Cycling to Asylum

  Cycling to Asylum

  a novel by

  Su J. Sokol

  Deux Voiliers Publishing

  Aylmer, Quebec

  Praise for CYCLING TO ASYLUM:

  Longlisted for the Sunburst Award

  “One of the best books I read in 2014… Couldn’t recommend it more.”

  —Fabio Fernandes, Editor of We See a Different Frontier: A Postcolonial Speculative Fiction Anthology

  “STOP whatever you are doing now and READ THIS NOVEL!!!”

  —Timothy Carter, Author of Epoch

  “Cycling to Asylum defies the strictures of genre, crossing borders geographically and metaphorically.”

  —Cora Siré, author of Signs of Subversive Innocents

  “A remarkable debut.”

  —Beverly Akerman, author of The Meaning of Children

  “Su J. Sokol’s eloquent prose takes us through a fascinating near-future landscape that is uncomfortably familiar. The distinctive, vivid voices of her characters make Cycling to Asylum a joy to read.”

  —Capitol Literary Review

  “Plenty of storytelling to enjoy …”

  —Québec Reads

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. First Edition

  Copyright © 2014 by Su J. Sokol

  All rights reserved.

  Published in Canada by Deux Voiliers Publishing, Aylmer, Quebec.

  www.deuxvoilierspublishing.com

  Smashwords Edition ISBN 978-1-928049-04-3

  Cover Design – Lin-Lin Mao

  Red Tuque Books distributes Cycling to Asylum in Canada. Please place your Canadian independent bookstore and library orders with RTB at www.redtuquebooks.ca

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my father, David J.Sokol, who taught me to love reading and to question authority.

  Because it is not possible to thank everyone who has helped me to write this book, I have chosen four representatives from the community of friends, readers, and writers whose feedback and support meant so much to me: Sharon Lax, who showed me the life of a writer; Daniel Minsky, whose own passion reassured me in my path; Cora Siré, whose wisdom is matched only by her kindness; and Ahmar Husain, who read my full manuscript on his cell phone.

  Thanks to the many superhero teachers in the writing community including workshop leaders, fellow writers, and the Quebec Writers Federation, and special thanks to Djibril Al-Ayad, Maya Merrick and Ian Shaw. Thanks also to Liz McKeen for her insightful copy-editing and Ania Szneps for her meticulous proofreading of the final draft. And finally, a very special thanks to Lin-Lin Mao, who so superbly captured the essence of Cycling to Asylum in the book cover design.

  I am grateful for my wonderful family, including my mother, Carol Kay Sokol, who taught me about unconditional love, my brilliant and generous younger brother, Scott Michael (Moti) Sokol, and my partner in life, Glenn Martin Rubenstein, the navigator of our own special voyage.

  This book is also dedicated to my children, Mara and Joshua, whose lives and goodness give me hope for the future.

