Cycling to Asylum Page 9

  “And?”

  “And I was rewarded with the most gorgeous, sweet smile I’d ever seen. I think I fell in love with him at that moment. We ended up talking for hours, and when they threw us out of the park for the night, I asked him if he had somewhere to sleep.”

  “Talk about bringing home stray cats.”

  “I was living with a bunch of other kids at the time. One more body wouldn’t have been a big deal. And I would have let him stay in my room.”

  “That’s our wild Janie, stray cats in your bed.”

  I laugh. “I wasn’t thinking that, really. OK, maybe a little, but mostly I just wanted to help. Anyway, he turned down my offer, but I could tell he wanted to stay. At the time, I thought it was pride.” I pause. “I didn’t see him again for three months.”

  The train is now moving at a slow crawl through the tunnel to Manhattan, but thankfully, the next stop is Bowling Green.

  “I looked for him on and off after that, first in Washington Square Park, asking the old guys who play chess there if they’d seen him. When it started getting colder, I began checking all the parks in the East Village. There are so many, and even the tiniest ones are gated! I eventually found him, not far from where I was living.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was in bad shape. I don’t mean physically. He seemed … I don’t know, like he was waiting to die. I asked if something had happened. He didn’t respond. I remember offering him a candy bar. He just wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I did what I always do in situations where I’m unsure. I talked. And then I talked some more. I told him about myself, about school, my family, but mostly I talked about ideas—like fighting injustice and making the world a better place. He didn’t say anything, but I could see he was listening. Finally, even I was talked out.”

  Now I figure is the moment when Roberto will make some joke about how he can’t imagine me ever being talked out, but instead he waits, looking at me with a soft expression on his face. I squeeze his hand.

  “It started getting late, and dark and cold, but I still sat by him, not knowing what I could do but not wanting to leave either. Then he finally spoke.”

  “What did he say?

  “He said something about how I should leave now unless I planned to stay forever.”

  “So you stayed.”

  I nod, closing my eyes, remembering that moment like it was yesterday. Laek had looked at me, lifting his hand slowly through the air until it was just touching my cheek. Then, he gently outlined the shape of my face, saying ‘It’s a heart,’ in a voice that was so tender that even now, sixteen years later, remembering it sends chills down my spine.

  “And then?” Roberto prompts.

  “And then, he laid himself down and went to sleep. So I lay down too, but I wasn’t used to sleeping rough and it was pretty cold that night. Finally, I drifted off. When I woke, Laek had his jacket and shirt over my shoulders and his bare arm wrapped around me.”

  “Wow. So how did you get him inside?”

  “It took a while. I learned why he wouldn’t stay in my apartment. He was terrified that he’d somehow bring disaster down on all of us, something he believed had happened before with his group. But being all alone was literally killing him. Laek’s need for community, love—it’s like food and water to him, absolutely essential to his well-being. That’s why … it’s why I’m so scared about what’s going to happen now, about what we should do.”

  As I’m trying to articulate this, the ventilation cuts off with a sudden loud huff, followed by the lights, air-conditioning and electricity. Seconds later, the electricity comes back on and the train slowly begins moving again. We hear some squeals over the antiquated sound system, followed by an announcement in a computer-perfect voice: Attention passengers. This train will be bypassing Bowling Green. Next stop, Wall Street.

  “Shit!”

  “It’s OK, Janie, we can get off there. It’s not much further.”

  I wait to hear if they’re going to give an explanation for why the train isn’t making its usual stops. Maybe they’ll blame it on “a sick passenger”—which usually means a suicide or a homeless person being thrown off the train—or maybe on “technical difficulties”—which can cover anything from a water main break to a fire on the tracks to a broken door. But what they say is “police action.” This announcement fills me with more dread than ever before. Especially when the train passes Wall Street station, horns blaring, without stopping there either.

