Look Down, This is Where It Must Have Happened

by Hal Niedzviecki

  Look Down, This Is Where It Must Have Happened

  Hal Niedzviecki

  City Lights Books • San Francisco

  Copyright © 2011 by Hal Niedzviecki

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and interior design: Linda Ronan

  With thanks to Anne Collins, Margo Rabb, Stephanie Staal, Conan Tobias, Alanna Ramirez, Elaine Katzenberger, Stacey Lewis and Ken Sparling for their suggestions, thoughts, and enthusiasm.

  Stories in this book have appeared, some in altered form, in the following publications: Taddle Creek, Gargoyle Magazine, Américas Magazine, Toronto Life, and Exile Literary Quarterly. Many thanks to those publications and their editors.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Niedzviecki, Hal, 1971-

  Look down, this is where it must have happened / Hal Niedzviecki.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-87286-539-6

  I. Title.

  PR9199.3.N515L66 2011

  813'.54—dc22

  2010053211

  City Lights Books are published at the City Lights Bookstore,

  261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.

  Visit our website: www.citylights.com

  For Rachel

  Contents

  Special Topic: Terrorism

  Look Down, This Is Where It Must Have Happened

  Punk Rock Role Model

  Prenatal

  The Useless

  The Colorist

  Displacement

  Sometime Next Sunrise

  Undead

  Holiday

  Real Estate

  Doing God’s Work

  Special Topic: Terrorism

  The bat thudded against the window. Peter felt it — broken glass in his gut — though the window didn’t break. No alarm went off. The window still sat in its frame, intact but in pieces like an assembled jigsaw. Laurie was wearing a crimson scarf that covered most of her face. Her long hair glimmered in the dark night and made Peter think of the ninja girl character in Mortal Kombat 3. Racist, Peter admonished himself. Or sexist. Something, anyway. Laurie poked the window with the bat. The whole thing fell apart.

  Nice, Star growled. Peter had gone to high school with Star. When he walked into Advanced Social Theory 303Y (Special Topic: Terrorism) on the first day of class in his third year of university, he immediately noticed her sitting nonchalantly in the back row, bare legs protruding out of a short skirt and dangling over the seat in front of her. Surprising himself, he had climbed the steps. Hey, he said. Hey, she said back, her blue eyes already on him, a mimetic echo of his lost adolescent self, only three years removed. Star smiled, her lips full, her teeth straight and white. Didn’t you go to my high school? she asked jovially. I . . . yeah . . . I think . . . Peter said. Star had been in his tenth grade advanced algebra class, his eleventh grade geometry and English classes, and his twelfth grade honors history class. She was one of a group of smart girls who were also cheerleaders. Peter always sat behind her in the classes they had together. At night, he would think of her, the way her long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders.

  Tonight Star was dressed in dirty jeans and a faded dark blue track jacket. Peter stood next to her. Despite the grungy clothes, she smelled of soap and fallen leaves. Hey Petey! Star yelled. Peter startled. They were waiting for him. He stepped forward. The shattered glass under his sneakers sounded like snow. It was October. Next month, there would be snow. Peter stopped in front of the space where the window had been and looked in. The vehicle was massive, one of those supersized trucks that seemed built to intimidate. Peter was six-foot-three but skinny like a weed. Peter glanced over at Laurie, who shrugged. Laurie Chung, lithe, quiet, fourth-year poli-sci to Peter’s third-year sociology. She was also way out of his league. For sure she had a boyfriend. At the campus coffee shop Star had talked about greenhouse gasses and rich assholes who don’t give a shit about the planet or anyone but themselves. Assholes, Peter thought. Laurie was short. Star was taller, but still only came up to the top of the door of the bulky truck. Even Peter had to stand on his toes to reach through to the lock. That’s why they were waiting for him to do it. Plus they had agreed that everyone would play an integral part. Those were Star’s words. Integral. So nobody could say afterward that they didn’t actually do anything, that they were just there because it was an assignment.

