by L. T. Vargus
Nick stood over the fallen safe, beaming.
“No damage! This thing is like a got-damn tank!” he said.
* * *
We lugged the safe out the back door of the garage and walked around the house. It was heavy, and more than that, it was awkward. The top of the safe leaned into Nick’s chest where he hugged around it, and I kind of squat-walked behind it holding up the bottom. Between his walking backward and my crouch and stumble, it was really goddamn slow going.
I heard a rumble as we turned the corner from the back to the side of the garage, but I didn’t think much of it. It didn’t seem all that loud compared to the sound of Nick and I crunching through the dry sticks of some dead plant life underfoot. Nick showed no signs of noticing it either.
Instead his face contorted all crazily, and veins protruded from his neck and forehead like he had a couple of thick orange extension cords running through those areas. Something about his teeth looked very rodent-like in this state.
As we rounded the corner toward the front of the house, we passed through a narrow opening between a bush and a pine tree. Nick stopped in that tiny gap, and I ran my thighs into the corner of the safe, which hurt. I was about to ask him what the hell when I suddenly noticed that the rumbling was much louder.
I glanced over to see a running car in the driveway only a few yards away from us. The headlights were off. A light colored Toyota Corolla. White, I think. Maybe silver.
It was too dark to tell if someone was actually in the car, but when the rumble died, I knew someone must have turned off the ignition. The engine made a few little “tink” metallic sounds as it wound down, and then it fell silent completely. I could hear the muffled jingle of the keys inside, and then the click of the door opening.
The dome light revealed an older couple. A fat bald man with a white beard, and a woman with long gray hair. I immediately pictured the drawer with the ben wa balls and shuddered inside.
They climbed out of the vehicle, the old man stretching a moment before they moved toward the house.
“We forgot to stop for milk,” the old woman said.
“We’ll get ’er tomorrow,” the old man said.
“Alright, but that means black coffee in the morning.”
“That’s fine.”
I realized, belatedly, that they hadn’t seen us at all. It seemed too ridiculous. That we could just freeze here like a couple of fucking groundhogs or something and get away with this. Nothing to see here. No, no. Just two statues clutching a safe. They veered away from us, heading up the walk toward the front door.
As soon as they crossed the threshold into the house, we took off, racing to the car and tossing the safe into the backseat before speeding off into the night. Nick couldn’t stop laughing the whole time.
Chapter 16
WHEN I WAS A KID, one of the Little League teams was named after a local supermarket called Miller’s. So the kids on the other teams would chant:
“Miller’s, Miller’s, butthole fillers!”
Isn’t that, like, insanely graphic for a bunch of eight-year-olds? You would hear this up and down the streets at all hours.
Chapter 17
IN PSYCHOLOGY TODAY WE TALKED about how different cultures have a different sense of “self.” So for example, in the United States we believe strongly in our individuality, independence, and self esteem. We have a sense of our self being a concrete thing. I guess that’s why a lot of (not all) people here are so comfortable labeling themselves and aspiring to fit that label. Punk kids dress a certain way and value a certain set of things. Preppie kids (even if they wouldn’t call themselves that) would be embarrassed to wear non-name brand stuff that doesn’t reflect the class and social group they identify with. And so on.
In Eastern cultures, they have a much looser sense of all of this. They see the needs of the community and family as more important than things like independence and individuality. They see themselves not as a concrete self, but merely a collection of thoughts, values, and preferences. Something that shifts and changes over time. They don’t make decisions through a weird identity filter as much as we do. They don’t pick a certain brand of cola because of what it might say about them. They aren’t perpetually self conscious and stroking their own ego with every goddamn thing they do.
They’re just here. And they’re experiencing life. That’s all.
Here it’s like everything is weird egotistical consumption, you know? I buy this brand of shoes because that’s who I am. I watch this TV show because that’s who I am. I have the newest Iphone/Ipad whatever gadget because that’s who I am. And it’s insane because there is nothing emptier than consumption.
Like the goddamn idiots that line up around the block to get whatever new Apple gadget. They have this fervor about them like it’s a religious experience. Like they want it to be that. Desperately. They want to be so excited about this gadget, because maybe this time it will give their life meaning. But it doesn’t. It just means you can watch episodes of Top Chef on a small tablet instead of on TV.
So congratulations.
* * *
First image at Nick’s today: Donnie pressing a stethoscope to the safe as he twisted the dial around all slow. Hilarious. He had this little toolkit out, like all of a sudden he’s a safe cracker in an old western movie or something.
“Almost got it,” Donnie said. It was about the eighth time he’d said that.
“I’m telling you guys. The way to crack this safe is a little thing I like to call brute force. Just sledgehammer that shit,” I said.
Nick seemed to be buying into Donnie’s act.
“Nah, man. Let him do it.”
He was all scooted up on the edge of his chair, watching Donnie’s every move. He looked excited like a little kid watching his grandma decorating Christmas cookies.
The safe was small and old. Not that high of quality.
“The hinges are the weak point. Just bash that fucker along the seams of the door till it pops out of the frame,” I said.
