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“
See
what I mean?” She points to Hammer.

J.D. turns and glances at Hammer. Calm, he turns back.

“Right,” J.D. says. “Coz this is church.”

“Excuse me?” She looks at him, startled to see and hear him speak. In her world, Hammer’s behavior is a conversation stopper. In our world, it’s, “
Heeeeyyyyyy! Let’s get this party started!
”

“When I called mi abuela,” J.D. says.

“Don’t call me that. I’m your madre.”

“Madre, smadre,” J.D. taunts. “Elena—”

“Is
not!
” she spits, hatred cracks her face.

Elena. I’ve heard the name before. Then, I remember. Elena
was the Latina half of the superdyke duo who rescued me back in the desert.

“This was Luis’s,” she said, handing me the brass buckle. I just assumed she meant her brother—not her son. Impossible. I couldn’t have met J.D.’s mother in the desert, a lipstick lesbian with a crazy stripper girlfriend. But then, I never thought I’d live “underground” like a runaway slave.

“What did you tell her? Did you tell her they shocked my penis? Showed me pornographic pictures?”

The Pigfuckers have pushed through the crowd. I wait for Mamacita to end the scene. It’s their cue to yank J.D. off the stage. OH. NO. I realize, I’m the deluded one. I’ve been watching J.D. with his mother like they were a show. She had me sitting on the edge of my seat. The drama, the heat, the … reality. J.D.’s about to get caught.

“You can make this easy—” Pigfuckers grab J.D., pinning his arms back and pulling on the hood. They drag him toward the door. “Or you can make this hard.”

J.D.’s kicking and screaming, but he’s no match for Pig-fuckers taller—fatter—asses.

I grab the tiny hammer, break the glass next to the EMERGENCY door. I pull the handle down. The alarm rings,
WUNH! WUNH! WUNH!

“
GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!!!
” J.D. screams, his voice louder than the blaring alarm and Halloween Happy Meals loop.

Thirteen whipples turn to look. Mamacita’s eyes widen. She sees bearded men with clown white faces, glitter lipstick, gaudy Lacroix crosses—all dressed as nuns.

While the—mostly gay—crowd stands and passively watches J.D.’s abduction, the whippled ladies are lawbreakers and shit-kickers who
act
. As in action. Forget waiting for answers to your prayers, the sisters provide immediate assistance. The orange tabletop eating area becomes a blur of black robes, fishnets and flashing dicks.

Hammer leaps and lands
Thunk!
in a crouched position atop J.D.’s table. He grabs his package and sticks out his tongue, serpent
style. Mamacita tries to disguise her hot and botheredness with “horror.” I’m sure, if this goes on long enough, she’ll pop her handbag and tip him a buck—or, slip him her number. Hammer hops off the table, stands behind Pigfuckers and reaches around their pinheads.

SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH

Pepper spray. “Hot sauce with Pigfucker Eye.” Ming’s Special, next week.

“Ahhhh!” Pigfuckers scream, hands to faces, fingers clawing eyes. J.D. wriggles his arms away from Pigfucker #1 and escapes. Pigfucker #2, eyes squeezed shut, holds on to J.D. Blind, he’s determined to leave with his package. Pigfucker must have a drug habit or owe back taxes. Pepper spray
hurts
.

“Let go!” the chorus of man-nuns trill. A man-frocked mass—church, flash mob style—they block the exit and peel the Pigfuckers off J.D.

Pigfucker #1 looks at me with swollen, red eyes.

“Ahmed!” he shouts.

Ahmed? Who’s that? I don’t know any Ahmeds. Does he mean, Ah-men? Or, Ah-choo? I’m Ben. Then I realize. Pig-fucker’s seen
me!
Called me by my real name and—

He grabs me.

Oh. So this
is
a twofer. That
was
the plan. Ahmed & J.D. Easy, breezy and Pigfuckers are 100K richer. I’m happy for Pig-fuckers. They’re entrepreneurs. They
deserve
the J.D. & Ahmed jackpot. I bet the combined revenues from our capture will buy them three years in Thailand with enough money to molest dozens of twelve-year-olds virgins.

My family’s in on this. I bet Haifa’s worked some insurance scam: recapture or refund. I’m flattered she’s bet on me.

Tiny problem.

I don’t care.

I’m sick of “the struggle.”

Besides, I kind of deserve this. I was dumb enough to walk into their trap (and, worse, stayed when I could have left).

I feel helpless. My determination to move Pigfucker #1 and 2 off J.D. doesn’t translate to me. I give up. Numb is a hugely
underrated state of being. I
know
I’ll never manage to worm my wrist away from this guy’s grip. He’d break it before he lets go. I’m money in the bank. There’s nothing I can do.

