Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Timmy laughed again, this time normally.

Jack stood up. He was on the other side of the room and a little behind so he had to step forward and turn to catch Tim’s eye. He asked, “Are you enjoying yourself in Geek Heaven?”

Andy bent over, laughed and smacked the floor. “Geek Heaven,” he repeated. “It’s us!” he said and laughed.

I had them get up one by one and accept a pejorative. A couple of alternates were cheerfully suggested that I agreed to, but I resisted outright invention, insisting on those they had actually used before, with one exception. Stick and Halley were the last two on the floor. “Get up, Prince of Darkness,” I told Copley. That left Halley alone and unnamed. Her smirk was long gone. She looked small, young, and surrounded.

“Well,” I asked the group, “what do we call her?”

It became obvious that she didn’t have a nickname they all used. That didn’t surprise me, since she presented a different persona to each one. “Glassholette,” Tim offered and laughed, but the others didn’t join him or clap to show approval.

I peered at her. “I don’t think so.” I scanned the group. Jack seemed to want to talk. “Yes?”

“Queen of Darkness,” he said solemnly, green eyes on me alone. He swallowed afterwards. I knew that he had been brave and I winked at him.

“Is that how the tribe thinks of Halley?” I asked. I noted that, although this ordeal would bring most people to the verge of tears, Halley’s black eyes were calm, eerily abstracted, and her body, in a half-lotus, remained still and at ease. A defense certainly, but to call Halley’s emotional shield a “defense” is to forget that the armor of a tank is there to protect its gun, not the passenger. She wasn’t wounded. I didn’t imagine for a moment she could be by this group. I looked at Martha, who had shown little apprehension about the game. “What do you call her, Leech?”

Martha was a big-boned fleshy woman, overweight by modern standards, although realistically she couldn’t keep her broad shoulders and wide hips free of fat unless she were to starve. She also had the misfortune of a pug nose, too small for the scale of her broad forehead and wide mouth. “Miss Halley.”

“Miss Halley?” I nodded sagely. “You mean you’re her slave?”

Martha laughed, a good incautious laugh, from the belly. “I sure am.”

“And she’s just the useless self-centered daughter of the plantation owner?”

Martha frowned. She put her hands on her hips and stared down at the small dark girl on the floor. “No,” she admitted.

“Maybe you’re a sexist, Leech,” I said, touching Martha on the shoulder to make it clear that I wasn’t really scolding her. I addressed the others. “Let’s pretend Halley is the Prince’s son, not a daughter. I know that’s hard with Halley, but let’s say she were just as attractive, only she was a handsome young son. What would you call her?”

Jonathan Stivik said, “That’s easy. Prince Hal.”

Andy and Gould laughed appreciatively — presumably fans of Shakespeare. “Prince Hal?” I asked the group. Everyone but Stick and Halley nodded.

“Sure,” Andy said. “They’re family.”

“Stand up, Prince Hal,” I said. “I want you to form a line in this way. From right to left, arrange yourselves according to how insulting, how personally degrading, is your nickname. The most despised on the right, the most honored on the left.”

This caused some hilarity. Martha (Leech) and Carl Hanson (Beer Brains) kept circling each other, fighting to be the low person. Stick helped by immediately taking the top spot and so did Halley, standing beside him at number two, although according to business title she was below Jack, Joe Gould and Hanson. Tim and Andy were confused. Jack watched them hesitate and then steered Andy (Geek Genius) by the arm next to Halley at the number three position and moved himself to fourth. Jonathan (Softhead) revealed his high self-esteem by taking number five. Gould (Cash Cretin), although he was presumably the equal of Hanson, took number six.

Martha grabbed Hanson to stop him from getting below her one more time and called to me, “Will you tell him a leech is the lowest form of life?”

“At least you are a form of life,” Hanson argued. “I’m a fermented potato.”

“Martha’s right,” I said. “But she’s not low man.” I looked at Tim, bewildered now that his colleague Andy was in the line and he couldn’t stand beside him. “You are, Nerd.” I grabbed his chunky arm and moved him toward Martha.

This was my first break. Tim jerked his arm out of my grasp, stepped back, shoulders hunched and head down like an angry bull. “No,” was all he said, but it was definite.

“Think about it, Nerd. All the others have something good in their names. Two of them are Princes. I’m a Doctor. He’s a Genius, even if he’s a Geek. Jack has glass in his name. That ties him to the Glass Tower, which is the seat of power. Jonathan’s Softhead, but at least he’s got a head. Gould is the Cash Cretin, but he’s got money. Carl not only has Brains, he has Beer and Martha is a Leech, but that means she gets blood out of people. You’re just Nerd. You’re harmless. In fact, they don’t even single you out. You’re just one of dozens of nerds. You don’t really have a name all to yourself.”

Tim backed away another step. His face was redder, his jaw out, and he breathed fast, through his nose. Someone mumbled, “Take it easy.” I think that was Jack.

“Get at the end of the line,” I said sternly.

“They’re nothing,” Tim answered in a rush and then shut up.

“They don’t think so. They think you’re nothing.”

Tim pointed a thick finger at Jack. “Everybody in the Glass Tower is a Glasshole. Not just him. He doesn’t have his own name.” He pointed to Jonathan. “All the programmers are Softheads.”

“He’s The Glasshole. He’s The Softhead. Are you The Nerd?”

Tim’s jaw trembled. “Yes,” he stammered.

“No,” I was sorrowful. “ The Nerd is Andy. He’s the Geek Genius, the head nerd. The Nerd of nerds. You’re replaceable. You’re a worker bee, a nothing.”

Tim spoke very very softly — a hunted whisper. “They need me.”

“They don’t think so.”

From behind me, Andy said, “Yes, we do.” Jack also said something encouraging.

“Shut up,” I told them without looking. I advanced on Tim. He was a few inches shorter than me and much wider. We were almost nose-to-nose. His frantic, noisy breathing sounded like the sniffling of a weepy child. There was a streak of red in his left eye, a burst blood vessel. A drop of sweat from his receding hairline trailed down, heading for his nose. “They’re being kind,” I told him. “Kind to the nerd. Kind to the big baby nerd.”

Tim put his fat palms on my chest and shoved me. Martha, I think, gasped. I stumbled back. Tim shouted, “They’re nothing!” He shuffled sideways, almost as if he were dancing, and screamed, “I make the machines! They’re nothing! They got nothing without me. Me! I’m the one! He’s—” Tim, his face bright red, slid and hopped up to Andy. “He’s not a genius! Without me, he’s a retard!” He skipped down the startled line and stuck a finger at Jonathan. “Softhead!” he tried to laugh scornfully, but the sound was more like a choke. “If he was any good he’d be at Nintendo! I cleaned up the protocols for him. You dumb fuck,” he added and then skipped backwards.

“So the tribe dies without you,” I said.

“I’m the flicking hunter. I get the meat.” Tim banged his thick hands together. They made a shattering sound, like the report of a gun. “They die without me.”