Author's Note: Hope everyone had a good march break (or spring break, for the Americanos out there).
...Aaaaaaaaaaaand that about concludes it for the good news.
The bad: I've been more torn than Paris Hilton's record label contracts. Honest to God, I was so undecided about where I was taking this. I had two endings in mind that I couldn't even consider choosing between, so I kept stalling the goddamn story.
But I think I know what I'm going to do now. When we reach the end (see: 2075), I'll tell you the other alternate conclusion I had in mind. But, now that I think I know how it's going to finish, I recommend you stay buckled in. Maybe take a look back to notice all the weird little inconsistencies, and the subsequent clues they might have left behind. Maybe don't blame me for the 90 degree turn we're taking, because I've been hinting at it for years now. Maybe have some faith in me to take you on a shitty road, but get you to your final destination without a hitch.
What I'm trying to say is, expect some movement.
Maybe.
I come home after my morning coffee run only to be cozily greeted by the stink of alcohol, clothes strewed across the already torn-up living room, and Tala passed out across the couch so animatedly that Homer Simpson looks composed in comparison.
Setting down my cup of Starshmucks, I jab him in the neck with the handle of a nearby screwdriver. "Wake up, Tala."
This only succeeds in prodding out a burp, following by a butt-burp. The word 'fart' (cue the shiver) encompasses a whole other world of horror for me. Just a few weeks ago, Mr. Pedo released one that made nuclear waste smell like daffodils, and in the following weeks a number of my cognitive and motor functions declined rapidly. Standing upright is now exhausting, along with logical deduction and counting past ten, so I try not to relive the trauma by repeating the word. Butt-burp's better, anyways; it's got a hyphen. Did fart (Dear Lord, the agony) ever give you that?
Tala groans, rolling over.
"Beeeeeesmurch," he mumbles, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"How drunk are you, Tala?" I ask, talking so slowly that my tongue falls asleep halfway through. "Jesus, it's only 9 in the morning. I was only gone for an hour. Are we gonna have to take you to get your stomach pumped again?"
"Ah, fuck nah! Um tally… uk-hay." He stretches, opens his eyes, panics at the sight of an upright world, and topples back onto the couch.
Apparently, Tala thinks the best way to prove he is not drunk is to act as impaired as humanly possible. Successfully earning himself an Oscar nomination, he goes on to guarantee a win when he doubles over and barfs into a brand-new, open can of Valspar paint. Thank God Kai wasn't here to witness this; he'd probably beat himself to a bloody pulp to ease the pain, and I am in no mood to deal with two messes.
"I dih-int have hoh-oogs this mornin," The Master of Linguistics pipes up, studying his upchucked breakfast like it's the first thing he has laid eyes upon in years. "Where's that cum frum?"
For some strange, curious, and totally unapparent reason, Tala appears to be slurring. This baffles me in a number of ways, as Tala's reputation for rejecting alcohol is well known amongst his friends, along with his tendency to be tolerant, understanding, and charitable to those less fortunate than him.
Trying to remind myself that he's drunk and that I should be consoling rather than insulting him, I regain composure. As such, the pitied look I shoot seems to offend him.
"You thin you bettah' than meh?" Tala yelps, trying to jab me in the chest, but ends up doing one hell of a job of intimidating the lampshade to his right.
"No, Tala. Just go sleep."
"You don know meh!" He yells at the lamp, offended that it would just up and assume he sleeps.
"It's fer yur own gewd," he continues jovially, suddenly riveted by his new best friend, Lampy. "I hat you 'fore, buh now, is uh-kay, Ray!"
At first I'm pleased that he recognizes my voice, then realize he only thinks I'm the lamp because it's yellow. He starts spewing some more bullshit and my patience shrinks to the size of Tala's apparent interest in sobriety.
"Kai'ssssssssssss lookin out fer ya!" He laughs, and burps again. "Can drill ya if I hav ta. Fuck yer nana."
Coincidently, I step over a drill as I try to heave him over my shoulder.
"Rape!" Tala screams, clawing at the lampshade, even though I'm coming at him from the opposite angle.
