December… 2003
Cohen waited three months for his cousin to honor him with another “job,” another adventure—though he learned (or rather, was still learning) NOT to call it that. His anticipation and anxiety grew, and he wanted to slip to his cousin and ask, “When are we going on this stupid adventure?” Cohen felt now more than ever was the time for it, and he felt his indignation and use of the word “stupid” was necessary as well; this almost pushed him to ask—but, instead, he held his tongue.
His cousin would find that immature, and Cohen didn’t want to come across as childish in any way. He wanted to be considered reliable for any task at hand—and for that, he had to show his cousin he was capable, and that meant attempting to act eight years older than he was, and that was impossible. Because, even though part of him wanted to be involved in schemes and adventures—another part just wanted to skateboard and play video games. He loved the rise he got when he was with his cousin, the feeling of being invincible. The feeling that Frank would be able to overcome and stop any foe, save and protect him from anything that might come after them. And, if the law was involved—then, he (Cohen) was simply too young to know any better. He could play that part; he knew he could. Frank had taught him what to do, and Cohen could be the best actor when he wanted to. He could lie, cheat, manipulate, if he wanted to get his way. All one really had to do was ignore the adverse feeling that comes with personal moral discourse. Frank said he could trust Cohen, and Cohen wanted nothing more than to uphold that trust. But, was this also manipulation on Frank's part, to get his own way? He wouldn’t say a word to anyone. He would just revert back to being a kid, a brainless child, innocent, but still carrying the knowledge bestowed upon him by his cousin Frank.
Cohen waited. From the first day of September to December—three and a half weeks before Christmas, life had been treating him decent, though. There were youthful bouts of staggering depression following Mert’s departure from the family. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone. He had been growing tired of the extra family taking up space, overstaying their welcome. And frankly, they hadn’t paid a dime for anything since they arrived. Ironically, Mert also wasn’t working. He hadn’t been for nearly two years when Cohen’s Aunt and two cousins showed up. He was “in-between-jobs,” as he would say, and Cohen’s mother had grown tired of the lack of help. She already worked two jobs and was taking more hours at her second job to provide for her own family, along with her sister’s two sons. She just couldn’t come home anymore, looking to relax, only to find him—Mert—lounging around, doing nothing. “She couldn’t take it anymore.” Cohen couldn’t count the number of times he had heard that phrase uttered from his mother’s exhausted lips. She was never home, she never had the time to spend with her children—and if this was going to be her life, she would rather do it alone.
Even if Cohen fought his parents in the past, this time, he only succumbed. He didn’t want his father to leave, but understood his argument, along with his mother’s arguments, and couldn’t argue against either side. How could he argue for or against something when he agreed so wholeheartedly, and loved, both of his parents? So, when his older sister stormed from the table—slamming the door to her room—and his younger {the youngest and also family runt} sister began to bawl in her chair at the kitchen table counsel. Cohen simply sat idle, blank face, blank stare—wide eyed into the dirt-melded wood grain of their kitchen table. After the whole divorce speech was over, and his parent were done consoling his sister, they asked him if everything was all right, and he just shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I guess,” letting it pass by without another word—just the shock and awe of emotions as the changes plucked normalities from his life.
Cohen always wanted to impress his father and felt that—even if it was just a construct of the mind, another Pavlov, check marks the box—he never quite could live up to his father’s idea of what a son should become. But, funny thing {a lil joke for-ya}, Cohen never really knew his father’s expectations to begin with. Not until the days when Cohen edged toward the end his bumpy teens (18/19) would he quit attempting to follow, imprint, and even create these fictionalized expectations, based on reactions from his father, his friends’ fathers and the relationships they shared with them. And media dads—the movie, television, book dads—that were cookie-cutter but somehow reminded you of your father, or what you wanted your father to be—and if it wasn’t your own father, then the Pavlov made you reach out for a father figure, a guiding masculine role model.
Now, with his father’s departure still ripe, Cohen did what he could to battle the overwhelming sadness and depression creeping in, and in the throes of a mental war, like anyone, he couldn’t. It wasn’t like he didn’t see his father. He did—he stayed at his house in Brighton on the weekends, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as having him exist in that ever constant day to day—living under the same roof.
Cohen will admit that—probably to his father’s irrational dismay—the household seemed to find a period of harmony and grace. Everything was running smoothly—the overall atmosphere was rising to a light and airy mood, and this was all due, on top of axing the constant negative energy that permeated the household, to the undying relentlessness of his mother.
His mother was fierce, determined, and intelligent. A hardworking individual, with the will of ten men—and an energy inside of her that would—and will somehow—always be eighteen years old. Cohen wasn’t sure how she did it. It was as if his father left, and she was able to manage everything with so much more ease. When everything passed through her command, instead of tearing the authority in half between parents, as it had been before, Cohen noticed how easy everything flowed. The tension seemed to lift between the family members, and though there were the occasional quarrels, the entire mood seemed to shift. His mother was raising Cohen and his two sisters, on her own, better than she ever had with a man hovering around her, commanding her, and demanding things.
Cohen noticed this, yes—the happiness from relaxation and relief was nice—but he still missed his father’s presence. He missed Mert Manhasset, and when his father called, on the weekend Cohen wasn’t staying at his place, he would tell his father how much he missed him being there. He would sob about how much he wanted him back. And his father would grow flustered and come up with some heart warming excuse, something that would have easily made Cohen hopeful and perked his belief and faith in his father, and which—when these words of his father’s would sprout and grow into fruitless trees—Cohen would be so disappointed.
He now took to sleeping solely on the couch in the living room. He left his bed unmade the morning of the graffiti night. He was woken by Frank—dozing in an unmade bed, the feeling of the sheets on his shins, creeping up his thighs and pawing at his abdomen—it made him feel sick. That night—smelling of the aerosol chemicals—he crawled onto the couch. He pulled a cover from the line of three that were folded, decorating the head of the couch, and fell into a deep slumber—one that his mother woke him from early in the morning while she was still sipping her cup of coffee and smoking her morning cigarette.
“Son, you better wake up before your father comes out here and sees you. He’ll have a fit if he sees you sleeping on that couch.” She rubbed the hair on his head, and coaxed him into a willingness to walk to his bedroom, to his unmade bed—the wrinkled, bunched sheets. When his mother saw the bed she gave Cohen a face, which to Cohen meant—“Why haven’t you made it? I thought we went over this?”—but she didn’t say anything. She simply made the face, and then, under her own personal line of thought, under compassion and empathy, let the feeling on her face dissolve to a smile.
Though with his father gone, this changed for some reason. And he wished not to remember anything of this “past life”—the life that he was a part of inside this house—and that meant sleeping in his bed. And, truthfully, honestly, if he had done anything by habit while his father was here, he couldn’t any longer (this included the lessons his mother instilled in him). He had to rid himself of everything that reminded him of his father. Delete it. The first was his bed—and the reason for this was the walls that his father, with his artistic hand, painted to resemble clouds. Every time Cohen saw these clouds, while he was lying in bed, his father came to mind. He no longer felt as if he was flying, but now crashing and burning, and was able to sleep no longer. He found he was able to sleep on the couch, though, and after the first night—the first week—{he tried sleeping in his bed, but the sheets—the damn sheets—drove him out} the first month—his mother would give a look but never made a comment. He was anxious at first, but when that anxiety faded, he wondered if she ever would, and she didn’t. She allowed him to sleep on the couch. She barely ever used it. And, if anything, she could see him sleeping—down the narrow hall that connected living room and kitchen, where she sat smoking her cigarette and drinking her coffee in the morning, watching the sunlight rise and peak through the long horizontal windows.
