The War Against the Assholes Read online

  Cut and run. That’s what I wanted to do. I mean, here we were with this hatch. Nobody wants to look at a closed hatch. A square steel hatch set in the floor of Karasarkissian’s weird-crap store. The hatch swung open, and the sweet stink of booze and cigarettes wafted out, along with a wash of yellow warm light and the sound of violin music. Whoever opened the hatch clattered back down what sounded like a ladder, and Hob crept down into the square opening. “Are you coming, Michael,” he said. I climbed down. A hollow space about the size of our math classroom. Strings of warm, yellow Christmas-tree lights snaked across every wall that I could see, so that the place was well lit without there being a glare. In the back of the room was a red-brown table. A rank of unmatched glassware gleaming on it. Huge carboys full of golden fluid. I thought I saw snakes or eels swimming in them. A second later I thought: I hadn’t seen anything of the kind. Hob was already at this bar, pouring the golden liquid, about the color of whiskey, into two glasses. The violin music came from a girl with ultra-black hair playing the violin. This weird song that I later found out was by a guy called Janacek. Leos Janacek. Hob was carrying the whiskey glasses back to us, and I was reaching for one when I felt a cold, subtle tap on my shoulder.

  I whirled to see who’d done it. A towering and spindly guy, wearing a black suit and a poinsettia-red tie, like it was the middle of the day. Or like he worked in a mortuary. “Can I help you,” I said. “I don’t know, can you,” said the tie wearer. Not harshly. I recognized him. Or thought I did. “You’re Vincent,” I said. I knew him from Saint Cyprian’s. In the murky, awed way I knew kids who had graduated. Simon Canary’s older sister Rosie, for example. She didn’t go to Saint Cyprian’s, though. She had gone to Holy Agony. “You’re Vincent Callahan,” I said, “right? Your name’s Vincent?” “You have good recall,” he said. “Why are you dressed like a mortician,” I said. You see a man dressed like a mortician and you call him on it.

  The violin player lifted her bow and cackled. A bruise-blue spot under her chin. Staring out. A single eye. “This is what I get for trying to raise the tone here,” said Vincent. “Vincent,” said Hob. He started trotting. Whiskey slapped over the glass rims. These two goblets. “Hob and his strays,” said Vincent, “it’s like the ultimate in distributed democracy.” “I believe in democracy,” I said. The violin player laughed, again, from her corner, her green, grubby sofa. There were other people present in the room. A cavern. Or basement. There was a black guy there, too, who looked older than all of us—he had gray in his square beard. He came forward now. Limped up to where Vincent, Hob, and I were standing. His gait loud and arrhythmic. A strong footstep, the thud of his cane, a weak footstep. A dactyl. That’s the only other thing I remember from Greek. His cane: black with a silver head in the shape of a badger. Yellow gems or yellow glass for its eyes. A silver tip on the floor-striking end. That part is called a ferrule. A word I learned from Hob.

  “Hob,” said the cane wielder, “I see you’ve brought us a guest.” His voice was higher and lighter than I thought it would be. He was broad across the shoulders and deep in the chest. Big eyes. A short neck. “And we always treat guests with respect,” said the cane wielder. He stuck his hand out. It took me a second to catch on: he wanted to shake. “It’s an ancient custom,” he went on as we shook. His palm dry and warm, seamed. A knobby scar I hadn’t seen scraped the hollow of my hand. “Dates to classical times. When gods traveled in disguise throughout the world, testing their worshippers. Or so the thinking runs. I never saw much in that myself.” I could think of nothing to say. So I gave my name. “Charthouse,” the cane wielder said, “it’s John Charthouse, but people seem inclined to call me Charthouse. You ever notice that? Certain people get called by their last names.” Vincent stood next to Hob. Touching his tie.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening but I could. This same contra­diction occurred the time Mary Agnes Ravapinto gave me a blow job and swallowed. A crude analogy. I don’t have a better one. The air bluish with drifting smoke. “Truth is,” said Charthouse, “we’ve heard a lot about you, Mike.” “Is that necessarily a good thing,” I said. “Not necessarily but you have to be a friend to make friends. My father told me that,” said Charthouse, “then again, I always thought it was bullshit.” “Generational differences, that’s what my parents say,” I said. Charthouse laughed. His filled molars glinting. “Hob knows how to pick them,” said Charthouse, “and he thinks you’re a good candidate.” I wanted to ask Candidate for what. Vincent called out: “He also believes in democracy.” Charthouse tapped the red knot of Vincent’s necktie with the badger head. A practiced gesture. I wondered how much of a talker Vincent was. “Let’s not lose focus here,” said Charthouse. “I think he’s ready,” said Hob, “I think he should take the salto.”