It takes a good fifteen minutes, but by some miracle personally delivered by the hand of God, I manage to drag Tala out of the living room, haul him past the dinning, shove him down the hallway, prod him into his room, and coax him into bed by chucking a nearby Armani watch onto his sheets. Like a dog after a bone, he gallops onto the bed, stuffing the prized position into his pants. And really, who needs pockets? This is much more convenient, as our Champ drooling onto the duvet over here can now know the hour and commit sexual assault in the same second. Time efficiency, thy name is Ivanov.
"I did it alllllllllll by maself," he boasts, causing the local dogs at the park rear their heads in jealously.
The redhead seems so pleased with himself. I feel like rewarding him with my own watch to keep him temporarily docile, but as I do not appreciate seeing the only thing of real value I own defaced by up-and-coming vomit, I take a different course of action.
"Tala, you need to sleep this o-"
"Whyyyyyyyyyy is life so herd?" Tala asks, dismayed by our farmer lifestyle. Life is very herd, indeed.
"Listen to me," I practically growl, resting my hands on the memory-foam mattress. The shape it takes surprises me; I never took myself for someone who could let the claws out when they're mad. "Go to bed. You'll regret it tomorrow if you don't try to sleep it off now."
Squinting, he blinks. Even with his eyes in slits, it's clear to see his pupils dilated to the size of the state itself. It's hard to believe he's even conscious.
"Nah, yooooou lissen tah meh," he barks, finger waggling. Like a gentleman, he reaches into his pants and pulls out his watch. "My."
"Your what? Your watch?"
"Ya, my," he proclaims, stuffing it back into his pants.
I have to think about it before it hits me.
"Oh. You mean mine?"
"Nah, my! Nah yous! My!" He screeches, insulted by my audacity.
A small throb invites itself onto my front temporal lobe like a shitty new neighbour would into my home. "Tala, I'm only going to say this once: go to bed."
"Hhhhuhhhhh!" he gasps, pointing past me, eyes wide and alight with terror.
I look behind my back, expecting Godzilla, a shoot-out, Kai fully clothed, or other crimes against humanity. Confirming that there is nothing behind us, I explain this slowly to the drunkard. Yet Tala feels it appropriate to continue pointing and exclaim:
"Da popo!"
So many sharp objects about, just screaming my name…
"No, Tala. No cops. No popo. Just go to sleep." I press him down gingerly by the shoulders, which is a last measure when it comes to Drala (Drunk Tala).
He protests (and by protests I mean burps continuously) until he is much too docile to try anything else. Within the span of fifteen minutes, he's out like a discount firework.
Similarly, I'm grabbing my coffee, sprinting out the door.
As I ride this underground pizzabox on wheels (or what passes for a subway in New York), there is no music. There's no paper, no book, no stranger interesting enough to keep me distracted. So, I usually just remember the past. Small bits and pieces of funny conversation with a friend I took for granted, or a slideshow of a trip I took up north to partake in the internationally recognized sport of Tipping Some Dumbass Cows, before I met my soon-to-be-bff, Alco Hol. Alco was great, even though I don't remember much about him, except that he had a long neck and after a while left a bitter taste in my mouth. But for once, I'm not reminiscing.
For the first time in months I find myself thinking about this. This brand spanking new life of mine.
I'm only really introspecting about it now because I noticed something strange (and I wouldn't notice a rhinoceros sitting on me, so you know this is big): every time I try to bring up Kai's albinism or, even that one other time; remember, from a few months back, when he got his ass beat? Every time it comes up in conversation, Tala always diverts me. But he's a goddamn Pokemon master at it; done subtly and with experience, so it never caught my attention until now. This time, he brought up Brooklyn (who he's never ever met- I'll get into my hysterics over this later on, when I'm up for re-living purebred horror), which was the straw that broke the camel's back. With no real plan, I decided to try to make a point with Tala, who ignores me more than the Grammy's do Ke$ha. You can pretty much guess how this turned out.
Cue Flashback
"Hey Tala," I had said evenly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible (in hindsight, I squeaked as loudly a piglet with a fresh tub of mud). "Do you find it interesting when you meet someone who speaks a language you can't?"
