A Thief's Code

The widower finally spoke to Dez and Lily after repeated encounters with them in the hallway of his building. Dez and Lily were moving in to the apartment directly below the widower. The widower saw Dez arduous at work carrying heavy boxes. Boxes filled with records. Dez seemed to be the only person doing the move.  He carried a bulky loveseat couch on his own. All this time, Lily was nowhere to be seen. The widower wasn’t so much nosy as he was bored. He’d spent the entire day on the sidewalk outside of the building. The first Saturday of every month there was swap meet on the outside of the park. The sidewalks lining the park were covered with old ladies selling chotchkies, costume jewelry and used clothing.

The widower had a twelve-year-old son who had recently become obsessed with records. His son had walked the swap meet many times in search of a goldmine amongst the flotsam, a crate of old records. He suggested they set up a table at the next swap meet.  The widower was happy to set up a table and get rid of junk accumulating in their three-bedroom apartment. But when the day arrived the young widower sat bored for hours. No one was interested in what he had for sale. All cheap remnants of his younger days with his wife. He felt a comfort sitting amongst the nostalgic debris. He considered abandoning the swap meet and taking it all back inside to the safety of the extra bedroom. It didn’t matter. After four hours only one person had come to their table asking irritating questions, buying nothing. It wouldn’t have taken much to catch his attention. Dez kept passing the widower and his son with crates of records and bulky wardrobe boxes.

The widower had come from the bathroom in his apartment, when in the passageway he heard a shrill irritating voice. Lily emerged from the stairwell wearing scant clothing, but everything was perfectly in place. She was talking loudly into a wireless headset,

            “These morons and their swap meet are destroying our move!” She paused as whomever she shouted at through the headset on her face must’ve responded. She sighed.

            “I know. Why would they have it on the first weekend of the month?” She’d noticed the widower and smiled a warm smile. She waved before passing and almost bumped in to her beau, Dez.

            “Sheez baby, get off that goddamn thing!” Dez scolded her.

            “I’m on the headset!”

            “Come on. Can’t you help a little bit?” The widower passed them in the stairwell and they all made eye contact and smiled.

            “Hi.”

            “Hey.”

            “Hi!” she’d said it very bubbly. Her demeanor was completely changed. She kept chatting.

            “My name is Lily. This is Dez. Do you live in the building?”

            “I live one floor above.”

            “Which unit?” she pressed.

            “I’m in 5C.”

            “Just above us! You must love having that patio. I told the management company I would kill for it.” Dez was quiet and seemed complacent.

            “Well I’ll have to apologize ahead of time for any loud music you might hear. I have a twelve-year old boy, and we fight over the record player,” the widower said changing the subject.

            “You have a turntable?” she furrowed her eyebrows playfully, “A man your age?”

            “Hey, sheez Lily,” Dez had interjected.

            “I’m sorry,” she said.

            “No it’s okay.” 

“Dez collects some stuff too, for like, rap songs,” she said.

“Cool. I’ve just gotten my son into hip-hop as well.”

“You got him into it?” she asked incredulously. The widower laughed,

“Yes, he’s into new school. I had to teach him where it began. He loves it. He’s starting to listen to soul music now too.”

“It’s no surprise,” Dez said.

“Oh my god Dez! You’re gonna be just fine here.” She winked at the widower.

“He loves music. Always going on and on about it,” she said rolling her eyes.

Her phone rang and a pop sang out, You ain’t gonna take my love, Ahhhh, no love. She answered her phone, speaking again to the air. Dez began to bicker with her and the widower parted ways with them.

He began to see Dez sitting on the stoop of the building regularly. One afternoon, after doing errands the widower came back to an empty stoop. He took a seat. The stoop of any building that lined the park was deemed by many to realtors to be a luxury. Since the late 90s the park had undergone a massive botanic overhaul. After twenty years, the trees had filled out. It was summer so the park was spattered with bits of red and pink from the pre-autumn blossoms that would soon be gone. The widower read the paper for some time before music began to blare from the building. It sounded operatic. He looked up and realized it was blasting from his fifth-floor apartment. His son was at the records again. Lyrics came blasting out, What is soul? Mama! I don’t Know! What is soul?! At this point he was sure it was the band, Funkadelic blasting from his living room above. Unable to read, he took a stroll around the park. When he circled and approached the building again there was no more music. Dez was on the stoop again.

            “Hey man. How’s it goin. I was just in your apartment.”

            “I heard the music out here.”

“That’s a great turntable. Good job on the maintenance. Where did you find that? If you don’t mind my asking.”

            “That was actually my father’s.” Dez raised his eyebrows in surprise.

            “Good man.

I lent Jay an album. You should check it out,” he said smiling and looking down at the ground. 

            “Then he must’ve showed you Maggot Brain.”

            “Mmm Hmm,” Dez said nodding, “Incredible grab.” The widower shook his head a bit.

            “It was a frivolous purchase.” The widower left out the detail of how expensive the album was. A year after his wife died, he went to Atlantic City. It was their favorite getaway together. He’d sentimentally used only thirty dollars in chips to play at the roulette table. Thirty dollars for her thirty years. The widower was prepared to go spend a sentimental thirty bucks and get drunk. He wasn’t prepared to win three grand. His drunken evening lasted into the next morning. There was record expo being held at one of the hotels. The widower perused the aisles of the stalls containing original issue, mint condition vinyl. He was drunk and emotional, moved by each album his wife would’ve liked. He’d seen Maggot Brain from a hundred feet away, displayed up above the others. As if, the vendor felt sure it wouldn’t be sold. The widower thought of his lovely sweet wife bought the record in a frenzy that alarmed the vendor. The cost was twenty-five hundred dollars.

