Novel: "Ignominious," Chapter 1 (First Draft)

In the days when only two Presidents had been shot, and it was easier to get an appointment to see one at the White House, Lewis Notley of the New York City Police traveled by train from that great city to Washington, D.C.

Notley's suitcase contained only one change of clothes: his only suit, a shabby brown thing, which he reluctantly spent a few dollars to augment with a new fake silk necktie and fake silk brown paisley waistcoat; Notley didn't mind its fakeness at all, as it fit his 48-inch torso perfectly without straining the buttons or rumpling the texture. He only regretted that he didn't own a hat to wear, as he envied men who could hold and clutch one when they were nervous. He hoped the fact that his only footwear was his patrol boots would remind President Cleveland that he was a common man, a working man, the kind of man to whom presidents hope their speeches appeal. He'd considered wearing his blue wool police uniform for the occasion, hoping to inspire the idea in the President's head that he was talking with a man of position. He quickly decided against it; he hadn't felt like a policeman since being taken off patrol duty, and pretending to feel like one would have only made him feel like he was multitasking.

He'd compiled a dossier of sorts laying out his case, complete with a handwritten three-page letter detailing his situation, a full incident report, pages of inquest testimony, and the names and contact information of every officer and character witness who'd vouched for Notley's absence of malice. He'd also included his badge number, the specifics of his birth (that is, date and location), and a list of his former employers, including his two years on the USS Essex while in the Navy, his further two years as a security guard at the Philadelphia Naval Asylum, and the further ten years as the lone security guard at his father's trousers factory. He'd been hesitant to include the fact that his father owned the business, at the risk of being seen as a benefactor of nepotism; he ultimately decided if he didn't include that fact, and it was later discovered, he'd be sized up as dishonest and shifty.

His nerves being fraught, he soothed them with any comforting thought he could grasp. One such thought was the President's girth. He regretted finding solace in President Cleveland's hefty weight, but it made him less daunting than if he were a Herculean figure. Notley was further assuaged by his own relatively round shape, hoping the President might find a kindred spirit in him–“the only weight Grover Cleveland carries is on the hay scale,” he once read in a newspaper–but Notley simultaneously took to heart that the President weighed seventy-five to a hundred pounds more than he did, making him feel less doughy by comparison.

Notley also noted the fact that he had a strong jawline for a chubby fellow, whereas Grover Cleveland's face, from the photographs he'd seen, was anchored by jowls and a second chin. He caught himself thinking his nose was stronger, too– sharp and pointed, while the President's nose was wide and round. Their biggest similarity was their hair: scant on the top with a small island of it near the forehead.

When convicted by the cruelty of comparing and critiquing their respective appearances, Notley defaulted to the well-known fact that during the War, upon being drafted, Cleveland paid a substitute to serve in his place. Notley felt justified in taking personal exception to this, given his mother's death on the USS Hannibal Hamlin in 1864. It made him feel that President Cleveland owed him.

It took longer to reach the capital from New York than it would have if he'd taken the standard Royal Blue Line; Notley took a train to Pittsburgh first, then to Washington from there, all for the sake of avoiding the Royal Blue's stop in Baltimore. He'd spent most of the first thirty-three years of his life in Baltimore, but he [couldn't bear] to see it now. So much so that he didn't mind spending extra money to keep away from it.

In Washington, as he journeyed from his hotel to Pennsylvania Avenue, Notley assured himself concerning Cleveland with less shallow thoughts than those he'd entertained on the trains. Notably that the President must have an affinity for New York; he'd been the state's Governor, and the mayor of some notable city (Notley couldn't remember which one). Hopefully, New York City held some good place in Cleveland's heart, even if as the waggish cousin who only comes around for weddings.

It was the fifteenth day of March and his appointment to see President Cleveland was scheduled for an unusually late 7:30. Notley had been more than a bit surprised a week earlier when he received a letter confirming that the President of the United States would see him. As much as he'd hoped such a thing would happen, he knew White House protocol for commoners was far more strict than it had been in the past, when visitors could come and go, presenting the President with petitions and pardons as if he were a city councilman.

Notley reasoned that the Secret Service must have checked the veracity of every detail in the detailed dossier, found them to be accurate, declared Notley an open and honest man, further declared him trustworthy enough to see President Cleveland, and, just maybe, had put in a good word for such a transparent officer of the law when they briefed the Chief Executive on the policeman's business. But the security man who met him at the gate in front of the White House (Secret Service, Notley surmised) was grave and humorless. He stepped out from a sentry box, which Notley hadn't seen in pictures and drawings of the place. He felt so scrutinized that he quickly lost his initial feeling of awe upon first approaching the Palladian mansion.

Notley didn't attempt small talk; from the man's demeanor he knew if he remarked on the weather being frigid for the edge of spring, he wouldn't get so much as a grunt in response. He was asked to take off his overcoat and raise his arms, and the Secret Serviceman patted him down for pistols and daggers. Notley should have felt vulnerable and extra cold, but his only thought was how much he missed searching a person for weapons himself.

After producing the letter he'd received confirming his appointment, signed by the President's personal secretary on official White House stationery, Notley was given back his coat and escorted across the sprawling lawn and under the ominous white pillars surrounding the north portico. Inside, he was ushered by another security man, who took another look at the letter, through a large hall and eventually into what Notley had read was called the Blue Room. He wasn't intimidated by the modest majesty of the White House. The outcome of the meeting with the President daunted him more than the place in which it was held. In fact, it wasn't much different from the homes of his father's business partners, with whose children young Notley was once arranged to play, while the elder Notley discussed the trousers industry with his friends while playing croquet.

If not in size, it was in aesthetic like the fulsome houses of Baltimore's elite. Though the officer hadn't dared go near his hometown in a year and a half, little things here and there in the Blue Room reminded him of the house he'd lived his first thirty-three years: tassels hanging from the fixtures and attached to the corner of every rug, settees and sofas along the walls where they didn't seem very practical, and most similar to Notley manor, the musty smell of age and memory. To him, it was like the smell of mildew and the pages of old books.

While he was struggling not to reel from the strangely lovely scent, a tall, box-bodied man entered the Blue Room through one of several doors and asked if he were Lewis Notley. The guest tightened inside at hearing the familiar “Snotley” sound that was built into his name; it made him feel so much smaller than usual, coming from a White House security man. He confirmed he was Officer Notley, though he only said his surname. The big man asked if he could take Notley's overcoat. It took him a moment to realize the agent was asking for the sake of hospitality and not security. When he was found to be physically harmless, the agent led him through more strange-smelling, familiar-looking splendor that threatened to distract his mind from the task at hand, up a set of stairs only slightly more austere than the ones he'd seen in Baltimore, and, eventually, into the office of the Chief Executive.

The President's office wasn't as large as Notley had imagined; the bulky bookshelves that lined one side seemed to make the walls close in, while an assortment of mismatched furniture took up the middle of the room. Notley remembered how the furniture in his father's house had at least been the same color and covered in the same upholstery (a petty observation he didn't bother to rebuke, if only to help his anxiety). A fat, unlit chandelier loomed from the ceiling and took up more space, reaching down to swipe at him like a floating ghoul.

The room was dimly lit by only two lamps. It was so dim that Notley didn't immediately notice when Grover Cleveland entered the office. The President wore a black suit and walked slowly, his shoulders drooping. His entire form and all of his features drooped, even his mustache, making his entrance rather inconspicuous. His walk was more of a meander, the turning of his head to look at his guest as languid as the rest of his movements.

