Arthur Galey

arthur galey
by stacy carolan

He sat alone. Groups of students filed in with their trays, saw the five empty chairs surrounding him, and promptly stuffed themselves into crowded booths and tables. He kept eating.
         They watched him. He felt their bird-quick glances, their furtive peeks, their oh-so-nonchalant scan of the room that settled maybe a bit longer on him. He kept eating.
         There were conversations, and occasional laughter -- neither of which probably had to do with him -- but beneath it all was an undercurrent of whispered words, like a steady wind through dead leaves. And that certainly had to do with him. He kept eating.
         There was a slight commotion, a subtle rise in the whispered words. He raised his head and saw Jonas, standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and uncomfortable. To Art, he looked torn between finding a place to sit and bolting down the hall, tray and all. Jonas was never very good in the spotlight.
         Spotlight. That brought a small smile to Art's face as he looked down at his tray. Jonas was a sort of celebrity now. He was the roommate of the notorious Art Galey. He had slept in the same room with the crazy man. What was it like, Jonas? Did he ever threaten you? Did you ever catch him taking steroids? What about PCP? Come on, Jonas, sit with us, tell us everything...
         A strange hush fell over the room.
         Art looked up. Jonas was standing across from him. His eyes had a desperate, drowning quality. But he was looking steadily at Art. “You saving this seat for anyone in particular?” Jonas asked, a small smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. His words were unusually loud in the stillness of the cafeteria. He made no attempt to lower his voice, and there was no detectable waver. Art respected him for that.
         “Be my guest,” he said. “I’ll ask you how your day’s going, just as soon as everyone starts talking again.”
         There were a few startled huffs, not quite gasps, and several people left the dining hall, their plates half-empty. The conversations slowly started up again. And the whispering, of course.
         “You’re obviously handling this pretty well,” said Jonas around a mouthful of beans. He was looking at his plate.
         “What am I supposed to do? Flip out like everyone expects? Hide in my room all day? Screw that.”
         Jonas chewed for a while, then said, “Have you gone to see him yet?”
         Art shook his head. “But I called the hospital, and they said he’ll be out by tomorrow. It was really just a concussion and some bruises.”
         “Yeah, that’s what I heard.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stared at his food. “I talked to Matt Granger in psych this morning -- he’d gone to see Brian before class -- and he said that Brian’s saying he was drunk and just fell. He’s telling everyone you had nothing to do with it.”
         “That’s what I told the RA’s, too,” Art muttered. “Fine by me. The sooner word gets around, the sooner everyone stops talking about it.”
         Jonas finally looked up at him. “Is that what happened?”
         Art returned his gaze and saw for the first time that Jonas was terrified. His face had gone an alarming shade of red, and his forehead glowed as if he were sweating. There were bags beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept much.
         My god, it’s me, Art thought. I thought he’d been freaking out about everyone staring at him, but he was working up the guts just to sit next to me. He’s scared shitless. Of me.
         At last, Art said, “What do you think happened?”
         “I... well... you said that... I don’t know...”
         Art leaned back in his chair and stared at his stammering roommate. “You came over here and sat with me, and all this time I’m thinking, Damn, that took some balls, to sit right across from me with everyone watching, not caring what they thought of you. But you’re just like them. No --“ he stood up, “ -- you’re worse than them, man. They’re just watching the show, but you think you got some fucking backstage pass or something. Did someone send you to find out what happened? I bet it was Granger, wasn’t it? Great. So either I’m some acid-popping steroid psycho or I’m a liar. Well that’s just fucking great.” He had dropped all pretense of speaking only to Jonas. “You can believe what you want to believe, I guess I’m screwed either way.”
         He walked around the table and looked down at Jonas.
         “Maybe you’re right to be scared of me.”
         His roommate’s eyes were very large, and the flushed red was slowly draining from his cheeks.
         “Okay, everyone,” Art said, turning around, taking in the whole room, “this is the part where I storm out. Watch carefully so you can tell your friends about it.”
         And he left.
         Jonas looked at Art’s tray. Everyone was staring at him again. He wasn’t very hungry anymore.

Art walked towards the dorms, barely seeing the people he passed on the sidewalk. He didn’t worry about colliding with anyone; they all gave him a wide berth. Some actually crossed to the other side of the street, if they saw him far enough in advance. It made walking easier, but did nothing to help his mood. Blood pounded loudly in his head. He couldn’t seem to unclench his fists, or his jaw. Breath raced in and out of his nose. He sounded like an animal.
