Interference
by Bruce Altner
Copyright (c)1989
I am slowly going bananas in this suffocating little room. ``Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!'' shriek the blades of the battered fan, clanking rhythmically against their prison of dented wire and trying in vain to stir up a breeze in the soupy air. Izzy Arnold's boom box blasts out an endless stream of chicken-shit music from the concrete stoop five floors below and a bunch of snot-nosed kids are playing noisily in the vacant lot across the street. No wonder I'm accomplishing el zilcho on the dissertation today. The integrals don't converge, the model is crude, I'm sick to death of it and it's all a pile of crap anyway. I mean, who gives a damn about the connection between convective dredge-up and stellar abundance anomalies? Not me, that's for sure, and it's MY dissertation. Izzy, Izzy, you don't know how close to death you are at this moment, you meathead.
It's useless. I open my third and last can of Coors and go to the window, which is stuck open almost halfway by layer upon layer of dull green paint. Perhaps if I try hard enough I can conjure up an icy mountain stream or a pine forest, deep, cool, and silent except for the muted sound of my passage along the thick carpet of needles, the fragrance of resin. But no such luck. Across the street is a small abandoned lot, strewn with large boulders and chunks of concrete, broken glass and weeds. My fantasy pine glade is nothing but a few scraggly trees that have somehow managed to maintain a foothold in the packed, sandy soil, and the rising currents of hot air bring to my nostrils the mingled aromas of frying onions and uncollected garbage.
Mercifully, the cacaphonous squawkings from Izzy's stereo fade as he and his friends boogey on down the sidewalk toward the corner delicatessen, where they will probably hang out until dinnertime. As the raucous noise fades so does some of my irritation, and even the kids playing their stupid kids' games among the rocks and broken beer bottles don't annoy me as much as they did just a few moments ago. It's not their fault that this seedy lot is the closest thing to a playground that they have. Surprised, I find myself humming a few bars from Cat Stevens' _Where Do the Children Play?_ Well, I was a bratty kid myself, once upon a time. If I try very hard I can recall some pleasant moments from my early years---it wasn't all fighting with my sister and brother, and hating school, and being told you shouldn't do this and you shouldn't do that and you'd better buckle down or you'll never go to college and why are you so moody, Jackie my boy? But mostly it WAS those things, and feeling angry and misunderstood. Well, here I am, stuck in this lousy sweatbox with no more beer in the refrigerator, with six years of my life spent studying physics so that I can author some useless treatise on stellar evolution (which no one will ever read), and across the street there are these kids who don't know a lick about mixing length theory or roundoff error, who don't seem to be affected by the heat and who, dammit, seem to be having a hell of a lot more fun than I ever had as a kid. With a shock of honesty, I realize that I am envious. From my lofty perch five floors above and twenty years beyond them I view the world in a light so totally alien to theirs that I may as well be from another planet. Why ARE you so moody, Jack?
Finally, the heat gets to me and I must brave the street to fetch another six-pack. The elevator deposits me in the lobby, cavernous and dimly lit, smelling faintly of cats and laundry soap. I linger by my mailbox, scanning the junk mail and savoring a last moment of coolness---but if I hang around too long I'll most likely run into Mrs. Gunderson. I am in no mood today to suffer her inexhaustible supply of complaints and sad tribulations.
Leaving the building, I notice that there are eight or ten kids in the lot across the street, each perched atop one of the many large boulders scattered among the weeds. I recognize some of them from my walks through the neighborhood. The girl on the largest boulder is Hector Munoz's ten year old, Ana. She has long, dark hair and a pretty, though serious, no-nonsense face. Hector had come to repair a leak in the kitchen plumbing not too long ago and he had brought her along. ``Would you like some milk and cookies while your father works on the faucet?'' I had offered, just trying to be nice, but I was answered with a hard, unsmiling look. ``Ana is a better plumber than I am,'' Hector had said, winking conspiratorially, but from her reaction I knew that I had just been dismissed as another dumb adult who probably thought that girls should stay at home and play with dolls and learn how to sew.
