The Ignored

where we should go next, so I stayed with him, waiting until the others were out of sight before bringing it up.

“So,” I said, “why did we really go on this trip?”

He folded the map, looked up at me. “I was wondering when you were going to ask about that.”

“I’m asking now.”

He shook his head slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t know.”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t. Not really. I just had this feeling — ” He broke off. “Do you ever have, like hunches or intuition or… premonitions? Things that you know are going to come true and do come true?”

I shook my head.

He licked his lips. “I do. I don’t know if it’s just coincidence or what, but I get these feelings sometimes…. Like when I killed my boss: I knew months ahead of time that I was going to kill him, even before I wanted to, and of course it came true. And when I met you. Something just told me to go to South Coast Plaza that day. I don’t know why. And when I got there, I had the hunch that I was supposed to look for somebody. It was like… like I was being guided or something.”

I laughed. “You’re getting a messiah complex.”

“Maybe I am,” he admitted.

My smile faded. “I was just joking.”

“I’m not.” He looked up at me. “I feel that way sometimes. Like I’m a man thrust into a god’s role — and I’m not prepared for it.” He dropped the map on the seat next to him and got out of the car. He closed the door, locking it. “Anyway, that’s how I decided on this trip. Something just told me it was time to go. I had this vague feeling that we were being watched, that someone was closing in on us, and we had to get out of there. I didn’t know for how long. I just knew we had to leave. Fast.”

“Who do you think’s after us? The cops?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged.

“But you don’t think so.”

He looked at me. “I don’t think so.”

“Are we ever going back?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon. I think it’s blowing over. I think it’ll be safe again in a few weeks.”

We walked down the guide trail where the others had gone. I glanced over at Philipe as we started down a series of log-and-gravel steps. “Your house,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Was it your mother’s?”

“No. Mine. I bought it.”

“I’m sorry. It just kind of looked like it might be your parents’ place.”

We were silent for a moment.

“Where is your mother?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, when’s the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

We were quiet then, the only sound the crunching of the gravel on the path beneath our feet and the occasional far-off cry of a bird.

“I’m Ignored,” Philipe said. “You’re Ignored. We’ve always been that way; we’ll always be that way. Don’t try to look for answers in childhood or family histories. They’re not there.”

I nodded, said nothing.

Ahead, on the path, we saw the others, and we hurried to catch up to them.

We added two members to our little group.

Paul we picked up in Yosemite, on our way back home. He was standing buck-naked on a footbridge beneath Yosemite Falls, yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs. A constant stream of tourists crossed the bridge, looking up at the falls, taking pictures. People from other states, other countries. English, German, Japanese.

Paul stood there, cock and balls bouncing with each bump and jostle. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”

We stood for a moment at the foot of the bridge, watching him.

“That’s amazing,” Philipe said. “They’re running into him, and he’s yelling in their ears, and they still don’t see him.”

Steve and Bill were laughing. They seemed to think it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

To me, it was eerie, like something out of a David Lynch movie. The man stood on the bridge, absurdly visible in his nakedness, while the crowd of Bermuda-shorted tourists took no notice of him, passing him by, bumping into him, even pushing him casually aside in order to take a clearer photograph. The sound of the falls was deafening, masking all ordinary conversation, but faintly, in tandem with the movements of this naked man’s mouth, came a barely audible voice, quietly screaming: “PRICK! PRICK! PRICK!”

It was an obvious cry for help, a desperate plea to be noticed from a dangerously disturbed man, and all I could think was that if the rest of us had not found each other, if the terrorists had not come together, that could be one of us.

“He’s insane,” James said. And he, too, seemed to sense the seriousness in the situation. “He’s gone completely insane.”

I nodded.

“No,” Philipe said.

He followed the flow of foot traffic onto the bridge and walked up to the man. He spoke to him, said something the rest of us could not make out. And then the man stopped screaming and was crying, sobbing, and laughing at the same time. He hugged Philipe, his entire body shaking.

Philipe led him off the bridge.

The man dried his eyes with his hands, wiped his nose on his arm as he saw us. He looked from one of us to another, and an expression of understanding crossed his features. “Are you… are you all Ignored?”

We nodded.

The man fell to his knees, began sobbing again. “Thank God!” he cried. “Thank God!”

“You’re not alone,” Philipe told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked at us. “His name’s Paul.”

Paul was not insane, as James and I had originally feared. He did have a few problems adjusting at first — he had definitely been alone for far too long — but by the time we returned to Southern California, he was pretty well recovered.

Our second new recruit we found after we got back to Orange County.

We saw him for the first time in Brea Mall, a week or so after we got back, sitting on the floor in front of the magazine rack at Waldenbooks, reading a Penthouse. He was young, not more than nineteen or twenty, and he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his long hair pulled into a ponytail. We were walking toward the food court when Philipe spotted him and suddenly stopped. Philipe stood outside the store, staring at the man, and after a few moments, obviously seeing our presence, he looked up, returned the stare.

“Another one,” Philipe said. “Let’s see how far along he is.” He told the others to move on, told me to stay with him. “We’ll meet at the food court in a half hour,” he said.

As soon as the others left, Philipe walked straight up to the magazine rack, smiled at the man on the floor, picked up a People. The man, panicked, shoved his Penthouse in front of a Redbook and hurriedly left the store.

“That’s what you were like at first,” Philipe told me. He put down his magazine. “Come on. Let’s follow him.”

It was surprisingly easy to keep track of the man. His attempts to ditch us were almost cartoonlike. He’d stride quickly through the crowd of shoppers, looking constantly over his shoulder to see if we were following; he’d dart behind couples and groups of teenagers, only to move out into the open again to see if we were coming.

I must admit, the man’s obvious fear of us gave me a little thrill of power, made me feel strong and forceful.