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FIRST PLACE
Gradatim
By Donald Hadden
Netherlands
He referred to it as the Bubble. It was a bit
of a nonsense name, but that was how it looked to him
as a child. Look mommy, he remembered crying out when
he was a young child, I’m slowing you down like
a Bubble. She thought it was a child’s fantasy;
That’s nice dear. Is it a pretty bubble? How
could she have guessed it wasn’t just a childhood
game? For him, it was normal - and it’s not often
anyone thinks about normal. At what age, I wonder,
would you notice you were the only one who needed to
breath? You’d think nothing of it, would you,
until you began to notice that everybody sticks their
heads in buckets of water for 20 minutes at a time.
That’s what it was like. When he was older, he
experimented with other names ones less childish than
the Bubble. The Gradus was one; it’s from the
Latin, he explained, meaning step, from where we get
the word gradually step-by-step. It was a personal
vocabulary, since he never planned to ever speak of
it. Nevertheless, he continued to call it by his original
name; the Bubble.
It’s futile to ask an elevator if it’s
ascending or the world is going down. Lots of people
do, but he never asked and neither will we. What matters
is that he could change the relationship between himself,
the world and time. On an ordinary day, they march
lockstepped so naturally the result of some senseless
and distant cosmological accident - that few even consider
the possibility of one winkling off. Who/which went
faster, who/which slowed down; futile/stupid leave
it, you’ll go mad. To him, it looked like the
world slowed down; everything and everybody swimming
in a thick transparent morass. Except him.
He couldn’t control it until he was 11 or 12
years old. Before that, it just happened. It was then
he discovered by concentrating very hard that it was
possible to produce it change the relationship between
himself, time, and the universe. Put that way, it sounds
like something quite grand. He thought it was just
something to help him play baseball. As the pitcher
let the ball fly towards him at home plate, he would
slow it all down. He was able to line himself up with
the pitch and make contact. He was a good base hitter.
He still didn’t realize that he was unique, nor
did anyone else; he was slightly better than average,
good enough to make the school team, but not the star.
That, he laughed afterwards, was the real miracle that
even with this extraordinary gift, he was just good
enough to make the cut.
It was on a baseball diamond that he realized he was
like no other. During a crucial game, he had managed
two base hits, but was left stranded both times when
the star of the team struck out. On the bench, he asked
him why he hadn’t slowed the ball down.
Oh bril, why didn’t I think of that. Next time I’ll ask the pitcher
real nice to throw a bit slower.
No, he answered, when it was coming towards you, make it go slower. Use the Bubble.
Jez, what kind of weird geek are you?
He didn’t answer; instead, he began watching and looking and slowly realized
what sort of weird geek he truly was. It upset him. That may strike you as odd,
but I can’t imagine a sadder child than Superman. What he wanted more than
anything was to fit in, be liked, be normal. He told no one about it; it wasn’t
a secret weapon, it was a curse. Many times, he vowed to himself to never use
it again. He made deals with God, promising to become a better person and not
use the Bubble; then promised only to use the Bubble for good. All that failed.
He learned to control it better, extending it in length and the degree of retardation.
Its main application stayed baseball. He practiced different batting techniques,
using what he called flat hitting, which is a straight hammer like swing with
a flat wrist roll and low finish. His fielding wasn’t much better for the
Bubble, but his hitting made up for it and he became the school’s best
hitter. Apart from baseball, he didn’t see much use for it. Other sports
weren’t well suited for it. Basketball, hockey, football all required too
much continual concentration, which was a severe effort. It worked best in short
spurts or slugs, he joked; I never could figure out what the opposite of short
bursts was. Otherwise, he had little use for it. He took extra time on school
tests, but felt it was cheating so only did it on math tests. And whenever his
geography teacher bent over, he’d use the Bubble to get a good look at
her boobs dangling inside their white lace bra. It would have stayed that way
forever a curious little game for better batting and cheap looks but then he
busted Bill McWilliams’ nose.
He had just turned 16. In itself, it doesn’t sound like much of an incident,
but he felt this was a crucial corner. McWilliams’ was the school bully,
a big barrel chested toad who pushed him and others around for no reason except
it was possible. Then, one day, he’d had enough and turned the violent
fantasies into a reality. McWilliams’ was about to deliver his favourite
attack, a heavy two-fisted punch to the chest. It either sent you to the floor
or left you with bruises. Or, you put the world in the Bubble and fought back.
He slowed McWilliams’ fists down and gracefully stepped out of the way.
McWilliams’ keep moving forward, out of balance and stumbling. He tried
to trip him, but didn’t get the footwork right. McWilliams’ recovered
and turned around quickly, but he was already there, right in his face. Then
he slapped him.
I’ve no idea why I slapped him, he said laughing, It was a heavy slap,
but still a bit girlie.
Still, the shocked look on McWilliams’ face with the handprint etched out
in searing red he thought a wonderful sight. McWilliams’, however, was
far from finished; his arm went back, he made a fist, and then it began hurling
forwards slower, and slower, and slower, until it was almost motionless. To date,
it was his slowest Bubble and one he’s rarely been able to duplicate. He
asked if I had noticed how anger and excitement seem to enhance the power of
the Bubble. It’s possible to create a Bubble while sitting calmly, but
it couldn’t match the stolidity achieved when something portentous was
happening. And yet, when in the Bubble he reported that he always felt calm and
serene. In the outside world, something exciting was happening a fastball arching
toward him or a murderous slug with his arm cocked yet he was cool, collected
and assured, as the TV ad for this would go. This Bubble was so slow he was almost
bored. He checked the crowd, mostly the nameless rejects that followed McWilliams’ around.
They were salivating over the anticipated pummeling their big man was about to
hand out. McWilliams’ face was puffed and grizzled red, comically so.
