The Fool of New York City

by Michael O'Brien

  The giant shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you running away from something, son?”

  I now realize that she is talking to him as if he is a child. She has concluded that he is some kind of handicapped person, perhaps a gargantuan imbecile.

  “I’m not running away from anything, ma’am. I’m just trying to help my friend here. He has amnesia.”

  The woman turns to me, seeing me for the first time.

  “Do you have any identification, sir?”

  I shake my head glumly.

  “What is your name and your present address?”

  “My name is Francisco de Goya, I think. I am certain, however, that I live with this gentleman, Billy Revere, in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  The woman tries to suppress a smile. The other guards chortle. The giant tells her our street address.

  “All right, gentlemen,” she says. “Come into the station, and we’ll do some checking.”

  The guards herd the three of us travelers into the lobby of a waiting area, and the woman goes behind a counter to a desk. We stand around while she taps away on a computer keyboard. She slips the driver’s passport through a machine, then returns to the waiting area and hands it to him. They talk for a few minutes. Then she turns to the giant and me.

  “Neither of you has any records in U.S. and Canadian systems, not if you’ve given me your real names.”

  “I know mine is real. And we’re pretty sure about Francisco’s.”

  “Right. Well, your driver confirms your address. I’m sorry, but it’s not enough. We can’t let you into the country without more identification than you’ve provided. You’ll have to go back through the U.S. border station.”

  “Is that necessary?” the giant rumbles—a high-note rumble, which is due, I suspect, to his feeling some tension over what may turn out to be a wasted journey. “We have pretty strong hints that Francisco is a Canadian.”

  “Such as?”

  “He. . . he likes the Toronto Maple Leafs. He used to play hockey in the 1950s.”

  Brimming with merriment, all official eyes fix on me.

  “I’m a Montreal fan myself,” the woman says.

  “Edmonton Oilers,” says one of the other guards.

  “Vancouver Canucks for me,” says another.

  “And this 1950s business,” says the woman. “Your friend doesn’t look anywhere near old enough for that.”

  “His appearance is misleading,” says the giant. “He ages slowly. . . very slowly.”

  “I see.”

  She hands the giant’s birth certificate back to him. Then, with a laugh, she adds, “I really regret it, fellows, but you can’t come in. It’s been great meeting you.”

  She offers her hand to the giant. He bends down and takes it in one of his own and gently shakes it with a sorrowful look. She shakes hands with me too. One by one the other guards come over and shake the giant’s hands.

  “Okay, guys,” says the driver. “It’s a no go. Back to the good ol’ U.S. of A.”

  We pile into the van. After a U-turn, we putter toward the stars and stripes, with the Canadians all gazing after us, waving good-bye.

  A minute later we are braking in front of the American border patrol station.

  The officer at the gate barks at the driver, scowls at the passport, scans it into the computer, then comes around behind the vehicle and yanks the doors open.

  “Get out!” he yells at us, his right hand on the butt of his pistol.

  We get out, raising our hands in surrender.

  The conversation that follows is much like the one we had with the Canadians, though in an entirely different style. We give our names. The giant’s birth certificate is read closely and with suspicion. His scanty identification and my lack of any identification increase the tension to the breaking point. The driver is told to take his vehicle to a pull-off lane near the gates and to wait there.

  “Into the station,” the officer snarls, eyeing the giant with particular attention.

  Four burly guards conduct us inside, and down a hallway, with the giant hunching over because of low ceilings. We are directed into an empty room without windows.

  Presently, two men in dark suits arrive, along with a third in uniform. I read the badges on their breasts: U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The border guards leave, shutting the door behind them. I hear a lock click. The agents of Homeland Security command us to take off our clothing.

  At first we do not understand the order. They bark at us. The giant and I slowly, painfully remove our clothes. We stand naked before them, trembling, our faces flushing, bare feet on the cold linoleum, hands crossed over our private parts. A thorough search of our bodies ensues. Then we are told to get dressed.

  Questioning begins. They want to know what organization we work for. Are we Islamic or Islamic sympathizers, America-haters, America-lovers, super-patriots, militiamen? The list goes on and on. They are not satisfied by our answers. Where do we live? What is our place of employment? Why are we trying to enter the United States?

  The giant tells them a number of things about himself: his address, the university he attended, what he does now—“a freelance paramedic in self-training”—the farm he grew up on. He explains that we were trying to leave the United States. It was supposed to be a kind of working holiday, he says; we had never seen Canada before—well, he himself hadn’t, though possibly his friend Francisco is a citizen of that country.

  “Are you a citizen of that country?” one of the suited men asks me in a voice so low it is freighted with threat.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You don’t know?”

  “He lost his memory and we’re trying to find it,” the giant explains.

  Disbelieving and very unhappy, the agents say nothing for a few moments, staring coldly at the giant, trying to intimidate him.

  “You’re members of an al-Qaida terrorist cell, aren’t you? Your jump-off base is in Canada. That’s how you normally get into our country. We’ve had eyes on your cell for months, and we tracked you all the way.”

  “All the way from New York?” the giant asks, confused.