In the weeks approaching Christmas, Cohen and his sisters talked to their father multiple times over the landline. The corded phone installed in the kitchen. The striking sense of separation from normality that the X-Mas holiday brought, was understandable. It had something to do with the festivities, joy, cheer, gifts, happiness, compassion and sympathy for everyone that arose during this time every single year. This year, though, for Cohen at least—the sense/spirit and feeling of the holidays didn’t start setting in until his father started swelling with either an unfound or unknown, sense of happiness, which was something Cohen had only witnessed in his father maybe twice in his young existence, and never around Christmas, and NEVER like this. He wasn’t only going to buy them separate gifts, but was also going to spend the morning/day with them, as a family, and kept reiterating how, “It wouldn’t be awkward.” This pepped Cohen’s mood, and not because he was going to receive more gifts. Though he wouldn’t lie—his childish mind sank to the selfish point at least once or twice, but he was more excited that his father was going to be in the house. His father was going to be here at Christmas, feeling like part of the family again—and he was going to be there while they all opened presents and get to open his own presents—and maybe his heart would grow ten times the size that day—Cohen could hope, wish, and dream…
The nights sleeping on the couch became moments of bliss. And the night they raised the tree he began leaving the multicolored lights on—shifting hues in a slow pattern as he drifted off. The night after the graffiti Cohen returned to school, and when he came home he would always slink upstairs to find Frank—not playing games like usual—but, with the computer monitor pushed far back into a corner of the desk. He had tools and different components splayed out on the desk.
“What are these?” He wasn’t nervous upstairs anymore. Both his cousins had made him feel welcome more than once, and now he felt accepted into their little group. He felt comfortable of asking any question without the fear of retaliation. He pointed to the components on the table, all of them. He didn’t know what they were, at all. And Frank was more than happy to explain. Before he did though, he ran downstairs to check if anyone else was home. Cohen tried to tell him they were alone. His mother wouldn’t be home until 6. She punched out from work at 5:30PM, {Pa-tang! It was an old mechanism. That seemed to come from somewhere, some decrepit factory torn down in the industrial era. The owners and financial members needed their Porches and Savannah Cats more than upgrades in factory and business infrastructure} and with the travel home—from her job to Depson—she wouldn’t walk in the door until 6. {7:30AM-5:30PM, 10 hours a day—4 days a week.} Frank’s Mother, Cohen’s Aunt Binton, was working her new job at the hospital, and if he only asked his brother, he would have known.
Frank’s brother, in order to use the vehicle throughout the day, was tasked as cabbie for his mother. Her shift spanned 3 to 11, {mostly secretary-type work, revolving—mainly—around scheduling for RN’s CNA’s, Sitters—pretty much everyone besides food service, doctors, and well—her own schedule} and Frank’s brother still hadn’t returned from driving her to work. This gave them a solid three hours of parental-free leisure time. When Frank returned, he was smiling. “I had to be one hundred percent sure that no one was in the house,” He returned to the seat, with his hands curling over the metal shafts and caps, the wiring, and the grey matte of gun powder cresting on the desk. Pointing at each one, Frank described it in detail—and so much intricate information that Cohen didn’t grasp the majority of it. Out of all the information beginning to slip from his mind—he at least retained the names and their uses in the bomb.
It was the days after that—and not on the weekends, because he was far too busy being a youth in the ever approaching, ever evolving hurricane that was/is the digital age—meaning he stayed in, {like some that looked out the window at the storm, or even chased the storm, dancing in it, frolicking, running, being one with it—only his generation strived to be one with the info-age, look out the window (or through the window that was the TV screen, the phone screen, the computer screen), or chase them, like hurricanes named after their future lovers and wives} surfing the net, and playing video games, which his cousin couldn’t be bothered with for the same exact reason. The week days after school, Cohen would hurry off the bus—scurry through the front door, throw off his backpack on the entrance stairs, and skip steps to the second floor. After the repeated process of checking the house, Frank came to slowly memorize the work schedules, and now was completely aware that they were alone. So, no worry or anxiety—only a grand teeth-bearing smile.
He was excited to share his new findings of research about the bomb and how far he’d come with the process of putting it together. He had combined one—but after testing it one day while Cohen was at school, had to report to him that the pipe bomb was… a failure, and it was back to the drawing board. His hopes were high though for this attempt. It could have been the third, or the fourth. Something led Cohen to believe his attempts were waaay past two—verging on quite high. How many bombs did Frank light the wick of, and throw—and where was he throwing these explosives? Cohen was intrigued. Would he actually get to see a real life bomb explosion? He could only hope so. He smirked at the thought while he watched Frank search the internet for his particular information. When the monitor popped to life an article was already on the screen.
“Not that one,” Frank shook his head, “not that one, at aaaaaall.” He laughed at his past demise and pulled up a new window, leaving the old one to still reside on the bottom tab. When Cohen peaked he saw a list of tiny boxes—other windows—other past attempts, articles, forums, videos, all pushed together to the point where the dividing lines (the little barrier signifying each new tab) were barely noticeable, all blended to look like one line of jumbled overlapping text.
First he started with the pipe. He gripped the shaft and snatched a metal cap up in his hand, screwing on the bottom of the pipe until it couldn’t possibly turn any more. “Well, I know this is the first step.” He chuckled, “Every fucking page I research tells me that. Now, I…” He paused and searched the desk. He clutched a funnel, fitting it to the opening of the metal shaft. Then—using a small scoop, he poured the majority of the pile into the shaft, filling it half way. And before filling it fully, he used a pipet {pipette? Guess that one’s up to you} to measure accurate droplets of gasoline into the epicenter to make a core of fuel. For when the fuze burned to the end, the gasoline would be ignited—jump starting the rest as a massive catalyst to the process. A simple fuze spark wouldn’t be enough, but now with the droplets from the pipet—this would do the trick—and this is what Frank had been experimenting with the entire time. He hadn’t obtained the perfect amount of droplets—not yet—but now, he thought he found the perfect piece of research. He had flipped through the internet enough—website after website of bomb building—the same bomb, a crude type, homemade—website on website on website—slightly different variations of pipe-bomb, to the point where a collage of information from multiple sources began to form one true concoction. He was finally onto something now—though Cohen was sure this was only Frank’s hope swelling up inside him. The way his cousin was acting was the way he acted every time he felt he had found a break through. Cohen was easy to get swept up in this.
When he was finished with the pipet, he placed the utensil back on the desk and clutching the fuze in the delicate steady pincer shape his fingers made, he wedged the bottom into the wet gas layer, and finished filling the metal pipe with gun powder until the fuze, flimsy at first, was able to stand on its own.
He kept his fingers wrapped around the shaft, keeping the explosive device vertical—so the gun powder wouldn’t shift and begin to pour from the brim. He lifted the second cap from another classified section. This section of mini domes stacked like a futuristic tower—slightly leaning—{think the good ol’ T-O-Pisa, just in Bladerunner} resembled the other caps, but with one minuscule difference. The convex epicenter of the dome had a tiny hole drilled into it, a hole the fuze could fit snuggly inside. When the cap was twisted on—and when Frank couldn’t twist any further with his flesh evolutions, he did exactly as he had with the bottom-half. He picked up a crescent wrench and, fitting it over the base of the dome, he twisted even more—to the point where the wrench handle felt as if it was going to bend.