  Su J. Sokol

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  BOOK ONE: Pedaling

  ONE Laek

  TWO Laek

  THREE Janie

  FOUR Simon

  FIVE Siri

  SIX Laek

  SEVEN Janie

  EIGHT Laek

  NINE Simon

  TEN Siri

  ELEVEN Laek

  TWELVE Janie

  THIRTEEN Laek

  FOURTEEN Janie

  FIFTEEN Laek

  SIXTEEN Janie

  SEVENTEEN Simon

  EIGHTEEN Laek

  NINETEEN Janie

  TWENTY Laek

  TWENTY-ONE Simon

  TWENTY-TWO Laek

  TWENTY-THREE Janie

  BOOK TWO: Changing Gears

  TWENTY-FOUR Simon

  TWENTY-FIVE Siri

  TWENTY-SIX Janie

  TWENTY-SEVEN Laek

  TWENTY-EIGHT Simon

  TWENTY-NINE Janie

  THIRTY Laek

  THIRTY-ONE Siri

  THIRTY-TWO Janie

  THIRTY-THREE Siri

  THIRTY-FOUR Simon

  THIRTY-FIVE Siri

  THIRTY-SIX Janie

  THIRTY-SEVEN Laek

  THIRTY-EIGHT Siri

  THIRTY-NINE Simon

  FORTY Janie

  FORTY-ONE Laek

  FORTY-TWO Janie

  FORTY-THREE Laek

  FORTY-FOUR Janie

  FORTY-FIVE Siri

  FORTY-SIX -Laek

  FORTY-SEVEN Siri

  FORTY-EIGHT Simon

  FORTY-NINE Janie

  FIFTY Siri

  FIFTY-ONE Laek

  FIFTY-TWO Siri

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT SU J. SOKOL

  ABOUT DEUX VOILIERS PUBLISHING

  Book One: Pedaling

  When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race.

  H.G. Wells

  ONE

  Laek

  I’m counting American flags. Eleven regular-sized, five minis, three hanging sideways, fascist-style. A giant one suspended from a thick metal pole in front of the bank. And the two hanging from either side of the police car just ahead. I stop counting. Quickly switch lanes. Keep pedaling, Laek. Just keep pedaling.

  I continue north on Fourth Avenue. There’s no need to check my screen or project a holo map. I know where I am. I know what time it is. My body can feel these things. So I sense that I’m not going exactly north, but more northeast. The convention is to say north, though, because of how the grid runs in this corner of Brooklyn.

  My bike is moving fast. Slicing through the heat. Sweat streams down my shirtless back and under my arms. I don’t mind the sweat, the heat, and besides, it’s only 91 degrees. Not too bad for 6:58 a.m. on a late March morning. A heavy truck rattles by. I feel a whoosh of hot air as it whizzes past me, inches from my left elbow. I hold my ground. A car comes up on me from behind. Sounds its horn. Does it think I don’t know it’s there? That I can’t feel its heat on my bare neck? My eyes dart between the traffic on my left and the double-parked cars on my right, alert for opening doors. I’ve only been doored once, the slight asymmetry of my handlebars a constant reminder.

  The sour stench of garbage combines with the delicious aroma of fresh muffins. Owners of local diners and bodegas are neutralizing alarms, unlocking gates and resetting their holo-boards. Homeless people still asleep are pushed away. Some with kicks and shouts. Some with phaser rods. A rod is raised. I slow, body taut, ready to intervene. It’s lowered. I move on.

  I fill my lungs with the early morning air. Reach my arms above my head. The wheels of my bicycle vibrate on the warm pavement and, like a tuning fork, I respond with a sure, steady hum deep inside me. I stretch my gaze west, towards the piece of sky that’s visible beyond the urban landscape. There’s a greenish-brown stain around the edges, but it’s still beautiful, still fills my heart with the hope I always feel looking at the morning sky. Like the City’s beginning again. Like something good could happen.

  At Ninth Street, I turn left towards the Gowanus. Once in Red Hook, cut off by the expressway, the walls of the neighborhood close in around me. I coast to a stop in front of my school. Dismount. We’ve started a new unit in ninth grade history: Citizenship, Patriotism, and the Social Contract. Should I mention the new anti-immigrant laws? Should I mention flags?

  I slip on my shirt. Bound up the bro
ad concrete stairs with my bike. Inside, I notice a new security guard. I hesitate. Then give her my best smile. She doesn’t ask for my wrist to scan my Uni. Relieved, I dig my hands deep into my pockets. Disappear into the distortion field of the elliptical security booth. I hold my breath as currents of metallic, tangerine air surround me.

  Once I’m through security, I exhale slowly. Walk down the hallway towards the teachers’ lounge. I roll my bike beside me, the sweat drying under my shirt.

  In the classroom, I get to work activating new holographic images. A security gate appears across the door. Stern-faced officers blink into existence. I add teeth-baring dogs. They snap at the air, barely restrained by their uniformed handlers. Nearby, I place other holos. Unified National Identity data being imbedded in wrist chips. Oaths being sworn. People marching. At the back corners of the room, adults and children of various races and nationalities, their possessions on their backs, wait patiently. The line of refugees disappears into the horizon. At the last minute, I add American flags of all types and sizes, waving disjointedly.