           

The widower shook this memory off and continued to tell Dez about the album.

“The first song opens with that seven-minute guitar solo--”

“I know! It’s sick. Eddie Hazel was incredible,” Dez said excited.

“Ahh. So you know it.

I heard somewhere, Eddie Hazel was told by George Clinton to think of the saddest thing in the world. And play.” The guitarist supposedly thought of his mother dying. The widower was affected by this detail. It made perfect sense to him. When he heard the solo he could hear an entire lifetime. Pain and joy, the cloudiness, the clarity.

“It’s a shame how young he was when he died,” Dez said.

“Who? Eddie Hazel?” Dez nodded his head. The widower was surprised Dez knew so much about him.

“How old are you?” Dez began to graze the hair on his chin with his fingers.

            “Oh I’m not that old. I just love music.” He’d avoided the question. The widower couldn’t tell if he was a young man with an old soul and early lines in the face. Or if he was a man aging incredibly well.

The widower quieted as he spotted Lily’s figure approaching. She crossed through the park. She was wearing the highest heels he’d ever seen. The way she dressed had zero congruence with the lush old trees that surrounded her in the park. Dez nodded his head when she’d made eye contact. The widower smiled.

            “Hi boys,” she said.

“Nice shirt,” he said dryly. The shirt had a logo of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

“I got hit on twice at the grocery because of this shirt. Weird, huh?”

            “I bet,” Dez said, smacking her butt, “How quick did they run off when you started talking?”

            “You jerk. He’s such a jerk,” she said to the widower. “I bet you adore you’re wife.” Dez began to focus on the crossword puzzle in his lap.

            “You’re son was up the other day, going on and on about her. So sweet. How long is she gone?” The widower was surprised at this. His son hadn’t talked about his mother in a very long time.
            “Gone?”

            “Yea, he kept saying before she left, before she left. I thought, ‘I bet she’s only gone a couple weeks. What a sweet kid.’ ” The widower shifted uncomfortably.

            “Oh yes, he does say that sometimes,” he said and chuckled to lighten the mood. She wrinkled her brows, confused. His smile faded.

            “My wife died a few years ago.” Dez looked up with concern for a moment. Lily looked embarrassed. Her voice suddenly lost the shrillness,

            “I’m a-- I’m very sorry,” she turned to enter the door of the building. The clicking of her heels had a slow rhythm. The widower was not offended only surprised that something could shut down her exhausting energy.

            “Well I should be going up to start dinner,” he said to Dez.

For the next week, the widower was overloaded with work. He went in early and came home late. He’d attributed all of this to why he hadn’t seen Dez on the stoop. The first Saturday of the next month came again. There was a swap meet and again new tenants were moving in and frustrated. The widower enjoyed not having to participate in the swap meet. Him and his son stayed in and listened to records well in to the afternoon.

            He finally got himself up to go for a walk in the park. He walked down the stairs and one flight down he passed two big men wearing uniforms moving a couch. He glanced over and saw they were movers. He was baffled. They were entering Dez and Lily’s apartment. He quickly went back up the stairs, after getting swiped by another couch. He burst in to find his son,

            “Hey. The tenants, you know that couple, from downstairs?” His son nodded.

            “They’re gone!”

            “Yea, they moved out after like, two weeks,” he said, apathetic.

            “Shit.” The widower stared anxiously through the window looking at nothing.

            “Where’d they hurry off too?” His son shrugged his shoulders,

            “I don’t know. I saw they came back flashin’ one day. That chick had an insane amount of gold jewelry she was wearing. They got all nervous and said they’d gone to the bank and pulled some stuff from the safety deposit.”

            “How long after that, were they gone?” His son winced,

            “Like a day. Did they get something off you??”

            “I lent that guy Maggot Brain.”

            “Oh right!” His eyes grew wide with excitement, “Yea, but Dad, Dez left Funkadelic!” Dez had left the album he’d lent to the widower’s son. The widower was frustrated,

            “So, what do you mean?”

            “It’s an even trade! It’s a better trade.” The widower felt panicked.

            “Do you know how expensive that was?” he sighed.

            “Dad! Believe me, as far as value, we got a mint condition, and it’s a special issue. It’s probably worth more.” Up to this moment, the widower had convinced himself he was upset at the loss of an expensive asset. His son’s logical omission made him feel worse.

            “I love that album!” the widower said passionately, “I went back down to 4C after I saw that guy on the stoop one day and lent it to him. I told him it was important to me.” His son was surprised,

            “We can buy another copy. It’ll just be a reissue.” The widower stared again out of the window, this time focusing on the canopy of trees that lined the park.

            “It had some sentimental value.”

            “Aw come one, Dad. I think this is way cooler. It’s better to pass stuff on. So they were hustlers. He took something and replaced it. It’s not like they jacked us.

I bet he won’t even sell it.” The widower looking quite defeated sighed.

            “You’re right. I’m just—

There was a story behind it, you know?” His son did not know the story behind his father’s sentiment and the album at all. He was confused by his father’s attachment, it was unlike him. It was very rare that he behaved this way. He tried to console him,

            “Dad, it’s not like you’ll ever forget the story behind it. Don’t worry! You worry all the time.”