"I find it more interesting when you don't speak, period, because it's like a lunar eclipse: it happens once in a century and people wouldn't believe it unless you had documented proof."
No, that bitter taste was not a result of being reunited with Alco Hol, sampling Buckley's cough syrup, sipping on black coffee prepared by Kai after finding out he was not crowned Miss Pretty U.S.A., or even just hearing Kate Gosselin's name in passing. Rather, it was due to Tala's quick, vicious wit and my resulting idiotic bumbling having left me speechless.
"What I'm trying to say is," I continued, tripping over simple consonants I had no problem vocalizing just seconds ago. Damn his cold-war era Soviet mind-fuckery. "It's weird, isn't it? I mean, you're so probably used to knowing all the major languages that not being able to read someone is rare for you."
His eyes, swifter than Taylor herself, met mine. With the hard edge and cold freeze came an added glint I was not accustomed to.
"What are you implying, Kon?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm practically spelling it out for you. I a-m p-r-a-c-t-i-"
He cut me off before I could win America's national spelling bee. "Do you know what the word imply means? It's when you're hinting at something but not outright saying it. Being able to spell at a fifth grade level yet having the same level of word comprehension does not impress me, Kon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got much more interesting things to do, like watch paint dry or attempt to remove every particle of dust from the air by hand."
The word enraged came to mind.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Every time I sit down to have a proper conversation with you, you won't have any of it. It's like you wanna shut me up before we can become real fucking friends or something!"
His fluid walk is broken by a hitch in his step, yet Problem Number 1 regains his footing easily. He turns the corner into the hallway, but not before saying:
"And I thought you were dumb."
End flashback
"Christ! For fuck's sake, watch where you're going!"
"Hey, sorry man," says the fine chickenshit-like specimen before me. Doing nothing more than eyeing the scalding coffee (see: my overpriced Starshmucks addiction) on the floor, which he had almost spilled on me, he backs away slowly and blends into crowd.
Goddamn hipsters, breaking my train of thought and tossing five friggin' bucks down the drain.
Anyways, what I was trying to get to was saying how it's easy for him to read people, but for me it's hard. And because I'm borderline socially retarded, I've got a real weird relationship with Kai, and considering I live with him, it's not the ideal kind of connection to have with a person. All I was trying to do was get him, as a friend, to give me some tips about forging a bond while also trying to relate it back to something Tala would understand well.
It backfired because, as Tala had so eloquently implied, we're not real friends.
"Now stopping: University of New York. Please remain behind the yellow line until you completely stop at your destination," comes from the speakers of the underground rocket.
It's not until that lifeless voice breaks my thoughts that I realize the sharp pain coming from my hand.
Unclenching my colourless fists, I get off the platform.
"Hey, Brooklyn?"
"Hey," he says, smiling a bit too brightly. He hands me my goggles, brushing my hand as he pulls away, and gestures to follow him.
I slip them on and start following the redhead down the air-locked corridor. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
I roll my eyes so far back in my head that I identify strange shapes in my brain matter. And I thought I was a smart ass.
"Do you know a guy named Tala? Tala Ivanov?"
The King of All Douches claims he doesn't know Brooklyn, but I'm not buying it (along with a number of other tasteful products; did you know I've only made five grand since I've been living in Obama-rama, most of which has gone to paying rent? A staple is out of budget range for me). I've been beginning to notice that Tala knows a little too much about me and the people I work with. Perhaps his memory is a stark contrast of mine, picture perfect; maybe he has some how read my laser-guarded journal that James Bond himself would have trouble breaking into; or, most likely, he just fucking listens and shit. Regardless, the sirens that went WOOP-WOOP-ing in my head last night when he pointed Brooklyn out were so loud that Stevie Wonder texted me with his shared concern. Something's going on, and like Tala with a bottle of vodka, I am getting to the bottom of this.
His eyebrows furrow, and he pauses before he speaks. "No, I don't think so. The name does sound familiar, though."
At this point I am perkier than the things on Pamela Anderson's chest that us mortals laughably refer to as 'boobs'. "Really? You think he's a friend of a friend, or something?"