Still, his deflated gait couldn't hide the President's height–he was nearly six feet tall, five inches taller than stout Notley, causing the latter's heart to sink.

“Good evening, Mr. Notley,” said the President in a languid tone. “Please have a seat.”

Notley clenched his fists nervously as he looked about him to choose a seat from the several armchairs with heart-shaped backs and miscellaneous upholstery. His hands tightened into fists as a reaction to both the President's height, and to the suspicion that Cleveland called him Mister Notley and not Officer Notley as a way to hint at something.

The President sat before his guest could decide on a chair, making his own choice easier; he sat across from the Chief Executive, reasoning that sitting closer and catty-corner from him would impose a presumptuous familiarity. He wished the President, or someone hired to do such tasks, would turn on another lamp or two. As it was, he could hardly see Cleveland's baldness, causing his imagined kinship with the President to fade slightly.

The someone hired to do such tasks was called upon by the President, languidly, to bring him a glass of beer, with a gruffly added, “if you would, please.” He turned to Notley and asked if he too would like a beer.

“It's too cold out for one, I know,” murmured Cleveland. “But I can have the fire turned up to make it warmer. It's Friday, after all.”

Notley had seen his father accept a drink on many occasions when discussing business (though nothing bigger than a small tumbler), and as a bigger fire would illuminate the President's baldness and weight, he said yes to the offer. Cleveland called for two beers, and a tall black woman soon appeared with a pitcher and two mugs. As she poured the men their beer it occurred to Notley that he ought to volunteer to work the fireplace. Cleveland insisted otherwise, to which Notley acquiesced after an awkward moment in which he froze in the middle of standing up.

The President lifted himself from his seat with a groan and shuffled to the hearth. As his host was illuminated by the blaze, it seemed to Notley that Cleveland's lethargy had less to do with his size and shape, and much more to do with an inner exhaustion. He surmised the President would still have displayed that exhaustion if he'd been as slim as Lincoln. He'd never met a President of the United States, but the [slowness] of his movements made him think they were all probably this tired by their second term.

He was so lost in contemplating the plight of presidents that he was startled when the maid offered him a mug of beer. He fumbled through a thank-you-ma'am as he took it. The domestic, noticing this, eyed him with her hands on her hips and said quietly, “don't worry about him. He's a peach when he wants to be.”

Notley hoped the President wanted to be a peach this evening as he watched him sit down with another groan (shrinking to a less intimidating height) and take a drink of his beer. “This is from the Straub Brewery in Pennsylvania,” said the Chief Executive, a touch of serenity in his lazy tone. “The state voted against me twice, but the Germans brew such a good beer I'll let bygones be bygones.”

Notley summoned his nerve and seized on the mention of the Germans. “Yes sir. My father made it a point to hire Germans at his factory. He said they're too good at war for his comfort, so he put them to work to keep them out of anything perilous.”

(Notley thought the word perilous means something like sneaky or malicious.)

Cleveland sipped his beer and, not looking at Notley but at something somewhere past a bookcase, he asked, “what kind of factory does your father run?”

“It was a trousers factory, sir. But my father had a stroke, and we're no longer in business.”

Notley took a long gulp of his beer, prefacing a lapse in talk. In the silence, he began to wonder if the President brought up Pennsylvania as a sly way of implying the fact he'd worked at the Naval Asylum in Philadelphia was a mark against him.

“A stroke, you say? I'm told I'm due for one of those myself. In any case,” murmured Cleveland, raising his mug, “good health to him.”

After the two men drank to the elder Notley's recovery, the President grunted and retrieved a set of folded papers from his coat pocket. Notley recognized them as the wealth of information, or selections from it, he'd sent to the White House. The President's eyes roamed slowly over the papers as he sipped his beer. Notley increased the frequency of his own sipping, for the sake of something physical to do to ease his nerves, being he had no hat to clutch.

He was stung by Cleveland's tone when he finally spoke; it was a baffled tone with a hint of incredulity:

“You shot a man because you thought he was a ghost.”

Cleveland didn't ask this, but stated it, as if to confirm he wasn't misreading the case before him. He then added, “on New Year's night.”

Notley had worded it “The first of January” in his dossier; he wondered if the President's phrasing it New Year's night was his way of reminding him of the optimism implied in the term “New Year” that had been snuffed out by his bullet.

“Did it occur to you, Mr. Notley, that a ghost could not be stopped with a bullet, being in theory a non-physical entity?” asked Cleveland.

Notley again noted the use of Mister rather than Officer. He was by now quite accustomed to being asked why he thought a bullet might stop a specter, so this was noted second. Being so used to this question in the two-and-a-half months since the unfortunate shooting, he was less fumbly with his words as he meekly recited his answer:

“Ghosts, as I understand them, sir, haven't as yet been confined to any undisputed scientific scrutiny. So–as I understand, sir–it can't be said with absolute certainty that a ghost, if they exist, could not be wounded by a bullet. I mean, a bullet fired by a mortal man, sir.”

The President's eyes moved from the papers he held and wandered about the room, as if thinking to himself, does he have a point? After another sip of Straub's best, a languid nod of his head signaled a touché. Notley was relieved the man with one of the highest offices in the land accepted his position as logical, but all the same he privately hoped he was wrong; the thought of Rosie Fallon's ghost, somewhere out there, not only alone but with the capability of being hurt again, made his stomach churn.

“You were taken off patrol duty but not terminated from the metropolitan police force,” Cleveland confirmed.

“Yes, sir. I was put to work in the Rogues Gallery.”

“The what?”

“I'm sorry, sir. It's an informal nickname, sort of. We take photographs of every person we arrest and we catalog them. For records and future identification, etcetera.”

Notley hoped he didn't sound pompous saying etcetera.

“You take photographs.”

“Yes sir. But I also make records. As detailed as possible. For records and future identification.”

“Interesting. Now, the inquest states the man died of infection,” continued Cleveland. “He lingered for five days with a high fever, it says. Mr. Notley, did the doctors who attended this John Poole note the condition of his health prior to your shooting him?”

“I only know that his condition before I–before the accident, was that he was alive, sir,” replied Notley, his eyes avoiding the President.

Cleveland drew a long, noisy breath through his nose. “What I'm getting at, Mr. Notley, is that it's possible that this Mr. Poole might have had any number of ailments, being his age–seventy-two, it says–that if not present, could have made his recovery from his wound more likely.”

Notley remembered the President was once a lawyer, as most of them seemed to be, if they weren't generals.

“I guess that could indeed or definitely have been so, sir. But if I hadn't–if I hadn't shot him in the first place, he wouldn't have got an infection.”

Cleveland raised a grim, brambly eyebrow. “Mr. Notley, did you say those words during the inquest?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

Cleveland emitted another half-groan, half grunt and shook his ample head. “For your sake, I'd have advised against it. But,” he sipped his beer again, “I have to admire the fact you said it.”

Notley didn't know what the President meant, but he noted the word admire and took it as a positive.

Cleveland's body language signaled resignation as he slumped in his chair and let the papers drop to his lap. His eyes drifted to a window behind his large desk on the far side of the room. His mustache seemed to muffle his words as he murmured, “there's been some legal wrangling in England–” He said the country's name as one would spit out a rude term–for some ninety years now, over the question of diminished responsibility if a man causes grievous bodily harm to another man when he thinks he's in danger–even if it turns out that danger–” Cleveland regained his breath–“that the danger, though perceived at the time, was after the fact found to be non-existent. I believe the debate arose from a similar incident in which a man was shot after being mistaken for a ghost.”