         That’s exactly right, he thought. An animal. That’s what they see. They all look at me like I’m going to bite them.
         And why not? He’d bitten before, hadn’t he?
         That stopped him in his steps. He looked down at his hands and forced them to open.
         What exactly had he done?
         He started walking again, the flaring rage sinking back into a dull, manageable anger as he reached his dorm. The heat in the lobby was immediate and heavy, but he barely noticed. He jogged up one flight of stairs and keyed into the room he shared with Jonas Fielding.
         He tossed his keys on the desk next to his books and walked towards the phone. He didn't know who he intended to call, but he was spared having to make a decision. The dial tone was beeping. He punched in the voice-mail code and listened to the robotic voice tell him he had fourteen unplayed messages.
         “Shit,” he said aloud. He played the first message.
         “Beep: Fuck you, Galey, you fuckin maniac! Beep.” No name, and he didn’t recognize the voice. Probably one of the football players. He played the second message.
         “Beep: You’ll be goin to the hospital when Brian gets out, you fuckin faggot. Or the morgue. Beep.”
         “Beep: Don’t let us catch you alone, Galey. Beep.” Whispered, to sound more threatening. Jesus.
         He played through the rest of the messages. They were all the same sentiment behind different voices. He guessed that most of them were from the football team; one might have even been the coach, but he wasn’t sure. Three in a row had come from Brian’s girlfriend, Darlene, who somehow managed to attribute the whole incident to Art’s insecurity about the size of his penis (putting her psych major to good use; her parents ought to be thrilled). And one wit had called pretending to be the police, asking him to come downtown and respond to the assault charges being brought against him. Art had never been in trouble with the police before, but he didn’t think they ever called you up and asked you to come downtown. He was pretty sure they made housecalls for that sort of thing. And he was even more sure that the officers listening in the background didn’t giggle nearly as much.
         He deleted all of them and put the phone back on the base. Listening to the barrage of messages had made him realize there was no one he could call. Jonas, his roommate, the one person in whom he should have been able to confide and trust, thought he was a liar. The majority of the campus seemed to think that he was either a liar or violently crazy. And, judging from the three classes he’d had today, the faculty appeared to be just as split as the student body.
         maybe you’re right to be scared of me
         A quarter of the student body had just heard him quasi-threaten his own roommate. Surely most of the campus would hear about it by nightfall, the tale growing wilder with each telling, and those who weren’t sure if he was crazy or not would make up their minds by morning.
         He flopped onto his bed. The only person he could call that might be of any help was Brian himself. And Brian apparently thought Art was spreading rumors around campus about how he’d kicked Brian’s ass last night. Brian’s friends, Marco and Patch, were probably the ones spreading the rumors -- not because they really believed he’d actually taken Brian down, but simply because they were the only two eyewitnesses. They were eating up the limelight that Jonas wanted so desperately to spit out. They’d be talking about whatever it was they were talking about for months. And people would listen.
         While he considered the feasibility of taking correspondence courses from his dorm room (he already had most of the pizza delivery phone numbers committed to memory, and he could probably find one for groceries, maybe a laundry service, too, and hell, the bathrooms were just right across the hall), he fell asleep.

Someone was knocking.
         Art rolled over to read the digital clock on the dresser. 2:48 a.m. He’d slept away the evening. Not that he’d had any plans.
         He stumbled out of bed and towards the door, not bothering to turn on the light. Both he and Jonas were mild neat freaks; there was nothing to trip over. He reached the door and put his eye to the peephole, seeing only the vague pink darkness that meant someone was covering it with their hand.
         “Funny, asshole,” he said. “I can wait all night.”
         The hand abruptly disappeared, and Art had only a moment to recognize the drunken figure outside his door before Patch began pounding on the wood, bouncing Art’s head back painfully.
         “Galey?” Slam slam slam. “What the fuck did you do, Galey?” Slam slam. The words were thick and slurred, as though the tongue that made them had grown too large for its mouth. “Open the fucking door and tell me what you did!”
         Art looked at the small circle of light from the peephole. On the other side of it was a very large, very drunk man who didn’t like him very much. He put a hand to his throbbing forehead. He briefly wondered if he’d locked the door when he came in after dinner, but found he didn’t really care. Whatever was going to happen would happen.
         Besides, he thought, smiling in the dark, this isn’t the first drunken football player I’ve ever dealt with.
         “Fuck off, Patch,” he said quietly.
