It was 2008. And I remember it was December, because the police officer had an ugly little plastic Christmas tree on his desk, flashing next to his kids' picture. I was mathematically 19, born in October. And - people like me - he clearly didn't see that often.
Oh, he was constantly putting punks behind bars, and my hair wasn't helping him think any better of me. I think I had it shaved on the left, and tousled into a crest on the other side. Were the ends fuschia? Or turquoise blue, I can't tell. I think I had as much studs as leather on my pants, boots as heavy as half my body weight, and a patch-covered perfecto I'm still wearing today. But no, that wasn't the reason he was staring dumbfounded at his typewriter.
I'd been caught inside the patent repository of the industrial giant SodaCola, I think. A room that can only be accessed by passing through six high-security doors, the last of which is similar to a safe. You know what I mean? With a big wheel that opens only from the outside. Well, it was gently closed, and I was inside, looking for a recipe that rival PezziCola wanted. I'd made sure I was invisible to the security cameras, and I'd remained intangible for a long time, to get this far. But to rummage through documents, you have to materialize, and the infrared surveillance didn't miss me. I managed to teleport three times, but I my luck ran out. A tazzer shot finally knocked the wind out of me.
Oh, I should make that clear right now if you haven't figured it out. Some people are born with ginger hair, or a spot on their arm. I, on the other hand, was born with the ability to make myself invisible, intangible, or both. And teleportation, okay. This may seem incredible, but you'll see it's actually a lot of trouble, especially when you use it to make ends meet. And you'll also learn that - in this story - it's not that crucial after all.
"We'll wait for the PezziCola execs' response," said the cop, and I think I shrugged fatalistically.
I always snitched on my employers when caught. They wouldn't hire me again anyway. I have been lucky: it could have got me into more trouble than that. And as for Pezzi, it was a desperate attempt: SodaCola was and will always do everything to keep its recipe unique, until an Apocalypse comes and sweeps it all away. There'll be no harm in spoiling the ending for you: they bailed me out, and handsomely enough to ensure that no one - especially the media - would ever mention it again. But the officer didn't know that yet, and was simply following his procedure.
"In the meantime, Miss Porcupine, you're going to get a nice, warm night's sleep".
I didn't say anything, and I didn't consider escaping, even though I could have. It's never a good idea to escape from police custody: you could get worse than you were caught for. A colleague of the officer's took over and grabbed me by the arm. He circled it easily, lifting me as if I were a bundle of wood. I didn't struggle, it wasn't worth it. I just let an insolent black look slide over both of them. And as he dragged me into the detention cells aisle, he told me with a smirk:
"At least you won't get bored."
After removing my handcuffs, he threw me into one of the dozen barred cells at the end of the corridor. A gray, worn, waxed concrete floor peeling in many spots, a bunk so hard that a plank would have been better, a disgusting sink, and literally a hole to serve as toilet. This, and no privacy with the cells next door. At Argyle Central police station in The City, I swear everything is done to dissuade you from doing anything again. And yet, there seemed to be other people in the aisle with consistent subscriptions. After locking my door, my pleasant guard addressed my neighbor, as if talking to a regular 'customer':
"Don't get comfy, Shirley Temple, and don't start snoozing."
I massaged my wrists and sat down on what I - for sure - would use as a bed, and the officer continued:
"In two hours maximum, this will be sorted out and I'll have you out by the scruff of the neck. This place ain't no shelter, and it sure as hell ain't rehab".
"Francis, honey, remind me again what time is the Tuesday chili con carne served?"
A young and slightly nasal voice, weary and intentionally lustful. I almost laughed, but I restrained myself. Yes. Because "Francis" wasn't laughing at all.
"You're really lucky it's in half an hour, you junkie faggot, because I doubt your moldy brain is capable of calculating that."
With a flick of his truncheon against the bars and an annoyed grunt, he headed back down the corridor, leaving the one he'd referred to as 'Shirley Temple' to sit on the floor against the bars of the adjacent cell. Even the insults had made him laugh.
"Oh, if I had a penny for every time I heard that..."