Nick held up a hand at me, insisting on letting Donnie do his thing.
“Almost there,” Donnie said, tweaking the dial.
Whatever. If they wanted to pretend that Donnie’s taco assembling experience had somehow resulted in him acquiring safe cracking skills, there’s just not that much else to say about it.
Of course, Donnie also shushed me several times even though I wasn’t making noise. I understand that a true safe whisperer such as himself needs absolute silence to work, though.
While we waited for Donnie to work his magic, Tammie made these smoothies called green monsters that were goddamn delicious. She held out a glass to me.
“What’s in it?”
I eyed it somewhat suspiciously, it being green and all.
“It’s like a couple frozen bananas, a scoop of peanut butter, a little Greek yogurt and a splash of almond milk topped with 2 huge handfuls of kale,” she said.
Yes, kale, the cruciferous green vegetable.
I took a sip.
“Holy shit, this is awesome.”
I know it sounds crazy, but it tastes good as hell. Aside from the thing being bright green, you wouldn’t know that there was a salad or two worth of vegetables in there. I just tasted a delightful peanut butter and banana smoothie.
“Kale is like crazy good for you and reduces your risk of getting cancer like 60% or something, too,” Tammie said. It turns out she is just full of useful information.
We sat on the couch watching the two fools work on the safe.
“You know you guys are going to work forever on this,” I said. “And there’s probably nothing inside.”
“You shut your mouth!” Donnie said.
He looked furious.
* * *
I had a dream last night that I was back in the woman’s bedroom. The lady. And I was waiting in the doorway, shining my light on her, except her hair was blond now. And she rolled over but kept her eyes closed. And it w
as Beth.
And I just watched her a while and listened to her breathe. She looked so peaceful. But it was weird, too. Somehow the fact that I was there made it obvious how not safe she was. I mean, it was just me, but it could have been anyone, you know. Someone else could sneak in there, and she’d be just as helpless and vulnerable.
She eventually kicked the blanket up and sighed and rolled over again. And I waited even longer, and watched and listened some more, and then I decided to go in for the jewelry box. But instead, without even thinking about it, I started climbing into the bed behind her, and then I woke up.
* * *
I keep thinking about that old couple every so often. The people we robbed or whatever. I don’t know. Part of me feels like I should feel sorry for them. Like putting a face to our victims should make me feel remorse or something, you know? But I don’t.
Maybe it’s the stupid ben wa balls. Maybe it’s something else. I don’t care. I don’t feel sorry. I took your safe. I won. Fuck you.
* * *
Beth and I were in the Biology Lab. She volunteered to feed the rats for her biology teacher, so I followed her from cage to cage while she dropped a handful of rat food into each bowl. Rat food seems to be mostly comprised of a variety of seeds.
“I watched this dating show the other day,” Beth said. “I can’t remember what it was called.”
“Love Connection?” I said.
“No. That one is ancient. This was newer.”
She thought a minute.
“I guess it doesn’t matter which one it was, really. At the beginning, though, they had the contestants, these four girls, do video interviews that the potential suitors watched. They could talk about whatever they wanted. To really emphasize the important qualities that make up who they are, right?”
“Right.”
I handed Beth a rat treat from the bag I was holding, and she set it in the cage. The rat went straight for the treat and started munching away.
“This girl went on and on about how she is a feminist, but her ex-boyfriend used to open the door for her all the time anyway, which really bothered her.”
“What?”
“No, really. That was her idea of what being a feminist is. A woman who doesn’t want a guy to hold a door open for her. Under any circumstances. She mentioned it again when she got eliminated. She said the guy contestants must not want a girl that opens her own doors.”
“That’s funny.”
Beth walked to the sink at the back of the room and squirted a pile of pink soap foam into her hands. She lathered.
“It made me think about this article I read, though, about how men find skinny women attractive not based solely on physical attraction, but the idea that a skinny woman is an obedient woman. You know? If she works out and watches what she eats to meet that social norm or expectation, she is obeying what men want, and that’s part of why they like it.”
“I guess that makes sense in a way.”
“Yeah, in a way. And then breast implants are even more so. At that point the woman is going under the knife not only to obey men but to actually debase herself in a certain way solely to be sexually attractive to men, you know? It’s no longer in any way a health issue or a grooming issue or anything like that. It’s getting huge sex balloon things attached to your body. Willingly making yourself a toy for men. Humiliating yourself, and in a way some men like that.”
Beth tore off a length of brown paper towel and dried her hands with it before wadding it up and tossing it in the garbage can.
“Yeah. Sheesh,” I said.
“I don’t know, though. It’s all so complicated.”
“Yeah, for real.”
She was right. I honestly never thought boobs would seem so complicated.
Chapter 18
I WENT TO NICK’S AFTER school today. I could hear this weird hissing type sound as I climbed the steps on the porch. Somehow I knew Donnie was responsible.
I turned the corner to find Donnie and Nick both wearing welding masks. The hissing emitted from the blow torch in Donnie’s hand which he was waving back and forth across the top of the safe. Little puffs of black smoke rolled off the spots where the flame touched the metal.