  The agents scowl in unison.

  “Don’t waste our time with the dumb cover stories. You’re terrorists and we have you in custody. Talk now, or you’re on your way to an intensive interrogation center.”

  “A center we maintain in another country,” adds one of the others. “A country where the niceties of the law are more flexible.”

  “What country is it?” the giant asks, genuinely curious.

  They do not reply.

  Clearly they are interested in him only because they have a set of questions they must ask all inexplicable people. Or possibly because he is an oddity. But any sensible person would know that if he were a terrorist, he would have come prepared with documents aplenty and a cover story. Besides, terrorists prefer to be invisible, and he is too big to hide in a crowd.

  “Billy can’t even drive a car,” I say, hoping to clear up the misunderstanding. “He can’t even fly a plane.”

  Why did I say this? Why a plane?

  “A suicide jet, you mean,” says the uniformed guard.

  “Well, any kind of p-plane, r-r-really,” I stammer.

  “R-r-really,” the agent mimics.

  The giant and I nod up and down, trying to convince them of our sincerity.

  The agents confer with each other in low voices. The giant and I exchange glances. Don’t worry, we are saying to each other, don’t worry.

  We are handcuffed, our arms behind our backs.

  “Sit down,” barks an agent.

  We look around the room. There are no chairs.

  “On the floor!”

  We sit down on the floor. It is very uncomfortable, and promises to become unendurable.

  The agents leave the room and lock the door.

  We sit there for what feels like three or four hours. The giant nods off, his head on his k
nees. I stay awake, groaning and trying not to cry.

  Eventually the agents return, uncuff us, and help us to our feet.

  We stand there rubbing our wrists, wondering what will happen next. The agents stare at us, shaking their heads. One of them jerks his thumb.

  “Get outta here,” he says.

  It is dark outside, snow blowing sideways. We meet with our driver in the parking lot. He is pacing back and forth, fuming, in a state of controlled rage. He glares at the giant and me. His van is raised high on jacks, all the tires off, the doors off, the floor and wall paneling off, the engine hood off. The mattresses are spread around on the ground, torn open with their foam stuffing removed.

  Workmen are busy reassembling the vehicle.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” the driver growls at the giant.

  “Of course, I will,” he says. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah, a misunderstanding, all right. Look, you freaks, I have a life to lead!”

  “What happened?” the giant asks. “Why did they treat us this way?”

  “You tell me! You’re the terrorists.”

  “We are not terrorists.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah—blah, blah, blah. Well, I got terrorized plenty.”

  “I am really very sorry.”

  “You better be. The only reason you’re not getting tortured right at this very minute is because of me. I got a legit passport, see. And I verified your address, told them the whole story. Then, after they had their coffee and doughnuts, I guess they checked with Canada Customs, just a hundred yards over there. Then they got on the blower and their computers and they found out who you are, which is to say a certifiable idiot. Turns out you used to play basketball, and one of the goons loves basketball. He’d heard about your college team, saw a game once, not a game with any giant in it, but he knows who you played for. Anyways, it was enough to make him get on the phone and track down the team’s manager. And the manager identified you, okayed everything you told them. So now they believe what you said ain’t no lie.”

  “How do you know all this?” asks the giant.

  “Because they told me about it after they uncuffed me.” He holds up his wrists for us to see the raw red marks on his white skin. “Gave me a soda and apologized for thinking I was an Oklahoma bomber or something like that. They also apologized for dismantling Bessie, which is why they’re being so thoughtful about putting her back together. Suddenly they’re all nice manners after giving me the third degree for hours, grilling me about you guys.”

  “This is horrible,” says the giant. “You have endured a lot for our sakes.”

  “Haven’t I just!”

  “Didn’t they mention my farm? I told them about it because it proves I’m an American citizen.”

  “Yeah, a farm in Idaho somewheres.”

  “Iowa.”

  “They thought it might be a secret militia center. Turns out it’s not, and you’re not. It got sold about twelve years ago, right?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  The driver hurls a disapproving glance at me.

  “And you! They found out there’s nobody with your name, your age, living in Canada. You got no record anywhere, no trail, no nothing. But you did come from the States with us, and you weren’t trying to get into the States all wired up with a bomb, which is what they thought at first.”

  “That can’t be right!” says the giant. “If they thought Francisco was wearing a bomb vest, they would have shielded themselves from the very beginning.”

  “Okay, then they probably thought he was smuggling bomb parts. Anyways, he’s dark skinned and dark eyed, and he looks suspicious. He looked suspicious to me from the get-go this morning.” The driver sends a look of disgust in my direction. “Inch Allah,” he snorts.

  “Well, it has ended quite positively,” says the giant with something like wonder. “We’re free to go.”

  “Yeah, soon as they’ve finished with Bessie.”

  It is well after midnight by the time we are able to climb into the van and leave. Nobody waves good-bye.

  4

  Hidden rooms of the mind

  I ride in the front passenger seat beside the driver, to make sure he won’t fall asleep at the wheel. The giant sleeps in the cargo hold, on scraps of foam we salvaged from the border parking lot. I am supposed to talk to the driver, keep him alert.