  Attention passengers. This train will be bypassing Wall Street and Fulton Street stations. Next stop: Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I say, walking around in circles. Roberto takes my arm firmly and leads me towards the back of the car to be closer to the southern-most exit. Time seems to crawl as we slowly pass Fulton Street with the doors closed. If we’re not allowed to exit, at least let the train zoom by. Instead, it’s as though the locked-in passengers are being teased with a slow-motion view of each inaccessible station.

  When we arrive at Brooklyn Bridge, we burst out the door and up the stairs, weaving our way through the crowd. Roberto’s on his mini-screen, getting an update on the situation. We decide to check Zuccotti Park first, since it’s closer. When we arrive, Roberto puts a legal observer badge around my arm and activates it. I climb up on one of the low walls surrounding the area and survey the crowd, trying to spot Laek.

  “How was he dressed? Is he carrying a sign?” Roberto asks, looking around.

  “A plain white t-shirt, tan shorts. No sign. But forget what he’s wearing. Just look for a tall, dark head that’s moving. Laek never stays in one place. And you know how he walks. Very energetically, almost like he’s bouncing.”

  After a few minutes of craning my neck and jumping up and down, I haven’t found Laek and I’m ready to move on. It’s true that it’d be easy to miss him in this crowd, but I can’t stay put. There’s a feeling of dread steadily growing in the pit of my stomach. I pull on Roberto’s arm and we jump down from the wall.

  “Let’s head further downtown. Any news from the legal observers?”

  “They’re reporting arrests and the beginning of some trouble near Bowling Green.”

  “How are the arrests going down?”

  “With lots of force and violence. And new tech is being used. A kind of disruption field.”

  Walking south, we’re stopped three times by cops who laboriously check our legal observer IDs. At Bowling Green, I see Peg and Melo from the Neo-Anarchist Scatter Band. Peg has her tuba and Melo has a holo-drum suspended from a silk scarf around his neck. Behind them I see the other members of the band, about two dozen in all, dressed in a variety of colorful costumes and trailed by their usual coterie of fans and press, including floating cameras. This whole scene, shaped into a cutting-edge sound art experiment, is sure to make it to the international entertainment feeds by midnight. The musicians, with their excellent access to the press, are being left alone by the cops.

  “Has anyone seen Laek?” I ask as Roberto talks on his screen.

  “I did,” Melo says. “Walking around Battery Park. He was moving pretty fast.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Fifteen minutes? I’m not sure.”

  Roberto comes running over, a little out of breath.

  “I think we should head to Battery Park.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re surrounding the demonstrators with micro-netting and closing in. It’s being described as a free-for-all.”

  I’m walking towards the corner of State Street and Battery Place when I suddenly have an idea. I run back to Peg. She agrees to talk with the others. After she’s left, I back up a few paces to try to see over the heads of the cops. A free-for-all is an apt description. I start crossing the street when my eyes are drawn to a figure moving towards the front of the park. He’s far off but there’s something deeply f
amiliar about the way he moves. I cross the street quickly and join Roberto in trying to enter the park, but we’re rebuffed by the solid line of riot cops. We flash our legal observer IDs but are told to move on.

  “Who’s the officer in charge here?” Roberto demands. No one responds right away, so Roberto holds up his screen to show that he’s recording the exchange. “I promise to have every one of you brought up before the Special Civilian Board if you don’t call the officer in charge right now. The Singh Decree obligates you to give legal observers access to the scene.”

  I let Roberto handle this and walk off along Battery Place, trying to peer between heads in the line of cops. Yes, the person I saw walking must have been Laek because I see him now, closer, talking to two cops. Suddenly he’s running towards them. What the hell’s going on? One of the cops raises his phaser stick at the same moment as a big white shirt walks into my line of vision. I move sideways, craning my neck, just in time to see Laek go down. I open my mouth to scream but what seems to come out of my throat is the full blast of sound that can only be the Neo-Anarchist Scatter Band. Then all twenty-four of them march by, plus press, hangers-on and four more legal observers who’ve arrived.

