Fortune Smiles: Stories

by Adam Johnson

  Outside, I harvest a few flowers but soon find myself staring at my hand in the headlamp’s beam, which is pale and even. The light is eclipse light, as when the moon is in transit across the face of the sun. There was a weekend when Skipper had us sail to Santa Cruz Island to witness an eclipse. On the voyage over, he showed us girlie magazines and told us jokes about sailors and sharks and faggots and priests. We anchored in Potato Harbor, then rowed in teams to the beach. As the eclipse began, the light slowly dimmed. Most of the boys stared upward with their stupid black glasses. Only I recognized the kind of light we were standing in. Suddenly, the Skipper had his hand on my shoulder.

  Normally, his Merchant Marines ring flashed aqua, but here it glowed a royal blue.

  How had he gotten close without my noticing?

  “When most people think of light, they think on or off,” the Skipper told me. “But the observant scout will see there’s a hundred kinds of light. Just like there’s a hundred kinds of water. Each with its own set of rules.”

  He produced a twelve-pack of beer—one for each scout in the troop.

  We toasted the sun and the moon and their temporary union. It was my first taste.

  “What happens in the eclipse stays in the eclipse,” Skipper announced, and we cheered.

  The way he said it was both funny and menacing, like when he’d tell a gay joke. We all knew what he thought of the gays.

  —

  The next day, the Tiger and the Cub are having a yard sale. They sit at a table covered with household goods. I drift over. The Tiger is wearing gym shorts and a jean jacket. The Cub has on a red hand-me-down hoodie.

  When I approach the table, I ask, “Why aren’t you guys in school?”

  The Cub says, “It’s Saturday, Mr. Roses.”

  This is the closest I’ve been to the Cub. There is no single trait that makes her activate—it’s not the brown ringlets or baby-fat cheeks or exaggerated expressions. It’s just the cusp she’s on. I can see on her face a wide-eyed, trusting openness. She directs this look to a world that has yet to reveal its dark and unapologetic nature. Part of me wants to kill the person who manages to steal that look from her. And a loathsome, unfathomable part thinks it’s only natural to be the thief.

  When I let my gaze fall upon a power juicer, the Tiger says, “It’s like new. We never even used it.” And when I look at a waffle iron, the Cub forlornly lifts her eyebrows and says only, “Waffles.”

  “You guys trying to save up for something?” I ask.

  “Just making ends meet,” the Tiger says.

  They are eating slices of frozen French toast straight from the box.

  I look over at their apartment, door standing open. “Your mom sleeping?” I ask.

  The Cub says, “She’s on tour with a band.”

  “What band is this?” I ask.

  “We forget,” the Tiger says. “And we can’t check Mom’s blog. The Internet’s not working.”

  “The cable, too,” the Cub adds.

  “Is your Internet working?” the Tiger asks.

  “I don’t have the Internet,” I tell them.

  The Tiger nods in sympathy. “Anyway,” she says, “the band is going to be the next Nirvana.”

  “Do you know when your mother’s coming back?” I ask. “Are you in contact with her?”

  “Yeah,” the Tiger says. “We texted her, and she texted back. She said we shouldn’t worry about her, that she’s just fine.”

  The Cub holds up a clock radio. “Five bucks,” she says. “It beams the time on the ceiling.”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “The sad part,” the Tiger says, “is that our place is filled with rock memorabilia.”

  “It’s priceless,” the Cub says.

  “But we can’t sell any of it,” the Tiger says.

  “Because it’s priceless,” the Cub says. Then she adds, “My dad is a rock star.”

  “Mine, too,” the Tiger says. “But her dad is seriously famous. Like, sell-out-stadiums famous. He sends us a check every month, which is why we don’t have to work.”

  I look at some of their things—a bathroom scale, a pop-up Polaroid camera, a lamp.

  I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve laid eyes on their mother.

  “You guys have any relatives looking after you?” I ask. “Some folks you can call?”

  They shake their heads, and I nod at the situation.

  “I always have to buy something at a yard sale,” I tell them. “It’s an addiction I have.”

