Saturday, May 17, 2008
Rebecca continued a few more steps, keys in hand, and felt the line compress around her. She was surrounded. She wanted to scream. They were going to mug her.
Mar 3, 2004 | When she arrived at Buzzard Hall, she saw before her a small scrum of students, maybe 12 of them, most of them the same google-eyed students that had attended Max's class. Which made little sense, given that Rebecca had left the class before it adjourned and had walked directly from the classroom to the building, without pausing for a moment. But still, they were there, assembled and waiting, notebooks drawn and expressions of great seriousness in their eyes and on their mouths, in the position of their hands. They looked, Rebecca had to admit, nuts. Either that or they were there to laugh at her. They were watching her as students do professors who teach drunk or hung over -- Rebecca had had one of those her sophomore year; he taught Economics in sweat suits and stank of gin and cigarettes and every time he said "invisible hand," the women in the room shuddered.
"Hello," Rebecca said to the 12 assembled, wanting to be anywhere but there. "I have a prepared speech I'd like to deliver," she said, while groping through her book bag, looking for the pages of her speech. "My statement ... um -- where the hell? -- outlines some of my positions on issues that might be of interest to voters your age. For example, I have some proposals that would ensure that there wouldn't be tuition increases in the next ten years..." She was not finding her speech, which she'd folded three times and stuck inside her copy of last year's state budget, which was still in her bag, while the speech was now gone. And where was Giacomo? In the commotion and her own personal fog, she'd forgotten all about him. Maybe he'd already left? He usually stood in the crowd while she spoke, taking notes while grimacing. "I'm sorry," Rebecca said. "I don't have the darn thing..."
"Keep going," said a voice. It was one of the twins, though a different one, not the one who'd spoken before. She had the same voice, which was odd, Rebecca thought, but then corrected herself: Why wouldn't twins have the same voice? Why would it be otherwise?
"What do you mean?" Rebecca said.
"Keep talking. Like you were in the class. You were in the middle of something, then you stopped and ran off."
Rebecca couldn't remember exactly what she'd said in the class. "I don't know what I was saying."
"This was ten minutes ago," the girl said. "You really don't remember?"
"Was it about tuition?"
Had she blacked out? This hadn't happened in years. She went red with shame; her armpits gushed.
"I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what I said. I hope it wasn't too silly. What was the gist of it?"
She drove back to Chicago that night, feeling foolish, as if she'd spent the night dancing on tables at a Senor Frog's -- embarrassed for herself, for everyone her age who tried in whatever way to impress or disguise herself as a college student, physically or intellectually. The students no doubt felt sorry for her, and their teacher, her friend Max, though he didn't say it -- he didn't say much -- pitied her. She'd left Buzzard Hall shortly after arriving, and when the students confused her about whatever she'd said in the classroom, she wanted only to be gone, to be in her car, on the way home, so again she bolted and now she was driving north on I-57, trying to put it all together.
But she couldn't put it together; it was all shards and shadows. There were things she remembered -- the looks on the faces of the students, something between astonishment and panic, and there were her hands, gesturing wildly... she could see her fingers pointing, her hands as fists pounding on the podium, but why? What the hell had she been talking about?
At home, after the three-hour drive, she fell quickly asleep, her head beyond exhaustion and swimming in white wine, of which she'd had two glasses once home, a bit too much too quick for someone who weighed 101 muscle-free pounds. In the morning she drove to the office, a converted storefront on North Avenue close to the highway, and wanted nothing there but a quiet day of planning and phone calls and a check-in with Giacomo. But two blocks away there was a thin crowd of people, a messy line of young scruffy stragglers in front of Breaker Records, spilling over the sidewalk, extending a block or so in either direction. There were often lines for in-store appearances at the record store, but she'd never seen one held so early. Rebecca checked her watch: 8:06. Must be someone huge. She was almost curious. Wow, she'd love to see Joni Mitchell! If there was one thing that could bring her out of the funk of Charleston, it would be Ms. Joni Mitchell. But there's no way, she noted, it could be Joni Mitchell, in this year and in this city and at this time. Could it be Joni Mitchell? Man, she'd really love to meet Joni Mitchell. No way, idiot. Joni Mitchell is not at the neighborhood record store.