  No idea what the words meant. A drug, I thought. That’s what you take: drugs. I wanted to be a good guest. So I said: “I’m happy to.” Neither Hob nor Charthouse listened. Vincent seemed to brighten up. He and Charthouse both smoking those brown cigarettes. Hob’s brand. Their sweetish smell in my nose and throat. Enough to make me giddy. “Can I bum one,” I asked when Hob had finished talking. Vincent cackled. “You’re too young,” he said. “Vincent,” said Charthouse. Vincent shut off his laugh. “I know you don’t understand necessarily what all this is,” Charthouse said to me, “but that’s no matter. Hob’s told us about you. And we value, you might say, his opinion.” Hob handed me one goblet. He gave Charthouse the other. Charthouse stared at me over the rim, and we toasted. I had no choice. You can’t turn down a toast. “Drink up,” he said. Downed his goblet. I downed mine too. I didn’t want to look foolish. No immediate ill effects. The whiskey: it tasted strange. Ripe apricot. Ammonia. The jagged strains of the violin rose again. I figured Charthouse would introduce me to the other people there. The violin player, I mean. She looked to be my age, Hob’s age, her long head bobbing and her short hair gleaming. She had black eyes, actually black. Black hair. I wanted to go over and talk to her. You can’t interrupt a violinist. Or any musician. She saw me looking. She closed her eyes. She smiled. She lifted bow from strings. She said, “Is there a problem.” “No problem,” I called.

  We’re raised, in America, to be polite to strangers. Your host offers you a drink, you drink it. Your interrogator questions you, you answer. The root of our sufferings, I’d say. When Hob refilled our goblets, Charthouse and I drank again. I was owed. For the nosebleed and Hob’s trickery. The whiskey, or whatever it was, served as payment. When Charthouse asked me questions, I answered. As I said, that’s how we’re raised. How old are you. Do you like school. Where do you live. “In the city,” I said. “We all live in the city, or try to,” he said, “and even if you’re only trying it serves as enough of a passport.” “What the fuck are you talking about,” I said. “You curse,” he said, “that can be a sign of low creativity. Not many know that.” Then he asked me what the capital of New Zealand was. “I know this one,” I said, “I really do.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. Hob poured me another drink. Vincent stroked his tie. For the length of an eye-blink I saw a sapphire-colored snake or eel twisting through the tawny liquid in the bottle Hob was lifting. Charthouse kept questioning me. As they did in catechism, when I was a kid, except it was not harsh: Had I ever considered the possibility of ontological perfection? “St. Anselm, they made us learn that,” I said. Which daisies were better, he wanted to know, yellow or white? We’re raised to answer. I couldn’t stop now. I’d already answered. It’s easier to go to war than quit smoking. Whoever said that knew humans. Tell me about the tree with the ten branches. I guessed sycamore. Hob said you got a nosebleed. Correct. If you had to choose your own name, what would it be. Didn’t answer that one. Charthouse didn’t press me. Vincent bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet. His smile white and wavering. How long have you known Hob. My whole life. So it went. He kept asking and I kept answering. Hob filled the goblets and we drank. I was proud, to
o, that I handled the liquor. Three glasses of whiskey, I thought, and nothing. I must be a king. A jerking shadow climbed the wall. The violinist. Her eyes shut and her smile still present, still quiet. “It’s so loud,” I said. “Here we go,” said Charthouse. He offered me a brown cigarette. “House blend,” he said. “Oh man, what a good idea,” I said. He offered me a lit match. “Wellington,” I said around the cigarette. “There you go, Mike,” said Charthouse.

