The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad (5 page)

“Umm …”

Marilyn says, “Dad, you need to insist.”

The members of the knitting circle meet at a dark, deserted parking lot behind a boarded-up factory. Because none of these women were until recently routine breakers of the law, they all wear the ridiculously overdone burglar outfits of amateurs, with black berets and ski masks, sunglasses, black scarves, and black gloves. Jasmine even wears black mittens (which she knitted herself). When the other women look askance at them, she cries, “They were all I had!”

Suzie smiles and says, “And look how well they match her shoes!”

Christine passes each woman a stack of leaflets. The women split into pairs, return to their vehicles, and drive to prearranged target areas to post their leaflets, which bear a simple message in black ink printed on red paper: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

Gina and Brigitte drive to a residential district and park in a shadowed space two blocks from a supermarket. They skulk to the edge of the supermarket's parking lot, where Gina staples a leaflet onto a telephone pole.

Brigitte stage whispers to her, “You can't put that there!”

Gina responds, “We've killed people, and you're worried
about telephone company regulations?”

Brigitte says, “It's not that.” She rips off the flyer and points to the one underneath. “You were going to cover up a poster about a lost puppy. People will think we're heartless and cruel.”

“They already think we're insane terrorist bitches.”

“But what about the puppy?”

Gina searches for a better spot. The telephone pole is covered with other flyers announcing a lost kitten, a lost ferret, a lost pig, and a lost scorpion who “answers to the name Hank.”

Brigitte points to an advertisement for a diet plan. “Here. Cover this one up.”

Gina looks at it. “Diet plans. Ugh. Self-hatred in a box.”

“Plus the meals taste like crap.”

“And the servings are too small.”

The television is on. Chet speaks with the certainty of one who knows that being an expert is like being a bank executive, in that it means you never have to say you're sorry: “Eyewitness tips combined with our careful analysis indicates that the so-called ‘Knitting Needle Killers' may not be knitters after all, but may instead be using knitting needles as a clever ruse to throw law enforcement off track. Our latest theory is that these serial killers are actually bad poets.

“Please note that their possible status as poets does not diminish their danger to society. We are advising all citizens to avoid coffee houses, independent bookstores, and most especially, any venue advertising an ‘open mic.'”

Suzie and Jasmine sit in a coffee shop. Three long lines of tired young men and women snake across the room and out the door. The people's faces are pale, their eyes half-lidded. At the
head of the first line a woman hands over a wad of cash, and says, her voice and body shaking, “Hit me hard, will you?” The barista loads a cup with coffee sludge so thick she has to try twice to force in a spoon. Suzie and Jasmine politely look away while the woman takes her first hit, and when they look at her again, she is no longer shaking. She straightens. Her eyes brighten. The second line is for the more serious junkies; here they dispense with the cup and the sludge and snort straight powdered coffee beans (although at some of the lesser establishments the blow is cut with other, weaker stimulants, like cocaine). The third line leads to a small booth where an RB (registered barista) sits each customer down, adroitly draws up a sleeve, applies a tourniquet, finds a vein, slips in a needle, and helps the customer mainline 100 percent pure Colombian.

Suzie and Jasmine, only recreational users, are sipping coffee and nibbling brownies. Each has her computer open in front of her. Suzie's computer is smaller than Jasmine's, which is in turn smaller than Suzie's, which is of course slightly smaller than Jasmine's.

Suzie says, “Analog propaganda never works. Time to get serious.”

Jasmine responds, “Blogging phasers engaged.”

“Bomb every forum!”

“Activate text networks!”

Suzie and Jasmine begin typing furiously.

On TV that night, Chet speaks with the certainty of one who has never been unemployed. He says, “We now believe that the group of killers is based in Nigeria, and is funded primarily by the widow of a reputable Nigerian banking official who has been transferring money to the bank accounts of trusted accomplices.”

The Knitting Circle does not rely solely on digital propaganda, but continues to spread the word in the physical world.

