by Ray Daniel
“So what are they protesting?”
“They say they have a hundred people.”
“A hundred people protesting what?”
“You.”
Forty-Two
There is something paradoxical about walking the streets of Boston wearing a good coat of face paint. On the one hand, you get a lot of attention. People look at you as their lizard brains note that something is amiss, and they swivel their heads at you. On the other hand, you get ignored. People immediately avert their eyes and not one of them could give an accurate description of what you look like.
What did he look like?
He looked like a guy with face paint.
I had left Mel and headed up Newbury Street to a little shop I’d never expected to visit, Back Bay Body Painting and Tattoo. You know that a trend has gone upscale when it reaches Newbury Street.
I stepped through the door, greeted the owner. “I need a face painting.”
He pushed a catalog toward me. “Anything in particular?”
I flipped a page or two, found what I wanted, pointed.
“That’s cool. Good choice!”
I left, walking down Newbury, and had gotten almost to St. Botolph before I saw my first Guy Fawkes. Or he would soon be a Guy Fawkes, because he had his mask lifted onto his forehead as he walked. Like everyone else, he glanced my way, but instead of averting his eyes he broke into a big smile.
“Dude, that is awesome!” he said, giving me the thumbs-up.
“Thanks,” I said.
He fell into step next to me and we continued down Ring Road, entering the South End. “I wish I’d thought of getting Guy Fawkes face paint.”
“Masks get sweaty.”
“You got that right.”
“Any idea how many anons will be there?” I asked.
“Naw, man. No telling. I mean, I think it’s a lot. It’s like an all handser.”
“All handser?”
“All hands on deck. We’re going to bring Tucker down.”
“Finally!”
Guy stuck out his hand. “I’m Joe.”
“Call me T.”
“T like Tucker?”
“Unfortunate, right?”
“Man, that guy pisses me off. He’s what’s wrong with the world today.”
We turned onto St. Botolph and I could see trouble brewing two blocks down, where a milling mob stood at the corner of my street.
“You better put on your mask.”
“Yeah, let’s do this thing,” said Joe, sliding his mask into place.
The Guy Fawkes mask is the perfect tool for public protest. Fawkes’s curly mustache, plumb-line soul patch, and knowing eyebrows presented the face of a man who knew your secrets and found them pathetic. Unlike the more traditional towel-over-the-face mask worn by many protesters, a Guy Fawkes protester was clearly identified as someone bent on justice with a side order of mischief.
There had to be over a hundred of them. The dead-end Follen Street turned into a protesters’ courtyard as they spilled off the sidewalks and onto the road. I glanced nervously at handmade signs that shouted JUSTICE FOR ALL, TUCKER KILLS, and WHY DO WE LET THIS MAN WALK AMONG US, THIS KILLER AND CORRUPTOR? This last sign had started in a large font, but eventually shrunk, finally crunching the word corruptor up against the lower right-hand corner. The messages on the signs didn’t worry me as much as the wooden handles.
My Guy Fawkes face paint continued to get thumbs-up and rave reviews, except for one guy. A short guy in an emo-black outfit said, “You’re supposed to wear a mask.”
“Nobody can tell who I am.”
“I can.”
“Really?” I slipped around him, looking to get a straight shot run to my front door.
“Yeah, you’re a douche bag.”
“Hey, c’mon now.”
“You look different from us.”
“I look just like you.”
“No, you definitely look different. The masks give us solidarity.”
“Really. I thought we were Anonymous, not Solidarity.”
“What?”
“I mean you took History of Protest in college, right? The cool kids all took it.”
“There’s no such class.”
“Not cool enough, huh?”
“Fuck off, man.”
I left him and milled around the protest. It was kind of like going to your own funeral and discovering that everybody hated you. Snatches of conversation had nothing good to say. Two Guy Fawkeses engaged in mask-muffled conversation.
“He’s rich, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“A one-percenter.”
“I guess he made his money in tech, like with Uber or something?”
“Naw man, he extorted it from the place he worked.”
“That’s kind of cool.”
“Cool? He killed his wife and blamed them.”
“Holy shit!”
“He’s a bad dude.”
I thought about breaking in with a defense, but it would have been unwise.
Another Fawkes approached me. “Love the face paint,” a female voice said from behind a mask.
“Thanks.”
“This mask is hot.”
I made a show of looking her up and down. “That’s not the only thing.”
“Don’t be a pig.”
“Little late for that advice.”
She looked up at the houses. “I wonder which one is his.”
“That one,” I said, pointing. Mr. Know-it-all, showing off for the ladies.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Um—I just know.”
“Really.”
“I’m going to go take a closer look.” I left her behind, sauntered over to where anons had clustered in front of my door. Found the Guy Fawkes mask whose owner had the most leader-like bearing. Sporting a purple-tipped Mohawk, he stood shoulders back, arms akimbo, staring up at my windows.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked.
