Average Joe Read online

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Peter Sargent

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Average Joe

  “You would’ve been my last choice, but I hope that you’ll live up to the occasion.”

  Mr. Noyes used to be Hal’s eleventh grade English teacher, but on that night in the hospital he was a broken codger in a charcoal suit. Hal had found his daughter, Jenny Noyes, wandering in a snow storm and now she was comatose in the hospital bed. Mr. N used to make Hal shrink. Noyes had once received probation on charges of assault on a minor (which never went to court) and the kids used to say he kept a shotgun and a sledgehammer in the back of his jack shit LTD wagon. At first Hal shirked telling the man the whole story about how his daughter ended up here, but these days he wasn’t so timid.

  Hal glanced at Jenny, as if she could help him tell this part of the story.

  He said, “I didn’t know it was her when she called me. It’s been a while.”

  “She was disoriented.” said Mr. N, “She pulled you out of a deck of cards.”

  “I drove up 37 out of Bloomington, toward the hole. There’s no light in the fields and I nearly ran her over.” Hal glanced out the window, where snowflakes darted in and out of orange orbs under the street lamps. “She wore only a tee shirt and shorts. I saw her legs glowing in my headlights and I slammed the brakes. She was holding a big envelope as if she expected someone to steal it. I don’t think she even noticed the cold.”

  Hal omitted the part about how the trip to the hospital left him with an empty gas tank and not a buck to fill it. And that wasn’t as bad as the migraines pummeling his head because he hadn’t had a smoke in two days. He’d have to let them impound his car. Then he’d take a bus and bum a smoke off someone. The last thing he was going to do was borrow money from Noyes, who’d once verbally disemboweled him for failing to understand the finer points of An American Tragedy.

  Mr. N said, “What was in the package?”

  “I don’t know. The hospital has it, if you want.”

  “You didn’t peek?” He was disappointed.

  “It must be her work from the hole. I wouldn’t have made heads or tails.”

  Hal almost stopped there, but then Mr. N stared him down. He knew. This hood-eyed vulture from Hal’s spineless adolescence was hoping to weasel some kind of confession, but Hal was feeling less and less sorry for himself every day.

  He said, “I’m an unemployed engineer. I thought I was smart once, but now I know I’m not. The point is - I’m not a real scientist.” He looked at the bed. “Not like Jenny.”

  “Maybe if you were you would’ve ended up like her.” said Noyes. “And maybe Jenny thought you were and that you’d understand what was happening to her.”

  The old man looked at the floor for a long time.

  Then Noyes said, “Her mother and I never understood her when it came to normal girl stuff, let alone what goes on in the hole.”

  * * * *

  Hal dozed in the lobby, but the banging in his head made restfulness elusive. Then there was that news feed talking to itself on the wall screen. The Hollow Orphans, as they called themselves, were on a rip. They’d entered school after the National School Board built its orphanages, thus controlling the Orphans’ academic and domestic lives. Rumor has it that the experiment was a disaster. If the burning cars on the news were any indication of the Orphans’ state of mind, Hal had to agree that their brains were deep fried.

  Hal shifted his weight from one side of the plastic bucket chair to the other, and then stood and stretched. He retrieved his wallet and rifled through the receipts and folded over sticky notes. There were more of those than cash, and the plastic was just as useless. He found a tattered index card cut into a one-by-two inch rectangle. Parallel blue lines covered one side and on the other was the calling card he’d made when he was eight. It read “Henry J Tarrow” along the top. Under that were a big red star and the word “Inventor”. He used to present it to adults, announcing that “my name is Henry J Tarrow, Ineventor.”

  He faced the hospital windows, where people and taxis shoved through the night. This was a long way from the riots in LA and Atlanta. A long way from nowhere. He saw Noyes’ reflection approach him and Hal stuck the business card and worthless wallet back in his pocket. He turned around and Mr. N offered him a coke and a bag of chips.

  They sat across from each other and Noyes pulled a letter sized envelope from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He handed it to Hal.

  Noyes said, “Jenny’s mother and I know that she’s not well.”

  Hal thought, look in the mirror for your answers, sweet thing.

  Mr. N went on, “She won’t listen to us. Maybe she’ll listen to you. She called you and not us and that’s all I can say. She’s got the hole on her brain and she picked you to help her out of it.”

  The hole, also called the fifty-fifty, was a super colliding superconductor with Department of Energy funding and Indiana University management. It was a massive ring dug under the soybeans fields that stretched beyond Bloomington’s gentle hills. It was fifty kilometers in circumference and capable of beams of fifty TeV. It was Jenny’s job and one thing that Hal didn’t tell Mr. N was that he’d been following her work since the hole had opened up. Hal was fascinated by this monstrous atom smasher breathing beneath his feet, but Jenny was a junior researcher and therefore not one to merit his devotion based on her scientific output alone.

  Noyes said, “I don’t understand what happens down there, but I’m certain it’s boggled her brains. Last week she called, babbling about a solution she’d found to some big problem. I’m no more a scientist than you, so I’m not going to say it was all bunkum. But one sentence ended halfway through and smacked into another that had begun somewhere else. The rest was lost in her head. It doesn’t matter if each phrase was a part of something more rational; her story was little more than gibberish. The hole did that to her.”