Notley, instead of being relieved he wasn't the first to shoot someone he thought was a phantom, eagerly awaited for the President to continue and declare he sided with those who took such action while in perceived danger though found after the fact to be a non-existent danger, and that he would invoke his executive powers to make Notley a patrolman again.

Instead, the President paused, looked at Notley as if noticing him for the first time, and asked, “what do you think of Hawaii?”

Perhaps the President was about to cite a similar legal wrangling in Hawaii over a man being shot over a non-existent perception of danger.

“I don't know much about Hawaii, sir. I'm not sure where it is.”

“Hm. Well Mr. Notley, long ago, a bunch of missionary types who couldn't mind their own business decided the subjects in the kingdom of Hawaii ought to overthrow their monarchy and apply for annexation,” said Cleveland, with more pep in his speech than he'd utilized since their meeting began.

“Annexation?” asked Notley.

“Annexation,” replied Cleveland.

“When a place becomes a territory?” asked Notley.

“When a place becomes a territory,” replied Cleveland.

Notley stammered and struggled, unsure why he was being asked for his opinion on the Hawaii question. He decided to turn the tables to avoid giving the wrong answer. “What do you plan to do, sir?”

“I plan to leave the islands and the islanders the hell alone and let them continue their Asiatic ways as they please,” said the President firmly and gruffly.

Notley began to think Cleveland was drunk, but knew half a mug of beer, even if brewed by Germans, couldn't inebriate a man; certainly not one as large as President Cleveland. The President's mind was sober but simply elsewhere, apparently Hawaii, and Notley's own problem was far from wherever Hawaii was.

The President placed his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his head lazily in his hand, giving him a rather boyish look, despite his graying, thinning hair and wrinkles under his eyes. He'd aged from the images Notley had seen in the newspapers during the 1892 election, three years ago. It was his chubby face that achieved this look of a pouting or brooding child; Notley had been accused many times in his adulthood of sporting such a look in moments of despondency. It was, he knew, his cherub cheeks that did it.

“How's New York City these days?” asked the President. “It's two years since I've been there. A millennium ago,” he added bitterly.

Notley was glad the President's mind was drifting back from Hawaii. “Well, sir, I've been in Manhattan for going on two years now,” he said, not quite answering Cleveland's question. “On the police force,” he added quickly. “That is, I've been on the New York City police force for going on two years–going on two years and counting.”

He winced at his own addendum.

“It's a curious city, sir. It can be...”

He trailed off, fain to choose his words carefully, not sure if the President enjoyed or loathed the city. “It's a hard place to love. But! There's a lot to love about it.”

Notley still couldn't detect any feeling toward the city in Cleveland's face one way or another. So he added, “sometimes. Not all of the time.”

Cleveland's nose let forth a strong gust of wind. “Tammany Hall. They ought to rename it. Rename the entire city and be done with it. In honor of Honest John Kelly and his crooked pals...Honest John...” The President snorted, the sound of phlegm punctuating his disdain for Honest John Kelly, whoever he was. “If John Kelly was Honest, I'm a featherweight.”

Notley didn't know what a featherweight is, but deduced its meaning from the words feather and weight. He knew the remark was a joke, but a bitter one, and decided not to laugh.

“Vigilante clergymen, flapping their gums about reform. As if reform is something an entire city can do if it only hears a lovely sermon. Reform.” The President repeated the word in a mockingly whimsical tone. “I'd like to see one New York City preacher calling for reform take up a nice big stick of hickory and go clubbing every Tammany Hall rat between 34th and 59th Street. They'd get their reform a lot quicker than they would with whining.”

It occurred to Notley that the reason the President felt so comfortable expressing a desire to see physical assaults carried out might have been because he didn't see his guest as a real policeman; he was now relegated to photographing brawlers and bruised women, thus ineffective to prevent crime and make note of Cleveland's violent ruminations. In any case, the thought made him desperate enough to speak up and move the meeting to the business of his demotion.

“Speaking of New York City, sir; I was wondering–in humility, sir–what are your thoughts on my situation?”

“Oh. Yes. This ghost business.” Cleveland leaned forward with his mightiest groan and set his mug on a small table. “I apologize for going off the rails. A lot on my mind.”

“Yes sir, absolutely. A President must bear a terrible weight.”

“Every President before me–the ones I've met, anyway–have told me they think this place is haunted. Chester Arthur mentioned footsteps in the halls when no one was around. Hayes and Harrison both say they've seen wisps of fog. Probably a gas leak in this rickety old castle.”

“What do you think, sir?” Notley hoped the President was a firm believer in ghosts and any threat they might pose that could justify a bullet.

“If there are ghosts in this house, they're probably aching to tell me everything I'm doing wrong. Busybodies, ghosts. People might as well elect them to Congress.” Cleveland sarcastically called out to the empty air, “any ghosts in present company are exempt, of course.”

He then thumbed through Notley's dossier again as the latter fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Mr. Notley, if I'd been your representative I'd have asked about the history of supposed ghost sightings in Manhattan. It might have behooved your defender to ask around that area; find out if the residents have a habit of seeing ghosts. Drunks and vagrants included. If you could show the area has some established history of this kind of–phenomena,” (Cleveland muttered the last word cynically) “then you couldn't be blamed–as much–for panicking and firing your revolver.”

Notley winced at the President's description of the event. He'd been berated plenty for the shooting, but none of his critics had yet attributed to him the sin of panicking.

“As for the part of town in which you shot this man. You were outside the Schermerhorn Building on Lafayette Street.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Poole, may he rest in peace, was painting the interior late at night. He was dressed in a big white painter's apron, covered in white paint, having a lot of white hair. The moon was shining harshly, very harshly, sir, and the glow gave him sort of a–”

“This ongoing debate I alluded to in England,” interjected the President, again spitting out the country's name, “all came about because the lane on which the poor fellow was shot had a reputation for alleged ghost activity. That's being figured into the responsibility, or lack thereof, as it relates to the man who did the panicking and the shooting, and all future similar cases.”

Notley's ears burned again at the word panicking, and more than ever, he wished he had a hat to squeeze. He took a healthy swallow of beer to give one hand something to do, and followed it with another large swig, hoping it would immediately loosen his lips. He forced out the words, all of them running together:

“Mr. President, sir, is there any way you can restore me to my former position? With all humility, sir.”

Cleveland sighed pityingly. “Oh, Mr. Notley, I have no control over that. That's New York City business. Not federal business, I'm afraid.”

The blow was softened somewhat by the President's newly sympathetic tone. Moreover, Notley had known just beneath the surface of optimism that his plight was small potatoes. He'd only hoped, or had tricked himself into hoping, that the President might be glad to deal with small potatoes for once, instead of the big ones a chief executive is usually thrown.

Leaning his hefty head on his hand again, Cleveland said, languidly, “I greatly appreciate you stopping by this evening, Mr. Notley. It's good to have someone to talk to.”

The President began to rise and Notley took this as his cue to do the same. He quickly finished the rest of his beer, conscious not to waste taxpayer money in case that's where presidents got their beer.

Grover Cleveland walked his guest to the office door, making the guest self-conscious again, being towered over by such a large man of nearly six feet.

“I understand New York City can soon expect quite a whirlwind,” said the President.

“We can? I forgot to read the weather report before I left, sir.”