         “Galey?” He didn’t sound angry. “I hear you in there, Galey. What the fuck did you do to Brian, man?” More knocking, this time almost polite. “C’mon, Arnold, let me in. I just wanna talk.”
         “It’s Arthur, fuckwad.” Am I actually trying to provoke him? I think I am.
         At any rate, it wasn’t working. “I saw what happened, Arnold,” he slurred. “I saw the whole thing. People buy me drinks, just cause I saw the whoooooole thing. I didn’t pay for a drink all night, man…” There was a thump, a long rasping slide, then another thump. Art could see Patch in his mind, sitting with his back against the door. He was almost positive that Patch was going to pass out there. Wonderful.
         Patch’s voice had dropped. The decrease in volume, along with the fact that he was now facing away from the door, made Art step forward to hear his words.
         “... the whole goddamn thing. You never came close, Arnold. I saw the whole thing and you never even came close.”
         Art was crouched down, straining his ear to the door.
         “He flew into the hall like Superman, like out of a fuckin windshield, man, three feet off the ground and cruisin. How’d you do that? I saw the whole thing, and you never touched him once. Not a goddamn finger on him, and he’s in the hospital. How the hell...”
         Art listened for a few minutes more, but they were essentially the same words, draining away to silence. When Patch began to snore, Art stood up and went back to bed. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep anymore that night.
         Twenty minutes later, Patch woke up and staggered away without another word. Art heard him, and was immediately asleep.

Art woke up. Someone was in the room. He sat up fast.
         It was Jonas. “I’m just grabbing my books.”
         Art stared for a moment, confused by the strange glow surrounding his roommate. Then he noticed the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
         “About nine.”
         “In the morning?”
         Jonas looked out the window, then back at Art. Art could practically see the smartass comment die on his roommate’s lips as he remembered the scene in the cafeteria. “Yeah, nine in the morning,” was all Jonas said.
         Art considered apologizing, but realized he wasn’t sorry. He was surprised to find the anger still there, sitting sullenly in the middle of his mind like a stubborn child. Instead he stood up and stretched his arms behind his back. It occurred to him to ask where Jonas had spent the night, but that was too close to asking him flat out why he hadn’t slept in the room. “You have breakfast yet?”
         “Not hungry,” said Jonas, zipping his bag.
         “That’s a first.” Art walked to the mirror on the closet door and ran a hand over his face.
         “I picked up your stuff for you,” said Jonas from behind him.
         “What stuff?”
         “Your books and stuff. I put them back on the desk.”
         “Where were they?” Art was looking at Jonas through the mirror. Jonas was looking back at him, as if expecting some quick movement.
         “The floor,” he said at last. “There was a bunch of your stuff lying all over the floor.”
         Art turned around. “What the hell... ”
         “You didn’t... you know, put them there?”
         “Did I come back and pitch a fit in the room, is that what you’re asking?” he said, louder than he’d intended. Jonas recoiled slightly, and some of Art’s anger died at the sight. Poor, terrified Jonas.
         “I’m sorry, man,” he said, turning back towards the mirror. “I didn’t throw anything around. I came back here and fell asleep, actually. Someone must have come in and tossed my stuff. Lucky they didn’t toss me too, I guess, I was pretty much out of it.”
         “The door was locked when I came in.”
         “It was?”
         “Scout’s honor.” Jonas gave him the Boy Scout salute, and even smiled a little. It looked strained, but it was better than nothing.
         “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”
         “Eagle Scout, actually.” Jonas shouldered into his backpack. “Got the badges to prove it.”
         “That does not surprise me in the least. You probably brought them with you to college.” Art smiled back at his roommate. “You’re gonna be late for class.”
         “It’s just Powers, he doesn’t care.” But smile or no smile, Jonas looked eager to be on his way. And Art, anger or no anger, didn’t feel like making things any harder on Jonas than he already had.
         He stepped aside as Jonas left the room, then went back to his bed and sat down. He had his own nine o’clock class to be at, but he didn’t think he’d be going today.
         i picked up your stuff
         i saw the whole thing, and you never touched him once
         the door was locked when I came in
         The floor had been clear when he came into the room yesterday. He was sure of it. If it hadn’t been, he would have fallen flat on his face in the dark when he went to the door. Unless Jonas had exaggerated --
         He glanced at the desk. There was a pile of books, papers, and folders stacked next to a tidy bundle of pens and pencils. He didn’t remember ordering them that neatly himself, so that must have been the “bunch of stuff” that Jonas had picked up off the floor. And it was a bunch; Art would have noticed that many things lying around, even in the dark.
