Beet

by Roger Rosenblatt

  Once Bollovate got hold of an idea involving money, there was no stopping him.

  “Why couldn’t we get commercial sponsors for our online courses?” he’d asked/told Huey. “If everything else in America is ‘brought to you by’ some shit or other, how about Homeland Security getting sponsorship from companies selling alarm systems, gas masks, weapons? You know, Lewis, if I’d been put in charge of this dump years ago, the History Department would be brought to you by the History Channel right now.”

  “Are you being serious, Joel?” asked Huey, who was wondering if yet another adjustment of life principles was in order.

  “Nah,” said the fat man. “It was just a thought.”

  Peace walked on with his student. He tried to sound upbeat. “You know, Akim. I’m sure there’s still time to change your concentration.”

  “To what? Dominican and Video Games Studies?” In fact, the concentration had appealed to him, not for the Dominicans, who had joined with the Jews and Arabs in his harassment in high school, but for the video games, one in particular that involved Crips and Bloods carrying pipe guns and chasing rabbis into alleys with no exits. But he’d applied too late.

  “Why not take Government with Professor Manning?”

  “I sat in on one of Professor Manning’s courses last semester, and I actually learned something. But he scares me. He’s Jewish.”

  “So are you.”

  “That’s why he scares me. One day he looked me over and said, ‘When are you going to cut the crap, Arthur?’”

  Peace accompanied the boy across the baseball diamond and toward the woods surrounding the college. He offered to help carry some of his load, but Akim insisted he could handle it all, just as a toby in the shape of Paul Revere’s head fell from his backpack and smashed on a rock near second base. Peace was trying to ascertain just how cuckoo the boy had become since he’d seen him two weeks earlier in the library. Clearly the rejection by the How to Write for the New York Times course—and by Matha, too, he guessed—had taken its toll.

  “Have you tried contacting Professor Pinto online?” he asked.

  “I’ve been doing nothing else for two weeks. Every time I clicked onto Homeland Security, it showed THIS SITE CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION, OR PLEASE TRY AGAIN, OR—WHICH DROVE ME UP THE WALL—MAKE SURE ALL THE WORDS ARE SPELLED CORRECTLY. Then, the night before last, in a fit of exasperation, I hit the keys with my fist—bang bang bang—and something new appeared: ENTER SECURE PASSWORD.”

  “A secure password for a college department?” Peace wondered if Akim were making this up.

  “That’s what I thought. A little strange, huh? So I got myself an alphanumeric generator so I could hack into the department code. All it took was a phone call. I wrote a do-loop program. That way, I wouldn’t have to watch the screen all the time. The letters and numbers would just keep churning. I dialed into the sign-on, and waited.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing yet, Professor Porterfield. There could be hundreds of levels of codes. But even if it takes weeks, I’ll get in there. Don’t you worry. And when I do, I’ll find Professor Billy Pinto and look him straight in the eye, and tell him Homeland Security is bullshit! What do you think of that?”

  What Peace thought of that was to walk the boy over to the infirmary. But in truth, Akim did not sound crazier than usual. Yet he was. He just didn’t want to discuss a particular sphere of craziness with Professor Porterfield.

  “I’m fine, Professor. You really don’t need to walk me the whole way.” Peace stayed with him anyway.

  Akim was trying to shake his companion because he had to concentrate on his other new mission—along with cracking Homeland Security—which was to blow himself up. A suicide bombing, he’d concluded, was the only sensible thing to do. The event, if intelligently plotted and occurring in the most advantageous circumstance, would gain him the attention that eluded him in life. He would not explode in a crowd, because he did not like crowds. This would be a solitary act, noteworthy and symbolic. And it would be filled with poetic justice, one of his favorite things, because by blowing himself up he would undoubtedly get in the New York Times, an opportunity denied him by Professor Joan A-minus, I-know-what-the-New-York-Times-is-looking-for Lipman. He would aim his act at her, at stupid Beet College, at the scornful Matha, and at Rabbi Horowitz. For the past few days he had been fiddling with a suicide note that made several puns on the word “pawn.”

