by Ike Hamill
I stare at the TV, hoping that when it comes around to the view of the front the guys will be gone. They’re still there.
“Why do people become predators just because they think the world might end?” I ask. It’s not just an idle question to pass the time. One time Adam told me something about his theory of the nature of human thought. He said that people can hold two opposing ideas in their head at the same time, but they can’t use two parts of their brain simultaneously.
I’m butchering the concept.
Here’s an example: a person can’t do math while they’re chasing an orgasm. I don’t know if that’s true, I’ve never tried it. But I think there might be something to his concept. I’m trying to apply it by asking this guy a philosophical question. My thought is that if I can get his brain thinking philosophically, he won’t be thinking about shooting me. Okay, it’s not a terrific idea.
He sits down on the steps and rests the shotgun across his knees. He’s watching me, watching the monitor.
Just when I’m convinced he’s not going to answer, he does. “People let themselves off the hook too easily,” he says. “They don’t take responsibility for their own actions. I know those guys. They’re from the church next door.”
The TV flashes back to the street view. The men are looking in towards the interior of the store. When the view changes, my eyes dart around frantically, trying to get my bearings. They’re not moving back inside, at least not yet. I can’t help but think that they were getting ready to move though. They had that look about them.
“Church?” I ask.
“My wife says they’re good neighbors, because they’re Christian. I say they’re bad, because they’re Catholic.”
“Bad?”
“There’s too much absolution with Catholics. Too much forgiveness.”
I’m in no position to argue with the man, but it’s tough to leave a statement like that unchallenged.
“I think they’re only forgiven if they’re contrite. They have to recognize that what they’ve done is bad, and then ask for forgiveness. They’ve learned their lesson.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
The monitor flips to the men again. I only see one this time. That’s great. Now, I’m anxious for it to flip to the shot of the interior of the store. It takes forever.
“No, the problem is that they get to work through their guilt and let it go. That may be healthy for the individual, but it’s harmful for society.”
What a mistake I’ve made. Sure, the guy isn’t trying to shoot me, but I’ve activated a mercado philosopher. All I care about is the camera. He’s diving into the psychology of religion. The camera shows the inside of the shop. It’s still empty, unless someone is hiding behind the aisle. The next view will tell me, but it’s taking forever to change now.
“People need to live with their guilt. They need to be eaten up by it. It’s the only way to guarantee that they’ll never repeat their mistakes. Sure, some people will be consumed and they’ll be damaged forever, but that’s okay. What would you rather have? You want someone who has committed an atrocity to eventually heal and become able to walk around with the rest of us? Or, would you rather have them so distraught that they commit suicide? I like suicide. That removes anyone who is truly amoral.”
The view changes. There’s nobody behind the aisle. Now I’m thinking that they could have made it to the bathrooms while I was looking at the store. The next view will show me. Did they set it up this way on purpose? It seems like the thing is engineered to allow someone to walk right through the store unnoticed by the cameras.
“Someone really immoral doesn’t feel guilt,” I say. “They don’t need absolution. They have no empathy for others.”
“True,” he says, “but really anti-social people will always be an issue. There’s no solution for that group. I’m saying that people on the fringe need to live with their guilt. It’s the only effective deterrent against recidivism. Let them confess, and they’re free to sin again.”
The camera shows the outside of the bathrooms. Nothing.
Shit—that means that they’re in the bathroom, or back in the store. They could be about to come through the door, or even through the refrigerator case. I hate those cameras. They don’t help at all.
“You can’t trust anyone who’s really religious. They put their fate in God’s hands and then don’t bother to be good for the sake of good.”
The camera flips back to the outside. Now, all three are gone. Shit! They could be anywhere.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re safe now. Don’t come back or I’ll shoot you in the face.”
When I look up, he’s pointing the gun at me again.
“Wait,” I say. “They could be anywhere.”
The camera flips to the interior. Nothing.
“No, they’re gone. The cameras have motion detectors. When the view changes so slowly like that, it means nothing is moving. You’re safe.”
I don’t believe him, but what am I going to do? He stops halfway up the stairs and just points his gun at me. He’s gesturing again, and I understand—move along or I’ll be shot in the face.
I put my hands up and move towards the busted door.
---- * ----
Kneeling in front of the front door, I’m looking through the pane of missing glass to the night. The cameras didn’t show anyone near the front door. I should be able to dart left and move away from the church before they see me, but who knows. They could have a guy positioned there.
After a minute of deliberation, I just go. There’s really not much else to do.
I’m through the door and running, afraid to look back. I don’t hear anything, but I’m breathing so hard that I’m not sure I would hear an elephant behind me. First chance I get, I turn on a side street, and then turn again.
The night is quiet.
Someone is passed out near a black door. I dart across the street. I’m not taking any more chances with loiterers. I see my own building finally, but I turn up the other street. I run by the offices for puzzleBox software, and take a left.