         If the floor was clear when he came in after supper, and clear when he journeyed across it in the dark, then the books and papers and such could only have fallen... after he’d gone to sleep? The door had been locked the whole time; had he sleepwalked and knocked everything off the desk? He’d never sleepwalked in his life. Not that he’d known of, anyway. Maybe he had sleepwalked as a child, and his parents just hadn’t told him about it.
         Maybe you used to beat up guys seventy pounds heavier than you without even touching them, his mind said cheerfully, and the folks just didn’t tell you about that either. Everything would make perfect sense then, wouldn’t it?
         “Shut up,” Art told himself in the empty room. His mind, in reply, recalled the thump and slide of Patch’s drunken body rasping slowly down the wooden door.
         the whole goddamn thing
         Art looked around the room for his sneakers, then realized they were still on his feet; he hadn’t taken them off last night. His keys were near the stack of books on the desk. Perhaps they’d been on the floor too. He grabbed them and shoved them into his pocket.
         i saw the whoooooole thing
         “Did you, now,” Art said, walking to the door.

The majority of the football team lived in Brainerd Hall. Art had tutored quite a few of them over the years, and while Patch’s grades weren’t too bad (for a linebacker), Art had been on the third floor often enough to know which room was Patch's: three-twenty-nine, a single at the far end of the hall. A long run back to the stairs if things got hairy, but Art was determined to talk to Patch. Besides, he could put on the speed quite nicely when he wanted to, and Patch was probably in no kind of shape for a footrace this morning.
         The hallway was empty. Somewhere close by, someone’s stereo was playing softly. Art raised his hand to knock on Patch’s door, when suddenly the music became, not necessarily louder, but clearer, and its direction more defined. It was coming from the opposite side of the hall, two rooms down.
         “You got balls the size of friggin melons, man,” said a voice, barely audible.
         Art took a few steps down the hall to see the largest pair of glasses on campus staring at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
         Jeremy Cromwell nodded towards Patch’s door. “He came in piss drunk at about four in the morning. And I mean piss drunk.”
         “I believe it. He paid me a little visit last night.”
         “Shit, man,” said Jeremy, shaking his head. “Stainless steel melons.”
         Art smiled. “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me? Didn’t you hear? I’m the BMOC. Big maniac on campus.”
         “You pissed at me?”
         “Nope.”
         “Then what do I got to worry about?” Jeremy opened the door far enough to lean on the doorframe. “So why you want to talk to him anyway?”
         Art looked at his shoes. “Got my reasons.”
         “Huh. Those reasons worth waking up a very hung over man who doesn’t like you very much?”
         On the walk over to Brainerd, Art had contemplated that very same thing. But what choice did he have? Everyone else seemed to have made up their minds about the events of two nights ago. Only Patch seemed as confused about what happened as Art was. Of course, Art was basing this assumption on Patch’s drunken ramblings in the wee hours of the morning -- but what choice did he really have?
         Jeremy read these thoughts on his face. “The answer is no, man. It ain’t worth it, I guaran-goddamn-fuckin-tee it. The cleanin lady was vacuumin one morning -- a Saturday, I think -- and Patch comes flyin out of his room, grabs the vacuum and throws it into the wall three or four times, just about as hard as he can, all the time screamin about how come she can’t do that shit in the afternoon, don’t she realize people are tryin to sleep, and blah blah blah.”
         “No shit?”
         “Shit-free, my man. Friends don’t wake him up when he’s hung over, and I’m guessin you ain’t exactly his friend.”
         Art was silent. His eyes went down the hall to Patch’s door.
         “You’re really gonna talk to him, huh?” Jeremy’s voice was amused and slightly awed.
         “I think I pretty much have to,” Art shrugged.
         Jeremy shrugged back. “Your funeral. I say phone it in, but hey, you didn’t see what was left of the vacuum, so have a field day, man.”
         “How did you know I was out here anyway?” Art asked. “Were you just watching out the peephole for the hell of it? Is your TV broken or something?”
         “Saw you comin across the Commons, so yeah, I was watchin the hall. Didn’t know where you were headed, but figured I’d watch just in case. You’re the most interesting guy on campus right now, you know.”
         “Doesn’t say much for the campus.”
         “Whatever, man. I got a paper to finish before eleven, so I’ll leave you to your own masochism. If you do decide to knock on that door, I’ll hear the festivities anyway, and hey, you don’t have to always see the fireworks to enjoy them, know what I mean?” He started to close the door.
