Billy tabbs, p.6
Billy Tabbs, page 6
It wasn’t until he saw the alley that his legs seized. He stood motionless on the sidewalk as the thin mist settled uncomfortably on his body, cool beads running off his ears and his nose. Billy stared blankly at the red smudge still caked to the side of the entrance where he’d leaned the night before. It was shaped much like a butterfly. The rain had somehow missed it, left it as a reminder of his attack, and of the purposeless and precarious life that he was now cowardly running back to. A cardboard box sat just inside the mouth of the alley. It was soaked wet and limp, newspapers scrunched inside.
Nobody home.
He stared at the bloody butterfly as people walked by his sopping frame, umbrellas erect in their hands. He gleaned a few pitiful looks from some, obliviousness from the rest. All of them continued on their way without stopping, hustling themselves quickly through the rain. And finally, Billy moved along, too. Only he did not continue on his way eastward.
He reversed course and returned to the subway as quickly as he could manage, slinking down the track and spreading himself on the waiting room floor, hoping that he’d dry sufficiently before they came for him and realized what he’d done. What he’d almost done—and what he was tempted to do yet again.
Still he eyed the door with thoughts of escape, of running back home. At least two dozen times he got up to leave, and at least two dozen times he sat back down.
They came for him after nightfall.
He was lying on his side, fully dry. They swept in without warning like a three-headed snake. The lead said his name was Marlon. Behind him bopped two more.
“Get up,” said the lead head. His face was heavy and serious.
Billy lurched to his feet, giving the three-headed snake a fourth. Marlon led them above ground and guided them to a nondescript alleyway six blocks west. The rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. Safely in the shadows, they peered across the street to a five-star restaurant. Marlon studied the establishment while Billy inspected his co-conspirators.
Marlon, Darrow’s second general, was a hefty individual. He bore jet-black hair and talked through a strong jaw. His features were hard and his body shone as battle tested—including a scar of some significance running nearly two inches down the front of his burly neck. An imposing figure, his presence so intimidated some people that they’d actually change direction just to avoid crossing his path.
Marlon spoke sparingly, the others not at all.
Chuck was the skinniest and youngest of the lot. He tried to put on a brave front but his eyes spoke the contrary. And then there was one-eyed George, whom Billy had met the night before. George’s temperament was deadpan. He could have been moments from a high-pressure mission, or moments from sitting down to a quiet lunch. He stood beside them kicking at the ground; from lack of interest or anticipation, Billy couldn’t tell.
It was just after nine, dark but for the soft white lights peppered across the circumference of the restaurant and the sky-pocked glow of a few overhead streetlamps. Majestic bay windows faced out to the street, offering a tease of what lay inside: the choreographed dance of black-vested waiters over white-cloth tables, the shimmer of candlelight off crystal. Small portions. Large smiles.
Bigwigs.
The main entrance was tucked around the left where two valets stood beneath a red awning; the adjacent parking lot was chock full of luxury automobiles. The valets danced to and fro as the patrons trickled in, some by foot, others by tire. The men were clad in black vests over red button-up shirts, black pants, and black shoes. They even had silly little hats strapped to their heads like you might see on a bellhop. It all screamed pomp and decadence.
The foursome watched the late dinner rush reach its crescendo. Finally, Marlon called Billy to his side.
“Watch.”
“Watch what?” asked Billy, confused.
“Everything,” said Marlon after a long pause, his gaze held stoically ahead of him.
Another non-answer. More confusion. But Billy watched everything.
For five minutes, then ten.
“This is where it will be,” said Marlon, after another lengthy silence.
Billy responded with a nervous nod.
“You’re going to be good for us,” he said, turning to face him. “You handled yourself well with Ears. You’ll fit in well down below. I can see that already.”
The praise warmed Billy, easing some of his apprehension.
“We need more soldiers like you,” Marlon continued. “And like Chuck.” Billy noticed from the corner of his eye that Chuck had crouched in among them. George remained back several feet and continued to kick at the ground, his good eye seeming pensive.
“One day we won’t be held back,” said Marlon, looking back across the street.
Billy didn’t understand the last reference, but nodded anyway.
“Look at how they eat. How they live,” said Marlon.
“I’m jealous,” said Billy.
“Don’t be,” he replied coolly. After a lengthy pause, adding, “Jacob steers us from violence.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Billy.
An angry look flickered across Marlon’s face. “It makes no sense at all.”
“No, of course not,” said Billy, who then realized the wisdom of not talking.
Pedestrians continued to stream past them, flowing by on the sidewalk not ten feet from their position. None paid them any mind. None saw Marlon lean in and whisper into Billy’s ear. Billy bristled. The instructions were simple, but terrifying.
Billy looked at his feet and tried to remain calm. Any moment now—once a crowd of sufficient size had accumulated outside the restaurant—Marlon would give the signal. Then Billy would go forward alone, the others hanging back to bear witness.
Escape would be no easy task, not with the instructions he’d just been provided. There would be dozens of witnesses close by. But, as Marlon whispered, “The public nature of the act is the entire point of the exercise.”