The bomb was now complete, and Frank held it to the boom-lamp, bent to crane over the surface of the desk giving a spotlight to the work area. The yellow artificiality mixed with the glow of the computer screen—and all the components sat in distinct groups, under the glow. Frank still had the pipe-bomb propped in one hand, with his elbow rested on the face of the desk—the bomb close to the light—and Frank leaned in to inspect it, while in concurrent succession he pressed the mouse to his thigh and used the denim surface so that the mouse could successfully roam the computer screen. He minimized a couple screens and returned to the information that was displayed when Frank gave power to the monitor. There was something he found either interesting or correct on this page—although this specific info wasn’t used in the construction process.
“Well, time to do it again.”
“Why’s that?” Cohen’s voice passed his lips with an abrasive and childlike condescension, when what he really meant was confusion. It made him feel… awful.
Frank chuckled at Cohen’s lack of knowledge, “Because, you little shit, I need one to test—and if it works—one for the job.”
Cohen gave a nod—and Frank could read his shift in morale, “It’s okay, little buddy,” he nudged him in the small undeveloped bicep, “I was only joking.”
“I didn’t mean to be a know-it-all.”
“You’re good, little buddy. I promise.” Instead of nudging his arm, this time he rubbed it in consolation. “How could you possibly know? You’re just curious, and it’s good to be curious. So, are you excited for the job, to watch this thing explode and take things with it?”
Cohen’s grin grew across his face, from cheek to cheek, punching small level dimples in the youthful flesh—hovering above the corners of his trembling excited lips. He nodded his head—and he wasn’t lying. When he gathered upstairs with his cousin, watching his hands create a pipe bomb before his eyes—no matter if that bomb be a failure or not—Cohen thought of the explosion itself, and what that explosion would make. The sound, debris, flame, light.
When he was in school, he would imagine fitting the bombs into the toilet bowls, lighting them—and watching the different pieces of stall, wood grain wall, metal hinges, porcelain, all doused in toilet water—explode into splinters—and for a moment, before reality came crashing back in, it would all combine to make one thing—chaos. {And for some reason, when he was tempted by this entropic chaos, he seemed unable to deny himself that satisfaction} The same went for the walks home, where—with every snow bank he saw, he pictured burying the pipe bomb deep into the base of the snow bank—and boom! He imagined watching the innumerable sizes of clumps and snowy debris soar into the air, caught by the wind—where it would all be separated and rain upon him, dancing around in the frigid breeze like a winter wonderland. He wanted nothing more than to watch the bomb explode, and alter any form of mass, and never thought for a second about his reasoning, or undying want—or even what it was, or why they were destroying whatever it was Frank was dead set on. His (Cohen’s) mind was too focused on the explosion—and hoping it would appear like the movies—a massive flame ball lifting into the air—with heavy black smoke waving like hair from the scalp of the fire sphere. He wanted to see a flame sphere—as if his eyes were the big screen, and his brain—the projector—seeing the heat that boiled within him, outside his body, for the first time.
“When will we get ta see it explode?” Cohen’s demanding confusion and sulking was now turned to exuberant curiosity.
“Oh, probably this Friday… I have to test the first one—and if it works, we’ll do the job on Friday.” “What if it doesn’t work?” Cohen knew the answer, but his youthful, frantic mind—always bouncing, always turning, always moving—pushed the question through his lips without prior consideration.
“What do you think, genius? Its back to the drawing board. More research, more trial and error, more prototypes—more everything—until it works.”
“Well, I hope it works this time around.” Cohen blurted, overwrought with hope to see the giant explosion sooner rather than later. His selfishness made him think of nothing more than the excitement of the explosion—the flame sphere—and how it was an excitement he wasn’t supposed to be feeling—an illegal excitement—one he would be punished for if found out, which made it even more intriguing and swelled that excitement. He was willing to wait for any period of time. Friday was easy peasy, cake. “Nothing to it!” This Christmas would be fantastic, with his father home—a whole family once again. And seeing his first real explosion days before would be the cherry on top of the perfect dessert. Even though his father wouldn’t be there Christmas morning, or day, or even for the family meal. The only living memory Cohen would have of the fated X-Mas would be the flickering tree on X-Mas eve and watching—not anything festive or holiday spirit-ish, but—The Beach, starring Leo Decaprio {DiCaprio}. And even at his young age, just loving it—the movie—and later on while attending UNC—the book—feeling so connected to the isolation of the main character on both occasions. Richard, how he felt like him, somehow helpless, surrounded, and paralyzed—all at once.
He waited—but not without updates from Frank. These updates were probably more detrimental to Cohen’s developing mind {really, always developing—maybe young, little—immature would be a better word}, and he had this thought even at his young age. But he couldn’t help himself—he had to know. If the information was out there, and someone in his vicinity knew more than he did, he would actively seek that person out to discover those scraps of unknown information. This information would excite his tranquil state and create a whirlwind of thoughts—a whirlwind spinning with such speeds it made comprehension of anything difficult. He knew he had to remain calm. His mind needed tranquility in order to form clear rational thoughts. But it was just so difficult to do—practically impossible at the young age he currently occupied.
Frank told him about the prototype—“It worked.” He whispered it one day scooping a helping of scalped {scalloped} potatoes from the bowl on the counter. The family was fed buffet style at 6PM every night—all provided and made by Cohen’s mother. They would walk down an array of dishes aligned in single file on the counter, make their selections, and take their supper plate to wherever they wished. Cohen’s mother preferred this specific set-up because most of the household didn’t like sitting at the table. Both of the cousin’s preferred to eat upstairs watching television, and the Aunt would take her plate to the living room, where she would be doing the same thing—only with her preferred channels and shows.
Cohen, both of his sisters and his mother all sat at the dinner table—and even though the others were able to shuffle away with their plates, Cohen’s older sister found early on it wasn’t okay for them—the Manhassets. She tried to scurry away one evening to her room, and their mother shouted her name—merely pointing to the empty seat. After a full-fledged argument—which was pointless because Cohen’s sister never offered any serious competition. She was shot down—over and over—until she accepted defeat—walking back to the table and sliding into her chair. She just finished her meal and never argued about the subject further, only rifling down her food and hurrying off to her room, a world of her own—barely to be seen. Their family was meant to sit together and talk about their day—no TV, no distractions. So, his sister followed the rule, but only to a certain extent.
Their wonderful loving mother would always initiate some sort of small talk revolving around their feelings of the day or what they learned in school. To Cohen it was odd to hear her ask it, and not odd in a bad way. Usually, it was his father who would ask these specific questions during their family dinners. But, when he asked them, he would usually be staring off—not attentive—only questioning to fulfill some sort of family obligation he thought, or knew he had. When his mother asked though, she leaned in over the table—sometimes even interrupting her dinner to offer an ear. When she asked the words didn’t fall from her lips in lifeless obligation. Instead, every syllable sounded bright suffused with an abundance of hope, joy, and empathy.