         “Hey wait,” said Art, stepping forward a little.
         “Hey what?” Jeremy blinked at him, his eyes magnified and swimming behind those unreal lenses.
         “Did he get busted for what happened with the vacuum?”
         Jeremy laughed, almost silently, and Art saw exactly how deeply frightened the freshman really was. Jeremy kept watch out the window. Jeremy whispered in the hall. Jeremy paid attention to the comings and goings of those around him. Jeremy’s stereo was turned down. Jeremy wouldn’t even allow himself to laugh out loud. Jeremy Cromwell had learned how not to be noticed.
         “Shit no,” he said. “Football players don’t get busted for anything at this school, even I know that by now. Football’s all this school’s got. If you’re on the team, you’re practically second cousin to god, man.” He chuckled once more, softly. “I imagine that’s why you’re so popular now. Blasphemer.”
         Art smiled a little. “That’s me.”
         “Save yourself a couple pints of blood, Galey. Phone it in.” His door closed without so much as a click.
         Art turned and stared at Patch's door for a long moment, then turned back and started walking towards the stairwell. Further down the hall, he noticed, for the first time, the large scuffmarks and gouges on the brick wall. Maintenance had tried to paint over them, but the results were simply scuffmarks and gouges that matched the rest of the walls. He walked a little faster.
         Jeremy was right. The administration was notorious for turning a blind eye when it came to the football team. Even Brian’s hospitalization, once it was revealed that alcohol had been involved, was glossed over pretty quickly. Art had told the RA’s at the scene that Brian, in a drunken stupor, had simply fallen (and had Art himself believed it even then? he didn’t know), and Brian had told essentially the same story. The school saw no reason to push the matter. Boys will be boys, and all that happy horseshit. And, as long as they still won their games, those boys would barely even get a slap on the wrists.
         He stopped at the top of the stairs.
         One of those boys would be released from the hospital today.
         Art took the stairs two at a time all the way down. He barely noticed when one of the stairwell windows he raced past, open wide to the forecasted eighty-degree day, suddenly slammed shut, rattling the panes and echoing through each floor.

He stared at the piece of paper taped to his door, not daring to touch it. He had expected to have at least until noon. Surely a hospital wouldn’t discharge a patient so early in the morning, would they? Wouldn’t they want to observe Brian a while before they sent him on his way? See how he fared after a good night’s sleep?
         Apparently not.
         He looked up and down the hallway, expecting to see Brian leaning against a doorframe, smiling at him, or maybe rushing towards him, like some nightmare boogeyman -- but the hallway was empty. It was twenty after nine; most people were in class.
         He pulled out his keys, unconsciously holding his hand tightly around them to still any jingling (Jeremy Cromwell Syndrome, he thought). As he slid the key slowly into the lock, he had a brief flash of Brian crouched on the other side of the door, waiting to spring.
         “Jesus, man, get a grip,” he told himself, but his heart skipped as he shoved through the doorway, perhaps a little faster and more forceful than he’d intended, probably just as a result of nerves, but maybe -- just maybe -- to catch anyone waiting in the room off their guard.
         There was no one in the room. The closet door was open, and he could see that no one was inside it (it was kept as neat as the rest of the room). There were no other adequate spaces for anyone as large as Brian to hide. He looked carefully at everything anyway.
         He shut the door as quietly as he could, but could do nothing to dampen the click as he thumbed the lock button; he made a mental note to ask Jeremy how he did it so smoothly.
         He was glad he had left the hospital discharge notice on the door. Anyone passing by would assume he hadn’t been to his room yet. His hand was halfway to dropping his keys on the desk when he stopped and put them back in his pocket. It certainly wouldn’t do to be caught outside his room without his keys, and he wasn’t going to risk forgetting to grab them if he had to leave suddenly.
         He sat down on the edge of his bed, wondering if he should try to bar the door with the back of a chair. Not that that sort of thing ever really worked -- the chairs were invariably too short to lever underneath the knob. Perhaps he could fashion a type of wedge jamb out of one of his books, and --
         Art closed his eyes and lay backwards onto the bed, his feet still on the floor. Jesus Christ, he was barricading himself inside his own goddamned room. How long did he think he could stay here?
         “Depends on how long I need to,” he said aloud. It was intended as a half-joke, but he found no humor in it. In fact, when you got right down to it, the sound of his voice in the empty room was creepy.
