The Unnoticeables

by Robert Brockway

  Every steely, stubborn ounce of willpower in me solidified at once. I felt like I was trying to do a sit-up at the bottom of the ocean. My teeth vibrated from the impossible strain of concentration.

  “I think you should understand,” he said, and I saw the glints grow larger. They were advancing.

  The sound of a zipper in the dark.

  I heard something pop inside my head. A brief, bright red flash, like an errant laser pointer scanning across the insides of my eyes. The effort was so intense it physically hurt, but …

  The toe. Moved.

  It was a starter pistol for the rest of my body. I groaned, rolled to the side, and let muscle memory guide my hand to the light switch in the dark. It snapped on right as I pulled my feet up and away from Marco. I coiled back and braced myself against the wall to kick at his face.

  There was nothing in the room.

  My bedroom door was still locked from the inside. I pulled the heavy brown curtains aside with my foot. Intact iron bars, backlit by the blue neon signage of the grocery store across the street, cast long shadows across my bedspread.

  I snatched the off-brand Mace from the built-in shelf beside the window. The slutty devil sucked her finger at me precociously. I thumbed the lock switch off and swung my bedroom door open. Moving like I’d seen those tactical teams do in Tom Clancy flicks, I swept the house. I cleared the corners. I double-checked every possible entryway … and found them all secure. I saved the bathroom for last.

  I swept the shower curtain back … and saw only stained green tile and empty shampoo bottles.

  When I passed by the mirror, my heart froze. I did a literal double take worthy of Charlie Chaplin and leaned in for closer inspection. I lifted a shaky hand to my left eye and pulled the lower lid down. It was bright, oozing red. Crimson spilled across the white like paint washing down a porcelain sink.

  The blood vessel had burst.

  TWELVE

  1977. New York City, New York. Carey.

  Wash was standing at the window, one hand held poised just below his chin, as if deep in thought. The light from the setting sun flashed off of his glasses.

  I get it. I totally get why, on first impression, people think he’s a genius. He’s just got this aura, and I don’t think he even does it on purpose. His features are sharp, almost avian. High cheekbones and wide, thoughtful eyebrows. The wire-frame glasses, close-cropped hair. He even dresses the part: no spiked jackets, no “fucks” scrawled across his shoes in black Sharpie, probably not even any beer stains in his underwear. The fop. He wears tight black jeans, mostly plain T-shirts—maybe with the occasional faded band logo, but that’s it. If you don’t know him, Wash looks like the Ginsberg of the punk scene. He looks like a philosopher in it for the cultural significance of the movement. He looks like the protopunks: the early ones—the Warhol guys from the Factory days. If you don’t know him, Wash looks like a punk-rock academic, and it does him no harm with the ladies. If you do know him, Wash says shit like this:

  “Why do you suppose we fart, Carey?”

  I nearly choked on my hot dog, laughing.

  “What the fuck, Wash?”

  “Why do we fart?” He stood there, elegantly backlit by the blazing sun. A thin philosopher’s shadow contemplating the universe on the other side of the glass. “What is the purpose? I mean. Is the gas used to shoot the poop out of us, like air pressure in a BB gun?”

  “I think it’s like a warning,” Thing 2 said, sprawled across our filthy couch, wearing these tight red jogging shorts with little white stripes running across the tops of her pale thighs. Some obscure baseball team on her too-tight T-shirt, blue hair glowing dully in the half-light.

  God damn it, if I don’t fuck somebody soon I’m going to drill a hole in the wall and fill it with mayonnaise.

  “Yes, but a warning of what?” Wash swiveled and considered Thing 2 carefully.

  “From the old days,” Thing 2 said, but it was clear she wasn’t invested in the conversation. She was busy filing her nails with the rough edge of a can opener. “Back when we were all monkeys. It was, like, ‘Look out, monkeys farther down the tree; poop’s coming!’ That’s what I think farts are.”

  “Interesting.” Wash nodded, and asked no more. He was totally satisfied with the theory.

  Wash moved away from the window and plucked Thing 2’s legs from the couch. He sat down hard, and one edge of the collapsed sofa teetered madly from the added weight. He returned the legs to their place, then ran a casual hand up the calf and—

  “God damn it!”