  My ninth graders begin to file in. Some seem excited, their heads whipping around. Others are looking down and clutching their school screens tightly. I begin class, hoping I haven’t overdone it. Even after turning the lesson into a game, with the apples I’ve brought for prizes, a few of my students still sit in their seats, fidgety and tight-lipped.

  A few minutes before the end of the period, when I’ve given out apples to most of the kids in my class, I smile at Sasha and ask, “Who’s hungry?”

  “I am,” Sasha answers timidly.

  “But he hasn’t even answered one question!” Marcus complains.

  “He’s hungry,” Inez says. “You already had an apple on top of your big-assed breakfast.”

  Before Marcus has a chance to retaliate, I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

  “It’s a good question the two of you raise. What’s more important in deciding who gets an apple—whether you’re hungry or whether you answered the question right?”

  Hands dart into the air and I watch the fight resolve into an intellectual debate.

  After a few minutes of discussion, I say: “OK, a good start. I want you all to think more about it while you’re doing the homework assignment I’ve beamed to your screens.”

  I toss an apple to each student who hasn’t received one yet, starting with Sasha.

  “You have enough for everyone?” Marcus asks, surprised.

  “Of course I do. I love you guys too much to short you on apples.”

  At lunchtime, I head over to the teachers’ lounge.

  “There’s coffee,” Erin says, pushing dark bangs from her eyes as she studies her screen.

  “Think I’ll pass.” I look around the teachers’ lounge. “You seen Philip?”

  “I saw him earlier, why?”

  “He’s meeting with his ex tonight. Still trying to convince her to take him back.”

  “Dana will never take him back.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I want to talk to him.”

  “He’ll only get mad at you, Laek.”

  “I don’t want to see him hurt again.”

  “You can’t keep him from getting hurt.”

  She takes a gulp of coffee. Grimaces. Returns to studying her screen.

  “Is that sour look from the coffee or what you’re reading?” I ask.

  “They’ve changed the English Comp exams again. Do they want these kids to fail?”

  I bend over her chair. “Talk about a moving target. Want to raise it at the union meeting?”

  “Maybe. You’re lucky you teach history. At least the past isn’t subject to change.”

  “Guess you never heard of revisionism.”

  “OK, you have a point.”

  “Seriously, Erin, you know how to teach English. You don’t have to jump every time the current admin wants to try out the latest regressive educational theory.”

  “And you need to be more careful, teaching a subject that’s so politically sensitive. We’re scrutinized enough as it is.”

  “I’m teaching the required curriculum,” I tell her.

  “I heard that for the citizenship unit, you were talking about civil disobedience.”

  “They asked me about it. Wanted me to take them to a demo. The parents of a student apparently saw me at one. I had to explain it was too dangerous.”

  “They also said you told them that borders aren’t real.”

  “Where are you getting this?” I ask her.

  “Don’t worry about it. The students think you’re hyper, as they put it.”

  “Well, it’s not what I meant, exactly. You know there are kids in my class who are undocumented. I wanted them to know they’re safe in our school. And that having docs and having human rights are two different things.”

  “But borders exist,” she insists.

  “Ever think about borders when you were a kid? I did—a lot. Maybe because of how much my mom and I had to move around. When we crossed into a new state, I’d stare at the road. Try to find the thick black line I saw on the map.”

  Erin smiles but doesn’t say anything.

  “Yeah, someone eventually explained that the lines on the map weren’t there in real life. Not between states and not between countries, either. It got me wondering. If borders are imaginary lines, why can’t people just step over them?”

  “But you know the answer to that, Laek. You’re an adult now.” She says this like my transformation into adulthood happened just yesterday. As though I wasn’t a man of thirty-two, only one year younger than her.

  “It’s not about being grown-up. I still wonder about this. And about what kind of world we’d have if that were allowed.”

  “But in the meantime, we need to teach about the world as it really is,” Erin says.

  “A bitter duty, sometimes.”

