Sign of the Sandman

by Tom Turner

  “Sad? Scary is what it is. They’re still rioting at that sleep center in Sacramento.” He pointed out the front-page of a newspaper held by a passenger to his left. The headline read:

  Riot in California Hospital

  The photographs that accompanied the headlines were terrifying and violent. Fire tore through buildings, faces were bloodied, cops were outnumbered, and the eyes of the rioters were so red they practically jumped off the page.

  “Three more dead today,” said the newspaper’s owner.

  The businessman shook his head in disgust. “And how ‘bout that guy down in Philadelphia this morning?” he added. “Released all those rattlesnakes in his kid’s school. Talk about sick! This world gets darker by the day.”

  “Like I said: scary,” replied the construction worker.

  Charlie nodded silently in agreement as the subway pulled into his stop. Even the mention of snakes made his skin crawl, conjuring fears from his dream. Maybe it was all a weird coincidence, but lately it seemed the world had become a more frightening and dangerous place. And it was just getting worse. When the doors finally opened, he and Plug couldn’t get off the train fast enough. Especially Plug, who glared back at the sweaty construction worker.

  “Ever hear of deodorant?” he said.

  Charlie and Plug surfaced from the subway to honking horns and gridlocked traffic. They squeezed between two parked cars and raced into a corner convenience store. Charlie breezed past the fresh fruits and vegetables and headed for the junk food. He grabbed a box of Ring Dings.

  Sorry, Mom! he thought, grinning.

  Charlie was already on his way to the counter when pigeon man walked through the door. He entered slowly, surveying the store. It caught Charlie by surprise.

  That had to be him on the subway! Is he following me?

  Until today, pigeon man had never given him any cause for concern, but Charlie couldn’t shake the creepy feeling from their earlier encounter. Charlie paused in a side aisle, pretending to stare at a box of Minute Rice. When he peeked up at the large security mirror mounted in the corner, he could see pigeon man moving up the aisle toward him.

  There was no question. He was being followed. Charlie had had enough. He took a deep breath and turned to confront his pursuer.

  “Excuse me—” he said.

  But pigeon man sidestepped, glancing away. When he did, his eyes caught a ray of sunlight, and for a split second, Charlie was sure they glowed gold. It was brief but intense, like the spark of an arc welder’s torch.

  “What in the…”

  Charlie blinked freely, uncertain of what he had just seen, but decided not to stick around to find out. He hurried to the register and dropped some money on the counter, along with the Ring Dings.

  “Just this, please. And hurry—”

  “Ring Ding King in the house! Hook me up!” Plug demanded as he tackled Charlie from behind. “Chunks of crème-filled chocolate goodness! Come to daddy!”

  Charlie wasn’t listening. He was still troubled by his aisle-side clash with pigeon man.

  “Hello? Earth to Charlie,” said Plug, raising his voice a bit too loud for Charlie’s comfort. “Chocolate goodness please!”

  “Shhhh! Quiet,” Charlie whispered, pointing.

  “What?”

  Charlie pointed again. “Pigeon man! He’s following me.”

  “He’s not following you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you think everyone’s following you. Remember that time you thought the mayor had people following you because you broke the vending machine on our field trip to City Hall?”

  “This is different! He’s staring at me!”

  “Maybe he thinks you’re a pigeon,” said Plug. “Your hair does look like ruffled feathers.”

  “I’m serious!”

  “So am I! Five minutes with a comb would be time well spent. Speaking of time,” Plug checked his watch — a dainty Timex with a silver elastic band. “We gotta roll! We’re gonna be late!”

  “Cute watch,” said the purple-haired, multi-pierced, store clerk. “That come with a dress?”

  “It’s my nana’s,” snapped Plug. “I’m holding it for her.”

  He strolled toward the door and yelled back without missing a beat, “Nice hair! Come with a clown suit?” He thumbed his nose at the clerk and exited. “Let’s go, Charlie!”