In the dim light and through the bars, I couldn't easily distinguish him. Enough, however, to make out a thick layer of dark brown curls above a black crop-top with wide-mesh fishnet sleeves. I could hear him chuckling once more, as if his own jokes in response to that asshole were making him gloat inwardly.
"'Course it is, it's chili on Tuesdays," he muttered, as if conversing with someone else. "Or is it on Wednesdays? Unless it's mac and cheese... And you know what? I was thinking it was better here than at the South Argyle police station. And even better than at..."
"Who are you talking to?"
For a moment, I wondered if it was to me - because we were the only ones at this end of the aisle - but I soon realized that it wasn't, so I dared to ask. I was already not the shy type, nor one to sugarcoat my questions. I stepped closer, and peered straight through the nice openwork design of our prison wall. He was about my age, though that was hard to assess for such a damaged person. Pale olive skin, raccoon-like green eyes with eye-liner, and a goatee that he was obviously struggling to grow. He looked at me, clearly surprised that I'd come up to him. I suppose his little monologues and heavy hooch smell were usually enough to discourage his neighbors.
"To my left hemisphere," he answered. "The right one can't fuck with me anymore".
Oh, great. Second-degree self-preservation, witty and slightly absurd black humor, a cotton-like tone that actually let you guess the results of the tox screen... I leaned on the bars, still looking down at him. And I think I understood at that moment what 'Francis' had meant by barking that I wasn't going to get bored.
"Oh, why," I asked, " what did you do to get it that pissed?"
I sensed that underlying his little quip was a hint of sarcasm directed at himself, and not entirely unfounded. He sighed, I think he wondered for a moment if he was going to keep throwing jokes at me to sidestep. But finally, he replied as if the only answer to my playing along with his game was to turn back to pure honesty:
"It says it'd like to sleep in peace. That I've never really tried. And that five months is a long time without a regular place to stay."
Today, I'd almost laugh at that last statement, because it never really ended, even today. But at the time, I asked:
"Do you come here often?"
"Quite often. I don't know if you've noticed a surprising climatic fact: since autumn, the weather has been getting colder and colder."
I smiled at him. I'm perfectly incapable of feeling sorry for people, and anyway, I don't think that was what he needed. He just wanted someone to talk to. But I could easily guess the pattern of his life. A probably complicated start in life, a spiral into drugs starting with a recreative marijuana, a family that had probably kicked him out recently... For all this, and possibly for a sexual identity they weren't fond of. I didn't even need to have him tell the story. So instead, I whispered:
"And your left hemisphere, what does it think, of you?"
He shrugged.
"Oh. I think he's jealous of the fact that I'm alive. And flamboyant and spiritual and sexy."
"And humble," I added, which made him chuckle. I mostly got the feeling that he didn't like himself very much, in spite of appearances, and he retorted:
"Exactly. Extremely humble. Certainly one of the most humble people the world has ever known. Possibly even more humble than Jesus."
There was an amused silence, he stood scrutinizing me for a moment, then asked me, as if now I intrigued him:
"I stole some hooch and a pastrami sandwich. And you, what did you do to come spend the night in this cozy little nook?"
I sighed and let myself fall to the floor, on the waxed concrete, against the bars not far from him. At least this way, he could talk to something other than my boots.
"I do odd jobs," I replied, "which aren't always within the framework of the law."
He gave me a knowing look, as if he could see exactly what I was talking about.
"Oh. I do that too, from time to time, cherry-picking. The useful and the pleasant. It's about the only professional activity where I manage not to forget to go to work. And it also gives me a chance to crash in a real bed sometimes".
I shook my head and cleared my throat. I still wonder what made him think of that first.
"No, a different kind of services. Something to do with... let's say... information management and redistribution of wealth."
He opened his eyes wide and almost shouted down the aisle:
"WHAT, you spy and burgle!"
"Hey, shut up!"
He burst out laughing.
"They've got you locked up! They already know! And don't worry, I pilfer in my spare time too, I was already doing it at home."
No one came, despite his shout. I think our guardians were too busy eating. We laughed for a moment, because - in the end - none of us really confessed stuff like that all that often. In the end, when you meet someone in police custody, you know the worst before you find out the good. I leaned my head against the bars.