“Plan?” Mohawk replied in a reedy voice.
“Yeah. You all came out here. What did you plan to do?”
“What do we plan to do?”
“Yeah.”
“We plan to protest.”
“What do you do if he comes out?”
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“You keep saying you.”
“Um.”
“Like you’re not part of all this.”
“You all have masks. I forgot I had the face paint.”
“So the face paint makes you different?”
“No, what I mean is—”
“Huh. Do you know what Tucker looks like?”
“Never seen him with my own eyes.” Mirrors don’t count.
“I do.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, guy around your height, your build, your hair color. Looks a lot like you.”
“Lucky devil.”
A commotion started up over the guy’s shoulder. The woman had gathered a small crowd.
“That’s him,” she said, pointing.
The accusatory sound caused more heads to turn, then some bodies.
Mohawk asked, “Who?”
Like a fight in the grandstands, the commotion caused a ripple of attention. Heads turning, bodies moving, a tight circle of Guy Fawkes masks forming around the two of us.
Mohawk called out, “Hey, CapnMerica!”
The circle closed ranks. There would be no way to get to my front door without going through twenty anons. One of the Guy Fawkes protestors broke through into the circle.
Mohawk asked, “You recognize this guy?”
The Guy Fawkes protestor called CapnMerica peered at me,
his mask jutting forward. “That’s him! That’s Tucker!”
Despite the mask, I could hear that CapnMerica was the guy who had tried to perform a citizen’s arrest but instead got slapped for his potty mouth.
“I thought so,” said Mohawk.
The circle around me tightened as the masks closed in. Voices rose.
“Suck my cock, Tucker!”
“Killer!”
A group launched into the Darryl Strawberry chant, “Tuuuck-errr, Tuuuck-errr, Tuuuck-errr.” Another had a call and response going. “What do we want?” “Justice!” “When do we want it?” “Now!”
I called out to CapnMerica, “You going try your citizen’s arrest again?”
He said, “Naw, man. You’d be right back on the streets.”
“You are on my street.”
The cacophony of individual taunts, chanting, and rehearsed rhyming grew in volume. But I had realized something. None of these people was going to break the circle. None of them was going to fight me. They were all signs and screaming, but I’d lived through worse. A lot worse.
I walked to the edge of the circle, up to a knot of masks. Stood erect, leaned forward a bit, looked into their eyes through their masks, said, “Excuse me.” The group looked at each other, parted. I heard Mohawk over my shoulder.
“Hey, Tucker, you fucking pussy,” he said.
I ignored him, stepped to the next group. “Excuse me.” They too realized that they didn’t want anything physical, stepped back. Mohawk was right behind me, keeping up a litany of insults: “pussy,” “killer,” “cocksucker,” “rapist.” I continued through the crowd, ignoring him, staring down group after group. I reached the front step, climbed it. Turned to look at the mob of angry-sounding masks. The “Tuuuck-errr” chant continued. Then another group picked up with “Jail! Jail! Jail! Jail!”
Mohawk stood on the sidewalk in front of me, raised his arms for silence. Got it. The crowd waited to see what would happen next.
Are you not entertained?
Mohawk called out, “Aloysius Tucker, you killed Runway!”
I figured I had nothing to lose. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Prove it! Prove you didn’t kill them!”
The crowd picked up with “Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!”
I raised my arms. “I don’t have to prove it. I’m telling you all I didn’t do it!”
Mohawk pointed. “You did!”
I stepped away from my front door, stood behind Mohawk. The silence returned. Looked straight at Mohawk. Spoke quietly, so the crowd had to lean in.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re a fucking liar.”
“That’s enough!” I yelled and launched into Mohawk, driving my shoulder through his chest. He fell back, his head hitting the concrete with a thud with me on top of him. I grabbed the chin of his mask, ripped it off. Mohawk had an Asian face and frightened eyes. I slapped him and he started to cry.
Oh, a tough guy.
The mob was of three minds: fleeing, watching, or wading in. A group of five anons waded in, grabbing my arms and pulling me off Mohawk. I couldn’t free my arms, so I kicked him in the leg. He cowered.
They dragged me back. One guy said, “That’s enough! That’s enough!”
A small anon in a skirt ran in front of me, pushed her hands onto my chest, and lifted her mask. E wrapped her arms around me, sobbing wet tears onto my chest. “Tucker! Tucker, stop.”
Two anons knelt next to Mohawk and helped him up. They lifted their masks. One was Dorothy Flores.
“See?” said Dorothy. “This is why nobody likes you.”
Forty-Three
Sirens sounded in the distance, causing anons to scatter like kids who’d broken a window. E released me, kissed my cheek.
I felt like a shit.
E tugged me toward my front door. “We should get off the street.”