  “What about a picture?” the Cub asks. From behind the table, she lifts a painting of a boat upon a moonlit velvet sea. The wooden frame is hand-carved and darkly stained. It’s the kind of painting you see Mexican guys selling at stoplights on Sepulveda.

  The Tiger says, “I think it’s a clipper ship.”

  “It’s actually a sloop,” I tell her. “A Bermuda sloop, rigged to sail alone.”

  “You a sailor?” the Cub asks.

  “I used to sail,” I say. “I haven’t in a long time. But it’s easy to tell ships apart—you look at the sails and masts. It goes sloop, cutter, ketch, schooner, clipper.”

  The Tiger says, “Now you have to buy it.”

  “It is a fine painting,” I say, and scratch my chin. “Probably worth more than I can afford.”

  The girls look at each other. “Make us an offer,” the Tiger says.

  I open my wallet and look inside. I pull out those three one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “This is the best I can do,” I tell them.

  —

  After darkness falls, I sit on my small porch and read the latest National Geographic. I don’t want to be in the same room as my computer, and my heart’s not into gardening tonight. There’s an article about U.S. soldiers who defuse bombs in a distant land. First they must approach the bomb—this is nerve-racking because anything they inspect might contain explosive material. Once they become acquainted with the device, they try to break it down to its elements. They separate the power source from the trigger, then the trigger from the charge. When a device detonates, it’s not like Hollywood, one soldier says. You wake up later and you can’t really be sure what’s real and what’s the echo in your head. He says you can defuse a bomb in the real world, but the bomb in your head, that’s forever.

  Somehow, without my noticing it, the Tiger and the Cub have appeared before me on the porch. When I lower my magazine, there they are, the Tiger in her tiger-striped mascot suit, the Cub in pajamas patterned with rainbows and unicorns.

  The Tiger says, “Some guy was looking in our window.”

  “He was scary,” the Cub says.

  “We heard a noise,” the Tiger says. “When we looked up, there he was.”

  “I don’t want to go back there,” the Cub says.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” I tell them. “Come, let’s have a look.”

  We cross my yard, the parking lot and the courtyard to their one-bedroom apartment.

  Inside, the walls are covered with guitars, album covers and cymbals autographed in black marker. The Tiger’s Mom has the bedroom, so the girls sleep on the floor in front of the TV. The floors: there are heaps of dirty laundry, cardboard boxes, bikes on their sides, and strips of masking tape worked into the carpet to mark the mascot’s dance steps.

  “Where did you see him?” I ask.

  They point at the window above a small breakfast table.

  “I heard someone say there was a peeper in the neighborhood,” I say.

  “What’s a peeper?” the Cub asks.

  “He’s a guy,” I say. “He’s a fellow who likes— What he does is—”

  “He looks in your windows,” the Tiger says.

  “Oh,” the Cub says. “Why would he do that?”

  The Tiger looks at me, wondering if she should explain, and I shake my head.

  “Wait here,” I tell them. Outside, I make my way to the back of the complex, squeezing between the trash
bins and dryer vents as I traverse the apartment’s rear wall. Here, I cup my hands to the glass and peer inside, observing the girls the way a pervert would. When the Cub looks in my direction, she screams and then the Tiger screams and then they realize it’s only me.

  I move to inspect the bedroom window. Below the window frame, the grass is trampled and someone has ejaculated many times onto the pink stucco. Nearing the glass, I gaze into the mother’s bedroom. Here is the mattress where the Tiger’s Mom sleeps off her hangovers, where—out cold, sheets balled, robe flopped open—she spends her days.

  Inside, I tell the girls that some guy probably just looked in the wrong window. Still, we hang towels over both panes. The girls are happy to have a visitor. The Tiger shows me her tiger dance. She cages her eyes and moves seriously through a drill, like it is the fourth quarter and the home crowd is depending on her to spark a rally.