  Who wants to start? Deirdre snapped. Today was the beginning of a series of classes that would revolve around groups reporting on their projects. Deirdre’s nasal voice seemed more monotone than usual, like she wasn’t just bored but bored with being bored. My name is Deirdre Mulligan, she had told them on the first day of class. Call me Deirdre. If you call me Doctor or Professor or Ms. Mulligan I’ll fail you. Deirdre twitched her lips into what might have been a grin but nobody else smiled or laughed. I’ll fail you, Peter wrote in his notebook.

  Deirdre wore short salt-and-pepper hair and an icy glare floating just underneath her thick black glasses. Every time she swung her gaze Peter’s way, he felt a little bit sick. All the previous summer, back at home and working as an intern at his father’s marketing firm, he’d had a similar feeling. He copied reports and filled his empty belly with cold water from the cooler in the file room. His stomach gurgled, signaling the approach of lunch hour. Nobody talked to him. His university years were going by. He had drifted into sociology. He was good at math and English, but not all that great at either. Sociology, so reliant on statistics — a combination of numbers and writing about the meaning of numbers — came easy to him. Next year he would graduate. He’d never had a girlfriend. He was thinking vaguely about a career in law enforcement.

  I anxiously await a volunteer, Deirdre announced petulantly. Peter looked over at Star, sitting next to him. Star’s blond hair formed a curtain, obscuring her face. She was writing in her notebook. What was she writing? Samson Okalow put his hand up. Samson was from Africa. Peter didn’t know his story: if he was an exchange student or what.

  Okay, Deirdre said, pointing at Samson. Come up and bring the rest of your group with you. The three members of the group gathered. Deirdre relocated, moving from the lectern to a seat in the front row. Peter’s belly rolled anxiously. He thought of the look that might appear on Deirdre’s face when they assembled in front of her for their report — gangly Peter standing in between Star and Laurie, the two hottest girls in the class. He shook his head, trying to get the image out of his mind. His stomach flipped, queasy and empty. You didn’t have breakfast, he told himself. Peter usually stopped at Starbucks for a coffee and a muffin. In class they had talked about the corporation as a tool of patriarchal cyborg capitalism. Star had nodded seriously. Peter didn’t really get it. What did cyborgs have to do with terrorism? Anyway, he was avoiding Starbucks.

  I will begin now, yes, thank you. Samson swallowed, his thick Adam’s apple bobbing. Our cause is the plight of the people of Chad. We demand that the Western governments stop supporting this brutal puppet administration and that corporations stop doing business with this corrupt regime. We want a complete ban on all transactions with Chad until democracy and human rights can be enacted. Our aim is to pressure the governments of the West into forcing the regime to either step down or drastically alter their policies of political repression, mass execution, blatant cronyism, and ongoing destruction of the natural environment for the sake of oil development.

  Peter was impressed. Samson seemed genuinely offended on behalf of the people of Chad. Samson was the only black person in the class. Laurie, sitting on the other side of Star, was Chinese. She probably had family there or something. China was fu
ll of repression and stuff. They should have done something on China. Peter had never heard of Chad before.

  Samson continued: Yes, thank you, for our first action we wrote letters to —

  You’re a terrorist organization, Deirdre interrupted. You don’t write letters. You’re not some namby-pamby nonprofit working for change. You already tried that. You already sent letters. For years you sent letters, but nothing ever changed. Now you’re angry, ready to take matters into your own hands.

  Yes, Samson continued. The letters instruct that one individual will be killed for each week that our demands are ignored. Corporations dealing with Chad as well as government agencies will be targeted. We will send letter bombs.

  Excuse me? Professor, uh, Deirdre? A plain, pudgy girl peeked out from behind Samson’s shoulder. Isn’t that, I mean, don’t you think that’s a little . . . extreme?

  Terrorists are extremists, Deirdre said flatly. Remember, you became terrorists because you’ve been marginalized, subdued. Your concerns and needs have been not just ignored but actively suppressed. You’re not just angry, you’re furious.

  Deirdre got up from her seat. She strode behind the group and wrote in big letters on the chalkboard: Angry + Organized = Complacent. Furious + Organized = Terrorist. Peter scribbled the two equations down in his notebook. He liked it when words could be added up. He glanced over at Star: still writing furiously.

