Rules for Werewolves (18 page)

If I got to jump back to junior college, still living off my original mom and dad, instead of collecting shitty punk albums it takes longer to figure out what they’re screaming about than it did for them to write the lyrics, I would make fashion my main goal. I would make a line of clothing made entirely out of the fabric they use to make those prison jumpsuits. I really mean “dull bright-orange.” It’s kind of a miracle they figured out how to take a color like that and make it so drab. But can you imagine a line of clothes made out of that stuff? Business slacks and button down shirts and little knee-length skirts that all proclaimed: “I’m a wage slave.” Not only would it be cool to see, but then when prisoners broke out of jail they could just blend right in. It’s probably not an original idea. Somebody
probably already did it and the government shut him or her down because they didn’t want to have to redesign their prison-wear.

All joking aside. There is seriously somebody whose job it is to design prison wear. That’s a shitty job. I don’t know what he or she tells him or herself to get through the day, but it’s probably a pretty weak line of bullshit. “I’m only doing this to help those less fortunate than me have more comfortable lives. This will lead to something better. At least I’m on this side of the job.”

It’s the same line of bullshit I tell myself. I keep thinking I’ll find a way to turn this pack of idiots into a family. I keep telling myself that I’m helping out the misfits like Anquille and Susan. That I’m protecting them from Malcolm. But I need Malcolm. Without Malcolm I would have just drifted from the artist’s studios into the Salvation Army into some kind of program into some kind of addiction into some kind of serious crime into jail. I guess that’s what this is, just part of my downward slide, but I don’t see it that way—not always. I keep thinking that this can be saved somehow. We don’t have to keep banging out beers and squatting in other people’s houses. I know that in, like, the sixties hippies would turn abandoned factories and shit into apartments and put in plumbing and electricity. The way they did it, through this process of stealing a building and learning how to make it work and keeping the government at bay and fighting off other squatters who came late to the project, these hippies grew up without ever having to put on an Arby’s costume. They were our parents in some cases. We could turn into those kinds of hippies if we had Malcolm’s leadership abilities but didn’t have all the dumb leadership ideas that come out of his mouth.

If I could jump back to my last stay at home and just keep my mouth shut when my mom started laying into me about how stupid I am— She’s right. I am that stupid. I’ve had all these opportunities and I burned them down. If I could just keep my mouth shut through my mom’s deluge of emotions—I bet there’s like a tearful hugging session at the end. Or even a stony silence for a few days followed by a long thaw. If I could get back just that far, then I could re-enroll in junior college and then college and then medical school. Every step along the way I’ll ask my mom,
Is it too late?
And every time she’ll say,
No, baby, it’s not too late for you
. And in medical school I’ll take just enough classes to learn how you can anesthetize
someone and cut out his vocal cords so he can never talk again. Then I’ll jump back to this point in time and do it to Malcolm. And then I’ll tell everyone that I’m the only one who knows what Malcolm wants and that I now speak for him.

I’m surprised that in the whole history of this weird world this has never become a thing—cutting out people’s vocal cords. I think people’s voices are the most annoying things about people. Listen. Really listen to whoever is reading this to you. Even if it’s me. The grunts and wet little corners of the sound. The verbal tics. Language is disgusting. It’s the root of all our problems. I think eventually we’ll get rid of it. Maybe we just haven’t gotten there yet. There’s seven billion people on the planet now. The noise is just gonna get worse and worse. Maybe when there’s twelve billion we’ll have to start silencing babies at birth. Then I’ll be famous for thinking it up. A bunch of silent people standing in line at Arby’s. Pointing at the picture of the roast beef sandwich they want. A silent person in a dull bright-orange Arby’s uniform nodding quietly. Only rich people will be allowed to keep their voices. And if somehow you’re able to be nice to your Mike Hronek and to let your mother do the best she can with you and to stay away from your Malcolm—if somehow you’re able to do all that and get through junior college and college and med school without getting distracted by all your weird ideas (none of which make you an artist! You’ll learn that, too) and somehow you manage to get rich as a doctor—then there’ll be a surgery to restore your vocal cords. Then, at the age of twenty-seven or however old you are, you’ll be able to speak for the first time. What do you think you’d say? I know what I would say if I could have all that. I wouldn’t curse the system or speak up about injustice. Fuck all that. I’d say, “Thank you.”

