Billy tabbs, p.16
Billy Tabbs, page 16
This last proclamation was followed by inquisitive murmurs, the group’s trepidation giving way to a tentative excitement.
“Our oppressors now recognize the danger that we present, and they are scared to death. They realize they are powerless to stop the movement, and they quake in fear. Their seizing one of our own is proof of that fear. It is a clumsy and desperate attempt to try and regain control, which they now know they have lost. And indeed, fear us they should. For each one of us they capture, five will spring to replace him. For each of us they murder, twenty will rise up to avenge. They have only made us stronger today. Their fear has made us stronger. The House of Darrow is stronger than ever!”
The group erupted in a raucous bout of cheering. Even Rufus joined in, howling with joy at the steel grates above. Everyone was freshly galvanized by Darrow’s speech. And so it was that the half-botched mission was artfully spun into an entirely successful one, one that had society running scared. This was the bill of goods that Darrow was publicly selling, and the entire bill was quickly snapped up and devoured. Half-truths had a funny way of becoming full truths when filtered through hopeful ears.
Darrow didn’t stop there; Billy was congratulated for his role in leading the successful strike, while Cecil was claimed as a living martyr, with one of the group ordered to scratch his name under Billy’s and Chuck’s on the Wall of Valor.
The group turned frenetic. A good number of them started to sing and dance as if the Munchkinland coroner had just delivered his findings.
The House of Darrow strong and true
We stand united through and through
They sung of a frightened decadent populace:
For now you clearly show your fear
You kidnap one, five more appear!
There was an edge to their songs that hadn’t existed before, along with an unspoken confidence. Billy couldn’t believe it: From trepidation to jubilation inside of two minutes. Darrow promised them that their best days were yet to come, that society would change, and if this change required escalation, then escalation it would be. Save for a handful of exceptions, notably Jacob and Tommy, the declaration was gobbled up with voracious approval.
Just before bedtime, Darrow sent out the town crier.
“Listen up…this is the word of Darrow!” Chester bellowed obediently from the top of the wooden crate.
Their home was to be called “The House of Darrow” from that point onward, as “the compound” didn’t capture the true essence of their abode. The announcement was received with great enthusiasm by most. It made perfect sense—after all, they were only there because of him.
They slept that night on pillows of pride, and though their house eventually turned supremely quiet, their leader’s closing words still rang loud in their ears.
“Forward, comrades!…Long live the revolution!
…Long live the House of Darrow!”
Lambert blinks excitedly at the scene laid out before him, his thoughts shifting about as rapidly as the silver flashlight in his right hand.
“What the hell is this place?”
Detective Meyers nods.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? I had no idea this area existed until two days ago. And I’ve been working this town eighteen years.”
They step from the uneven terrain and down to the smooth platform floor, Lambert’s imagination running wild.
“I looked into it,” says Meyers. “Apparently the city overhauled the subway system decades ago. For whatever reason, the bean counters decided that it just wasn’t worthwhile to remove these cars and fill in the expanse. So they left it here, abandoned. And that was that.”
Incredible, Lambert thinks to himself.
“And if the inhabitants here hadn’t gone insane, we still wouldn’t know anything about it. Maybe we should even thank them,” Meyers quips sarcastically, before shaking his head and adding, “The stupid animals,” under his breath.
The stupid animals?
In the short conversations they’ve had, Dr. Lambert has presumed through Meyers’ tone that he holds little sympathy for their plight, and Lambert’s interpretation has obviously been a correct one. This old warrior, so far from enlightened that his knuckles practically scrape the concrete. How many others in the city share the detective’s pointed and close-minded views? Lack of compassion is, Lambert believes, the fundamentally wrong approach to this situation, but he keeps his own pointed views bottled up for the time being.
Meyers proceeds to give Lambert the dime tour. Within minutes he’s shown him the office and taken him through the three railcars. It’s not until Meyers makes another sharply insensitive comment that Lambert excuses himself from the detective’s company.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to poke around a bit on my own,” he says, and Meyers offers scant resistance. It gives him the opportunity to move off to the side and fire up a Lucky Strike.
Lambert steps quietly away, and soon enough, the smell of burnt tobacco has incorporated itself into the mix of stale air and death.
Billy walks down a posh city sidewalk, tall, upright, and proud.
He sports a set of designer pants and an argyle sweater bearing a green alligator over his left breast. He wears shoes with a shine, and his hair and nails are neatly trimmed. He feels great.
How did I get here? Where did I get these fancy clothes?
Things can sure change quickly!
He stops for dinner at the same fancy restaurant where he’d performed his initiation. The female maître d’ meets him with a warm smile and seats him at the street-side window. Table for one.
Soft music plays; a candle is positioned in the center of his table, red flame dancing sensually over hot wax, its flicker casting small shadows across the freshly pressed napkin lying idle to Billy’s left. Théophile Steinlen’s artful nod to Rodolphe Salis hangs on the wall, along with a series of other retro-chic pieces. The atmosphere is snobby and pretentious, deliciously decadent.
