by Alan Osi
He nodded.
I said, “Could even be a good thing, I guess. Maybe this is what it feels like when the world move forward.”
“Maybe.”
We had nothing else to say. Since both of my collars were too fucked up to make a run for it, I went to check on the girl who overdosed in the bathroom.
Her type inspired me to go into police work in the first place. A real tragic case. Her system finally gave out when she snorted a few grams of cocaine.
The crowd had noticeable thinned, the path to the ladies’ room was clear. Most of the kids left were leaving in a kind of mute shock. Some stood around, talking, holding each other. Friends and lovers meeting each other anew, strangers who now understood each other better than old friends.
Me, I felt a little insane with all the memories floating around inside of me. I think we all did. It was too much to handle, in a way. I was so lost in it, moving forward was all I could do. The hard part, trying to find myself again, would come later, and it was unimaginable.
When I got to the door, I hardened myself for whatever I would find in the ladies’ room, pushing my emotions deep down and locking them, almost automatically. Jesus. Now that I had perspective, it occurred to me what a fucked up thing that was to do regularly, and how it was fucking me up in turn. A man just wasn’t meant to shut off a part of himself like that. On the job we acted like it was normal. I’d been doing it for years, and the toll it’ took on me… I shook my head, closed my eyes, and made a point to let myself feel before going inside.
Feeling, it was hard to open the door. Didn’t know what I’d find inside. When I managed, I found the OD girl, Yvonette, with her head on another woman’s lap, crying. The woman comforting her was Hailey, one of the show-runners. In spite of myself, I liked her: She had strength to her, didn’t take any shit, and had been through hell growing up, just like me. I nodded to her. She nodded back.
“You got this?”
“We’re fine,” she said. She stroked Vonnie’s hair as the young woman’s shoulders silently shook.
Despite what she went through, the OD seemed okay. Her breathing seemed regular. No convulsions or sweating: Her recovery was miraculous, literally.
She looked up like she knew my thoughts. Maybe she did. “I shouldn’t be alive,” she said, her eyes grapefruit red.
“Yeah,” I answered, “you should.”
Hailey added, “We brought you back, kid. We all did. You’re here because you’re loved.”
Vonnie started crying harder and hugged Hailey. Hailey nodded to me, again. The nod said, I got this. You can go. So I went.
151. SHELLY
I picked myself off the concrete, in a daze, and grabbed my police-issued firearm, which fell beside me. What happened to me was the only reason I understood what happened to me. My soul had just been ripped from my body and merged with a hundred other people. The thing we’d been together existed in the presence of God. Even though I’d been outside, whatever happened with the moondust managed to suck me in, and with me one other cop and partygoer still in the immediate vicinity. Now other people filled my brain, like a madness. My head hurt.
I called an ambulance for the OD girl, and another for the two who got hurt in the fight. I stood, holding the radio in my hand, trying to figure out whether to call something in to the precinct, and if so, what do say.
Sanchez, the other cop close enough to get sucked in when the moondust bomb went off, came over to me, looking as shaky as I felt. Watching him made me queasy. I had been inside him, I knew everything about him, and in so much detail it felt strange being outside his skin.
“What the fuck, Connors?” he said.
“Call me Shelly.”
“What the fuck, Shelly?”
That made me smile: My smile became a chuckle. The chuckle became a crazed laugh, a kind of release. He joined in.
“Oh, God,” I said when I could breathe again. “Seriously.”
“What do we do now?”
“I was just trying to figure that out. I guess we have to call something in, right?”
“What could we say?”
We both stood there, thinking of an answer to that very important question, when the night captain squawked through the radio, “506, ambulance in route. What’s the status? Over.”
I sighed, and responded. “506 here, the op was aborted. Um, unfavorable conditions. Greene went in alone, has not come out, yet. I have every reason to assume he’s safe and there’s no ongoing criminal activity inside. Will inform you when I know more. Over.”
A pause. Then, “What the hell does ‘unfavorable conditions’ mean, why did you let an officer go in alone, if you’re not inside why did you call for an ambulance, and if you called for an ambulance what gives you the right to say everything is under control? Over.”
I looked to Sanchez. But, Sanchez could only shrug. My career was going down the tubes right before my eyes. “Sir, all I can say is I’ll explain when I get in. It’s kind of a unique situation. Over.”
“Are you kidding me with this?”
Sanchez clicked in. “Sanchez here, sir. I can confirm Connors’ assessment. Everything is under control. But, we’re in uncharted territory on this one. Over.”
“Risk of fatality or further injury? Over.”
Sanchez looked at me, deciding. Then he said, “Negative, sir. Again, everything is under control. You have my word, as a veteran cop and friend. Over.”
“We ain’t friends, and we never will be. You have twenty minutes to get your asses in here, and you better have Greene with you. Over and out.”
“Fuck,” said Sanchez to me.
“Fucking Greene,” I said.
“You still think this was his fault?”
“Of course not,” I answered. “But at the same time, absolutely.”