“A figurative whirlwind, Mr. Notley. In the form of one Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Oh. Yes sir. I read about him in the papers. He's going to head the Board of Commissioners. I think.”

“That's right,” said the President, stopping at the door. “Roosevelt is a force to be reckoned with. I'm fortunate he was on my side as much as he was, Republican or not.”

“Do you know him, sir?”

“I do,” replied the President. “A mighty ally. I don't envy his opponents in your city. Maybe those reform clerics will learn from him to take action.”

Notley thought of the boisterous mustached man Roosevelt, who he'd only seen drawn in cartoons in the papers. He wondered if such a whirlwind of a man could rescue him from life as a photographer in police uniform.

He quickly lost the thought when Cleveland opened the office door and shook Notley's hand. “I wish you the best, Mr. Notley. Be careful Roosevelt doesn't blow you away,” said the President, allowing more warmth in his voice than he had all evening.

“Yes sir,” responded Notley, doing his best to hide his sorrow. “I wish you the best as well. I hope everything works out with Hawaii.”

Cleveland's voice regressed to a grumble. He turned and was heard to say as he slunk back into his office, “clerics. Clerics everywhere, making trouble. Hawaii to New York...”

The door closed with the typically cruel thud with which doors close when the person on the other side has let you down. Notley saw the same big man who'd escorted him up the stairs was crammed into a small chair in the hall, reading a newspaper.

“I'll just...” Notley motioned toward the stairs.

The big man nodded and said with a polite smile, “Someone downstairs will have your coat for you.”

Notley slowly descended the staircase, relishing the feeling, as the office to which he'd been banished was on the ground floor of police headquarters, and he'd had no reason to take a flight of stairs (outside of the tenement where he lived) since his disgrace.

A slightly smaller security man stood at the bottom, holding his coat, as if he'd been alerted Notley was making his exit. As he helped the guest into his coat (which made Notley uneasy for some reason he didn't understand), the security man asked, “did you not have a hat, sir?”

Notley instinctively touched his sparsely populated scalp. “No, I don't have one. Today.”

He felt the need to add “today” so the man might somehow understand he did use headwear on other days–namely his regal police helmet, which he now missed more than ever.

“Oh, yes. I remember now,” said the security man. “Goodnight, sir.”

Notley took a last glance around the Blue Room, pretended it was a room in a house in Baltimore, then forced the thought away, his head heavy enough for one night.

Walking back to his hotel at a sluggish pace that matched his mood, Notley relived the entire meeting in his head. He cringed when he heard himself tell the rotund President he “must bear terrible a weight.” Combing the conversation for more slip-ups, he abruptly stopped in his steps when he heard himself mention his father in the present tense.

The lie he'd told the President, that his father was alive and possibly recovering, and would maybe someday meet Grover Cleveland on the beach, caused his throat to tighten. Naturally, Rosie Fallon's face appeared in his mind's eye, he could smell her perfume, and he panicked just the way he had when he'd shot poor ghostly John Poole.

He forced himself to keep moving. As he lazily made his way down the gloomy gas-lit street in the cold, he struggled to retain some pride; tonight at least, he would refuse to be a thirty-five-year-old policeman who sniffled as often as he did. But being only forty miles from Baltimore was too much; he walked the rest of the way to the hotel with the salty taste of tears and mucous on his upper lip.

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"Things Blowing Up" - A Novel - Chapter 23

Things Blowing Up is a young adult novel about a small town that's dubbed "the most depressing town in Missouri." The town is subsequently invaded by aliens seeking to study depression in order to cure an epidemic on their home planet. The story follows a group of teens and their troubled families as they struggle to survive the invasion. Things Blowing Up will be available July 21, 2025, from lulu.com. 

Chapter 23: The Phenomenon of Sorrow

It was about two o’clock in the morning when Adelia started screaming. Everybody’s first thought was the aliens were sick of flexing in the sky and they were coming in. But in the dim glow of the nightlight I saw Adelia hanging onto Barry’s leg as he struggled to climb the stairs.

He’d been rummaging through Tumbleweed’s stuff while everybody slept, and found a big pair of boots and an old flannel jacket. He was laughing. For a second I thought him and Adelia were playing around. Then I realized he had the shotgun in his left hand. Adelia hung onto him like a pit bull and started pulling at the oversized boots he’d scavenged.

The rest of us jumped up when it finally sunk in through the grogginess what was going on. Me, Dad, Mario and Dave went after Barry. Brenda pulled on Adelia to get her away while the rest of us tried to wrestle Barry down the stairs. I grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and struggled to keep it pointed up. I noticed blood on the stairs. Dad’s bandages were open.

Mrs. Pico and Brenda finally got Adelia away from the fight, and Mr. Pico was gingerly sneaking up with a pipe of some kind in his hand. Any other time it would have been a little extreme, but Barry was completely insane, with superhuman strength and a shotgun. When I saw a stray yellow capsule on the stairs, I lost my grip. We should have checked his pockets or made him tell us if there were any other hiding places for Tumbleweed’s dope.

As soon as I lost my hold on the shotgun, a blast sent us all scattering as plaster rained from the ceiling. Barry let out a loud, crazy giggle and sprinted up the stairs. I felt paralyzed. It was that demented laugh that froze me. It pierced through the intense ringing in my ears as I lay there on my side, watching my friend, turned into a giggling lunatic, disappear into the darkness above us.

Seeing Dad’s blood on the stairs and on my hands must have snapped me out of it. I forced my brain to cooperate in helping Mario and Dave carry Dad down the stairs. His foot was a mess and his eyes were practically crossed with pain, but he told us to go after Barry before he got himself killed. So we bounded up the stairs as fast as you can go when you’re in a daze and you can hardly hear. I never realized before how much it affects your motor skills when your eardrums don’t work.

We made it to the Boggises’ living room as Barry was driving his shoulder into the front door, trying to break it down. In his pilled-up excitement, he didn’t realize the doorknob worked. When he saw me, Dave, Mario and Brenda coming after him, he stepped back and blew a hole in the front door with the shotgun. He ducked and plowed through it, making it bigger with the size of his body.

The four of us followed him. I don't think any of us thought about it. We just rushed through the hole in the door. It was the middle of the night, but I forgot when I saw everything bathed in red from the barrier. Through the ringing in my ears I could somehow hear Barry’s crazy laughter, but not the humming and throbbing of the ship directly above us. There weren’t any potato gunners around this time to distract it. But even if there were, I think the aliens were determined to take somebody. When everything turned green, my muscles, my intestines, everything that made up my being was pierced with a thousand little pin pricks. I felt like a rubber band being stretched as I began to float.

It’s funny, how relieved I was to see Mario, Dave, Brenda and Barry (without the shotgun) being pulled up with me in the sick green light. It was such an agonizing and slow trip that I had time to feel bad for being happy that I wasn’t alone. I shouldn’t have been glad my friends were being abducted by aliens. I should have wished they were safe on the ground. You think the dumbest things during an alien invasion.

It turns out the inside of a spaceship looks pretty much like they do in the movies. At least this one did. Everything looked like it was made of chrome, with panels of blinking lights and buttons and dials, and there were clear wide tubes that went up and down from the ceiling, maybe fifty feet above us. The circular room we were in was huge, with lots of open space in the middle. Most of the gizmos and panels were connected to the walls. If the entire ship was the size of a mansion, this room was the fancy lobby.