Cohen couldn’t help his excitement the evening he found out. He inhaled his food without allowing the buds on his tongue to dissect the taste. He wasn’t even sure if he was hungry—but when he ventured for a second helping and tore through it with the same void of thought, he knew he was starved. Or, maybe just preparing? Unlikely… If gym class hadn’t had him running around for fifteen nonstop minutes—every single day—he wouldn’t have ingested a single morsel. The excitement would have jumped his anxiety and twisted his stomach into untamed knots. And if met with food, the rejection would’ve been instantaneous. He needed to satiate his unconscious internal needs as fast as possible so he could race to his room and ready for Friday. He needed to prepare his mind for the real movie explosion.
When that Friday came, it was much like the Friday nearly three months earlier, only this time he was lying on the couch—fully clothed—like he was his first night sleeping there. He kept his clothes on because it made him feel always ready to leave. No matter how good life ultimately became after his father left—how relaxed or carefree—he always felt out of place with the disassembly of his family.
It wasn’t like Cohen was even close with his father; he never once shared a deep meaningful conversation with him. The only thing Cohen and his father had in common were the arts. He, just like his father, excelled in all the major arts—music, drawing, writing. If he put his mind to it, there was a chance he could grasp the basics and teach himself how to progress in a particular field. This is probably why Cohen missed his father so much, but he didn’t think of this. {They didn’t converse on art either, not in that deep introspective way many do. And years later, after Cohen’s minor interest in football—he realized that nothing he did would connect him with the man he shared genetics with.} Instead, he thought of the family as a whole and applied his feelings to the sum of the household—not just himself. He thought that his feelings of emptiness, pain, despair were shared between everyone. And even if they were, his emotional output went beyond his sisters’ and became somewhat irrational.
So, just like the last time, he was lying awake, but—admittedly—on this occasion his fascination had dwindled. He was only half excited to see the explosion of the bomb. The other half, on the other hand, was left staring at the ceiling overcome with nostalgic thoughts of his father and Christmas.
Hung on the wall to his left, between the Norman Rockwells—the American picturesque bullshit Cohen believed at this age but would come to know as fake—was another framed piece of art. Only this one, like a king with his court, was distinguished, larger than the other two. A portrait done in black ink {made by Mert Manhasset’s own hands. He spent a literal week washing his hands of the ink like a deranged Lady Macbeth}—the partial-bust of a coated man, only his upturned collar and a portion of one shoulder visible on the canvas, and a Stetson Blackhawk {the wild-wild western style head attire} nearly covering his sight. The man’s eyes, which never appeared menacing before, were now alive—personified and staring down upon him. Under his tunnel of bittersweet thought, the evil glare shaded by the Stetson caught his attention, and all former nostalgias of his father, somehow magnified and died all at once. The portrait, he would have proclaimed to anyone in that moment that the corners of its devious lips started to creep upward, tucked between the stiff collar halves. The smile thinned, and even new ink lines cracked into his lips. This began to scare Cohen. And he rubbed his fingers deep into his sight. But his pupils would immediately shoot to the portrait, only to find it was back to normal again—unmoving, idle. But the longer he stared, the more it started to morph and change—the more it stared back. And when they locked eyes, the man drew his thinning smile with his lips pressed firmly together. And, if Cohen stared long enough into the eyes, daring himself to brave the fear and somehow overcome it {as he attempted before, to no avail, with the death-defying fair rides at The City Fair. His family never had the funds or means to travel to The Great NY State Fair in Syracuse, or even the Lowelleville Fair, which Cohen heard was better, but still never went}—into the pain-lusting smile—he would notice something happening to the eyes. The eyes began to fade from existence, and simultaneously, three bold dotted streaks, one under the other, spanning from ear to ear like three broken lines of bold ink—twitching—replaced his eyes. The smile still remained, though only now, it was pulled nearly to his ear lobes, contorted—malformed—and proceeding to curve farther and farther upward.
Cohen was stirred into a trembling fear—he was conflicted. He wanted more than anything to get up and run away, escape the man in the room that was attempting to jump from the painting and grab him, probably pulling him in—like so many horror movie his mother loved. He wanted nothing more than to flee, flee as fast as his legs could possibly manage. And when sunrise brought the day in with slow moving light, he would return and dispose of the evil thing. The plan seemed solid—unmistakeable—but he couldn’t muster one inch of movement. He was paralyzed with fear. This was the first time he had ever felt this sensation, the overwhelming dread sinking into him like an insurmountable weight—one so vast he couldn’t move a finger. He felt as if the man with the three-lined-eyes and disturbing smirk had come alive and peeled from the canvas to stand on him with all his force.
Cohen believed with everything inside him that he was going to perish right then and there. The swells of heat were hitting him, consciousness was growing hazy, and with each wave that passed, the cold sweats only reminded him where he was. He thought he was going to take his last breath and be left helpless for the evil man to wrap his talons around his bony ankles and pull him into the canvas-world feet first. When he was saved by the sounds of Frank tip-toeing down the narrow hall, “Hey buddy, you awake?”
“Y-yeah…” He felt the overpowering anxiety leave his nerves, and the feeling of dread and death that was so inevitable was shown to him for what it was, a figment of his imagination. But, how? He thought. How did it possibly feel so real, and now that Frank is here, the emotions and physical reactions were merely gone—poof—out of existence in a blink of an eye? Cohen glanced back to the portrait, which now appeared completely normal. And his brain accepted this—scrubbing the images of how it changed and leaving only an opaque memory. All the while the questions of how were still prominent in his mind. He felt the sweat and smelled the stench of fear from his armpits. So, this is what they meant by smell your prey. He didn’t dare mention anything, though. He was afraid of what Frank might say—or rather he was afraid of the bullying that would ensue when Frank didn’t believe him, and then called him “smelly” or something. He knew Frank meant nothing by it, or at least he hoped, but whenever Cohen shared anything that Frank either disagreed with or (mostly) didn’t know how to comprehend, it wasn’t observation, examination, and/or truth seeking—it was irony, irreverence, and jokes to mask Frank’s obvious ignorance. Frank’s response was usually cruel and aimed toward the most painful of truths—and if Cohen became upset or hurt at these comments, Frank could utter, “It’s just a joke, don’t take it so hard,” or twist the blade a little further with another hurtful comment, all the while laughing, and expecting Cohen to join his mirth. Even if he wanted to though, Cohen kept his mouth shut—pained, confused—simply trying to forget.
“Everything’s okay, big guy, little buddy-buddy—no need to be afraid. You’re a tough guy, and ya gotta keep being that tough guy—for me. You always gotta be that tough guy. Don’t let ‘em see the weakness—for me.” He nudged his arm before gripping his shoulder with an affectionate hand. This was a new act for Frank, more compassion from him than Cohen had ever seen before, and from this genuine act, Cohen was lifted even further from his fearful paralytic state, and finally sat up. “Are you ready?”
“I just have to put on my boots—my-my, winter-boots.”
