Short Fiction

Untangled

c. 2002

The mannequin hung with a noose around its neck from the massive poplar tree that adorned the front entrance area of Settler High School. It was mid-autumn and the leaves of the poplar were transitioning into their auburn, lichen, and clementine hues. The heritage tree, which locals estimated to be nearly 200 years old, imparted a touch of historical pertinence to the facility. The tree was rooted on a small hill. Not much fuss was made over it, yet no one had ever carved their initials on its vulnerable bark or mistreated it in any way. Throughout the year students would sit on the grassy lawn that surrounded the poplar. Some kids would lean back and relax on its solid trunk.

On that brisk Monday morning, students arriving on campus didn’t make it inside the building. The physical manifestation of a faux public execution quickly drew hundreds whose reactions ranged from sudden uncontrollable weeping, palpitations, and revulsion over the detestable act. Discriminatory practices were still an issue in New Mill City, but the current population had grown up in a much more culturally diverse environment than previous generations. Bullies and cliques existed, but racist views had not taken hold or gained proponents among the majority of the student body.

Someone had gone through the trouble of spray painting a light-colored mannequin. It was now brownish. A scarf had been wrapped around its head and its body was covered in a white nightgown. Across its chest, suspended from its neck with black wire, rested a sizeable cardboard sign. The words: “NO MUSLIM TERRORISTS ON FOOTBALL TEAM!! had been written on it with a red marker. Three members of the football team made their way through the crowd to get a closer look. Linebacker Lloyd Underhill was appalled. “Who would do some heinous shit like this?” he fumed. Nick Rostov, an imposing strong safety, threatened, “They better pray I don’t get my hands on ‘em. They’ll regret the day they thought of doing this.” Wide receiver Kyle Ortiz expressed concern, “Has anyone seen Raj? This was obviously meant for him.”

Lloyd went to find other players and returned with some more of his teammates, including center Rajiv Nandi. Kyle and Nick exchanged ritual handshakes and half-hugs with them. They quietly stared at the odious effigy. Their silence spread; the intense conversations and posturing subsided. For those who didn’t initially understand the reason behind the act, seeing Raj walk right up to the lifeless mannequin, while his teammates looked away, clarified any bafflement.

“You gotta be kidding me. I’m not even Muslim. My family’s Hindu,” Raj said matter-of-factly.
Santos McNolan, the quarterback, fervently spoke, “You don’t have to explain yourself to anybody. You’re one of us, a Yeoman.”
“That’s right!” several Yeomen concurred.
Raj turned around dismissively, “I’m not gonna lose sleep over this nonsense.”
Kyle felt the need for some sort of closure. “Should we take it down and trash it?” he asked anxiously.
Stephanie Xiang, assistant editor of the school paper, assertively stated, “This is the scene of a crime. That mannequin is the main piece of evidence. I advise no one tamper with it.”
Nick agreed, “She’s right. They might send a CSI team to investigate.”
“I think they do that for murders, not for something like this,” Kyle remarked.
Stephanie insisted that no one touch it, “This is very serious. This is technically a hate crime. It’s crucial that we prevent the site from being contaminated.”
They thought about what Stephanie said and decided against removing the plastic cadaver.

The staff parking lot was in the back of the school. Mrs. Chisolm, a social studies teacher, was the first adult to make it out to the front. “In all my years, I never thought I’d see this happen in New Mill. One of my uncles was lynched in South Dixie. In that era lynching was a national pastime and killing Black folks was practically legal.”
The students’ eyes widened, disconcerted by Mrs. Chisolm’s recollection.
“Has anyone called the authorities,” she asked assessing the scene.
Those within earshot informed her they hadn’t. Mrs. Chisolm used her cell phone to dial 911.

A couple of minutes later the head football coach joined them. Coach Henry had only to glance at the macabre figure to fully comprehend its significance.
“How you boys doing?”
“Extremely angry,” “This is sickening,” “I can’t wait to catch the lowlife who did this,” were among the replies.
He put his hand on Raj’s shoulder, “You okay, son?”
“Never been better coach.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Chisolm.”
“Good Morning, Coach Henry. I called the police. They should be here soon.”