Thank God for the college students. They’re still protesting out in front of their dorms. Their presence seems to cast a protective bubble over the sidewalk. It seems impossible that anything violent would happen there. I gladly move in amidst their marching and chanting.
I stop a young man who is carrying a sign that reads, “InterStellar ACTivism.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “Which building is the Grinder in.”
He looks me up and down. He says, “Down with imperial twinks.”
“Huh?”
He starts to move around me, but I back up and step in his way again. He’s trying to ignore me—make me invisible again—but I’m right in his way.
“Could you just point me towards the Grinder?”
“Incoherence is a choice,” he says. They’re all saying nonsense like this. It’s confusing as hell. A girl, near enough that I can pick her words out from the din, says, “Overstanding is underwhelming.”
I spot an adult through the glass door of the nearby building. I head his way. It’s lucky for me that a kid is heading out right as I’m walking towards. I catch the door just as it’s closing.
The guy has a salt-and-pepper beard and a bald head. He’s wearing a long sleeve black T-shirt. He might as well have a “PROFESSOR” tattoo on his neck.
“Hey,” I say, walking up. “Can you point me towards the Grinder? I’m supposed to meet my son.”
“Son?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “No judgement.” He points and says, “Hall, stairs, hall-hall-hall, and left.”
At least I’m in the right building. I can figure out the rest. His attention is back to the kids and their strange signs.
“What are they protesting?” I ask.
“It’s a reality test,” the professor says. My confusion must show on my face. He explains more, gesturing with his hands. “Imagine that everything you’re seeing and hearing is
a dream. Or maybe it’s a computer simulation. How would you tell the difference?”
“Difference?”
“Right. If it’s a dream, then it doesn’t really matter what happens, does it? Eventually, you’ll wake up and everything will be just fine. But, if it’s a simulation, you have to consider that you’re the subject of an experiment. Your reactions to the world around you are being studied and documented.”
“Simulation?” I ask.
“Exactly. The kids can’t control the simulation, but they can damn well throw off the results by being absurd. That’s what they’re doing out there. They’re giving absurd feedback to the simulation. They’re poisoning the results in protest.”
“What good would that do?” I ask.
“What good does anything do? It gives the kids a feeling of self-control in a situation that otherwise provides none.”
“Huh. So… Hallway?”
“Hall, stairs, hall-hall-hall.”
I nod.
“Oh, wait!” the guy calls.
I turn back and he’s pointing out through the glass.
“Is that him?”
“Who?” I ask, but then I see. There’s a kid out there. He looks like the rest, but with one important distinction—he looks a hell of a lot like me. Not exactly like me—not even what I looked like at his age. His nose is turned up at the end, and he has a slight dimple I his chin. But if I were trying to find my son amongst the protestors, he’s the one I would suspect.
For a second, it makes me wonder.
The young man’s sign says, “BEAR with Me.” It has a picture of a man standing in front of a bear cub. The cub is standing too, and it’s about waist-high on the man. The man has his hands on the bear’s shoulders.
I shake my head and turn away.
I’ve never enjoyed dreams. If something good happens, it just goes away when you wake up. If something bad happens, you’re stuck with that image in your brain. It seems like a lose-lose. I find the stairs and wonder why they don’t have any signs up. Navigating must be a nightmare for freshmen. The stairs go up and up and up, but I get off on the next floor. The hall takes a couple of jogs.
“The bear swings his massive claws at you. Roll D6,” a voice says from an open doorway. I slow down. After the sound of a rolling die, a roomful of people all shout, “Oh!”
“Grazing blow to the chest. You’re bleeding.”
They’re packed into the room. A desk is turned to face the crowd. The person sitting there is wearing a purple hat. He has books stacked around the perimeter of his desk so nobody can see the whatever document he’s hovering over.
“What’s your move?” the guy at the desk says.
A kid sitting up on one of the lofted beds replies. “I turn for the side door to flee the coffee shop.”
“Roll D10,” the purple-hatted desk-kid says.
Another die is cast.
“Two,” the kid on the bed says.
“You faint,” the desk-kid says. “The bear uses his dexterous claws to put something in your pocket.”
He looks up and sees me standing in the hallway. The other kids in the room continue their whispers and side-chatter. None of the other kids seem concerned with me at all—just the one with the purple hat. His stare is making me uncomfortable, and I have a task to complete. I continue on my way.
As I move on, I hear another shout from the room. “OH!”
Most of the doors are closed. There’s a bit of a lobby up ahead and a door on the left that doesn’t look like a dorm room. It’s bigger than the other doors and has a set of decorative gears on it. As I approach, I pull Adam’s key from my pocket. It fits the deadbolt, but it won’t turn. I pull the key from the lock and look at it, as if that will help. While I’m trying to puzzle this through, a hand reaches under mine and turns the handle. A skinny kid slips between me and the door and goes inside.
I’m equally offended and embarrassed. The way these kids move around me is offensive. I’m a non-person—just an obstacle to be avoided. There’s no, “Excuse me,” or “Pardon me.” There’s not even a, “Move it, asshole.” They just dodge and slip by. Oh well. At least I know that the door’s unlocked.