“Here, I’ll go grab them for you.” He scurried down the narrow hall, and on his way through, dipped left into the small bathroom, fashioned in almost a perfect square, and there he urinated. After he was finished, and Cohen heard the flush of the toilet, he watched Frank veer left around the visible washing machine, and disappear. He returned only seconds later holding two pairs of boots, and sat down next to Cohen—“thud,” the boots plopped down on the floor before them. Frank pushed his feet into his boots and began fastening the laces in tight double knots to ensure the footwear wouldn’t jostle. When Cohen watched Frank, he leaned to grab his own boots, and did the same—tying them just as Frank did—for he wasn’t fond of the thought of losing his boot buried in a snow bank. This seemed to be a reoccurring nightmare during the winter months, especially for him—and if Frank was tying tight, he was going to double the effort. His luck, he would lose his boot and have to return sock-footed to the car, and wait for Frank to witness the explosion. He wouldn’t be able to see the explosion—so he tripled the effort. When he was through, the boot was tied tighter than he ever had before, and he was a bit worried as to after when they returned home, how he was going to loosen some of the knots and dismount the shoe from his foot. Though, all of this passed when he thought of the adventure to come.
They kept silent walking down the narrow hall. Only the faint “thud, thud, thud” of pattering boot steps bounced around the enclosed trench. And after passing through the kitchen and yanking their coats from the coat rack, they exited into the brisk winter wonderland. At this time of night, 1 AM, nothing stirred. Only the wind was alive, whispering “Hiiii, heeeeeeey,”—sweeping small particles of free powder from the dense pack of snow-bank-walls that lined the roads, creating dangerous—albeit usually avoidable—snow drifts that leaked into the plowed pathway. Cohen only observed the scenery for a split second before they were hurrying down the walking path to the driveway, where the car was located. The two cars in the driveway belonged to Cohen’s mother and Frank’s brother—and frankly, Cohen was relieved they weren’t using his mother’s vehicle for this endeavor. He imagined in that moment the hellfire and rage that would be brought down on them if they did such an insolent foolish thing. And part of Cohen thought Frank knew this too because he never even hinted at the idea. It may have been an argument, a battle of begging and pleading for Frank and his brother, but anything to use his brother’s vehicle. Plus, it was better than feeling the wrath of Cohen’s mother, especially after you broke one of her rules, and there weren’t many.
Frank’s brother owned—or, well, since Aunt Binton’s huge white full-size utility van—with small TV screens in the headrest and a DVD player in the ceiling—got repossessed, they kind of both owned the van (hashing out this decision in a slew of intense and anger-filled debates)—a beaten, trash-minivan that squealed when it started, ejected carbon monoxide in huge plumes from the exhaust, and didn’t have working heat. Cohen detested the heaping pile of… and even more in the winter. Because, with the lack of heat and the fact that the passenger side window wouldn’t roll up, after five minutes at 60 mph—you couldn’t feel your entire body. He wasn’t happy with the adventure so far, but after finding out the distance they had to travel wasn’t too far, he began to lighten up. His jacket kept him warm enough—and as long as he kept bundled, with his arms crossed—holding himself—the warmth should last the remainder of the trip, and it did.
They reared from the driveway, and swinging the end right into the road, the van pointed toward the main route through town, Route 12. A straight route that, instead of a flat road extending across an even plane, was two inclined planes, which led in and out of a divot in the Earth—the glacial crater called “Depson.”
Depson, being the size it was, only needed this simple two lane road to lead from Brighton to The City, and since these two places were more important than Depson it was given precedence over the other palmate routes leading to other smaller towns—not only in paving and upkeep but with the use of stop signs. Rt. 12, the road remained a constant. Though, even after the future name change the small population of Depson deemed the main road—Route 12—and that remained the name even after the future title change from the rational “Route 12,” to the more accessible—“Vacationer’s Lane.”
Jefferson County, in partnership with the State, renamed the road in order for the tourists of Brighton to be able to find their way to the city and back again with the least amount of trouble. There was no place in Brighton to buy high-end items like electronics, or other needed amenities like camping gear or summer items, at a reasonable price. That’s not to say one couldn’t venture down Riverside Drive and dip into Kinnley’s or the hardware store—to buy low quality phone chargers, clothing, sunblock, beach towels, lawn chairs, shoes, sunglasses, food, beverages, water, portable televisions, portable radios, pretty much portable anything, and headphones for nearly triple the price. Hell, they even sold dock rope for your boat at astronomical prices. And the higher the grade of item—the more popular the item—the more the cost would skyrocket. It was basic supply and demand in a capitalist society. Though, supply and demand, like everything else is susceptible to corruption, especially when that corruption is to feed the pockets of decadent owners and leaders.
Everything was so apparently overpriced that tourists found it more beneficial to their pockets to travel the hour roundtrip from Brighton to The City, and back for anything they needed. And since Brighton was no more in crucial need for this flow of money that came from the shops—they were more than willing to rename Route 12 with a distinctive name and point all tourists’ business in the direction of The City. The selection of goods dwindled from basic amenities and tourist gear, to an even thinner selection of basics and tourist gear. Brighton was slowly evolving from storefronts to restaurant-fronts. Owners didn’t mind pointing customers down Vacationers’ Lane to The City, acting as if everything was already there in Brighton, and if people NEEDED anything more, they could venture to The City. The locals of Brighton didn’t even shop in Brighton, opting themselves to drive to The City.
To the locals of The City, A-Bay, Brighton, The CVG, and Depson the name seemed a bit illogical. Most still referred to it as Route 12 simply because Vacationer’s Lane didn’t really pertain to them. Tourists—or new residents—found themselves referring to the road as VL at first. Because, when they first arrived the road was referred to as Vacationers’ Lane, before turning into Route 12 years later. (This was due to how easy it was to find a road called “Vacationers’ Lane”—much easier than Route 12) So, oftentimes, these new residents could be fished out and classified, just by what they called the road (12, or Lane). When the summer season only lasted a solid three months out of the year, a road titled Vacationer’s Lane held no real value to the people who found it vacationless living inside the boundaries of Jefferson County. And, what made it even worse was that the populace of Brighton felt like those outside towns—even The City majority—were simply too poor to enjoy the spoils of Brighton (maybe not the CVG, but even they had their urchins as well). And since they couldn’t enjoy the spoils, they weren’t worth the time or the energy it took to treat people like equal humans—equal to yourself and everyone else—as if it took any. In return, the Brighton locals often treated these people from Depson and outer towns like peasants (the vacationless, serfs, proles) in a Victorian caste system. Cohen felt it first hand in school, where he was confronted nearly everyday with relentless bullying based on where he lived. At least he shared the brunt of it with the Apex kids, or kind of… At least in the moment it felt equal to Cohen—maybe it wasn’t…
They turned left on to Route 12, and driving past the small convenience store across the street from Cohen’s house, they ascended the incline. After crossing a small bridge, one of two in the village of Depson they passed a small graveyard at the base of a steep hill. {Where his sister was buried, and also where he denounced snowboarding forever, sticking to the good old sled, before deciding there was no fun to be had in the torturous winter weather.} Atop the hill was a Methodist church, and across the street built on a hilly peak, overlooking the Methodist church, was a Baptist church. This church appeared newer, surrounded by two other buildings—administrative and recreational building, which encased a large lake-like parking lot, with a declination that flowed into Route 12. And connected by sidewalk to the barn-like recreational building was a small playground area with a basketball court with only one net (God and Jesus both love good ol’ American competition, especially when it comes to religion). The Methodist church had none of these. Even in the way it stood, the structure—hunched in exhaustion—was obvious compared to the strong, proud, and straight sparkling spire of the Baptist church. The way it sat on the hill, standing higher, overlooking all—it appeared almost condescending. From his house, Cohen could see the church sitting at the top of the hill. He didn’t go to that church. It was started by a few locals of Brighton, who were said to be planning for an eventual move to the city after they amassed enough money from the people of Depson. Then, they would essentially own two churches, one in the city and one in Depson, and they wouldn’t have to compete with the overpopulated religious community in Brighton and all their churches, as long as they pumped enough money into the church to make it appear better than the others around it. They used the same scheme those in Brighton did.
