Kane is a boss. His emasciated figure looks impassively at the camera, his expression almost smirking. He wears the same dark tweed jacket that he always wore at University, a plaid composite blue and black pattern. His light colored eyes and carmel skin radiates a sort of enigmatic vitality, a tribute to the tacit taboo of his mixed race heritage.
According to the alumni magazine article, he's become a restaraunteer up in Harlem. Somehow, he's figured out how to combine reality tv with gourmet dining in a way that is "brave" and "fresh" and "daring."
My stomach roils as I sit on the toilet reading about how his father, also a graduate of the University, had bankrolled his operation. His mother's friends in government had futhermore assisted in the endeavor by streamlining the process for obtaining the necessary licenses.
After a few paragraphs, I get the point. Despite graduating college during the great recession and having to stave off his dream of becoming a banker, Kane is a restaurant wunderkind. Against all odds, he's made something of himself.
"James," I call through the door of the cramped bathroom, "Pass me some toilet paper."
I would have washed my bum with the magazine, but I risk getting an unpleasant paper cut that way. Holding the door barely ajar, he tosses the two ply roll in and I excavate the remaining pieces from my ass. Standing, I pull up my trousers, walk to the sink and wash my hands. Though I look into the mirror, nobody stares back at me.
Outside of the bathroom, my 12 year old brother sits on a large blue beanbag chair, lost in the enormous television in front him. Some wildly violent cartoon is on, but my brother, seeming to sink ever more into the voluminous chair, glassily stares on.
"Hey fat ass," I call to him, "did you call 911 yet?"
He shakes his head imperceptibly, his attention squarely on the vivid images on the High Definition television in front of him.
Sighing, I look out at the gray skies and the towering Georgia pines that line the streets. Not for the first time that day, I wish I could roam free, out of doors, and explore this suburb of Atlanta. I can hear the wind shaking a tiny maple on the front lawn, and I wonder if Georgia has black squirrels like those at the University.
I try opening the front door and, as per usual, it's locked. I try shattering the window, but only succeed in making my arm and wrist throb. I try calling through the space in the floor where I can see the garage below us, but my voice bounces back into my face as though I were screaming into a concrete wall.
Huddling into a ball, I begin to count down from 5. When I arrive at 0 and look around, I realize my surrounds are little changed. The room is still immaculate, the staid beige furniture in perfect place. James is now feasting on a huge steak with roasted potatoes, smearing the grease all over his oversized off white Adidas t-shirt.' My stomach growls and for the 100th time I need to take a dump.
"James we've got to call 911."
Without looking, he picks up the landline sitting next to him, and dials.
"What do you want me to say?" he asks, his voice flat and unbothered. Before I can answer, he's already talking.
"Hi, could you come over? Cool. bye." He tosses the phone aside, and continues eating, his face reflecting the blaring television.
"Are we gonna be saved?" I ask, still huddled in a ball.
"I dunno," he murmurs, between burps.
I remember my dad had tried saving us once.
He had taken me and James to a church somewhere in the boonies. We'd gotten there late, of course and walked into the building as the preacher mounted her pulpit in an enormously cavernous sanctuary .
"If you turn on the news," begins the reverend, who is radiant in a white robe and large golden hoop earrings, " they'll tell you about global warming. They'll tell you about poverty and drought in Africa. They'll report the death in the Sudan, flood in Thailand, earthquake in Japan, persecution in Israel, annihilation in North Korea, destitution in Detroit, prostitution in New York City, evolution in Mississippi, and air pollution in LA. They'll tell you of death, and disease, and poisoned politicians and political poison, of regicide, genocide, infanticide, suicide."
She says this in a smooth voice that seems to crescendo with the force of an ocean tide,and the congregations' eyes shine bright as their very souls become enchanted byher words.
I remember thinking that we were facing backwards, away from the Cross, but when I turn, I find only a chalice, half filled with water.
"MY FLOCK, WE MUST REJECT THE GLOOM AND DOOM," the priestess chants vigorously.
"RENOUNCE THE SATANIC CALL THAT WE HAVE LET DETERIORATE OUR MINDS, THE DRIVEL THAT CLAIMS TO GIVE US SIGNS OF THE END, NO NO NO NO, WE MUST LOOK AT THE WORLD AS THOUGH WE ARE AT A TIME OF BEGINNING, OF RENEWAL, OF NEW BIRTH, OF POSSIBILITY, OF EXPECTATION, AND EXCEPTIONALISM, OF GRACE, OF LOVE, AND POSSIBILITY. WE MUST LOOK FORWARD NOT WITH A SENSE OF GUILT AND REGRET BUT WITH A DESIRE TO BE GREAT."
