Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“I should probably get my supervisor to OK it…”

“Your supervisor?” Matthew’s eyes go wide. “Like from the lab? Can I ask him stuff too?”

Mia gives him a cautious smile. “That’s right. I just want to make sure he’s OK with—”

“See?” Matthew says, as if that settles it. “I’ll be with two grown-ups. Please?”

“It’s really no problem,” Amber murmurs.

Mia nods. “Well, if you’re sure – oh .”

Matthew has taken her hand, his little fingers intertwined in hers. Mia gives Amber an apologetic look, but Matthew is already pulling her away, peppering her with questions.

Alien spaceships have landed in Watts.

They’re on the opposite side of the road from Annie’s mom’s house, at the end of 107th Street, the cul-de-sac forming a diagonal with Santa Ana Boulevard. Right where the roads meet, in the middle of a tree-lined park, there are several spiralling, cone-shaped towers, each one taller than the last. The tallest one must rise a hundred feet, skeletal scaffolding clad in grey concrete.

There’s evidence of yesterday’s quake everywhere. The road surface is cracked and bruised, and a building next door to the spaceship-like towers has collapsed in on itself, its roof leaning drunkenly. But the towers themselves stand tall and proud, looming over the street in the still air. It’s stopped drizzling, for now, but the clouds are low and grey in the dusk. They make the towers look like alien monoliths. The air around us is still, as if wind is scared to blow too hard in this part of town. Like it might wake them up.

“Gonna take more than an earthquake to bring those down,” Annie says. She’s just climbing out Paul’s truck behind me. Reggie is in the back seat, looking at something on her phone. We followed Annie here from the office – data is still spotty, which means no GPS. As Annie put it, she didn’t want us late for dinner because we forgot how to use paper maps. I decided not to tell her that I’ve never actually owned a paper map.

“Wait, you can see them too?” I point to the structures. “I’m not hallucinating?”

“Hilarious. They’re the Watts Towers, man.”

“Think I saw that group at Coachella once.”

“It’s actually pretty fascinating.” Paul pops out the passenger side. “The person who built them was an Italian immigrant, and he—”

“Come on,” Annie says. “If we’re late, I’m the one she’ll be giving an earful to.” She glances at me. “’Sides, why you acting so surprised? I’ve told you about them before. And I sent you that photo of them yesterday.”

“No, seriously. How did I not know these were here?”

The towers are surrounded by a high concrete wall, which itself is surrounded by a big metal fence. The towers and the wall are undamaged, but the fence has been knocked over by the earthquake. I step inside to take a closer look. There are strange objects embedded in the concrete: shells, chips of glass, bits of broken pot. They cover the towers, as well as the wall itself.

There’s something else that feels odd about the towers, and it takes me a second to spot it: no graffiti.

This is Watts, where every surface is covered in tags. But there’s not a single one anywhere on the inner wall. Even when the fence was intact, I can’t imagine that would’ve stopped anyone who wanted to tag the wall, and it must be a pretty enticing target. Does paint not stick to the concrete? Maybe they’ve coated it with—

“ Sho .” Africa’s exclamation makes me jump. He’s standing in the middle of the street, ham-hock hands on his hips, gazing in undisguised awe at the towers.

I didn’t hear him pull up. His green Nissan sits at the curb, the door still open. It’s even more beat-up than the Batmobile, with a major case of rust on the rocker panels. It’s also the messiest car I’ve ever ridden in – and the Batmobile could win prizes for being untidy.

“Really?” Paul gazes at us in astonishment. “Neither of you have seen these before?”

“What you expect?” Annie clambers up into the truck’s cargo well, hefting Reggie’s chair. “Most people live in LA all their lives, they don’t know about the towers.”

“That’s absurd. Why wouldn’t they?”

She gives him a slightly pitying look. “Because they never come to Watts. Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

She and Paul help Reggie into her chair. Our fearless leader smiles thanks, but says nothing. She is deep in thought, tapping at something on her phone, which is secured to one hand with a special ring. I still haven’t asked her about chef’s school. Maybe I should—

The world goes wavy.

You know tinnitus? That ringing in your ears because you spent too long sitting in the car blasting NWA at top volume? You know how sometimes specific frequencies will set it off – someone closing a door or laughing in a particular tone or the voice of a character on TV? It’ll be in the background of your hearing, and then suddenly it’ll be really loud and annoying, blocking out all other sounds.

This is exactly like that, only it’s in my mind.

I lose my PK entirely, get it back, lose it again. The sensation is bizarre: like someone has filled my head with water, and is now shaking me back and forth, sloshing it around. It’s not painful. It’s just… weird .

“Teagan?” Annie says. She sounds very far away.

I do that stupid thing where you squeeze your eyes shut, then open them wide. It doesn’t help. Whoever put the water in my head is shaking really hard now, back and forth, back and—

Gone.

Just like that, everything is normal.

“You OK?” Africa asks.

I spin in a slow circle, blinking hard, trying to see what the fuck just caused… whatever that was. But there’s nothing. The towers. The trees around them, the uppermost branches swaying back and forth. The rucked-up tarmac. A couple of kids walking down the sidewalk.

Something’s different .

But I can’t figure it out. My PK is exactly the same as it’s always been. I’ve got a firm grip on everything in a fifty-foot radius. My head is clear. So what—?

“Yo.” Annie snaps her fingers in front of me. “Space cadet. You good?”

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

The five of us make our way across the street. A bunch of little kids have started a basketball game, throwing the ball up at an ancient hoop someone has erected in their driveway. There are a surprising number of people around, milling on the sidewalk in groups. We get a few curious looks, but nobody approaches us. A couple of people yell Annie’s name, and she responds with a distracted wave. A car drives past, bass thumping loudly. On a wall nearby, someone has painted a huge mural – twenty feet wide, at least. It’s a memorial to Nipsey Hussle, a rapper who died a while back – he made some incredible shit. Whoever did the mural really took their time – Nipsey’s giant face is almost photorealistic. I half expect him to wink at me.

A thought occurs to me as we reach the sidewalk. “Where’s Jeannette tonight?” I ask Africa.

“Huh?”

“Jeannette? Your girlfr—”

“Oh! Ya ya. Busy.” He steps over a puddle in a single huge step – I have to go the long way round. Weird; I could have sworn he said Jeannette was coming tonight. In fact, I know she was, because I was psyching myself up to be nice to her.

“Maybe she come later,” Africa mutters. “Annie, my dear, am I smart enough?” He’s wearing a threadbare brown suit that only barely fits his enormous frame, over a Mandela shirt with a pattern of psychedelic green swirls.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re good, dude. Relax.”