Cohen listened to his mother gossip about all of this with her friends or her sister at the kitchen table. His mother’s gossip, he noticed, though about people of renown both small and large, famous or civilian—sometimes tabloid topics of the week—would usually pertain to the issues of the town, especially if they involved the Christian religion, which seemed to hold a level of importance and precedence that Cohen couldn’t seem to understand. {Depson, with a population that the census.gov has marked for the year 2000 as 512, had two established churches, and one independent sect, run out of Cohen’s Uncle’s tire shop—an annex added to one side which appeared new and renovated, but still smelled of rubber, dust and oil, like the rest of the shop. And Brighton, marked with a population of 1,821, had five established churches, and who knows how many underground/independent sects working out of houses or small businesses closed for the night. Both Brighton and Depson were predominantly white, Depson being all white, and Brighton having maybe 2 or 3 families of different race. The CVG having one, and Apex Bay with the most, at maybe 10, if that—all the churches in this area being christian—nothing else was offered, at least not in the towns. And these Christian churches loomed over each town, pressing a hand of influence over the people—stifling free thought, limiting speech. Tall and immovable, a fixture in the sky, the spire high-above overlooking all, with the cross at the point like every church steeple—with a hymn struck in bell tones, out of key and antiquated, drifting over everything like a sheet, blanket, net—a web.} His mother was a religious person, and she would often defend the churches in town, even if she didn’t go herself. Organized religion seemed more performative than truth to her. But, she spoke her opinion to everyone she met about more than just that. Cohen’s uncle’s mother was a prominent activist in Depson, speaking out and protesting on all issues, few as there were in the dwindling village. And this is how Cohen’s mother found out about many of the underlying problems facing the town infrastructure—religion, personal qualms, business ventures—all kinds of things, any topic—as if it was like a book, movie, TV show. But it was real, it was your town—but it was still entertainment—still a movie, a book, a TV show. Just now you were part of it, or could be.
This is how he retained such incredible amount of information for a ten year old. His grandfather, during his summer stays—which weren’t nearly as frequent now due to his cousins—would treat him older than he was and would teach him about mathematics and computers. He taught him about history and about the war. Cohen read “Rainbow 6” that summer to his grandmother—and she would attempt to explain anything he didn’t understand, and when she wasn’t able to, she would send him to his grandfather, which would usually spark some sort of conversation on the subject. His grandfather had a great intellect—spent time as a drill sergeant shaping young minds. He served four years in Vietnam, and though he had witnessed horrors and ultimately, somewhere in his consciousness was warped from the experience, he never seemed to exhibit it. He was simply—until the day he died—a strong-willed, stoic, and intelligent man—an intelligence that went unused and wasted. At least that is what Cohen perceived at a young and immature age. This is what inspired Cohen’s delightful intrigue to further his intellect. He would surpass his grandfather, and he would make sure that power didn’t go unused. He would not squander it…
Cohen would be in his room playing a game. But every now and then, when his attention would drift from a mundane part in the video game realm, he would find himself creeping to his closed door, and pressing his ear to it to discover little bits of information—from his mother on the phone or at the table with Aunt Binton—some of which, if you cared enough to look into, to examine and inspect, you could actually see happening (true or not), in real time, just like it did in the braintheater. It made Cohen feel like he knew the future in some way, like, he was seeing the future play out before him. And somehow he was able to take the information, connect the dots, and make predictions on the future, seemingly before anyone else. Granted he wasn’t correct each and every time. His mother wasn’t either. But the fact that he was right, SOMETIMES, made him think, “Maybe there was something to all these things in my head, true or not.” In reality, he was just witnessing some of his mother’s gossiping topics happen in real life. Some wouldn’t, a good handful would—you know the kind—a business went under, a priest had an affair, a marriage was ending in abuse and trauma. He loved learning these things for the sheer fact that he imagined all learning was like this. If you knew about the history and truth of everything, you could see the world through that same “gossip-esque” lens—waiting… wait and see it happen, real, around you, effecting actual humans. If you can understand and comprehend it all—as a genius would—then when you do, just wait—I’m sure you’ll see it, eventually. And, as this genius in waiting, if you persist long enough in your patience and tolerance, if you take the time to understand, you could stumble upon further images, predictions, hopes, wants, needs—a future Tesla for the people.
The car veered left between both churches, like a rat scurrying underneath the feet of two warriors; one standing over the other, with his sword raised, awaiting the moment of execution. The straight road passed the moribund Methodist church and then a brick mansion behind it surrounded by evergreens. On the right was another grave yard. This area of land was wider and ran up a humped inclination, larger humps with smaller humps growing from them, like a camel’s back bearing tumors—let’s hope it’s okay. The majority of tombstones were much older—and one could observe this in a passing car, like Cohen did—all enclosed with a heavy barbed iron fence, as if once saying, “For good reason, do not come in here”—embellished with an open, arched, entrance. And above, molded iron words read, “Depson Cemetery.”
They passed by both the mansion and graveyard, and a few scattered houses sunk inside the tree line. Portions of forest were cut out to accommodate the abodes, and a passerby could spot the cleared areas from hundreds of feet down the road. Each house was separated by a dense forest, so dense that Cohen, with eyes scanning the ascension, could see the missing trees that signified “house areas.” And even higher, he could spot the clusters of pointed tree-heads peaking/peeking over the rest. When they ascended the incline, the forest only seemed to increase in the number of trees, the forest thickened and the snow plains inside darkened with shadows of intertwined dead limbs. Yet, when the vehicle broke the crest—to the flat snow-covered plateau atop—the forest came to an abrupt stop. There were no trees, not a single one—as if the section had been cleared out for a reason. And, if one gazed long enough to speculate, they may stumble upon the idea that this desolate area, devoid of forest and residency, once embraced a civilization greater than that of the two houses sitting atop the empty plane.
Cohen had no time to develop his pondering on the idea of historical people forming a civilization in this place. And honestly, he didn’t dwell on the topic because, to him—it didn’t matter. The idea was only interesting for the sheer second it passed through Cohen’s thoughts—and that was it. For, if he were to have found it interesting, he would have snatched the thought in passing and studied it; creating a new folder, one where he can collect concrete and abstract thoughts alike, and document—deleting, editing, classifying—before adding the folder to his docket to be stored in the long term section of his memory.
The vehicle was traveling too damn fast. Now that Frank and Cohen had reached the town limits and broke earshot from the population slumbering in town, Frank pressed the acceleration to the limit—or what felt like the limit—and darted toward the easy left turn where the forest line began once again.
