Nick slinks around the store, peering around the edges of his sunglasses and over the straw bales at the ends of the aisles. He tiptoes past ceramic piggies and past bins of beads (formed of glass, crystal, wood, seed, semiprecious stone, plastic, moose dung, rhino horn, tiger penis, bone shard from St. Peter, ectoplasm from the ghosts of Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles Dickens, Abraham Lincoln, William James, and Robert Plant [despite Plant not yet being dead, except perhaps musically]), down aisle after aisle of scrapbook materials, from one hundred and seventy-five styles of albums to sixty-three kinds of adhesives to Cuttlebug, Cricut, Sissix, and Slice die cutting aids. After several miles of walking, Nick becomes thirsty, and after several miles more he begins to hallucinate. The chicken and duck sounds over the loudspeakers coalesce into a poultry choir clucking and quacking the Sons of the Pioneers version of “Cool Water”:
All day I face the barren waste (quack quack) Without the taste of water, cool water (cluck cluck) Old Dan and I with throats burned dry (quackity quack) And souls that cry for water, cool, clear, water (cock-a-doodle-doo).
Finally he staggers into the correct aisle. But even here his trials aren’t over. Brigitte asked him to bring three sets of knitting needles, but she didn’t specify country of origin. One bin says its needles are proudly supplied from sweatshops in Guatemala, hardened with the tears of tired little girls. Another says its needles are superior because they’re from Vietnam and suffused with the suffering and anguish of young women there. Another claims its needles are the best because they’re from China and have been factory tested by being used to poke workers who fall asleep before the end of their twenty-six-hour workdays. Down at the far end of the aisle (past three mirages of cool, clear water) Nick finds a bin marked “Union-made in the USA.” These needles cost six times as much as all the others put together. Nick vacillates for a moment between doing the right thing and following the inexorable logic of capitalism, which would lead him to buy the lowest-cost needles, in this case needles hand-carved by slaves from the femurs of third world orphans (a Wall Street Journal article pinned to the front of the bin extols these particular needles as an example of the triumph of green capitalism: “These needles are both inexpensive and sustainably harvested from a nearly inexhaustible supply of third world orphans (TWOs). Further, capitalism itself functionally and systematically guarantees a yearly increase in TWOs, meaning we can maintain this way of living forever, with no fear of ridiculous scaremongering notions such as Peak Orphans.”). Nick chooses the former.
But still he faces a problem. He asks himself, quietly, “How can Brigitte only want three pairs? That’s nothing. I should get enough to make it worth the trip.”
He scoops up two huge armfuls of hundreds of knitting needles, then starts the long trek back to the front counter, stopping a few times to make camp and softly sing songs of the trail (starting with “Git Along, Little Dogies” and ending with “Plastic Jesus”). Finally he arrives, weary, hungry, thirsty, bedraggled, having lost only about a fifth of the needles along the way.
The clerk, like the greeter, wears a straw hat and overalls. He asks, “How many sets is that, sir?”
Nick is too tired to speak. He drops them on the conveyor belt, and begins to count them one by one.
The clerk glances at him, glances at the needles, and glances at a police bulletin taped behind the counter that reads, “If anyone buys more than three sets of knitting needles, alert the authorities immediately.”
The clerk says, “I have to … um … I might be able to get you a high-volume discount on these babies. I’m going to, um … discuss it with my manager. Don’t move, partner. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Don’t move!”
At first, Nick thinks he’s too tired to move anyway, but when he sees the clerk whispering to the manager and pointing at Nick, then sees the manager (wearing overalls and a John Deere baseball cap) slap down the clerk’s hand before mouthing “Don’t let him know,” Nick feels adrenalin surge through his body, getting a far bigger burst of energy than he would have even by hooking himself to one of the by-now-ubiquitous-at-superstores automated intravenous Mountain Dew machines. The wolf within the Long Wolf Secret Agent comes alive. He becomes all instinct. He—or rather his body—decides to run. His arms scoop up the needles. The needles fly into the air in all directions, and fall with a clatter that wakes the dead in a cemetery three miles away (the dead take only a few weeks to fall back asleep, but in the meantime they remain indistinguishable from most of their neighbors, and certainly from all golf fans). His right hand maintains its death grip on five of them. He tries to run but his feet slip on needles rolling on the floor. Other customers stare at him, expressionless as they continue to chew their cud. He finds himself smiling and giving them a little wave. But this inattention to his feet costs him: he trips and falls flat on his face. He scrambles up and rushes from the store, clutching the five knitting needles in his sweaty fist.