Thebox II

You may want to read the first installment of this story, entitled, "Thebox,"  posted May 2011.

Tam awoke many times the night before his meeting with his project manager. Twice he’d dreamt about his sister, and both times it was discomforting. He couldn’t recall the details but could vaguely sense what he was feeling. Both dreams were like an obstacle course or goose chase, and never did he find her, only searched frantically through areas thick with lush plants. After the second dream he awoke in a sweat and finally gave up on legitimate resting. He rolled over and tapped the switch on his eClock.

            “Goood morning,” cooed a soothing voice. Tam had gone through a painstaking thirty voice choices before he settled on this woman’s deep and relaxing tone as the voice that would come through the speakers installed in the walls of his bedroom.

            “Today is Friday the 3^rd of June, 2101. Your first appointment is at 10 a.m. The location: HSA headquarters. Your second and last appointment is at 7 p.m. The location: Old Fusion Restaurant in midtown.”

In the thirty years that passed since Tam first stepped outside, he made it his ultimate goal to fight the system the proper way.

The day he walked outside of his parents’ home as a child, ended up being the day that his older sister, Rosemarie, ran away for good. He remembered the day vividly. Rosemarie’s participation in the protest event was not minor. Tam discovered this that night, when he was eight years old. Rosemarie dragged him by the ear to the door of their parents’ home. Their parents were, in general, aloof and reticent people. Until it came to their attention that Tam had gotten out of the house and Rosemarie was attached to him, wearing her homemade riot gear. Their mother had her suspicions about Rosemarie and found some clues in her daughter’s bedroom. Their parents transformed into brutes. Tam and Rosemarie were thrown into their bedrooms and locked in. They forgot about Tam while they disciplined Rosemarie by interrogating her for a full day. Tam did not eat for sixteen hours. No one came to his room at all. Tam mistook this oversight as his severe punishment. When he emerged from his bedroom, his sister had as well. Rosemarie looked like a prisoner of war fresh out of captivation. The family then sat together for what would be their last meal all together. Their mother was distant once again. She politely informed Tam that Rosemarie was going away to a special school for a while. She was being punished and going away to the school. Their mother said this as if it were a happy occasion.

The next morning Rosemarie was gone.

“Reminder.” Tam flinched. He’d been dozing in a half-sleep thinking about the past. Tam was meeting Rosemarie for his second appointment of the day, dinner in midtown. They didn't reconnect until after he graduated from his second university.

“Reminder.” Tam pushed a button, located on the side of his nightstand. “First appointment in less than two hours.” He was morose now thinking of that day and his family. It didn’t seem right to him that he was a child the last time they’d all been together. He was now thirty-eight years old. Their parents died when he was in college. Initially after Rosemarie left, Tam thought she’d gone about things all wrong. She never returned home again and it didn’t seem to affect their mom, but their father was never the same. His hair went grey and he became very anxious and jumpy for the rest of his days. Tam always wished Rosemarie didn’t cause them such grief and she would just come back already.

Tam became focused on school. He finished from an ivy league university which was necessary to even apply for the HSA (Humanitarian Services Agency). Of the hundreds of thousands of applicants each year, only one hundred were selected. Tam’s parents had just died when he received his acceptance letter from the HSA.

The agency had a rigorous program that kept Tam busy for years. For the first fifteen years, he was part of the Progressive Initiators, this was the designation given by the agency. It was an aid organization. His first appointment of the day was the cause of him losing sleep the night before. Tam was very excited. He’d been asked by the HSA to participate in a time-traveling experiment. Which was in effect a grand promotion. He had the honor of being inducted into the Progressive Superiors, which consisted of the top-level of positions at the agency.

            Despite his lazy morning he arrived to his meeting at headquarters, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Fifteen years ago, the agency’s headquarters were relocated to East New York, Brooklyn. It was part of a need to expand, they followed suit on the newest real estate trend of constructing the building on the water itself. The building stood twenty-one stories high.

            Tam waited in the lobby area on the twentieth floor facing the water.  His induction into the Superiors involved a higher level of security. He was now visiting wings he’d never even seen on the official maps of the building. This meeting was the last meeting he’d be attending before going back in time. He’d spent two years in preparation and training.

Tam looked up as he heard brisk footsteps approaching. There was a pause before a door opened into the lobby and a young man emerged. He looked flustered and sweaty. He faltered and almost tripped over Tam.

            “Alright?” Tam asked him. But he was consumed with his thoughts. The young man only straightened his tie and pushed the button for the elevator. He hadn’t even heard Tam. He was gone by the time a softer, lighter set of footsteps came rushing to the door. Tam nearly stood expecting it to be for him. A young woman emerged for a split second before she went back in and disappeared.

            After five minutes a heavier set of footsteps came to the door and a man appeared,

            “Tam.” He smiled while Tam stood and they shook hands.

            “Hello.”

            “Right this way.” Tam was lead through the door to another elevator. A double-beep occurred and the agent lifted his thumb to press it against a sensor. A triple-beep occurred and the man said,

            “Jones,” to pass the voice sensor. The double-beep sounded again indicating it was Tam’s turn. And he proceeded. The elevator door opened and they entered. He recognized Jones from the interview he’d attended to qualify for this project. Tam was ecstatic to be chosen for this project. It was very risky, but there’d already been tests performed. So far the HSA had found effective means to not harm the agent going back in time. It took the agency many years of testing and many casualties before they were able to perfect getting a person to live through the journey in the vehicle. Tam was part of the newest set of experiments. It was very expensive and top officials suspected there would be nothing beneficial from it but it was deemed highly important to test the effects of changing things in the past and seeing how they effect the future.

