Adam Johnson: Emporium

I shift my aim toward the little monkey, and start my countdown.

Here’s where the gift comes in: the secret to being a world-class sniper is knowing how to stop your heart. I exhale, my chest goes quiet, and there’s a ghostly feeling of serenity in my limbs. The rifle seems to just settle into its purpose, and things feel clear and flat in the scope. There’s a hollow crack, and for a second, the time it takes for the spent shell to spring and glint to the ground, Cherry G and I will both be lifeless.

Duck, you fool, I can’t help whispering.

The slug goes, connects — a neck shot, my trademark, the wound lapping like the tongues of orchid petals. The target’s knees go out, and he falls from view, dropping into the beige of his cubicle.

“Morning has broken,” I radio in.

“Copy that, people,” Lt. Kim announces. “Blackbird has spoken.”

* * *

Back at the police station, I slip in through the side door and take the back way, around the squash courts, toward the locker room. I’m supposed to debrief with Lt. Kim after every assignment, but I’m just not into talking about it today. She’s been worried about my “problems with intimacy,” which she always drags back to the fact that my mother’s a classic “sniper mom” who shuttled me around to every child firearms contest there was. And I’d be on psych leave for a zillion years if I ever told Lt. Kim about the shrine my dad built out of all his second-place shooting trophies.

I run into my team in the hallway. They’re standing next to a soda machine, working on some song lyrics. They’ve got a band but they don’t get many gigs because they all play bass. Eyes closed, Cedric holds two fingers to his ear while Henry and Twan sing backup, snapping their fingers. It’s an old love ballad.

“Pardon, mon cheri,” Cedric sings. Snap. Snap. “Why you rebukin’ me?”

Twan jumps in with the chorus; he’s a large man with a booming voice.

“Ce soir, ce soir,” Twan sings. “Girl, you’re having me.”

I never thought much of French, but it sounds tough coming from these guys.

“Word up,” I say.

Twan stops mid-snap when I say this.

“That French is phat,” I say. “Bet the lady friends go for that smooth talk.”

That’s when ROMS rolls up. ROMS sniffs us, then lifts a claw in greeting.

“Yo, holmses,” he says, which is something I taught him. ROMS is the only one around here who’s geekier than me, and he’s a bomb detection and disposal robot. He’s got some basic hostage negotiating programming, so I’ve been trying to teach him to talk cooler.

“Hey, ROMS,” I say. “The posse and me was thinking about grabbing some chow. Wanna chill with us?”

“Let’s eat and make friends,” he announces. “Food is the first step in peaceful resolutions. Pizza, burger, baba ghanoush.”

“Shit,” Twan says and just walks away.

“Maybe another time, sir,” Cedric says, and Henry looks like he wants to bust a stitch something’s so funny.

“It’s a date,” ROMS says to them as they walk away.

ROMS is clueless to how the guys are always avoiding him, and I try to shield him from that. You see, ROMS and I are both Cancers, which means we’re sensitive and a little moody, but with a lot to say. For his birthday in July, I’m planning on getting him an update — Negotiator 5.0, with the latest Black English Converters — because ROMS wants to express himself, but he just doesn’t have the programming.

For now, ROMS and I decide to eat lunch without those guys. I have a learner’s permit, but there has to be someone in the car with me, and technically, ROMS doesn’t count, so we walk across the street to grab a Sony burger.

Generally, people don’t like to see a bomb robot enter the building, so ROMS and I use the drive-thru, which is a little humiliating. The ugly truth is, though, robots are way looked down upon in our society. Just because some people are different doesn’t mean they’re not the same as you or me. That’s why, when we’re working at a playground or day care, I tie a “Barney” mask on ROMS’s display panel — purple and humorous, it helps ensure the next generation won’t have to live in fear.

I order a double Sony dog with a large Nix. For ROMS, I get a water, no ice — you have to wet his sponge reservoir every once in a while to keep his sniffer from drying out.

The girl at the drive-thru’s kind of cute. She’s about my age, with some skin trouble, though I like the cock of her headset. When it’s our turn in line, I can’t think of anything to say, but she’s the one who speaks first.

“Nice rifle,” she says when she hands me the bag.

I want to make my move, but ROMS won’t quit sniffing her, and he’s ruining everything! I kick him on the sly. When I do open my mouth, all that comes out is “extra ketchup.” Then I go and add, “s’il vous plaît.”

She shakes her head and hands me two packets, like there’s a ketchup shortage or something.

The car behind us starts honking, so ROMS and I move along.

The only place to eat outside is the kiddie area, so I sit in a dinky seat, and ROMS parks on the rumpus pad. The play area’s really just a giant food recycler dressed up to look like a jungle gym, and the thing’s loud as heck. I look past the little rope that’s supposed to keep kids out of the heavy gears, but I don’t see a muffler on the thing, a total code violation.

I sift through the fries for my instant game card, while ROMS pulls out a really long straw. I get excited when I scratch off a bikini and then a martini, but it turns out I’m one machete short of winning the trip to Haiti with the Sony Girls.

I throw the game card on the ground. What’s the use, anyway?

ROMS can see my disappointment. “Why the long face?” he asks

“Thanks, ROMS, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We can resolve this crisis together. We’re friends. First let’s start with some small talk. What do you think of the Raiders this year?”

That puts a smile on my face. ROMS is my friend. Some bomb robots, every time you turn them on, you’re a new person to them. You have to reintroduce yourself and everything. But ROMS is different. We’re like a team — both of us dedicated to saving people, though I do it indirectly, of course.

“Okay,” I say. “Tell me this — you ever find a bomb, and when you touch it, you get a feel for the person who made it, like, who they really are, and suddenly you’re connected to them?”

“All the time,” ROMS says, though it’s a little hard to hear him over the gnashing blades of the recycler. “I’m versed in the signature detonation devices of most major terrorists.”

“No, man. I mean, like, see their soul.”

ROMS slurps. “Is this about the Sony Girls?” he asks.

“Don’t even talk about girls. This problem is way different. Say I’m about to resolve a crisis, okay? I go to pull the trigger, and I get this weird sense of connection with the target, like we’re old homies. But then, as soon as I shoot them, that closeness goes away, and I’m left feeling sort of mechanical.”

“I know where you’re coming from. I’ve been there.”

“Really?”

“I love you, man,” ROMS says.

I chew a mouthful of hot dog, and looking at ROMS, wash it down with Nix. Because of his hostage skills, he always has something good to say when you’re down, but this surprises me. This is not in his programming.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask ROMS.

“Love makes the world go round,” he says and sniffles.

I reach out, and his instrument shield is cool to the touch. When I check his power light, it’s flashing. He gets pretty emotional when his batteries are low, and his bomb sniffer resets to default, so that it sounds like he’s sniveling, like he’s about to cry.