Zero Sight (9 page)

A little voice told me I should be more focused on not missing my bus.

Riding the bus was the new national pastime. To cross our grand country, I was in for two days of it. To be fair, bus travel has improved a great deal since when I was a kiddo. You get your own TV mounted into the seat in front of you and a decent amount of leg space. The cross-country lines are even nicer than the regionals (they have cup-holders). It wasn’t all that bad if you didn’t mind sitting still for two days straight.

I was riding the LCN Line. The bus started in Los Angeles and traveled to New York City via Chicago. Once I got to New York City, I needed to transfer to a regional line for the last leg of the trip up to New Haven. I was so afraid of being late that I arrived an hour before departure. I made my way onto the bus—banging into seat-after-seat with my duffel—only to be told that you could put your luggage
under
the bus before you get on. Red faced, I took out what I needed and stowed my duffle down below.

Only a few folks had boarded in Los Angeles, so the bus was still relatively empty. I noticed that about two thirds of the way back there was a window seat with a busted TV. I smiled. Very few Americans would be willing to give up TV for a two-day trip. I grabbed the aisle seat next to it and patted myself on the back for my cunning.

I never understood how people could watch hours of TV. The images were always a bit out of focus, and watching it gave me headaches. I came prepared with a copy of
Ulysses
instead. The bookstore by my house had always displayed Joyce’s book like some sort of thermonuclear device. Even the paperback version was given a wide berth on each side. I had passed by it countless times but never built up the nerve to read it. And it
was
a beast. I flipped through all 818 pages of it. The binding was tenuous at best. I was concerned it might hit critical mass and explode all over the floor if I dared to break the spine. On the bright side, I could use it as a blunt weapon if the need arose.

I bought
Ulysses
for a specific reason—it felt collegy. I was feeling a tad intimidated about starting school, especially at a college that was advertised as the academic equivalent of ancient Sparta. I half-expected to die naked on a mountainside, term paper in one hand and an empty vial of whiteout in the other. I decided I needed to psyche myself up. I told myself that if I could get through a monster like this, I was surely ready to tackle college courses. (I know, it was totally stupid, but I’m prone to performing ridiculous rituals, and it’s better than biting my nails.) Getting locked on a bus with a bunch of people I didn’t dare make eye contact with was the perfect time to attempt the challenge.

The bus filled with a gradual stream of people, but my seat remained safe. Then, a few minutes before departure, a moment of tension—a huge woman attempted to breach my defenses and claim the adjacent seat. I cringed as her enormous thighs enveloped my knees. The sweaty heat was palatable. She was just settling in when she finally discovered that her next two days would be soap opera free, and with a huff, she beat a hasty retreat further down the aisle.

My ward had worked perfectly. I was grinning broadly, when at 10 A.M. sharp, the big blue bus rumbled to life. As we turned out onto the street it struck me like a bag of potatoes to the chest:

My childhood was over. I was on my own.

My father was my only family, and despite our inability to co-exist, saying goodbye had been hard. He didn’t approve of me heading out on my own. He argued it was too risky, said I didn’t understand the dangers. (I hoped that was dad-code for: “Don’t go. I’ll miss you if you’re far away.”) But in the end, he couldn’t argue with the full-ride scholarship. Our finances were in the toilet. We were in danger of losing our house. I told him they would be paying both of us, and he just sat there real quiet. He didn’t know what a stipend was nor that it was really for my living expenses, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why the school would be paying us both. I said it was complicated—part of some government program—and I joked that we would finally be getting some taxes
back
from the Feds.

The next day, he had nodded stiffly when I told him I was accepting the offer. He said, “Dieter, You’re a man now, and I won’t try and stop you. If there’s one thing that’s true, it’s that all men have to make their own mistakes. You got some learning to do, and I guess it’s learning I can’t teach you.” I had hoped at least part of him was proud of me, but if he was, he didn’t show it. Then again, he never could express feelings like that with me. You may wonder how I could love a man that would just as soon strike me in the face. I can’t tell you that. I don’t know myself. But you would understand better if you saw the look on his face when I walked away. It felt like it was for the last time…My lip trembled as I turned away. It felt like I was leaving him behind.