            “So, Wells, you must be nervous?” Tam was surprised Jones addressed him by his last name. Calling by the last name was the only mild affection he'd picked up on since his promotion.

            “Excited more than anything, Sir.”

            “Yes it is.”

        

The elevator doors opened and Tam was lead down a long hallway with no doors or windows. There was another fingerprint and voice activation to enter the conference room. Once inside he saw the same young woman who’d searched for the man in the lobby. Also seated was Inspector Raleigh. There were only five inspectors in the agency. Most agents could work over forty years and never meet with an inspector. 

            All in the conference room stood and shook hands before being seated along the large rectangular shaped conference table. Most likely only Raleigh and Tam would be speaking in the meeting, but agent Jones and the young woman remained present and silent. Another feature of his promotion to the Superiors was this strange way of running meetings. Their silent presence made him very uncomfortable. Raleigh spoke.

            “This meeting has been called so that we can make things official in the books. The prior meetings were heavily instructional and technical.” There were a few minor points on the meeting's agenda. Raleigh leapt to the first item without any small talk, or genuine conversation.

            “So let’s begin by focusing on the package itself. Once you’ve placed the package in the specified location, you’ll need to be in the vicinity, in public at a café, observing. You’d be best off saying you’re a writer, if locals inquire, and they will, remember at this time in India they are excessively curious. You’re a white man and this will stand out anywhere. Don’t assume you’ll blend in with the excessive population.

            Once again, do not feel curious about what is in the package, it will destruct if you tamper with it. It is imperative that the agent has no knowledge of what is in the package.

Okay, so once you’ve placed the package you’ll need to spend a total of ten days sitting at the café observing members of the party. Look out for slightly mental behaviors, sicknesses, and lethargy. Pay attention to whether the party members cancel meetings. Things like this.” Raleigh was breezing through the agenda, and as a courtesy would say, "Please interject with any questions." Tam took him up on it. 

            “I've been briefed countless times, but I wonder sir, just how detrimental could the package's contents be? What is the worst case scenario?” Raleigh chuckled,

            “Wells, that is precisely what you’re to determine,” he had the slightest sense of humor. 

            “Look, don’t mind any detriment, we have the technology to bring you back and erase your presence from the past. A Redo, if you will. You shouldn’t fear what the package will do to the Indian people because any damage will be repaired. And conversely any good that comes from the package will be destroyed. Basically, no matter what, you’re entire experience will be erased from the past.

Frankly, it's sort of weird you'd ask that question," he said, but he had a casual way of saying something so uncomfortable.

            "Do you understand Wells?” Raleigh asked him. Tam’s face had given him away. He’d been confused about the necessity of saying he was a writer if the entire experience was to be wiped.

            “Yes.” Tam had been full of naïve excitement about the fact that he would get to go back in time. To a purer land, where sunlight was taken for granted and was in abundance. He’d been overwhelmed with all the material he had to learn. In the year prior, he was tested extensively on the material. He’d read it all over thousands of times. It only made sense to him when he the materials he'd read mentioned, The agent performing the mission shall have no knowledge of the package’s contents. (This is to protect the objectivity of the experiment.)  Tam, for the first time, felt uneasy.

            The excessively cold demeanor of all present made Tam even more nervous about the package’s contents.

            “Okay then,” Raleigh said, with slight cheer in his voice, “I’ll have to read the liability aloud with these two witnesses present. Agreed?”

            “Yes.”

            “Tam Wells, good luck and we at the Humanitarian Services Agency deem you certified to perform this exciting new mission.

            Tam Wells, do you understand the penalty of death should you choose to defect?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “You are certified,” Raleigh said with a wry smile, “Welcome.” He winked at Tam.

            “You’ll just have to be seated next to our liaison from the legal agency,” Raleigh said while pointing to the young woman.

“Alright then, good luck.” He left the room with haste. Jones and the young woman remained. Raleigh’s matter-of-factness made Tam anxious. He assumed there would be more of production about the mission, it was a huge risk to even get through travel in the machine itself. It was more taxing on the body than any of the traveling in space.

Instead the time elapsed with Raleigh was under ten minutes, and for the next two painful hours, Tam and the legal liaison went through a mind-bending set of liability clauses requiring Tam’s signature and fingerprint.

Tam left the agency headquarters in a daze. He had four hours to kill before meeting Rosemarie for dinner. Without thinking, he went to his favorite museum, The Ret. During his tram ride he began stewing over the details. The most dangerous part of the mission was the travel itself. Once there, whatever was done was not a threat because there was technology available that could in essence erase Tam from the past. The travel was at such a high velocity, no human could endure the travel without periodic shots of adrenaline. Even the fittest person required extensive physical training. Tam would be placed in a body holster, held tightly in place by straps and belts. The adrenaline would automatically be given at intervals throughout the travel. Once he landed he would be exposing himself to the atmosphere of 150 years earlier. It would be Mumbai, India and there would be an entirely different set of bacteria that Tam’s immune system might not withhold. The travel took twenty-four hours and then once in the year 1965, he would have to sequester himself in a posh clean hotel for another twenty-four hours.

