Philipe surveyed the scene, nodded with satisfaction, dropped a handful of cards on the ground, placed some on the bottom bleacher seats. “Good enough,” he said. “Let’s go. We’re outta here.”
The next day we made the front page of the
GANG VIOLENCE ERUPTS AT FREE CONCERT, the headline read.
Junior laughed. “Gang violence?”
There was no mention of our exploits in the
“The concert was sponsored by the
“First lesson,” Philipe said. “Avoid partisan media events.”
We all laughed.
“We should start a scrapbook,” James suggested. “Cut out all the articles about us.”
Philipe nodded. “Good idea. You’re in charge of that.” He turned toward me. “And since you have the best VCR here, you’re in charge of taping local news broadcasts, in case we ever make it onto TV.”
“Okay,” I said.
He continued looking at me. “By the way, you know what today is, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“It’s your one-month anniversary.”
He was right. How could I have forgotten? Exactly one month ago today, I had killed Stewart. The morning’s lighthearted mood disappeared instantly for me. My hands grew sweaty, the muscles in my neck tense as I thought of that scene in the bathroom stall. In my mind, I again smelled the blood, felt the knife push thickly through muscle, deflect off bone.
At this time of day, one month ago, I had been sitting at my desk in my clown suit. Waiting.
The clown suit was still on the floor of my bedroom closet.
“Let’s go back there,” Philipe said. “See what’s happened since then.”
I was horrified. “No!”
“Why not? You can’t tell me you’re not even curious.”
“Yeah,” Don said. “Let’s go. It’ll be great.”
“What did he do a month ago?” Junior asked.
“He killed his boss,” Buster explained.
The old man’s eyes widened. “Killed his boss?”
“We all did,” Buster told him. “I thought you knew that.”
“No. I didn’t.” He was silent for a moment. “I did, too,” he admitted. “I killed my boss, too. But I was afraid to tell you.”
Philipe continued to look at me. “I think we should go back to your company,” he said. “I think we should go back to Automated Interface, Incorporated.”
Even hearing that name sent a strange shiver through me. “Why?” I asked. My hands were trembling. I tried not to let it show. “What good would it do?”
“Catharsis. I think you need to go. I don’t think you’ll get over it until you confront it.”
“Is this because of last night? Because I didn’t want to just start beating on people for no reason?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. You can’t have pussies in a terrorist organization.”
I thought of a thousand retorts to that, a thousand things I could say, a thousand things I should say, but for some reason I backed off. I looked away from him, looked down at my shoes, shook my head. “I don’t want to go.”
“We’re going,” he said flatly. “Whether you want to or not. I’ll drive.”
James, on the couch, glanced up from the newspaper article. “Are we all going?”
“No, just Bob and me.”
I wanted to object, wanted to refuse, but I found myself nodding. “Okay,” I said.
Philipe talked on the drive over. This was the first time we’d been alone, with none of the others anywhere around, since he’d first approached me on the street after Stewart’s murder, and he seemed anxious to explain to me the importance of what he termed “our work.”
“I know,” I said.
“Do you?” He shook his head. “I never know about you,” he said. “John, Don, Bill, and the rest, I always know where they stand, I always know what they’re thinking. But you’re a mystery to me. Maybe that’s why it’s so important for me to make sure you understand why we’re doing what we’re doing.”
“I understand.”
“But you don’t approve.”
“Yes, I do. It’s just… I don’t know.”
“You know.”
“Sometimes… sometimes some things seem wrong to me.”
“You still have your old values, you still have your old system of beliefs. You’ll get over that eventually.”
“Maybe.”
He looked sideways at me. “You don’t want to?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re with us? You’re one of us?”
“Always,” I said. “What else do I have?”
He nodded. “What else do any of us have?”
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
It felt strange to be driving back to Automated Interface again, and my palms were sweaty as we pulled into the parking lot. I wiped them on my jeans. “I don’t think we should do this.”
“You think they’re going to see you and immediately put two and two together and arrest you for killing your supervisor? These people don’t even remember you. They probably couldn’t describe you if their lives depended on it.”
“Some of them could,” I said.
“Don’t count on it.”
The parking spaces were all filled, so Philipe pulled into a handicapped visitor’s spot near the entrance. He switched off the ignition. “We’re here.”
“I don’t — ”
“If you don’t face it, you won’t get past it. You can’t let the memory of what happened here ruin your whole life. You did the right thing.”
“I know I did.”
“Then why do you feel guilty?”
“I don’t. I just… I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He opened his door, got out of the car. Reluctantly, I did the same. “It’s places like this that have made us what we are,” Philipe said. “These are the places we need to strike against.”
“I was always Ignored,” I pointed out. “My job didn’t make me Ignored.”
“But it made you worse,” he said.
I could not really argue. I did not know if I believed him, but I could not refute him.
“You had to waste that fucker. You couldn’t have done anything else. That’s why you are who you are. That’s why you’re here with me now. That’s why you’re a terrorist. It’s part of the plan.”
I smiled. “A Dan Fogelberg reference?”
“If it applies, use it.” He grinned. “Let’s go in.”
We walked up the sidewalk, through the entrance, into the lobby. The guard was at his post. As always, he ignored me. I was about to walk past him to the elevator when I suddenly stopped. I turned toward Philipe. “I hate that guy,” I said.
“Then do something about it.”
“I will.” I walked up to the guard’s desk. He still didn’t see me.
I leaned forward, knocked the cap off his head. “Asshole,” I said.
Now he saw me.
He leaped out of his chair, reached over the desk to grab my arm. “Who do you think you are, you — ”
