so I'd thought. Sometimes, you don't know the far-reaching results of a single act until it sneaks up on you.
Maybe you’ll have someone to help watch your back.
“Yeah, but eventually…eventually, he’s going to get me.”
Not necessarily. There are ways to prevent that.
“Yeah, but—” He had finally realized my lips weren’t moving.
“How are you doing that?” he’d blurted, more intrigued than scared.
Try responding without moving your mouth and attracting attention!
Like what? Just think it? How…?
Just like that.
And there you have it. The rest, as they say, “is history.”
***********
I had discovered by accident that I could communicate in that way and it had been my first clue about my specialness. I could initiate the contact, but the other person couldn’t. This particular knack is limited to only what I and the person I’m connected with want understood. I can’t dig around in their head and sift through their thoughts. Only what they send willingly. While I could “silent speak” with some, it didn’t work with everyone and my ability to converse with them didn’t indicate that they could communicate in this fashion with anyone else, at least not in my experience. And while this knack is valuable to me, it’s also the one that led to my disability.
So how can Mr. Goodturn top that? I’ve been in Baffle’s head. I know him. I know his heart. Maddy’s the same. How we met and became friends is another story but the basic foundation is the same. She’s good people. Being young, and new to Seattle, I had no experience with long friendships. I had taken a risk with her too, almost on a whim.
What I didn’t recognize at the time was that people can change.
My ponderings and musings carried me to the switchback landing between the third and fourth floors. I took a deep breath, grabbed the railing and dragged myself around the corner. As I put my foot on the first step on the last flight, I looked up to the top of the stairs.
“Were you intentionally taking your time or did you just forget where you live?” Maddy smirked.
She was perched on the top step and leaning forward, her straight cut, black hair falling over the right side of her face completely covering her right eye. Her green eyes were always playing peek-a-boo depending on which way her hair fell. Her small nose, that my mom would call “button,” combined with her short and petite frame made her look like an elf, or a cat. Which sort of made sense because of her athletic grace. She was wearing what she had on earlier, black jeans, gray tee-shirt, and forest green hoodie. Her kicks, her one consistent indulgence, were a stylish pair of forest green slip-on tennis shoes. Her wardrobe stays much the same all year, except for those brutally hot summer months when she loses the hoodie.
With her heart-shaped face split in a toothy grin, she levered herself up and waited for me to make the last few steps. She didn’t offer to help and that, among other things, is why I treasure her friendship so highly.
“Thought you were going home,” I huffed.
Her eyes sparkled in the dimly lit hallway. “Nah. I wanted to talk to you. Besides, I had this to give you.” She presented me with a package wrapped in newspaper tied with an iridescent bow.
My birthday isn’t until this weekend.
Frowning, she said, “I know, but I probably can’t get over here this weekend and I wanted to give it to you today.” She usually refused to silent speak when we were alone. She said it was creepy. If no one else was listening in, why do it?
She folded her arms across her chest and adopted a serious look. “Is today the day?”
“No.”
“You know you’ll tell me eventually.”
I shook my head and made a point not to look her in the eye. “Yeah, but not today.”
I took the package from her and stomped along to my door as she followed at my elbow.
I managed to unlock the door without losing my grip on the present and we stepped into the bright space where I live.
“Hi, Mom! I’m home!” I bellowed.
Maddy rolled her eyes and practically skipped into the living room. She stepped into the center of the room, threw her head back, stretched out her arms and twirled. As awkward and damaged as I am, she is athletic and joyous. I watched her without any self-consciousness. With the sunlight streaming through th
e window backlighting her form and her smooth pirouette causing the light to shift over her upturned face, she looked more like a supernatural creature than my best friend.
“Open it; open it; open it!” she warbled.
“I’d rather—”
“OPEN IT!” She laughed.
I knew how that went. Faint protest offered up only to be crushed by relentlessness.
I gave in. Peer pressure is a huge problem in the teen world today.