“We have to bring him out,” Sanchez said.
“Yeah, I’ll go. You brief the ambulances when they get here.”
“Check.”
Would I need to have my gun ready? No, Rob and maybe Clyde were the only violent people in there, and Greene probably had already cuffed them. Also, people steadily left the place, dazed, but orderly. Everyone wanted to be gone before more cops showed up.
Sure enough, there weren’t many left when I got inside. Some were still there, talking; friends dealing with the aftermath of whatever revelations came when they saw the world through each other’s lives. I felt disoriented again, looking at them, because I wasn’t them. I had been.
In the far left corner of the room, by the stairs, two unconscious bodies lay on the ground, with their hands tied behind their backs, palms facing upward: Rob and Clyde. The one named Percival and a girl, June, stood next to them, arms around each other, looking back at me.
I walked over. “Where’s Greene?”
“He went over to the ladies room,” said Percival. “To check on Yvonette.”
The girl who OD’d. I nodded. “Why are you guys still here?”
June said, “Won’t you need a statement or something?”
In truth, I wanted this whole thing buried. I hadn’t coordinated with Sanchez or Greene. But, they were in the same place. Nothing good would come of trying to file this. What could we possibly say?
“Listen, technically, you’re right, I do need you to give a statement. But, I want you to listen to what I’m saying very carefully. I’m going in there to get Greene. While I’m gone, I want you to take a hard look at what will happen if we try to disclose what went on here. Ask yourselves if going on the record will do any good. We got these guys on drug charges already. So think about what you can add to this equation. If you can’t add to it, think about your next step. Got me?”
“We got you,” said Percival.
“Good,” I said, and turned my back on them, to find Greene.
Greene came out of the bathroom just as I got to the door. When he saw me, he stopped. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself, asshole.”
“I
’m still a superior officer,” he said, walking past me. “So watch it. Ambulance on the way?”
“Yeah. What are we gonna do now? Captain wants us to come in right away.”
“Follow me,” he said, and walked me over to his two collars. “Take the cocaine out of his pocket.”
He didn’t need to be more specific. He meant Clyde, and I knew as well as Greene that he was in possession. I did as he asked.
“That’s evidence,” he said. “You go with these two, to the hospital.”
“That’s not what Captain Wallace said.”
“Fuck Wallace. I’ll handle him.”
“How?”
“I’m going in to the precinct, and I’m going to explain what can be explained. Then, I’m going to turn in my badge.”
I looked deep in Greene’s eyes. I thought about the person he was, what he’d seen and been through. How this experience would have to change him, how he could never again be who he was.
“Okay,” I said. “Just take care of Sanchez.”
“I will. And you, too,” said Greene, as he walked toward the door.
I heard the sirens, now, in the distance. Ambulances. The few party-goers left heard them too and headed for the exits. The OD girl, Vonnie, left the bathroom, looking like she could barely walk, being supported by Hailey, a new friend. I was glad she was alive, glad she could walk, and glad she was leaving. At least one good thing came of this.
I crossed my arms, stood over the suspects, and waited for the paramedics to reach us.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
152. PERCIVAL
Two weeks after party, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of June in the shower, when my phone buzzed. It was Hailey.
I hadn’t spoken to her but once since the party. I think we all needed time to ourselves, to recalibrate. We could never go back to the lives we lived before, we weren’t those people anymore. Make no mistake, I cared deeply for Hailey, even more than ever. All my relationships needed to be redefined.
“Hey Hailey,” I said when I picked up.
“Percival. What’s up?”
“I’m good. Thinking of going by Mickey. Like I used to.”
“I know what you mean.”
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m okay.” Pause. “Vonnie’s living here now.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She needed somewhere to crash. Just for a while. Didn’t want to be alone.”
“That’s great, Hailey. I’m really glad you’re doing it.”
“Yeah. Hey, the reason I’m calling is that you should check out geospin.com, the e-zine. You’ve read it, right? Max’s article is there. It’s getting all kind of hits already, it’s only been up for like a day. We’re gonna be the talk of the town.”
I was surprised that he’d gone with an e-zine, he’d had such hopes for getting in with what he called the titans of journalism. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s the truth, by the way. He did good.” She sighed. “Anyway, got to go. Busy day.”
“Okay,” I said. “Stay in touch.”
“You, too.” She hung up.
It was strange hearing Hailey speak well of Max. It made me think of how much had changed. In a sense, we were all going in the same direction now, all of us opposites. So Hailey could read Max’s article and appreciate it. I could too. I grabbed my computer and pulled the site up.
The article went like this:
By now, the story is already an urban legend. It is a story fueled by the very real existence of a very unusual substance, taken as a drug, made of powdered ash; a story spurred by the haunted visages of the few who were lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to attend a party called “The Moondust Sonatas” in the Bronx on October 8, 2006. This party, which ended in spectacular manner, birthed the legend.
While there are undoubtedly thousands of versions of this story being retold on the streets by now, there is only one true version. This may be the one event in history in which every witness will agree. There was only one experience of this event, and I shared it. I was there.