I took a deep breath. It felt
real
now. Everything I knew was in this valley: the pizza place I liked, the friends I hung out with, all the roads I knew the names of. Where I was headed, I didn’t know a single soul. In fact, I only knew a single name, Dean Joseph Albright, III, the lone correspondent from my future home in Connecticut. My stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I hadn’t even considered Elliot College before they sent me the offer of a full-ride, didn’t even remember Dr. Montgomery telling me she planned to recommend me. I was grateful, sure. She had given me the chance to get out of the black hole that was Las Vegas. She had granted the wish I had held for countless years. I had even tried to track her down at the hospital and thank her. Unfortunately, I had missed my chance by then. The staff told me Dr. Montgomery was float—a doctor who swings into town to cover for others when they are on vacation and the like—and that she was already onto her next assignment. I thought that was strange. I could have sworn Dr. Montgomery said she had been at the Nevada State Science Fair the year before. I decided to try and track down her email address when I got to Elliot. I was in her debt. Without her help, I would have been still flipping burgers. Still, I had to admit that the whole application process had left me bitter. I had busted my ass, delivered the best GPA and SAT scores possible, taken all the AP classes I could afford, and still,
still
it hadn’t been enough. That pseudo-acceptance from Washington University had been the most galling. To have only been offered a partial scholarship—a scholarship they knew wasn’t enough to allow me to attend—it had felt like they were laughing in my face.

As the bus sped onto the freeway, I shook my head.

“
Snap out of it asshole,” I said out loud. “You have a chance. Be thankful for it.”

Judging by the other passengers’ looks, I had spoken a bit too loud.

Turning red, I sank down in my chair.

I wanted to go home.

+

The bus made rapid progress through Mohave Desert. We were bound for Utah where I-15 linked to I-70 for the crawl up into the Rockies. Then it was on to Denver, where we would meet I-80 for the descent into the plains of the American Midwest. Transcontinental drivers switched off every eight hours at the way stations placed along the route. (The system made sense. Labor was cheap; buses careening off mountains were not.) Our first stop was in Grand Junction, Colorado. It wasn’t much of a town, but the way station sure was impressive.

The transcontinental carriers had built these oversized fuel depots after long-distance buses came back into vogue. They separated the paying travelers from the bums and ensured no third party restaurants got a piece of the action. Once off the bus, signs for men and women guided the passengers to Potty Land (a new American marvel). Row after row of gleaming white porcelain awaited us. Arrows etched into the tile floor pointed the way. After making your deposit, it was a straight walk down a corridor to sinks and the self-cleaning shower stalls. I listened to the music as I walked. It had a steady percussive beat. I stomped in time. It was fun music to march to—and a subtle prod to keep on moving.

The Champions of Industry had thought of everything. I trekked past the hand dryers, shoeshine machines, and toiletry dispensers and out into the din of the massive food court. Feeling a bit like livestock, I tried to re-establish my status as a top line predator. I ordered a hamburger. Said food product was un-bagged and microwaved bun and all. I stood next to the sleepy-eyed “cook” and watched the burger rotate.

Pathetic.

Finding a seat, I sniffed at the micro-burger. It was unworthy of the same title as the king of foods, but everyone else seemed happy with them. “Know your place, peon,” I mumbled, and bit into the soggy bun. There was a moment there where I almost spit it out. Then I remember I only had about a hundred in my wallet and swallowed it as fast as I could.