         There was a noise from across the room. Art's eyes snapped open, his mind already seeing Brian springing from his hiding place, unnoticed and deadly. And there he was, between the desk and the wall, never mind how he’d fit there, he was there, and he was coming --
          Art sighed. The sound he’d heard had been the whisper of a poster, fallen from its place on the wall. The motion he’d glimpsed had been its trailing edge as it disappeared behind the desk. Jumping at shadows, he thought. He supposed that was the next logical step. Soon he’d be too afraid to leave the room. After all, there were shadows everywhere.
         The phone rang, glaringly loud in the still room. He unknotted his hands from the bed sheet (when exactly he’d grabbed it so tightly he couldn’t quite remember) and stood up to answer it.
         He stopped after one step. Through the rubber sole of his shoe he could feel a lump, small but solid. He picked up his foot and saw a blue pushpin on the carpet. Four such pins had held up each of Jonas’ three posters throughout the room. A quick glance at the remaining two posters told him that the pin hadn’t come from either of them. So, somehow, when the third poster had decided to leave the wall, one of its pins had flown across the room
         like Superman
         and landed next the bed.
         The phone was still ringing, but he paused. He looked at the spot on the wall where the poster had been. Easy enough to tell: there were still three pins in the wall, marking out three corners of a rectangle. Tagged to one of the pins was a scrap of glossy paper, ripped in a small irregular triangle. The poster had come off the wall in a bit of a hurry.
         By itself.
         The room felt far too hot. Colors seemed too bright. Suddenly Art needed to hear another voice, needed an anchor to keep his mind from flying away to places where posters jumped off the walls, windows slammed, books scattered themselves in the dead of night, football players soared through the air like --
         He lunged for the phone. It was miles away, he’d never cross the gulf in time -- but his hand found the receiver deceptively fast, and the room’s dimensions were back to normal. Colors still burned ferociously into his retinas, but he closed his eyes, and it was at least bearable.
         “Hello?”
         “Galey?” It wasn’t Brian, like he'd expected. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it, and the fact that it was only a whisper wasn’t helping.
         “Yeah,” he said, his eyes still closed.
         “Shit, man, you’re probably the luckiest son of a bitch on campus, you know that?”
         "Jeremy? What --“
         “Yeah, long time no hear, I know. Look, Brian showed up about two minutes after you left.”
         “At Patch’s room?”
         “I don’t know how you two missed each other on the stairs, but it must’ve been fuckin close.”
         “You really need to get a TV or something, man.”
         “You’re welcome. So, short story even shorter, Brian woke up Patch, and they’re probably on their way to get Marco right now. The mighty pack-hunters. If I were you, I wouldn’t be anywhere.” Jeremy’s voice was actually raised a little.
         Art opened his eyes. “Why are you doing all this?” The colors of the room had gone mostly back to normal. The brighter ones still hurt to look at, though; he could feel the onset of a migraine behind his eyeballs.
         “Beats doin my paper.” And he hung up.
         Art looked for a moment at the receiver in his hand, then pressed the Talk button, hanging up his end, and laid the receiver on the desk. He turned around and walked towards the bed, almost knocking his shin against an open drawer that hadn’t been open before the phone had rung. He absently kicked it closed, then sat down.
         What the hell was happening?
         "Like Superman," he said to the empty room, and this time his voice didn't sound creepy in the least.
         The phone rang once. Art looked at it, but made no move to press the Talk button.
         Jonas's voice. "Art?... Hey Art? Did you pick up?"
         "No," he said softly. "No I didn't."
         "Art, it's Jonas," came the small voice from the phone's speaker. "I can't talk long anyway. I just came out of the bathroom and saw Brian and a couple of his friends waiting outside your nine o'clock. It's," pause, "quarter of ten now, so class should be getting out pretty soon, and once they see you're not there, they'll probably stop by the room. Art?"
         Art put the phone to his ear. "Thanks."
         "I just, you know... I just wanted to let you know." And he hung up.
         Art stood up. He looked around the room, at his books, at the drawer he'd just closed, and finally, at the space on the wall where the poster had been. The phone began beeping out its reminder to hang up, and Art picked it up and thumbed the Talk button without taking his eyes off the scrap of poster still on the wall.
         "Not Superman," he said. "Something else."
         He put down the phone. He fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them on the bed; he did the same with the bit of change in his other pocket. After a moment's thought, he pulled out his wallet and added it to the small pile. While the total weight he'd removed could not have exceeded a pound, he felt significantly lighter.