I don’t think any of us were afraid or even shocked. Of course this was what the inside of the ship would look like. Being inside it now, after everything it had done to us, it felt like another why not? thing. We’d seen death lasers and abduction beams. We might as well see the inside, and see the alien beings who operated the ugly thing that destroyed our town. I just wished I’d said goodbye to Dad. I had plenty of chances when we were in the basement all that time. I could have just randomly said, any time I wanted, in case something happens to me, I love you. If there’s ever a reason to tell somebody you love them, it’s during an alien invasion.

Mario had the wherewithal to recite a Catholic thing (I think) while he gazed around at all the alien technology. “If ye have received power over me from the Lord, draw nigh and delay not, for I am ready for you. But if ye have come at the command of Satan, get ye back to your places and tarry not, for I am a servant of Jesus the Conqueror.”

I wished Mario hadn’t said all that, or at least that he'd said it in Spanish. The words rubbed off on me and I felt braver than I really was when the big tubes started glowing that familiar sick green, and twelve literal otherworldly beings slowly descended from someplace above. When their big reveal was through, the only thing that really jarred me was how much they looked just like the way the crackpots (at least they used to be crackpots) always said they did. They sure gave weight to Mario’s theory of a common creator, anyway. Humanoids about five-and-a-half feet tall, with two legs, two arms, a big head with two huge black eyes, a mouth where ours is, five fingers on both hands, and two short bare feet with five toes each. I counted.

They wore poshy red robes made of something that had a silver shimmery effect. The only thing that was different from the movies and the crackpots was their skin wasn’t green. It was a gross shade of gray, like old organs you see preserved in formaldehyde. Their skin wasn’t smooth or free of blemishes, either. That was what I noticed most. They had wrinkles, spots, ruts, even a light layer of fuzz.

Barry was the only one who was freaking out, but if he wasn’t high on pills he’d have been as collected as the rest of us. He wasn’t afraid or in awe at seeing an alien for the first time, but he was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, or somebody itching for a fight. It was a good thing he dropped the shotgun on the ground. He cussed and taunted the dozen gray beings about everything from their robes looking gay (his words, not mine) to how much of a coward it takes to zap people to death from a big impenetrable ship. I don’t know why the others didn’t tell him to shut up. I know the reason I didn’t was because everything he said was true, and these beings deserved to be told they were cowards in ridiculous costumes. Even if it came from the spitting wild version of Barry who I didn’t know and didn’t like.

When his rant hit a peak, he screamed and rushed at the aliens. The rest of us shouted at him to stop. It went as well as it could have. One of the twelve intercepted him (with average human strength, not magical powers or by manipulating gravity), and without uttering a sound or changing their expressions they held Barry in place while one of them reached into its robe and took out a syringe full of yellow liquid. As Barry shouted every vulgar sixth grade insult that came to his brain, the alien gently put the needle in his neck.

They didn’t let him fall to the chrome floor. They just lifted him as gingerly as paramedics would lift somebody with a broken neck and placed him on a gurney. I hadn’t even noticed two of the aliens wheeling it around the moment Barry rushed at them.

Me, Mario, Dave and Brenda all clutched at one another’s arms as if to keep the other from fainting or going after the gray things. When we realized Barry was breathing, then snoring, we relaxed our stance a little.

So far, everybody, human and humanoid both, had played it cool, except Barry, and he looked like he was fine, all things considered. He could have easily been zapped to ashes with some space weapon instead of knocked out with space drugs. The atmosphere was so quiet, the hum of the ship almost comforting from the inside, that we weren’t taken aback when the alien with the syringe started talking, and in words we knew. Its voice wasn’t metallic and cold like the act prudently warning. It was like somebody being slow and overly careful with their words because they’re still trying to get a grasp of the language.

“We welcome you to our craft with charity and assurances of your safety. On behalf of those of us you see gathered before you, and on behalf of our commander, again we say welcome.”

Brenda would be the first one to get salty. “You’ve literally incinerated like a hundred people. I wouldn’t call that safe.”

The spokesman/spokeswoman tilted his or her head like it was thinking carefully about a good response. “We certainly understand your skepticism. We do not perceive it as a flaw on your part.”

“Oh, you don’t think I’m flawed! Greeeaaat!” Brenda glared.

The alien cocked its head again. It could apparently detect sarcasm, so it knew it had to formulate some really smooth words if it wanted to charm Brenda. “We assure you, you are perfectly welcome on our craft. We have no ill intent toward you.”

There was an awkward silence, just like we were all humans. Then Dave asked, “what did you put in Barry’s neck?”

The head alien put some extra sweetness in its voice. “It is the equivalent of a basic sedative on your planet. Our studies show it is closely related chemically to your Valium. Your companion will not be negatively affected by the serum unless he suffers from a natural allergy to it. Judging by his current state, this does not appear to be the case. You can certainly understand our reasoning for neutralizing him temporarily.”

Mario spoke up. He had the priestly tone in his voice, times ten. “I understand it. But I don’t understand why you’re sealing off our town and blowing it to pieces.”

The alien wasn’t cowed. “We assure you we had no malicious or violent intent when we traveled to Earth. The unfortunate destruction that ensued is regrettable. We hope all hostilities will cease as soon as possible.”

Mario: “Why did you come here in the first place?”

Alien: “That question can best be answered by our commander, who will join us presently.”

Dave: “What are you, like the number two?”

Alien: “I am, in fact, second in command of this vessel. Perhaps you would like to think of me as the equivalent to the character Riker on your episodic Star Trek television series.”

Dave: “I don’t watch Star Trek.”

Alien: “My apologies. When we were gathering information about Earth and its cultures, we discovered your species has an affinity for fiction which addresses space travel and communication with planets, galaxies and civilizations beyond your own. We found this fact could help us to illustrate our mission. Thus, my comparison of myself to this Riker.”

Dave: “He sounds like you, Mario.”

Alien: “Which of you is called Mario?”

Mario raised his hand.

Alien: “And which of you is called Brenda Boggis?”
Brenda: “How do you know my name?”

Dave: “They literally know about Star Trek...”

Alien: “We have your mother and father figures in an isolation unit elsewhere on this vessel. They are both unharmed and in good health.”

Brenda’s face turned pale and her eyes got wide. No matter how many times I’d seen her do it in the past couple days, it was still jarring to see her face not set to scowl. Believe it or not, it was the first time I ever noticed she has blue eyes.

“What did they tell you?” she croaked.

Me, Mario and Dave couldn’t help looking at Brenda. That wasn’t the normal first question to ask when you find out your parents are alive after they were abducted by aliens.

Alien: “That, too, is a question best answered by our commander. Tiran is here now, in fact.”

The giant tube in the middle glowed green and another being descended from somewhere above. It looked just like the rest, except its robe was yellow, with a hood over its big head. I figured only commanders were allowed to wear hoods.

“Greetings, inhabitants of Earth.”

(It really said that.)

I said hi.

Commander: “I hope you do not find it condescending if I ask about your well-being.”

The commander’s voice was more pleasant than the others, but it still spoke awkwardly and stiffly. The four of us glanced at each other, trying to decide among ourselves if it was condescending for the alien to ask about our well-being.

I finally said, “you know. A lot going on.”

Commander: “Certainly so. I trust Sila, my second, has conveyed our deepest regret for the chaos that has ensued upon our arrival. It was never our goal to destroy.”

Me: “Yeah, he said that.”

Commander: “That is pleasurable. I am Tiran. I was chosen by the elders of our home planet to lead this expedition.”

Mario: “Where is your home planet?”