"Maybe," he says, pursing his lips. "I can't think of a face to match it to. It's just the name that sticks out."
Following behind him, I sigh when I don't get a definite answer. Brooklyn's irked, so he slows down to match my pace. Only when he intertwines his fingers with mine do I realize how futile this Tala thing is.
It could be anything, really. Problem Number 1 is a prominent translator, and his name could be flying around in the world of politics, and subsequently the news, which everyone in America seems to love (I am willing to bet both kidneys that Tala and Kai, along with every gay in the world, would off themselves if Anderson Cooper ever went off air). Analytical thinking (see: any thinking of any kind) is not my strong suit, so I stop the process to stare at the pale hand lodged in my own.
...Well, that caught my interest for a total of three seconds.
The bright lights reflected from the metal walls, however, catch not only my interest, but also my cataracts and subsequent lifespan. The lengths U of N has gone to in keeping their cancer-fighting machine a secret is more ridiculous than the size of Tala's liquor cabinet. Reinforced steel holds an air-locked, underground tunnel that was previously used by students to get around the massive campus quicker and safer.
Speaking of which, the crime rate in this state rivals that of the entire goddamn Italian mob syndicate. The whole time I've been here (which, up to this moment has been a grand total of 5 months, 2 days, 3 hours, 34 minutes, and 22, 23, 24, 25 (….and that's all that kindergarden taught me) seconds) I've witnessed shoplifting, physical assault, and what I assume to be traffic violations (I don't have a solid grasp of the American criminal code, but even my peabrain assumes that trying to walk your dog with one hand out of the driver's window while keeping the other on the steering wheel is not only against the law, but borderline retarded). To put the shittiest cherry on top of the most repulsive, Mr. Pedo-like ice cream sundae anyone's ever had the misfortune to see, I've even been robbed at gun point within the first hour of arriving to this fine (cough) land. At first I thought this impenetrable underground fortress was a stretch, but then I utilized the overworked final neuron I have left, and realized that this is no where near enough protection from what lays outside. Until we get a Transformer, Shia LaBeefCakes, and Megan Foxy guarding the campus, I'll be hanging out in this cold, dark, and unforgiving chamber that no one else could possible reach. Also known as "Tala's Heart", if you need to look me up in the phone book or something.
Brooklyn pipes up, out of the blue.
"Ray?"
When he doesn't continue, a weight settles itself in my stomach. Brooklyn never needs prompting.
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking-"
What is he, bragging?
"-and well, remember how months ago, we were at that conference announcing the cure, and you told me you were an illegal immigrant?"
"I barely remember how to use a mirror sometimes, Brooklyn."
"Oh, come on. You downplay yourself to the point that you have a negative I.Q., or something. You're smarter than you make it seem. You have to remember. "
"Alright, I do remember," I admit, loosening my hold on his hand by a fraction. "I don't want to talk about it here, alright? The metal bounces your voice around. Anyone could hear."
"There's no one else in here. Only two people through the tunnel at a time. The security latch system at the front makes sure," he rebuffed, intent on my reaction.
"Fine then. What do you want to know?"
More concerned than before, Brooklyn continues, his hand squeezing the colour out of mine.
"Something's bothering me about your story. You said you hopped the border, but since 9/11, it's been impossible to cross the border into this country, especially New York."
His eyes dim considerably when he mentions 9/11. Both Tala and Kai have the same reaction when it's brought up in the news, even though it hasn't affected anyone dire to either of them. It's sort of like an asshole cloud hanging over New York's head, refusing to move and let the hippy-dippy-smiley-time sunlight from the horizon shine through. It's been a vault of paranoia for a lot of the people here, even though Fox News (see: Faux News) had reported again and again of the increased safety and overall ass-kicking of suspected terrorists. I guess my easy entrance is what's been worrying Brooklyn.
