The One Percenters (14 page)

“How long have you been. .in the business?”

“Since I was fifteen.” I was shocked to hear this, but I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I figured this to be a new phenomenon, as if the world had only started performing its tricks upon my birth.

“My God, how many people have you. .?”

“Hundreds. I stopped counting a long time ago.

It no longer matters. There’s no quota to it, but you’ll develop a sense of what needs to be done and when to do it, if you haven’t already.”

“And how many of us have you met?”

“Hundreds. You can do the math, though. At one percent of the population, I’ve had to go through a lot of people to meet so many. At least in the beginning.

After a while, your senses fine-tune and you can weed out the mainstreamers much more quickly. Also, you meet people through people. It’s not all that different from ‘real life’ in that regard. Finally, there’s a trick to it. .to sensing the one-percenters.” I was finding it difficult to get past the fact that she had started at fifteen, and yet again, Darien seemed to sense what I was thinking.

“I was young, yes. And it was difficult when I
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first began to get the sensations. You think adolescence is difficult under normal circumstances. Ha! What’s acne in comparison with being a mercenary for the gods?”“What about your parents?”

“No. It’s not hereditary.”

This seemed strange to me, since the entire process revolves around genetics.

“I hid it at first, but this became increasingly difficult. While people are pretty out of touch for the most part, mothers are mothers, and I knew she’d figure something was up eventually. So I left the house when I was seventeen, and I haven’t seen or spoken with my family since that time.”

“Holy shit.”

“It was a sacrifice, sure. But I realized I now had a more important authority to answer to. Parents just provide the organs to get you into this world. Really, they don’t have much importance beyond that. Frankly, I’m surprised at how much importance your world places on family—relationships not of your choosing.”

“
My
world?”

“Oh, sorry. Bit of a Freudian slip, I’m afraid.

After a while, you’ll be able to separate your past life from your current life, and this will no longer be your world. You’ll be ethereal. But for now, you’re a newbie.

You’re still straddling the fence, sorry to say. I would work on objectivity if I were you; you’ll need it in this business.”

I stood up, taking a sip from my drink. I really needed to downshift to beer. I got the flannelled bartender’s attention, ordered a pint, and excused myself to the men’s room.

I entered the restroom and checked myself out in the mirror. I looked tired and road-worn. I wondered how I would ever survive another year of this, always on the run and bearing some measure of guilt, even if I tried to deny it. The fluorescent lights hummed eerily, and I walked to the toilets. I really had to dig around to find my prick. The alcohol and the stress had shriveled it, and I found myself having to stand very close to the lip of the urinal in order to pee. How could such a
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majestic organ crawl into a figurative cave when things started to get hot? Jill had loved that particular part of me, and our sex life had been fantastic. We did it everywhere, every way. I think the fact that we were both young at heart (read: silly) helped our love life. We were always willing to try something new.

I finished peeing and took a last cursory glance at the mirror over the shoulder while I flushed my urine into the netherworld. My piss had been clear. I needed to cut down on the alcohol.

I exited the restroom to reclaim my seat next to Darien, who was still slouching and still smoking.

I took the empty seat and reached for my beer. I paused a minute to contemplate my next question. I felt I had to take advantage of this wellspring while I had it available to me. Finally I said, “Who was your first?” She turned to me with an angry, perplexed look in her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“When you were fifteen. Who was it?” Darien stood up, grabbing her purse.

“Who the hell are you to ask me that?” Her tone was stern, and her voice loud. Her voice was different somehow. Others at the bar turned to see what was happening.

I felt very uncomfortable. “Darien, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to learn.” Darien turned to the bar. “Jim.” She called to the bartender, who then took leave from his place beside the register. He approached me.

“Excuse me, is there a problem?”

“No, sir, I was just asking a question.”

“Jim, he was asking me about my first. I don’t really think that’s any of his business.” Jim nodded at her, and turned to me again.

“Listen, buddy, I think it’s time you found your way out of here. It’s four dollars for the beer.”

“Darien, why are you doing this? You’re one of us.” Now she was red-faced.

“I don’t know you; please leave me alone. I don’t appreciate this at all.”

Jim was looking at me angrily. The other patrons were looking at me angrily. It appeared Darien
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was a regular here, and well-liked. I suddenly felt that I should leave. I headed toward the door, and as I neared it, I heard something I’ll never forget. It was Jim’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Shirl; I don’t know where these people come from. Next one’s on the house.”
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I ran out into the parking lot and crossed the roadway.

I took refuge in the wood, the only place, it seemed, that I could find peace in my new life.

Had I imagined the whole conversation? Did the alcohol have such an effect? Was it nature’s way of providing me with the information I so desperately desired? Or was she lying, simply divulging information and then taking cover behind her real-world guise?

How could that be? The others at the bar would have seen me speaking with her earlier. It was important to me to find the answers to these questions, but I felt sure that I never would.

I felt very alone in the world at that moment, more alone than I ever had before. I spent the night huddled at the base of a tree in that forest, looking up through the canopy of leaves at the dark sky. The almost-full moon caused me to contemplate the state of life; we’re all put here knowing nothing and we all leave here virtually the same way. It occurred to me that at that moment, there were thousands of other people in our hemisphere looking up at the very same moon, but I felt sure that none of them felt what I was feeling. I felt sure that none of them
could
feel this way. I felt both very powerful and very naive. That was the worst night I had ever experienced.

I awoke unrefreshed to the sound of squawking.

