“I put this before you right here, right now: Clapping is not chaotic or random—it is a well-organized effort by the medical grafting industry to ensure the future of unwinding now and forever.
“If you don’t believe me, look for it yourself. Follow the money. Who gets rich if the Juvenile Authority gets strong? In the long run, who profits from clapper attacks? The smoking guns are hard to find, but they’re out there—and if you find something, let us know at radiofreehayden@yahoo.com.
“Well, with the approach of distant sirens, I’m sorry to say that our time together has run out, but here’s a tune just right for finger snapping, as we sign off until next week! And remember, the truth will keep you whole!
“I’ve got you . . . under my skin. . . .”
50 • Lev
Denver Union Station. Eighteenth stop of the eastbound Zephyr, one of the few transcontinental passenger trains still running on a regular schedule. Lev pays for his ticket in cash. The ticket agent spares him a glance, then double-takes and shakes his head in clear disapproval. Still, the agent passes the ticket through the little hole at the base of the glass window. Only after leaving the line does Lev hear the agent say to the next customer, “We get all types here.”
There are Juvey-cops in the station. AWOLs always try to take trains. They rarely make it on board. One Juvey eyes Lev suspiciously and heads him off before he can get to the train.
“Can I please see some identification, son?”
“I’ve already been cleared by security. The Juvenile Authority doesn’t have the right to ask for identification without probable cause.”
“Fine,” says the Juvey-cop. “You can file a formal rights violation complaint with the Juvenile Authority after you show me your ID.”
He pulls out his wallet and hands an ID card to the cop. The ID has a new picture, reflecting how he looks now. The cop studies it, clearly disappointed that he can’t make an instant arrest.
“Mahpee Kinkajou. Is that Navajo?”
Trick question. “Arápache. Doesn’t it say so?”
“My mistake,” the cop says, handing him back the ID. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Kinkajou.” The cop knows better than to mess with him now. The Arápache are very litigious when it comes to their off-Rez youth being harassed by the authorities.
Lev glances at the officer’s name tag. “I’ll make sure to file that rights violation report when I get where I’m going, Officer Triplitt.” Lev won’t do it, but the officer deserves a little heartache.
Lev finds his train and gets on board, ignoring the glances and stares of strangers, although sometimes he stares back until the strangers are so uncomfortable, they look away. No one recognizes him. No one will. His new look guarantees that.
Passengers already settled in their seats glance his way as he moves down the aisle. One woman quickly deposits her purse in the empty seat beside her. “This one’s taken,” she says.
He passes through three coach cars until coming to one a little less crowded and finds a place where he can sit by himself. Across the aisle, however, is a girl who seems to have almost set up camp in the two seats she’s commandeered. She has a cobalt-blue streak in her black hair, and fingernails in various unmatching colors. She’s seventeen, maybe eighteen. Perhaps an AWOL who survived long enough to be legit, or a legit girl playing at nonconformity. One look at him, and she thinks she’s found a kindred spirit.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” he echoes.
A moment of awkward silence then she asks, “So who are they?”
He plays dumb. “Who are who?”
“Zachary Vazquez, Courtney Wright, Matthew Praver,” she says, reading them right off of his forehead, “and all the rest.”
He has no reason to lie to her. He had the names tattooed there so that they could be seen. His days of hiding are over. “They’re Unwinds,” he tells her. “They had no one to mourn for them. But now they have me.”
She nods in unconditional approval. “Very cool. Nervy, too. I like it.” She shifts from the window seat to the aisle seat. “So are they everywhere?”
“They’re head to toe,” he tells her.
“Wow! How many names are there?”
“Three hundred and twelve,” Lev says, and adds with a grin, “any more and it would look cluttered.”
That makes her laugh. She ponders his face and his clean-shaven head, then says, “You know, your hair will eventually grow back. You’ll have to keep shaving it if you want people to see the names.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
The train pulls out, and she moves across the aisle to sit next to him. Taking his hands, she examines the many names on his forearms, hands, and fingers. He lets her, enjoying the positive attention as much as he enjoyed the negative attention from the disapprovers.
“I like the color choices, and the fact that you didn’t spare your face. It was a bold choice.”
“None of them were spared, so why should any part of me be?”
He made sure that there wouldn’t be a single part of his body not covered by the names of the Unwound. His only regret is that there aren’t more. Jase was right. So much ink so fast hurt to the point of tears, and several sleepless nights. Even now it hurts, but he bore the pain, and he’ll bear it still. The simple lettering of the names in red, black, blue, and green looks like war paint from a distance. Only when you get close enough to see Lev’s eyes do the patterns resolve into the names of the Unwound. Jase is a true artist.
“I think it’s beautiful,” says the girl with the cobalt streak. “Maybe I’ll follow your lead.” She looks at her right arm. “I could ink an Unwind right here. Just one, though. There are times when less is more.”
“Sabrina Fansher,” he suggests.
“Excuse me?”
“Sabrina Fansher. She would have been number three hundred and thirteen if I’d kept on going.”
The girl frowns. “Who was she?”
“I wish I knew. All I have are their names.”
She sighs. “Her memories are scattered to the wind. Sad beyond sad.” Then she nods. “Sabrina Fansher it shall be.”
She introduces herself as Amelia Sabatini—her Italian last name making him think of Miracolina. Then she asks him his name. He hesitates before he tells her, still not entirely used to his new alias. “Mahpee,” he tells her. “Mahpee Kinkajou.”
“Interesting name.”
“It’s a Chancefolk name. You can call me Mah.”
“Better than Pee. Or Kinky.” She giggles. He decides he likes her, which could be a problem. His plans do not leave room for friendship.
“How far are you going?” he asks her.
“Kansas City. How about you?”
“All the way to the end of the line.”
“New York?”
“Or bust.”
“Well, I hope you don’t do that,” Amelia says, giggling again, this time a bit nervously. “What’s there in the Big Apple for you?”
Her questions are probing. Invasive. With each one he’s liking her less and less. Instead of answering, he puts it back on her. “What’s for you in Kansas City?”
“A sister who can stand me,” Amelia says. “You have family in New York? Friends? Are you running away there?” She waits for his answer. She will not get one.
“It’s nice that you have someone in your life who can stand you,” he says. “Not everyone has that.”
Then he turns to look out of the window, and keeps looking out of the window until she’s moved across the aisle again.
51 • Tarmac
There are more than three thousand abandoned airfields in the world. Some are the relics of war, abandoned during peacetime. Others were built to handle air traffic in places where the population has declined. Still others were built by misguided investors, banking on a growth boom that never arrived.