The First Male (29 page)

Simon spoke frankly. “It's real. I think you know that.”

“Well, I guess that's a relief. I can deal with anything 'cept losing my mind. My granddaddy had Alzheimer's, and I seen how it can mess up yo' mind. I don't wanna be like that.”

“Trust me, you're not losing your mind.” Simon's voice was flat, offering little encouragement. Franklin commanded part of his attention, but a greater part of Simon's mind was still with Thomas. He wanted to know more; he didn't need to be told that what he saw wasn't a simple dream. He'd stopped having random dreams some time ago. Everything he saw now, in his sleeping hours, turned out to be warnings or messages, but this time was even different than that. This time, he felt as if he had lived a part of this man's life in his dream; Thomas's life was his life, too. He experienced everything Thomas felt that night. He felt Thomas's
lustful exhilaration, the frantic pace of his heartbeat, the enormous adrenaline rush prompted by the fight, and Thomas' celebratory moment when the car started and he realized that he'd live to fight another day. “We better get out of here before the manager comes. I don't have any more money,” he said, focusing on the immediate issue.

“Neither do I. I got just enough gas money to get us home, maybe a little breakfast, too.” Franklin hopped off the bed and started tossing his clothes in his open gym bag. “What the hell are you waitin' fo'?” he asked when he noticed Simon wasn't moving.

Simon needed a few seconds. Without warning, it dawned on him, like truth. “Oh, shit,” he said.

Franklin stopped. “Oh shit, what?”

“I met my father last night.” The truth could not have been any plainer to Simon.

Franklin's face cringed. Instantly, Simon regretted his words. The part of him that had grown accustomed to not sharing his life with others suddenly became more prominent, and he wished he could recall his words, like an e-mailed message that was sent in error. Franklin had seen too much. Simon felt guilty for dragging Franklin with him and laying his troubles at his feet.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind”

“Look, answer the damn question. I saw you walk on water. At this point, nothin' would shock me.”

“I guess you're right.”

“So, what you mean about yo' daddy? You met him?”

“Kinda. In my dream last night, but I didn't just meet him, I
was
him. He's dead, though. I was living a dead man's life. His name was Thomas,” Simon said slowly, “Thomas Thibodeaux.”

“Thomas,” Franklin said, letting the name wash across his tongue,
“you said that name a few times last night in your sleep. Thibodeaux. Isn't that ole girl's last name, the one we're looking for, Addie?”

“Yeah. She's my grandmother, I think. No, I know. She
is
my grandmother.” Franklin plopped down on his bed and exhaled. Simon expected him to run screaming from the room, finally having reached his limit.

“So, let me break this down. This woman we been driving around lookin' fo' is really yo' grandmamma that you ain't never met, and now, you say that you lived a part of your dead father's life in your dream? Is that what you're telling me?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Well,” Franklin said. “I guess it's another day in Simon's bizarro world. I always knew you was a freak,” he said teasingly.

“Speaking of freaks, I'm not going to ask you how I got naked,” Simon said with a chuckle.

“Hold up. No homo. I ain't into that freaky-deaky shit. I'm a pussy connoisseur,” he said proudly, tugging at his shirt. They looked at each other and laughed until their stomachs hurt. Simon hadn't laughed in so long that he had forgotten the feeling; now, it swept over him like the memory of a long, lost love. It was familiar, comforting, and it lifted his spirit to the clouds.

Franklin continued. “Yo' ass was soakin' wet after you pulled yo' little
walking-on-the-water
trick. You came in here and collapsed. I had to pry yo' clothes off to keep you from catching pneumonia. Trust me, it wasn't one of my finer moments. Be happy I took care of yo' ass, a'ight?”

“A'ight, man. Calm down. I was wondering. I've seen the way you been looking at me. I'm just saying,” Simon said playfully.

“Look at these nuts.” Franklin grabbed his testicles through his sweat pants. “Stop playing, and get yo' ass up befo' these crazy Texas muthafuckas call the cops and lock our asses up.”

After slipping away from the resort and driving for an hour, Simon nodded off in the car while Franklin sped down the highway. He awoke, after some time, when he felt the car bounce and bob as it moved across a rough patch on a country dirt road. Simon looked around and all that he saw was thick trees and dense shrubbery. Franklin followed deep tire tracks left in the red dirt that eventually ended when a fallen tree blocked their path forward.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, wiping sleep from his eyes. “What are we doing?”

Franklin threw the car into PARK and turned off the ignition. “Get out,” he said as he unhinged his seatbelt. Before Simon could respond, Franklin was already out of the car and walking briskly toward the dense trees. Simon hopped out of the car and quickly followed, leaping over the fallen tree to catch Franklin. Dead leaves padded the forest floor, and broken branches that were scattered about made walking more treacherous than Simon expected; he had never been a big fan of the great outdoors. He hoped the rural obstacle course would slow the stride of Franklin's gait, but Franklin continued to move easily, his long legs covering great distances in a single leap.

“Hey,” he called out to Franklin, who moved with purpose and surprising agility. He seemed focused, like he knew exactly where they were going, even though Simon knew there was no way Franklin was familiar with these woods off some lonely Texas country road.

Finally, they reached a clearing and Franklin stopped, looking around as if to inspect the place. Simon caught up to him, breathing heavily.

“What the fuck is going on?” Simon asked between quick breaths.

“We're here.”

Simon eyed Franklin oddly and then took a moment to assess his surroundings. They were standing in the center of a circle of enormous pine trees. Near them was an old, rusted barbeque grill that looked as if it hadn't been used in decades. Cigarette butts, old food wrappers, and broken glass from beer and soft drink bottles decorated the landscape. Knee-high, brown weeds, bent over and bowed, created a foreboding wall at the edge of the forest.