"I'm doing this to help my family. We need the money."
His lips pursed, as if he felt sorry for me, or as if the word 'family' made him afraid of going off on a tangent he didn't want.
"Do they know about what you do?"
"No. They think I wash dishes in restaurants. I only have my mother and grandmother."
"Why don't you really do that?"
"Because I..."
I couldn't tell him, at the time, that it was because invisibility and intangibility were what I was best qualified for, and that many 'customers' were interested in that. So I replied with another explanation, just as valid, by the way:
"Because it pays well. Opportunities aren't plentiful, but they pay with three-zero numbers."
He whistled.
"Golly. You're a catch."
I laughed.
"And also... it's not easy to get a job when you look like this."
I vaguely gestured to myself, and he looked at me from head to toe, as far as he could see anyway. Frankly, my work interviews had historically never gone beyond the doormat back then. The job market really does judge the book by its cover, and I think he could have guessed that, even though he'd obviously never even tried to really work himself. He grabbed the bars with his left hand and laid the side of his head on top, revealing a round tattoo on his wrist - representing an umbrella.
"If only people could realize that what they have in common is to be all different."
I smiled at him.
"You know what you're talking about."
'Different' even seemed like an understatement to me.
"I don't think you can imagine how different".
You know as well as I do what he meant by that. And in mirror image, I couldn't hold back a little ironic shake of my head.
"I don't think you can either..."
Both of us remained on the assumption that the other would fall flat on his face if we went through with such confessions. But it never happened at the time, and we simply didn't say anything for a while.
"My name's Rin," I finally told him, with a vague smile, which he seemed quite happy to get.
"That's a cool name. It suits you."
I had the feeling, for a moment, that he was talking about it like a shirt that could be changed, and I liked it, honestly. Then he let go of the bar and said:
"I'm Klaus".
"Oh, I don't know any."
He laughed softly and looked falsely apologetic.
"I'm sorry for all those you'll meet next. How old are you?"
"Nineteen. We don't look that different."
" Indeed. I'm nineteen as well."
I stepped back a little, I crossed my arms, and I gazed at him this time scanning him, with a false air of assessment of whether he was worthy of interest or not.
"Favorite music style?"
His eyes widened. I'm pretty sure he wasn't expecting that. That anyone would actually be interested in him, somehow.
"Oh, I see we're asking the serious questions now. Retro pop and rock... and all the iconic R&B divas. And you... punk rock, I presume."
I squinted one eye and smiled wryly.
"I have more eclectic tastes than you think."
I had unknowingly opened Pandora's box, and had no idea that it could have been limitless. He sat down facing me, looking delighted, he crossed his hands over his chin, looking at me under his bushy eyebrows, and promptly asked:
"Coffee or whisky?"
"Coffee. Favorite food?"
"Mexican. Best movie ever?"
I gave him an obvious look.
"The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
"HOLY SHIT, ME TOO! Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pet?"
"No pet: I like my freedom."
"Interesting."
I'm still in awe of the amount of innuendo that hovered in that conversation. But the truth is, we're still playing that game.
"I hope you haven't had your heart broken recently."
"No. I'm a tough nut to crack, you know. What about you?"
"Oh quite the opposite. The kind of nuts very easy to crack. Just another addiction, I guess."
And I seized the opportunity.
"What's the rest of it? Gin? Weed? Ketamine, I bet."
I readily suspected him of some hallucinations, given the way he kept looking toward his bunk, as if someone were there.
"Oh, you're good. Meth, lately Xanax... Truly, any ~solution~ is welcome."
"Solution..."
"I swear you like me better as a cellmate if I'm high. But let's get serious and back to business: best Rihanna's outfit?"
"It's very specific... and I don't know her."
"It's a flaw, but I can possibly teach you. Any tattoo?"
"One. A lotus, on my back. You?"
I didn't show him. But he did, putting both hands on his face, showing me his palms that sported 'Hello' on his right, and 'Goodbye' on his left, in large, trembling capital letters.
"Two. Well, three. But two I wanted."
I let my eyes slide over the umbrella he didn't mention .
"They're pretty cool."
"And useful."