This was not one of the few roads that led to another town. {Brighton, Apex Bay, The CVG, The City—well, technically still could, depending on where you turned and navigated, and if you had time to drive through the, most likely, defunct farm land from an era of Depson when agriculture boomed} Instead, this desolate road and barren land circled around, declining ever so slightly until you reached the end, spitting you out into the only living portion of the Depson farm country left. This farm country was located four miles from Cohen’s house—down the street. If Cohen were to step from his house, turn left, and walk four straight miles, he would be in Depson’s farm country. He tried it once. He wanted to see a friend who lived out there. It was the first house and also the biggest farm, one that—honestly—Depson saw no profits from. Most of the product was used in Brighton restaurants—which advertised “Homegrown food,” and so, the Depson farm country was turned into Brighton’s food supply. That’s not to say it wasn’t lucrative, because it was. And while farm country was declining turning what once appeared as spectacle in the spotted sparse trees, to decrepit time pieces because the families of agriculture, now without their farms, couldn’t afford it. They had to sell their farms. But this farm—the one Cohen walked to, the one of his former friend—still operated (one farm was enough). And as long as the tourists, and locals alike, cared about “organic, natural, non-GMO, foods” and kept buying the co-op’s local “organic” food, they would keep supplying it.
The vehicle meandered through the contorted roads, where, kind of like before the barren winter forest only grew in proportion until the dense dead crossing limbs created an ashen blanket across the horizon—white snow drifts turned to a dark ashen haze or mist—a sudden change to the eyes. It was halfway through the route, halfway down the hill—a little clearing in the forest—which used to contain a house, but the house was now long gone—caved in, toppled, and lying on itself—dead and decomposing. Only a small shack barely stood far back near the tree line. The car started to slow, and without a word from his superior, he knew this shack was the target. The thing to watch explode into nothing, into the magnificent flame-ball. He stared into it and examined the poor structure.
The shack was close to a condemned end, kind of like the house. Even from the road Cohen could see where the roof was beginning to sag in on the left side and knew—with even the slightest amount of weight—the roof would collapse. Though, that was the most baffling part about this whole scene. The shack, which Cohen expected to be covered in recent precipitation, was completely cleared—as if someone else was aware of the weight issue and had been here to brush the snow from the roof. This made Cohen a bit nervous, and he glanced to Frank, trying to make his darting eyes inconspicuous—but in the end failing.
“What’s wrong? Why do you keep looking at me? I’m not nervous, not like you are—and you wanna know why? Because there’s not a single reason to be.”
“Promise?” Cohen swallowed, peering back to the shack, half expecting to see a person step from the tiny warped door.
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, little buddy. Just take some deep breaths. We’re almost done.” The car crept to a close, and veered to the shoulder, keeping a bit closer to the road than one would have liked, but it was necessary. The snow on the shoulder—where the road ends and sinks into a ditch—had drifted to flat patches. And if one wasn’t paying attention, they could have easily mistaken these covered pits for extensions of the shoulder. Cohen did. Stepping from the car he sank into the flat powdered surface and needed—like he predicted, when triple lacing his boots in the living room—to wrestle his leg and foot from a snow bank (at least something like a snow bank). Frank uncluttered the back seat of a backpack and a gas can, “Okay, we’re gonna have to trudge over to the shack.” Frank was throwing the backpack over his shoulders when he caught the utterance of Cohen’s sigh. The exertion of disagreement was more than apparent, “What the fuck are you complaining about? I decide to bring you along, to show you our ways, to include you in this little business we’re running, and you have the audacity to complain?” He shook his head, “Mother fucker—maybe you should just go back and sit in the car?” All Cohen wished for was to see that shack explode into a fireball and watch the flames rise into the purple dotted sky, illuminating the ground around them in a growing ring of orange iridescence.
“No, no, I promise. I didn’t mean to say anything… I promise.” Cohen shook his head and vowed to stick to his word—with anxiety trembling in his throat. He repeated the promise, bowed his head, and watched his feet plunge into the soft powder where his legs would also be overtaken, but after a while the term trudging was no longer applicable, and evolved into more of a wading through the fluffy flakes. With each energy-depleting-wade through the waist-high snow—Cohen watched the shack rise and dip, like his vision was a boat rocking at sea—and as they left two lines of displaced snow in their wake—the small blip became a full sized shack. “Why are we blowing this up?” Usually, Cohen wouldn’t ask such a question, at such a time—but now he felt an undying importance invade his entire mind. And he could no longer muster the will to maintain his silence, and under this uncontrollable surge of curiosity—without thinking—the words just slipped out. “Where do you think our country will be in a decade, or even in twenty years?” Not caring to hear a reply from Cohen, Frank began wading even closer to the shack. He reached a point where the entire perimeter appeared a near perfect square with the small shack a bullseye, (or damn close to) and this area, just as Cohen noticed earlier with the roof had been cleared. The displaced piles tossed to the side into the serene smooth plane of snow that surrounded them. Frank broke the from the snowbank carrying a cascading avalanche with him into the tidied square, but didn’t really notice—just trudging over it, stamping it, making it part of the shoveled perimeter. He ran a palm against 1 of 4 chipped and splintering wood panels, feeling the warped gap in the narrow slats.
Cohen caught up with Frank, standing by the shack’s side, and around each corner he inspected the tiny shack. There was only a single small window on one side, just over his head, smashed long ago—and had been plastered over with particleboard. He could tell the board was of the “particle” family by the visible slivers and wedges grafted into one flexible collaged board, like misshapen eyes peeking through the paneless window.
Frank—as Cohen and the particleboard had a stare off—moved to the front door. He reached for the warped handle, what kind of looked like a wooden horseshoe—bent and flattened in the middle and bolted to the first of four slats. These slats were fused in a line of four by two small wooden bracers on the backside—one at the top and one at the bottom. If there was ever an ideal definition for the word “shack,” Cohen imagined this would be it. And if the word “shack” were to ever pass through his lips again, or the braintheater, he would think of this specific example. This snow-trodden small wooden frame of bent rectangle was the dictionary definition. {It was the picture forever painted in his mind, like a stock-photo off the internet, something his brain could always and would always draw from, whenever he needed a quick image for the word—like the cliché heart of something, a Christmas tree, a bunny rabbit, a cartoon turkey, or something.}
Frank pulled on the handle, and at first it flexed under the stress. He paused for a moment, and—using his foot—he brushed away the draft of snow that collected at the bottom of the door. The repeated motion of the door, swinging back and forth, swept up a new portion each time. Hidden underneath this draft was a small line of packed snow where after each day of direct sunlight initiated a new slow melt, it lost some shape—but was still there. So, when the sun sank giving light to another hemisphere of life, the melted snow hardened to become a conglomerate of ice and flakes—a natural doorstop. What appeared to be an easy shift, was not. Frank kept kicking at the frozen line—the ice rod—grunting with each and every curb stomp exerted. And Cohen simply watched Frank struggle until the impediment started chipping away, ever slightly and Frank released a relieved sigh, “Finally.” When the snow-ice wedge was completely stomped away, Frank was able to open the makeshift door. Both Frank and the door let out a noticeable “Ahh”—the door a sigh of defeat, and Frank’s of triumph.
Cohen was perched only feet behind Frank, watching his struggles. And after the tire swing episode, he no longer volunteered to be a helping hand. If he found anything comical, he fought the urge with all the strength inside him. He made no gestures to hold his mouth, he simply pressed his lips together. He didn’t want his cousin to find him laughing. Frank stood before the opened door and stepped aside, giving Cohen room near the entrance to observe. Inside, in the middle of the small square space, was a blue tarp covering cardboard boxes holding packages that were wrapped in black plastic and bound tight with clear tape, one stacked atop the other. And those boxes, were resting on five wooden pallets piled on top of each other—these were to assure the packages weren’t affected by the winter weather—which so far have proven effective. Any rogue flakes able to creep through the cracks of the roof—drifting from the slits like Mission Impossible, in twinkling grace, dodging lasers, would carom off the tarp and come to melt in one of the many wrinkles.
