Curse of Arachnaman Page 3

  Every so often people would come in, ogle her steam counter, and buy heaping containers of greasy but freshly cooked Chinese food. From where I sat, I also noted that pretty much everyone ordered the same stuff that my family tended to default to—beef with broccoli, chow mein, sweet and sour pork, and hot and sour soup. It was kind of a sad testament of how little we Westerners really knew or maybe wanted to know about Chinese cuisine. I made a mental note to write down a list of alternate dishes that Mrs. Zhang might want to serve. Or maybe “mistakenly” substitute for one of the more common and boring stuff. The upside would be a pleasant surprise for the customer, who might ask for more new things from her next time. Of course, the downside was the total mind-fuck factor, which would mean angry complaints and demands for refunds or a night-long odyssey in one's toilet.

  When my order was finally put together, I marched outside and walked in the direction of police sirens. No surprise there, given the overall sleaze quotient of the general area. A break-in? Sure! A carjacking? Oh, yeah! A murder? Pfft—why not? Sometimes I wonder how the Disney studios would interpret my city and especially neighborhoods like these. I figured that they'd make my trip to and from Mrs. Zhang look like a really edgy Little Red Riding Hood. You know, with the studio artists all toked out or something.

  I didn't have to walk too far. Beck Street, which was kind of known as a haven for the criminally whackjob-y types, was also a favorite police hangout. It was also a part of my route home, and I couldn't avoid it even if I wanted to. Two streets down from Mrs. Zhang's takeout joint, I trotted over to the corner and found myself huddling with a handful of homeless dudes. I thought they were just residents loitering in a street corner, but I was so wrong.

  "What's going on?” I asked, pointedly ignoring the strange looks my family's dinner was getting from my impromptu peeps. One started flapping a hand in front of his face, as though he were shooing off flies.

  "Dunno,” someone grunted, and I instantly smelled a really potent mix of alcohol, cigarettes, and rotting teeth that nearly knocked me out. The hunched lump standing beside me pointed a gnarled finger down Beck Street. Well, he looked like a lump because he was, you know, hunched, and he wore ten layers of filthy coats. “Looks like a mugging or somethin'. Probably a rob'ry. Or a thief."

  I inched away from them when I realized that their attention had completely shifted from someone else's crime spree to one that was possibly theirs. Yeah, like another mugging. This time, with non-spicy Chinese food for their target. I tried to look calm and a little more grim because I figured that I'd give off pretty intimidating vibes that way.

  By the way, I also suck as a judge of my own vibe-giving. Instead of changing their minds about me, they inched their way closer, their eyes—those that I could see in the semi-lit area—fixed on the bag I carried, so that we kind of looked like we were practicing some weird group dance move in the shadows of a side street.

  "Yeah, cool. Better get back there, you guys, or you'll get in the way of the cops. Know what I mean?” I said, raising my voice a little in case that helped make me look tough.

  "'Ey, kid,” someone barked. I thought I saw a large hand appearing from the mass of dirty bodies that was slowly bearing down on me.

  "Hey, watch out!” someone yelled.

  They all threw themselves down on the ground in a chorus of half-drunken grunts, while I just turned tail and ran down the street, keeping Mrs. Zhang's food close to my body.

  "I said, watch out!"

  I threw a glance over my shoulder. A couple of shadowy figures were running up the street as well, just several feet behind me. They were also in the middle of the street the whole time, while I ran along the sidewalk. I suppose the icing on the cake was that they were shooting at something behind them—or, rather, something above and behind them.

  "You're not getting us, freak!” one of them yelled. He shot a few more rounds into the night air. Then he snarled and threw his gun away. His partner kept shooting till he ran out of ammo as well.

  I dove against the nearest wall and pressed myself there, holding my breath, as the two men picked up the pace and barreled down the street. Anyone who happened to be outside did the same thing I did, and Beck Street was lined with confused and frightened people pressing themselves against grimy walls of rundown tenement buildings.

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Spirit Wire called out from somewhere. “Sticks and stones, dorkwads."