Picture this: Mary and Christine perch precariously atop the fencing on a pedestrian highway overpass. They hang a banner that's visible to the speeding cars below. It reads: “STOP RAPE

OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

Or picture this: A train pulls up to a crowded metro rail platform. On the side of the train graffiti reads: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

Or picture this: Mary, wearing her floppy hat, pilots a small plane. People standing on the street look up to see writing in the sky: “STOP RAPE OR …”

And picture this: You are standing in front of city hall. Flowerbeds have been planted such that the peonies and chrysanthemums spell out: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

And so the Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation movement burst onto the sociopolitical scene with the force of a ripe watermelon hurled from an apartment-complex roof onto a summer sidewalk.

Everyone suddenly clamored to be part of it. Some joined for the cachet. Some joined for the glory. Most joined to kill rapists. With the strength of a powerful movement behind them, women refused to take any more abuse.

Picture this: a taxi stops at a curb. A woman pays and tips the taxi driver, then exits the car. She begins to walk through a city park. She appears cheerful, swinging her handbag jauntily, smiling at passersby.

She smiles at a man sitting on a bench. He flicks his tongue at her suggestively. She frowns. He stands and grabs his crotch. He demands, “Come over here and suck my dick!”

The woman, angry now, stops and stares at him. Then she says, “You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?” She looks around, then back at the man. She continues, “Then who the hell else you talkin' to? You talkin' to me? Well, I'm the only one here. Who the fuck else do you think you're talkin' to? Oh yeah? Okay.”

She pulls knitting needles out of her sleeve. He backs off, terrified. She smiles and steps toward him.

It is mascarpone week at the cheese factory, and the air smells as sweet as the breath of baby hummingbirds. The six
original knitting club members circle the table, but this week they are not alone. Women pack every available bit of floor space in the room. Outside the door, the crowd spills onto the street.

The next day, Brigitte and Nick share a table at a café. The café is empty in a three-o'clock-in-the-afternoon-and-we're-not-in-a-trendy-part-of-town-and-our-business-is-barely-holding-on sort of way, and Brigitte and Nick are sitting there being eyed by a waiter in an I-wish-they'd-buy-more-since-they've-been-sitting-there-for-so-long-but-nobody-else-needs-the-table-and-I've-seen-them-before-and-they-tip-well-so-I'll-keep-going-over-to-see-if-they-need-anything sort of way. Brigitte is finishing a piece of tiramisu. Nick is sipping water with lemon. In front of him is some untouched cannoli.

He says, “You must take me with you to the knitting circle.”

“What knitting circle?”

“Don't play coy with me, Brigitte.”

“I don't play coy,” Brigitte says coyly. “Do I feign modesty? Yes. Am I coquettish? You bet. But I never play coy.” She bats her eyelashes.

Nick continues, “I think I know what's going on, and I want to help. I share the wrath!”

“Do I look like a wrathful woman to you, Nick?”

“Please bring me to a meeting!”

“Since when have you been interested in knitting?”

“Since it became so much more than scarves and sweaters. I want to do something meaningful.”

“And meet women.”

“Of course. But for that I could have joined the knitting circle any time. Right now I also want to make a difference. I want to help.”

Brigitte says, “You're being so serious I hardly recognize you. There's more melodrama here than in
Gone with the Wind.”

“You know I'm the man for the job,” Nick says.

“I'm not sure any man is the man for this job.”

“Ah. So you admit you're up to something?”

“I admit nothing more than that if you're not going to eat your cannoli, I want it.”

“You're not going to give in, are you?” Nick says.

Brigitte responds, “Not yet. I have to maintain my reputation for coyness.”

Brigitte and Gina walk toward the cheese factory. They can tell from blocks away this will be a stinky cheese day, already detecting the delicate scent of overripe durian mixing with stale onion and even more stale sweat socks. They can also tell from the wrinkled noses of the crowd milling outside.

Brigitte sighs. “I'm having a problem with Nick.”

“I'm sorry. What's wrong?” Gina responds.

“He wants to join the knitting circle.”