  *

  Grabbing my bike at the end of the day, I spot Philip on his way out.

  “Hey, when are you going over to Dana’s? You have time to grab a beer?”

  “Yeah, I’m not supposed to pick up Kyla before six. Dana needs me to take Kyla to daycare tomorrow. Do you think she might ask me to stay for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Did she say anything?”

  “No. Maybe I should bring a bottle of wine, just in case.”

  “That’s a strategy, I guess. Any other ideas on how to approach things?”

  “Well, I was thinking about getting down on my knees and begging. But that hasn’t worked especially well in the past.”

  “Ah, Philip.”

  “Don’t give me those sad puppy eyes, Laek. I was only kidding. Mostly.”

  “Now here’s an idea. You can find someone who actually appreciates you.”

  “She’s the mother of my child. How easily could you give up Janie?”

  “If it were best for her …”

  “You don’t understand. How could you? Janie would never leave you.”

  Maybe not. But there could still be a reason to give Janie up. Reasons related to her safety. And the safety of our kids. Philip doesn’t know why I’ve needed to think about this. And burdening him with that information won’t make him feel better. Instead, I try to find some words for him. But there are no words, because beneath it all he’s right. Just imagining a life without Janie makes me ache inside. So I wrap my arms around my best friend instead. He hugs me back, then pushes me away awkwardly. “We’d better hurry.”

  It’s almost time for the first of the three sequenced ultrasound alarms. At least judging by the way the guards are hurrying everyone through. I’ve been on school property only once when the first alarm went off. The bursts of sonic sound are only supposed to bother kids and teenagers. I still ended up with a pretty bad headache. I’ve never been on school property for the third alarm. It’s at a high enough decibel level to be classified as a sonic weapon.

  Philip’s on foot so I walk my bike. We take a shortcut through the Red Hook Proje
cts. Entering them is like being swallowed up by some beast. The jutting buildings like jagged teeth around a big hungry mouth. I stop at a sign: “Welcome to Red Hook Houses West—Another Successful P2 Partnership!” Public-private partnership, sure. Half the windows are boarded up. Playgrounds looking like battlegrounds. I stop reading signs. Read graffiti instead. “Forced implants = slavery.” And below that, in thick red paint, “Fuck the fazer.” I wave to a few students before cutting north. We emerge two blocks from our favorite local pub, The Look and Hook.

  We each order a Brooklyn Brown. One is enough for me. I want a clear head for the union meeting. Philip orders a second round. I pour half of mine into his glass while he’s in the men’s room. When it’s time to go, I wish him luck with Dana and head to the union meeting.

  In downtown Brooklyn, I tense up. Holo-ads, loud and lurid, assault my senses. I ride, head down, until the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. Standing on my pedals, I glance over my left shoulder, take a deep breath and go, crossing four lanes of busy traffic to arrive at the narrow, curved path in the middle of the bridge. A chorus of horns and a heartbeat later, I’m on.

  The bridge is a transfer point between two realities. I move away from the bustle of downtown Brooklyn—poor, ordinary, and mostly non-white—towards an island of wonders and riches held by a very few. Below me, the newest zip-and-soar yachts mix with older ferries and sailboats. Above, mini-balloons hover and swoop, a colorful counterpoint to the security drones. Yet here in-between, on the Brooklyn Bridge bike path, time is frozen. Everything still seems possible. I reach the midway mark, now finished with the long but modest climb. I roll with a crowd of cyclists past the spiderweb cables. I’ve passed the point of no return.

  In Manhattan, I glance out at the bubble dome being built around the business district. Then imagine the swarms of heavily armed cops and private security surrounding the construction. Gliding down the ramp off the bridge, I veer right, happy to be going north instead. I slip into the uptown traffic. Quickly pass the courts and then Chinatown. Zigzagging around the cars, it’s not long before I’m at East Fourteenth Street trying to catch a view of Union Square Park, a place steeped in fascinating labor movement history. I hope this might inspire us tonight. I take a left onto Broadway. Look for somewhere to lock up my bike.