  The Cub, too, performs for me. She begins to move about the apartment like a dolphin. Her elbows become fins. She puffs her cheeks and holds her breath. When she lifts her head, she’s breaching the surface, and when her neck lowers, she’s diving deep, and she is not running through soiled clothes, she is swimming in the open ocean. In this faraway sea, alcohol doesn’t exist and neither do North Hollywood one-bedrooms. Here, men don’t fuck groupies or masturbate while your mother dreams. I watch the Cub swim laps around me, her limber young body silently circling, wholly unaware of the designs the world has drafted for her.

  When her eyes lift to mine, seeking my approval, I call a halt to this swimming and dancing business. I go to their fridge, papered with nightclub flyers. Inside, I find nothing, not even milk.

  “You hungry, Mr. Roses?” the Cub asks.

  The freezer, too, is empty. “What happened to the money I gave you for the painting?”

  The Tiger says, “We had to pay a bill.”

  “What bill was this?”

  The Tiger says, “A guy came by. He knows our mom, and it turns out there was a bill she forgot to pay.”

  “Wait here,” I tell them, and then head to the 7-Eleven on the corner, where I buy whole-grain cereal, bananas, a gallon of milk and some dodgy-looking taquitos, but at least they are warm.

  Behind the checkout counter are racks of dirty magazines. I turn from them. I feel like a good guy, a normal guy who has normal interactions with others. The Cub is a powerful force. She activates. But I feel strong and good. I deliver the groceries, and when I take leave of the girls, I stand on the front step and tell them to close the door and lock it.

  “I want to hear it lock,” I say.

  They close the door on me, but instead of locking it, they say, “What are we going to do?”

  “Read a book,” I say through the wood. “Better yet, go to bed. Now lock the door.”

  They are quiet a moment. Then the deadbolt locks.

  —

  At home, I hang the boat painting where I can see it from my bed. I lie atop my covers, thinking about the guy who is sailing alone. All the lights in my apartment are off, but there’s enough glow through the window to see the weight and size of the ocean rollers, to note how the rigging strains in the wind. The sailor is looking toward a dark horizon, so the viewer can’t see his face, but it’s easy to tell his story is an old one: a sailor has lost something far out at sea. Now he’s heading back to claim it.

  It’s just a cheap painting, but for hours I wonder if the sailor can get the thing back, if he can find the place where he lost it. To do that, he has to sail back in time, to before. The journey is impossible, but he has his boat rigged right, and the rope is in his hands. The wind is up and he’s bowfronting the waves. Most important, the sailor has made the decision. He has embarked.

  I decide to text Officer Hernandez. It’s the middle of the night. Using software to alias my SIM card data, I send him this message: 5c2758ba7d4f4dd90c5525b5aa6a09cb4305452c121e5a5961c1f4fc451223fee2982285274b6e2ca36d2587f848b72517236ca950bf8934a6afada07976aaac098aeaf54e83b70c4a00442bf548d7e307c5e1f93abfc0ef1d4777b69d9d9eaaa685947050483d8907f9516eb7f6870edbf52d7e7153e737a80a60f2b5366eaf.

  —

  In the morning, I get a text for a computer consultation in Sun Valley. Shittier even than Pacoima, Chatsworth, Reseda and my own North Hollywood is Sun Valley. I take Tujunga north to La Tuna. I pull up in front of a defunct dog kennel sandwiched between a cement plant and a maintenance yard. There’s a chain across the lot, so I park in the street.

  I double-check the address. Then I text the number back: “Dog kennel?”

  Right away, I get my answer: “Yes, DM14097. Just knock, we’re home.”

  No one in the world has connected the real me with DM14097. I’m no longer that person. I no longer use screen names. I don’t surf forums, chat rooms or P2P directories. I stopped using Tor, eDonkey and Fetch. I don’t swap, barter, buy in or burn-request. I gave up the entire Internet. I have only my little library, and I’m chipping away at that.

  I check my phone, but this person also knows how to alias his SIM data.

  Just then he texts back: “btw, this is Dodger6636.”

  In the world I no longer inhabit, where people exist only online, fantasy and deed are indistinguishable. Yet there was one man known by his deeds. And that was Dodger6636, a legend in the realm. He must have outlasted them all.