At the exit, a security camera captures a grainy black-and-white image of his panicked face.
Outside the door, a security guard sits on a stool, holding a huge dripping Big Mac. He also has fries, an apple pie and a coke balanced on his lap. He takes a bite, then looks up slowly as Nick runs by. He says, mouth full, “Mmmf!”
He carefully puts each item of food down on the ground beside the stool and heaves himself to his feet. This takes a long time. No, longer than that. A really long time. No matter how long you are thinking this took, add about fifteen seconds to it, and that’s how long it took.
Meanwhile, the clerk and manager race out the door, look around, see that the suspect has fled, and call 911 on a cell phone. They run back inside, ignoring the security guard, who finally straightens up and points in the direction the suspect ran.
The security guard shouts, “Hey! Stop!”
By chance, Sandy Dougher has been patrolling the neighborhood in her squad car. The radio crackles and she hears the voice of the dispatcher: “All units, we have a code ten on channel one, all units.”
She hears Flint’s voice: “I copy. Go ahead.”
“The party is showing physical as white male, six foot, two twenty, brown and hazel. Break.”
She hears the voice of another cop: “Go ahead.”
Then the dispatcher: “Out of Daisy’s Craft Barn. Suspect has fled on foot, going north on Main. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Break.”
She hears Flint’s voice again: “Go ahead.”
Then the dispatcher, “We need to get this sucker. The perp is suspected, at minimum, of shoplifting and trafficking in knitting needles. He attempted to purchase a large volume of these weapons, and escaped in possession of several of them. Approach with extreme caution. Use force in accordance with departmental use of force policy. In other words, beat the fucker to a pulp before you shoot him. Do you copy? Break.”
Sandy says, “I copy. I’m on it.”
Then she hears Flint’s voice, “I got here first, bleeder. I’ll handle it.”
Sandy mutters, “You’re going to regret calling me that, you motherfucking pig—”
The dispatcher says, “What’s that? I didn’t copy that, Officer.”
Sandy realizes she’d still been holding the transmit button on the radio extender. “I told Officer Stone I’d be honored to offer backup.”
The two police cars race from opposite directions toward Daisy’s Craft Barn, careening down streets and through alleys, sirens blaring.
The dispatcher says, “Your positions, Officers? Break.”
Sandy hears Flint say, “I’m heading into the parking lot now.”
The dispatcher: “Good. Officer Dougher?”
“I’m still half a mile from the scene,” Sandy says.
“I said I’m on it. Go write some parking tickets, Dougher,” Flint says.
At that moment, Sandy spots Nick, who is walking exaggeratedly casually along the sidewalk, whistling, hiding one hand inside his trench coat. Sandy says to the radio, “Go for it, Officer. You
’re obviously a better man than I.”
“Damn straight,” Flint says.
Sandy shakes her head in disgust, then makes absolutely sure her radio microphone is not transmitting before she adds, “And a colossal asshole.”
Siren blaring and lights flashing, Flint races his car into the parking lot at Daisy’s Craft Barn. He screeches to a stop, opens his door, and jumps out. He pulls out his gun and waves it around, causing terrified customers to scream and fall to the ground. He runs toward the store’s door.
Nick pretends not to notice the police car driving right next to him. Driving very slowly right next to him. He pretends not to notice the police officer staring at him through the open passenger-side window. The female police officer staring at him. The quite attractive female police officer staring at him. The quite attractive female police officer who will probably put him in prison for the rest of his life. He pretends to notice none of this.
But what he really doesn’t notice is the tree root that has buckled the sidewalk directly in front of him. He stumbles and puts both hands in front of him to break his fall, then regains his balance, if not his pride. At this point there’s no way he can pretend not to notice the knitting needles that have clattered to the ground. He looks at the female police officer (the quite attractive female police officer, etc.), smiles, waves shyly.
She stops the car. “Better get in the back.”
Nick ineptly picks up the knitting needles, wondering the whole time whether he’ll be able to survive Hard Time in the Big House, probably working on the Rock Pile when he’s not spending years in The Hole. Needles picked up, he gets into the back of the squad car, wondering if this will be the last time he experiences the sweet taste of liberty.