  Charlie grabbed his change and took one last glance at pigeon man. Maybe Plug was right. Maybe it was just his imagination. But there was still a nagging feeling in his gut — one that latched onto his insides and wouldn’t let go.

  “Dude, pigeon man didn’t have gold eyes,” Plug insisted as they sprinted the last block to school. “And quit hogging the Ring Dings!”

  He grabbed for the box, but Charlie yanked them away and sprinted ahead.

  “Seriously, Charlie. I missed breakfast!”

  Charlie was running as fast as he could, not paying much attention to the world around him. He darted into the intersection just across from school, but the crossing guard snagged him by the hood of his sweatshirt.

  “Whoa! Take it down a gear, sport,” said the crossing guard. “The building’s not on wheels. It’ll still be there when you cross the street. Trick is to get there in one piece.”

  “Sorry, I was just…” Charlie’s words trailed off.

  “What is it?” asked Plug.

  “His eyes! Look at his eyes,” screamed Charlie, backing away. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, because he had just seen a gold spark in the crossing guard’s eyes — same as he did with pigeon man, only this time more intense.

  “Quit foolin’ around would ya,” said Plug. “The bell’s about to ring.”

  Charlie examined the crossing guard, as if he were an alien. “What are you?” he asked, backing across the intersection as the light changed.

  “He’s a crossing guard, ya idiot!” yelled Plug. “It says right there on his vest. Look!” He pointed. “Crossing! Guard!”

  The final bell rang, sending Plug into a tizzy.

  “Oh, great! Now we’re late,” he added. “Come on!”

  They raced up the school steps. Plug lagged behind, a little out of breath. Charlie blew through the doorway, almost running into the burly janitor, kicking the mop from his hand.

  “Sorry!” yelled Charlie as he hustled down the school corridor, glancing back with every step, fearful that these strange people with gold eyes, whoever they were, were following him. Unfortunately, he did not see the foot that slid into his path until it was too late. He tripped and tumbled to the ground. The contents of his book bag spilled onto the floor.

  “Where’s the fire, freak?” taunted a boy from the crowd.

  It was Joe Santiago, the biggest, oldest, and arguably dumbest sixth grader in New York City Public School 116.

  “What did I tell you about using the same hallway as me?” he barked.

  “I don’t know— not to?” said Charlie, sheepishly.

  Joe kicked Charlie’s backpack, scattering his things across the linoleum. “So then why are you here? It could be hazardous to your health.”

  “So are Ring Dings, but I still eat them.”

  Charlie wished Joe would just disappear from the planet. He reached for his box of Ring Dings, but as he did, Joe stomped on them, just missing Charlie’s fingers.

  “Eat that, loser!”

  Joe’s friends followed suit, chanting like mindless drones. “Loser! Loser! Loser!”

  Charlie leapt to his feet, but Joe grabbed him and slammed him into the wall. Charlie felt a warm fluid run from his nose and then tasted the salty tang of blood as it trickled over his lips and into his mouth. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The opening weeks of school had been a constant torment for him. He’d been thrust into Joe�
��s crosshairs simply for sitting at the wrong table during lunch.

  Charlie’s chest burned with humiliation as the “loser” chant grew louder. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he held them back. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of Joe or his laughing classmates.

  “Come on, loser! Fight back!” taunted Joe. “What? Your pop not teach you how to throw?”

  The comment stung Charlie.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right. You ain’t got no pop.” Joe’s words rolled off his tongue with cold indifference. “Oh well, one less loser at Family Night.”

  Charlie’s tears broke through, dampening the corners of his eyes, as years of buried emotion bubbled to the surface.

  “Quit it, Joe! Let him go!” Charlie heard a soft but forceful voice demand.

  Maryanne DePalma pushed her way through the crowd. Charlie’s tears blurred his vision, but he could still make out her piercing blue eyes and the dark wavy hair, which fell perfectly over her shoulders like a Hollywood starlet. She was the girl every guy hoped to date and every girl wanted to be.

  “Why do you gotta be such a jerk all the time?” she asked Joe.