            Throughout his training and preparations Tam felt it was an amazing program and all bases were covered. They did harp on certain things more than others. Defecting was something obsessively covered, Tam felt. Defecting ended in death. This statement was made to him in slightly varied forms incessantly. There was a 40% chance he would not make it through the time travel. This statement was made to Tam once. Both end in death. For the first time, in his years of service Tam was aware of his own ineffectuality in the eyes of the agency. He was an end to a means.

When Tam began his employment with the HSA, he was a young man who’d lost his parents and in turn he was lost. Many elements of agents’ lives were taken care of by the agency. Food, transportation, and living quarters were provided for agents. The agency went above and beyond welcoming Tam when they discovered his parents had died. They put him up for an extended vacation. A double-death in the family was classified as an emergency for his age range and he was put to some counseling and vacation. They gave him a six-week stay at one of the last remaining white sand beaches. There was real sunlight everyday he was there. During his time there he’d been enlisted in psychological counseling and when he returned he felt he was better than ever.

            Then he began his work as a Progressive Initiator, he immediately felt camaraderie. The Initiators were not involved in secretive missions. Their programs  gave aid to foreign poverty-stricken countries. This kind of aid was the face of the HSA around the world, so there was no need for secrecy at all. There were fundraisers, employee parties, press conferences and seminars. Once inducted into the Progressive Superiors, his profession took a sharp turn. It was much lonelier. Guidelines of the mission required that Tam lose contact with his old colleagues for the six months leading up to the mission. Also part of his promotion was added surveillance on Tam. The agency had to ensure his silence about the mission, which seemed strange to Tam considering he took an oath. Still on paper it made sense, Surveillance is a necessary measure to ensure that the agent doesn’t inadvertently release clues or hints. There is a high chance of the compulsion to vocalize things newly learned by any human being, but it is generally vocalized unwittingly from the subconscious of the brain into minor conversations.

Tam walked the museum with a listless stare as thoughts raced through his head. Like a drunk who’d driven home and lived to tell about it without a scratch, Tam found himself seated at a table in the Old Fusion Restaurant waiting for Rosemarie. On her arrival he brightened up and for the first time since he’d left the HSA headquarters was able to focus on the present moment.

            Rosemarie looked gaunt, her eyes were beady. The server came to take her order and she jolted a bit from her seat.

            “Hey? You okay?”

            “Yes, yes, just been really stressed. Very stressed. I haven’t been sleeping. I’m sorry to lay right in,” she said while unwrapping her jacket and scarf and seating herself.

            “No, no. Please tell me.” Tam was very concerned, he’d never known Rosemarie to be anything but mellow.

            “Well you know when I was in Boliviana, with Feed the World?” Tam nodded his head.

 “I got let go,” she said.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“It didn’t hurt my wallet, believe me.” Rosemarie had been moonlighting between three different humanitarian organizations since she was kicked out of her parents’ home so many years ago. She’d never attended university, but Tam often found it hard to keep up with her. He always thought she should join the grassroots Self-Education movement that was quite powerful among the youths, lately. He knew she was a proponent of it, but he knew she would consider this too minor in the scheme of things. Rosemarie was not the type to chip away at the base of a problem. She could only deal with the extreme outcomes of oppression. She wanted to see firsthand what was going on in the places that people were starving.

            “Tam,” she whispered and leaned in now, “Tam, I’m actually a bit scared. I’ve been getting some threatening phone calls.”

            “What??” She continued in a hushed tone,

            “Okay, let me go back. The last campaign I worked on for Feed the World involved us giving the people some vaccines and immunization shots. The shots were bad. They were--” Rosemarie struggled to tell him, she felt her brother to be excessively naïve,

            “They weren’t immunizations.”

            “How did you know?”

            “I saw very strong and bad effects on the people. I thought it was an oversight or a bad reaction they hadn’t factored in. I asked a few questions, got shined off, I took it past my supervisor, just one step up and next thing I know, I’m out.”

            “Yeah but it sounds like you're insinuating a scandal.”

            “Tam,” she leaned in and whispered, “I took a sample of the vaccine and had it tested. It’s causes organ deficiencies. It’s horrible.”

            “Rosemarie, you’re insane. Why would our government do something like that? We’re the leading power we don’t need to stomp on the poor. This is ridiculous. If anything there needs to be a recall.”

            “I've worked on other campaigns where there were recalls.” She exhaled a deep breath and looked defeated. Tam sort of softened toward her but his stomach clenched at the thought.

            “Where did you get it tested?”

            “I got it tested three times,” she said, “I know some lab techs from a campaign I worked on in California.”

            “Are they activists now?” He asked skeptically.

            “Sort of. Tam, if you’re not gonna listen, forget it. All I know is now I’m getting a scary guy calling, threatening me about things no one could know. Letting me know I’m being followed and traced.” Tam thought she was insane, but he did know of those scientists in California to be reliable.

            “How were you able to get them tested without causing alarm?” Rosemarie was somewhat relieved that he was considering believing her, but she knew he’d be skeptical of what she said next.

            “I know a guy who defected,” at this Tam looked down and shook his head in total disbelief,

            “Right so you’re trusting him?” he said. Tam’s heart was beating. Now that she’d said defect, he suddenly remembered he, and inadvertently Rosemarie, were being watched by the agency.

            “Okay, stop harping on that. The fact is that I got a test done and some very powerful people know about it and they’re tracking me.