The newspaper wrapping fell to the floor around me as I tore through it, revealing a brown cardboard box that fit in my hand. I pulled off the top and froze. It was the missing treasure from Goodturn’s that I had completely forgotten about in all the confusion.
I looked up at her and felt my throat get tight.
“Yay! You like?” she said, barely able to contain her excitement for me. She is always like that, getting more of a kick from what she does for others than for what they do for her.
I pulled the object carefully from the box and bent my head to look at it as I tried manfully to keep my emotions under control.
It was an antique pocket watch, silver with gold bezel and crystal face. I had been drooling over this watch for months. It had been priced at $100. I was blown away. How could she afford it?
“Maddy, I can’t accept—”
“Oh no, Mister! Yes, you can! And no fair asking how I paid for it. It’s a gift and that’s not something you’re allowed to ask.”
Emotions precariously in check, I looked her in the eyes and smiled. “I love it. You’re the best friend a guy could ever have.”
“Better not let Baffle hear you say that.” She giggled.
“Yeah, well, he’d understand. And he wouldn’t have even known I was interested in this watch, let alone been willing to buy it for me. Thanks, Maddy.”
She grinned happily and dropped onto the couch.
“I knew you’d love it.”
“You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about. Was it this?” I asked as I set the watch on the coffee table.
Maddy’s grin faded. She looked solemn.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Mr. G and the big goon he escorted out of the shop. Is it like something you do? It freaked me out.”
I remembered her expression when she had ducked back into the shop.
“Yeah. I meant to ask you about that. You looked funny when you came back in. I’m not sure what he did,” I lied. “Maybe it was just hypnosis.”
She stared out the window that overlooks the train tracks across the street and then said, “Mr. Goodturn walked the guy about a block and a half up the street. Then he whispered into the guy’s ear, stepped back and pushed him forward. The guy started walking. He just kind of ambled along not aware of who was around him or where he was walking. He was just walking.”
“So…”
“So, he practically ran into two or three people. One lady pushed him away from her and he just kept moving in the same direction he started.”
“I’m not getting where you want me to go with this.”
“It was like he was sleepwalking Benny! He just kept moving along regardless of what was going on around him. Mr. G was checking him out, observing him. And when he almost ran down a few people but stayed on course, that’s when Mr. G turned around and I jumped back so he wouldn’t see me watching him.”
I frowned. It sounded weird, but I wasn’t feeling the same sense of alarm that she was. “Okay, weird, but…”
“But don’t you get it? If he keeps walking, no matter what, what happens when he gets to an intersection? With traffic!”
Oh. Well, there was that.
“Maybe he would just stop. Maybe he…” That line of thought wasn’t working. I couldn’t reason a way out of her implied conclusion, especially since the whole dang thing was so bizarre to begin with.
“Exactly!” she snapped. “What was to prevent the guy from walking right out into traffic and getting creamed by a car? Or a bus!”
“I can’t see Mr. G letting that happen.”
“No? Me either but here’s another question: How does Mr. Goodturn know that guy won’t come back? That he won’t just show up tomorrow really mad and just start firing away?”
I didn’t have an answer for that either. My friend the rollercoaster was back and executing corkscrews through my midsection. My conversation with Mr. Goodturn was worrying me more by the minute.
“See? It’s messed up Benny. How do we know that sweet old Mr. Goodturn didn’t just play judge, jury and executioner and get rid of that guy permanently?”
“Maybe it’s only temporary. If it was hypnosis, not like a permanent thing, it would sort of…wear off.”
Maddy wasn’t convinced.
“We should at least, like check the Internet. You know? To see if there’s an accident or something. At least until we feel like nothing has happened,” she said.
Checking online wouldn’t be hard but the whole discussion was making me feel even more conflicted about demonstrating my knack for Mr. Goodturn, a fact I didn’t bother to share with her.
Looking at her phone, she stood up. “Look, Benny, I gotta go. But I’ll try to come over tomorrow. Will you be here?”
“Where else?”
“Cool. Look, sorry about the drama. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“Yeah, nothing.”