CHAPTER 8
Sandy doesn’t put Nick into handcuffs, and doesn’t even lock the door. She puts the car into drive and carefully accelerates. She says, “I’m going to remove you from the area. It’s pretty hot around here.”
Nick responds, “Whew, it sure is. Would you mind turning on the AC?”
“That’s not what I meant, Nick,” she says.
“You know who I am?”
“I’ve heard about you.”
Despite his predicament, Nick is pleased. “You probably heard about my exploits as a Lone Wolf Secret Undercover Agent.”
Sandy doesn’t say anything. She drives for several miles—radio occasionally giving news of the pandemonium at Daisy’s Craft Barn—then stops in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. She gets out of the car and leans back inside to talk to Nick. She says, “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be gone for three minutes. Wait right here. Don’t open this unlocked door and run away to avoid arrest during the three minutes I’m leaving you unobserved.”
She goes into the restaurant (if you can call it that).
When she returns, Nick says to her, “That was a lot longer than three minutes.”
Sandy gets into the front seat and starts flipping through paperwork. She says, “Oops, I left your door unlocked and I forgot to put cuffs on you! You could probably escape if you ran fast. Or even if you jogged moderately quickly.”
Nick holds out his hands for cuffs.
Sandy sighs. Then she says, “We’ll try this one more time. Hit me. Make it look good. I mean bad.”
Nick says, “Are you crazy? I could never hit a woman!”
Sandy, frustrated, rests her head on the steering wheel.
They hear the voice of the dispatcher, “Unit One, have you spotted the suspect yet? We have confirmed his identity as Nick Newman. We repeat the physical of white male, six feet, two twenty, so he’s a tad chubby—”
Nick barks, “Am not!”
The dispatcher continues, “Brown and hazel. And not terribly handsome—”
Nick barks again, “Am so!”
The dispatcher continues, “He is armed with five knitting needles, and is therefore extremely dangerous. He is believed to be the terrorist mastermind behind the Ice Queen Murders. Deadly force is in order. Don’t even pause to beat him up—just shoot him on sight.”
Sandy’s and Nick’s eyes lock in the rearview mirror. He looks terrified, and makes a little whimpering noise.
Sandy says, “What the hell do I have to do to help you escape? Run, you idiot!”
Nick runs down the street to Brigitte’s house, still clutching the five knitting needles. His hat is gone, as are his sunglasses. His trench coat, by now drenched with sweat, flaps behind him. As he runs he occasionally looks behind him in a panic. But no one follows. He makes it to her door and taps furtively. From inside he hears the swing version of Nat Turner singing “I’m Dreaming of a Revolutionary Christmas.”
Nick whispers, “Brigitte! Brigitte!”
There is no answer. He looks around to see if anyone has followed him. No one. He pounds harder. He yells, “Brigitte! Hey!”
No answer.
Nick goes around to the side of the house, peers in a window. He sees Brigitte in her living room, dancing, oblivious to him. He taps on the window, then waves. She doesn’t see him. He knocks harder on the glass, taps it with the needles. No luck. He picks up a stone and taps with that, finally breaking the window. He looks shocked. She lets out a startled yelp and sees him. He waves sheepishly.
She says, annoyed, “Holy crap, Nick. You could have knocked on the damn door.”
Nick says, his voice thin with panic, “Let me in, Brigitte! Hurry, hurry! They’re after me!”
She rushes to the door, opens it, and hustles Nick inside. “What? They’re after you? For going to Daisy’s Craft Barn?”
Nick hands her the five needles.
She takes them. “That’s not three pairs. You’re one short.”
“I know! I lost them all! I had hundreds of pairs! But then they chased me! Oh my god. What am I going to do? Can I stay here until it all blows over?”
She blinks her eyes, not believing—or really even understanding—what she is hearing.
He continues, “Who am I kidding—it’ll never blow over. You’ll have to hide me here for the rest of my life. I’ll be like Anne Frank, hiding up in the attic not saying a peep, and you’ll bring me stale bread as I slowly go insane from boredom and isolation … What did you get me involved in?”
“What did I—What?—You—”
“Why did you make me do something so dangerous?”
Brigitte spits, “You begged me to give you something to do! I gave you a simple task, an easy task, something that no one could possibly fuck up!”