            It’s a terrible feeling to know someone is watching you,” she said simply. Precisely the sentiment Tam had been feeling all afternoon while he was kicking around the museum. He felt overwhelmed by the desire to tell his sister about his mission. To inform her at least that he may never see her again. He wouldn’t tell her anything but that and say a proper goodbye, just in case. But he couldn’t, of course, he was being monitored by the agency. For this very reason. Another rider they’d added, specified the incidents of over-emotion due to anxiety that may lead an agent to consciously tell a loved one. This often occurs within 48 hours of embarking on the mission.                 

            “Yeah,” he said his face now looking very sad. 

            “Sorry to worry you,” she sighed, “I don’t know what to do.

            I know a few activists I was able to get in touch with. Basically they all said the same thing, they threaten you initially, with verbal intensity, or signs that they’re watching. As long as you don’t act further on telling the public, they stop.”

            “Whose they??” he said frustrated. Rosemarie thought she’d heard his question wrong and narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

            “Are you serious??” she asked laughing. “I forget how naïve you are little brother. You need to keep an ear and eye out yourself. You’re in the same line of work as me.” Tam had been instructed to tell friends and family he was still working with the Initiators.       

            “Well maybe there’s something I can do, or inquire from the agency--”

            “No!” she said, “No, that’s the worst thing you can do. It’s all about surveillance,” she said hopelessly, "and what I'm finding is that there's no escaping it."    

After a long silence in which both were pensive they turned the topics to lighter subjects which included Tam's mission. He had to inform her that it was a two-month mission in a remote part of Asia, which made him feel terrible. He felt terrible to have to lie to her and after hearing Rosemarie's encounter he felt terrible about what may lie inside the package he was to drop during his mission. He couldn't help thinking that Rosemarie would never have agreed to getting promoted into the Superiors and she wouldn't agree to many of the guidelines of the mission. He heart felt heavy his instinct was to rescue his sister and smuggle her in the time capsule with him. Of course, this was impossible. By the time he’d reached home he knew he’d have to toughen up and deal with it all. 

Once home, he sat upon his bed and began to open the contents of his Night-Before package including fluids he had to drink, a change of clothing, which was fashioned to match the styles of an American in 1965.

Election Eve

Photo Courtesy of John Bolt

Devon was twenty-three years old when he began working for a major-network TV channel. He was the youngest writer on the staff. It was an accolade for someone his age to get a seat on a comedy show working with established writers. At first, Devon was intimidated by the experience of the other writers he was working with. A couple of them had once been writers on shows he’d watched when he was in grade school. He’d get very nervous during their group sessions. Anxious to the point of muteness. But he crafted hilarious ideas and skits when he worked in the solitude of his writing sanctuary—a fourth-floor apartment in Brooklyn. With one exception, Devon was welcomed by all of the elder writers. His remarkable talent was evident to them after a few sessions. With one exception, the staff was unique in their ability to admit whose bits worked. And whose didn’t. The show, called Hour Class, was composed of mostly political sketches. The first season scored exceptional in its target market. Devon was asked to stay on for the second season.

            The one exception among the writers, was Lorrie Mailen. She had a very important uncle in the industry. He was the CFO of their sister network. Lorrie was a talented writer but among this crew she paled in comparison. Without fail, she always felt her material was stronger, and said things like,

“You know, let’s look at my line for that. Let’s rethink my lines.” At first, Devon was dumbfounded by her behavior during their sessions. As time went on he grew accustomed, like the rest. Lorrie’s talent was mild but she was ultra perceptive. She could sense the other writers, whom she greatly admired herself, were impressed by Devon’s writing. Her animosity toward Devon grew over time.

Halfway through the second season, Hour Class, along with a few other shows were put on hold by the network. Six months later, they returned and were informed that there would be network-wide layoffs. Pre- and post-production staff were the first targets. During the first writing session spirits were high, initially, but by the end it was clear Lorrie had become much more aggressive. She was growing hostile toward all the writers, not just Devon. It was such a drastic change of energy that occurred during the meeting from good vibes to venomous air. So bad that all of the writers, Lorrie excepted, gathered to commiserate at a bar a few days later. The only other male writer, Dave, made an announcement as soon as all were present,

“Hey guys, I’ve got to tell you something. I’m really, really bummed.

Lorrie caught me in the break room and told me that Devon was getting laid off.” The other writers didn’t respond except to all look sullenly at the ground. Dave kind of laughed and said,

“Yeah, and then she sort of threatened me. I think that’s the only reason she

mentioned it.” Devon interjected with a joke for relief,

“Ah it’s better anyways. Now that Bush is leaving office, I got no material.” There was some truth to his joke. By the second season, all of the controversial lines and bits got cut from the show. There was nothing offensive or insightful about the sketches. Just the same safe diss-the-president gags. Devon was happy to be released from a network that was more controversial than he could ever have imagined when he began at twenty-three years old. 


Ultimately, of all five writers, Devon and Dave were chosen to be laid off. During his years at the network, Dave encouraged Devon to pursue stand-up. Dave knew the industry well and claimed Devon should try it. Devon was able to land a spot one night and did well enough. He performed at least once a month. He figured he was getting gigs because of clout from major network experience. This assumption was aggravated by the complete apathy of his audiences, and always one or two persistent hecklers. He was placed on bills that were a step above amateur nights which was better in some respects, but the hecklers were brutal. Especially in Boston. A few comics at the clubs who’d been in the business longer were surprisingly encouraging. One old guy told him the shitty audience was part of the whole evolution of growing into a comic.