  I glanced up and found her hovering about two stories up, her steampunk-ish costume faintly gleaming in the night lights. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her goggles seemed to glow. She paused for a moment and then went still, like she was concentrating really hard. The two thugs continued to run, and I thought that Spirit Wire was letting them go.

  Then I heard a sudden explosion of glass. A window on the second story of a grungy apartment building across the street had shattered, and shards of glass flew everywhere. From inside the room, a bunch of long cables shot out, tentacle-like, waving and looking like bizarre slithering snakes as they flew right at the two thugs. I imagined that they were all normal cables with limited length, but from what I saw, Spirit Wire's powers stretched them out to whatever length she needed. It was seriously like watching a cartoon, with everything taking on elastic qualities. It was so weird—but cool as hell.

  I watched the cables loop themselves around the guys’ waists, tighten, and then yank them back hard, like bungee cords. The two screamed as they catapulted the other way, flying low, as the cables whip-lashed back the other direction, carrying them in the waiting arms of the cops. Other people in the street with me also cried out in surprise or shock. The two were unceremoniously dumped on the ground, where they were immediately surrounded by men with drawn guns.

  "Over here!” Spirit Wire called out, waving at the police. Then she pointed at the window where the cables had snapped back inside. “There's a room of stolen computers in there!"

  I blinked. Wow, she was good. How did she know that? Superhero sense? Half of the cops followed her as she flew straight inside the broken window. The police had to use the front door, but I figured that they'd get there eventually. In the meantime, the two muggers were hauled off into waiting squad cars. Yeah, all in a day's work for a superhero.

  I stumbled to my feet, still clinging to Mrs. Zhang's takeout stuff, feeling unashamedly proud of the fact that the superheroes once kicked my butt. When I got home, I helped Mom get everything laid out on the table while prattling on and on about what had just happened. She was also predictably freaked out.

  "Are you okay? No, really. Are you...okay? Eric? Look at me. Let me check you. No, stand still, mister, or you're going to get it. Do you hear me? Oh, God, what's this mark? What about this? Where did you get this? Wh—is this a hickey? Eric!"

  I didn't have the heart to tell her this, but if Hollywood were to do a remake of The Exorcist, I'd give them Mom's work number if they were looking for a more mature Linda Blair for the pea soup role. As it happened, I was too tired to argue, so I just let her go nutty on me while I stood there, glassy-eyed, ignoring her screeches and letting myself be subjected to her paranoid inspection. Exposing myself to physical harm as the Trill's sidekick once upon a time? Obviously, I could never live that one down. She wouldn't let me, anyway.

  To add insult to injury, I was also given the thankless job of calling Scanlon to the dining room.

  "Do I have to?” I asked. “I mean, I'm sure they can smell Mrs. Zhang's food from the living room. Can't they just follow their noses or something?"

  Mom just placed her hands on her hips and leveled me with that you-are-SO-going-to-get-it-young-man look. I sighed and walked out, taking care not to cross the threshold when I reached the living room door. I just peeked in and called out.

  "Yo! Dinner time!"

  "Hey, is that what's hot in urban speak, Tiger?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yeah. It's, like, way up there with ‘Brainsuck.’”

  "Oh! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-
ha-slurp!"

  They made Scanlon sit beside me at the table, by the way. I spent my dinner getting my hair mussed up every ten minutes or so. At first I thought it was because Scanlon was just being, you know, Scanlon, but after a while, I began to suspect that he'd used up his napkin and needed a substitute for cleaning his hand and just didn't feel like asking Mom if we had any extras. If I could detach my nose from my face, hold it up next to my hair, and take a whiff, I wouldn't be surprised if my shampoo would come off smelling like soy sauce, garlic, and pepper.

  I honestly can't remember how I managed to survive dinner. All I can say is that I did, and for that I was grateful to all universal forces that sought to protect me with soothing auras or clouds of purple calm or a generous dose of cosmic Valium.