These kids are putting an enormous amount of energy into their game, whatever it is, wailing like the Banshee herself and waving sticks through the torpid air. The sight stops me in momentary amazement. One of them sees me and calls out to the others---an intruder, a spy in the camp! But no, what's this? Expecting hostile faces, I am surprised when some of the youngsters laugh and wave. Two boys clamber down from their boulders and come running over. I recognize them now as the Peterson twins from apartment 5-E. I have played handball with their father once or twice, though you could hardly call us friends. One of them looks up at me, squinting in the harsh sunlight. ``Could you be Gordon the Terrible?'' he pleads. ``Could you?'' Is he really asking me to join their game? This is absurd.
``Gordon who?'' I laugh, playing along for the moment.
``Gordon Samatar!'' pipes in the other, mock fear in his voice. ``Gordon the Terrible, we call him. He's the bad guy, the leader of the Black Knights!''
Again I surprise myself. Instead of immediately refusing, telling them I'm too busy with this or that, I hesitate. This is a mistake, for kids are experts at the game of badgering weak-willed adults. ``It's pretty hot out here,'' I offer lamely.
One of the boys (I don't remember their names and can't tell them apart anyway) points to a large, soot-blackened boulder in the slightly elevated southern corner of the lot, well separated from the other rocks and in the partial shade of a few scrub oak. ``That's his horse,'' he insists, brushing away my objection. ``All you gotta do is sit on that rock. Please!''
Well, why not? All I had really wanted was relief from the closeness of my four walls. The work on the dissertation was going nowhere anyway, and the trip to the deli for beer was probably just an excuse to get out and move around. Did I really want to play Darth Vader in silly a kids' game, though? Feeling just a little dumb I say, ``Okay, boys, I guess I have a few minutes.''
``No! We don't want him. He'll ruin the game!'' Ana Munoz jumps down from her boulder and rushes over to us, her inky black hair streaming behind her as she runs, her angry eyes blazing with unexpected fury. Why does this girl hate me so? Just because I offered her cookies, once upon a time? It is obviously time for me to leave.
``Ana, shut up!'' says her brother, Lu`is, who has come running after her. He is somewhat younger than his sister but slightly taller. ``Mister, don't pay any attention to her. Just `cause she's the queen when we play she thinks she's the boss all the time. No way, Jos`e.''
The last thing I want is to be in the middle of a bunch of bickering kids, especially as the focus of their disagreement. The girl is right, though---I am already ruining their game. Like the scientist who wants only to observe nature, but who must always interact with it in order to do so, all I had done was stop for a moment to watch and now here I am in the thick of it. I start to back away, ignorant of the crimes I am guilty of in that child's eyes. But suddenly I am overcome by a long-forgotten bitterness, and the wishy-washy texture of my retreat begins to rankle.
``Just how will I ruin your game, Ana?'' I demand. ``Some of your friends seem to want me in it.''
A puzzled expression steals across her face. She looks at me more carefully, as if she were seeing me for the first time. ``Maybe you WOULD make a good Gordon Samatar,'' she says, but there is a note of disbelief in her voice. After a moment she turns to the others, her mind made up. ``Go to your horses, all of you,'' she commands, and they obey, running back to their rocks and mounting them in elaborate pantomime. So, she's going to let me play in their stupid game after all. Lucky me. See Jack play, see Ana scowl, see funny funny Sally. She turns back to me and points to the large boulder under the oak trees. ``That is Samatar's horse, the Black Stallion. The other horses fear him almost as much as we fear the Destroyer himself.''
``It just looks like a big rock to me,'' I say, realizing too late that if I am going to continue this silliness I should really play along. ``Anyway, what are the rules of this game? What's so evil about this Gor-Don-the-Ter-Rib-Bull?'' I speak the villain's name in tones of exaggerated awe and dread. Get into the spirit of the thing, Jack.