"Well, I don't think it's anything to be, you know, concerned about. I'm a 19 year old Canadian kid that can't past 25, apparently, and I was born and raised there. I had no criminal record, not even any traffic tickets. And besides the hobo-like clothes, I look pretty harmless. All of that plus a little flirting is what got me into the country. It's not like I approached the border with dynamite strapped to my chest while screaming incoherent war crimes and customs was like, 'Looks harmless. Let him in.' Security's pretty good here, is what I'm trying to say. Nothing to be worried about, okay?"
Brooklyn squints at me, and it's uncannily similar to the way Tala does before he threatens to have me lobotomized.
"That's... nice to know. And I'm sure seciruty in this country is fine and everything," he adds quickly, as if to appease the paranoid schizophrenic within me, "but don't you think it's strange that how America's set up countless laws against terrorists... and even illegal immigrants plus the law officials who let them into the country, but you still got in? And don't you think it's a little weird how even though there has to be at least 6 customs officers at a post -I looked it up-, all it took was one to let you in? And the other 5 had nothing to say about it?"
"I guess that is strange, now that I think about it," is what I say out loud, when in my head the only thing going on is the Price is Right theme song. I idly wonder how much longer we have to walk this goddamn marathon to the next destination. Where'd they locate this miracle machine, Luxembourg?
"And don't you think how it's weird that they didn't check your paperwork? You didn't even have a passport on you, for Christ's sake. And isn't it weird how you got a job in this country without a social security number even thought Langstaff can be imprisoned with a life sentence? I don't think anyone is that desperate for personnel, especially when there are Master's students from this school who are dying for research positions. But you, a shifty foreigner with no background and minimal, undocumented experience in this field was given the job without a second glance?"
Through out Brooklyn's revelation, it's grown silent in my head. I don't know if I should tell him this, but maybe it'll get him to shut up and stop freaking me out so goddamn much.
"The guy I'm rooming with got me the job. Langstaff knows the risks and everything. Tala convinced him to do this all in secrecy."
"But why?" Brooklyn asks reverently, pulling away from my loose hold. He steps back, digging his hands into his pockets. "What's in it for him?"
"He didn't tell me. Tala said it wasn't my business," I responded, slowly realizing the severity of Brooklyn's suspicions.
"And you're telling me that didn't seem odd to you, Ray? That everything just fell perfectly into place?"
My eyes dart back and fourth, searching the floor for an answer. A beat later, a swooshing sound stops and starts, rhythmically.
"I mean, didn't you ever stop to think about it? How did you even meet this Tala guy? And you were asking me about him just minutes ago; are you finally starting to see through this? Is that why you were asking me?"
I rub my forehead, trying to prompt the memory to resurface.
"Well? Don't yo-"
"I don't know!"
I was right- voice does carry here. It's like I shouted through a bull horn, which makes the following silence all the more apparent.
"You should go back home."
His fists are clenched as he continues.
"It's not right here. It's not safe here," he corrects, looking around. "You should leave. You got in easy, and leaving should be the same. I can drive you to the border after work tonight."
Staring at him, mouth agape, the world shatters to pieces. Again.
Something beeps down the long hallway, grabbing my attention. I watch the flicking light it came from for what seems like eternity in a nutshell, until I realize it's the final authorization plate.
We're at the end of the tunnel.
I still have Kai's iPod from months ago, when he let me take it in exchange for getting the hell out of his room. Keeping it tucked away for so long, I haven't even made use of it. Besides the fact that I've been deprived of music for so long that I don't rely on it anymore, I also don't have any damn earphones to listen to it with. I would readily assail Dr. Dre, Steve Jobs, or Mr. Skullcandy just for the chance to sneak away with a free pair. But, as Tala had so ironically taught me after I tried to punch him for violently shoving me into a shopping cart in a busy parking lot: "I don't know how it works in America's Hat, but down here, assault is illegal, Kon." Missing the irony I had tried to point out, Tala then proceeded to bribe me into silence by assuring me the quarter used to rent the cart would be mine if I returned it promptly. I kept my silence for about, oh, I don't know, 5 minutes, before I broke into a vocal dance party upon seeing sticky rice on sale. Tala complained, with all seriousness, saying we had a deal.
Staring out the subway windows, gray blurs into gray. Nothing is stable.
I thought he was joking.
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