Santos seemed to be debating with himself. He wanted to make a statement. “Is it alright if I say a few words?” his focus mainly on Raj.
“Of course,” Raj replied. His other teammates also supported the idea.

Santos positioned himself on the small hill below the poplar’s canopy, just high enough to get a view of the large crowd. He took a deep breath then projected his voice, “Can everybody here me?” There was a resounding acknowledgement. “I want to make it clear that the Yeomen denounce this disgusting act and I’m certain all of you feel the same way.”

A rising echo of applause combined with cheers and whistles of varying volumes engulfed the campus. Once it ebbed Santos resumed, “Whoever did this didn’t realize that any attack on a fellow settler is an attack on all of us.” A second round of approbation ensued. Santos waited for the clamor to lessen. “Our community will not be divided by racist beliefs. We will continue to strive for freedom and equality. Thank you.”

In response, countless youth, including athletes, activists, artists, stoners, and fledgling politicians, embraced one another. The smells of hair gels, colognes, perfumes, cigarette and cannabis smoke residue, deodorants, and moisturizers merged with the adolescent longing for affection and acceptance. For some, the rare sensation of human warmth was both overwhelming and elating.

Raj stood before the revered poplar, uttering to no one in particular, “This tree deserves our utmost respect. It’s the type of tree the Buddha would have sat under to meditate.”

Without hesitation, he leaped in an attempt to grab the mannequin’s legs. Kyle followed his lead. They were having trouble reaching the stiff limbs. Dante Sanders, defensive tackle and the tallest player, directed Raj to stand on his shoulders. “Try loosening the rope instead,” Nick suggested while Kyle and Lloyd helped Raj stabilize himself. Their classmates stared without making a commotion. Coach Henry and Mrs. Chisolm told them to be careful. Raj managed to undo the noose without much difficulty. He let the clothing store window prop drop, then jumped down.

At that moment police officers were fast approaching, and the throng of spectators began to disperse. The mock corpse lay prostrate on the ground. Raj announced, “Hey, I think I found a date for the prom,” the momentary laughter tacitly augmenting the severity of the situation. Far more than anger or umbrage, a gnawing concern for his six-year-old brother and his parents enveloped him. They could easily be harmed by the type of people who took it upon themselves to exact revenge on anyone who fit the description of an enemy.






Anachronists

Loud music filled the room, making it hard to hear anything else. Doug was attempting to ask the young woman if she had a request. She just waved politely and resumed the sonorous conversation with her friends. He considered going over to her to ask again but chose not to disrupt the revelry at her table.

Rudy’s was the only bar in the city that still had a jukebox. Doug would show up every Friday after work. He enjoyed staring at the rotating 7” records through the machine’s display glass. It fascinated him how they were individually lifted then dropped onto the turntable where the needle-tipped arm surgically eased down on the outer edge of each 45 and reawakened, with the slightest static, some of the greatest songs ever conceived.

Rudy had compiled an assortment of rare gems, music to dance to or just talk by. The collection encompassed many genres, like Northern Soul, Roots Reggae, Garage Rock, and Electric Blues, among others. The eclectic tunes exhilarated Doug. The old jukebox drew other patrons who were eager to drop good money to hear those coveted vinyl singles. The place would get crowded, as the drinks were cheap considering its mid-town location.

Doug became acquainted with a couple of guys, Manny and Leo. Manny was a tin knocker. He’d been in the Sheet Metal Workers Union for over a decade and although he loved his trade, he wasn’t keen on hitting up strip bars with his co-workers at the end of the week. The thought of his wife going off with her colleagues to stuff dollar bills down men’s pants in rowdy establishments made him averse to the idea of partaking in such testosterone fueled activities. Not to mention that the playlist in those types of venues were jarring to his refined ears. At Rudy’s he could chill without having to feign machismo and he was grateful for the friendship he’d developed with Leo and Doug.

Leo worked for the Transit Authority. He’d paid his dues by working the graveyard shift for 5 years, including weekends. He joked that his kids hadn’t met him yet. Working down in the subway tunnels had altered his senses. His hearing had adjusted to the sound of shrieking subway trains several stations away and scurrying rats the size of French Bulldogs. After a while Leo could walk around his entire house in the dark and see things as if the lights were on. The smells of the earthen substratum heightened his olfaction. When his shift was over, he would emerge from the arterial hollows onto the urban morning air and the teeming odors of the grimy metropolis stunned his nostrils.