  Because of the nature of his intentions, he was afraid the Homeland Security faculty, under whose one nose he was plotting, would root him out. But since Pinto’s nose remained virtual, he thought he might be okay. The problem (or Akim’s interpretation of the problem) was that he knew nothing about making a suicide bomb. He did not know what explosives to use, he did not know where to acquire the ingredients, he did not know how to strap the contraption to his body, or what clothing to wear to conceal it, or how to handle any of the other technical difficulties faced in similar circumstances by crazy people worldwide. At least he knew what he did not want, which was to become a suicide car bomber. He did not possess a driver’s license, and the only vehicle he had ever driven was a bumper car in Coney Island when he was nine, and even that he did ineptly, never bumping into anyone.

  “You can go back now, Professor Porterfield. I’m in good shape.”

  By now the trees had grown so dark and thick, they disappeared into the sky, which was starless and moonless. A screech owl performed a nosedive very close to the two of them, causing Akim to stumble again and catch his robes on the underbrush. Yet he remained careful to unravel the extension cords.

  “I’ll go with you as far as the cave,” said Peace.

  Akim breathed easy. He had a night of studying ahead of him. The Web site, kaboom.com, had not been all that helpful. It contained the biographies, albeit brief, of the more well-known suicide bombers, along with the long rambling prayers and speeches they delivered before blowing themselves up to Allah. In nearly all the cases cited, it was to Allah and an indeterminate number of celestial virgins that they propelled every last morsel of their existence, Arabs having pretty much cornered the market on suicide bombings. The basic information and the links were not only about Arabs, they were written in Arabic, which Akim could not read, except for the numbers.

  It had taken some research, but little by little he’d acquired the necessary information for completing his mission. The weapon of choice for suicide bombers was acetone peroxide, which, he was relieved to learn, could be made from common household supplies—paint thinner (acetone), bleach or antiseptic (hydrogen peroxide), and one of the more powerful drain unblockers, such as Drano (85 percent sulfuric acid). One could secure these ingredients at any hardware store or beauty salon. In the proper mixture, they would produce white crystals of acetone peroxide—triacetone triperoxide, or TATP, for those in the know.

  Yet how would he place his order, say, at Pig Iron Hardware in Beet? He would come in with a list of things to buy that included the bomb ingredients, but also innocuous items such as a double-twist sugar bit, a spiral ratchet screwdriver, a ball-peen hammer, a cable ripper, a track and drain auger, a lug wrench, and an extended-pole branch trimmer. That’s what he’d do. Then he would oh-so-casually add, “And give me some paint thinner and Drano, will you?” No one would suspect. And the Some Pig! Beauty Salon? Why would he be shopping there? He would be picking up things for his mother or his sister. A lip brush, an eyelash curler, a kohl pencil, cream blush, a brow brush and lash comb. That’s what he’d tell them. He hoped they wouldn’t think him effeminate—though he realized that upon seeing him, it was probably not the first thing people would think. Only he learned TATP is highly sensitive material and that its instability led to the deaths of forty terrorists handling the compound en route to blowing themselves up. The Web site compared these occasions to premature ejaculation, which would have made the boy laugh had he ever been inclined to. If there was one thing Akim Ben Ladin did not want to be remembered as,
it was a sloppy suicide bomber.

  The indispensable piece of information conveyed on kaboom.com was that most of the ingredients could be obtained on Main Street in Beet for under $200. As soon as Akim amassed under $200, he’d be all set.

  He and Professor Porterfield had gone about half a mile into the woods. Akim had very few extension cords left. He drabbled in a puddle and slipped down a muddy declivity. They stopped. Before them, like a giant’s yawn, was Akim’s cave, set in a massive granite wall. From the black hole came the grating of a sort of music.

  “It’s a Syrian love song,” said Akim. “I left my iPod on, in case I couldn’t find the cave in the dark.”

  “What’s the song called?”

  “It’s called ‘Where Go My Sheep?’ They’re all called something like that. Would you like to hear it from the beginning?”