  The Christmas lights strung up all over the place began to pulse, brighten and dim. “Are you guys getting power surges,” I said. “Yes, exactly,” said Vincent. Charthouse ignored this exchange. The violin music broke off. “Now it’s so quiet,” I said. “You have a lot of observations to offer,” said Charthouse, “about the obvious. Not that I object. The obvious is where you have to begin.” The sound of his voice almost knocked me to my knees. Vincent asked Hob whether he thought this would end well. I had to cover one ear. I had my whiskey in my other hand. Bone-bred guest behavior. Can’t just drop a glass. “It’s all right, Mike, we’re getting there,” said Charthouse. “Did you poison me,” I said, “strychnine makes you hypersensitive to stimuli.” The words boomed in my own head. “We don’t have any strychnine,” said Charthouse. “I saw that in a movie,” I said.

  The violin player strutted over to us, swinging her instrument by its neck. I took another swig and found that my cup was empty. Hob refilled it. I didn’t actually want any more, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no, and Charthouse kept asking me questions. He wanted to know how much I knew about theurgists, and I told him I had no idea at all. Did I know what they were. No. Had I heard the term before. No. Was I in their service. No. “You make it sound,” I said, and my voice was slow and slurred, “as though it’s a bad thing, and if I were, I don’t think I’d necessarily admit it, you know?” The violin player snorted at this. She had a vine tattooed on her neck. It disappeared beneath her yellow shirt. “Astute,” said Vincent. Pain lanced through my head. Charthouse didn’t pay any attention. He stared at me and beat his palm with the silver head of the cane. Even that was amplified: pounding on a wall. I heard another plink. Rain hitting a lake. I looked. Another drop of blood fell from my nose, into my goblet of whiskey. It spread. The first one was mostly dissipated. “I think,” I said. Gave up.

  “You ever read Flannery O’Connor,” said Charthouse. I managed to tell him I hadn’t. “You go to a Catholic school and she was a Catholic writer. You’d think they’d make the connection.” More blood warmed my upper lip. I told him I had no idea why they failed to. “Well, thing is, she had a story. Called ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find’? And at the end, not to give it away, but at the end one of the characters says about this old lady, ‘She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.’ You understand what I’m getting at?” I told him I didn’t. “Well, maybe you will, yet,” he said. I was about to ask him what the hell he meant. Metal scraped my temple. Cold and hard. A thin, warm, hard forearm crossed my throat. I knew it was the violinist before she even said, “Don’t bleed on my arm.”

  She had a napkin in the hand at the end of the arm across my neck. I took it, pressed it to my nostrils. “You’re set now,” she said, “just don’t do anything ridiculous.” No one had ever pulled a gun on me before. They say it can happen to anybody. I’d known kids who’d gotten mugged, for example. Part of city life. Or there was a woman, a few years ago, who tried to make a smart remark when a young sociopath pulled a gun on her. “What are you going to do, shoot me,” she asked. He obliged. They called it a tragedy but I never saw it that way myself. You ask for punishment and the universe obliges. Standing there in that sweet-smelling cavern, breathing hard, I blamed myself. You would have too if you’d been there and had any sense. “I don’t have any money,” I said. “I mean I don’t and my parents don’t. I mean they have plenty but you can ransom me and it won’t do you any good. You won’t end up with anything worth your trouble.” That’s what I tried to say. I figured I might as well let them know, in case they had a fancy plan cooked up. My tongue kept slipping and floundering, adhering to my palate. I kept having to start over. The appeal got less sharp each time. An argument for keeping your mouth shut. So I gave up talking. If these people were going to kill me, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, and I relaxed against the violin player. Her skin gave off heat through her tee shirt. I couldn’t remember what color it was. Yellow, I thought. I could feel her breasts against my back and the barrel of her gun against my temple. At least it isn’t drowning, I thought, nothing could be worse than drowning. Charthouse grinned at me, right then. He whipped around and started to whistle. A brief song. It repeated. I believed I knew the words. I couldn’t summon them up. He reached out and placed the hot, dry palm of his hand, the scarred palm, against my forehead. As his hand approached my head, a blue thread of light leaped from his palm. A strong, curt sting on my skin. A pop of static electricity. No other way to say it: pure darkness, rushing in.

