Flight

Nineteen

WHEN I OPEN MY eyes, I’m standing in a bank in downtown Seattle.

Yes, that bank.

I have two pistols in my coat, a paint gun and a.38 special.

Yes, those guns.

I’m supposed to pull them out and shoot everybody I see.

Yes, I’m supposed to kill for Justice.

I did it before: a long time ago, a little while ago, a second ago. I don’t understand how time works anymore.

There’s that man again, the one who told me I wasn’t real.

I think he’s wrong; I think I am real.

I have returned to my body. And my ugly face. And my anger. And my loneliness.

And then I think, Maybe I never left my body at all. Maybe I never left this bank. Maybe I’ve been standing here for hours, minutes, seconds, trying to decide what I should do.

Do I pull out my guns and shoot all these people?

Do I shoot that little boy over there with his mother? He is maybe five years old. He has blue eyes and blond hair. He’s wearing good shoes. A jean jacket. Khaki pants. Blue shirt. He’s beautiful. A beautiful little man. His mother, also blond and blue-eyed, smiles down at him. She loves him. She sees me watching them and she smiles at me. For me. She wants me to know how much she loves her son. She’s proud of the little guy.

Did my mother love me like that? I hope so.

I wave at the little boy. He waves back.

I hate him for being loved so well.

I want to be him.

I close my eyes and try to step inside his body. But it doesn’t work. I cannot be him.

I open my eyes. I think all the people in this bank are better than I am. They have better lives than I do. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe we’re all lonely. Maybe some of them also hurtle through time and see war, war, war. Maybe we’re all in this together.

I turn around and walk out of the bank. I step out onto First Avenue.

It’s not really raining, but this is Seattle. There are only fifty-eight sunny days a year in our city. So it always feels like it’s just about to rain, even when the sun is out.

I used to hate the rain. But now I want it to pour. I want it to storm. I want to be clean.

I am surrounded by people who trust me to be a respectful stranger. Am I trustworthy? Are any of us trustworthy? I hope so.

I remember my first day of school. Kindergarten. My mother walked me there. It was only six blocks away from our apartment, but six blocks is forever to a child.

As we walked, my mother talked to me.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “School is a good thing. You’re going to have lots of friends. And you’ll learn so much. And the teachers will take care of you, okay? I love you, okay? You’ll be okay. I’m going to wait right here for you. All day, I’ll wait right here.”

She was wrong, of course. School was not good for me.

I never made friends.

I didn’t learn much.

I was not okay.

And my mother didn’t wait for me. She died.

After she died, I went to live with her sister, my aunt.

Yes, that’s the dirtiest secret I own.

This is what I don’t tell anybody. I don’t talk about it. I don’t dream about it. I don’t want anybody to know.

My aunt was supposed to take care of me. She had promised her sister she would take care of me. She was the only family I had.

My father was gone. My mother was gone. My grandparents were gone. Everybody was gone.

My aunt was all I had.

Aunt Zooey. Auntie Z.

She lived in an apartment with her boyfriend. A man who smelled of onions and beer. A man who leaned over my bed in the middle of the night. A man who hurt me.

I told Auntie Z.

She slapped me.

I told Auntie Z again.

She slapped me again.

I was six years old. I cried for my mother. Like a lost dog, I howled all night. I could not stop crying. I missed my mother.

My mommy. My mommy. My mommy.

I cried for one week. Then two weeks. Then three weeks.

Every night, Auntie Z rushed into my room, shook me, slapped me, and screamed at me.

Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying.

I miss her, too. I miss her, too. I miss her, too.

She’s not coming back. She’s not coming back. She’s not coming back.

Some nights, her boyfriend came to see me. He hurt me and whispered to me in the dark.

Don’t tell anybody, don’t tell anybody, don’t tell anybody.

Everybody knows you’re a liar. Everybody knows you’re a liar. Everybody knows you’re a liar.

Nobody loves you anymore. Nobody loves you anymore. Nobody loves you anymore.

I learned how to stop crying.

I learned how to hide inside of myself.

I learned how to be somebody else.

I learned how to be cold and numb.

When I was eight years old, I ran away for the first time.

When I was nine, I poured lighter fluid on my aunt’s boyfriend and tried to set him on fire. He woke up and punched me into the hospital. They sent him to jail.

After he got out of jail, he left my aunt. She blamed me.

When I was ten, Auntie Z gave me twenty dollars and sent me to buy some hamburgers and fries. When I got back to the apartment, she was gone. She never came back.

When I was eleven, I ran away from my first foster home and got drunk in the street with three homeless Indians from Alaska.

When I was twelve, I ran away from my seventh foster home.

When I was thirteen, I smoked crack for the first time.

When I was fourteen, I stole a car and wrecked it into a building beneath the Alaska Way Viaduct.

When I was fifteen, I met a kid named Justice who taught me how to shoot guns.

But I am tired of hurting people. I am tired of being hurt.

I need help.

I walk from street to street, looking for help. I walk past Pike Place Market and Nordstrom’s. I walk past Gameworks and the Space Needle. I walk past Lake Washington and Lake Union. I walk for miles. I walk for days. I walk for years.

I don’t understand how time works anymore.

I walk until I see a police car parked in front of a restaurant.

I walk inside.

It’s a cheap diner. Eight tables. Two waitresses. A cook in the back.

At one of the tables sit two cops, Officer Dave and his partner. They’ve arrested me more often than any other duo.

I walk up to them.

“Officer Dave,” I say.

“Hey, Zits,” he says. “What’s going on?”

I want to tell him the entire story. I want to tell him that I fell through time and have only now returned. I want to tell him I learned a valuable lesson. But I don’t know what that lesson is. It’s too complicated, too strange. Or maybe it really is simple. Maybe it’s so simple it makes me feel stupid to say it.

Maybe you’re not supposed to kill. No matter who tells you to do it. No matter how good or bad the reason. Maybe you’re supposed to believe that all life is sacred.

“Officer Dave,” I say, and raise my hands high in the air, “I want you to know that I respect you. And I’m here for a good reason. I’m raising my hands up because I have two guns inside my coat. One of them is just a paint gun, but the other one is real.”

Officer Dave and his partner quickly get to their feet. Their hands touch their guns, ready to pull them out of their holsters.

“This isn’t funny, Zits,” Officer Dave says. “You say stuff like that, you’re going to get shot.”

I start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Officer Dave asks.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I say. “And I don’t want to get shot. I really do have two guns. I want you to take them from me. Please, take them away.”