  Hal’s head told him that Mr. N’s theory was a lot of roaring nonsense. The man was a father worried about his daughter and therefore ready to believe any idiotic scrim his mind wove, so long as it consoled him. Jenny was sick, but it wasn’t from vicious radiation from the fifty-fifty.

  Hal said, “Have you met any of the other scientists? Do they show signs?”

  “There was always something wrong with Jenny, this just pushed her over the edge. Open the envelope.”

  The envelope contained a stack of Franklins, maybe fifty or so. This was good. Hal had been working up a plan to put his life back together. He had a business idea; all he needed was seed money (not to mention cash for gas and nico nails).

  Noyes stood and said, “You used to have a crush on Jenny. I know. And she chose you.”

  Stop saying that dammit, thought Hal.

  Mr. N put a heavy hand on Hal’s shoulder and said, “When she wakes up, take her as far away from the here as you can. Do what it takes. What you’re holding is just a deposit. What I have to give you is all that I have left. That’s what this means to me.”

  Hal nodded. Who was he to argue with some lunatic, so long as the man paid in cash?

  Noyes said, “I’ve done my homework. I know why you aren’t likely to land another job that’s not behind a dr
ive-through window. And I’ve got a feeling what might happen to you if the true circumstances of your termination got loose. So if my money and your affection for my daughter aren’t enough to compel you to do the right thing, I hope that the secret that you and I share is.”

  “I’ll do it. Really, I will.”

  “Call me when she wakes and I’ll instruct you.”

  He walked toward the carousel door and pulled his coat tight around him. Charcoal colored legs stuck out beneath the hem. Hal watched him on the other side of the glass as he checked for tickets on the windshield of his LTD wagon before climbing inside.

  Damn, thought Hal, that thing’s still running?

  * * * *

  “Where are you?” she repeated. “You’re not at home.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” said Hal. “My friend’s in the hospital.”

  A sigh hissed through the phone. He paced across the stairwell landing.

  Hal said, “I’m at Kennedy Carter.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Meet me in the lobby. You can’t blow me off; you are mandated by law to make your appointments. Is that clear to you?”

  Hal ended the call. He placed his palms and forehead against the concrete wall. He drew long breaths and counted, just like the woman on the phone had once told him. Then he cocked his fist and slammed it into the wall. He did this until a little blood crept around his knuckles, and his tiny tantrum receded. He shoved his hands in his pockets and returned to Jenny’s ward.

  A woman at the desk informed him that Jenny had regained consciousness for a moment and instructed them to get her working papers. She led him to the locker room where he’d put the huge envelope which he’d found Jenny with. The receptionist left him alone. Despite what he’d told Noyes, Hal had rifled through the items while Jenny was passed out in his car. He knew what he was looking for, but he hadn’t had much time then. Hal looked over the pages again and still couldn’t find what he wanted, but he did find something else in the envelope. It wasn’t something he was pleased to see.

  Then the woman from the desk returned to say that Jenny was awake and – to everyone’s shock – out of bed.

  * * * *

  Hal found Jenny sitting up, her legs dangling off the bed. She wore jeans and a turtleneck. When she saw him, she held out her arms the way a toddler says “gimme”. He offered her the envelope. She took it and dropped it, spilling its contents on the floor. She jumped down and rescued a small plastic tube and spun the cap. Inside was a needle. She pricked a vessel in her arm and pressed the plunger. Hal leaned over and plucked it offer her skin the way he might yank a weed. She winced.

  He said, “If you carry this, you must know what’s wrong with you.”

  “Thanks for the clothes.” she said. Her voice was hoarse.

  “Your father brought them.”

  Jenny froze. She was stone cold for a moment and the look on her face almost made Hal foul his trousers.

  “He’s gone now.” He offered.

  “Why did you let him in here while I slept? Keep that old boy away from me, Hal.”

  “So you recognize me? What do you want from me?” Hal snatched one of the pages from the floor. It was a hand-drawn map of the hospital. He said, “Is that needle and this paper what I was up all night for? You’re going to find I’m not the kid you knew in high school. I’m not even close – you’ll find out soon enough.

  In twenty minutes, he thought, when Clara Lane shows up. Then we’ll see some excitement.

  Jenny said, “I never thought of you at all, before now. Maybe I did, but I wouldn’t remember. This thing I’ve got chomps holes from my memory. And it makes me a great dancer.” She held her palms up. A thousand tiny fits propelled them in tight rotations. “This is Kingston’s Syndrome.”

  She stole the map from Hal, gathered her other papers and put it all in the envelope. She walked to the doorway and glanced at her roommate. Hal hadn’t paid attention to the teenage girl before now. The skin on her face was gray and shrunken, like papier-mâché draped across a skull. Streaks of blue and green paint circled her boney arms. She was one of the Hollow Orphans. They were known for fits of artistic expression that yielded to psychosis and starvation. When they found others like themselves, that psychosis exploded in the infernos that Hal had seen on TV. When they lived in Bloomington, they settled into uneventful solitude and death.