  “Whatever,” he replied. Then he shot Charlie a hostile glare. “How’s it feel to be saved by a girl? Go home and cry to mommy.”

  Charlie clenched his fist. Just one good, stiff whack across the chin, he thought, his heart thundering against his chest. One good shot! But Charlie never got the chance, because Plug rushed past like a charging bull.

  “Fire Plug! Yahhhhhh!”

  Plug plowed into Joe, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. He flailed like a hapless insect as Plug reclined on top of him.

  “You better get off me, fat boy!” Joe growled, as he struggled beneath Plug’s sizable backside.

  “Then you better apologize,” insisted Plug.

  “Keep dreaming, fatty.”

  “Have it your way. I could sit here all day. And I should warn you: I had burritos last night.”

  Plug lounged back and sang, “Beans! Beans! Good for the heart! The more you eat, the more you—”

  Plug let go a noisy rip.

  “I am Bean Man!” he shouted triumphantly to a chorus of student laughter.

  Even Maryanne smiled. Plug winked at her.

  “We’re sorry for the commotion,” he said flirtatiously as he grinned down at his hostage. “Aren’t we, Joe?”

  Joe’s face had turned three shades of purple.

  “Alright! Knock it off,” echoed a scolding voice from what sounded like deep space. Charlie’s thin-haired, stern-faced math teacher, Mr. Renrut, pushed through the crowd. “That’s enough!” he bellowed. He grabbed Plug by his earlobe and lifted him off of Joe.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Okay!” cried Plug.

  Mr. Renrut seized Charlie and Joe, as well, and then turned toward the gathered students. He glared over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I’ll give everyone five seconds to get to class,” he said, “or you’ll spend the next week in detention with these three troublemakers.”

  Students scattered like mice in the presence of a hungry cat.

  “Detention?” said Joe. “But he—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Santiago.”

  “You can’t smell it?”

  “Two weeks! Want to go for three?”

  “No,” Joe said, fuming.

  Charlie smirked, happy to take a week of detention in exchange for this small victory. Mr. Renrut led the three boys toward the principal’s office and, unfortunately, through Plug’s musty cloud of funk.

  “Seriously, William,” said Mr. Renrut, fanning his nose, “that’s just wrong.”

  The janitor and crossing guard stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway of the school’s entrance, watching the students clear. Their gaze was locked squarely on Charlie, who was being led away in the distance.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?” asked the janitor. He spoke under his breath.

  “Yes,” said the crossing guard. “It was inevitable.”

  “Should we secure the gateway?”

  From across the street, they heard a violent scream and the sound of breaking glass. The crossing guard turned and watched a man jump from his car and lash out at another driver. He waved a crowbar, swinging it violently. His eyes were red with rage.

  “We may not have a choice.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NANA AND THE FERRIS WHEEL

  Mr. Tripullani, the detention supervisor, was a rhinoceros of a man with a bushy beard and rather large backside — so large, in fact, that most students took to calling him Mr. Triple-heiny, but never to his face. He was parked behind a too-small desk at the head of the class, reading the Sports Section of the New York Post while shoving a bag of Doritos into his mouth handfuls at a time.

  Charlie fidgeted at his desk. He kept glancing out the window, wondering if pigeon man would reappear and, for that matter, just how many other gold-eyed people might be out there.

  “Are you expecting someone, Mr. Galen?” shouted Mr. Tripullani to Charlie.

  “No, sir. It’s just— It’s nothing.”

  “Right then. Eyes front.”

  Charlie obeyed. He knew he had an active imagination and hoped the gold eyes were just a product of that, but better safe than sorry. He kept one eye on the window.

  “Hey, Mr. Trip,” barked Joe from the other side of the room. “How long do we gotta sit here?”

  “Shut your mouth, that’s how long,” Mr. Tripullani barked back through a mouthful of chips.

  “Come on, Mr. Trip!” said Joe. “How long?”

  “Until I say you don’t have to!”

  “But I got things to do!”