Nick flipped his welding mask up.
“Donnie figures that the top is the weak point,” he said. “We’re goin’ to burn our way in.”
He smiled and flipped the mask back down.
I didn’t say anything. I just stood and watched for a few minutes and then turned to leave.
* * *
Beth squinted and looked at the ceiling. I followed her gaze to a brown water stain that was sort of shaped like Idaho.
“I think I might be a little bit psychic,” she said.
I smiled.
“Oh really?”
“Yeah! Like one time, when I was five, there was this contest for Halloween. You had to guess the weight of this insane pumpkin that was about the size of a Prius. My dad took me in and let me guess a number. And I was five, you know. I probably didn’t know how much I weighed, let alone an enormous pumpkin.”
She leaned in closer, and I could smell mint on her breath. She always seemed so clean somehow.
“I was four ounces off. Less than half a freaking pound!”
It suddenly struck me that the room had gone silent around us.
Shit.
I looked past Beth’s shoulder to the front of the classroom, and sure enough, there was Mr. Burback: arms crossed, lips pursed, eyebrows arched in exaggerated annoyance, staring eyeball laser beams through the back of Beth’s skull.
Beth hadn’t noticed. She was still talking about the damn giant pumpkin.
“So obviously there’s no logical explanation for it other than I’m psychic.”
“Beth,” I said it like a ventriloquist, my lips barely moving, my teeth all clenched. “Beth, turn around.”
“What? Oh.”
She glanced over her shoulder and sighed.
“Sorry,” she said, and turned to face the front of the room.
I held my breath, and I liked to imagine that the rest of the class did the same. I almost think it’s worse when you’re anticipating trouble for someone else somehow. Like if Mr. Burback was winding up to yell at me, I might even think it was kind of funny, but I was terrified on Beth’s behalf for whatever reason. Anyway, it was the moment of truth.
Mr. Burback tapped his toe a couple times and then held still. For a second, I thought he was going to let it go. But no.
“Oh no, please. Don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” he said.
He liked to lay the sarcasm on as thick as his mustache.
“Go ahead. Please finish, I’m sure it’s very important. You can let me know when you’re done.”
He did this same routine about 50% of the time someone didn’t stop “socializing” (His word, not mine. Douche.) the instant he demanded the class’s attention. At some point Beth pointed out that he was more apt to direct it at the girls than the guys, and I’m pretty sure she’s right. So he’s a sexist douche, apparently.
Now Beth would stare at her shoes, and bite her lip, and whisper, “No, I’m done. Sorry.” And sink a little lower in her seat. I’ve read that humiliation is a very effective teaching method.
Instead, however, Beth cocked her head to one side.
“Oh, okay then.” She said it with extra pep and a cheesy smile to match his overdone sarcasm.
She swiveled around to face me.
“Anyway... what was I saying before? Oh yeah. The pumpkin.”
I think my jaw actually dropped. No one had ever attempted this before.
I looked up at Mr. Burback. He looked... insane. Absolutely insane with rage. Face beet red, nostrils flaring.
He jabbed a finger at Beth.
“Alright! Out!”
Beth raised her eyebrows and shrugged as she grabbed her books.
“Both of you! Out!”
I opened my mouth to protest. Me? I hadn�
��t done anything. But then I thought the better of it for a variety of reasons. One: I didn’t like the prospects of arguing with Mr. Burback in the midst of his ’roid rage. Two: I would look like a huge puss. Three: As fascinating as listening to Mr. Mustache lecture the class on the economic hardships in the post-Civil War South might be, sitting with Beth in the hallway unsupervised might be OK, too.
I picked up my books and followed Beth out of the room.
The door closed behind us, and there was a moment of total silence. Then we both started laughing. We were both scared of making too much noise and further enraging Mr. Burback, so we kind of tried to hold the laughing back, and that just made us laugh even harder. Our laughs echoed down the hall.
When I finally caught my breath, I said, “Dude, that was awesome.”
“Did you see his face?” she said.
“His mustache was quivering with rage.”
“Yeah well, I’m sick of his crap. He thinks he’s so cool.”
Beth plopped onto the cool brown floor.
“He just gets off on bullying and humiliating people. Oh, except the girls that sit in the front row. They get a free pass because he gets to look down their shirts when they pretend to laugh at his stupid jokes. Fucking pervert loser.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a teacher get that mad. He was homicidal.”
Beth crossed one knee over the other and dangled her shoe off the end of her foot.
“It was weird. For a split second, I almost did what everyone else does. Like cower and say, ’Oh no, Mr. Burback, I’m so sorry, please forgive me.’ But something welled up inside me and was like, ‘Nope. Not this time, fucker.’ And I just went for it.”
* * *
I lugged a sledgehammer over to Nick’s today. Donnie was attempting to drill a hole into the front of the safe just above the dial with an orange Black and Decker drill. That maybe would’ve eventually worked if he spent about 1,000 years and a bunch of drill bits working on it. Maybe.
They hadn’t really noticed me come in, so I let the sledgehammer rest on the floor. Loudly. The drilling stopped, and their heads turned.