Chapter 8
Jessica gaped, "Harold??" Harold smiled,
"hi Jessica...I'm assuming you are probably surprised."
"to say the least," Jessica responded, "you're not really..."
"handicapped? Far from it. I want to help you. Be a part of the Human Underground, as it were. Defend our mother Earth from the Yeerks."
"How do you know about the yeerks?" Nathaniel asked, sounding suspicious.
"What the deaf man heard," Harold said, "what the blind man saw. What he with no memory remembers."
"You'd be surprised..." Jessica began, mystified, "...what people would say around you when they think you're really stupid."
"You really need to stop watching Disturbing Behavior," I said, giving her a look, "but you do have a point, Harold obviously has been eavesdropping on the right people. However, my question is...why have you been pretending to be handicapped?"
"My father was in Vietnam. He was drafted. When he got back, as my mother said, because I wasn't born yet, he wasn't the same. He was paranoid. Ruined by war. After I was born, he kept saying that when, not if, but when America went back into war, if I was 18, I would have to be drafted. But I knew the loopholes. Such as mental deficiency. Obviously, a mentally handicapped person wouldn't be able to fight. So I faked a head injury, and I've been playing the fool all along."
"So you did this to get out of war?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"Then why..." I began, "...do you want to join us?"
"I don't want to be forced into a war where I would have to kill my fellow human beings just because gas prices are too high. This is my choice. And it's for a good cause. I'm fighting for humanity. I'm fighting against tyrrany and oppression and slavery. I'm fighting to save my friends and family, my loved ones. I want to join you." I looked around at the rest of the group. They didn't offer anything helpful.
"How do we know you're not a controller?" I asked.
"What use would the yeerks have for a mental defective?" He responded rhetorically.
"What can you do?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "I'm an actor, I can mimic anybody's voice. And not just the voice, but their sentence structure, pronunciation...everything about how they speak. I have a photographic memory and an eye for intricate details."
"An eye for details?" Marcia said, "what does that mean?" Harold simply glanced at her, walked in a circle around her, looking her up and down, once.
"You're name is Marcia Kim," he said, "you come from a traditional Japanese family. You engage in regular, intense martial arts workouts. You have two cats and one dog, you have a baby either living with you or visiting often, you've been contacted by a modeling agency, you're a literary person and you sleep with a feather pillow."
"That is unbelievable," she said, eyes wide with surprise, "how do you know all that about me, may I ask?"
"You're last name is printed on the back of your t-shirt, and your first name is on the keychain you've been fiddling with. You're wearing sandals, and your painted toenails indicate that you wear sandals often. Something easy to get on and off, to take off and put beside the front door, an old Japanese tradition. At first glance you don't appear any different from an average girl your age and height, but closer inspection would reveal perfectly toned muscles, a trait common to martial artists. Anybody who has ever had pets knows that it is impossible to get the hair completely off your clothes. And they also know that there is a distinct difference between cat hair and dog hair. You have both on your shirt, black and orange cat hair, and there are no breeds of house cats that are colored black and orange, that means you have a black cat and an orange cat. You only have one type of dog hair. The stain on your jeans is a mixture of strained peas and carrots, that is, baby food. There is a business card poking out of your back pocket for a modeling agency, right in front of a bookmark. And," he reached up and plucked something from her hair, "this feather is the type used in feather pillows."
"Okay," I said, "I'm impressed."
"So am I," Marcia smiled.
"So am I," Harold said, looking her up and down once more.
"Well," I said, "who votes to have him aboard?" Nine hands went up, "it's unanimous," I said, "you're in."
Jessica gaped, "Harold??" Harold smiled,
"hi Jessica...I'm assuming you are probably surprised."
"to say the least," Jessica responded, "you're not really..."
"handicapped? Far from it. I want to help you. Be a part of the Human Underground, as it were. Defend our mother Earth from the Yeerks."
"How do you know about the yeerks?" Nathaniel asked, sounding suspicious.
"What the deaf man heard," Harold said, "what the blind man saw. What he with no memory remembers."
"You'd be surprised..." Jessica began, mystified, "...what people would say around you when they think you're really stupid."
"You really need to stop watching Disturbing Behavior," I said, giving her a look, "but you do have a point, Harold obviously has been eavesdropping on the right people. However, my question is...why have you been pretending to be handicapped?"
"My father was in Vietnam. He was drafted. When he got back, as my mother said, because I wasn't born yet, he wasn't the same. He was paranoid. Ruined by war. After I was born, he kept saying that when, not if, but when America went back into war, if I was 18, I would have to be drafted. But I knew the loopholes. Such as mental deficiency. Obviously, a mentally handicapped person wouldn't be able to fight. So I faked a head injury, and I've been playing the fool all along."
"So you did this to get out of war?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"Then why..." I began, "...do you want to join us?"
"I don't want to be forced into a war where I would have to kill my fellow human beings just because gas prices are too high. This is my choice. And it's for a good cause. I'm fighting for humanity. I'm fighting against tyrrany and oppression and slavery. I'm fighting to save my friends and family, my loved ones. I want to join you." I looked around at the rest of the group. They didn't offer anything helpful.
"How do we know you're not a controller?" I asked.
"What use would the yeerks have for a mental defective?" He responded rhetorically.
"What can you do?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "I'm an actor, I can mimic anybody's voice. And not just the voice, but their sentence structure, pronunciation...everything about how they speak. I have a photographic memory and an eye for intricate details."
"An eye for details?" Marcia said, "what does that mean?" Harold simply glanced at her, walked in a circle around her, looking her up and down, once.
"You're name is Marcia Kim," he said, "you come from a traditional Japanese family. You engage in regular, intense martial arts workouts. You have two cats and one dog, you have a baby either living with you or visiting often, you've been contacted by a modeling agency, you're a literary person and you sleep with a feather pillow."
"That is unbelievable," she said, eyes wide with surprise, "how do you know all that about me, may I ask?"
"You're last name is printed on the back of your t-shirt, and your first name is on the keychain you've been fiddling with. You're wearing sandals, and your painted toenails indicate that you wear sandals often. Something easy to get on and off, to take off and put beside the front door, an old Japanese tradition. At first glance you don't appear any different from an average girl your age and height, but closer inspection would reveal perfectly toned muscles, a trait common to martial artists. Anybody who has ever had pets knows that it is impossible to get the hair completely off your clothes. And they also know that there is a distinct difference between cat hair and dog hair. You have both on your shirt, black and orange cat hair, and there are no breeds of house cats that are colored black and orange, that means you have a black cat and an orange cat. You only have one type of dog hair. The stain on your jeans is a mixture of strained peas and carrots, that is, baby food. There is a business card poking out of your back pocket for a modeling agency, right in front of a bookmark. And," he reached up and plucked something from her hair, "this feather is the type used in feather pillows."
"Okay," I said, "I'm impressed."
"So am I," Marcia smiled.
"So am I," Harold said, looking her up and down once more.
"Well," I said, "who votes to have him aboard?" Nine hands went up, "it's unanimous," I said, "you're in."