Tiran: “In view of current circumstances, we do not find it prudent to reveal its name or location.”

Dave: “But you find it prudent to start a war on another planet?”

Tiran: “We do not agree with your sentiment that a war is taking place. We simply found it necessary to defend ourselves, as we were attacked.”

Dave started an angry retort but Brenda interrupted him. “Can I see my parents?”

Tiran: “Your mother and father figures have been most cooperative in our examinations. They have been, in short, a delight with which to work.”

The commander sounded more and more like it was using Chat GPT to help it talk.

Brenda’s voice broke and rose at the same time. “What do you mean cooperative? Did you cut them open?”

Tiran: “We did not perform surgery on those two particular humans. We must add that we regret that our knowledge of surgical study on the human brain fell short of our aspirations. You surely understand our limitations, having no subjects on our planet with which to work. We regret that we consequently had no choice but to destroy the five humans on whom we operated previously.”

Dave: “So, you get how that looked like straight-up murder. You killed all my uncles in two seconds.”

Brenda was shaking and her fists were balled up at her sides. “Did you operate on my parents?”

Tiran: “We had no need to do so. We have been able to study subsequent subjects with a noninvasive ray that gives us abundant insight into the mind of the human species. We rejoice, as this insight will be of great value to our own race, who are, as you may have observed, somewhat similar to your own in form and biology.”

Mario: “Why do you want to study the human mind?”

I felt detached from the whole scene, like I was just an observer watching it on TV. I tried to think of something to say, some important question, but I was afraid whatever I said would sound pointless. As funny as it sounds, I wanted to be able to make an impression on these things.

Tiran: “The inhabitants of our planet have recently become sluggish, unable to concentrate on their work. Many have developed an apathy concerning their very existence. It is a completely new phenomenon. So we turned to the nearest, most biologically similar civilization in our search for answers and insight. This happened to be yours.”

Mario: “Do you mean you’re only now discovering depression on your planet?”

Tiran: “We do not have many of the things on our planet which we have observed on Earth. For example, we do not know war or poverty in the way you know them. We saw these phenomena in extremes throughout Earth. However, situations in certain places on this planet proved so extreme we believed the humans in those places would prove too dissimilar from our own cases of behavioral malfunction. It seems evident that the plague which has swept our home is not as severe as the one which ravages the more violent and impoverished parts of your planet. For which we are grateful.”

Mario: “Who are you grateful to? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Tiran: “We anticipated a question of this nature. In studying your planet, we found a great number of your inhabitants yearn to know if there is an intelligent being responsible for the existence of all life. You may feel an affinity with us if we share that we, too, seek the same answers on our own planet. Thus far, we have discovered no definitive proof of such a creator, and the elders of our planet long ago put these findings into our planet’s creeds and laws. However, our inhabitants are free to continue seeking such answers, as long as they do so as individuals, rather than as any corporate body.”

Mario: “Oh. That’s...interesting.”

Tiran went on. “We searched other parts of your world where melancholy, as we found it termed in your literature, was on a level of severity similar to our own. By this we refer to a condition that is disabling, but without the violent chaos and social instability that accompanies other places on Earth where the phenomenon of sorrow is prevalent.”

Pay no attention to the smoking city below, I thought.

“We chose the place called Berlitz, Missouri because the malady that affects you is of the same acute form and character of our own, as, like you, we have not descended into societal chaos. We are much like you. We hope this raises your level of trust that we will take the utmost care during these examinations.”

“Why don’t you just study the...the things on your own planet?” Dave asked.

“The elders of our planet have established a strict but morally pure code of secrecy as it pertains to exploring and curing this plague,” Tiran said. “If our planet’s inhabitants knew we found the situation so alarming it required such extremes, the emotional malady would only become worse. This is but one example of the vast wisdom and foresight our elders possess.”

“You mean you can’t just snatch one guy and chloroform him so he doesn’t tell anybody what happened?” Dave pressed.

“Such deceit would be contrary to our integrity,” Sila the Second put in. “We do not lie to our inhabitants, as none have asked if there is a search for a cure.”

I finally spoke up. “What if somebody did ask?” I kind of dreaded the answer.

“There is, on our planet, what you might equate to a proverb,” Sila said. “‘It is only where there are questions that one will find lies.’”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard” (Dave).

“What if we refuse to do it?” I asked. “These exams, I mean.”

Tiran’s voice was different now. I can’t call it urgent, but he spoke faster, and definitely more firm. “The elders of our planet have insisted this expedition, undertaken for the sake of knowledge and exploration, must not be in vain. They would be extremely displeased if we returned with no information of value. They are well aware of the difficulty we have encountered thus far on this mission, and have expressed much dissatisfaction. We ask you, humbly, for your assistance.”

"Things Blowing Up" - A Novel - Chapter 3

Things Blowing Up is a young adult novel about a small town that's dubbed "the most depressing town in Missouri." The town is subsequently invaded by aliens seeking to study depression in order to cure an epidemic on their home planet. The story follows a group of teens and their troubled families as they struggle to survive the invasion. Things Blowing Up will be available July 21, 2025, from lulu.com. 

Chapter 3: The Mincer Meeting, Part Two

I still can’t decide if my reason for dropping out was a dumb one or not. Brenda said it was, because of course she did. Living next door, she was usually the first one I told anything, even before the Mincers got it. The boys didn’t know that, and I think they would have been salty if they did, because Brenda wasn’t a member of the Mincer Meeting. Just a “satellite member” (Mario’s phrase).

After Barry dropped out, the idea started floating around my own head, with visions of Miranda mixed in. Brenda saw me moping around my backyard one Saturday morning and came over to ask what was wrong (probably hoping there was a chance to roast me). In one big mumble-sigh I told her how I felt, and she replied, “that’s just moronic, Quigley! You can’t put the brakes on your entire life. Miranda wouldn’t want that. If she was here, she’d say you’re being moronic too.”

The way Miranda died didn’t help Brenda’s case. She was a closet drinker. One night, the week before school started, she drank too much and died in her sleep. By herself, in her room, alone. I existed, so she had no reason to be alone.

I went through all the things you go through when you lose somebody to demons you didn’t know they had. I said she doesn’t drink, I never saw her drunk, I never saw any alcohol in her room, and that somehow proved she couldn’t have been an alcoholic. Before I got crazy enough to start blaming a government conspiracy, her parents told me Miranda had been seeing a drug and alcohol abuse counselor in Springfield for six months. She never told me anything about it.

When Brenda told me what Miranda would tell me from the grave or the great beyond, I shot back, “if she was going through something so terrible she needed to numb herself to death, you can’t tell me she’d be encouraging me to put some pep in my step!”

Brenda glared at me, but there was something off about it, like she was taken aback. Just a little. Normally I’d have been happy to get one over on her, but I was too surprised to see that steely look of hers go just a little soft. Plus, I don’t think I really believed what I said about Miranda, and what she would and wouldn’t say if she could. I knew she’d tell me to live my life. But she was gone forever, and she couldn’t.

Even with all her hard looks and logic, Brenda couldn’t get it in my head that Miranda wouldn’t want me to give up. She eventually just gave up trying to convince me, and said, “if you argue with a brick wall, the brick wall isn’t the one wasting its time.”

If Brenda wasn’t so tough it would be hard to take her seriously when she chews you out or goes on a rant. She wears this steel dental device on her upper teeth that makes her S’s sound slobbery and kind of gross. But when she’s standing her ground and not giving an inch, you (almost) can’t hear that weird slurping noise her words make.