“Evidently it wasn’t so easy after all, was it?” Nick says. He flicks on the television. “I want to see if it’s in the news yet.”
Chet Stirling is reporting: “Local police are reported to have had in their clutches the terrorist ringleader, the veritable Osama bin Laden of knitting needles. But the sly and dangerous terrorist slipped through their grasp, and remains at large. It was the man in this photo, which was taken by a security camera as he fled the scene of an attempt to illegally obtain weapons. We urge viewers to remain hiding in their homes, shaking in terror and consumed with paranoia, as long as this evil serial killer remains at large. Of course he turned out to be a man, a man with an analytical mind. Clever and devious, he had impersonated a group of women in an attempt to throw us off the scent, but we always knew that women couldn’t possibly plan such an elaborate and multilayered scheme.”
Nick looks at Brigitte, who is appalled by what she is now understanding. He says, smugly, “He called me ‘clever.’ Did you hear that? Clever.”
Not just the police and MAWAR are opposed to the knitting circles. In fact many groups, large and small, from all across the political spectrum (running, as it nearly always does in this culture, from ludicrous on one end to absurd on the other), oppose them.
They are opposed, for example, by a significant portion of male anarchists. Anarchists claim they’re against all forms of oppression, and many truly are, so you might think all anarchists would be in favor of peo
ple actively stopping rape. Sadly, such is not the case. Members of this particular subgroup of anarchists who oppose the knitting circles mean something different by “ending oppression” than do members of various knitting circles themselves. One of the major anarchist groups opposed to the knitting circles (if we measure “major” not by their numbers, which are minuscule, but rather by how vocal they are and by the pungency of their personal body odor, which is greater by far than the stinkiest of stinky cheeses; indeed, each year this particular brand of anarchists holds their own version of the Miss America contest, called the Crust Punk contest, wherein the dreadlocked and bearded male with the strongest smell and the thickest layer of crusted body excretions is crowned Un-King of the Anarchists by someone—anyone, please—who can stomach getting close enough to do so). These roving gangs of black-clad males, noted as much for their militantly casual approach to personal hygiene as for their contempt for any and all efforts to constrain what they call their Feral Edge Freedoms, roam the streets (by car when they can “borrow” their parents’ gas cards, and by foot when they can’t) looking for females (and failing that, inanimate objects) into whom they can inject their Revolutionary Ardor.
One night, several members of the AFACASISF emerge from their respective parents’ basements to gather in the basement of one of their fellow “insurrectionist’s” parents to “do some writing.” When these anarchists tell the parents they’ll be writing, the parents say first to the anarchists, “You can write?” and then say to themselves, “Thank god they won’t be playing music tonight.” The “musical style” of the anarchists’ band (called Seppuku Suicide Hara-kiri, mainly because that’s what it makes listeners want to do) is called deathvomitnoise. Because of the importance of their message (and also as a statement of their artistic integrity and because, as they say, “You can’t improve on perfection, dude,” but mainly because of laziness on the part of band members, and finally because no one would notice the difference anyway), all songs by Seppuku Suicide Hara-kiri have the same lyrics, which are screamed unintelligibly over the sounds of guitars being tortured: “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKK. Fuckfuckfuck. Aaaaaahhhh. Fuck. Fuck you if you listen to this and fuck you ifyou don’t. Fuck you. Fuck anyone who plays anywhere other than a basement. Fuck you if you have an audience, you oppressor. Fuck you. The shoe will drop and so will you, you fucking liberal sellout. Fuck. When the shoe drops the vomit of industry will spew. Shoe. Shoe. Drop the other shoe, motherfucker.” The sounds of music coming from the basement normally make the parents look at each other wistfully, nostalgically longing for the early days of their marriage before their child was born. Nights the songs have driven them to too much to drink, the recriminations start with the mother saying, “I begged to be allowed to go down to Baby-B-Gone. It would have been, what, a few minutes of discomfort, then maybe or maybe not a few days of sadness, and a lifetime of freedom from the grinding horror of his music, and frankly from his personality (if you can call it that).” This leads to bitter words on the father’s part, and then to a discussion about the only one of their son’s band’s songs they actually like, “My Mother Should Have Had an Abortion.” The argument normally ends with the father saying those words so rare, so precious, coming from the man in the household: “You were right, and I was wrong.”
The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Page 10