         He walked out into the hallway and towards the stairs, not bothering to shut his door. Maybe it would shut itself.
         Stranger things had happened.

Jeremy Cromwell leaned out his open window, staring out onto the green grass of the Commons. His eleven o'clock paper was all but forgotten.
         On the lawn there was a crowd. Within that crowd there was a space. Within that space there were four people, three large figures standing opposite a smaller figure.
         The tableau was too far away for Jeremy to hear what the smaller figure was saying, but the fact that he could hear the figure's voice at all showed Jeremy how unnaturally quiet the gathered throng was. That many people should make far more noise. Shuffling feet, murmured conversations... crowd noise. But there was none. Only the soft, indistinct tone of the small figure's voice.
         More people were streaming towards the crowd. Those in back jostled for position, straining up on their toes to see into the center, all still blanketed with that uneasy silence. Jeremy realized that he was holding his breath.
         There was laughter now, from the three larger figures. Some in the crowd joined in. Most did not.
         Two of the larger figures stepped towards the smaller figure and grabbed his arms. The crowd gasped.
         Jeremy's hands groped blindly for the binoculars he kept close to the window sill. He brought them up to his face, clicking them sharply against his glasses, and adjusted the focus.
         The blurry scene cleared just in time for Jeremy to watch one of the large figures -- the one who hadn't gone to hold the smaller figure -- lift magically into the air and stop, hovering upside-down about fifty feet above the ground.
         "Like Superman," he whispered.
         The crowd started to scream.

Art could see people scattering in his peripheral vision. The screams were unfortunate, but he barely paid any attention to them. He didn't know if he could afford to.
         "I think you two should let go of me," said Art gently.
         Marco released his hold immediately, as if Art's arm had become white hot, and stepped away slowly. Patch's hand remained firmly clamped to Art's upper arm, but his eyes were fixed on his floating friend. He seemed to have forgotten he was holding on to anything. He was shaking slightly.
         Brian stared at them from the sky. His eyes were wide as moons. As the crowd dispersed and the screaming faded, Art could hear the occasional patter of a coin falling to the ground. Brian's arms were at his sides, his feet together; his head pointed towards the ground like an arrow.
         He was trying to speak, but no words came out.
         Patch's trembling grip was tightening on Art's arm, though it probably wasn't intentional.
         "Patch," said Art. "Let go of my arm. Right now."
         The big man finally looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. "Put him down," he said in a small voice.
         "Brian, tell your boy to let go of my arm."
         "No..." said Patch, "you... you put him down." Some of his haze was clearing. His grip tightened, very intentionally this time.
         "Patch," Art said slowly, his eyes fixed on the man in the sky, "it's taking just about every ounce of concentration I have to keep him up there, and if you do anything to me, he's going to fall headfirst into the ground and break his neck."
         There was a scream from above as Brian floated even higher into the air.
         "Let go of his fucking arm, you idiot!" hissed Marco.
         Brian's voice drifted down, distant and terrified. "Patch, goddammit, let go of him."
         Patch dropped his hand and stepped away. "You freak," he said. "You fucking freak son of a bitch."
         "Sticks and stones," Art muttered. "I'd like both of you to get in front of me where I can see you without having to take my attention away from your friend up there." He called, "Doesn't that sound like a good idea, Brian?"
         "Do what he says," came the weak reply. "Please Jesus, just do whatever he says."
         Marco and Patch inched their way back to where they had originally stood; the tableau was restored, minus the crowd and plus about eighty feet of vertical space.
         "I'll be honest with you guys," said Art, "I don't know what to do from here. You were looking for me, and I was sick of hiding, so came out to be found, but I didn't really have any big plan in mind. Certainly nothing as interesting as this." He smiled.
         "Please let me down," Brian began, tears streaming down his forehead, "let me down, I swear I won't touch you, I'll leave you alone, I'll never come anywhere near you again, I swear on my fucking life, just let me down..."
         "Oh come on, man," Art laughed. "Do you really think I'm worried about you anymore? Do you honestly think I'm scared of what you might do to me if I let you down?" Brian's body flipped once in the air, head over heels. He screamed again, a high gobbling sound, thoroughly upsetting to the ear.
         "The cops will be here soon," said Patch. "Probably the fire department too, eventually. They'll have nets and shit. What're you gonna do then? They'll get under him so you can't drop him, and then they'll blow your ass away." Patch smiled a murderous smile.