Except—

Open my mouth, tilt forward and sink my teeth into Pig-fucker #1’s wrist. I bite …
hard
. I draw blood.

“Arrrgggghhhh!”
I snarl, a real live Wild Thing.
“Arrrgg hhh!”

Pigfucker screams. I think, we should forget this abduction stuff and form a band. Primal Scream, the sequel. He holds me tight. He lifts me up and carries me to the door, The Child Bride. I look back. My eyes meet J.D.’s.

Crack!

A switchblade pops.

“Over here!” J.D. shouts.

Pigfucker turns and slams my body sideways against the door frame. I grab the door—leverage, anything to escape. My will to survive has come back. Pigfucker’s left hand dropped and clutches his butt—J.D.’s stabbed his fat ass.

Logically, this would be my chance to escape. No, Pigfucker’s right arm holds me tight, carrying me off like some ogre waltzing away with the princess.

Hammer drops to the ground and slips, unseen, in-between Pigfucker’s legs. Pigfucker walks into Hammer’s flat hands. Contact. Pigfucker sways, a human Leaning Tower of Pisa, and crashes back. I go with, and his head hits the floor,
thump.

I squirm, try to get free, but Pigfucker’s grip is absolute.

“Faggot!” he rages. Oh. He’s mad about being humiliated by a bunch of men dressed like nuns and a teenage go-go boy. Metal grazes my left wrist. Pigfucker struggles to shut the handcuffs.

Fuck it. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going anywhere. If he wants me this bad, I’ll let him.

“LET HIM GO!” J.D. jumps on Pigfucker. He growls, werewolf style, and straddles Pigfucker’s thighs. He raises the switchblade, holding it to Pigfucker’s crotch.

“No, please,” Pigfucker begs, terrified.

J.D. unzips Pigfucker’s pants. His hand dips inside and pulls out the saddest, droopiest-looking pair of balls. “
Cajones!
” J.D. laughs, cackling. “Eh, vato, don’t
ever
touch another kid. Cuz
next
time, I’ll cut off your pinga.”

Zip!
Another horror movie scream, Pigfucker drops me, his face squeezed tight. He grabs his balls. Blood spurts. Well, it
is
Halloween.

I take J.D.’s hand. Now we can go splash like water nymphs in the fountains outside the library.

“AHMED!”

Oh, Allah. Now what.

Hands grab my shoulders. Pigfucker #2’s grabbed me and J.D.

I panic. I leave. I run. Spring out the door. I don’t care. I don’t look back. I’ve learned
that
lesson. I’ve remade my DNA. Escape is in my blood.

Blind, I run. I push my way through the crowds until there’s real distance.
Space
between me and the Pigfuckers, loca Ma-macita, the male nuns and J.D. I decide far is far enough when the smell of weed and carne asada carts overpowers McDonald’s beef tallow fries. Only then do I look back for J.D. Did he make it out? Is he following me?

I don’t see him, only loca Mamicita, her ravaged face and confused eyes. My backward glance doesn’t turn her into a pillar of salt.

My body moves forward, toward an invisible horizon.

I run. I need to run. I need to run until I’m safe.

And then, before I know it, everything’s gone, the crowds have thinned and I wander the streets, alone.

I
get my wish. Now I’m free to stare, look at anyone for as long as I want. Everyone’s a target. I spring my inner voyeur. I look and look and look until my eyes are exhausted.

I realize I hate being alone. Worse, I feel like everyone looks at me. I probably look like what I am. A runaway.

I turn, try to find my way to the McDonald’s. It’s gone. I’m lost. I’d go back to the safe house, but I don’t know where it is.

I look for signposts and landmarks: Hammer’s tall, shimmery form or J.D.’s black cape. Count Dracula’s spawned hundreds of doppelgängers. I tap a few dozen capes.

“J.D.? J.D.? J.D.?”

They turn and I face … J.D.’s cousin / brother / uncle.

Cold, I press my forearms together, hold them up to my heart and try to warm my body. I spy a spot between two cars. I sit. It’s warm here. I sit above a steam vent.

S
addam and I sat in the car, inching toward the TO GO window. Forty-five minutes ago, we’d arrived in a “new” city. Except, nothing is new. It’s the same strip mall, chains and fast-food joints.