At this climax, she descends from the pulpit and begins walking down the isle with outstretched arms and glides to the first row of pews. From her deep pockets, she removes a flip phone and holds it before the congregation.
"OWN YOUR FUTURE. RELEASE YOURSELF FROM THE BEAST!"
With a horrific crash, the terrible woman in white slams the phone against the gleaming wooden floors, punctuating her deed with triumphant stomp on the pieces in front of her. With several steps, she approaches the chalice, and dips her hands in a ritualistic cleansing.
The congregation is transfixed. As though in a trance, members all over the church stand and remove their phones. With devastating force, they smash their devices to smithereens and line up to be annointed at the chalice.
It takes all my strength not to hurl my own mobile against ground so taken am I by the sermon. I signal to my father and brother, and the three of us rise to leave.
Three train tracks stand between us and the church parking lot. The rail signs have come down, but my brother dashes across. He is stopped in the median between the first and second track as a train pulls through. I follow my brother, but am stopped in the center as a second long freight arrives. My dad stands helpless as a third train will not allow him to get to either of us.
The freight lines stretch toward the sea, and let off just near a huge water slide. The place is a tourist attraction because the slide lets off so high up above the water.
"Alright, mate," says the buxom Australian, with blond hair at the top of the slide, "Where you from?"
"Nowhere," I answer truthfully my own voice carrying a trace of an Australian accent "but my parents just moved down here."
She smiles kindly, and asks if I'd like to take off my suit and tie.
In front of me, a blond teenage boy in yellow and blue board shorts fearlessly jumps down the slide, and seems to dive effortlessly into the water well below.
"Ready, mate?" The Australian inquires. She seems oblivious to the fact that I've stripped naked.
Slowly I climb to the top, and push off. I'm accelerating, faster and faster, feeling my heart fly to my mouth. At an impossible speed I depart from the end of the slide and into the air, thousands of feet above the water. I close my eyes, feeling my body flip over itself again and again and again.
"He's needs to move out" says a man whose joined the Australian at the top of the slide. "He's going to crash onto the highway below."
"Kick out!" the Australian shouts, "Open your eyes and kick OUT!"
I open my eyes but am so far up I see nothing but blue and brown below me. My legs are entirely stiff.
"Why'd he do the slide anyway? What's he missing in his life?" says the man.
"I dunno," the Australian murmurs, "He seemed different from the rest."
The man scoffs violently.
"Surely not. No one comes here if they have something to live for! Have you SEEN this drop?"
The beautiful blond nods, smiling sadly. "KICK AWAY MATE" she calls, "KICK AWAY! AWAY!"
I should have hit the water or the ground or something by now, but I'm still falling. Ever faster.
"Wow" observes the man. "He's doing it. He's kicking."
"KEEP GOING!" screams the Australian. "KICK!"
I kick wildly and continue to fall, the water never getting closer to me.
Suddenly, the telephone rings.
Springing from my fetal position, I race to the beanbag. I grab the phone from my brother, breathlessly awaiting the voice on the other line.
"We need to get into the garage," says a man.
"Are you gonna save us?"
"We need to show the condo."
"Are you gonna let us out?"
"Open up the garage."
I walk to the sink and flip a switch, and suddenly feel the heavy door creak beneath me.
"Hey," someone calls beneath from the garage, "What's this place valued at?"
"I dunno," I shout. "The bitch locked us in here, man! Just let us out!"
"Who locked you in there, sir?"
"I don't... Just...GET US OUT!"
There's a long silence, and I look at my brother, hopeful. He continues watching tv.
"HELLO?!" I scream.
"Chris, come to the door," says a voice.
Standing up, I walk to the front door, turn the knob, and push. A rush of air nearly knocks me over, as it swings open for the first time in forever.
"Praise Jesus," I whisper to myself.
Squinting into the natural light at the housing development around me, I see an impossibly thin man with light colored eyes and caramel skin. He sports a blue and black tweed jacket and holds up a video camera.
"This is gonna make great press for the restaurant," Kane laughs.