  After dinner, I went back online and destroyed Asteroids like whoa. I even beat my own record. I guess, in that sense, Scanlon really did play an important role in my life. Before I shut the computer down, I got another email from Althea: Dude, you can win mucho bucks just for sitting on your ass, waiting for the bingo announcer guy to call out the right numbers and letters. I cringed. What the hell was she going on about? So I typed back: I can also earn mucho bucks by being a hustler, and I don't have to put up with some boring dude with a microphone. What's your point?

  Oh, yeah—I also washed my hair before I went to bed. Just in case, you know.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 3

  * * * *

  Boredom: that excruciating limbo that fills up a boy's time in between school, his boyfriend, and whacking off. I wanted to set up a blog, but it wasn't going to happen, obviously, since the only things I could have talked about were classified stuff.

  I mean, think about it. With a blog with all kinds of juicy things about superheroes, I'd have been getting tons of hits. I could have had those ad things on my sidebars, where people could click through, and I'd heard that I could make money off them. I didn't even have to go out there and find a real job, see? I'd be kicking back, tossing down some M&Ms while making mucho bucks off people's gullibility. I just wondered if I needed a special permit for the state because of those underage job law things and all that crap.

  Of course, if one of my blog readers happened to be David “Gorilla Grip” Cohen from sixth grade, the gloves would've been off. Wouldn't it be cool if I'd posted something like this:

  "Hey, Dave! I'm going steady with the hottest superhero out there! I'll bet you didn't think I'd have it in me, did you? Oh, by the way, I charge a reading fee if you want to check out the rest of my blog and how life is, practically engaged to be married to Calais, who'll kick your furry, weenie ass if you tried to beat the crap out of me the way you did after homeroom. By the way, how's life in Loserville?"

  Too bad I couldn't have one. It would've been fantastic, imagining Douchebag Cohen scratching his head and dragging his knuckles across the ground, trying to figure out how an awesome superhero like Calais could possibly be a card-carrying faggot.

  So I decided to just get a physical journal to write in. Better than nothing, really.

  * * * *

  I took advantage of the time before the early morning scramble to pounce on Mom with my dreams. I got up before everyone else, which always takes her by surprise. When she was knocked off her center, I hit her with my request.

  "Mom, can I have money for a journal?” I asked, trotting over to the stove where she stood, frozen, a spatula in one hand and the griddle pan held in another. She was staring at me, shocked, the whole time.

  "Huh? Money? Journal?"

  "Yeah,” I replied, all casual and suave as I peeked at the pancakes that were well on their way to getting burned, no thanks to my very timely distraction. “Look out. Breakfast is in danger.” I gave her sleeve a quick tug.

  "Oh. Uh—you're up early, honey,” she stammered, turning back to her cooking and promptly turning the pancakes over. They were pretty cooked on one side, for sure.

  "Yeah, sure. I guess it just happened, you know? So can I have money for a journal?"

  "You've never kept a journal before. What's up?"

  Adults are so cynical. And suspicious. One state of mind I don't look forward to when I come of age. I just shrugged and waltzed over to the refrigerator and claimed Mrs. Horace's jam and then dug around the pantry for bread. “I'm just, you know, being thoughtful. I figured that I'd be better off expressing myself in a private journal and not spending so much time online."

  "What happened to your poetry?"

  "Oh. Haiku? That's so last year, Mom. I'm on to bigger and better things."

  "Uh-huh..."

  I hauled my breakfast over to the toaster, taking care not to look inside the slots and be reminded of how disgusting the racks and heating elements looked. One would think that someone in the household would notice and actually try to convince Mom to cough up money for a new toaster, but no. All I could do was pray that nothing indestructible, blackened, spiny, and mutating would attach itself to my bread in the toasting process.

  "Besides,” I added, “it would make for great writing practice, wouldn't it? And Dr. Dibbs did say that while I've always been good in written communication, I still need to apply myself some more? Remember your last kinda-sorta PTA meeting with him?"

  Mom watched me as she held a platter of steaming pancakes. Then she shook her head. “You're good, kid. I'll give you that."