Right around the time Mario’s family came to America, Brenda’s family moved in next door to me, all the way from Duluth, Minnesota. Me and Dad imitated Mr. and Mrs. Boggis’ Yankee way of saying “Minna-soooda” for a week straight (but only at home). It was weird to have neighbors, because their house had been empty for three years, and on the other side of us there was a weed-ridden lot that had been vacant since before I was born. When I was a kid, I’d go over and examine the remains of the concrete foundation of a house that was there thirty years ago, like I was an archaeologist looking for clues about whoever once lived there.

The Boggises showed up just before the start of freshman year, so for the first couple weeks of high school I didn’t realize the new girl lived right next door. The first time I saw Brenda outside of school was a blustery day, one of those days where the sky is brown and everything looks like you’re trying to wake up from a weird dream. I was in the front yard, trying to dig the broken mailbox post out of the ground and take it inside so it didn’t blow away and go through somebody’s window. I’d noticed the new neighbors had one of those big old style Buicks, but I hadn’t seen who drove it yet. That day, when the huge puke-yellow thing pulled into the Boggises’ driveway, I saw a pair of knitted eyebrows and glaring eyes just above the steering wheel.

This big moose of a guy in a sleeveless shirt, with huge biceps, was working on a more modern car in the driveway. He’d just scooted underneath it when the Buick lurched up behind it. The door flew open and I instantly recognized the short new girl I’d seen at school. Her strawberry blonde hair was blowing all over the place, but I knew it was her from her hunchback posture. She marched right up to the guy’s legs sticking out under the other car. Even with the wind, I could hear the girl go off.

“Leslie! You left your stupid weed in the glove box!” the girl shouted. Not screamed, like a girl, but shouted, like a drill sergeant. “What if I’d been pulled over? I’m not going to jail like white trash!”

Geez. Harsh, I thought.

The big guy scooted out from under the car and sat up. He looked up at the girl, then up at the sky, and let out a big breath. “I’m incredibly sorry, Brenda,” he said. “This is completely on me.”

I had to strain to hear him, not just for the wind, but he was talking so slowly and using words that aren’t suited for noisy, windy weather, like incredibly and completely.

“That was inconsiderate and muddleheaded of me. I just forgot it was there.”

For a moment the girl just glared and didn’t say anything back. I wouldn’t either, if the person I was so furious with had such a calm response. But the girl decided she didn’t need words, pulled a Ziploc bag of green-brown gunk out of her pocket, and opened it up in the path of the wind. The big dude stood up, cool and collected, and wiped his hands on a rag. He just watched his weed scatter in the wind and disappear. I was kind of dumbstruck by the guy’s composure, more than the girl’s rage. People who like weed really, really like it, and seeing his little stash disintegrate like that must have been a bummer.

But he just shook his head and said, “I deserved that. Well...are we even?” He made a fist and held it out in front of him.

The girl groaned, but she bumped his fist and turned to go inside. When she opened the door she happened to turn and see me standing there gawking. I was too amazed by the whole scene to just go right back to digging up the mailbox. When the girl saw me she formed an awkward half smile, gave a quick wave, and disappeared inside.

Over the next little while I’d catch little pieces of things going on next door. Like how Brenda would call her parents Mark and Tisha in this emphasized tone. And how sometimes Mark and Tisha would literally flinch when she said something really blunt on the way to the car, like she’d made a fist and reared back with it.

After I talked to Brenda a few times, I looked up the population of Duluth, Minnesota, and it was something like 80,000. I just figured she resented having to leave the big city for a little town of 5,000.

The night Brenda decided she could tolerate the Mincer Meeting (we didn’t have that name yet) was the night the doomsday comet passed by Earth. It was March 15^th. I remember the exact date because everybody in town was half joking that the world was going to end March 15^th, so everybody should throw their Saint Patrick’s Day parties early. Maybe that should have told me something. The news said it could be seen from our particular spot on Earth for only an hour late that night.

Brenda had been my neighbor for eight months by then. Usually if you’ve lived next to somebody that long you get to be at least friendly, even if you’re not friends. But Brenda still had an unimpressed look when she waved at me, in the yard or at school. But she waved, and she didn’t have to, so there was that.

The Mincers were on my roof with Mario’s telescope (of course he had a telescope) so we could get a good look at the comet. Mario wasn’t concerned about it crashing into Earth because he said that’s not how the Bible says the world is going to end. In between our chattering we heard a crunching, pounding noise that got closer and closer. We realized it was somebody walking (stomping, really) down the gravel alley behind the house. Barry shined his flashlight on the alley, and we saw it was Brenda.

The second her face was illuminated, Barry yelped and switched off the light.

“What are you doing up there?” she called.

“The end of the world!” I called back. If anything can bring people together, it’s the end of the world. So I took a chance and said, “you should come up!”

Dave elbowed me and whispered, “she’s gonna shank us!”

Barry turned his flashlight back on and we saw Brenda’s scowl had disappeared. She looked like she was thinking it over, if she really wanted to spend her last moments alive with the group of dudes she always eyeballed at school like we owed her money.

“It’s a beautiful view up here!” Mario called.

“Don’t say it like that!” Barry said. “It sounds like we’re looking through her windows or something!”

“We would never look through your windows!” Mario assured her.

Brenda rolled her eyes and walked into my backyard. She started climbing the ladder, extra gingerly. I thought she was afraid it would fall, so I knelt down and held it where it wasn’t shaking. I swear her face was almost friendly when she looked up.

“I have to be careful,” she said. “I fell off a ladder and broke my pelvis two summers ago.”

Barry screwed up his face. “Chicks don’t have pelvises.”

Halfway up the ladder, Brenda looked up in total disgust. “I know Amish people who know more about female anatomy!”

“Yeesh!” Barry exclaimed. “Big knock on Amish people out of nowhere!”

Dave chimed in. “Name one Amish person you know.”

Brenda froze when she got to the top of the ladder, before she had to make that awkward step from the rungs to the roof. Me and Mario went over and we both took her by a hand (we asked first). I think that was it. The moment she realized we weren’t complete slobs.

She had to say something, though, to make us forget we’d just seen her so nervous, and that we’d just held her hands.

“So, do you guys always make out up here?”

Barry wasn’t bothered. “It would be a privilege to make out with these dudes. If I was gay.”

“I’m kidding,” Brenda muttered. She carefully walked up the A-frame of the roof and looked into the telescope. “So, when are we gonna die?”

“The comet is supposed to be visible between 10:15 and 11:15,” Mario said. “So you have ten minutes to repent.”

Brenda looked at him and raised her eyebrow.

“I’m kidding.” Mario turned away and pretended to adjust the telescope.

I got up the nerve to ask Brenda what she was doing walking in the alley so late.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?” Mario asked. “You have some red puffiness around your eyes.”

Brenda looked like she could have killed him.

Dave didn’t see the icy look, and said, “just keep the story under five minutes. If I wanted to die listening to a woman yap about her problems I’d call my aunt Jo.”

Brenda turned and glared a dozen daggers.

“Easy. I’m kidding. Really. What’s up?”

“It’s not important.”

I said, “if it’s important enough to make you walk in a dark alley at night, it’s important enough to talk about.” I was trying to come up with something encouraging, and that was the best I could do.

Then, Barry kicked the ladder over. The clang it made when it landed probably woke up the neighborhood. I thought it was a little overkill.

“Now. You’re stuck up here, so you might as well tell us what’s wrong.”