Billy’s body tingled, then faded numb. His breath was short. By then the confidence born from Marlon’s earlier compliment had largely eroded. He wished he’d run away when he had the chance, silently chastising himself that he hadn’t.
Several minutes passed—several excruciating minutes—before a large party spilled out of the doorway and lingered beneath the red awning.
Bigwigs, all of them.
They milled about outside while the two eager valets skipped off to fetch their respective vehicles. Marlon tapped Billy’s shoulder.
The valets hadn’t stepped five feet before Billy set into the street. The traffic was light, and he slipped across without incident, his eyes locked on the pristine Jaguar parked prominently by the front door, its silver ornament floating atop the black enamel finish—a silver jaguar jumping through starless space.
Billy sprinted to the car and jumped onto the vehicle’s hood, a clunk emanating from the hard landing on the soft finish. The people gaped at him. He gaped back, then shuffled about, scuffing the paint in a few spots. Two of the onlookers yelled for Billy to get down. Another snickered. He ignored them and readied himself.
Then the trickle of urine.
It pooled on the hood of the car, rolled off the front bumper and dripped to the ground. The ornament had come in from orbit and was now jumping over a murky stream.
One shaken debutante stepped back into her partner’s embrace, nearly losing her balance on her shiny pumps. Another gasped something indefinable as she clenched a shiny leather bag tightly to her chest, the sweet scent of her sophisticated perfume no match for the unsophisticated fragrance of Billy’s freshly secreted urine. One of the men advanced, shouting Billy down from the car, but careful to keep his wingtips a safe distance from the liquid now dripping intermittently from the front bumper.
Visceral reactions flooded Billy. The numbness was gone. Now he felt everything acutely, his feelings having flowed back on a tidal wave of adrenaline.
The valets ran toward the commotion, Billy still perched on the hood. He stole a glance across the street. The alley was vacant. Marlon and the rest had disappeared.
He spun around to scan the street.
Nothing.
Billy jumped to the ground and set off in a run as the two men closed in on him. He veered left once he reached the sidewalk, running past the restaurant’s huge bay windows. The men were close behind, but he had a several-second head start, and was unencumbered by a tight valet uniform or a silly red hat. His feet pounded the city concrete. His ribs still hurt but not enough to slow him down. A popular rock song blared from the open window of a passing sports car, the frenetic music drowning out the voices of his pursuers and his own panicked footsteps. Buoyed by the rush of adrenaline, Billy easily outpaced them, and the two men gave up their chase after less than two city blocks.
He cut left at the next street corner and continued a vigorous pace up the sidewalk.
Within moments he’d caught up to the group, just where Marlon said they’d be waiting. Together all four took off in a run, only stopping to catch their collective breath once they’d put some additional distance between themselves and the scene.
Marlon curled up a smile, the first from him that Billy had seen. “Well, doesn’t someone look like he just swallowed the damn canary?”
His assessment was an accurate one, and Billy could hardly hide the smug satisfaction that had welled up inside of him. “You did good,” Marlon added, and Billy seized on the compliment, immediately warming to its deliverer. It was a rare bequest of pride, of accomplishment, things he’d so rarely experienced in his lifetime. Such a small gesture; at that moment it meant everything.
They each took turns congratulating him, mussing his hair, pushing him playfully. Billy soaked it in. The praise made him feel self-conscious, but not so much that he wanted it to stop. George even gave him an encouraging pat on the head—as if he were just some dog who’d mindlessly fetched the morning paper—and though even at the height of his indigence he still fancied himself a step or two above even the most achieved canine, he quite relished the attention. His lungs moaned from the running, but it didn’t matter. His ribs still complained, but it didn’t dampen the moment. All his life’s disappointments had slipped into a deep hibernation, and from hibernation came realization.
He’d just committed an obscene and vulgar act, one with no other aim than to show contempt for society. A crime with no other end but to send a message. A crime unlike any he’d ever committed before, a planned and deliberate act of civil disobedience.
In that instant, the purpose of the organization became apparent, as if the blinders had slipped from his eyes. Their goal was to send a message to perpetrators of inequality and superiority, to those who lived ignorant to the needs of others around them. Ignorant to those like Billy.
Simple. Obvious.
Glorious!
It was an emotional high, a rush of power and meaning.
Only minutes had passed, but Billy already knew that he wanted to participate in something like that again.
And soon.
They hadn’t loitered long before a group of people eyed them curiously from across the street.
The focused eyes triggered a silent alarm, and Billy was drawn to them instantly. Marlon saw them too, and immediately ordered their retreat back to the compound, their name for the railway Atlantis Billy had stumbled upon the previous day.
After hiking through the gravelly tunnel, they stepped down the rocky slope to the main platform floor, where he was immediately mobbed by the membership. Ash took the lead, Darrow observing from a short distance.
Billy glimpsed past their congratulatory gestures and immersed himself in the feel of the compound for the first time. It felt incredibly spacious, airy, and welcoming. It smelled of stale oil, sulfur, and the promise of better days to come; the aromas blended rather sweetly.
Tall walls of rock fenced in the area, with the ceiling solid granite, save for the slew of steel grates peeking out to the surface high above. There was a slight chill to the air, perhaps due to the cold slabs of concrete and rock.