My name is Maxwell Smith. Since age 12, I wanted to be a reporter. My father, a mostly absent copywriter and difficult man, would get drunk and speak with reverence about figures like Burrows and Cronkite. Probably my desire to be a journalist grew from a desire to be loved the way he loved those old men, who both challenged and defined his worldview.
I pursued my career doggedly, suffering through humiliating internships, until I was on the staff at The New York Globe. Young and hungry, I was ready to do anything for a break.
Because of my ambition, I am an integral part of this story. I directly influenced how the party came to happen, who was involved, and why. My desire to make my journalistic bones catalyzed the events of October 8, I violated the central tenant of the field of journalism I so love. I lost objectivity by becoming an active participant. By rights, therefore, I don’t pen this article as a journalist. But, as a memoirist. I can tell you what I did, saw and felt. You may decide the value of the telling.
On September 29, a story fell into my lap. I immediately recognized its import: a burgeoning cultural phenomenon that could make my career, if I was the one to break it. It was fresh, important, and dangerous. The story was a drug called moondust.
To state that moondust is a narcotic unlike any currently on the legitimate or black markets is to understate the matter. It is unlike any other substance known to man.
I came across moondust while on a date with my girlfriend, who I will call Sonya. We were approached by an unkempt man who identified himself as the messenger and offered us no less than an experience of seeing God, and gave us each a bag of grayish powder. As this man informed us, moondust is taken by dropping the fine power into one’s eye.
Sonya and I had different reactions to being given moondust. As someone disinclined to try illegal drugs, my interest in moondust was professional. For Sonya, this was not the case. Moondust immediately caused a rift between us that eventually destroyed our relationship. When she admitted a desire to take it, I said unkind things. She followed her desire and took the moondust. I did not. I cannot say now how it affected her, because she refuses to speak to me.
I was too focused on chasing the story to care. As soon as possible, I gave the substance to a scientist for analysis. The scientist, who prefers to remain anonymous, described it as, “A fundamentally unquantifiable substance fluidly shifting its atomic structure and weight upon every attempt to classify it, mimicking other elements’ essential characterizes the way a mockingbird imitates the songs of other species.”
Moondust defies classification. Once, when studied, it appeared chemically identical to gold. Another time, it perfectly mimicked sodium, but lacked the explosive properties of sodium when exposed to air or water, which in theory should be impossible. On another occasion, it appeared to be an element that couldn’t exist in the physical world. A different element or chemical was indicated every time the substance was subjected to any type of testing. The equipment, when checked and rechecked, functioned perfectly. Every scientist who has analyzed the substance reported similarly variable results.
Moondust will always remain a great unknown, because it appears to be immune to current methods of inquiry. As the anonymous chemist said, “If we ever hope to understand what this is, we’re going to have to completely re-write the rule book. It’s back to square zero. As far as I’m concerned, moondust is a deathblow to the foundational theories of science itself.”
And so I believe that moondust must result in humanity re-evaluating everything we know about the universe, and perhaps our place in it as well. This inevitable process is only beginning: it’s too early to say how it will progress. Full news cycles will surely be dedicated this titanic shift. But, this article is not.
Understandably, these findings caused my scientist friend to melt down. He gave me the results in a series of phone cal
ls, and during each call he seemed a little more disturbed, a little less grounded. Calling him for updates, I witnessed a man unravel in slow motion. The last time we spoke was shortly after he used the moondust himself, and after he became a user of it, his devolution was complete. When I tried to reach out to him upon completion of this article, he was either unwilling or unable to offer a comment, or even to confirm he’s okay.
Max went on to describe the events leading up to the party as well as the party itself; most of which I experienced first-hand. He told it simply and honestly, using his own memories and the memories of others in the telling. Because he held the memories of almost everyone involved, Max had a leg up on every other journalist in history.
It was a long article by necessity. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen a web release—no word count restrictions. He told how he found Wally DJing and followed him home; how he met me when we were both outside Wally’s building; how he and I reached a deal, each with our own motivations, neither trusting the other; and how he got rid of the three guys staking out my house and why they were there. How he went to Hailey’s to watch moondust being made, which was a total disaster. How he’d gone to the police, and why Detective Greene had desperately needed to wipe moondust off the face of the earth before it ever became a thing, which caused Greene to break all kinds of rules, and to make Max into an informant. He wrote about Vonnie, too: how she played into the events, who she was, and how she felt.
And, of course, the party.
I already knew everything I read, of course. But, it was interesting anyway. My life, the lives of my friends and former enemies, reduced to words on a computer screen for mass consumption. It was odd, but right, because the events we’d been a part of would affect this country and the world at large. I don’t think I understood the enormity of it all until I read it. I think Hailey felt the same way; I could now recognize the odd weight her voice carried on the phone.
Max used our real monikers, as we’d asked him to. We would be part of the public consciousness now, famous or infamous, perhaps forever linked to moondust and whatever effects it would have on our world.