  Jenny said, “Can you help me with something, Hal? While I’ve got time left?”

  * * * *

  Clara Lane taught Hal to abandon his old self. She didn’t mean to, but she did it anyway. Clara never figured it that way; not that chipper starling.

  She was his court appointed therapist. Before Jenny arrived, Hal had never missed an appointment, because the Judge had spooked him with talk about putting him in a real, eat-you-fresh-from-the-wrapper prison if his missed a date. Hal spent a lot of time sitting in Clara’s waiting room. He kept a radio stuck in his ear, and it was in that room where he’d first heard about the Hollow Orphan riots.

  National Schools was an exercise in social programming. They sponged the Orphans clean of any identity connected to race or class or religion. Hal gave them an “A” for effort, but what did Schools think would happen if a good brain washing left the kids’ noodles clean and empty? Of all the moronic things to do. Haven’t you got to replace the old nonsense with some new kind of nonsense?

  After he’d heard the story, the patient who’d preceded him left Clara’s office. As the other man crossed the room, he stared Hal down. He must’ve been startled to see that the two of them were for all intents the same guy. They wore the same haircut and the same business casual button-up shirt and – this was the worst of it – the same late model phone appendage strapped to their belts – like some kind of pistol. Why wear a phone on your belt when you can fit it in your pants pocket? Because it’s a plastic dick.

  Hal began to wonder if Clara specialized in docile geeks who woke up one day and went berzerkers.

  Hal entered Clara’s cell. The rug was wall to wall and maroon. A luxurious maple book case spread across one wall. Its glass doors were windows into a world of books with unpronounceable titles and knickknacks that looked as though Clara must’ve pinched them from jungle chieftains and tundra shamans the world over. There were pipes and clay idols, sequestered and lined up in tidy, unhappy regiments.

  The two sat eye-to-eye. Hal was shocked to find that Clara was a little pretty. She’d slung one bare leg over the other and rested her hands on her knees. She didn’t have a notebook. She didn’t shake his hand when he entered, but she did flash him a beaming smile. She knew better than to ask how he was or to say that she was glad to see him.

  She said, “Do you mind if we get right to it? Let’s discuss your feelings about your ex-boss.”

  Hal paused. Then he said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I became unemployed. I became an engineer because I liked using science to solve problems. I like designing processes for collecting and coordinating volumes of data. I like the scientific method. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course. Your boss violated your sense of order, didn’t he?”

  “It’s not just my sense of order. It’s not like you get to choose what is and isn’t science, right? And it wasn’t just one thing, it was cumulative.”

  “Would you say that he wore you down, like water torture? I get a lot of men like you.” She almost sang the last part, as if it amused her. “Some lose it. Like you.”

  “Say what you like.” said Hal. “The man was a criminal.”

  “And you’re a vigilante.”

  What a terrible shrink, thought Hal. He said, “It’s not that simple. It’s not illegal to disrespect scientific etiquette, but it’s not honest either.” He was trying his best to avoid specifics, for fear he might reveal too much.

  “I can’t say. I wasn’t there.” Clara shrugged. “What I know is both illegal and unethical is using a shattered coffee pot to gash a man�
��s face.” She paused. “Right?”

  “I’m not saying there wasn’t a better way to deal with it.”

  But for the life of him he couldn’t think of one. “Better” is a relative term. Was there a better way for his ex-boss, a better way to preserve decorum? Sure. But spoiling that man’s face made Hal warm under his solar plexus. Just thinking about it again almost gave him an erection. Hal wasn’t a wall flower who’d discovered his assertive inner voice. He was a shy creep who’d found that hurting people who had it coming gave him feel good. If you’re a freak then goddamit just do it already. That’s what he’d been thinking about while unemployed.

  Clara said, “I can tell you’re a thinker, Hal. You like to organize your world in a logical framework, scaffolding which gives form to everything else.”

  She held her hands in a box shape. Hal knew she was trying to accuse him of something like obsessive compulsiveness. He avoided glancing at her gewgaws in their shatter proof case. You’re a fine one to be mocking me with pantomime scaffolds.

  She continued, “You say you’ve been doing a lot of thinking, which tells me you’ve got some inner compulsion to explain what happens to you. You need a story to rationalize your behavior, so it all sits right in your stomach. What you don’t realize is that your behavior is irrational. For this I have to take a special path, one I don’t take everyone down.”

  She stood and went to the book case. She flung open one of the doors and retrieved an ivory rhino. She came to him and told him to hold his palms together and open. She set the item down on them.

  “This procedure is called associative linguistic reading.”

  “Um?”

  “Look at me, Hal. I’m going to show you they way out of your problems, but if you fight it this will take longer. The law says you’ve got to see me as long as I say so – so what’s it going to be?”

  Hal said, “You can’t call this psychiatry.”

  He closed his fist on the rhino and Clara snatched it from him. She leered over him, the angry little pins of her eyes stuck on his face. A strand of hair shook loose and tickled her nose. Hal thought that life was unfair. The law locked him alone in a room with a pretty young thing – and for every Wednesday from now until she got bored – and she got to be this kind of crispy puff?