  I dropped my half-eaten dog into the pile of scrap condiments—those runaway onions, peppers, and bits of relish that slide off as you eat, forming a glistening flavor pile in the center of the foil.

  Wash arched one of his beatnik eyebrows at me.

  “I can’t decide if I need to jerk off or eat this hot dog,” I explained.

  Wash laughed. Thing 2 sneered but didn’t look up from her nails.

  “I’ve been blocked up since that sexpot abducted Randall at Fetta,” I told Thing 2, but she had no mercy for me. No pity blow jobs were offered. Just ruthless bare legs and mockingly tight cotton.

  “Are you not worried that Randall hasn’t been back yet?” Wash asked.

  I could see him eyeballing my dog.

  I sighed and shoved the sloppy foil in his general direction. He leaned forward and took it into his lap.

  “Are you kidding me? Fuck that guy. Randall is probably holed up in some suburban pleasure palace out on Long Island, being serviced by busty wenches who want to use his dong to piss off their daddy.”

  “That’s unlike him,” Wash observed, biting into the half-eaten hot dog. A slurry of mustard and chili sauce squirted onto Thing 2’s bare shin. She squeaked and kicked Wash away, pulling her legs up against her body.

  “It’s what I’d be doing,” I said.

  “Yes, but it is very like you,” he countered.

  The way she was sitting now—legs pulled up to her chest—those short-shorts rode all the way up Thing 2’s ass. I could see the fold in her skin where cheek met thigh, a soft white depression that filled me with instant, unexplainable fury.

  “I’m going to get more beer,” I said, and practically ran for the door.

  I made the hallway, took a few deep breaths, and tried to barter with my brain: Stop thinking about sex for a minute, and we’ll get you some beer.

  My brain grudgingly accepted the deal, but there was still anger in me that I couldn’t immediately quiet. I looked around for something to break, and found it was a goddamned Sunday. The Nazi grandmother over in 7 had just cleaned.

  That left me standing in the world’s most perfect hallway. These carefully vacuumed runners. That vase of flowers obsessively centered on the little wooden table. The framed pictures probably aligned with a T square.

  Rage.

  I pulled the flowers and dumped them on the floor, then grabbed the vase, upended it, and poured dirty plant water all over the pristine rugs. I crushed the vase beneath the flapping soles of my ratty black Converse and crunched over the broken glass.

  No idea why, but it helped to calm the sex-fury.

  I was halfway to the corner shop when I spotted Jezza at the bus stop. He was with a girl. Not Scuffed Flannel.

  Fucking good for him.

  That chick was boredom on a white plate with a side of American cheese. I don’t think I ever heard her speak a single word; she just giggled inanely at his dumb, fake accent.

  Wait—not good for him. Even Jezza’s pulling double plays now? Has this city gone mad? What about me? Since when is a filthy punk with a catcher’s mitt for a face not fuck material anymore?

  I fumed all the way to the store.

  Images of stupid, goofy Jezza enthusiastically engaging in three-ways with gorgeous young girls with cheap dyed hair and thick mascara plagued me. “Cheerio,” he would probably bellow, sticking one of them in the mouth while the other rode his shoulders like a cowgi
rl. “This feels quite chipper on the old tally-whacker!”

  Asshole.

  I blinked, and was surprised to find myself standing on the same street corner, holding a pack of cold Schlitz. Operating on pure muscle memory, I must have made the store, grabbed the beer, paid, got my change, and left, all while completely lost in a jealous hate-storm.

  I was staring in Jezza’s vague direction. Must have been eyeballing him for a while, because he was waving me over and looking confused about why I wasn’t responding. I trudged toward the pair of them, muttering curses with every step. Then I got a better look at the new girl he was with.

  Holy shit.

  She was stunning. She had curves like an ocean in a windstorm. She looked hard and soft at the same time. Skin you could spread on toast. She was …

  What are you, a fucking poet? Just say she’s hot. Say she’s got big tits. Does she have big tits?

  For some reason, I couldn’t tell. Wait—what? I can always tell.