They shared a love for underground music and affordable beer, eager to lose themselves in the untamed acoustics of that analog sanctuary. Some songs would get them going. A favorite of theirs was a Blues Rock number from 1965. They’d huddle around the beat and sing in unsynchronized volumes. “You better stop tellin’ those lies, gonna cut you down to my size, you got one, you got two, brown eyes, hypnotize, hypnotize!”

Rudy’s son had recently taken over the business and didn’t hesitate to install a large television. Doug felt it compromised the ambiance. The muted games flashing in the background annoyed him. He despised sports bars because of their alienating atmosphere and distracting screens.

He missed work one Friday and wasn’t able to partake in his weekly ritual for the first time since he started going to the bar. His grandmother wasn’t feeling well, and he was her caregiver. She called him Thursday night because she’d been experiencing dizziness. He took a sick day and spent the weekend helping her. Her low blood pressure was normalized at the hospital and she was out by Saturday morning. He got her settled back into her apartment, began preparing a light meal for her and put the kettle on. She was sitting in her recliner where he brought her a cup of ginger tea.

She looked at him pensively, “What would I do without you?”
“I’m glad you called me immediately, instead of trying to medicate yourself like you did last time.”
“I just don’t want to be bothering you with every little thing.”
“What are you talking about, you’re the only family I’ve ever had. I owe everything to you. I don’t want you to ever think like that.”
“If my little girl could’ve seen what a kind man you grew up to be, she would have been so proud.”
“Thanks, Grandma… Drink your tea, it’s just the right temperature,” he told her as he held her hand.

The following week Doug couldn’t wait to go hang out at the old juke joint and buy a few rounds for the fellas. He was an actuary at Furlough & Daughters for “too long,” as he’d tell anyone who bothered to ask. The firm was wedged between the 15th and 17th floors of a brutalist era building in which none of the windows offered eye level views to the outside since they had been installed along the ceiling edges. If its purpose was to serve as a stone barricade between the streets and the labor force within, it proved quite effective. Nothing about the interior ever elicited reflective or contemplative observations from the employees. No effort was made to improve the stolid atmosphere. Random cubicles were slightly adorned, but they resembled trinkets amidst ascetic confines.

The offices tended to clear out early on Fridays. Doug finished up a few minor assignments. He left around 6:30 pm, hailed a cab and was across town in fifteen minutes. The traffic had been favorable. He’d sung in a low voice, “Oh, the church bell tollin’, the hearse come driving slow, I hope my baby don’t leave me no more,” tapping on the car door rhythmically during the brief ride, thinking of Sherryl.

He’d changed his mind a few months before she left New York, choosing not to move with her to Osaka where she’d be studying for four years. He recalled the last time they spoke when she’d told him, “I tried my best to gain your trust, but you’d rather stay stuck in your routine existence. I have to prioritize my future. Please don’t contact me again.” Her words resonated in stereo.

He walked into the bar calmly and upbeat, but didn’t see Manny, Leo or any of the other folks he knew. He did a triple take. The corner, where the vintage Harting should have been, was defaced with brand new tall stools and pub tables. He looked around but didn’t see it anywhere. His heart was beating oddly. Sadness enveloped him. He composed himself as best he could and went over to speak to the bartender whom he assumed was a new hire as he’d never seen him before.

Doug politely addressed him. “Excuse me, sir.”

The bartender replied in a friendly tone. “How can I help you?”

“What happened to the M2000?”

“The what?”

“The Harting… The Jukebox?”

“Oh, the jukebox, you had me confused there for a minute. Yeah, the owner got rid of it a few days ago. A lot of the regulars are pissed, but we’ve been getting a lot more customers in here lately and we needed the extra space. Besides, we have this now.” The bartender pulled out a wallet size MP3 player from a wall shelf. “You can put 5,000 songs in here, no maintenance required,” he said matter-of-factly.

Doug remained silent, unable to respond. He walked out, stood motionless in the middle of the sidewalk for several minutes, took in the torrent of noises then merged with the streams of pedestrians. A medley of melodies swirled in his mind as he headed south with no particular destination.