Photo Courtesy of John Bolt

In his excessive free time, Devon had begun to explore different modes in his writing. Over the years he’d worked at the network he had very little motivation toward his own writing. He’d spattered out a few things. They were experimental and ironically dark. Beyond dark comedy. Devon, while still at the network, bounced a few of the pieces off of his older colleagues. They were never critical or phased by the content, in fact, across the boards they said, It feels like you’re holding back. Devon was waiting for the moment that freedom would take a hold of him in a way that he couldn’t control. Pure unabated truth. Pure Devon. It was hard for him to not feel the eyes on him. Not to read the words through their eyes. Not to feel the performance through a yokel who’d strolled in the comedy club after a few drinks on a Friday night in midtown. The yokel looking for relief at the club, not doom. His writing didn’t feel like his own, before it could even exit his head to make his hands move and type the words. He was particularly struggling with his latest project.

            A couple months before the Obama/McCain election, Devon got a call from his ex-colleague, Dave. Devon had been selected to perform at a Go Vote event downtown. Devon was hesitant,

            “I don’t know Dave, I really-- I’m really not on board with this election--” Dave interrupted him,

            “Hey that’s okay, Devon, the organizer saw you perform and she felt you’d be perfect for the event.”

            “Oh,” Devon was surprised, “I haven’t performed much.”

            “Well you were on the right ticket one night, friend.”

            “Look, Dave, I’m not gonna have much good to--”

            “Devon, that’s comedy! She knows that. It’s no big deal. It’s just some dive in Alphabet City. It’s a pretty good gig. I’m not sure who the sponsors are but you’re up for getting $500, and they want the set to be short, only twenty minutes or so.”

            “Wow, that’s weird,” Devon was usually just getting warmed and primed twenty minutes in, “I’m pretty broke though. I’ll do it.”

As the event grew nearer, Devon struggled more and more with his act. He couldn’t think of what bits to do and how to fit it all in that time frame. He contacted Dave telling him the act was bordering on too dark. Dave forwarded him an email from the organizer’s personal email address stating, “Anything goes.”

In order to prepare his act, Devon was watching all major news networks. He was incensed by the ridiculous campaign. He didn’t like either party. At first he’d liked Obama, but something about all his promises seemed outlandish. The debates had the pace of a reality TV show starring stupid high-school kids. Questions were never answered. In theory, he agreed with all Obama was saying, but he knew that theory and reality are far from the same. He wanted a practical politician in office. He was tired of rhetoric. By the day Go Vote event, the bits he’d written were a jumbled angry mess.

           

The event took place on the eve of election day. Devon met with Dave at a different bar just down the block before going to the club. Dave was there already, seated at the bar.

            “Hey, man. Good to see you.” Devon saw three empty shot glasses sitting at the bar. Dave saw his reaction and explained,

            “Man, I just saw Lorrie Mailen in the street near the venue.” Devon cringed.

            “Do you think she’s going to the same event?”

            “I know she is. She stopped to talk to me in the street.” Devon laughed.

            “Was she bobble-heading?” Devon and Dave shared this inside joke about Lorrie who was so neurotic that she often shook with anxiety.

            “Oh yeah. It was bad. I don’t think she expected to see me and she wasn’t the one who informed me that I was fired. It was HR. And they do that humiliating thing where you have to exit immediately because you’re a threat.” Devon nodded his head. They’d sent a security guard to clear out Devon’s desk and sent the contents to his apartment by courier.

            “That spoiled brat wouldn’t know a thing about it. She’ll always have a job. Do you know what she said to me? She said, the show isn’t the same without us,” Dave paused to laugh, “She got super nervous and starting asking me all these questions about whether I still watch the show, and I probably know the show has changed a lot.

She’s nuts! I’m so glad we don’t have to be around her everyday.

Sorry I had no idea she was coming.” 
           

“Whatever. She can’t put the ax on my bits now.”

Dave and Devon arrived late, just as Devon’s set was to begin. Devon was rushed backstage. The stage producer was reticent,

            “You’re gonna have to bare with the sound, since you didn’t show for check.” He scowled and said,

            “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

            “Okay, just get out there,” she said giving him a firm push on stage.

Devon stepped out and the crowd began clapping.

             “Thanks, thanks guys. Hope you’re doin’ well tonight,” the crowd was cheering and clapping.

“Awesome. Well, we’re all out here for the same reason tonight,” the crowd clapped mildly. “Yeah, I guess most of you have made up your minds at this point,” he took a deep breath in and out, for effect into the mic, “I’ll tell ya what, I’m having a really hard time. Did you ever notice how the entire campaign is a bunch of ideas. Shit that has nothing to do with most people’s daily lives. I heard the candidates arguing the other day. It went on and on, I’m sitting there listening for the two longest minutes of my life,” there was a ripple of laughter.

“Come to find out they were fighting over dissecting animals in public schools, you know Biology class or whatever. The last thing I give a crap about is those guinea pigs. But every newscast that day,” he mimicked a new-fangled extroverted newscaster, “ ‘McCain says no on guinea pigs in schools! Get the exclusive here tonight!’ ” Another ripple of laughter went through. Devon was feeling good.