The waiter arrives to takes his order, a warm and welcoming smile on his lips, as if Billy is actually welcome.
The food arrives promptly, and he feasts on a thick slab of delicious prime rib.
The best I’ve had in my life, ever.
And the first he’s had in his life, ever.
In short order, he consumes the full lot, then leans back, his belly protruding slightly. He daintily dabs each corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, just as he’s seen the Bigwigs do so many times before through the majestic restaurant windows. He bellows a hearty laugh.
The most perfect meal. Yes indeed, this is what it’s all been about. This is what we’ve been working towards.
They couldn’t keep us down forever!
He feels so important. So respected and relevant. So sure now that he belongs in this world.
So equal!
Only then the waiter returns, his smile washed away by a look of concern. A second man soon arrives beside him—the manager, perhaps—and a lump grows full in Billy’s throat.
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” the second man says, gently dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. He wants to say more but seems embarrassed to do so. He looks to his left and right, guarding against kibitzers, then leans in slowly and whispers four words into Billy’s ear: “You don’t belong here.”
Billy is cut to the core; not just by hearing the words, but also because in his heart of hearts he knows that the man is right. It isn’t fair.
It is not fair!
Billy looks out toward the large restaurant window. He sees a blue jay flutter down and come to rest on the sill. He leans forward a few inches and squints his eyes. The bird presses up against the window pane and peers inside. It taps at the glass with its slender black beak before jumping from the window and flying out of Billy’s sight.
Billy sets to give chase, but suddenly feels exposed. He looks down to find every scrap of his clothing has vanished, reduced to his natural state. The people sitting at the table next to him start to laugh. Soon the entire restaurant is laughing. Then, without fail, he’s right back in that tree, alone, frightened, his movements seized with fear. He can see the yellowy uniform and smell the sweat wafting over from the metal rungs. His throat tightens and he cannot breath. The gloved hand reaches for him, but he yells for it to stay back.
Why did I do that?
The branch cracks and he feels himself starting to slip. His mother screams. The gloved hand is still too far away to reach him.
He looks further down the branch. Jacob sits precariously on the edge next to Chuck. The blue jay flutters down from above, its healthy wings beating gently. It perches next to Jacob and looks at him disapprovingly.
Billy’s eyelids lurched open before it went any further.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had such vivid dreams. So real he could practically smell the burn of the candle, or taste the delicious meat between his teeth. As always, he found himself right back in the tree, his mother screaming from below, the fireman lingering.
It was real.
Only it wasn’t.
Billy wondered where they came from, these dreams that so frequently unnerved him. Though he’d never read Dickens, perhaps the root cause was as simple as Scrooge had imagined: an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of an underdone potato. Last night, Billy had consumed none of those items, though it may just be that pink bits of stolen pork yielded the same psychological fermentations.
“There’s a man in the tunnels!” screamed Claire.
Billy had tossed and turned nearly two hours before waking to the clamor. He stepped from the lead railcar to find Claire speaking excitedly with Helena and several others. She was panicked. Told them that she’d been out early looking for her brother when she returned to find a man in the subway tunnels. He was clad in blue overalls, a tool belt snug around his waist, a flat cap on his head. He’d harnessed himself to the roof of the tunnel and was changing the orange service lights.
One by one the members gathered around her: Billy, George, Ears. Darrow soon emerged from his office and penetrated the circle. The rest of the members drew quiet to listen.
“Could you have been seen?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I kept out of sight. Watched him from a distance.”
“How far did he get?”
“Like I said, he was going real slow. Didn’t get more than a short stretch.”
“His direction?”
“Toward us,” said Claire.
Darrow turned to Jacob, who nodded back and slipped out of sight.
“Describe this man,” said Darrow.
Claire shut her eyes and did her best to recall specifics.
“Old, I’d say. Kinda scraggly.”
“What else?”
“Blue coveralls. The kinds with the straps up around the shoulders. A blue cap on his head.”
“Anything else?”
“His movements were slow. Shaky. Maybe like he was sick. Or drunk maybe.”
“Was anyone else with him?”
“None that I saw,” said Claire.
“How long,” Darrow paused, highlighting the seriousness of the next question, “how long before he passes by our tunnel?”
The members remained quiet. They watched Claire close her eyes again and fidget in place. “Hard to say,” she said. “I didn’t watch for too long. But the pace he was going. It will take him a while. Probably a week. Maybe two.”
“And then…” said Helena.
“…he sees the tunnel,” finished Jenny, pinching Sam closer.
“Might be he doesn’t bother us,” said Claire. “That he just keeps going on his way.”
“We can’t rely on that,” said Marlon.
“Human nature,” said Darrow, “is inquisitive.”
“This was bound to happen eventually,” said George.
“And if he wanders in here?” cried Ears.
“He’s got to go!” shouted someone from the rear.
“Bet he could be tripped down into the tracks real easy,” heard Billy from the side.
“It’s him or us,” called yet another.
“There’s got to be another way,” said Tommy.
Darrow didn’t speak. He just stepped quietly from the circle and walked back to his office where he would hold for the remainder of the day.