—Tell her the Yorks said we could stay here.

—She’ll call ’em to check.

—Tell her the Yorks’ oldest daughter said we could stay here.

—She might not call ’em, I guess—if she likes the older daughter.

—Tell her the Yorks’ older daughter will pay her if she’ll keep us a secret from Mom and Dad.

—Pay her with what?

—We have a fifty-dollar bill.

—Since when?

—Malcolm has it.

—No, he doesn’t. He gave it to Bobert.

—It’s a magical fifty-dollar bill. If you have faith in it, at the hour of your greatest, fifty-dollar need, it will appear.

—It doesn’t matter. The maid’s not motivated by money. Not little amounts. She could steal everything in this place if she valued quick cash over job security.

—We just need a note from the older York daughter written directly to the maid asking her to have mercy on us.

—Who do we say we are in the note?

—We can be her camp counselors.

—How do we know if the girl even goes to camp?

—We have her journals.

—Go get her journals so we can get some facts and her handwriting. Maybe we can be long-lost relatives—

—Or the relatives of a boyfriend.

—How many of us should we say there are in the note?

—There’s just three of us.

—And everybody else will hide in the closets.

—Why three?

—Because one is a loner and that’s dangerous. Two is a couple and that’s sexual. But three is a community. It’s always in the individual’s best interest to help the community—in case you need help yourself.

—What are we going to do about the dog?

—We have to let it go, baby.

—No way.

—Go get it. We’ll teach it to hide with one of you in a closet. A dog can learn. We’ll teach it a signal that will make it run to its hiding place and one of you will be responsible for giving the dog a treat and hiding with it in the closet.

—I’ll go get the dog.

—Who’s gonna write this note from the Yorks’ older daughter?

—I can write in that loop-de-loop script and draw hearts on it.

—And who’s gonna deliver this note to the maid?

—I nominate Malcolm.

—We should have the York’s older daughter, in the note we’re gonna make, say how long we can stay. That way we don’t have to argue with the maid about it.

—What’s the most believable amount of time we can get away with?

—We should tell her we’ll be gone the next time she comes over, in a week.

—We need more than a week.

—What for?

—I thought you were gonna write to Bobert to come meet us. If we keep moving how’s he gonna find us?

—I told Bobert it would be at least a month. I’m not going to write him until we’re settled somewhere we can stay for a while.

—I don’t think you’re ever gonna write to Bobert.

—If you have faith in me, at the hour of our greatest need, Bobert and his brother will show up wherever we’re staying at the time.

—Which is it? Are we gonna get settled somewhere? Or are we gonna keep pushing our luck until we get to the hour of our greatest need?

—Often it’s one that leads to the other.

—What if the letter from the Yorks’ older daughter doesn’t work?

—Then you should tell the maid we’re werewolves and she should run before thirty wild animals come pouring out from the closets and under the beds.

—You should tell the maid we’re werewolves and she’s welcome to join up. It’s gotta be better than cleaning other people’s houses.

—I’ll tell her both things: We’re werewolves and she should join us before we attack. Then she’ll be in the hour of her greatest need and how she handles it will settle things for us.

—Let me go.

—Go where?

—Please. Please. Please.

—I heard you the first time.

—This is my home.

—You asked me to meet you here. You let me in.

—I don’t feel right.

—You don’t look so good, either. Your skin is turning kind of gray. And you smell. Or else we both smell. Smell me. Do I smell?

—I need help.

—What kind of help do you need? I don’t know medicine, but I can do other stuff.