  “I don’t know your name,” I begin. “I’m Francisco.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re Francisco,” he snarls sideways.

  “And you are. . .”

  “Call me Hal 9000.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hal.”

  “Look, we don’t gotta talk. I’ll just drive and you stay quiet. I’ve met a lot of fools in my life, but nothing—I mean nothing—matches you two. I got busted because of you. I got harassed in a big way. And I almost got put up in a nice cozy hotel in Guantanamo.”

  “They apologized to you,” I say. “Why didn’t they apologize to us?”

  “Figure it out,” he snaps.

  “Your last name is unusual, Hal. Nine thousand sounds like a number. What are your ethnic origins?”

  “Shut up, Francisco.”

  For the next eight hours we converse no more. The van gets trapped in morning rush hour into New York City. We arrive at our apartment building around 10 A.M., and there we are dropped on the sidewalk. After Hal is satisfied by the additional money the giant gives him, he roars away in his vehicle without saying good-bye.

  We trudge wearily up the staircase to the fourth floor, and the giant unlocks his apartment door. Inside, he stands still and turns his head this way and that, listening, like a hunting dog sniffing the air.

  “Someone has been here,” he says.

  “Is anything stolen or broken?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so. These were intelligence professionals. Homeland Security, I’ll bet. They tried to leave no trace of their investigation, but I can see that my books are stacked in slightly different order. And the blankets on our beds are wrong. The wrinkles have changed.”

  “You have an excellent memory, Billy.”

  “For the small details, Francisco. On the big picture, I’m not so good.”

  I yawn.

  “You were awake all night, and I had a great sleep in the back of the van. You should crash.”

  “I beg your pardon, Billy?”

  “You should go to sleep. I’m going out for my jog and an espresso at Dina’s.”

  After he has changed into his jogging suit, he is off for his run. I strip down to my T-shirt and boxers, pull my sleeping bag over myself, and drop away into an abyss of sleep.

  When I wake up it is early evening. A blizzard is blowing out there, the window rattling, the radiator pumping heat. Billy is seated on his packing crate, bending over his books, making notes with a pen and pad.

  “Supper, Francisco?” he calls when he notices me sitting up. “It’s Chinese.”

  We eat out of numerous little paper cartons crowding the table. I am too groggy to talk yet, but I am very hungry. Billy supplies light commentary, domesticating the atmosphere, which feels both familiar and unfamiliar. It is homey.

  “I got a tremendous haul from my friends at the restaurant,” he says. “While you were napping I went down to beg some throwaways for the girls. They gave me these, a party order that someone never picked up. You’d really like these people. A family from Hong Kong. The kids and grandkids are the waiters. They speak English with a British accent. But the old mom and dad who own the place don’t know our language. They do most of the cooking. I’m closest to them. We communicate without words.”

  “Without words, Billy?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s another kind of language, I guess. It’s all in their faces, little gestures, emanation of warmth, free food they’re always pushing my way. They really love me. I love them too. I hire the mom to make my clothes. A cousin of theirs who has a discount store down in lower Manhattan makes
my shoes. He was a master cobbler back in the old country. My Nikes aren’t really Nikes. They’re convincing facsimiles.”

  “Size eighteen,” I contribute between bites.

  “That’s right. Hey, it sounds like you have a memory for details too, Francisco.”

  Billy makes a pot of green tea, and after it has steeped he pours it into cereal bowls. We are sipping from the bowls contentedly when I am struck by a puzzle.

  “I don’t understand why they talked about a suicide jet,” I say. “What is a suicide jet?”

  “A suicide jet?”

  “When we were being interrogated by Homeland Security at the border, one of the agents asked us about it.”

  “Ah, yes. They were probably referring to the Twin Towers, Francisco.”

  “What are the twin towers?”

  “You know—nine-eleven.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Billy.”

  “September 11, 2001?”

  “Did something happen on that day?”

  “Yes, something very bad happened. Thousands of people died, right here in New York City.”

  “I didn’t know. I never heard about it.”

  “You never heard about it?” says the giant, sitting straighter and gazing at me with some concern. But he says no more.

  I can’t stop yawning.

  I return to bed, lying on my back, lazily observing his evening activities. He washes the dishes, takes a bag of garbage out to the corridor, and goes up to the roof to collect eggs and feed the girls. On his return he washes a basket full of eggs, whistling melodies quietly so as not to disturb me. He reads for a while, humming and jotting down notes with a scratching pen.

  It is a comforting sound, like family. Like sharing a bedroom with a brother. It is all so normal. I no longer think of him as the giant. Whole hours go by without me experiencing amazement over his size. He is who he is. I am who I am. But who am I?

  Later he showers and comes out of the bathroom in pajamas and socks, brushing his teeth. Is that a long-handled dish scrubber in his foaming mouth? Or is it a toothbrush for a horse? Yes, I think it is.

  Off goes the light, and I hear him rustling down into his covers, sighing, yawning, scratching, chuckling to himself.

  “We had quite an adventure, didn’t we, Francisco,” he mumbles, drifting off.