  As the band makes their way along Battery Place playing post-modern circus music, complete with whistles, drums, accordions, and a surreal holo-surround, a few cops break formation to watch them. I see my chance and, heart pounding, dart through their lines towards where I saw Laek fall. I don’t wait to see if anyone follows me, but am comforted by the sound of the band’s music close by. I glance back quickly and catch a glimpse of Roberto, also in the park now and talking to the white shirt in charge.

  I fall to my knees beside Laek. He’s propped up against a tree and seems out of it. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt, but he’s clutching his ribs with one hand and holding onto the tree with the other. His breathing is shallow.

  “Laek, are you OK?” His eyes aren’t even tracking me. I put my hands on either side of his face and say his name again. This time he looks directly at me. His eyes are full of pain.

  Roberto’s at my side now and tells me we have to get Laek out of here as quickly as possible. I look around to try to figure out where to go. The whole park is a scene of violence and chaos, the marching band adding a bizarre soundtrack that seems strangely fitting. Everywhere the band goes, whatever’s happening comes to an abrupt halt. This is fortunate because nothing that’s going on in this park is good, nothing but the band’s music and the magic it’s performing.

  “Do you think you can stand?” Roberto asks Laek.

  “… don’t know.” Laek sounds breathless and weak. Roberto and I help him up, but he cries out in pain and would have fallen if we hadn’t been holding him up.

  “Grab onto me,” Roberto says to Laek. “I’ll support your weight. Try to keep your legs moving as best you can. Janie, stand close to him on the other side. OK, which way?”

  Roberto surveys our surroundings and starts walking towards Battery Place in the direction of the nearest exit. It takes us forever to walk the short distance out of the park. Roberto’s looking more and more panicked as he glances behind us, as though he expects to be stopped. He pulls Laek’s arm more firmly around his shoulder, taking most of the weight of him onto his own back. Laek is slumped over and stumbling, his breathing more and more irregular.

  “We should call an ambulance,” I say, but there’s a cab just ahead at Greenwich. A cab could be faster. I tell the driver to take us to the Downtown NY Workers’ Hospital north of here.

  In the cab, Laek is seated between us, breathing with his mouth open and holding his ribs. Each time the car swerves or stops or starts, Laek can’t keep himself from letting out a gasp of pain. I wrap my arms around his shoulder, hoping to stabilize him. It’s not working very well. Roberto’s supporting Laek on the left side, speaking a non-stop stream of comforting words—that we’re almost there, that he’ll have help soon, that it’ll be OK, all the while belying these assurances by looking as grim and worried as I’ve ever seen him.

  FIFTEEN

  Laek

  I’m bound hand and foot, the cuffs digging into my wrists and ankles. The Room is up ahead. I twist and struggle, trying to get away. They subdue me with more blows. Drag me down the corridor. Taunt me, saying that it’s time for my shower.

  I’m in The Room now. Fish Man is looking at me. His skin is too white. His lips are fleshy, and his eyes, cold and dead-looking. He watches as they tie me down to the board, my head hanging back below my shoulders. Fish Man bends down over me. Calls me Young Mr. No-name. Asks me if I have anything to tell him today. I can’t tell him anything, not even my name, because by now, I don’t remember it.

  They put the wet cloth over my face. Pour the water. I hold my breath for as long as I can. Soon I’m struggling, sucking at the cloth, as water instead of air enters my mouth, my throat, my lungs. They remove the cloth and I try to breathe. Retch and cough instead, acidy liquid dripping from my lips. Before I can even get a full breath in, they do it again. And again, and again.

  This time, I think I finally understand. It’s me who’s Fish Man, or Fish Boy maybe. Please let me up, I think. I can tell you my name now. I know they can hear me think sometimes. That’s why I try to keep my thoughts quiet. But today I want them to hear. So they’ll take the cloth away. LET ME UP. MY NAME IS FISH BOY! But they don’t hear me. I know what I need to do. I have to become a real fish boy. So I suck the water into my lungs eagerly, seeking the oblivion of deep, dark waves. Only my plan doesn’t work. They pull the cloth from me, sit me upright, pound my back so that the water comes up. I cough, my lungs on fire, burning me from the inside. The pain is unbearable. Please. Let me swim away.