—What’s gonna happen?

—You’re gonna sit there and look at the camera and keep your fucking head up.

—I’m tired.

—We have almost seventy hours of footage already. Is that crazy or what?

—I need to eat something.

—I’m sorry. I thought we’d be done by now.

—I’m supposed to meet someone after work today. Today’s Wednesday, right?

—That’s right.

—She’ll be expecting me.

—But we’ve been calling in sick.

—This isn’t someone from work. This is someone from somewhere else.

—We’ll call her, too.

—I don’t have her number.

—Now I’m jealous. Do you have, like, a standing massage appointment or a dance lesson you haven’t told me about?

—If I’m not there she’ll worry about me.

—I can imagine. I’m worried about you and you’re right here in front of me.

—She’ll call the police.

—We don’t want that.

—So you just have to let me go.

—All right.

—I haven’t eaten anything since Sunday.

—Me, neither. I haven’t eaten anything since Friday. That’s five days. I’ve never been this far before.

—I can’t go as long as you.

—You won’t have to.

—Can I eat something now?

—All right.

—Will you at least loosen the handcuffs?

—All right.

—You keep saying all right, but then you don’t do anything.

—Keep your fucking head up.

—What do you want?

—I want to get a good clear shot of your face.

—For what?

—For the moment when you start to understand what’s happening. I want to see you change.

—Don’t be frightened.

—Jesus! Jesus!

—I’m a friend of Rebecca’s.

—You scared me. Oh, my god!

—I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. It’s all right. It’s all right.

—What are you doing standing in the middle of my living room?

—Rebecca said it was all right.

—She what?!

—Rebecca said I could stay here.

—Does Linda know?

—Rebecca said you wouldn’t care.

—Do Linda and Jake know about you?

—Rebecca gave me a note to give to you.

—How long have you been here?

—Not long.

—Were you here last week?

—I got in yesterday. From Mexico. I’m doing some research. For my dissertation.

—You can’t stay here.

—Rebecca said it would be all right.

—But I don’t work for Rebecca.

—She gave me a note to give to you.

—No, she didn’t.

—She did. It’s right here.

—Okay, but I have a note from Linda that says if anything happens I am to call her, immediately.

—This is isn’t anything happening.

—Are you sure?

—Yeah.

—’Cause at first I thought it was me getting killed by some burglar. But now I see it’s only me getting fired.

—Maybe this is you getting a couple of weeks off work?

—A couple of weeks?!

—Read the note.

—What has Becca gotten herself into this time?

—She wants to seem cool.

—You’re telling me.

—I’m Jeff’s older brother. You’ve met Jeff, right? The young man Rebecca’s dating.

—Jeff?

—Yeah.

—I thought she was done with Jeff.

—You know how kids are.

—I’m beginning to figure it out.

—Do you have kids?

—Three.

—Well, Becca told Jeff that a couple of us—

—A couple of you!

—There’s three of us.

—I’m calling Linda.

—We’re grad students.

—I don’t care if you’re the Marines, you don’t get to do whatever Rebecca says. Rebecca is not in charge of this house. Linda is. And when Linda’s not here, I am.

—Will you please just read the note?

—No. I’m not reading shit!

—What are you freaking out about?

—There’s people in the house! You want me to read about it?! The minute I look down at this note you’re trying to hand me, you’re gonna hit me over the head with a shovel. So, no. No. No. No!

—Anquille. Tanya. It’s all right. I’ve told her we’re here. It’s all right.

—It’s not all right. It’s not.

—It is. My name’s Malcolm.

—Oh, Jesus.

—Hello.

—This is Tanya and this is Anquille.

—I’m calling the cops.

—All right. Good. Let’s call the police.

—We should leave, baby.

—Why? We have a note from the homeowner.

—Rebecca doesn’t own the house. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl.

—She gave us permission to stay here.

—You’re just going to end up getting Rebecca in trouble. And Jeff.