“Do you know what this is, little buddy?” Frank turned away from the packages, with his hand lifting the tarp to reveal what was below. Cohen shook his head. “Its heroin, buddy-buddy.” Cohen stood motionless and shrugged. He wasn’t sure what heroin was, or why he should be so excited that they were finding it—or why they were blowing it up. And he didn’t care, as long as he got to see the ball of fire. “You shrug. But, if you knew what this was—you wouldn’t. This is the past—present—and future of America. This right here will rule the people, the same way it ruled my father.” He shook his head, “I mean, he was selling it, but its all the fucking same! If it doesn’t exist, then it can’t hurt anyone.” He stepped outside to grab the gas-can. Frank returned, and instead of popping the top on the long nozzle, he began unscrewing the whole accessory piece, leaving only the gaping mouth, wide-open for a relentless pour. “We are here to destroy it. Destroy it all before it can spread further and harm more people, ruin families, and ruin Depson, ruin Brighton—ruin every-fuckin’-thing around us. This is the poison, the plague, ready to wipe us all out. And we’re the heroes, here to cure them all and banish that plague.” He raised the gas can in his triumphant monologue and continued pouring the pungent liquid over the boxes. “All drugs, filtering through the streets, destroying people’s lives. The government doesn’t care. They just throw people in jail—like they did with my old man—or into rehab centers, and condemn them into a cycle of drugs and rehab. They don’t give a shit what happens. And now—here’s this drug. It’s not new, nothing is new when it comes to designer drugs. Though, it wasn’t until just lately that everyone decided cocaine was out—and now—its all about heroin. Before, you shoulda saw the cocaine flowing in from Brighton. But now—it’s this—heroin—flooding in like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Ready to create a bubble over the entire county.” During his whole tirade the pouring continued. He even spritzed each wall. He made sure to leave enough contents in the bottom of the red container in order to douse the door and outer walls of the shack. “We’re going to pop that bubble, sever that monster’s head—one chop at a time—starting with this shack right here.” With his last words he rattled the plastic container empty of the addictive smell, and now the atmosphere consisted of the aroma. The scent was wafting into the air and seemed to encompass Frank and Cohen.
Frank pulled the backpack from his shoulders and asked Cohen to hold it. He then, as Cohen held it out in front of him, unzipped the main compartment and reached inside for the pipe bombs. He retrieved two—his only two—and after he was finished, while holding the bombs in each hand, he waved Cohen away. “Zip it back up—we’re done with it.” Cohen followed instructions. And without a word from Frank, slung the seemingly empty bag over his shoulders.
Frank scanned the horizon. He was searching for a place to hide, but that would also have a clear line of sight on the explosion. He examined the horizon for a boulder creating a lump in the white blanket of collected flakes, and after two rotations over the bare landscape he realized his search was futile. “We’ll sit in the car. That sound good, little buddy? Or, at least, stand by it—it's not toooo far away. We’ll be able to see the explosion, and then,” he clapped his hand, “be gone—like the wind, like two ninja assassins, woosh! Plus, all the gasoline we used, the explosion is gonna be HUGE, Coh—HUGE. Best to just get as far away as possible. Here, hold these for a sec, I need to grab my…” He approached Cohen extending the pipe bombs for him to take. “Lighter…” He was fishing the lighter from his pocket, wrist deep and wrangling through the jangling of keys and loose change. “Where is it?” He paused for a moment, “When I’m trying to find this,” He pulled out the ring of car keys, and other keys Cohen didn’t know the use for—and swapped pockets—doing the same with the coins. “Go stand the bombs in the snow, with the fuse up—fuse up! Remember! And make sure it—the fuse—make sure it doesn’t get wet. That’s crucial, or we won’t be able to light it. It’s cheap. If you have to pack some snow around the bottom, that’s fine—just as long as this—right here—the fuze stays dry.” Frank opened a new pack of cigarettes, crushing the plastic cellophane covering into a ball, and watching it unravel as he let it go and it dropped to his feet.
Cohen approached the front door and directly before the door he plunged both bombs into the snow—one next to the other. Without much molding or work, the bombs sank into the snow and remained upright. When Cohen was reassuring the solidity of the bombs’ placement, he heard Frank approaching behind him—or what he hoped was Frank. And with a push of anxiety, he shot around—and it was only Frank. The excitement for the explosion was starting to jolt his anxiety, and he could feel the panic physically spike inside him.
Frank had the lighter in his hand and crouched next to Cohen. “Good job, little buddy,” He smiled, placing a hand on Cohen’s back and offering a couple pats of loving assurance. “Before I light this, I want you to get a head start toward the car, just in case. I don’t need your mother going insane on me, or anyone else, if you got hurt.” Cohen stood to begin his hurried trip back, but before he could, “The fuze is about eight whole seconds long—so I’ll be right behind you. If I pass you, you gotta keep up. Okay?”
“I’ll run as fast as I can, right now. I promise.”
Frank struck the flame to life a couple times, checking to see if the lighter still worked. He noticed Cohen’s idle feet, waiting for Frank’s command. “Well, what’re you waiting for, get it moving.” When the command came, Cohen uttered no other word. He turned and barreled through the former path. The desire to glance back and check was overwhelming, but he kept his head down and listened to his legs pushing through the snow—his beating heart in his ears and head, his rhythmic breathing—anything to keep his mind preoccupied.
He was almost three quarters to the car when he heard the trouncing steps of his cousin closing in behind him. “Come on, little buddy, you gotta hurry! We still have a few seconds.” He was getting closer, closing in, and gaining speed with his long strides.
He grabbed ahold of Cohen, lifting and carrying him—sort of—kind of dragging him at first before the actual carrying occurred. They were nearly to the car. Only a few more steps and they would be there. “Turn around, quick.” Cohen’s feet hit the ground, and he pivoted, whipping around, afraid he was going to miss it. But when his sight met the familiar shack, it felt like a lifetime waiting for the last second to tick away.
In the moment the bombs exploded, other than the ballistic strike of two immediate booming wallops, the snow under the shack, the cleared area around the shack, and even the close perimeter of unscathed powder were catapulted into the air in the shape of a cone. Inside the cone of snow chunks and ice—Cohen could see bits of debris from the shack that weren’t being burnt-up by the massive flame sphere that developed where the shack once stood, before rising into the air. Just as Cohen pictured.
It was beautiful. It appeared to Cohen like a bulb—an instant bulb, one they flipped the switch and gave light to. And then the bulb blew—but for a brief moment of ascent it shined in the sky like a beacon to the heavens, calling for the God his mother always prayed to. The God, in his youth, that he still believed in—calling for him to return to the terrestrial plane and help. He would call, as he thought now, to the sphere before it disappeared forever—God personified, lit and beautiful, only for a flash before them, gracing only them. The orange and yellow hues flashed around the scene, and the reflective face of untouched snow pulled the color bands far across the prairie. And he asked it for help.