  5

  I’ve never liked sleeping. This was worse. No dreams, no relief. Just darkness. Anesthesia. Lost time, nothing more. When I woke up, I was ascending. Cold air. A single car horn. Near my head a motor unspooled a grinding whine. Yellow light flooded my eyes. I could see the back of Charthouse’s gray-sprinkled hair. He was still whistling. Flute-toned and clear. Vincent leaned against metal bars. Shadows striping his lean face. “Good morning,” he said. We were in a cage. Going up. Hob stood next to me. The white bulb of his nose moved in and out of my peripheral vision. I hoped he felt guilty. I hardly knew him and here he was accompanying me to my death. Truth is, it was funny. That might have been the whiskey, though, improving my sense of humor. “Hob,” I said.

  Speaking hurt my throat. My voice came out sandpapered. I touched my upper lip. The bleeding had stopped. Drying blood made the skin tacky. The violin player was even-tempered. She didn’t pull the trigger. She tapped my temple with the barrel. That’s all. “Breathe,” she said, “just take a deep breath.” Her lips almost brushed my ear. Her skin or her soap smelled like grass, new grass in spring. “What did he do,” I said, “to knock me out.” “I don’t think you’re allowed to know yet,” said Vincent. Charthouse said: “Don’t be coy. We have to attend to our affairs.” The violinist laughed. So I laughed again. I kept my footing. “That’s better,” said the violinist. Up we rose. Outside and inside at the same time. Wind biting and the sky as usual empty of stars. They say the light from the city obscures them. I wouldn’t know. Floor after floor of nothing: bare I-beams, drywall, windows without glass. Junk and clutter. You have to expect them when you build. Accidents, too. Deaths, missing limbs. No way around it. A construction site. We were going up in one of those cage elevators. Charthouse whistled his tune. “What’s that song,” I said. “I like the air tonight,” he said, “and I like the odds, too.” I preferred the whistling. The light from the lamps, also caged, on each floor we passed poured in. Charthouse’s whistling got louder and harder. Nobody else made a sound. Except me. “Where did you learn how to drive one of these,” I said, “I mean operate.” “It’s not a fighter jet precisely,” said Charthouse, “but I’m glad to see your natural curiosity’s still aflame.”

  We went up and up. Had always been ascending and would always be, I thought. I started saying Ave Marias. Quiet but still out loud. Hob turned to stare. “Gratia plena,” I said. “It’s not that bad,” he said. The girl behind me. I didn’t know whether to think girl or woman. Couldn’t tell her age. I was still half-blind. I was weak voiced and addled. Yet I pondered how to impress her. You can’t escape your urges. Charthouse kept whistling his song. I guessed at words between prayers. He tapped time on the bars of the elevator cage. The badger’s eyes caught lamplight. The wind was blowing through our cage, making it dance. I caught a whiff of ozone. A high-voiced dog in one of the buildings near us howled. “Natives are restless,” said Charthouse. “We’re the natives,” said th
e violinist. “You have,” said Charthouse, “the majority opinion against you on that question.” We came to a halt, the winch above us whining and going dead quiet. The cage swung and creaked. I prayed more. “Gentlemen’s apparel,” said Vincent. He opened the cage door. Charthouse’s cane boomed against whatever thin surface we were walking on. Wood, I thought. That’s my name, I thought. He kept whistling. My head half-clear. My body shaking from the cold or the drink. “His heart’s pounding,” announced the violinist. “Where are we going,” I asked. Didn’t work any better. “Now, what kind of second-rate question is that,” said Charthouse. We passed between two sheaves of rebar. “Crow,” said Hob. The clatter of wings. A black flash. He was right: one crow. “Keep moving,” said the violinist, “you’re obsessed.” I didn’t disagree. “Shouldn’t be up here, though, this late. Should be asleep. Birds sleep at night. That’s a fact,” said Charthouse. “Look, are we going to suffer or act,” said the violinist. “As I said, the natives are restless,” said Charthouse. He stopped his strong hobble. He smelled like an overheated engine. Not bad but not what you expect from a human. My captors spread out. Vincent scratched his left ear. His cuticle torn. I was sure I was going to die. Thus the detail. When your life seems poised to end, you remember things. This I know from experience. The violin player chivvied me forward.