  “Well, so do I, Mr. Santiago! So do I!”

  “Yeah, like going home to eat — Uh… I mean feed his cat,” whispered Plug through a snicker.

  Charlie tried to stifle a laugh, but it pushed through his nose, forcing out a noisy snort. Mr. Tripullani fired a warning scowl in Charlie’s direction.

  “This sucks!” whined Joe.

  He turned and gave Charlie a menacing stare while threateningly pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.

  “Guess Joe’s still mad,” whispered Plug.

  “Good,” Charlie whispered back, gently touching his bruised nose. “He made me look like an idiot in front of everyone!”

  “Well, you gotta stop letting him bully you around,” said Plug.

  “What am I supposed to do? Fight him? He’s an ape!”

  “I didn’t say fight him. But don’t be afraid to stick up for yourself,” Plug replied. “Bullies feed off fear.”

  Mr. Tripullani let out a big “Shhhhh,” blowing Dorito crumbs from his beard onto the floor.

  Plug leaned in closer. “My nana once told me the only way to make a bully go away is to show them you’re not afraid. Don’t let them see you sweat. Know what I mean?”

  Charlie nodded. He did understand, though he couldn’t say the same for his nose.

  The instant the clock over the blackboard struck five, Mr. Tripullani dismissed them from detention. Charlie and Plug collected their things and bolted from the room, hoping to avoid any further confrontations with Joe Santiago. They ran down the empty corridor and out the front door.

  “Free at last! Free at last!” cried Plug. “Thank God Almighty, we’re free at last!”

  “Yeah, until tomorrow,” laughed Charlie as he bounded down the school steps two at a time. The last step jarred his memory. “Hey!” he shouted to Plug. “Don’t forget, you’re coming over for dinner tonight! Pizza!”

  “I may forget a lot of things,” replied Plug. “Food’s not one of them. But we need to make a quick stop first, if that’s cool. I promised my nana I’d check on her.”

  “Of course,” said C
harlie.

  Plug smiled, but Charlie could tell it was forced, a mask to disguise the pain. He knew Plug’s nana might never get well. She had become ill a few days before Plug’s tenth birthday. Something pretty serious, involving symptoms Charlie couldn’t remember or hardly pronounce. She seemed a little better during Charlie’s last visit, maybe even recovering. But shortly after, events took a turn for the worse, and she fell into a coma. It was terrible news, and Charlie had been as upset as anyone. He considered Plug’s nana practically his own. She was one of the nicest ladies he knew.

  “I know it sounds like crazy talk, and people probably think she can’t hear me and all,” sighed Plug, tears threatening to dampen his lashes. “But she’s my nana, ya know? She needs me. I gotta be there for her. Gotta try.”

  “I know,” said Charlie.

  He followed Plug out of the schoolyard. It was getting late, and the sun had begun its slow dip over the west side of Manhattan. Charlie continued to keep watch over his shoulder. Things seemed to be getting back to normal, but the sight of those gold eyes still burned fresh in his memory.

  The oranges and pinks of sunset gave way to the blues and purples of twilight as Charlie and Plug arrived at the foreboding black tower of Mount Sinai Hospital. Its steely frame loomed like a hammer, and Charlie twitched beneath its shadow.

  “Plug,” he said, almost distractedly, “you can’t call ‘dibs’ on Maryanne DePalma!”

  “Why not? Because you like her?”

  “Because she’s not a slice of pizza,” said Charlie. “And because everyone likes her! She’s the hottest girl in school. Take a number.”

  “I am. Number one! Because, unlike everyone else in school, I can really work the honeys!” Plug thumped his chest. “I got a shot!”

  “Yeah! In your dreams,” laughed Charlie.

  He and Plug passed through the revolving doors and into the lobby, where a grim-faced security guard greeted them. This was hardly Charlie’s first visit, yet still, he was never sure if they were entering a hospital or a prison. But the security guard checked his clipboard, smiled politely, and sent them on their way. It reassured Charlie, but only slightly.