6. Coming (Back) To America

6. Coming (Back) To America 

I. 

He'd had this wildly exotic notion trapped in his mind that he could ride the whole way from Florida to Michigan, layovers in train terminals included, simply observing what took place beyond his passenger window and in the aisle/s of the train/s, monitoring, controlling his inhalations and holding the air in his lungs and that he could mentally recite and rehearse the contents of a particular scientific article he'd discovered in one of the virtually innumerable magazines donated to the Pelican Ranch. He'd adored that article. To a high school runaway, it spoke volumes about the nature of education and the individual. It said the even a pea-brain like McEntyre just needed a semi-reasonable, semi-supportive environment to grow into some definition of a functioning adult. 

The boat-ride from South Qubar Island was a cinch. There were only a few other soon-to-be former inmates being transferred back to the continental United States and there were approximately five (5) infantry and/or service crew per inmate to escort them and prevent them from any premature release. He rode in shackles and wearing a bile/forest green jumpsuit and with a blinder-band about his eyes and temples, letting his two and a half years of corrective captivity on the Ranch meander away in the waves and the sound of the humming engine. 

After they reached the shore of Florida and the escort vessel docked, the inmates were regranted their sight and the shackles were removed from their ankles and each one was assigned a guard to monitor him at machinegun-point and McEntyre and the others were brought to their specific terminals and delivered to a conductor -- armed with medium-caliber handgun, of course -- who affixed a small GPS monitoring device to the inmate's ankle before inviting him to take any seat in the first car and he warned to not change seats at the risk of some indefinite punishment. 

He'd enjoyed almost everything up to that point, nor did he feel alienated or dehumanized by all these measures supposedly meant to protect him from himself. At the center of Spook's mind, there was only the soothing, repeating thought that the brain is learning to see itself. That within its deepest catacombs and recesses there are a hundred thousand veins and avenues and portals to and from the external world operating in delightful cacophonous concert... And he entered into a state of somnambulistic bliss he would never forget. Something indelible recorded in his hippocampus. In his red marrow and his heart. 

There was a train-shift in Washington D.C. and Spook was met by a soldier carrying a very sophisticated-looking automatic rifle and the soldier looked to be about in his early-thirties and he had a look of self-assured confidence and he spoke to the almost preposterously young McEntyre with a respect that very nearly bordered on altruism. "The report says you've been a model prisoner up this point," he said. "Is that right?" He wished he could have his bracelets removed to massage his wrists for just a moment but he'd taken some small mastery over his impetuous and manic thoughts and he kept this desire to himself. "Yessir," he said. "You say 'jump' and I say 'how high.'" "Let's keep it like that," said the soldier. "Convict or not, you're still an American, and I don't like having to shoot Americans." Something pulsed up from the depths of McEntyre's psyche and he had the spontaneous urge to become acquainted with this stranger. He'd never had any meaningful relationship with his father, Andrew McEntyre, who disappeared mysteriously when Spook was very young, nor did his mother Dorothea have any siblings for him to call aunt or uncle. And this stranger, Spook felt, might do remarkably well in that role.  

But he remembered his self-promise. No fraternizing with the employees. Don't harass the other passengers on the train. Don't expect anyone to give a shit about your personal problems, kid. 

And he was seated on the train that would deliver him to Michigan. It was within an hour of two of Midnight and the sky was an inky, velvety darkness sparsely punctuated with refugee stars. A cold beauty beyond commentary or adjustment. A tranquil landscape to swallow and extinguish ten million lifetimes wasted in ten million ways.... 

Then, about 4 or 5 stops before his journey's end, a rabidly self-absorbed Nathan Rueben supporter stepped onto Spook's car. This was sometime during the first month of the Clint Ward/manslaughter trial, when the disgusting and repulsive emotional uproar concerning the rights of a "nigger" (Bill Duvall) were being championed against by every Rueben supporter who had the audacity and chutzpah to overtly express their deformed inner-lives & thoughts. There was no shortage of amateur video (taken on smartphones and likewise devices) of these people going from mildly upset and agitated to erupting into a riot's worth of violence and hate all channeled down to one malformed individual demanding "justice" from an otherwise indifferent or civilly just world. There had been no recorded fatalities or even close-calls associated with these disturbances to the common-peace (unless you counted Bill Duvall) but then no one really wanted to be around anyone that impressionable anyway... The man was clearly in a bad mood when he got on the train. It was almost like he wanted to be in a bad mood when he got on the train. "Can you believe this shit? I mean, can you Actually Fucking Believe this shit?" Two black women jurors had been selected for the trial. "I mean," he said, "they're lettin' the wolves guard the fuckin' henhouse. Has this country lost its mind?" A conductor approached the man where he stood yelling by the entrance/exit. "I need you to take your seat, sir. The train's gonna begin moving shortly." "Yeah, yeah," said the man. "Excuse me for expressing a thought." And he moved off down the aisle, taking a seat less than 20 ft. away from Spook's. And the man began talking to himself and everyone unfortunate enough to be around him and his voice climbed some invisible mountain only he could observe while he detailed the faults and handicaps of the American Judicial System and its dire, inexplicable and shameful lack of  true justice. (And he probably hadn't had an orgasm in a very long time, and never in the company of another person.) And he carried on like this while Spook closed his eyes and tried to tune the frantic imbecile out, while he tried to purchase some refuge or escape within himself, while the state of Michigan flipped past beyond the passenger window and he hoped the coming-year wouldn't be as emotionally taxing as this.  

