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Previously: In the fifth week of the Great Opening, a collective entity swallowed Jonah. Now Jonah is its voice. It dreams to escape its confusion & understand itself. But are its dreams its own? Meanwhile we meet Deshawn, the Mapmaker.
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○ Months after the Great Opening, Manhattan
Deshawn stood at the intersection of Frederick Douglas Blvd and 124th St with his cheeks twitching like crazy.
"Let's go back," he said.
His mom looked down at him. She was the one person whose face he couldn't ignore, like one of those cuddlefish that mesmerizes prey. Squinting through the glare of the sun over her shoulders, he watched her nostrils flare between commanding cheekbones. "You said you were tired of 'all that organic stuff' from the farmers market. You said you wanted McDonald's for dinner. Didn't you say that?"
"Yeah..."
"Well you want to eat, you go get it. Here's some money." She pushed a 20 into Deshawn's hand. "I won't subtract it from your allowance."
He began to breath very quickly. There were too many people around them. He tried his best to curl his mind up like a pillbug so that nothing could get in.
"Mickey D's is just a couple blocks away. You'll be OK. Look at me." She stared at him fiercely. "I don't need you to be normal. I know you think that you're different and I celebrate that. Hell, I was a freak-and-a-half at your age. But you need to learn how to be an independent adult soon, baby. You can't just lock yourself in a tin foil prison all day. OK?"
He began to breath even faster.
"Hey." She cupped his twitching cheek. "You don't even have to sit down. Just get take-out. In and out, all right? I'll see you back at the apartment."
Deshawn nodded quickly and crossed the street alone, treading deeper into hell.
—
"Hey, Deesh."
"Sorry, I'm not supposed to talk to yo—"
"You excited about school finally starting again?"
"No."
"Yeah, you don't look like it," Leilani laughed. "Hey, I felt you staring at me. You know you can't hide stuff like that these days, right?"
Deshawn straightened his thick glasses, which had already been perfectly straight. "Wha— No, I was—"
Leilani looked down at the notebook he gripped in one hand. "You putting me in one of your maps? Can I see?"
He pulled the notebook back and glanced around the McDonalds for an out. "I'm––I'm, uh––I'm gonna get a milkshake."
"Oh! Get me one too. Vanilla." She dug into her jeans and pulled out a few crinkled dollars. She put them in Deshawn's hand. "Make it a small please. I gotta stay in shape to make varsity."
Deshawn looked at the dollars in his hand as if they were alien artifacts. But most of his attention was on mindspace, where Leilani was sending him the equivalent of a thank you emoji. (Kids called them psimojis.)
"Um."
Leilani walked back to the booth with her girlfriends. They giggled and looked at him. "Stop!" he heard Leilani whisper-shout. He couldn't hear the rest, but the mental impression he got was that Leilani was defending him.
Because Deshawn was a loser. That's where he belonged on his psychogeographic maps. The loser continent.
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He walked up to the counter.
"How can I help you?" asked the cashier. "Sir?"
But something had entered Deshawn's mind. Something mean.
"Bruh," the cashier said, breaking form.
But Deshawn was looking out the window where a boy wearing a Spiderman hoodie was beckoning him with a finger. He tried to resist the impulse to walk away from the counter but the boy's intention already had control of his legs.
As he walked to the door, Deshawn felt the cashier mentally shrug behind him and think something vaguely like: NYC used to be where anything could happen. Now it's where everything fucking happens.
Deshawn looked to the side for help. Leilani was deep in gossip. She didn't notice him shuffling against his will along an aisle between booths. She wouldn't have understood anyway – this wizard stuff that the boy outside was pulling seemed to only work on Deshawn.
Now Deshawn was swinging the door open. Before he could shield his eyes against the sun, a hand slapped him to the ground.
"What'd I tell you, fool? I texted you about this shit."
Deshawn scrambled for his glasses but Mikey Russo kicked them away with his red Yeezy hightop.
"She came up to me!"
"Saw it all from the window, motherfucker. You're chatting up my girl again."
Deshawn looked up and blinked. "Leilani's your girl now?"
"Get your ass up. It's Battle time."
