The Boy Who Couldn't Sleep and Never Had To

“Tuesday night.”

And I think in his head he starts up an imaginary conversation with a custody judge or my mom or the cop who comes by to tell him they found my brother floating in the canal after not quite being able to jump it with his car, and realizes that for the sake of looking not-so-bad in that imaginary future conversation he should probably start to worry, or go through the phone-dialing motions worried people go through, though he knows we’re okay.

Phones are like these talismans for me and my brother and my dad. Like, as long as we have our phones on us, my brother and I, there is no way we could be hurt or kidnapped or impaled on anything. The one or two times I’ve been out of the house and needed to call and let him know I’d be out the house longer have gone like this:

“Hey, Dad?”

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’ll be late tonight.”

“Okay. Got your phone on you?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. Be safe.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

We have the same kind of phone and we’re all on the same phone plan. I know full well that when I call him from my phone my name shows up, indicating that I’m calling from my phone, and that in order to be doing that, I must have my phone on me. It’s so dumb I think with any other kind of dad it would be a dad joke. But my dad doesn’t joke so much as he goes to the gym all the time.

I get up off the floor of Eric’s room. “It was nice having someone to stay up with,” he says.

When I get home at ten or so on Saturday morning my brother’s car isn’t there. It’s probably wrapped around a pole or he got arrested for lighting trash cans on fire and rolling them into traffic last night or he’s at the morning youth mass with Cathy and Alan and Tits, who’s Jewish but goes because of peer pressure. I go to my room and lock the door and fall asleep on top of my sheets with my clothes on and when I wake up it’s dark outside and I have one of those weird is-it-morning-what-day-is-it half-awake slept-the-day-away feelings, and I remember what Eric told me. I try to think whether it was a dream or not, and then I remember that it wasn’t, and I think that Eric’s been awake this whole day while I’ve been asleep, and Eric’s been awake since I’ve known him, and Eric’s been awake since he was born.

5

Eric always insists that our characters have a weakness. The Thragnacian hell-beast has a soft and glowing underbelly which Martian Praetoreous can hit with his arm-mounted crossbow. Being cybernetic, the AltraTroops are susceptible to biohacking, an arcane art practiced by the laptop monks who dwell in The Spoke, an aborted half-constructed space platform. The Man is the only character without a weakness. He is holographic and infinitely self-replicating. No one knows where he is or what he is or if he’s even human and you can’t kill him because it’s very possible there’s nothing there to kill.

I live in a world where what Eric told me is true. And it isn’t always an easy thing to fit into your head but it almost helps that Cecelia Martin didn’t believe him. Cecelia Martin has exactly zero imagination. It’s not that Cecelia Martin is dumb, it’s just that she’s so fucking standard and convinced that she isn’t because her hair is dyed a different color and she listens to music that she finds on LiveJournals that mostly feature pictures of emo boys making out with each other. I think I understand why Eric told her. If this were a movie she’d be the person you’d go to. The freaky chick, the outcast. But Cecelia Martin is on yearbook and newspaper. Cecelia Martin gets straight A’s. Cecelia Martin is about as outcast as the head fucking cheerleader. I want to believe where she had the chance to and didn’t because it doesn’t fit in with Cecelia Martin’s worldview, which pretty much begins with Cecelia Martin and her friends Jen Ackerman and Teresa Saylor and whatever cute vintage finds they’ve made this week, and their college friends and how sophisticated and ironic they are.

I can imagine it: Eric hears Cecelia use the words temporal and agonize in some in-class discussion. Eric suspects that Cecelia may, in fact, be smart. That night at home Eric looks up Cecelia’s Namespot profile, Namespot being the social networking site on which millions of American kids advertise their specialness, despite the fact that there is a search-engine tool right there on the sidebar that will allow you to find out just how hugely unspecial you are. Eric sees that under “Music” Cecelia has expressed a preference for The Boy Who Cried Sparrow, a pretty okay and sort of obscure group people found out about from their older siblings who are in college, which Eric, underexposed as he is to anybody, ever, doesn’t realize is a thing anyone else is into, takes it to be a sign, and without hesitation camps out waiting for Cecelia outside of English class the next day and, unbidden, stutters at her something about he has a secret only she can understand, and before she can even ask “What?” he blurts it out, all nervous and half-intelligible, so that now when she asks “What?” it isn’t because she wants to know the secret, it’s because he already said the secret and she couldn’t understand him. So he says it again, too loud this time, overcompensating, and she probably says something very close to what I said initially, something like “Oh, so don’t drink so much caffeine or whatever,” and starts to walk away, supremely weirded out, when Eric stops her and tries ultra-awkwardly to explain, but he has no idea where to start and this isn’t going at all like he planned it, and she stops him four half-sentences into his explanation and says, “I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about. I have to get to class.” One of the four half-sentences had something to do with how they both liked the same music, and so now she goes around telling anyone who will listen that Eric Lederer, you know, that weird kid, well, he basically stalked her and said some crazy stuff she doesn’t even know how to repeat and he ought to be red-flagged like Carl Whiteman, he probably has a hit list and everything, she’s probably on it, enjoy her while she’s here, alive, and hasn’t yet been murdered by the stalker nerd.

And that day, I probably walked right by them out of class, not really knowing either of them or having any idea who they’d end up being to me, but I can imagine it so accurately because I was then (and I guess I am still) in my own world of misreading people, reaching out to them in an awkward, overplanned way that blows up big- time, then retreating back in to my just-me existence, while they go around telling anyone who will listen what a tard I am.

Eric’s thing, I don’t know what to call it, sounds like something Eric and I would have made up. And I guess I want to live in a world where things like Eric can exist.

And for a while that in itself is exciting. If Eric can exist despite the fact that Eric existing is impossible, then other things that are impossible can happen. They’re out there living among us and we have no idea. I spend an entire day thinking about this. The gray-haired cashier at Safeway, he can sense people’s intentions and disarm robbers before they try anything, which is why the store has never been robbed. Shoplifters he lets through because they’re not worth blowing his cover, which is why my brother has never been caught at that particular store. The Mexican housekeepers waiting for the shuttle bus on what shouldn’t be a hot day because it’s November but it is, they house the reincarnated souls of Aztec warlords and if they got close enough to a certain temple in South America they’d become thirty-foot-tall fire-beasts instead of gossipy old women.

But then on the way into school I see Brendan Tyler, a varsity basketball player, standing in front of the black sports car his parents got him when he crashed his last car, arms folded. A bunch of people are gathered around. “I’d give my left nut for that car,” a kid says. Brendan reaches in the front window and tweaks a knob that makes his car stereo’s bass rattle, shaking the windows of the cars around him. I think, if anybody else had what Eric had, they’d probably show it off every chance they got. There would be no secret. They’d be in the school parking lot using their mysterious God-given mutation to make hot girls more receptive to finger-banging. Eric’s probably the only one of his kind, which makes him all the more important to protect. Protect, if that’s what I’m doing by being his friend and keeping his secret. For some reason protect is the word that comes to mind.

“This isn’t going to change anything, is it?” Eric says when I see him for the first time Monday at lunch. “My thing?”