Her eyes narrow to tiny slits. ``I guess I was right about you the first time,'' she says. There is a long, uncomfortable pause, but Ana eventually decides that she is willing to tolerate my stupidity for the sake of having a villain in the game and avoiding another rebellion against her authority. ``If you PRETEND that it's a horse, it will BE a horse,'' she snaps, impatient at the need to point out the obvious to morons. ``There are no rules. Once you mount the Black Stallion you will know all you need to know---all your questions about Gordon Samatar will be answered.'' She turns away, moving with unquestionable dignity toward her ``horse,'' an orange and white block of sandstone. She mounts in one swift, fluid motion and raises her hand high in the air. ``Let the game begin!''
I am sitting on a rock---a large black boulder with a natural saddle-like depression. It is still hot but the sun is noticeably lower in the sky and is no longer so fierce. This is a very boring game, so far. Ana had said my questions would be answered when I ``mount the Black Stallion,'' but to date not a whole lot has happened. Do I have to wait for Tinkerbell to come along and sprinkle pixie dust on me? Pretend, she had said, pretend. Well, that's something I haven't done for a very long time.
From my slightly elevated position the kids look farther away than they really are. The shrill screams of their earlier play are gone; they speak in hushed whispers if they speak at all. I can now see that Ana's rock is at the head of a wedge-shaped formation pointing more or less toward this hill. They are all bouncing about on their rocks and have been for some time; from this I gather that the whole formation is supposed to be in motion. Perhaps I am being attacked. This goes on a while longer, a real action game. What am I DOING here? Wasn't I on my way to get another six-pack?
My head is feeling very heavy with the heat and the brew. More minutes pass and I look down at my watch to check the time. Sunlight reflects softly green-gold through the leaves on the burnished metal of my sword. Heads will roll at the touch of this blade before this day is done, I swear it. Ano`jas snorts his impatience and digs at the earth with his great hooves. I lean forward slightly in the saddle to quiet him.... and I clutch frantically at the rock's rough surface, fighting the sudden vertigo and disorientation. The coolness of the boulder reassures me; it is just a rock, solid, massive and immobile, not a prancing, wild-blooded stallion. But just for a moment there, a flicker of..., something. Ano`jas? The horse's name is Ano`jas. How do I know that?
Ana signals and the kids stop their ludicrous rock bouncing act. Across the distance I hear one of them call out softly, ``Whoa, boy!'' Lenora dismounts and calls to her lieutenant. There they confer long moments, examining the ground, scanning the low hills, testing the wind. From the mixture of colors among the horse soldier's garments I deduce that up to three separate villages have united under her in this foolish attempt to oppose me. Why do you hesitate, Lenora? What does that sixth sense of yours tell you I have up my sleeve? But she is no fool, this one they call Queen; she will not ride into my trap.
I can see now that this little rebellion may not be as simple to stamp out as the others have been. Many of my own soldiers will die today before I have her head on the victory pole, but I care not how many---a thousand would be a small price to pay for the joy of watching that head shrivel in the sun. I draw my sword from its scabbard.... but again the ground leaps toward me and I tumble from my perch, the horrid image of Ana's dried up little prune face still before my eyes. The moment of dizziness passes, leaving me more confused than injured.
It's just a game, I tell myself, just a kid's game. But it all seems so real! By rights, I should be scared to death, but a tingle of excitement overrides the fear and I thrill to the vividness of what I've just experienced. Violent? Yes! Evil? You bet---Gordon ``the Terrible'' is definitely well-named. I should know, for I see into him, I am him. Sure, somebody's got to play the heavy, that doesn't bother me. What matters most is that I haven't felt this free in a long time, so close to finding something I thought I'd lost forever. Why haven't I noticed before the intensity of colors around me, the brilliant green of leaves against the deep blue sky, the dazzling white clouds.