Deshawn managed to grab his glasses before Mikey's intention took hold of his legs again. Then, abruptly, Deshawn jumped up straight.
"Tsk tsk tsk, Urkel." That was what Mikey called him, after a TV show nerd character named Steve Urkel. "How are you gonna Wizard Battle without your Wizard Stance? Let's go!"
Deshawn found himself entering a ridiculous pose, his arms stretched out like a spellcaster.
"Ight, let's see what you got this time."
Mikey's consciousness slammed into Deshawn before he could react. Though no blow had been thrown, Deshawn stumbled backward as if he'd been suckerpunched.
An old lady coming out of the bodega next door seemed to have sensed it. She turned to them and saw Deshawn struggling to get back on his feet. "Honey, you OK? What are you boys doing?"
"We're just messing around," said Mikey. "Right, Deshawn?"
Deshawn felt the hot knife of a threat grow inside him; it meant something like: Smile and nod or I'm gonna fuck you up. Deshawn made a smile and nodded.
"All right, stay safe." The old lady held up a dismissive hand and walked away.
"Yo, Urkel, you have to work on your defensive wards. Do you even know what those are? You're gonna just keep getting owned like this if you don't have any wards. You need to get yourself a guru, son. Like the one I've got – he's a weird dude but his techniques are sick, son. Like, mad elite. Met him in this dance crew down by Union Square. He been practicing this shit even before the Opening – deadass, son! And, uh..." Mikey scratched his head. "He been asking about you."
"What?"
"I know, right? I told him 'Urkel? He can't do magic for shit. He just stays in his room all day making maps like one of those special needs kids with their choo choo train set.'"
"How does he know about me?"
"He said that he heard you've been writing about him online."
Deshawn had no idea what Mikey was talking about.
"Anyway, I told him that I'd train you up. So let's go – wizard stance," Mikey threw his hands like a stage magician, "Shabooow!"
Once again Deshawn found himself entering an exaggerated spell-casting posture against his will.
"I don't want to fight," he said.
"For real, it's like you just let people do this shit to you. Like you asking for it. The fuck is with that?"
"I need to get home."
"'I need to get home'," Mikey imitated. "Lesson's not over yet. That's right, I'm your guru and you're my apprentice now, bitch. I'm gonna turn you from Steve Urkel to Dr. Strange. Now wards up."
Deshawn tried to imagine a wall between him and Mikey, but Mikey sent it toppling.
Mikey's mind reached out and squeezed Deshawn's lungs.
"Stop––" Deshawn struggled for air. "Please––"
"I ain't doing nothing. You're doing this shit to yourself. For real, that's how my teacher says this stuff works. Wait, hold up––look at the space between my hands right now. Does it look like Kamehameha?"
Deshawn saw something hallucinatory burn between Mikey's cupped hands. "I see fire. Or maybe lightening."
"It's not lightening, it's an energy blast, bitch. Are you telling me you've never seen Dragon Ball Z? Shit. Ight, get ready, this one gonna hurt." Mikey grinned and thrust his hands outward. "KA-ME-HA-ME–– ow!"
Leilani had slapped Mikey's hands away. "Leave him alone, you asshole!"
"Yo, Leilani, we were just having fun, right Deshawn?"
Deshawn was already running down Malcolm X Blvd. The city assaulted his senses: the grumbling of a bus, the bright yellow of a laundromat storefront, the scent of Chinese food, but, most of all, thoughts – swirling, screaming, fleeting thoughts all around him. Childhood memories, sexual fantasies, the dreams of sick people sleeping in apartments, a ghost image of Leilani Torres jogging around from behind him–– Wait, no, that was real.
"You forgot your notebook in the Mickey D's."
"How did you catch up––?"
"I'm a track star, remember?"
People these days were always answering before you could finish your question.
Leilani held out his book of maps. "I took a peek," she said shyly. "They're really cool, Deesh. Maybe you could show me––"
"Thank you." Deshawn took the notebook from her hands.
"Oooook. You're a mad private guy, you know that? Mad private and mysterious."
"I have to go. Bye."
Deshawn sensed for the direction with the least mental noise and walked away fast.
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Next release: Deshawn goes to the New York Renaissance Faire.
Read ahead at Psychofauna.com