She smiled at me, her small nose crinkling in a cute way and said, “Benny, happy birthday if I don’t see you tomorrow.” With that, she kissed me on the tip of my nose and headed for the door. She pulled it open with a flourish and called over her shoulder, “Bye, Mrs. Brown! Bye, Benny!”
She glanced back, winked and sashayed out the door.
She kissed me. First time.
The wink? That was because the theatrical goodbyes were orchestrated for any ears other than our own that might be listening.
Maddy knew that I lived by myself.
BOOK TWO
My Adventure Begins or How I Got To Seattle
(Two years ago)
CHAPTER ONE
So how does a kid manage to live alone, and why? That carnival ride began when I was enduring the summer between my seventh- and eighth-grade years. So, it probably makes sense to turn back the clock a couple of years to fill in the blanks.
I was born Dennis Doyle Jr. My name change to Benjamin Brown came later and that’s important, but you need to appreciate why I changed it first. My family was comprised of Mom, Dad, my little brother Billy and me. My parents’ marriage was a running battle between two individuals who got married for different reasons. Mom, because she wanted a way out from her folks’ house and Dad because it was the only way to get my mom to share a bed with him. Not the best recipe for everlasting happiness. Mom was a good-looking rural girl with simple tastes. My father was a country boy who hated his roots and spent every day trying to deny where he came from, even though, his behavior sold him out time after time. Dad was a drinker; Mom was not. Mom went into the marriage thinking white picket fence, a dog, kids and two cars in the garage. Dad was signing up for a hostess for business dinners, a maid, a nanny and a roommate. So, from the outside it looked like we lived happily in a modest suburb of San Diego and that our middle-class lives were hunky dory. I played soccer and baseball, my grades were good and I was class treasurer. I’m sure my teachers would have been surprised if they knew what really went on in our house.
My father was, according to other people, blessed with the gift of gab and “charm as long as your arm.” Women appreciated his attention and men thought he was cool. His work ethic, no lazy dog he, political savvy and that charm factor took him pretty far in the industrial equipment business. He killed it while he was in sales and did a passable job at middle management. Then he hit his professional ceiling—and the booze.
When dear old dad’s career arrived at that crossroad, he wasn’t prepared for the demand, or the crushing workload of his n
ew position. A lot of late nights “working” and numerous drunken arrivals back home stressed the marital bond to the breaking point. The problem was that nobody told Dennis Doyle Sr. anything, especially not, “I’m leaving you.”
While Dad struggled with his job, and Mom struggled with the womanizing and the bruises, physical and emotional, our fragile household stumbled along in a brittle impersonation of a happy middle-class family. I wish I could say I stood up to my dad and that I spent time encouraging my mom, but I was young enough to be naïve and scared enough to hope that it would all resolve itself. I blotted out late night shouting matches by putting on my headphones or cramming a pillow over my ears. It was the equivalent of ignoring the “check engine” light in your car. The problem isn’t going away on its own.
Then, one day, it changed—for the worse.
I got home from school on a Friday, the last day of school and was greeted by an empty house. Mom was usually there, having finished up her day shift at work and making me an afternoon snack. That day, there was no “I’m in the kitchen” or “Take your shoes off before you come in” greeting—just silence. Initially, I had been unconcerned. Then I was curious why she wasn’t responding to my bawling hellos. When I got to the master bedroom, I got my first shock. The floor was scattered with various pieces of clothing and several dresses were laid out on the bed. Her side of the closet yawned open and empty. A few pairs of her shoes huddled in a corner as though seeking shelter from the tornado that had ripped through the room.
The metaphorical nail-in-the-coffin was what wasn’t in her closet—her suitcases.
If you haven’t experienced it, you can’t imagine what that felt like. Punched in the stomach for starters. Ready to throw up and dizzy is apt. But the bottom line was the mind-numbing fear and the wailing voice in your head asking questions that no child should have to ask. “Is it my fault?” “Why would she leave me here?” “What’s going to happen now?” “Doesn’t she love me?”