That year, I was thirteen. American Bedouin, we’d moved every other month for years. Cleveland, Fort Lauderdale, Silicon Valley. My father was a computer engineer, proudly selling his skills to the highest bidder. “Our” life was a series of tract houses, ex-wives, and hotel rooms. One day, I realize, moving isn’t about money but memory. Sadaam’s attempt to erase the past, more specifically, my mother.

That day, I was exhausted. We’d driven all night. The hotel room wasn’t ready. We were “killing time.” Our turn, the car rolled up to the window. Saddam thrust a furry forearm out the window. Sausage fingers exchanged $7.99 for two XXL milkshakes, fries, and double cheese with everything whatever dead horse / cat / dog byproduct hamburger.

I sat in the backseat. From there, I saw his eyes flicker down and left, about to eye fuck the girl’s tits. But then he saw something else, a name tag. “Mary.” He never knew where she’d turn up. That moment, it was the girl in the white uniform with the red cone hat and pretty smile.

“Cunt,” he raged, gunned the car and drove straight to the
freeway. He drove, demanding she come back, suck his cock, be his whore. She never did. Didn’t call or write. Wherever she’d gone, she stayed there. She sat in the shadows and drove him completely insane.

He’d tossed the food over the seat. He forgot I was there. The milkshake exploded on my lap, the burgers split and fries scattered like matchsticks.
Click.
I was locked inside. He hadn’t forgotten me. He held on to me. Bait. So long as I’m nearby, he might lure her back and destroy her. The way he wasn’t able to the first time.

Up until now—or, thirteen months ago—I was a stand-in. A prop. For his rage. Rage over the one fact he cannot change. She left. She left him. He never says it. My presence causes him pain. I’m a visible, constant reminder—of the day she stood at the front door, turned the handle and walked out. She chose. Most of all, he hates her choice. And still, there was nothing he could do. No way to stop her from turning him into a raving beast.

Until, quiet as she’d vanished, she used the mail to sneak back into my life. I opened the envelope. Three items fell out. Photo, envelope, money. Mona Lisa’s daughter taught me: Survival sits square on silence that’s hard and smooth as black marble. Don’t give in. Keep quiet. There are no guarantees, Ahmed, but if you listen, read between the lines of invisible ink, you have a chance. You might live.

Hand to neck, I open the locket and remove the photo. I stare at the image. Tonight, if I saw her, would I recognize her? Walking by, is she that woman? Or, that one?

Saddam left the job. He never bothered to call. He said, “I never quit because I never started.” That’s when I knew. He was
spooked
. My mother was everywhere. She haunted him and drove him crazy with her spectral presence because
there was nothing he could do
.

“G
et up,” my inner voice says. “Time to go.”

I stand, careful to avoid the bumper, and walk. I don’t have a clue where to. Cold and alone, I recall my theory of sociological physics. Tonight’s been an excellent illustration of the theory. It goes: “for every wonderful social encounter, there’s an equal and horrible opposite.”

I believe humanity’s plastered onto a cosmic Rubik’s Cube. We don’t know it, but everyone’s all stuck on one of nine squares. Each of us hopes some “invisible” force (The One who turns the cube) will match up our other squares and create a solid color panel. (Or, Nirvana.)

“Ahmed?”

Who dares to call me by my name?

“Ben!”

I don’t think.

I run.

“Wait!” cries the voice—not the one in my head—and I slow. “It’s me!”

“Me” grabs my hand, spins me around and gives me a sweet kiss. I’m confused, but I don’t resist.

“J.D.?”

He pulls my hand.

“C’mon, we’re late!”

In seconds, we rejoin the crowd and merge into the flow.

“
What
,” I demand, “the
eff
were you thinking? Back there? With the scary Latina Lady in Red?”

“Scary, that’s funny.” He doesn’t laugh. “Forget it.”

Up ahead, Hammer waits on a corner, sole propped against an octagon-shaped YIELD sign. He sees us, and pushes off. J.D. and I follow his enormous muscle ass. I keep my eyes fixed on the white G-string dividing his Clydesdale buttocks and tiny waist.

Hammer’s Ass serves as our personal lighthouse. So long as I can see it, I know we’re heading somewhere. A destination.

The Gay Moses, Hammer, parts the crowd. People stop and stare at his scandalous getup and flawless body. Flashbulbs pop, people whistle. They ignore us. We’re the entourage for The Halloween Prom King.

I tap into my fortune teller genes (crystal ball, Ali Bababu-lous, lacquered lids, my inner
I Dream of Jeannie
) and predict: “In twenty years, people will look at these Halloween pictures. They’ll add a digital fade feature or 3-D’ize it and, for the first time, notice the boys walking behind the Go-Go God—and say, Look at those beautiful boys.”