  What color is her hair, Carey?

  I concentrated, hard. I couldn’t make it out. Red. Wait—no, brown. Definitely brown.

  What color are her eyes, Carey?

  More concentration.

  It shouldn’t be this hard to notice.

  And then I spotted the shirt: an official-looking presidential seal, modified just slightly. The eagle gripped a baseball bat in one talon. The word RAMONES was stamped above it in severe-looking type.

  I knew that shirt. I had the same one on three days ago. Actually, I still had the same one on, but it was there three days ago, too. At the pizza place.

  “Carey! Hey darlin’, this here’s the bloke I was tellin’ you about.” Jezza gestured grandly at me.

  I could see the glee on his face: He just wanted to show off his catch. Rub it in my face.

  I set my beer down on the vacant bus-stop bench and smiled up at the girl.

  “We met a few days ago, actually,” I said.

  I focused on her face. It was exceptionally gorgeous, true, but in a forgettable way. She was a cover girl, but not one of those you can name. When I looked away for a second, I couldn’t tell you a thing about it. It took a conscious effort to memorize the features. So I did, one at a time.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. A voice like hot cocoa. Slight accent. Southern?

  “Sure we did.” I focused on the eyes. Almond-shaped. Green like a meadow. “You were at Fetta. You left with my buddy Randall.”

  “I don’t know any Randall,” she answered far too quickly. She was all easy confidence a second ago, but now she was uncertain. Dark brown hair. Shining like candy coating.

  “Yeah, you do. You practically gave him a hand job beneath the table before disappearing with him a few days ago. We haven’t seen him since. Figured he was holed up with you somewhere, getting nice and sticky. But now you’re here, and he’s not.…”

  “You’re confused,” she said. Thick, pillowy lips, painted vivid red. Square white teeth. One chipped just slightly.

  Then to Jezza: “Baby, let’s go back to my place. Remember what I was going to show you?”

  Jezza practically went cross-eyed imagining whatever it was.

  “Let me guess,” I said to Jezza, “she met you at a venue a few months ago. Gave you her number, but you must have forgot. She use the same line about Popsicles with you?”

  “Right-o.” Jezza smiled, then his face went blank. “How’d you know that, mate?”

  “You think, no matter how drunk you were, you’d forget a chick like this wanting your goofball pole? She’s the hottest number you’ve ever seen, right?”

  Jezza didn’t answer, just smiled sheepishly.

  “So, without looking, tell me about her. What color is her hair? How about her eyes?”

  Jezza was confused. He went to glance at the girl, but I grabbed his face and pulled it back toward mine: “No looking.”

  “I … I don’t know,” he answered shakily.

  “Fine, let’s do an easy one then.” I was holding Jezza’s face in one hand, the girl’s arm in the other. “Jezza, you were just about to fuck this girl, right? You ain’t got high standards, I know. But you at least look at ’em first. So tell me: What race is she?”

  I saw panic flash in Jezza’s eyes. Even he had to admit something was strange now.

  “Is she a black girl? White girl? Chinese or something? What do you think, Jezza? You were showing off how hot she is to me a second ago. What color is her skin?”

  “Jezza”—the girl put on her best damsel voice—“he’s hurting me. You gotta come away with me now, baby. I need you.”

  God damn, it was potent stuff. I about rode to her rescue just hearing the seductive promises implied by that crooning, and I was the thing she needed rescuing from.

  I released Jezza’s chin and turned to the girl. I bent down, tucked my shoulder into her, pulled at her arm, and had her up in a fireman’s carry before she could so much as squeal.

  “Oi!” Jezza protested. “What’s all this, then?!”

  “I’m taking her back to the apartment,” I yelled over my shoulder, already hauling her ass down the street. “She was the last one to see Randall.”

  “You can’t just—” Jezza started after me, but he got quiet real quick when I wheeled around and started stomping back toward him.

  “Hey, Carey.” Jezza lapsed into his normal, unaccented voice. “Take it easy, man. I’m just sayi—”

  He put his hands up in front of his face to protect himself from the incoming blow, but none came. When he looked up again, I was passing him by, heading back toward the bus stop.

