The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" (8 page)

“Open
request! Prisoner eight-six-seven-five. Guns are hot, requesting permission to
deliver the warden’s message—over,” the guard says.

The
guard has the speaker on his communicator up loud enough for me to hear the
response: “Permission granted—over.”

“Prisoner!
Assume the static position!”

I
hear my vault opening. It sounds hydraulic and in need of maintenance.

“Prisoner,
the warden wishes for me to relay this message—”

The
veteran guard from a day ago shouts, “Get on with it rookie. I am tired of
holding my gun on this prisoner!”

“The
message from the warden is as follows: prisoner, your efforts have been highly
commended. If you continue to provide us with the information we need, at some
point we might be able to discuss a transfer. Message end.”

The
rookie’s feet tap the ground quickly, as he hurries out of the cell.

The
veteran guard requests for the closure of my vault, and it closes.

Finally,
I thought they would never leave. Transfer, yeah right! They are gone, and I
cannot wait to hold a session with my tablet. I enjoy talking about Lincoln, so
I start: “Later in the morning, after I met the paperboy, I woke up to the
smell of oatmeal and honey. The aroma was intoxicating, and beams of sun cut
shadows across my room; the sunrise invigorated me.”

I
needed the cheering up because I had started developing an achy back, and my
overall fatigue was worsening over time. I told my grandparents about the
problem a couple of days previously, and they were looking into it.

My
grandma whispered to herself, ‘I think I hear a little monkey stirring.’ She
always thought of me as that little boy; one who used to pop over to visit with
his parents. That little boy who would play happily for hours in their sandbox,
out by the azalea garden, with that awesome toy bulldozer that was a prized
hand-me-down from grandpa’s childhood.

I
could hear grandma’s soft whisper thanks to my years of self-training to become
a ninja, practicing the art of stealth. That skill enabled me to avoid my dad
around the Red Brick apartment. The less noticeable I was, the more I dodged
beatings.

My
eyes widened as grandma walked in from the kitchen, winked at me, and handed me
a plate with a forbidden item on it: a giant long-john donut. It was definitely
a good start to the day.

There
was a rapping upon the door. I approached the door with my long-john in hand
and alien slippers on my feet. I saw, on the other side of the narrow vertical
window panel adjoining the door, the palm of a teenager’s hand shaded with a
familiar tone of ink.

It
must be Lincoln.

I
opened the door. He had his skateboard, and he was ready to shred. I had a
plastic banana board that was, ironically, yellow. My board had these giant
three-inch wheels that could take on graveled paths, and eat the stones for
breakfast too. However, in reality, the only action these funky wheels had seen
so far was upon tepid pavement.

‘Is
it okay if you come over to my house?’ Lincoln asked.

Before
I could answer, Marvin and Laverne stepped up behind me, curious. They then
fired away questions at Lincoln out of surprise and curiosity: Who are your
parents? Where do you live? Where are you going? My grandparents were extremely
protective and old fashioned.

Lincoln
wrote down his address, and my grandma reminded me of the appointment they made
for me to see a doctor. She said she would pick me up at Lincoln’s house at
around three. We diligently answered the rest of their questions, and when we
were finished, we opened the door and sprinted down the street.

My
grandparents yelled, but with the door closing behind us, the train had left
the station.

Lincoln
was shorter than I was, only by a few inches, but he was well beyond his years
in knowledge and maturity.

He
had dark brown hair and his eyes were equally deep in color; there was only a
slight difference of hue between pupil and iris. He wore clothes that were
stylish and trendy. My guess was that he came from some money.

He
lived within an area of Ferndale that was developed post-pyromaniac-Jason, with
some fine three-story single households. His hair was always moussed or pomaded
into position, and his glasses were sleek and practical. I was envious.

Someday
I would learn that Lincoln’s best quality was his ability to reason
meticulously. I could always tell when he was deep into thought, because his
lips moved with the speed that his thoughts were. It was simply an indication
of his process. No matter what his thoughts—metaphysical, statistical, or
theoretical—he was brilliant.

With
Lincoln by my side, we were unstoppable.

On
our way to Lincoln’s house, we were interrupted by Nick White. Nick was a weird
one. I stayed over at his house a couple of years earlier. He drank an entire
glass of water with a cup of sugar dissolved in it that night.

Anyway,
he wanted us to go inside the store with him. Lincoln’s house was near
Big-Mart, so there was no worry of deviating from the itinerary laid out by my
grandparents.

When
we arrived in the store, after a mile of walking in the scorching sun, Nick
wanted to check out the baseball card section. He then said something that
branded him as conniving and dishonest. He said that I could take as many cards
as I wanted, if I stuffed them in my pants.

Drained
by the betraying sun that had relentlessly stalked me during the last one mile,
my judgment went out of the window. Glancing left and right quickly, I grabbed
some cards. I had foolishly believed Nick. In my corrupted state, I felt
invincible. I inched my way toward the bathroom with several of the newest
trend in baseball cards stashed into my crotch, between my underwear and my
pants. We shot paranoid looks everywhere in the store.

I
even suspected a doll for having a hidden camera behind its ominous-looking
eyes. Lincoln grabbed my shirt at the collar and scared me immensely.

‘Ted,
there is a man from electronics looking at you. The sign there says,
Thieves
will be prosecuted
, a p-word that sounds horrible, and it isn’t like you to
steal, right?’ Lincoln asked.

I
realized what I was going to do was wrong, but part of me wanted to savor the
danger, so I proceeded under the sign.