  I start coughing, and wake up in my hospital bed. It’s seventeen years later. I’m covered in sweat and shaking, and I discover the pain from my dream is real. There’s a terrible burning, crushing agony in my torso. Just trying to breathe makes me feel like I’m going to pass out. I don’t know what’s worse—the pain or the feeling that I can’t get enough air.

  There’s a small screen at the foot of my bed showing the time. It’s very early, barely morning. There’s a button for summoning a nurse, voice controls for adjusting the bed. I choose the latter. Get a little relief by repositioning myself. Whatever they gave me for the pain—morphine probably—has pretty much worn off, but I need to wait as long as possible. I’m not being brave. Morphine almost killed me once, but the hospital would have no way of knowing this. The most interesting parts of my medical history won’t be found in any public records.

  There’s another control. For the screen at the foot of my bed. I pick it up. Watching the screen might distract me for a while. And I want to see what the news is saying about the demo. It asks me for permission to charge my account. I see it’s actually Janie’s account. I feel reassured, just seeing her name.

  I scroll down. The options are limited, mostly mindless entertainment. Reality shows, cooking, virtual travel. The only newsfeeds are for local coverage. As though local news is safer somehow. It doesn’t take long to find coverage of the demonstration. The reported number of protesters is a fraction of my own estimates. They’re talking about a large number of arrests. Showing scenes of vandalism and violence downtown. The police blandly looking on in the background. Well, why shouldn’t they? The vandals are probably on the same payroll. Not much play is being given to the issues raised by the demonstrators. The fact that the City pulled the permit at the last minute isn’t even mentioned.

  I flip through other newsfeeds. Watch scenes of arrests being made. The pain in my ribs is getting very bad again, the relief of changing position wearing off. I make myself wait a little longer before asking for pain medication. Meanwhile, the voice-over on the screen is talking about protestors resisting arrest and clashing with the police. All I see are peaceful demonstrators tripped, pushed and dragged. Do people really watch these images and believe what the voice-over is telling them instead of th
eir own eyes? I mute the sound. It’s making me too angry.

  I’m flipping back and forth between images, when I decide I’ve reached my limit. The pain is so bad, each time I inhale or exhale is an ordeal. I’ve decided to call for the nurse when I see a familiar image on the screen. It’s the group I saw sitting back-to-back in Battery Park. I would be walking a little west of there. The camera moves away as the protestors begin to be dragged off. I see a familiar figure. Roberto! And Janie just to his left, now disappearing off the frame. Then I see a chilling sight. It’s him. The cop from Broadway who sexually assaulted me. Wearing a uniform that marks him as a high ranking officer in the anti-terrorist squad. He turns, faces the camera. He’s looking straight at me as he smiles. Then he turns left and frowns, to where I saw Janie standing a second ago. My heart freezes. Janie. He’s looking at Janie.

  I watch the coverage at double speed through to the end to see if there’s anything else with that cop or with Janie. Nothing. I replay the earlier sequence. And then I replay it again, to see if maybe I was mistaken about what I saw. It’s looping now. He stares at me. Smiles. Looks at Janie. Frowns. I keep watching it. I can’t stop.

  The control drops down out of my hand. Without thinking, I reach for it. Agony fills me. I pass out. I wake confused, trying to remember what I was looking for. All I know is that I need to warn Janie. I try to get out of bed and wake up on the cold floor. I can’t breathe. I pass out again.

  When I next wake, I’m back in my hospital bed, a mask on my face and something attached to my arm. When I inhale, it feels like my insides are being torn apart. I hear myself moan. My doctor’s talking angrily to someone, something about letting it go for so long. He turns to me and speaks in a gentler voice.

  “Easy does it. You had a fall, but it’s OK now. We’ve raised the morphine dosage. Try to take deep, slow breaths. I’m going to take the mask off.” He removes it. “How are you doing?”

  “It hurts.” I shiver.