Allen Zadoff - Boy Nobody

“Dead.”

That was the first word I ever heard out of her mouth. I didn’t know that death would become the basis of our relationship.

She sat me down, and she gave me a choice. I could join my parents, or I could join her. Join The Program.

That’s what she called it. The Program.

She described it to me in the most basic terms. I would become a soldier. I would be trained physically and mentally. I would do things most boys do only in video games.

She made it sound exciting.

She said it was my choice whether to join.

Whatever I decided, my life was no longer my own. I could give it up forever and join my parents, or I could join The Program.

Twelve years old, and I had to make a choice between life and death.

I chose death.

Call it loyalty. Call it naïveté.

I wanted to be with my parents, even if it meant dying.

So this is what I told her:

“Kill me.”

Ironically, it was what they were looking for. It showed them the level of character they were seeking, the list of personality characteristics appropriate to a potential soldier.

Intensity.

Black-or-white thinking.

Stubbornness.

Allegiance without regard to consequence.

All useful qualities from their perspective. They took my allegiance and transformed it into something that would serve them.

Serve The Program.

Mother promised me a new life.

That’s what I got.

I CAN HEAR MOTHER BREATHING ON THE OTHER END OF THE PHONE.

“Are you there?” she says.

“I’m here.”

“I said we’re proud of you.”

“I appreciate that.”

It’s my cue. I’m supposed to say good-bye and hang up, but I don’t.

The silence on the line grows uncomfortable.

“Anything else, honey?” the voice says.

There is an edge to it now.

When? my head screams.

“Nothing else,” I say. “I’m just anxious to get to the next assignment.”

The question goes away when I get an assignment. The question, the memories, all of it.

“Keep an eye on your e-mail,” Mother says. “Your father is sending you something.”

That’s how the assignments come. Through Father.

“I’ll get it soon?”

“You know your father. He moves at his own pace.”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The briefest of pauses, and Mother says, “I have to run now. Lots of love.”

“Love you. Talk to you soon,” I say.

Back to the script. When in doubt, stick to the script.

The line goes dead.

I close the Poker app.

On the billboard the mother smiles warmly behind perfectly made-up lips. Her son lifts a spoonful of hot liquid to his mouth. She looks on proudly.

Home is where the is.

Home. Is that what home looks like?

I stare at the billboard.

Suddenly the meaning becomes clear.

There is nothing deep about it. It’s an ad for soup.

THE WAITING.

That is the most difficult part.

There is the assignment I have finished, and the assignment to come. In between is a black hole called waiting.

I cannot go back to Natick now. The house where I lived has already been sanitized, and the story of why I had to leave has been seeded. I was living there alone for two months while my parents were on an extended business trip.

That was the establishing story.

There was a terrible accident overseas. I had to leave without notice.

That’s the exit story.

Now it’s time to change cities and wait. In this case, the black hole is called Providence.

I travel by train whenever possible. It’s slow and old-fashioned, but that can work in my favor. Lax security, no ID checks, and it’s easy to buy a ticket under an assumed name. Besides, I enjoy it. I feel safest encased in metal and in motion.

I take the Acela Express train and in less than an hour I’m checking into the Marriott in downtown Providence. A hotel can be tricky when you’re sixteen years old. I have adult IDs and credit cards, but I have to be careful with my choice of clothes. I can’t walk in looking like a teenager. There will be questions.

They don’t care about me. They care about the room. They’re afraid a teenager will have a party and trash it. He’ll get drunk and pass out, and they’ll have a liability issue.

Sometimes I’ll call ahead and reserve the room for my son, but that requires a story, and stories invite attention.

Stories can be remembered. A regular check-in cannot.

So I keep it standard as much as possible. Big cities are best. Chains are best. Clubs are best. I’m a Marriott Rewards member under ten names.

I walk toward the front desk. A large group stands around in front of the restaurant, an eclectic mix of people from their twenties to their fifties, excited and chattering. They have that happy look like they’ve been sprung from prison.

I glance at the conference announcements.

WELCOME, LIBRARIANS! one of the signs reads.

“Are you one of us?” a well-dressed woman with funky glasses says.

“Wish I was,” I say.

That earns me a big smile.

I walk to the front desk and pass the clerk my credit card. She swipes it and slides it toward me on the counter.

“Welcome back, Mr. Gallant,” the clerk says.

She glances at me. A questioning look. Aren’t you a little young to be Mr. Gallant?

A kid would say, Mr. Gallant is my father. Try to prove he’s cool.

“A pleasure to be back,” I say. Act older. Look older.

“Will it be a long stay?”

“If I’m lucky, it will be a short one,” I say.

“Maybe you’ll find something in Providence you like.”

She smiles at me, and I look at her closely for the first time—dark hair, smoky eyes, and a black fitted uniform that can’t hide a great body underneath.

We might have fun together, but I can’t afford the distraction. Instead of taking advantage of the opening she’s given me, I make light of it.

“Is there anything in Providence that anyone likes?” I say.

She laughs.

“You should know you’re insulting my hometown,” she says.

“Looks like I just got a room with a view of the parking lot.”

I put the focus back on the room, the check-in process.

Business. That’s all this is.

“I’m not like that,” she says.

She types on the computer for a second. She glances up at me.

“Truth is we’ve got a lot of great things to do in this town. If you’re interested, I could show you a few of the hot spots.”

Changing the subject didn’t work. It’s time to be direct.

“I’m interested,” I say, “but I don’t have time. It’s just a quick business trip.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It really is.”

She passes me a small paper envelope with my key card.

“Room seven fifty-nine. A nice view. I guarantee it.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t look at her name tag. Better not to say her name. Better not to create any more connection between us.

Connections can be remembered. As such, they are dangerous to me.

I nod and step aside, let another guest fill my spot. Maybe he’ll do what I cannot, hit the hot spots, enjoy his trip to Providence.

Connect.

I look at the envelope with the key card.

Room 759. This is where I will wait.

I TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES.

I put them in a plastic bag, put that inside my travel bag. I’ll drop the plastic bag in a Goodwill bin later. Not a Dumpster. A bag of clothes in a Dumpster invites speculation.