Before we could yell at Barry for trapping us on the roof, Brenda did it for us. “That was retarded!”

Mario scrunched up his face like he was mulling something over. “Maybe we shouldn’t use that word,” he said.

“We?” Brenda snapped.

“Well, we...the four of us...we’ve been kind of debating about it for a week,” Mario said meekly.

(We really had, for some reason I don’t remember.)

“I don’t mean to tell you what to do,” he murmured. “We’re almost strangers, after all.”

“Yes we are, and you want me to tell you about my problems.”

“I don’t wanna be a PC snowflake,” Barry grumbled. “‘Retarded’ is fine, as long as you’re not talking about a special needs kid. It should be okay to say it because now it means dumb, not disabled. It’s irrelevant to disabled people.”

Dave took a tin container of Altoid mints out of his pocket and popped one. “How about ‘Altoided’?” he said.

“What?”

“Instead of retarded. We can say Altoided. Like a compromise word. And if anybody overhears us say it in public, they won’t know what it means, and we won’t get waffle-stomped by somebody who’s got a special needs kid.”

Barry: “But then you’d be saying anybody who eats Altoids is a moron. You’d be making ‘Altoid’ a slur against people who like mints.”

Dave: “Now who sounds like a PC snowflake?”

Brenda: “What...the...?”

Me: “So, Brenda, what brings you out this late?”

Barry and Dave stopped their bickering. All four of us were staring at Brenda now, so she pretty much had to tell us what was wrong. She made this low growl and took a deep breath. “Do you know Jake Kenyon and Lindsey Brown?”

We all did. They were known around school for being big fans of inhalants.

“Well, they invited me to Lindsey’s house so I could finish The Last of Us. I never got to see the finale because we were busy moving.”

Mario: “They watch The Last of Us?”

Brenda: “Yeah.”

Mario: “Hm. Seems like kind of a highbrow show for those two...no, I shouldn’t say that. That’s mean.”

Barry: “No it’s not. Those two are duuummmb.”

Brenda: “Yes. Yes they are. So I get there, and they take me into the garage and start huffing glue. I didn’t even know people really do that! Like licking toads. You hear about it, but you think it’s just an urban legend. Do people really do that in these tiny towns?!”

Dave: “I have an uncle who literally stole a toad from a pet shop so he could lick it.”

Brenda: “Well, anyway, they tried to get me to do it, and I said it was...Altoided...and they got offended and told me to get lost. They said I was being ‘holier-than-thou.’”

Me: “Yikes. That sucks. So...I know this isn’t the most important thing, but what made you want to hang out with those two goons anyway?”

Barry: “Yeah, I mean, you seem way too smart to be hanging around with those two.”

Brenda made a sour face. “I do?”

Mario: “I heard you’re in the AP bio class.”

Me: “We have English Lit the same period. You finished To Kill a Mockingbird in two days, and Mr. Simonson got mad at you for it.”

Brenda: “It was easy to finish because it’s an overrated book. It’s a white woman’s fantasy about white people being progressive heroes.”

Barry coughed. “PC snowflake...”

Me: “Right...so yeah, what brought you together with those two?”

Brenda growled again. “I overheard Lindsey tell Jake she didn’t have any money for lunch, and he didn’t either. So I gave them ten dollars. Okay?” She ran all the words together like she was confessing to a sin. “Don’t tell anybody. I’m not a charity organization. So anyway, we started talking after that, and they seemed like...I don’t know. Like they could use a positive influence.”

The four of us snuck looks at each other, but didn’t say anything.

“So I was helping them with homework, stuff like that.”

(None of us said anything again.)

“That went on for like two weeks. Then they invited me over tonight and, yeah. Huffing glue.”

Mario: “Well, I’m sorry they treated you that way when you refused to partake. But you should be proud of yourself for turning it down.”

Dave: “You ever seen styrofoam melt in a microwave? That’s what glue does to your brain. Another two years, Jake and Lindsey are both gonna be eating through a straw. They already kind of drool when they smile. Didn’t you notice?”

Brenda looked just slightly embarrassed. “Yes. I noticed.”

She sat down on the pitch of the roof. “I guess I was just eager to have friends again. Like an idiot. I don’t really talk to my friends in Minnesota anymore.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, I guess it’s more that they don’t talk to me anymore. Everybody changed. It happens.”

Barry: “Wellllll there’s four of us, and we don’t sniff glue.”

Me: “I take a whiff of the air when I pass by the gas station. Gasoline just smells really good. But I don’t hang around like a troll and inhale the fumes. I keep going my way.”

Brenda’s shoulders kind of raised up like she was cringing. She growled again. “I just didn’t bother introducing myself or whatever, because you saw the whole thing with Leslie, my brother. The weed incident. I just thought, that guy definitely thinks I’m a psycho.”

I’d already told the boys about it, but they were savvy enough to keep quiet.

Me: “I don’t think you’re a psycho. If I thought that, I wouldn’t invite you up on my roof.”

Brenda: “Yeah, but you have protection. It’s four to one.”

Mario: “None of us would hit a lady.”

Brenda: “What, are you serious?”

Mario: “What kind of man puts his hands on a woman?”

Brenda stared at Mario like he’d just said the opposite and he’d gladly punch a woman. Whatever she would have said next was interrupted by the appearance of the doomsday comet. It looked like they do on TV. A tiny yellow-white ball of light with a glowing tail.

We knew it wasn’t really doomsday. But I think we all figured, just in case it was the end of the world, anything we said would be a dumb last thing to say, so we should just keep quiet.

That lasted about forty-five seconds until Brenda spoke up. “So, um...thank you guys for letting me hang out the last night of–”

Before she could finish a genuine, nice, heartwarming thank you (though I guess she could have been setting us up for a roasting) the comet disappeared. Just like that. We were promised an hour of this rare, amazing sight, and sixty seconds was all we got.

Brenda laughed. And her laugh was absolutely horrible. It was like a mix of a donkey and somebody’s drunk aunt. “HAAAWWW! HAW! HAW!”

When she saw how disappointed Mario was that he didn’t get a long look at the comet, and that the rest of us were so startled by that laugh, she tried to dry up and pretended to clear her throat. That’s when she knew she was stuck with us. We knew her secret, that she had the worst laugh in the world.

No sooner had I said it was a shame the world didn’t end because it meant we were stuck on the roof, we heard a shrill voice on the ground, shrieking Barry’s name. Adelia Barrymore, no more than six years old at the time, was running in the street in her pajamas. Her little flip-flops smacked the pavement and echoed down the street. This little girl had literally run a mile and a half from her and Barry’s house. She was crying like the world was really about to be decimated by a comet. When she got to my front yard she called up to Barry (she called him Christopher) and tried to tell him, between short gasping breaths, that she had a bad dream.

Barry hurried over to shimmy off the edge of the roof, but I stopped him. I stomped my feet a few times over the spot above Dad’s bedroom, and he came outside a minute or so later and put the ladder back up. I caught the look on Brenda’s face. She was beyond perplexed and her eyes were wide. She wrung her hands together like she didn’t know what to do (and what could she do?).

I wouldn’t see such a non-Brenda look on her face for two years.

It wasn’t easy getting Adelia calmed down, or anybody really, because all the power and electricity, even the phones (and the cell tower) went completely dead for twelve hours. Nobody could help pointing out that it started right after the comet passed, so it was just accepted all over town that the two must have been related. But when the power and the phones started working again late the next morning, it was like everybody forgot they ever lost it.