  I look at the abandoned dog kennel, taking note of the improvised satellite dishes on the roof and the aluminum foil covering the storefront windows. I get that feel, that kinetic conk inside when I’d receive a delivery from Dodger in my Fetch Dropbox: a puppy avatar would alert me by dancing across my computer window and then laying the bone in his mouth at the foot of my screen. When you got a delivery from Dodger, you knew it was special, it was some long-lost tidbit you’d never laid eyes on.

  I step over the chain. Glass and gravel crunch as I cross the lot.

  Dodger opens the door before I raise my hand to knock.

  “Dark Meadow,” he says, taking a good look at me. “You made it.”

  “Looks like you made it, too,” I say.

  He’s older than me, a bit potbellied. He’s had what were maybe some small skin cancers removed from his forehead and scalp. We’ve never met—I’ve never met anyone from that world—but he says, “I remember you well. You’re different than I imagined, but tastes never change. Pictures only, if I recall. And you’re a vintage guy, right, you like the classic stuff?”

  One look into Dodger’s eyes, and you can tell what kind he is: the kind that is born.

  “Actually, I’ve embarked on a new life,” I tell him.

  “Certainly,” he says. “I understand completely.” He removes a thumb drive from his pocket. “You won’t be needing this, then. But I’ll give it to you for old times’ sake. It’s custom-loaded for you.”

  He holds out the thumb drive, and I take it, warm from his pants.

  “You know how hard it is to find new vintage material?” he asks me. “What was it Wordsworth said, ‘A springtime loss is autumn’s gain’? Just remember that I made the effort, I walked the mile for you. It’s encrypted, but the key is ‘Dark Meadow.’ ”

  When I close my fingers around the drive, Dodger beckons me in.

  “You weren’t easy to find,” he tells me. “But we need you.”

  I follow Dodger through the empty waiting room into a hallway stacked with blinking server arrays; several box fans hum full speed to keep them cool. We enter what might have once been a dog-grooming area—there are stainless-steel counters and tables and sinks. The sinks are deep. One is filled with dirty coffee cups, and the other is ringed with beauty supplies. At one metal table, a man is editing video. He’s got a couple of cinema screens and a mixing board.

  Dodger addresses him, “Bert, this is Dark Meadow. He doesn’t like video. It’s only pictures for him.”

  Without turning from his screens, Bert says, “Old-school.”

  “Dark Meadow’s the one who posted that article,” Dodger says. “He’s here to make sure our se
rvers are clean.”

  The tables are tall and ringed with director’s chairs. When we sit, Dodger says, “You don’t know how glad I am to see you, old friend. Your article touched on a matter of grave concern for us. Can you lend us your expertise?”

  “You’ve got a regular server farm in there,” I say. “Do you have a T1 line?”

  Dodger lifts his hands. “Our business requires it,” he says, and he starts detailing all their hardware configurations.

  I can feel there are other rooms down a short hall, maybe veterinary exam rooms or rooms filled with animal cages. When I glance over at Bert’s screens, I see footage of a girl. She is naked except for her socks. She walks into the shot, facing away from the viewer, and she approaches a table. Bert backs the footage up so that she enters again, approaches the table again, and leaning forward slightly, she places her hands palm-down upon it.

  “This should be no problem,” I tell Dodger, even though I haven’t completely heard him. Such is the absorbing power of video. “Let me grab my diagnostic drives from the van.” I glance again at the screen.

  Dodger catches me and smiles. “He said he didn’t like videos,” he tells Bert.

  “I heard,” Bert says.

  “Who could blame you?” Dodger says. “She’s special, brand-new. Look at her, knock-kneed and wobbly. She doesn’t even know where to look. I have them leave their socks on. It’s one of those touches.”

  On the screen, a naked man with pale skin enters. He approaches the girl from behind.

  “She needs a name,” Dodger says. “All the good ones have been used up—Dazzle, Sparkle, Crush, Taffy, Daphne, Tumble, Twist.”

  “What about Trample?” Bert asks.

  “Go back to your editing,” Dodger tells him, then says to me, “Bert has no sense of beauty, he appreciates nothing.”