         "Hmm," said Art, crossing his arms. "I guess I could throw him if I got shot. I bet I would have just enough strength left in me to launch him a good hundred yard arc to one side or the other. Unless they got me in the head. Probably wouldn't have time, then. Have to send him waaaay up the minute they step out of the cars. I'd put him up in the air so high that he'd punch right through whatever they put under him like a big screaming bullet, I fuckin guarantee you that."
         Brian was sobbing now in great childish whoops.
         "That is, of course, unless I can stop their bullets. I really don't know exactly what all I'm capable of. I feel like I just might be able to do that. Guess I'll never know until I try." He cupped his hands around his mouth. "What do you think, Bri? Should I send you up about three or four miles and wait to see if I can stop a bullet coming at my head and keep you from falling at the same time?"
         Only choked, watery noises from above.
         Art chuckled. "I'm gonna guess that's a no."
         "You sick fuck," growled Patch.
         "Yeah, you're probably right. I'm still taking all of this in, you know? It's bound to go to my head a little. Marco, what are you driving nowadays?"
         Marco started, caught off guard. "What?"
         "I asked you what you're driving. What shiny new car have mommy and daddy sent to school with you this year?"
         "Why?" asked Marco, his eyes narrowed to slits.
         "Because I'm leaving, Marco, and I'm going to take your car, and I have to know which one it is."
         Marco just stared for a moment. Then, to Art's surprise, reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys without complaint. "The black Jeep Cherokee, parked over by the science building."
         "You wouldn't be lying to me now, would you, Marco? Trying to buy some time?"
         "Click the alarm, if you don't believe me," and he tossed the keys towards Art's feet. "If givin you my ride is gonna get you the fuck out of here, then I'm gonna give you my ride. Besides, you're not stupid. You won't be in it for long, and the cops will find it and get it back to me."
         Art bent down and picked up the key chain. The plastic fob said "Jeep".
         "Well," he said. "I guess I'll get the fuck out of here then. I underestimated your generosity and intelligence, Marco."
         "Kiss my ass, freak."
         Art smiled. "Gentlemen, it's been fun. I'm gonna leave Brian up there until I get to the jeep. I feel pretty confident that I can keep him right where he is from that far away. If I can't, I guess he'll start to gradually come down the further away I get." He spread his hands out in front of him. "That's just a guess, though. Once I get too far away, I might just lose my grip totally. I really don't know for sure. But like I said, I'm pretty confident I can keep him where he is, and then set him down nice and gentle from all the way over by the science building."
         "How do we know you won't get over there and then just let him fall?" sneered Patch.
         Art's smile disappeared. "You don't know, you ignorant fuck. And you won't know, until I do whatever I decide to do. And there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it."
         There was a sob from above.
         "I don't plan on killing Brian. If I get to Marco's jeep without either one of you two doing something stupid, then he'll live through today, and I'll be gone. But listen to me, fellas." He looked at each of them in turn. "I don't expect you guys to forgive and forget. It's not in your nature. You're going to be very angry, even angrier than you are right now, if you can believe it, and you're going to want to come after me."
         Art stepped towards the pair on the ground. "If I see you after today, I'll have to assume that you intend to do me harm. And I will kill you. It's really that simple. And by then," he smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes, "I bet I'll have much more interesting ways of doing it."
         He turned. Brian gave a brief cry from above, but didn't drop so much as an inch as Art Galey strode across the lush morning green of the Commons. Patch and Marco positioned themselves beneath Brian as best they could when Art disappeared behind a building, but Brian stayed exactly where he was.
         They heard the distant chirp of the jeep's alarm, and Brian began floating slowly to the ground, head first. Marco and Patch followed his progress carefully, ready for any sudden drop. About six feet from the grass, he turned a graceful half-revolution in the air, and landed gently on his feet. His knees promptly buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious, into his friends' arms.

Jeremy Cromwell put down his binoculars and sat back in his chair. He removed his glasses and began wiping them methodically on his shirt. The first sirens were audible now, winding their way through the city traffic. They'd be here in three more minutes.
         Jeremy returned his trademark spectacles to his face and rolled his chair back to his desk. With a flurry of police activity on campus, his as-yet-non-existent paper wouldn't be due today, he was sure of it. Probably not for the next two days. Ample time to come up with some adequate bullshit. And an annotated bibliography to boot.
         He shook his head. "Stainless steel melons," he said to the empty room, and Jeremy Cromwell laughed out loud.