The night air chilled me, and my back was damp from the forest floor. Looking at my surroundings, I tried to keep my mind on the serenity of the morning, but I found that I could not. Were the events of last night an anomaly? Had someone slipped me a pill? No, of course not. I was becoming paranoid; it’s almost impossible to avoid when you’re on the lam. I had kept on the move in the last year. I had spread out my work. This is the only explanation I can provide for my continued freedom.

Perhaps Darien was right, and nature did indeed provide me some degree of immunity. Certainly, without
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it I would have been taken in by now. Even living in the woods and cutting off all social ties—not an easy task, I assure you—I was still defying the odds by maintaining my independence. I limited my contact with reality as much as possible, gaining food from fishing and theft.

I was careful. It would be all too ironic if I should get away with “murder” only to be taken in for petty theft.

The jig would be up then. I took my food from private residences, mostly, away from the security cameras and prying eyes.

My mind came back to Darien. Was she—or at least my perception of her—an apparition, or would I meet more of these helpful but elusive souls? Would they continue to seek me out? I found that my eyes were beginning to tear, and I tried to fight off the emotion.

I punched the tree under which I had slept. All this gained me was a pair of bloody knuckles. The year had passed quickly. I was alone and impassioned with a mission that was more important than I was.

Now, however, it was beginning to catch up to me. I feared imprisonment, I felt guilt, and I was lonely. I had never been a people-person. Indeed, for the first nine months, I had enjoyed my forced super-independence. The grim reality was settling in that we are social creatures, even the freaks among us. I missed camaraderie, and I missed
women
. Physical affection and attention was becoming a priority. I decided that something needed to be done.

I spent the day working my way eastward. At first I was on foot, but I borrowed a bicycle from a rack outside the library’s entrance. The risk was minimal, as there was no one in sight and I’d be a mile away in minutes. There wasn’t much to the decision process.

I rode for the better part of four hours until I hit a decent-sized town. I can’t remember the name of the city now; details are becoming harder to recall. I stopped at a diner and asked a waitress if I could borrow a phone book. I was careful to keep a low profile. It suddenly occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea how one secures a call girl or how much their services cost. I had always seen those escort services listed by
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the dozens in the big cities. I assumed the process was one of picking and choosing. They probably wouldn’t have much of a rooting out process. I mean, how much power could you command if you had to sink to fucking in back alleys to make money? Just enough to get a-hold of some crack, I guess. Okay, that’s a stereotype.

Forgive me, I’m just an angry man I guess.

This was no big city, though. It isn’t exactly as though there is someone you can go to for advice in such a situation. I became angry and walked out of the diner, forced to spend another day alone. My gift was quickly becoming my burden. I felt anger towards the world for first providing me so little common sense in a society where it is crucial and then putting such a responsibility on my shoulders. I began to think it might be easier just to give up on life, but I had failed before at such a goal, and I was certain that I would fail again should I try. If Jill’s death hadn’t been enough inspiration, a little loneliness certainly wouldn’t do. I never even put the gun’s barrel to my head.

Most of us are born with a dual link to our world: Mom and Dad. They ground us; give us a starting point, a meaning. Those of us who are lucky find them to be a source of love and inspiration as well. From them we find purpose: to go forth, aim for success—

whatever that means—breed, and die. Along the way we encounter fortune and famine, and gather resources which hopefully enable us make some sort of sense of our surroundings.

Sure, there is help along the way, in friends for instance. Perhaps a handful of people can be counted upon for guidance and support, with the rest serving as drinking buddies and golf partners but never really forging a heartfelt relationship. We might find reassurance in pets, in our work, in the attitudes of those around us. Often we do not. On the days when it is cloudy, when our bus is late, when our stomachs are queasy, we feel as though it will never get better. Soon, though, we find renewed solace from whatever escapes we have chosen for ourselves.

In the end, our parents typically have the largest role in our lives. When we lose them, we suddenly feel
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lost and very, very naive. The world is very large, and we are very small. Our link to the past is gone, and this frightens us to the bone. We look around and see myriad dangers over the horizon. If we are old enough and established enough, we persevere. It is not so easy on the young. Orphanages across the land house numerous people who have an uphill battle in front of them. Yes, the loss of one’s parents is extreme.

Imagine losing an entire society—a culture—

and you get some sense of what it feels like to be on the run. There is nowhere to run, no one in whom to take solace. Some forge new identities and hide within the false shelter it creates for them. Me? I never had a shelter to begin with. I was a natural pariah who, due to circumstances not within my control, had now attained a new outcast status. I needed to channel my anger and frustration into my work and find some measure of success in it in order to regain a sense of pride and self. I decided I needed someone to share this feeling with. I could never replace Jill, for she was unmatched in this world. But I needed someone, and it would have to be soon.

As it turned out, it was the very next day.

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I had visited museums frequently in my youth. I was especially fond of natural history museums and the fossil evidence they contain. I was interested in what scientists call biological parallelism—similar adaptation over time in different species. The forearm in primates, for example, is akin to the fins of a fish and the wings of a bird. At least I think that’s right. I’m no scientist.

Anyway, I find this all rather dazzling. Two creatures, perhaps unrelated, adapting similar physical structures, modified or enhanced only in response to different physical pressures. To me, it implies a purpose, although the evolutionists out there insist there is no greater scheme. Bollix! That’s just politics speaking.

Life
is
purpose. The development of language, the response to new and different diseases, and the creation of new species—it’s all rather tidy. Sometimes nature’s adaptations can even provide a little comic relief. Need I mention flatulence? What would the world be without a cutting fart? No, there is a purpose that we cower from. While I couldn’t tell you what this purpose to life on Earth is, I knew that I had an active role in its progression, and that’s more than most people can say. The only true control we have over our lives is awareness. I planned to make the best of my newfound awareness.