  So what’s next? Deirdre asked the group as she reclaimed her seat in the front. Did you get any response from the letters?

  Yes, thank you, Samson said uncertainly. We are awaiting response.

  Your demands will go unmet.

  Samson nodded soberly.

  You’ll have to kill someone.

  That girl again: But I’m not comfortable with —

  Already the cell is cleaving, said Deirdre with obvious relish. Interesting. Groups based on moral convictions and aimed at political solutions are notoriously difficult to keep together.

  I just — the girl looked like she was going to cry.

  If you compromise you will die. Think about how your group will be able to stay together and maintain a cohesive ideology and action plan. Now, what about the practical side of things? Your plan is very ambitious. Who’s going to make the bombs?

  The third member of the group stepped forward. I’m in chemical engineering, he said simply. I can make a bomb. The engineer-in-training was pudgy and nondescript, but Peter was impressed with his confidence. Again Peter looked over at Star. She had put down her pen and was inspecting her nails. We don’t need him, Peter thought. We’re not doing bombs.

  It wasn’t hard to find another vehicle to trash. They met on campus and rode the subway to Glebedale, a downtrodden area sometimes called Crackdale. Artists taking advantage of the cheap rent had paved the way and the neighborhood was now dotted with nightclubs, trendy restaurants and exclusive galleries oozing faux bohemian style and private security. At night, the desultory residential side streets surrounding the main strip were strewn with flashy vehicles driven down from the suburbs and parallel-parked in front of dilapidated row houses. Peter walked slowly, cautiously bringing up the rear. They were far from the landscaped campus of imposing stone buildings attached to modern glassed-in expansions. A breeze blew and Star’s hair flared, almost touching his nose. He breathed in.

  They turned onto a small one-way street heading west. There, Star half whispered. Peter tracked her gaze to a Humvee, bright yellow and brand new. It was parked in front of a crumbling brick house adorned with a square of meticulously groomed, fenced-in green grass. The windows of the house were dark, covered by layers of graying lace curtain. The group stood on the sidewalk surveying the scene. Peter imagined two old people spending their nights peering out from behind the curtains and whispering to each other in some forgotten language. The street was empty, the driver of the Humvee nowhere to be seen. He’s off partying, Peter thought. He’ll probably bring some girl back and do her right here in his truck. Peter felt acid surge in his stomach. He wasn’t a virgin. He’d had sex with the skinny girl three doors down from him in residence. That was back in first year. They’d both been a little drunk.

  Laurie pulled a thick wrench out of her backpack. Star took out her camera. They’d agreed that from now on they should take pictures. Of course they wouldn’t show their faces in the shots — just the damage they’d wrought on behalf of their still nameless group. Star said they needed documentation. Star said that people needed to see what could happen if they refused to rethink their relationship to the planet.

  Laurie swung the wrench at the Humvee’s narrow, tanklike passenger side window. The wrench bounced off. Laurie hit again, then again. The window dented and scraped, but didn’t buckle. The sound of the wrench ricocheting off the glass echoed down the street. Every time Laurie’s wrench made contact, Peter felt his stomach flip.

  Laurie raised the wrench over her head and slammed it into the window. The wrench flew out of her hand and clattered to the sidewalk. Shit! Laurie said, grabbing her arm. That hurt!

  Let Petey try, Star said. Peter shrugged, bent down and picked up the tool. The handle was still slick from Laurie’s palm. He wasn’t sure how hard he could hit the window without hurting himself. There was surely some optimal velocity. He didn’t want to come off all macho, so he just did an average swing and hit the window. The impact rang up his arm and all the way into his brain. Everything below his shoulder went numb. Distant laughter echoed past the ringing in his ears. Maybe we should go, Laurie said, holding her arm awkwardly. Peter looked at Star. She was smiling, showing small white teeth, the camera dangling off her neck and between her breasts. Peter hit again, harder this time. He kept hitting. He was no longer trying to find the optimal velocity. When he finally stopped, the window was buckled but not smashed. It had peeled away from the frame. Peter leaned into it with his elbow and it gave all at once, pulling him partway into the front seat.