We single-filed up the steps to my apartment door. I unlocked the door, paused. The guy who had helped Mohawk up still wore his Guy Fawkes mask.
“Masks off in my house,” I said.
“You have a mask,” New Guy complained.
“I have face paint.”
He pulled off the mask to reveal a thin, craggy face and buzz cut.
I opened the door, waved the procession into the condo. New Guy, E, Dorothy, and Mohawk clustered in the hallway, looking uncomfortable.
I stuck out my hand to Mohawk. “I’m sorry.”
Mohawk sniffled, rubbed his nose, shook my hand.
I wiped my hand on my pants. “You need a tissue?”
He nodded.
I got a box of tissues, gave it to him. “By the way, I’m Tucker.”
Mohawk looked at his shoes. “I know.”
“Now you tell me your name,” I said.
“Eliza.”
“Your real name.”
“You’ll dox me.”
“Already did. Your real name is Russell Nguyen.”
“Hey … ”
“You live on Clinton Street, near Dorothy.”
“You suck!”
I turned to New Guy. “I’ll bet you’re Tron, and your real name is—”
“No, man, don’t do it.”
“Earl Clary.”
“Dammit!”
“You live on Lambert Street in Cambridge.”
Earl stamped his little foot. “What did you do that for?”
“You pissed me off.”
Earl pointed at E. “Who’s she?”
“She’s E.”
“Why didn’t you dox her?”
“She didn’t piss me off.”
Blue and red lights flashed in the street as the police came to check out what had once been a public protest. The lights flashed through my front windows as the cops considered their next steps. If Lee was with them, their next step was likely to be to harass me.
“Think we’ll get swatted?” asked Earl.
“Not with one police car,” I said. “You want a beer?”
Nods all around.
I pulled out several bottles of Green Monsta IPA from a case I had bought on Opening Day. Handed beers around. “One for Dorothy, one for Russell, one for Earl, one for E.”
Mostly doxed, we stood around my kitchenette drinking beers. The police lights disappeared. Despite my hospitality, I still felt like an asshole. A ragey asshole.
“I am sorry, Russell,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost my shit.”
“You can’t go around hitting people,” said Russell.
“You called me a liar.”
Russell pouted.
“You stood right in front of me and called me a liar.”
“But I thought—”
“Whatever you thought, you thought wrong.”
“But you killed Peter!”
“I did not kill Peter. When are you going to get that into your head?”
So much for apologizing without reservation. The Internet was worming its way into my soul, turning me into as big a jerk as the rest of them. More silence. More beer drinking. I drained mine, opened another.
E said, “Russell, you need to learn to fight better if you’re going to insult people in real life.”
“Oh, you can fight?”
“I don’t insult people in real life, but I could teach you some jiujitsu.”
Dorothy asked, “What does E stand for?”
E tapped at her Samsung, didn’t answer.
I said, “Epomis.”
E gave me a dirty look.
“Hey, at least you’re not doxed.”
Dorothy said, “Epomis? I know you. You’ve been defending Tucker all over the place.”
“I like Tucker.”
; “If you like him so much, why were you at the protest?”
“I thought he might need someone to dial 911. I was right.”
I asked, “Who had the bright idea for this public protest?”
Earl said, “I don’t know, man. The idea just came up in the Anonops chat room.”
Russell said, “Everyone thought it was a great idea.”
E said, “Ahem.”
“Except for Epomis.”
Dorothy said to me, “You needed to be stopped.”
I lifted my shirt, showed her the bruise. “You almost did that with your baseball bat.”
“That’s what happens when a killer knocks on my door.”
I said, “Stop. This whole #TuckerGate thing is bullshit that you guys made up before you started breathing your own air and thinking you had heard it somewhere else. I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t kill Peter. And I’m not the HackMaster. I can’t even use a sword.”
Dorothy said, “We didn’t make it up.”
Russell said, “The evidence—”
“There is no evidence. There’s a narrative. You made up a story and jammed in selected facts to fit. Where they didn’t fit, you used coincidence and innuendo as mortar.”
Silence from Russell.
“If anyone is owed an apology, it’s me.”
Silence from everyone.
“Can I get another beer, man?” asked Earl.
“Sure.” I got him a beer, popped the top. Handed it to him. “You know, you guys are victims here as much as anyone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dorothy.
“Somebody framed you guys for a felony.”
“What felony?”
“Phishing a US senator and stealing information from him.” I wasn’t going to tell them what kind of information.
“We didn’t do that.”
“The FBI thinks you did. They’re closing in on you.”
“How would you know?” asked Russell.
I gave him a significant look.
“You are in their pocket.”
“I’m not in their pocket.”
“They’re in yours.”
“Maybe we just work together sometimes.”
“Like right now, you’re setting us up.”
“No, Russell, if I were setting you up you’d be in jail by now.”