My
amulet was warming up, glowing brighter and brighter. Intensely looking at it
as I walked, I realized that some incredible physical force was holding me
back. It was weird! When I took a step, my upper foot slowed in mid stride. My
composure started to crumble; my consciousness screamed at me to feel like ‘normal’
again. Whatever normal meant. It was as if I was moving in water and then mud.
My body came to a complete stop. I was halted and frozen like a statue. It was
like I was under control from an outside presence. Under the strain, which to
me felt more mental than physical, I started to sweat; I felt like I would
experience a panic attack.

Once
my mind resolved to back off from the misdeed, my body suddenly became fluid
again, almost causing me to lose my balance. I swiveled and turned away from
the restroom, and my hand opened, dropping the baseball cards to the ground.
The man in electronics shook his head at me and asked me if I was okay.

I
regained full control over my body. Lincoln’s jaw practically hit the floor. He
had witnessed the whole thing.

‘What
was that, Ted?’ Lincoln asked.

‘I
don’t know! Let’s get out of here! That Nick is nothing but trouble. I will
tell you about it later,’ I said, as I boogied out of the mart with Lincoln at
my side. We ditched Nick, but he deserved it.

Once
out of the store we rendezvoused at the garbage cans behind the strip mall. Out
of breath and frightened, I told Lincoln exactly what happened. It was
difficult to explain the details of this incredibly weird sensation. To myself,
it was as if I were made of quick-drying plaster of paris. That was what I
wanted to tell him. But I couldn’t.  Shaken, I merely said, ‘I felt a strong
energy.’

‘Okay
dude, you have been watching far too much TV,’ Lincoln said.

‘I
don’t think I was in the presence of an alien or something like that. I think
it was the Almighty,’ I said assertively.

There
was a long silence and then we both burst into uncontrollable laughter. We put
our hats on backward and boarded to Lincoln’s house. After hanging out with
Lincoln, my grandparents picked me up for my appointment.

I
knew that day as I drove away from Lincoln’s house that I had bonded with an
incredible new pal, and I was excited about getting to know him more. Those
heady feelings were mixed in with the bewilderment and confusion—which Lincoln
had obviously shared with me—over what had happened in the store.

The
next few weeks afterwards were scientific in nature, at Lincoln’s instigation.
Lincoln was a gifted person, and his instinct was to trust in my testimony
about the event. He believed that what happened was a phenomenal intervention.

He
wanted ever so badly to uncover the phenomenon with experimentation. After
bandying about and getting tired of calling the unknown energy as simply the
power, Lincoln proposed a brilliant official term:
The Intervention
.  I
liked it.

We
put a week of research and creative visualization into the foundation of our
trials.

The
initial trial was also to determine how far we could go before the unknown
power intervened. It was his theory that
The Intervention
was caused by
knowingly breaking the law, and not so much the actual act itself. Lincoln
wanted me to, just for a moment, be evil in thought, to see whether the
intervening power was aware of what I was currently thinking.

We
were ready for trial one. After we had entered the mall, we strolled into a
popular skateboarding shop. Lincoln said that he wanted me to stuff something
big and blatantly noticeable under my jacket. It was decided by both of us that
if the item from the rack was indeed too small, then Lincoln could fail to
observe my deft move from rack to jacket.

I
have to admit that all I could think about beforehand was the prospect of
failure.

Lincoln
and I proceeded with the skit despite the consequences.

‘Dude,
you said that you would buy it for me,’ I yelped in an irritated tone, but it
wasn’t loud enough to override the music in the background of the store.
Lincoln motioned for me to take it up a notch with his thumb.

I
yelled out once more, louder this time, so that everyone could hear me over an
epic guitar solo that was playing through the speaker system. I felt the weight
of all the eyes and ears in the room fixed on us.

My
mouth was dry. My stomach was full of butterflies, and it was showtime. I
initiated the shove, and Lincoln stumbled across the room, knocking over a
skateboard rack. When everyone seemed to be looking at Lincoln, I stuck an
entire pair of shoes under my jacket, and no one had a clue that I did it. I
did it!
The Intervention
had passively stood by, despite the evil within
my mind. The real test would come later—by stepping outside the boundary of the
store, possessing stolen goods without paying—the true definition of
shoplifting.

It
happened so quickly that I became sick with nerves in reaction to what I did.

We
wanted to rule out all unexplained variables. We agreed, that should I actually
complete the abduction of the item while he looked on, he would have to remove
the existence of ulterior motive in my mind by grabbing me and pushing me out
of the store. Thus, the switch—Lincoln would take on the role of bad guy, and
test himself too.

We
didn’t want to fail. We were determined to discover what was causing
The
Intervention
, so we needed draw it out. Lincoln was to take his time
grabbing me and shoving me several yards away from the store perimeter, so that
his ulterior motive in shoving me could draw in
The Intervention
long
before I reached the exit.

‘Dude,
I cannot believe you shoved me, dork . . . boy,’ Lincoln shouted as he clutched
my shirt and escorted me out in an act of false rage. Again, nothing
supernatural happened.
The Intervention
had ignored the evil in my mind,
then it ignored Lincoln’s too. Our eyes locked in fascination as we
simultaneously realized the truth, but we had a trial to finish. We were now going
to finally show the risky part to the omnipresent force—the exit from the store
with stolen goods.

I
backpedaled achingly close to the exit from the store, the stolen goods still
on me. Out of improvisation and quick thinking, Lincoln gave one final big
shove, propelling himself forward in my direction. Losing my balance due to
Lincoln’s onslaught, I set one foot right on the speckled marble floor of the
foyer of the mall—the forbidden “no man’s land.” My other foot tenuously
remained on the tiled floor of the skateboard store.