Gina bursts out, “That's great!” Then she stops walking, thinks, says, “Isn't that great? Oh. It's not great?”

“Definitely not great. I don't want him to.”

“Why not?”

“I'm afraid it's going to destabilize our relationship. Or rather, our beautiful nonrelationship. I love the guy; he's awesome. He's fun. But I don't want him invading my life.”

“Would it necessarily mean that?”

“We have a great thing going. It's strictly limited. We hang out. We watch movies. We laugh. We have fabulous sex. But that's it. We don't have endless boring conversations analyzing our feelings. We don't police each other or ask questions about
what we do when we're not together. We have all of the fun, with none of the stupid drama that makes relationships such a pain in the ass. It's perfect.”

“How would that change if he came to a meeting?” Gina asks.

“First he comes to a meeting, next he's telling me what to wear and to make him a sandwich. Gradually it escalates until I'm checking in with him before I go to the bathroom. I don't need a damn boyfriend telling me what to do.”

Gina looks closely at her dear friend. “It's not going to go like that. Not with Nick.”

Brigitte is having none of it. “I already know how it goes. Brigitte gets lost and it becomes all about ‘we.' ‘We hated that movie.' ‘We plan to buy a house in the suburbs.' ‘We decided that Brigitte's soul was superfluous so we sold it and used the money to expand Nick's Dictators of the World action figure collection.' Fuck that.”

“But Nick seems to value his freedom and independence as much as you value yours,” Gina says.

“He says he does, but I've heard that song before. As soon as a man gets his claws into you, it starts. He wants to change you, tone you down, shape you into the image of his ideal.”

Gina says, “It doesn't always happen. Lawrence lets me be myself.”

Brigitte ripostes, “See? He ‘lets' you. That's exactly the trap I want to avoid.”

“It's not like that. He appreciates who I am. I don't feel trapped at all. I love Lawrence.”

“And I love Nick. I just prefer to love him at a distance. I love giraffes too, but I wouldn't want one following me around everywhere I go.”

They arrive at the community center. Despite the eye-watering cheese fragrance, the place is packed. After a few preliminaries and pleasantries, the women get down to the businesses at hand: knitting and stopping rape. Christine continues with her lovely socks, Suzie struggles with her boa with sparkles, and Jasmine works on a pair of knitted gloves to wear instead of her mittens. The women begin talking.

“So have we seen a decrease yet in rates of rape?” Gina asks.

Suzie begins, “I've printed out some reports …”

At that moment Marilyn pushes her way into the crowded room. Gina clears her throat to alert Suzie, and Jasmine blurts, “Incoming!”

Suzie spots Marilyn and attempts a save, “Um, reports from the American Knitting Association on dwindling surplus yarn supplies …”

Marilyn says, “Mom. We need to talk.”

Gina says, “Oh, Marilyn! I'm so glad to see you! We were just talking about the latest knitting research. It's fascinating. And so important, now that knitting's bursting in popularity.”

Marilyn says, “I know what you're doing.”

“Making absolutely gorgeous sweaters?”

“How could you?”

“Talent and creativity?”

“How could you respond to violence with more violence?”

Gina says, “It's not the same.”

But Marilyn says, “It is! You're operating on their level! You're becoming just like they are!”

Brigitte snorts, and Gina shoots her a look.

Gina says, “No, Marilyn, my darling. I've never raped anyone. A woman who kills a rapist—not that anyone here has ever done such a thing—does not become a rapist.”

Everyone can see Marilyn's next statement coming.

“Violence is wrong.”

Gina responds, sensibly, “I agree. And that's why we're putting a stop to it. Permanently.”

Soon after, Marilyn storms into her house, slams the door and calls out, “Dad? Dad!”

He responds from the living room, “Hi, honey!”

“Dad. You have to do something about Mom. It was bad enough when we thought she was a poet. Now she's a murderer!”

Lawrence becomes stern. “Marilyn, don't say that about your mother. She has never been a poet. And ‘murderer'—I don't know if that's exactly the word I would use. That seems a little harsh to me.”