The Man Who Could Only Be Human
by Shawn Jacobson
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 On Memory Lanes appears in issue 726. |
part 2
I didn’t expect to see the kid anymore; I even thought he might head back East to more normal surroundings. So, I was mildly surprised when, two weeks later, he came in the door.
“Sorry about the last time I was here,” he said sitting toward the door end of the bar allowing himself a quick getaway. “Did I pay you enough? I left without asking.”
“More than enough,” I replied. “In fact, I owe you a couple. I did warn you about telepaths. You should have been careful.”
“It’s not that she said anything I was ashamed of or anything like that,” the kid said. “It’s just, well, I just got scared, thought she might use the mirror on me or something.”
“The mirror?” I asked. How would you know about the mirror? Then, after a minute’s reflection: “Would this have anything to do with Lisbet?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, “I was too close when she used it on this guy in a bowling alley. The guy, he owned the place, was dishonest, promised things he had no intention of delivering. That made her mad. She really let him have it.”
“I see why you’re a little gun-shy of mind games,” I replied. The mirror was one of the Spirit Folk’s most powerful therapy tools but, like most powerful tools, it was dangerous when misused, like using a chainsaw to take off a wart.
“Care to tell me the story?” I asked. I was real curious about how you’d get Spirit Folk in a bowling alley in Iowa; it’s not something you’d expect.
“This family came to see us bowl,” the kid said. “Well, not just my dad, just to watch humans bowl, like they were doing research on us humans. Anyway, Lisbet and I hit it off; we were both about ten at the time, real puppy love stuff, and things happened.”
He continued telling me about his dad almost bowling a perfect game that might or might not have been legitimate and about the owner of the bowling establishment, who didn’t have enough money to pay the bonus he’d offered to anyone who could accomplish such a feat of bowling. It was a story full of the alien strangeness more at home here than in the heartland.
“That’s quite a tale,” I said. “I take it you’re thinking about finding Lisbet?”
“I’m deeply considering it,” he replied. “I’ll admit to fear, especially after the last time I was here.”
“I’m told that any worthwhile life involves doing scary things,” I said. It’s as close to sagacity as I get.
We fell into silence. Then, the kid spoke up. “If it is not overly personal, how did you end up with invisible hands?”
“Playing cowboy,” I replied. Then, “you probably don’t know what that means.”
“I could guess,” the kid said, “but I’d probably be wrong.”
“To answer in a meaningful way, I first have to say that my dear old dad was one of the Spirit Folk. More precisely, he was one of the newcomers, a Spirit Person with religion. Anyway, Mom was human, so, there were things like levitating, telepathy, and moving stuff around with his mind that Mom couldn’t do. She loved him a lot, but it did get on her nerves not being able to keep up with Dad in the race of life, or maybe I’m not saying it right.”
“I think I know what you mean,” the kid said, “kind of like the man who was in here getting away from his wife, or the blind guy not being able to do sighted things.”
“I think you understand,” I said. “Anyway, Mom left Dad when I was in my teens, just couldn’t deal with it anymore and it was just me and Dad. I couldn’t do the things Dad’s folk could do, either, and we lived away from other humans, so I felt weird as well as powerless. A boy that age has his pride, his need to prove himself.”
“So how did that cause the strangeness with your arms,” the kid asked.
“One night, there was a real bad wreck out on the highway. A gas truck slammed into a bus. There was a fire, and several people got seriously hurt. Newcomers like Dad go in and help when they can, pull people out of the wreckage and such. I wanted to prove myself, so I tried to help. Not being able to do the mind magic stuff Dad could do, I wasn’t much help. When I reached into a car to pull out a young lady, I got my arms burnt off.”
“Is that what you mean by ‘going cowboy’?” the kid asked.
“Yes,” I said, “folk try to do things they can’t to impress the Spirit Folk, or to prove their worth to themselves. It never ends well.”
“So, okay, you lost your arms; how do you do your magic show?” the kid asked.
“One of Dad’s folk, one of their healers, figured out how I could use my mind to do limited telekinesis. I guess I had enough of Dad’s powers to pull that off, but it took lots of training, mind exercises, and a lot of time, for me to make it work.”
“I guess it could have been worse,” the kid said, and I had a feeling that this is what he said when better words weren’t forthcoming.
“True,” I said, “it could have been a lot worse, I’m grateful, and should be more grateful than I am, but...”
“But what?” the kid asked.
“Well, it’s not that I’m vain but, well, I’m a bit of a freak this way. I’m never going East, for one thing. I’ll never go see the world like a normal person can, like I wanted to do when I was young. I would just frighten people with the strange way I do things. Folk out East, well, they just wouldn’t understand.”
“I see what you mean, I think,” the kid said.
We both knew there was nothing left to say, so we let the silence linger as each of us pondered the stories we’d heard. There is time for silence in bars, and this was it. This time, the kid left, unhurried and with a promise to return, without fear of the strangeness that is found here.
* * *
The next time I saw the kid, it was Friday evening, and the after-work crowd was flowing into the place. The kid stood out by his youth; most of the younger folk who worked at Falcon Lab gravitated to portals of fun that featured loud music and dancing. As I’ve said, that’s not the kind of fun we offer.
“I don’t know why I keep coming here,” the kid said to my unspoken question. “I just feel called to this place, don’t ask me why. It’s strange.” He watched me pour a beer with skilled, invisible hands. “But then, I guess a lot of strange things happen here.”
“Glad to have you as a customer,” I replied noting his position near the center of the bar.