A few minutes later, a calm but assertive voice announced that the LCN Line was departing, and my compatriots and I shuffled outside and back onto our big blue bus. They didn’t even need to break out the prods. I shook my head. Our grandparents had been speculators, cattlemen, and farmers; but somewhere along the line, things had got flipped on their heads. The evil designers of the micro-burger must have anticipated my impudence and slipped in a roofie. Once we were on the road, I passed out in seconds flat. I didn’t wake up until we stopped in Denver. A few folks got on and off, but the defective TV next to me continued to ward off any prospective seatmates.

To pass the time, I made valiant strides in my effort to read
Ulysses
, but feared I was losing the war. A hundred pages in, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that James Joyce might have been an asshole, and by Nebraska I was in a foul mood. I had clawed my way into “Episode 8,” where the main character (I think) purchases two delicious cakes (I think) only to throw them into a river (perhaps).

My stomach grumbled in protest.

“
The bastard,” I mumbled. “How could Bloom toss out a dessert like that?”

One or two droopy eyelids turned toward me in confusion. However, I had an ally. The enormous lady nodded in agreement.

“
Ulysses
, right?” she asked.

“
Yeah,” I said with a grim nod.

“
Don’t take it too seriously. Bloom is a madman.”

I was grateful when we arrived at our next stop in Lincoln, Nebraska. The book had descended into a languid discussion of the merits of advertising tactics and STDs. Fear of having to read more inspired me to purchase another micro-burger and—for good measure—one of their tiny apple pies.

“
In-the-eye, Joyce,” I mumbled, sinking my teeth into the apple-esk product. I gagged. Maybe I should have thrown it into a river instead.

Before I even reached the bus, I felt the micro-burger kicking in. I nodded off before we even left the station.

+

Acres of dead grass stretched out before me. Alone on a darkened plain, an icy breeze caressed my flesh.

Lightning cracked, and the clouds belched fire.

Distant thunder rumbled a protest.

My lips were chapped. My mouth, parched. The air was bone dry and grating. My body ached with fatigue. So thirsty…how long had it been?

Thunder shook the air once again. The hairs on my neck stood in response.

The winds were shifting; I could feel the pressure change.

The bolts of lightning and thunder chased one another off into the distance.

The clouds above me opened.

I raised my hands in relief as the rain poured down. Heavy sheets of it coated my exhausted frame. The drops soothed my lips. Warm and heavy, the rain was more metallic than well water—yet oddly sweet.

Another flash of light lit the crimson clouds.

+

I was jarred awake by a passenger’s laughter.

He was watching
The Simpsons
. How many decades old was the show now?

A real storm had opened up outside. Wave after wave of rain pummeled the bus.

I touched the glass. These drops were icy cold. I could feel the engine humming away, indifferent to the weather. The big blue bus churned onwards, and I faded back to sleep.

When I woke, warm sunlight was streaming through the windows. A new guy across the aisle was snoring loudly. The brim of his White Sox cap pointed straight into the air. I scratched my stubble and yawned. It was midday by my watch. I was impressed. That micro-burger had taken me out of circulation for quite some time. Looking past my neighbor’s gaping mouth, I noticed the countryside looked different. The land was still flat as a board, but lush green crops spread out as far as the eyes could see…so that’s what they meant by “breadbasket.” The air’s texture had changed as well. Even in the air-conditioned bus, I could feel the humidity pressing in.

I was making a mental note to get a haircut when I sensed something was…off. At first, I thought it was just a slight bout of nausea, simply my empty stomach demanding immediate attention, but as I focused, I realized the strange sensation was coming from my Sight. The feeling reminded me of leaning out over the edge of a very tall building, that vague sense of unease. And the sensation was faint. It didn’t feel like I was in that great of danger. That confused me. It wasn’t normal for this sixth sense of mine to fire up unprovoked. There were rules to my Sight. The adrenalin had to be flowing. I had to be scared out of my mind. Stranger still, there were none of the focused waves I’d come to expect. Heck, I couldn’t even
see
anything at all. This was more of a tactile sensation, like a cat brushing up against my thigh. The feeling wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t a blanket of blades either.