  “I guess I’d better get back”—still not sure whether or not to knock the boy out and carry him to a doctor. “Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in your room?” Peace asked.

  “One must make sacrifices for one’s beliefs.”

  “And what are the beliefs you’re making sacrifices for?” Akim had to admit the professor had him there. “Well, good luck with your project.” Peace smiled.

  Akim stiffened. “Oh, yes,” he said, relieved to realize which of his projects Peace was referring to. “I’ll hack in sooner or later. You’ll see.”

  Peace bade him good night with some residual reluctance, but he had too many burdens of his own, and at least the boy didn’t look as if he were about to harm himself. He turned to go back.

  Akim screamed, “Yaah!”

  “What is it?”

  “It” was a pair of pink eyes about four inches apart and a foot and a half off the ground, glowing like rose-hued pencil flashlights from the center of the cave’s blackness. There was a rapid rustling like paws scraping the earth. There was a low grunt. There was a louder grunt. And a snort and another grunt, followed by a phthisic wheeze.

  Akim ran to Peace, who swept the boy behind him so that he could face the beast that now, very tentatively, emerged from the dark.

  “Latin!” said Akim.

  First came the snout, then the ears and eyes, then the hooves, then the whole white luminescent body and the ridiculous corkscrew tail.

  “He must have escaped again,” said Akim. “Perhaps he was drawn to my cave by ‘Where Go My Sheep?’”

  “Let’s get him,” said Peace.

  They dove for the frightened animal, which made a deft sidestep, leaving his pursuers prone on the turf. Even an ungreased pig can move, and Latin was about to make a panicky dash into the woods. Akim rolled in front of him and blocked his way, and Peace tackled him around his very hard midsection—the first tackle he’d made since his senior year at St. Paul’s. Latin squealed and squirmed, but Peace and Akim hung on until the subdued mascot lay quavering in their arms, his heart thumping, and breathing hard in muffled snorts. They petted him till he was quieter, then all three rose, the men muddier than the pig.

  Latin tried to bite Akim, but Peace smacked his snout.

  “Thank you, Professor! You saved my life!”

  “I don’t think he was going to devour you. In any case, it would have been the first time treyf ate a Jew.”

  The boy nearly smiled.

  “Well, you won’t believe this.” Peace called Livi to tell her the story of his evening walk. He’d returned to his office after half-dragging Latin back to his pen, and using one of Akim’s extension cords as a leash. As a parting shot the prisoner took a leak on his captor’s shoes. “I’d better spend the night here. It’s too late to hitch a ride.”

  “Sure,” said Livi. “You didn’t hurt Latin, did you? He’s my favorite member of the staff.”

  “I’ve had enough of Latin’s staff for one evening.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Furious. I hate women with minds of their own.”

  “Me too,” said Livi. “Good night, sweetheart.”

  Peace stretched out on the couch. God, am I wiped! he thought. Luckily he was about to get close to forty-five minutes’ sleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  MATHA POLITE HAD RETREATED FROM LAPHAM AS SOON AS the standing ovation began to peter out. The Great had made an unsuccessful lunge for her from the lip of the stage, stubbing the big toe of his naked scarlet foot and nearly keeling over in the effort, and had shouted her a slurred and toothy invitation to accompany him to his room at the Pigs-in-Blankets Bed ’N Breakfast, to discuss the merits of her poems. Tempted as she might have been on another occasion, she declined. She had not brought any of her poems with her on that evening, thus any discussion of their merits might prove abstract. Also, photographer Sandy might burst in on the two of them during their abstract discussion and crown Matha with one of her catadioptric lenses.

  But mainly Matha sought to elude The Great’s grasp because she had bigger fish to fry. What had sailed over the heads of the audience at the reading was a particular and deliberately timed moment during her introductory remarks when she called for the resignation of President Huey. That exhortation was a signal to Betsy Betsy, Goldvasser, Bagtoothian, and Lattice to rise from their seats and leave the auditorium. About the time that Akim had begun his trek into the woods, they had proceeded under cloud cover and that of darkness to the New Pen and MacArthur House—the building donated as the home of the Communications Arts Department by Arthur MacArthur, the gossip-newspaper publisher, and earmarked for the study of social life and celebrities in journalism. They jimmied the lock of the front door, and occupied the building. It was a test, a dry run to see how the administration and professors would react, and the first of the major disruptive incidents planned by the group. The occupation of Bacon Library, their main target, was on the calendar for seven weeks hence. The MacArthur takeover would also eat up more time, which was precious to “that shit-fucking CCR.”