  "So, is that a yes?” I prodded as she walked over to the table to set the platter down. When she threw me another incredulous look and then nodded, I grinned, thanked her, and gave her a quick kiss. Nothing says love like your own mother telling you how good a hustler you are.

  On my way to my tutorials—or, rather, “school"—I kind of took my time by detouring down one road that had a couple of pretty cool stationery shops. One of them was all about handmade stuff, which I wanted desperately, but I couldn't afford. Besides, a lot of their merchandise was all froufrou stuff. The other shop specialized in some pretty cool unique designs from all over the world. Also handmade, and I guess just as expensive as the other shop, but I really liked how they were more international.

  I stood by the wall where they had blank journals displayed, my eyes being bigger than my wallet...or, actually, Mom's wallet. I think I inspected and fondled every single blank journal there was, and before long, I started getting the feeling that the salesgirl was getting weird vibes from me.

  "May I help you find something?” she asked as she walked up to me. She was a pretty tall lady, about my height. That said, she was also pretty intimidating even though she wore the tie-dyed baggy stuff that neo-hippies wore around Vintage. I mean, she even wore her hair loose and long and shaggy, with a little crown of flowers perched on her head. The only thing she needed to do was walk around barefoot, but this was Vintage City, after all. The stuff that people could bring with them from outside defied description. Still does, really.

  "Um—yeah. I'm looking for a blank journal that's really cool, with a little window-thingie in the cover, where I can write stuff,” I said, holding up a journal that, according to its label, was handmade in Chile.

  "Oh,” she said, suddenly perking up. “In that case, you might find something you want in this section, where—"

  She stopped short when we heard a weird noise that sounded like something metallic and small skittering across the ceiling. I automatically thought of rats and shuddered. We both looked up, but the ceiling looked pristine and freshly painted. The only sound that could be heard at that moment was the air conditioner's quiet hum. She frowned and shook her head.

  "Sorry about that. I think the vents are getting too old or something. Anyway, let me show you these journals.” She smiled and walked to a table, where I followed her.

  I thought I heard another sound, and I wasn't sure, but it seemed like a series of little scrapes against the ceiling. Like something dragging itself along, using claws or something instead of feet. I shuddered, but when the s
ounds didn't repeat themselves, I decided that they were nothing more than my imagination getting fired up over the previous sounds.

  Within minutes I was loaded with new, shiny things and was running through traffic because I was late for “school.” Pfft. I didn't care. I'd gotten myself a cool journal, and I couldn't wait to destroy it with my musings and crap.

  * * * *

  When Mom arrived home from work later that day, I happily paraded my stash in front of her. Well, I guess I didn't really have much choice, when Mom demanded to see where her hard-earned money went.

  Sitting at the dining table, I spread out my treasure and gave her the lowdown on each, while Mom settled herself down with her usual mug of coffee. She couldn't rid herself of the habit of drinking late-afternoon coffee despite our urgings. “See, this journal's from India—"

  "India? Whatever happened to locally-made journals? Why do you need to go international and pay an arm and a leg for something that would've been cheaper domestically?"

  See what happens when she drinks late-afternoon coffee?

  "I didn't see any that looked nice. Anyway, this is, like, one-of-a-kind, Mom, and see the pages? They're all hand-made. The edges aren't even, and you can even see different kinds of weird fiber thingies embedded in the paper. Isn't that cool?"

  "Uh, yeah. What's this?” Mom pointed at the wooden box with the Victorian-type logo on the lid.

  "My pens!” I lifted the lid and pushed the box toward her, grinning proudly. Inside the box, a set of two pens with separate nibs lay cradled, along with two small bottles of ink. I had a tough time finding that pen set, by the way, which was why I considered them to be my crowning achievement in froufrou shopping.

  Mom stared at the pen set. “Eric...these aren't ballpoint pens."

  "No. Of course not! Why would I get myself some cheap, crappy ballpoint pens for this kind of journal? Check this out, Mom. They even have different sized nibs for writing. I can practice calligraphy if I wanted to, I think. Maybe even drawing if I really applied myself."