He brought his arm up and knocked McWilliams’ fist aside. To the outsider,
it looked like a quick move, but not like lightening. Inside the Bubble, or doing
the Freeze, you feel heavier, but can move almost normally. The recoil from knocking
someone’s arm away does take some getting used to.
His arm out of the way, he brought his foot down full force on McWilliams’ balls.
As his foe buckled, he grabbed his oafish head and brought his knee straight
up into his face, smattering his feeble nose all over his jeans. McWilliams’ fell.
He had no regrets about McWilliams’. The nose was broken in several places,
leaving McWilliams’ scarred for life, but so what. He had it coming. The
consequences for him were severe. There were the inevitable immediate repercussions
from the school and his parents, but that wasn’t the deadliest fallout.
He had crossed a threshold. The Bubble was no longer just a helpful plaything,
a funny quirk that let him compete on the same level. It had become something
powerful and you know what they say about that.
As before, it happened slowly. It wasn’t an overnight transformation into
an arch-villain from a Super-Hero comic. He cheated on more tests, and eventually
on all of them. And in a way, you could hardly call it cheating some kids have
natural abilities in subjects, and as they used their ability, so did he. He
would shoplift occasionally, nothing big at first and he didn’t create
the situations. In a shop, if he was hungry, he’d go into the Bubble and
check all the clerks, mirrors and cameras, then nick it. It was too easy though,
and he began shoplifting more expensive items; rings, pens, watches anything
that could fit into a pocket.
McWilliams’ came at him again and paid a heavy price. As well as a pair
of ribs and more nose damage, he lost the lot. His gang deserted him, some of
the slim attaching themselves to their new champion. He also got Cindy, McWilliams’ old
girlfriend. Apart from putting out, there wasn’t much to recommend about
her. For a horny 16-year-old, that was more than enough. He gave up baseball
around then as well. Later on, he confessed that the coach had dropped him because
of his bad attitude. That pissed him off. He stopped cheating on tests, but only
because he never studied anymore and an extra 10 years wouldn’t have helped.
But baseball, school he couldn’t care. For a while, it was fantastic; he
was a tough, he had a gang, bad grades and a slut for a girlfriend. Life was
never better.
It lead to where it was always going to go: deaths. Cindy was the first. She
had always been enthusiastic; at first, for sex, then for sex and drugs, and
finally it didn’t matter what or who did it to her as long as she was stoned
out of her brain. She had been thrown over to the gang by then. They’d
shoot her up and bang her in turns all night. Within a year, she was dead from
an overdose.
Her supply of drugs had come from him, who was by then a regular supplier of
whatever you wanted. He wanted cash, and drugs was the easiest way to get it.
He quickly established himself as the biggest dealer in the school, and after
his expulsion, he was free to concentrate on his new career. His rise up the
criminal success ladder was typical of a hundred other spectacular crime stories;
the payoffs got bigger, it got more dangerous, the violence increased, the brutality
increased and more died: gradatim. As he expanded his territory, he came into
conflict with other drug dealers. They compiled or were dealt with. He won all
the confrontations with other gangs, even when the others were armed. Several
of his rivals wound up dead, although nobody you should feel sorry for.
We discussed it; was there an honest alternative for the Bubble or doing the
Freeze? It was too big a thing to be ignored, so it had to be used. But for what?
Baseball wasn’t serious; he confessed, I could have become a star amateur,
but I never would have made it to the majors or real money. Because on its own,
it didn’t do anything. The ball could be slowed down, but if you don’t
know how to hit a baseball, it was just a strikeout in slow motion. He had tried
it in music classes too with the same result; the notes were right, but music
is more than playing the right notes. And it sounds awful slowed down. So what
was it about crime? How was it that he was so successful in this? And you have
to credit him, because he was good at it there was more to him than being able
to beat his opponents to the draw. When I first encountered him, most of the
eastern and northern half of the city was his territory and he was making inroads
into the area controlled by the motorcycle gangs. Perhaps whatever random mutation
or act of God that caused this also created a master criminal mind. I’m
really not sure, and I really don’t care that much; I enjoyed discussing
it with him, but whatever it was that made you a better sort of criminal didn’t
coincide with inspiring philosophy.
He was in a hurry, he said. Neither of us was sure this lasted forever it could
disappear. His idea had been to make it big fast, then either insulate himself
from trouble or retire with a few million. It sounded like a reasonable plan
and he was well on his way. Before taking on the motorcyclers, he wanted to consolidate
the entire Metro area. It was ambitious to say the least.
It was a familiar scenario, one he’d faced a couple dozen times or more;
two drug gangs facing off against each other. He knew what to do. We were in
his Bubble and he was using the time wisely to determine his next move; figuring
out who to take out first and where the big guns were.
Then I came at him, strolling at a regular pace through his Bubble. I hit him
across the head once. He tried to block it, but his arm was moving at glacial
speed. He looked at me in that long moment with his stern flashing eyes with
incredulity and panic. Just before the blackjack struck, he understood what was
happening; he was doing the Freeze. That’s what I’ve always called
the Bubble.
I had him placed in a special cell, the kind that somebody with that power couldn’t
escape from. I was there when he woke. What do you want? he hissed at me.
Talk, I answered, I want to talk.
You re insane, he said, Talk? Talk talk about what? About this? You mean like
about the first time or something? When you realized you were weird?
Yes, talk, I answered. So we did, because we both needed to. For a week, we told
each other our stories, our brilliant sad stories. I treated him like a king;
great food, the best wine, superb hookers. We understood each other so well.
So well, that when this morning - both of us talked out - I ordered my rival
killed, he wasn’t at all surprised.
Copyright (c) 2004 for the author, all
rights reserved. |
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