She drove past the line, and while she squinted to try to see a poster on the window or some sign of who might be there, a few of the people in line -- all young -- waved in her direction. She reflexively waved back, and then was horrified yet again: of course they weren't waving to her. What a moron she was! When did she become such a moron? She was slipping quickly. Was she still drunk? Had she been slipped a mickey yesterday? She'd been slipped a mickey! All this -- the students yesterday, the weird line today -- all this could be part of some very long acid-type trip caused by stealthy hallucinogens. It would explain so much.
She turned down her alley, parked behind the storefront and sighed. Her car was dirty, she was a loser, and she was about to humiliate herself publicly for the next 15 months. She could do without this. Not that she wanted to keep selling fish, but there were so many other things. What about finally joining her friend Lola in Guatemala? Lola was working with the families of the disappeared, exhuming mass graves and providing counseling and financial support, legal help, immigration advice. Even for a year that would be fascinating. She really should do something where she could make an impact -- she had a law degree and couldn't that be made useful? And if she do so without shaming her family and friends, do so in a situation where she wouldn't be constantly making people cringe, she would be eternally content.
Rebecca walked through the alleyway, with a portion of the line visible in front of her. Didn't these people have lives? She was preaching, often, about better loans for college students, tuition freezes, when it was obvious that young people's priorities were screwed. Schedule a class at 8 a.m. and you'll be talking to yourself, but schedule some in-store appearance and suddenly these people are dawn-rising world-beaters. In front of Rebecca there were four of them, two reading paperbacks, two talking, all dressed in jeans, one in a -- was that a sombrero? One of the readers looked up from his book and as Rebecca approached, took notice of her momentarily, squinted, then returned to his book. The two talking, smelling of patchouli, let Rebecca through the line, and she turned to walk the half block to the storefront. No one else in the line acknowledged her as she passed. Some were sitting on the sidewalk, one on a folding chair, two groping each other in a way causing discomfort for all those around. Rebecca thought of asking them who it was who was appearing at the store but didn't, figuring it would seem the saddest sort of attempt to connect with them.
As she approached the door to her campaign HQ, she noticed something odd, nonsensical even. The line didn't extend to Breaker Records. It seemed to be ending at her building, which meant that either they were all waiting for a haircut or--
"Hey!"
Someone was touching her sleeve. Who was touching her?
"Who touched me?" she asked.
She turned to see the blond twins from Eastern Illinois.
"We were wondering when you'd show. It's already past 8!"
"Sorry," Rebecca said, wondering why she was apologizing. What the hell was happening? This was not right; Rebecca's armpits drenched her shirt; she was terrified. Maybe these two were like the twins in "The Shining." Were they dead, were they haunting her? She really wanted out of this trip, which was bad.
She continued a few more steps, her keys in hand, and felt the line compress around her. She was surrounded. She wanted to scream. They were going to mug her. She was sweating everywhere. All she needed was to get inside and regroup.
But when Rebecca turned the key and the door gave way, so did the mass of people, flowing in behind her like water through a broken levee. She ran, hoping to get a few feet on them and make it to the office in the back, which had a door and a lock. Could this be the end? There were too many of them; they would break the door down, and then what? A rape? Cannibalism? Anything seemed possible.
She ran for the office door in the back and was inside and locked and secure before they knew what hit them. She stood and heaved, watching the closed door, expecting first pounding and then the bursting open of it. What then? Instead there was a small knock, as if a squirrel, or perhaps an aardvark, were strumming its tiny knuckles on the door.
"Ms. Romaine?" said a voice.
Should she answer? Yes. This was the time for negotiations. She'd always been told to humanize herself in the eyes of an attacker.
"Yes. What do you want?"
"We're here to help."
That was disturbing. That was so wrong.
Would those be the last words she'd ever hear, We're here to help? Evil knew no shame.
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