We discussed calls and callings. He told me more about growing up in the heartland and I talked about growing up beyond the edge of humanity.
“I hate to disillusion you,” I said, but strangeness is not that common here. If it weren’t for the Spirit Folk and their powers, the place would get boring, and fast. All you’d see is ranchers chasing cows around the high country.”
“How do the Spirit Folk do it,” the kid asked, “reading minds, levitating, moving objects without touching them, that stuff?”
“I don’t know,” I answered in all honesty, “I’m not sure they even know, not consciously, not anymore. The best I can understand it is to say that they finesse quantum particles, quarks and that stuff, that lets them move things and know things in some ways we can’t. I remember one member of the Spirit Folk telling me that humans might figure it out in a couple centuries or so...”
“Unless your folk blow yourselves back to the Stone Age first,” a voice called from the door.
“Hi Gretta,” I said as a short, overly happy, blonde bounced in.
“How’re you doing, cousin mine?” Gretta asked as she breezed down the bar.
“That’s your cousin?” the kid asked.
“I’m his kissing cousin,” Gretta said. She levitated over the bar and gave me a big wet one right on the lips.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I told her. “You’ll frighten away the kid. And besides, what would your husband think of you jumping about kissing other men?”
“Oh, Ben,” she bubbled, He’s out on watcher duty. The only thing he’s worrying about right now is whether there’s going to be trouble we’ll have to deal with. Your people should be more grateful to us for bailing you out of your messes, and more careful with trucks and fire.”
“Did you have to remind me?” Gretta was a good kid but careless with her words.
“Sorry,” she said. Then: “As for the kid, if he’s going west, he’ll have to get a clue about us so that Lisbet won’t have to teach him everything.”
“Understood,” I said, “why don’t you just fly across the bar to the customers’ side and let me put up the telepath sign.”
“Get it,” Gretta said as the “T” sign popped up behind the bar. By then, the regulars knew to be careful what they thought; they’d all seen Gretta in here enough that they knew how she could be.
“Lisbet has good taste in boys,” Gretta said giving the kid a peck on the cheek.
“Sweet kid,” he replied. His face had that look of joy that youngsters get with surprise affection.
“No,” Gretta said, “you’re the kid, I’m a kissing cousin. Here, let me demonstrate again,” she said as she gave him another peck.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but thirsty people need their thirst quenched.” I went to attend to unfinished business down the bar.
* * *
“I’d love getting a kiss from that cousin,” Ralph said as I reached his stool. He was at the end next to the pool table, as far from the outside world as possible.
“She isn’t your type, Ralph.”
“Why not?” Ralph asked plaintively.
“Well,” I explained, “for one thing, she’s a lemonade person and you’re a vodka person. Speaking of vodka, you look like you’re ready for another.”
Ralph was one of our steadier regulars. Like most of the customers here, he had more experience than joy in life. He had fought in two wars, one in Europe and another, uglier, war in his bedroom. On good days, he told me about how blessed he was that the European campaign had left him unscathed. It was the one blessing that he mentioned.
As I poured Ralph his vodka, I noticed a darkening in the background, the buzz of conversation, as if the sun had gone behind a big old dark thunderhead.
“I have to go,” Gretta said no longer bubbly, “I’ll settle with you later.”
“Trouble,” a fireman said following Gretta out the door.
I got a sense of crumbled metal, then fire. I knew what must have happened. Ben must have spotted an accident — I’d guess it was nasty — as part of his watching duties and Spirit Folk were rallying to help the first responders.
The kid, somehow sensing what I’d sensed, rose from his seat.
“Stay right here kid,” I said. “This is for those who know what they’re doing and for those with the power to help.”
Judging me to have the right of it, the kid sat back down.
“You might want another beer kid. When folk get back from this, they’re not likely to be in a good mood.”
The crowd didn’t get any larger that night; it usually does on a Friday. It was as if folk knew there was something scary bad going on and they wanted no part of it. I kept serving drinks.
Ralph, who had no desire to return to the only other place he could call home, stayed on. As did the kid, who seemed compelled to stick this out. A few other regulars hung around, tough people who knew hardship and felt that they could handle anything. What happened later that night tested even their resolve.
It was just a bit before closing time when Gretta came back with Ben and some of the emergency workers. As I had expected, she was not her usual happy self.
“What happened?” I asked, though I felt I might not want the answer.
“Bad wreck,” one of the emergency workers said. “There were ten cars and a truck, a real chain reaction mess. Then one of the cars caught fire.”
“Were you able to get the people out?” the kid asked.
“Got all the folk who were in the cars out,” the emergency worker said, but there was one fatality.”
Just as I wondered how you’d get a fatality other than the folk in the cars, I heard, as much in my head as with my ears, an anguished cry.
“He went cowboy,” she wailed, “my husband, he went and played cowboy!”
The mousy man, I thought. Yep, that was his wife wailing; Mary, I thought her name was.
Mary came in the door, crying with desolate grief. Aided by telepathy, it reverberated through our heads, blowing through our minds with cyclonic force.
“He just charged right on in there,” she said, “just ignored everyone who told him to stop. I couldn’t stop him. I was busy helping others; it took everything I had. Why did he do it?”
I could have told her how feeling like a lower form of life can slowly drive you crazy, making you do crazy things, but this was not the time for answers, just for grief, and for the realization that if I had not backed off at the last minute on a similar wreck all those years ago that I, too, might be dead rather than a no-armed bartender.
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Shawn Jacobson
