It’s this type of revolutionary shit Herr Silverman says that always gets the stupid kids in my class angry, red-faced, even ready to fistfight him sometimes, because they don’t realize that our teacher is just trying to get them to think. He’s not really saying that wearing name-brand clothing is evil. Or that buying Polo clothes makes you a Nazi. Or that wearing a Phillies cap is one step away from fascism.
But it makes me laugh every time because I don’t wear any of that name-brand crap, don’t play or follow popular sports at all, and wouldn’t be found dead wearing our shitty school mascot. I’m not a follower. Not a joiner. I’m not even on Facebook.
So whenever Herr Silverman brings up symbols, I can watch the others squirm and defend without feeling like a damn hypocrite.
Maybe I’ve transcended my age, so to speak.
My classmates are all repressed monkeys.
NINE
In my funeral suit, on the train, pretending to be a workaday Tom, I always pick out a target—the saddest-looking person I can find—and then I’ll get off at whatever stop the target does and follow.
Ninety-nine percent of the time the target’s so comatose the target doesn’t even notice me.
I’ll trail the target, hanging five or so feet behind, and the target will always walk really quickly because the target is forever late and in a rush to get to a job the target inevitably hates, which I just don’t get.[19]
The whole time I pretend I have mental telepathy. And with my mind only, I’ll say—or think?—to the target, “Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Do something you love today. Ride a roller coaster. Swim in the ocean naked. Go to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere just for the fun of it. Maybe stop a spinning globe with your finger and then plan a trip to that very spot; even if it’s in the middle of the ocean you can go by boat. Eat some type of ethnic food you’ve never even heard of. Stop a stranger and ask her to explain her greatest fears and her secret hopes and aspirations in detail and then tell her you care because she is a human being. Sit down on the sidewalk and make pictures with colorful chalk. Close your eyes and try to see the world with your nose—allow smells to be your vision. Catch up on your sleep. Call an old friend you haven’t seen in years. Roll up your pant legs and walk into the sea. See a foreign film. Feed squirrels. Do anything! Something! Because you start a revolution one decision at a time, with each breath you take. Just don’t go back to that miserable place you go every day. Show me it’s possible to be an adult and also be happy. Please. This is a free country. You don’t have to keep doing this if you don’t want to. You can do anything you want. Be anyone you want. That’s what they tell us at school, but if you keep getting on that train and going to the place you hate I’m going to start thinking the people at school are liars like the Nazis who told the Jews they were just being relocated to work factories. Don’t do that to us. Tell us the truth. If adulthood is working some death-camp job you hate for the rest of your life, divorcing your secretly criminal husband, being disappointed in your son, being stressed and miserable, and dating a poser[20] and pretending he’s a hero when he’s really a lousy person and anyone can tell that just by shaking his slimy hand[21]—if it doesn’t get any better, I need to know right now. Just tell me. Spare me from some awful fucking fate. Please.”
I’ll do the mental telepathy bit for about ten minutes or so as the target climbs out of the subway stop and navigates skyscraper shadows and finally disappears inside a building that usually has a security guard to keep crazy people like me out.[22]
So then I just go to the nearest park, sit with the pigeons, and stare at clouds until my workday is over and it’s time to ride home with all the other weary workaday Toms and Jennys, who look even more miserable on the PM return trip.
The rides home always deepen my depression, because these people are free—off work, headed back to families they chose and made themselves—and yet they still don’t look happy.
I always wonder if that’s what Linda looks like riding home from New York City in a car—so utterly miserable, zombie-faced, cheated.
Does she look like the mother of a monster?
TEN
I’ve taken dozens of practice-adulthood days, followed so many suits, but only once did anyone notice me.
It was this beautiful woman wearing huge 1970s sunglasses on the train, even though most of the ride is underground. I could see her mascara running down her cheek, but she was really beautiful otherwise. Like, I was sort of attracted to her.
Long, bright blond hair.
Red lipstick.
Black stockings.
Gray pinstriped skirt suit.
You could tell that she was an authority figure just by the way she sat and dared anyone to say anything about the runny mascara. The vibe she sent out was menacing and it definitely said, “Don’t fuck with me.”
Regardless, on that day, this woman was by far the most miserable person on the train. You could tell she was upset, but it also looked like she’d rip your face off if you said anything to her.
All the other adults pretended not to notice, which seemed cowardly.
As she was the obvious target for the day, I got off at her stop and followed.
I remember the sound of her high heels clicking on the concrete like cap guns firing.
She walked up the escalator; I did too, trying hard to keep up.
When we cleared the turnstile I started the mental telepathy, saying (or thinking?), “Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Go skydiving. Buy a star on the Internet. Adopt a cat.” And I continued with my routine for a city block or so. She turned into a back alley, and when we were halfway down it, she spun around tornadolike and pointed a can of Mace at my nose.
“Who are you and why are you following me?” she said. “I will destroy your day. This is top-grade stuff too. Illegal in the United States. I squeeze this trigger and you won’t be able to see for months. You might go blind.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I put my hands up in the air, like I’ve seen criminals do in the movies whenever they want to surrender, when some tough Bogart-type guy points a gun and says, “Reach for the sky.”
It surprised her, and she took a step back, but she didn’t spray me.
“How old are you?” she said.
I said, “I’m seventeen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Leonard Peacock.”
“That’s a fake name if I ever heard one.”
I said, “I can show you my school ID.”
She said, “Let’s see it, but real slow. If you try anything funny, I’ll shoot you in the cornea.”
I lowered my hands super slo-mo and said, “It’s in my pocket. May I reach into my jacket?”
She nodded, so I produced my school ID.
She took it, glanced at my name, and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. You really are Leonard Peacock. What a stupid name.”
I said, “Why are you crying?”
I saw her trigger finger twitch and I thought I was about to get maced, but instead she put my school ID into her purse and said, “Why are you following me, really? Did someone pay you? What do they want?”
“No. It’s nothing like that at all.”
She moved the Mace a few inches closer to my face, pointed at my left eye, and said, “Don’t fuck with me, Leonard Peacock. Did Brian put you up to this? Huh? Tell me!”
I put my hands up again and said, “I don’t know any Brian. I’m just a dumb kid. I dress up like an adult and skip school every once in a while to see what being an adult is like. Okay? I just want to know if growing up’s worth it. That’s all. And so I follow the most miserable-looking adult to work, because I just know that’s going to be me someday—the most miserable adult on the train. I need to know if I can take it.”
19
Like Linda, who claims to LOVE LOVE LOVE designing clothing but never misses a chance to complain about and stress over her work. How can she love something that makes her so unhappy—that keeps her away from her only son? Maybe being stressed about work and complaining all the time are a welcome respite from being Leonard Peacock’s mom? I don’t know. But thinking about that makes me sad. Especially since she became a fashion designer right after I tried to tell her about the bad stuff that happened with Asher. It was like my failed confession drove her away from me—made me repugnant.
20
Who probably screws hundreds of other women behind your back, because he’s a powerful player in the fashion business, so he definitely can. And people who value fashion first and foremost are not usually humanitarians or Nobel Peace Prize candidates, after all.
21
Herr Silverman said that the Jewish women in the Nazi death camps were often forced to have sex with Nazi officers (maybe like the one who owned my P-38?) just to stay alive and get privileges for themselves and family members. And hearing that made me wonder if Linda has to perform sex acts for Jean-Luc to keep her fashion career alive. (Herr Silverman also said that some sex slaves were teenage kids just like us.)
22
Interesting that businesses in the city have security guards but my high school doesn’t. Maybe it will after today. But why protect adults and not children?