Jacob returned an hour later and confirmed everything that Claire had just said. He estimated the man would pass by in two weeks, if not sooner, assuming he kept up in their direction and maintained his current pace.
This development unnerved the group. It also re-ignited the ideological struggle between Jacob and Marlon. Jacob said that they should bide their time. See if the old man even makes it to them, and, if so, to weigh their options at that time. Marlon wanted the threat immediately eliminated. The issue had become a tipping point among the membership. Some felt Jacob’s approach jeopardized everything that they’d worked so hard to create. Others felt murder wasn’t worth it, particularly given the tenuous nature of the threat, and that it would just bring them all the needle if caught.
More than ever before, partisanship tore throughout the House of Darrow. New members were now readily accosted with, “Are you a Jacob or a Marlon?” and, with Marlon’s supporters quick to embrace aggressive proselytizing, the preponderance of those polled invariably aligned with the latter. It wasn’t just the serviceman. A growing majority were pushing for violence to be introduced into their regular campaigns as well.
Each day of work brought the man closer: the same grease-stained coveralls, same blue cap snug on his head. Billy had snuck out to watch him on more than one occasion; watched him dangling from the tunnel ceiling, the new lights glowing behind him, looking not that much different than the old ones. Billy would watch him secure himself each time a train roared by: tight grip on the rope, cautious with his life. A life that dangled precipitously closer to harm than he could possibly appreciate.
On the fourth day Billy set out for a nearby city park. He passed one of their new members, Chet, who was posted as sentry at checkpoint three. Their open immigration policy had seen all different sorts join their ranks, and Chet was no exception. He was a skittish sort, with skinny legs bent slightly at the knees. And eccentric. Or autistic. Or eccentrically autistic. Chet refused to make eye contact when speaking, instead looking down and to the side, and, due to whatever peculiarity brewed inside him, communicated in short bursts of rhyme. And so it was that some called him Rhyming Chet, while others just called him weird, and still others set their tongues to more pejorative monikers. Billy, however, just called him Chet.
He stated something as Billy passed; but it was mumbled at his feet, so the rhyme, battened down by the silencing effects of insecurity, had evaded Billy’s ears. Billy did catch something about “safe” and “strafe,” but failing to consecrate its full meaning, merely nodded in return before he traveled to the surface and walked the six blocks to his destination.
A cast iron sign arced over the park entrance like a rainbow. Eternal Gardens—a fitting name for this idyllic setting of lush green grass and vibrant perennials. People dotted the area, some on blankets, others on benches, others chasing Frisbees or dogs. The tone was calm and pleasant.
An atmosphere so unlike what he’d left behind.
Rufus would love it here, thought Billy. He’d been asleep when Billy had left, but he vowed to bring him next time.
A paved path circled a fountain in the heart of the park. It was the sort of fountain that, through some undefined magic, caused young children to readily forsake the potential for string licorice or Gummi bears with every wish-accompanied jettison of copper and nickel. A man with a guitar sat on the edge of the fountain and delicately strummed a Yusuf Islam classic.
It was the same sort of fountain that Billy had been cruelly pushed into when he was young, his acute reaction on par with the meanness that dwelled within the boy who’d so thoughtlessly bullied him into the basin of cool water. It was a long time ago. Billy was older now and more mature, more able to defend himself from such treachery. Still, it evoked negative feelings, so he kept back from the frolicking liquid, coming to rest on a grassy hill, and watched the water spurting high into the air and cascading down into the shiny pool at the base. He then watched a boy circle the fountain, a toy plane held as high as his chubby arm would allow. Billy basked in the simplicity of it all and lamented never having a toy like that to play with. His own youthful leisure had always been more modest. Sometimes he would chase bullfrogs, or try to catch a butterfly, or explore the local cemeteries that had grown thick with weed and moss. Peaceful times, thought Billy.
He stretched out. Summer was nearly beyond them, but it remained bright and sunny to the last. There were sparrows in the trees, but the sparrows kept their distance. Billy laid his head down to a warm patch of grass and shut his mind to the world. He could still hear the fountain bubbling menacingly out of sight as he tried to suppress thoughts of the tenets and the serviceman and the discord. The hill curled up around him and drew him into darkness and safety.
He’d hardly closed his eyes before he was engulfed by his mother’s scream, cascading up from the base of the tree. Billy had been ascending the inviting lengths of bark. He was young then, but stubborn and cocksure. Slowly he moved up, inch-by-inch, branch-by-branch. The climb was invigorating. The elevation intoxicating. Billy remembered feeling so inspired, so alive.
Then he looked down.
In an instant his invincibility gave way to panic. His pulse raced. The descent looking exponentially longer than the short journey upward. And he remembered calling for help. From his mother, from anyone. He remembered choking tight the dry stretch of bark that dug into his soft flesh. The pain reinforced that he was secure, and for that, he remembered the pain being welcomed. He snuck another frightened glance down the tree and saw his mother at the base of the tree screaming for help; he saw people walking by on the ground. And he remembered nobody helping.
Nobody, that is, until the fireman.