II.

Jeff Gerstein wasn't there to pick him up. The station was under video-surveillance. In addition to this, Spook could be tracked anywhere from the Garden of Eden to the Apocalyptic End Times by the GPS device installed in his ankle-bracelet, which it had also been suggested to him, on more than one occasion, to contain a small incendiary device capable of separating his foot from his shin if he wanted to try any scenic detours away from his stated destination. (This lasting rumor would be partly dispelled in the following years when several, non-coordinated independent researchers looked into the matter and it was determined that such a prohibitive measure was counterproductive to the budgeting of finances regarding America's Sisyphean efforts to control domestic and foreign terrorism.) And so, with nothing to prevent him from escape other than his fear, conscience and the relaxed and regular sweep of the surveillance-camera, Spook was left alone on the Michigan platform to wait for some indefinite period of time. 

It was about o'clock in the morning. By the nature of gravity and time, the collective shadows that characterized the night had been entropically redefined into the soft, warm, almost-naïve shade of red-pink-orange that attend the minute hours. The harmony wasn't lost on Spook. He'd found himself to not only be very lucky and blessed for his early-release from the Pelican Ranch into this Godly-inspired morning, but he'd also secured a cigarette lighter from a frustrated smoker who, after only a few serious attempt to get the thing going, threw the item away in a casual fit of anger and disapproval. And with his lighter and lack of restraints, he began to scour the train station's ashtrays for sizable portions of leftover cigarettes, toasting the filters to rid them of germs and then smoking their limited tobacco, as he'd seen a  homeless person do in a previous lifetime when he was still a salesman. 

He'd been doing this for perhaps 20 minutes when a woman approximately his mother's age saw him and approached him. He wasn't totally shrouded in strangerhood to her mind. But she resisted from saying "the McEntyre Wild Child" when she noticed him with the cigarettes and the lighter. "Excuse me," she said. "But aren't you a little young to be out here by yourself at this hour?" Inhaling with deep satisfaction, and then exhaling with equally deep satisfaction, he responded, "I'm 19. In human years." "Oh," she said. "Well, is there someone who's supposed to be picking you up?" "My sponsor," he told her. "He's late." Then he went back to smoking the cigarette. "I see..." She had obvious concern imprinted on her expression as loud as a spotlight. "Well, do you have any money for food or something to drink?" "They fed me at the jailhouse yesterday. They can't give you money or you'll spend it on drugs." "Oh, my. That's terrible," said the woman. "Do you... Are you... Are you -- what do they say -- are you in a recovery program?" Through the fog of his nearly-spent cigarette, he said, "Not per se." Then he thought. "Wait: do you know who I am?" She studied him closely. Small wonder touched with small horror entered her perception. 'Helena Slivovitz,' she thought. 'He's the boy who...' "You're... You're the boy who...?" "I didn't rape anybody," he said, finding another half-discarded cigarette in an ashtray. She watched him toast the filter with the lighter and she felt a kind of worried admiration for his need of the tobacco. "Everyone says her wounds--" "Her wounds didn't come from my prick. They start and end with Helena Slivovitz and that's it." The woman was shocked by his language. She didn't quite fear for her safety, nor was she going to change any personal beliefs, but she did feel a certain, strange need to extend charity to this odd young man smoking leftover cigarettes out of public ashtrays. She looked around, presumably to make sure no one saw them. "Listen," she said. "I'd like to give you something." You'd have thought it was nothing less than his 5th birthday party. The woman went into her purse and opened some other doc-hold inside of it and from there removed a $10 bill and presented it to Spook, who looked from the bill to the woman with a mixture of appreciation and distrust. "Go ahead," she said. "You need it more than I do." His pupils had a glossy/melted look. He carefully took the money from her. "Get yourself something to eat," she said. "And take care of yourself." Then she politely left him alone. 

III. 

Gerstein has this look of avuncular hubris when he sees McEntyre playing with the lighter and sitting on the bottomsteps of the climb up to the platform. He exits his 2003 Forde Camel with a burdened gait in his step, leaving the engine running, and approaching the young man with a practiced maturity more common to a poorly-trained stage actor than that of a charitable guardian. He stands, about three feet away, staring down at Spook like he's just discovered oil or gold for the first time in human history. He stares for over a minute before Spook notices and looks up. 

Spook makes eye-contact. He's not charmed by what he sees: Gerstein has this awkward odor, and his bearded mouth and diminutive eyes make him just as unwelcoming as the smell in his skin and his clothes. "Was wondering when you'd notice," says Gerstein. "Jeff Gerstein?" says Spook McEntyre. "The one and only," says Jeff Gerstein. Spook McEntyre says, "I was wondering when you'd get here. You're like nine hours late, you know, right?" "I told them I'd be here when my schedule allowed. I'm self-employed, which means I'm very busy." "Whatever. I guess if you're schedule allows we can go to your place." Gerstein looked strangely hungry for something. "I've made sure of it." Then they got into the Forde Camel, closed the doors, and drove off to rural Michigan and the bizarre and unwritten and tenebrous future to come. 

****