The compound floor itself was smooth concrete in fairly good condition. One side held an office, accessed by a short stretch of hallway, while the other side let out to the string of subway cars and the defunct stretch of track that ran off to the darkness in each direction before dead-ending in rubble.
To the immediate right of the lone hallway was a list titled The Nine Tenets of Darrowism. These were the scribblings that Billy had noticed yesterday, scratched prominently on the near wall.
He quickly noticed a common theme:
1. All in this world should be valued equally
2. Whoever lives in decadence is an enemy
3. Whoever supports or abides inequality is an enemy
4. Whoever lives in the street is a friend
5. Food shall be dispersed equally
6. Sleep shall be enjoyed equally
7. Work is to be allotted equally
8. No member shall harm any other
9. Darrow knows
Members had to know the tenets by rote and follow them without exception. Furthermore, whenever Darrow invoked the ninth tenet, the individuals engaged in discussion were to immediately show deference and repeat “Darrow knows” aloud. Billy had them memorized within minutes, the concepts rolling easily off his tongue.
It was then that Helena started into one of their anthems. Soon enough the whole group was engaged in unison:
You’ve got the homes, you’ve got the food
Your selfish actions ever rude
You turn your eye
You skip on by
Our plans for you now rather shrewd
So here we are beneath your feet
And no, our kind will not retreat
We won’t fade ’way
We’re here to stay
Our will and spirit won’t be beat
They continued that way with playful, hopeful, spirited anthems about homes and food and equality. Billy had never sung before that moment. It was uncomfortable and made him feel vulnerable. But those feelings passed quickly, and they soon gave way to a singular feeling of liberation.
The atmosphere was festive. They had nothing—no power, no property, no accumulation of wealth or hopeless attachment to luxury—yet they were happy. They recognized each other as equals, regardless of size or skill, of ability or intellect, with no one member more important than another. Unified. Indivisible.
By midnight, the initiation ceremony was complete, and Billy was made the twenty-first member of the group. And he was, for the first time in a great while, no longer alone.
They sang and danced deep into the night. And they ate—oh, how they ate.
In anticipation of Billy’s induction, they’d collected an impressive array of food. There was ham, beef, a thick salmon steak, a pair of turkey legs, a hunk of marble cheese, and much more. It was, Billy decided, just about the most impressive array of tender vittles he’d ever set his eyes on.
“Where did you find all this?” he asked openly to the forum. Several laughed in response.
“Find, I suppose, is a generous way of putting it,” said George, who then winked his good left eye at Billy.
Ash also responded, but with a question. “What’d ya usually eat?”
“Whatever was around,” said Billy. “Whatever I could find.”
“Yep, like most of us before comin’ here,” said Ash. “But no more settlin’. The Darrow says that since we’re equal to the best of ’em, we eat what they eat.”
And they did just that, and were boisterous for the next several hours, with three notable exceptions.
Through much of the revelry, Darrow stood alone by the wall of tenets. There he remained, watching from an isolated distance, stoic and thoughtful. He observed those carrying on before him, basking in their basking. Sometimes he’d smile or nod, but mostly he bore silent witness to the congregation of hope splayed out generously on the cool concrete.
Marlon joined him after a time. Like Darrow, he too neither sang nor danced, only ate. Then he sequestered himself beside Darrow, where he also stood. And watched. And digested.
And then there was a scrawny individual named Lyle who, despite the raised decibels, slept blissfully against the side of an old wooden crate resting just in front of the caboose on the compound floor.
The rest, however, were unabashedly raucous. Ash loud, his choppy dialect resonating around the room. George bopping his head to the songs while Chuck strutted around, cocky in self-adulation. Fat Henry lying around grumbling about this thing or that, as surly as he was rotund, yet begrudgingly, unmistakably content. Jenny apparently having recovered from her early-morning discomfort; she and Helena were dancing as one, slinking around each other as if they had shared the same mind and not merely the same womb.
Between bites of food and shouts of song, Billy sponged information. He learned that the clan was born into existence less than a year ago, shortly after Darrow discovered the compound. Soon thereafter he’d met Jacob, and together they started bringing the needy in from the cold. One by one the clan grew, and by the time spring had hatched, so too had their revolution.
Darrow, Billy was told, spent much of his time in the office. Some sort of administrative room, it contained tables, chairs, a gray filing cabinet, and even an old telegraph machine. Now it was Darrow’s private chamber. As George explained it, there’d been some debate as to whether this room should be “given” to Darrow, since they were all to be equal. Yet he was their leader, after all, so it was decided that he should have the office to use as he saw fit, and he accepted, after some mild cajoling.
There was so much more that Billy wanted to know, but the hour soon grew late, and the members started disappearing into the lead railcar. Billy remained chatting with Ash and George, with Darrow and Marlon conversing nearby.
“Curfew’s midnight, unless there’s a mission,” said George. “All of us being night owls, and all. Darrow likes to keep some sense of order.”
Billy was trying his best not to stare at George’s disfigurement. That was when he remembered the rounders.