  Unlike Bacon Library, MacArthur House was not acknowledged by the faculty as an intellectual center, and it certainly contained nothing as important as the Mayflower Compact. It was roundly looked down upon by the other departments, except on those occasions when the Communications Arts faculty threw a cocktail party that included people who appeared on television. Then everyone commented how indispensable Communications Arts was to the life of the mind. In making his gift, Arthur MacArthur expressed the hope that in addition to gossip, students would address the question: “With no other assets but money, how does one make it to a seat at the tables of power and influence?” It was the only question that interested Arthur, and the sort of problem MacArthur House was known to tackle.

  “But it’s perfect for us,” Matha had exulted. “The right size, the right location, and near the president’s house—so even that brains-for-shit Louie Huey couldn’t help but notice what we did.”

  MacArthur was a clapboard structure no larger than a three-bedroom suburban home. Easily manageable for the occupiers, its entrance was also its exit, “so we can keep the ass shits out forever.” And it was where the Communications Arts Department stored its treasury of old newspapers with historically momentous headlines, as well as its library (a shelf, really) of books published by department members with titles like Is the Media Fair? and Who Is Destroying the Media? Its walls also displayed photographs of world leaders standing next to department members, and little framed notes of thanks from working journalists who visited Beet, including Connie Chung, Al Roker, Tim Russert, and Larry King. In short, everything Communications Arts most valued was housed in MacArthur, whatever others might think of it, or of Communications Arts itself. If the building were taken out of commission, reasoned the radical students—since Communications Arts brought in more tuition revenue than all the other departments combined—“there’ll be a fuckstorm from the bean counters.”

  When Matha approached the door of the building, her comrades had already tacked up a bedsheet on the outside wall with red lettering in poster paint re
ading, “Power to the People!” This and other slogans they picked up from history books about the 1960s, their principal sources for the symbols, language, and tactics of their protests. Matha knocked three times, then waited, then knocked twice more. The door opened cagily, like a speakeasy’s. “It’s me, you shithole,” she said.

  “Password?” said Betsy Betsy. Matha had forgotten it. So had Betsy Betsy.

  Matha shoved her way in. “Well!” she said to her little group. “We did it!”

  “Fuckin’ A!” said Bagtoothian. He looked up from his reading, An Illustrated History of Sparta, which he proceeded to grangerize.

  They surveyed their conquest and fell into a silence. There were two reception rooms, one containing a cheap nineteenth-century American grandfather clock donated by the Classics Department to give the place, as the classicists told one another, “a touch of gravitas, but nothing meaningful,” along with the little library of books about journalism; another room that held the files of newspapers; a private dining room; and three offices for department members. A framed portrait in acrylics of Arthur MacArthur, a small man with an angry face, who wished to be immortalized as he played the oboe, hung in the vestibule.

  Matha and her friends looked at everything, then at one another. They sat Indian-style in a circle on the floor of the main reception room and waited five minutes, ten, half an hour.

  “Anyone hungry?” Matha asked. The others, not knowing how to respond, didn’t.

  In spite of herself, she suddenly felt the urge to bake pies. This happened from time to time, in situations that seemed to require a domestic touch, and the impulse terrified her even more than the fear of her fellow radicals discovering her true name. She believed—irrationally but deeply—that in some mystical process at her birth she had absorbed the characteristics of the woman her mother had admired on TV, the DNA passing from the Today show into her own baby body. And she recoiled at the vision that one day she would actually become Martha Stewart. Sometimes she had to quash the desire to decorate the margins of her poems with daisies and bluets, and, as in this instance, to bake pies, particularly peach.