Black
Shawn found himself
attracting odd people. First was the wiry black guy by the apartment dumpster,
who decided he had to give him a full account of his morning discoveries.
(“See? You glue that earpiece on and these here, they work just fine!”) Within
a block, two different men asked him for cigarettes, then a Chinese lady asked
him for directions, outlining the address on her hand.
The prize character came at a Starbucks near UW-Tacoma: a
large, athletic man of 35 who sat reading a textbook. He wore a black biker
vest outlined in squares of silver and turquoise, and a headband of silver
circles over his long, blond hair. He ran a finger over the text and recited
pieces of it in a calm baritone, as if he were giving instructions to a young
dog.
“My words... foment... much danger, remember? I can
shatter your ulcers... assassination... Watch this missile... CIA – I’ve seen
your computers, too... The archangel is circumnavigating... statement... see
how you rebuilt cocaine reduction?... Let me give a warning to all nations: you
do not question God.”
Ah, thought
Shawn. Religion and conspiracy theories:
the principal indicators of mental disease.
“The CIA has cookies!”
Not that Shawn much cared. He had a date. Strolling back
through the grand old buildings of downtown, he began to understand what had
drawn him here. Tacoma was a town with holes to be filled, spaces to be used.
He passed the construction site for the new museum of art, saw a sign for a
proposed shopping center, looked across the water where the Museum of Glass Art
was rising from its foundation. They whole town seemed to be preparing for some
economic messiah, and he was happy to dig out a spot and wait for deliverance.
Shawn climbed Market and passed a vacant bank,
wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from high ceilings, green and blue tiles
trimming the facade. It cried out for a restaurant or night club. He’d open it
himself if he could.
But first, he had a date.
They sat on a velvet bench
in the lobby, sneaking bites of popcorn, waiting for the movie to get out.
Rivulets of rain shifted on the glass as Tacoma answered the obvious question.
“My mom’s first marriage lasted a year – precisely. She
left on their anniversary. When the divorce came through, she took a flight to
Los Angeles, rented a car and drove up the coast. She ran out of land at Cape
Flattery, Washington, where she met my father. He was on a post-divorce getaway
himself, having driven all the way from the south hills of Pittsburgh. Which is
precisely where my mother grew up.
“They figured it was fate. They were wrong. They drove
back to the south hills and got married. When I came along, eight months after
the marriage (I’ll let you figure that one out), they picked a name from the
state where they met. I’m damn lucky they didn’t call me Spokane.”
“Or Federal Way,” said Shawn.
“About a year ago, for lots of reasons I will tell you
later, I decided that it was my turn to flee to the West Coast, and figured,
I’m named after the place – why not go there?”
“Mighty weird,” said Shawn. “But... you don’t give this
lengthy explanation to everyone, do you?”
“Mom and Dad were hippies.”
“That works.”
“Oh, look – movie’s out.” She took Shawn’s hand and led
him into the theater.
The movie was about a children’s board game that kept
whipping up disastrous enchantments: sudden floods, invasions of frogs. Shawn
cringed at the extended screams – Hollywood’s latest overdone gag – but did
enjoy its unusually dark edge. At times, you weren’t even sure if all the
principals would survive. Not that Shawn much cared. He was lost in the
light-fingered dance of Tacoma’s hand in his, the pillow of black curls against
his shoulder.
When Shawn was extremely happy, he tended to ramble. All
the way back to Tacoma’s house, he gave the movie a thorough going-over,
surprised at how much he liked it after the fact. Pulling up to her curb, he
realized he had cowed her into silence.
“You know, it’s all right if you didn’t like it. It ain’t
Casablanca. C’mon, tell me what you
think.”
She smiled sheepishly (come to think of it, she always
smiled sheepishly). “Wull it was entertaining. I thought the actors did a great
job, and the special effects were amazing.”
“Out with it!” said Shawn.
“Okay. It’s just that all that witchcraft bugged me. You
see, I’m a pretty serious Christian, and that stuff kinda creeps me out. It’s
almost like... devil worship.
“Plus, it’s... Something happened to me in Seattle. I
went to a health store up there, in the Fremont district, to get this special
ginseng tea. There was this strange man there, he was sort of... impish. He had
yellow teeth, and you could almost see the horns sprouting from his head. He
got all pissed off at me, for no reason, and I’m convinced he put something
evil in my tea, because for the next two days I couldn’t think straight, like
there was something fogging my thoughts. And I saw... visions. I haven’t been
back to Seattle since, because I’m convinced that impish little man is after
me. Oh, I...”
She could see how hard Shawn was trying to follow her
story.
“I’m sorry.” She let out a nervous laugh. “This is hardly
the thing to talk about on a first date!”
What she didn’t know was that Shawn was fully occupied
watching her lips move, and figuring how he was going to get around to kissing
her.
“Thanks for the movie,” she said. She leaned over and
kissed him on the lips. “Give me a call soon.”
He watched her walk away.
Shawn didn’t feel the
spider-strings of dread until the next day, walking the seawall at Point
Defiance, studying bits of poetry etched into the sidewalk. Then he was back on
Wendy Fisher’s couch, doing the nightly dry-hump while the Rev and his wife snoozed
away upstairs. He reached up the back of Wendy’s blouse and tried to undo her
bra. Wendy grabbed his hand and held it out like a dead rat.
“You just don’t get it, do you, Shawn? Sex is not a
plaything. It is a holy sacrament. God does not intend for us to partake of it
until we are married. So stop it!”
Shawn had suffered two years of this treatment, in the
hopes that one day Wendy’s constant horniness would drive her over the edge.
But that night, the final tumbler clicked into place and he could see the
Christian trap for what it was. He shot up from the couch, his penis still
tenting his jeans.
“Fuck your god, Wendy! Your god pumped you so full of
chemicals you’re down here every night using me like some fucking human
trampoline. And then he tells you you’re evil for doing it. Your god is a
pansy-ass pricktease, Wendy, and so are you! I’m leaving.”
Wendy’s shock turned quickly to sobbing, and for all the
wrong reasons. She was petrified that her parents had heard Shawn’s tirade,
that her evil urges would finally be found out. But her parents were engaged in
boisterous canine sex, and wouldn’t have noticed if Billy Graham walked in for
a personal sermon.
Wendy also didn’t know that Shawn wasn’t just leaving
her. He was leaving Ellensburg.
“Centaur Systems.”
“Hi Tacoma.”
“Well hi.” Tacoma’s business voice melted like butter.
“How are you today?”
“I... um, I wanted to tell you something. I was thinking
about what you said last night, and I thought it only fair to tell you: I’m not
a Christian. I thought I should tell you right away, because I thought maybe
you might be looking for a Christian guy.”
Shawn had bolstered himself for any number of hurt
responses, but not for what he got: the kind of lilting sigh one emits at the
sight of a cute puppy-dog.
“Oh, that is so sweet! That is so considerate. But no,
it’s okay, really. I’m not necessarily... exclusive that way.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So were you calling just for that, or were you going to
ask me out?”
“Oh, um – sure! What would you like to do?”
“How about a drive? I’ve been dying to see Port
Townsend.”
They talked for another half-hour, about whatever they
could think of, completely distracting Tacoma from her Saturday work session.
After a dozen variations on “Goodbye” and “See you soon,” Shawn hung up,
thinking, There you go. I’ve gone and
become infallible.
Photo by MJV
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