How can this be happening, I wonder. But then, not really wanting or needing explanations, I climb back onto Ano`jas, eagerly anticipating the continuation of the game, the transformation of an inert and shapeless stone into a magnificent and powerful beast, so marvelously alive. I see Lenora and her soldiers advancing up the hill on foot, swords poised and ready. They are almost to the top now, the moment of truth is near. Lenora.... no, wait, it is Ana, it is just Ana...., and the flashing swords are merely branches in the hands of children. Come on, Jack, pretend! Suddenly, I become aware of a disturbance at my back and I turn, startled. It's Izzy and his friends, taking a shortcut through the lot back to the apartment building.
``Hey, Jack, how ya doin', man?'' Izzy yells, waving as he passes. He thoughtfully cranks the volume of his stereo way up so that I can jive right along with him and his boys. Two of the kids break off from Ana's troop at his call to come home for dinner.
As the wake of Izzy's passing subsides, I become aware that my rear end hurts a great deal from sitting too long on the cold and unyielding stone. There is a momentary feeling of loss as I realize that the game is over. So soon? The rest of the kids begin to drift away, each to his or her own home and family situation, their own unique heaven or hell. The Peterson twins shout a friendly goodbye and I am surprised that there is no hint of rancor in their cheery faces, no accusation that I have ruined their game.
It is time for me to leave also, yet I feel a need to linger a few moments more, to look around one last time, as if to check that nothing important is left behind. Something does seem to be missing, though I can't put a name to it. Ana and Lu`is walk with me down the hill, along the shortcut back to the building. Broken beer bottles and crushed cigarette packages litter the rutted path and point the way, the crumbs of modern day Hansels and Gretls. Lu`is shows me the scar on his knee where five stitches had been needed to repair the damage from a fall among the bottles. ``Teresa Marguiles pushed me,'' he says, then adds proudly, ``and you shoulda seen the job Ana did on her!'' and I am glad for them that, despite their bickering, they are close to each other.
There is nothing of the earlier animosity in Ana's face as she and Lu`is wave goodbye and enter the building. If nothing else, there is now one less person in the world who hates me, and for me that's a significant accomplishment. But actually, there is more, lots more. For the briefest of moments there had been a tunnel, and through that tunnel I had glimpsed something of myself. Obvious, but never seen so clearly before, it is something that I think helps me to understand the anger. That's a strong dose of insight for one afternoon and it might take a long while for me to understand what it all really means.
I sit down on the front steps, grateful for the dinner-time lull in the diurnal rhythm of life that now gives me a few moments for quiet reflection. A gentle breeze has kicked up and it feels good on my neck, cool and soft. Orange sunlight swirls in rainbow ribbons on the surface of a curbside puddle and I am aware of the beauty within its ugliness. ``It's just interference within the layers of oil floating on the surface,'' I might have said yesterday, neatly wrapping it up, cataloging my experiences to fit on the ordered shelves of my rational world. Tonight, I feel differently.
Interference -- in-ter-fear-ence -- I roll the word over and over on my tongue like a mantra, until it becomes more than just a label. Like me, the sunlight is unable to pass through without joining the game---it has no choice but to interact with the world within and around it.
Speaking of interacting with the world, what I'd better do is get on down to the deli before it closes and pick up something for my own dinner. Now that it's cooled down a little, maybe I can get some work done on the dissertation.
Altner received his PhD in physics last year (Rutgers University), and the story presented above was written in the early stages of his dissertation work. He is now an astrophysicist at Goddard Space Flight Center (Greenbelt, MD), working on projects involving the International Ultraviolet Explorer and the High Resolution Spectrograph (which is one of the six scientific instruments to fly on the Hubble Space Telescope, to be launched at the end of March, 1990). For relaxation he writes, draws silly cartoons (his favorite comic strip is Bill Waterson's "Calvin and Hobbes"), swims, and plays ice hockey and tennis. He lives with his wife, who also writes fiction, a worthless cat and a frisbee-loving dog, in suburban MD.
He can be reached at altner%champ.span@star.stanford.edu. (Now altner@ari.net - DKA 2/95)