  I eased over to one side and felt the girl shift on my shoulder. Her fleshy hips brushed against my ear. It took all my will to hush the howling of my animal brain in response to her touch.

  I plucked the nearly forgotten beer off of the bench, breathed a sigh of relief at the averted disaster, and set off toward home.

  If we were going to have a good old-fashioned interrogation, we would need some refreshments.

  * * *

  I was expecting stares.

  Me and the rest of the punks are this neighborhood’s live entertainment. We’re the resident can’t-afford-a-TV theater troop. Whenever Jezza walks down the street singing vaguely British sounding strings of profanities; whenever Randall and I get high and play tag in between the cars at two o’clock in the morning; whenever Safety Pins gets drunk and flashes her tits out the window, daring somebody to catcall so she can whip batteries at their heads—people stare. People will stare just for a spiked jacket. People will stare just for a Mohawk.

  Which is what made this so goddamned disturbing:

  Nobody looked at me at all. I had just grabbed a sexual lottery ticket by the waist and heaved her over my shoulder like a bag of potatoes. A faux-English punk with dyed white hair was following angrily at my heels like a dog that just learned how to swear. And not a soul we passed on the street spared us a second glance. It wasn’t even that I’m-not-looking-oh-God-don’t-involve-me look. They genuinely didn’t think there was anything remarkable going on with this kidnapping.

  If somebody wanted to raise a stink, I couldn’t have spun this. I’d just abducted a beautiful young girl off the corner because I suspected she was some kind of human-shaped hypnotist monster. If a cop pulled up right then (ha-ha, like we could afford to live in a neighborhood the cops would go), I’d be playing Linda Lovelace to a guy named Brawn down at the Department of Correction faster than you could spit. I guess it helped that the girl wasn’t kicking or screaming or calling me names or asking for help.

  That’s what I expected her to do, and I was ready for it. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve had a lot of practice getting kicked and screamed at. Hell, for the first fifteen years of my life I thought my Christian name was “Mouthy Faggot.” Beatings, screams, and insults I could take, but she was propped up on my shoulder smiling at passersby like a homecoming queen on a parade float. Waving, winking, giggling a little b
it like it was all a big joke. And every one of them bought it: Puerto Rican dudes who’d normally jump at the chance to stick me in the belly to impress a hot girl, paranoid business owners who thumbed guns under the counters when I walked by their windows, old Italian ladies that peered out the blinds every time I so much as rattled my keys—and this blatant daylight abduction didn’t warrant a single raised eyebrow.

  I understood why. Being in the weird girl’s vicinity made me forgetful. Like I was about to do something but kept getting distracted. I kept thinking I was just out for a normal walk—maybe going to the store or something—and then I’d have to remind myself that the weight on my shoulder was a human being I had just stolen.

  But not Jezza: He didn’t forget a damn thing. He was pissed off that I was ruining what he considered to be a guaranteed hand job in the back of the bus, at minimum. He swore at me nonstop, each step a new obscenity. I’m pretty sure he ran out of existing profanities half a block back. Now he was just making shit up.

  He called me a “fuck-toe.”

  By the time we made the broken security door to our apartment building, Jezza was down to inserting profanities into my name. Cockrey. Cuntrey. Fuckrey. It was starting to get sad.

  By the time we crested the first landing, he was just repeating the word “dick” over and over again. Making little songs out of it. He was doing it to the tune of “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s off to work we go” when we reached our floor.

  By the time we arrived at our pad, he was spent.

  “You about through, Jezza?” I asked him.

  “Cunt muppet,” he added, halfheartedly.

  I nodded in acknowledgment and kicked at our flimsy door. It rattled in the frame. I heard something fall and break inside, then muffled swearing. There was a series of hasty grabs, rustles, and zips. Finally Wash yanked the door open wearing everything but pants. He’d gotten his T-shirt back on, even pulled on his socks and shoes, but stood there with a flagging erection pointing at me like an accusatory finger.

  “Pants, Wash,” I informed him.

  “What about them? Oh, indeed.” He pulled the hem of his shirt down over his crotch and crab-walked into the living room.