It’s dim in there. The perimeter of the room is a warren of little booths and alcoves. Those are even darker than the open floor. Tables have been pushed towards the walls. The center of the room is open like a little dance floor. Nobody is dancing, at least not out in the open. In the dark corners, I catch glimpses of covert movement. I glance to the wall. I’m inclined to turn on all the lights and watch the youngsters scatter like so many cockroaches. That’s not what I’m here for.
At the back of the room, there’s a menu over a dutch door.
Adam’s key unlocks the top half of the door. I boost myself over the counter and slide to the floor. Just in case, I close the door behind me. Alone in the little kitchen, I flip on the lights. There’s not much to the back of the Grinder. A deep fryer, an ice cream machine, an oven, and refrigerators are the major appliances. The freezer door is locked, but Adam’s key works on that as well. I pause before I put it back in my pocket. He just happened to have a key to the Grinder? How many of my possessions does he have?
I glance up at the exhaust vent above the fryer. I look over at the vent. Where is he now? Is he watching me?
Something else occurs to me. This key is the first tangible evidence I’ve ever had that Adam is an actual person. All this time, my only interactions with him have been through the grate. I’ve never seen him. For all I knew, he could have been a speaker mounted behind the grate, relaying messages from some operative in another state, or another country. Once that key slid through the grate, he became an actual, physical, human being. He’s not a figment of my imagination.
The key is not in my hand.
“Shit,” I say. My certainty scatters to the corners. It hides under the refrigerator and behind the sink.
I check my pocket. It’s there. I must have tucked it away when I was thinking about Adam. I shake my head to clear it. I have things to do.
The freezer is filled with white bags. Black lettering indicates the contents. I’ve settled on “Four Berry Blend” before I find my first bag of blueberries. They’re in the back. I get three of them, just for good measure, and lock up the freezer.
True to form, none of the kids even seem to notice me as I emerge from the door and lock it again behind me. I’m carrying the bags a little away from my body. They’re already starting to sweat.
“Parfait,” he says.
There’s a kid right in front of me.
“Oh, sorry. We’re closed,” I say.
He’s holding out a card, like it will change my mind.
I try to step around him, but he steps with me.
“You’re not the parfait guy.”
“No, I know,” I say. “He’ll be back at the regular time. We’re not open right now.”
I step the other direction, but he’s too fast. Another kid appears from the shadows. He’s holding out a card as well.
“Listen,” I say. “I can’t help you. I have to get these bags downstairs.” I hold up the bags to ward them off, the same way they’re holding up their cards to detain me.
They have more people. Young men join the human barricade forming between me and the door. I’m the first one to get physical. I hold the sweaty bags out in front of me and move forward. They scowl and duck away from the cold wet things, but a few of them move to block the door.
“Who are you?” one asks. “You’re not the parfait guy.”
“I know,” I say. “Get out of my way.”
“He’s stealing our parfaits,” another says. An angry murmur washes through the group. I wish more lights were on. I’m surrounded by these barely lit faces and I can’t help but think that they can see a million times better than I can with their young eyes.
They’re still closing in.
Fine. I push forward, holding the bags aloft and shouldering kids out of th
e way. They fall away at my touch, but quickly regroup. One stands in front of the door and holds up his hand. But I have momentum by this point. I don’t try to dodge. I simply push right through him. My weight is too much for him to hold back and he hits the door frame as I turn the handle and pull it open.
Out in the hallway, I feel free. The kids muster fast though, and come through the door in a stream. I turn left, heading away from the hall that I entered through. For some reason, the prospect of walking by the room where they were rolling dice turns me off.
I expect them to scream, or yell, or run at me, but they don’t. They just fill the hall behind me and keep pace. When I speed up, they do too. Hearing the coming procession, some of the doors open up and heads prairie-dog out to see what’s happening. Halfway down the hall, I break into a run.
---- * ----
At the end of the hall, the door is marked with a big sign.
“Fire Door. PLEASE KEEP DOOR CLOSED.”
Stick figures of a girl and a boy are on one side of the pictured door. On the other side are cartoon flames.
I push through the door and shove it shut behind me, hoping to keep the mob in the hall. I run for the stairs.
There’s another group coming up from the first floor. My mind balks at the idea. They can’t be connected with the kids following me, can they? They must be another contingent who just happen to be coming up. But I don’t want to take the chance. There must be another stairwell. I go up instead of down. I round the corner and move as quietly as I can as I hear the kids burst through the fire door.
I hear a conversation below me as I round the next flight. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can imagine it.
“Did you see an old guy come through here? He’s stealing our parfaits.”
“Yeah. He went up.”
I glance at the next door but continue up. Maybe I can throw them off.
I can’t hear them, but when I glance over the railing, I can see their hands, gripping the railing.
I slip through the door and find a quiet hall. It looks like another residence hall, but these doors are all closed. I rush down the hall, glancing back frequently.