He reached his 'Hello' hand through the bars, like if he was going to try and touch my crest, and I don't let people do that so easily. Especially in situations like this. I dodged. He smiled, gave up and took his 'Hello' hand back to gently les me know he had understood there was no opportunity at the moment, with a little 'Goodbye' sign. I didn't hold it against him, and instead asked:
"Best shoes?"
He smiled broadly.
"Converse. And Louboutin. How about you: high heels?"
"Never. Louboutins cost an arm and a leg. Do you have a pair?"
"In my dreams. I sleep two hours a night in squats, but with great fashion sense. Favorite color?"
"Mmm purple. You?"
"Black. But that's not a color. Wait. Pink. Or yellow? God, your questions are so tricky. How tall are you?"
"5'1"".
"Ooooh sweetheart! That's so cute."
"Shut up. It's handy for kicking ass."
"Oh so you're the flirty one now? Can't wait. And with the crest, how tall?"
I laughed.
"About 5'5", I guess. You look tall, when you're not curled up on the filthy floor of Mordor's jails."
"Something like 6', I suppose. Any other distinctive features?"
I froze at his question, and again took a little too long to answer. I'd never wanted to tell anyone what I was. In high school, junior high and even at school before that, I'd never stopped hiding it, in order to remain metaphorically invisible. But for some reason, for the second time that day, I was on the verge of telling him about this power that had brought me as much as it had cost me.
"I..."
Shit.
"I'm half Vietnamese."
He puffed through his nose.
"That's not that unusual. Everyone is half something. Even statistically two halves."
I smiled sadly. In my life, not everyone had historically thought like him.
"Okay. Then I... I can..."
I resigned myself. I just couldn't do it.
"I can sing, a little. How about you?"
He opened wide eyes of appreciation and dropped with a retrospectively clearer-than-crystal frankness.
"Oh that's so cool. I can talk with the dead, even though they're the chatty ones, most of the time. Good. What about pineapple pizza? Is that a go or no go? Be careful, there's a wrong answer".
I looked at him for a moment, and his little ploy aimed at immediately defusing the bomb he'd dropped worked perfectly, because I didn't really catch on and stammered:
"For me it's a go."
He hissed.
"Okay. You're out."
We both burst out laughing. The whole thing was so surreal. And I really couldn't remember ever laughing like that with anyone. How did he manage to look so sharp and stoned at the same time? Our laughter echoed throughout the whole row of cells, to the point that 'Francis' popped his moustached head to the end of the corridor and brandished his truncheon, barking:
"Shut up, you freaks!"
To which Klaus interjected in a way that might have gotten him into trouble, come to think of it:
"We're hungry, Francis! We're waiting for the chili!"
But I laughed under my breath again, and then I think I softened, deciding to change my line of questions.
"Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?"
He slowly stopped smiling and fell into a form of silence, before answering me thoughtfully and honestly.
"I just don't."
I frowned, smiling.
"You don't have... hopes? Any dreams for the future?"
"I'm mostly trying to survive the past and the present, I guess. And if it were to end, then why not."
My smile vanished. I ached at that answer, which seemed to twist something inside me, even though I'm not the sensitive type. My question - not as harmless as I would have liked - had just done him immensely more harm than good, and I regretted it on the spot. Nevertheless, I understood a lot in that moment. At least as much as in all that had preceded. I tilted my head to reach his swamp-green gaze.
"You're darker than you want people to see, aren't you?"
He looked at me as if that was the only thing he wanted me to understand, from this whole encounter. The sound of a canteen cart's wheels filled the aisle, almost at the same time as a formidable smell of chili. And he answered, with not a smile to be seen beneath his sad curls, even with the prospect of finally eating:
"No. I'm a ray of sunshine. You'll see."
Notes :
I chose to portray Klaus, in this story, not as Dante Albidone, but as a version closer to a teenage Robert Sheehan.
I imagine it's easier to understand this story if you're already familiar with Klaus, and Rin, but it's certainly possible to read this story just passing by. They actually have many years ahead of them, and have absolutely no idea of what lies ahead.
If you want to find out a bit more, you can read 'A bend in space-time' (link on my profile).
Any comments will make my day!