“Yeah, they don’t talk about anything legitimate. Except Obama. Phew. That is one ambitious list of promises. Every time I watch him speak I feel like I’ve been taken on a lyrical journey, by the end I always forget what the topic of origin was, ‘Oh right, right, healthcare yeah, uh huh’ and by the end, I’m standing with my hand on my heart saying, ‘Yes we can make the world a better place.’                                                                                                  
I’ll tell you what’s weird is that chanting? Isn’t it? A bit cultish, I think. Yes we can. Yes we can,” there were a few chuckles. Devon could see pretty clearly into the small crowd. He continued,

 “I thought we were a secular society. Imagine if Jim Jones was in the running,” he whispered into the mic, “Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid.” This joke drew large laughs from the crowd. “But hey if I’ve got free healthcare in four years and we’re really out of these wars I’ll be on my knees like a little bitch chanting with the rest of ‘em. Yes we can. Yes we can.” Devon chuckled along with the audience. “It’s not a very clever slogan. I mean we know that we can. It’ll be that much more disappointing when we don’t and we know that we can.” The crowd overall seemed pretty offended by this bit. Devon heard a hint of a woman’s gasp.

            “Uh oh, it’s getting heated. Doesn’t it always when it comes to politics? Believe me I get it. Last week I watched the vice-presidential debates and I nearly had a panic attack.

            Fuck, what are we getting ourselves into, right. We got a freakin’ beauty queen who thinks Bagdad is in Afghanistan,” this drew the biggest laughs yet. “Yeah, right?? I was sitting there sweating, heart palpitating.” The crowd was rolling now. Devon spoke in a valley-girl accent,

            “My neighbors in Russia. Hee hee hee.” These were the largest laughs. Obviously the crowd was super pro-Obama. Devon’s veins were ripe from the vodka he’d been drinking. He finally felt some kind of connection with his audience, even if it was tense.

“I really don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow. I’m torn. What can any of us do outside of vote, right?” The crowd clapped and cheered. “I’m not necessarily saying that’s a good thing,” he said laughing. “Everyone loves Obama. I think he’ll take it. I do,” this gained applause for some time. “I mean this guy is the Kennedys and FDR all-in-one, and,” he stopped and looked around him as if he was going to tell a secret, “He hasn’t done anything yet. You know what I mean, Kennedy and FDR had to actually do stuff before they became super epic, and here’s this guy strolling in. Everybody loves Obama.” This bit was met with no response. He paused to take a swig of his drink and segued into his next topic.

“Have you guys noticed all these Martin Luther King specials on cable lately?” Again nothing from the crowd. “Oh guess not. Well for some reason there’s been a bunch of documentaries about him. Martin Luther King is someone I respect tremendously,” the crowd clapped. “So I’m watching all these specials about him. Then I notice one of the news networks kept running this super ultra-motivational commercial. You know what I mean, with the woman singing in a deep and powerful voice and it all crescendos with violins and they’re showing happy America images with families and dogs. Then they start streaming the important people images. So there’s Lincoln, then FDR and then MLK and then Obama.” Devon sighed for effect.

            “And then this panel discussion began. And this annoying young girl kept saying, ‘You know the reverend would be proud.’ They kept saying ‘the reverend.’ Whose to say MLK would even like Obama? The man promoted peace and non-violence! And I’m pretty sure the American president is getting down to some good ole fashioned violence. Let’s face it. Then they cut to a commercial break and, I’m not kidding, they played that commercial I mentioned, three times in a row! Just bang it over our heads. MLK, Obama, MLK, Obama. How is MLK being compared to a rich kid turned lawyer-” The crowd now booed him so loud that he couldn’t talk over it. He looked in the crowd and saw Lorrie Mailen. She had on a ridiculous amount of Obama gear. She wasn’t even listening to the act. She was busy handing out pink cupcakes with Obama’s face superimposed in the icing. Suddenly he felt hotter.

            “All I’m saying is that comparisons are really stupid. Come on lighten up. If MLK was running for office I’d be handing out baby blue cupcakes stamped with peace signs.” This got some laughs.

“ But to be honest, I think if Martin Luther King were alive today he’d break down crying, sorrowful tears. This is far from the United Americans he believed in.” This received some mild applause.

            “Right?” Devon said toward those applauding it, “That’s all I’m saying is none of these people,” he said pointing to a the Republican and Democratic party posters,  
            “None of them are heroes. 
             They’re politicians.” Devon could see from his periphery that the stage producer was waving her arms maniacally to get him off. The audience was silent, shocked by his audacity.

            “All right, I won't torture you any more. Have a good night folks,” he said and exited fast as the audience clapped mild and confused. Once off, the stage producer ballasted him,

            “What the fuck?! Devon! You didn’t even mention our sponsor!” The sponsor was the very network Devon had once worked for. He’d seen the logos tastelessly covering the bar for the event when he arrived and immediately felt deflated. His act was far from his dream of going up to the mic and freestyling a whole act, but halfway through it he’d gone completely free. The problem being, it was so free that it wasn’t funny anymore. The stage producer continued,

            “Did you know how much your former generous employer donated to Obama’s campaign?! What the hell is wrong with you?”

            “Hey, I was told it was no holds bars-”

            “It is!” she said defiantly.

            “Okay,” he said his composure became sinister, “well my definition of No Holds Bars is that I can say whatever the fuck I want to.”

            “Everyone at this event,” she sounded as if she were reciting libel laws, “is free to speak their mind about anything they like, it's just certain subj--”

Photo Courtesy of John Bolt

            “If there’s rules than its not free,” he said viciously. 

            "Oh god, get over yourself," she and scurried off. 


Devon spotted Dave waving him over to the bar where two shots were lined up.