  The girls dragged him out. Peter held on to the wrench. His right arm was completely numb. He stood on the sidewalk breathing heavily while they went to work. Nice stereo, he heard Star say, followed by an evil laugh. She had brought a glue gun with her. The smell of noxious adhesive drifted through the window. Peter sucked air through his mouth, feeling suddenly nauseated. Laurie had moved to the back, was slashing the seats with a box cutter. Now Star was painting with her aerosol. Suddenly Peter heard footsteps. He turned to see the owner of the vehicle standing next to him. He was a short, burly guy with a crew cut. He exuded the heavy scent of cologne and tequila. The man made a face at the scene in front of him. What the hell? he said. He took a step forward. It’s cool, Peter said loudly. Dude, it’s cool. It’s your lucky night. He thought he’d make it sound like a contest or something. Then they could run for it. The doors swung open and Laurie and Star slipped out, slinky and otherworldly in their jeans and black tops. Star went up to the guy, still standing there, mouth hanging open. Hi, she said. She had the aerosol of paint in one hand and the spray gun of glue in the other. The guy looked at her, confused. Star brought both cans up and let him have it. The bright yellow on his forehead matched the Humvee’s paint job. Glue oozed off his tongue. The dude fell to his knees, spitting and clawing at his eyes.

  They didn’t stop running until they were back on the subway. Star and Laurie sat next to each other giggling compulsively, shoulders and thighs rubbing. They were alone in the car. Peter sat across, watching them and smiling uncertainly. Every time he thought they were going to stop laughing, Star would yell something: Dude, it’s cool! or It’s your lucky night! and they would both start up again. The subway opened its doors at the stops and their laughter echoed through near-empty stations. He was relieved when they finally got off the train. He trailed behind as they walked the few blocks to Laurie’s apartment.

  Laurie’s place felt like a high school girl’s bedroom. Stuff was everywhere — slinky clothes, dirty juice glasses, fashion magazines. Peter didn’t know what he should look
at. He guiltily alternated between the girls laughing and hugging each other and a sheer white tank top draped over a chair. Both sights made him feel uneasy.

  Laurie poured all of them big mugs of cheap red wine.

  Cheers, Star said, brandishing her mug. Here’s to our lucky night!

  Our lucky night! yelled Laurie.

  Everyone clinked. Peter gulped at his wine. He wasn’t much of a drinker. Laurie cleared magazines and clothing off a stained couch, and the three of them sat down next to each other. It was quiet in the apartment. The wine immediately went to Peter’s head. He felt thick and distant. He pictured that guy, the dude, writhing on the dark gloomy sidewalk. When he got up what would he do? Would he call the police? An ambulance? A tow truck?

  Hey, Laurie finally said, let’s see the pictures! Star was in the middle. She held the camera and Peter and Laurie leaned in as she flipped through the images. Peter could feel her hip against his leg. Star’s body was buoyant, luxurious. Peter knew nothing about her. He remembered from high school that her father was a doctor. That they lived in a leafy upscale neighborhood about twenty blocks from his own. In eleventh grade Peter delivered fliers in that neighborhood as an after-school job. Trudging up latticed walkways through perfectly groomed front lawns, he had liked to imagine that Star was watching him from an upstairs window.

  Now he was sitting next to her. Peter gripped his mug of wine, peered at the tiny viewfinder. The pictures started with the pristine yellow Humvee. It stood out in the dark like some kind of exotic jungle bird accidentally released into the dirty city. Suddenly there was a hole in the vehicle’s rectangular passenger window. Then slashed seats. Then the expensive stereo thick with gooey glue. As the pictures progressed, Star and Laurie got more and more excited. Holy shit! Look at that! That’s awesome! Oh my god, how much glue did you use? Finally the last image: SUV=Death neatly, girlishly spray painted across the wide dashboard. That looks great, Laurie said. Peter could feel the heat of Star’s body next to him. At some point she’d taken off her black hoody. Underneath she was wearing a thin T-shirt. He could see her bra straps. Her bare freckled arms. When he leaned in to look at the pictures he could see the top of her breasts. Star and Laurie were still talking about the owner.