“Okay, where's here? What are we doing?”

“We're doing a little experiment,” he said, sounding like a professor. “I've listened to all this stuff you been talkin', and I seen some crazy shit with you over the last few days, but one thing stuck in my mind about it all.”

“What?”

“You ain't never tried to control it.”

“Huh?”

“This . . . 
power
that you have. You ain't never tried to control it. You said shit keeps happening to you, but I say its time you stop lettin' it happen and you control it. That's why we here. I wanna see what you can really do. Ain't nobody around. Just you and me.” He took a breath and folded his arms across his chest. “Now, do something.”

“What? Franklin, it doesn't work like that.”

“How do you know how it works? You ever tried to do something on your own?”

The simple truth of his words shined like a beacon on a darkened night. Simon realized that he had been so freaked out by things that he never even took a second to understand that maybe, just maybe, he could control this thing, whatever it was. Maybe he didn't have to succumb to random events—maybe he could control them!

Simon shook his head from side to side, acknowledging the
wisdom of Franklin's simple words. “Damn, you're right. You're fucking brilliant!” Simon ran over to him and hugged him tightly, even though Franklin playfully protested.

“Get off me, fool! I don't want yo' hoodoo rubbing off on me!”

“A'ight, a'ight,” Simon said as he took a few steps backward. “What should I do?” Simon was suddenly anxious, ready to prove that he was still the captain of his fate.

“I don't know. Make something move, like this bottle.” Franklin kicked an old bottle with a faded red-and-white label toward Simon.

“Okay, okay. I can try.” Simon shrugged his shoulders and rolled his neck as if he was loosening himself up right before a title fight. “Wait, I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Try something. Focus on it. Tell it to move.”

“Okay, I can do that,” he looked at Franklin, then down at the bottle. “Bottle,” he said as he deepened his voice, “move.” Nothing happened. “Bottle, I said, come to me.” Still, nothing happened. Simon repeated the phrase several times, but to no avail.

“Stop. That don't even sound right. It sounds fake. Look, be natural with it, and stop trying to sound like Merlin the Magician.”

Simon didn't know why, but he felt nervous, like he was playing to an audience. He had never been one for attention, often preferring to blend into the background; however, this was his show—The Simon Show—and he really wanted to perform, if only for himself. He wanted to make something happen, make some magic. The possibility of taking control over his life filled him with excitement. If he could make the bottle move, then he wouldn't be a slave to his powers. He could control them.

He took a few, deliberate breaths to calm himself down. Then, he steeled his resolve and tried again, speaking in his most natural voice, but nothing happened. The bottle didn't budge, not even a centimeter. As he repeated his commands something about that relaxed tone in his voice seemed far too casual for the task at
hand. After all, he wasn't playing some silly game; he was trying to defy the laws of physics and in deference to those laws, he needed to be more somber, more focused.

“This ain't workin'.” The frustration in Franklin's voice wasn't disguised. “Are you even tryin'?”

“Yeah, I'm trying. It's not like there's a
How-To
book for this.” They both exhaled in disappointment.

“Okay, maybe we takin' the wrong approach. How do you feel when something happens?”

“Scared.”

“That ain't what I mean. I mean, when it's happening, what's going on with your body? Didn't you say something about some tingling you felt? And, right before you walked on water, you were sweatin' like a hooka in church. Maybe you need to get hot and sweat before something happens.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Do a few sprints, get your heartbeat up. Sweat.” Simon pondered the idea and it seemed as plausible as anything else.

“Fine, but if I slip on some leaves and bust my ass, I'm going to punch you in the face,” he said.

“I'd like to see you try,
College Boy
.”

“Stop calling me that.” The moment Franklin called him that name, Simon felt irritation building in his chest. It felt like a spark.

Simon moved over to the edge of the circle of trees where the weeds stood tall. With a sudden burst of speed, he ran through the clearing where the circle began to the group of trees on the outside. He repeated the action for several minutes until his heartbeat was raised and moisture dampened his forehead.

“A'ight, now try it again,” Franklin commanded, which also irritated Simon. Simon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Hurry up!” Franklin screamed. “We ain't got all day.”

“Would you shut the fuck up! Damn.”

“Whatever, College Boy.”

Inside, Simon felt the spark become a flame, like the moment a match is struck, before it burst into flames. He felt a small prickly feeling in the bottom of his feet. His eyes were still closed, yet he could see the bottle clearly. In fact, he could see everything around him clearly, even the sour look on Franklin's face. The tingling sensation moved up his leg and soon he felt it all over his body, but it wasn't painful. It felt as if every cell in his body suddenly ignited. He imagined the bottle moving, flying swiftly through the air, and as he did, he heard a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking, which startled him. He opened his eyes and saw Franklin lying against the dirty grill, his eyes wide.

“What happened?”

“The . . . the . . . the bottle. You did it,” he said as he pointed toward a tree. “It flew into that tree and broke. It was like a fuckin' missile. I thought it was going to hit me in the head!”

“Oh shit, man. You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” he said as he dusted pieces of rust and black soot from his jacket. “I wanted you to move it, not kill me in the process.”

“Man, I wasn't trying to kill you. I was moving the bottle, like you told me to.” Simon's voice didn't reflect the level of concern he knew that it should have, considering the speed in which the bottle whizzed by Franklin's head. Simon had seen in it his mind; he had even heard the bottle slice through the air as it soared by. There was a vacant place in Simon's soul that would have smiled if he had opened his eyes and saw Franklin's skull split open, blood gushing from his head; that was the part of him that scared him to death.