Busted Flush

Niobe and the boy started laughing together and I realized that this was one of Niobe’s children. I knew she was psychically linked to them, but that was about all I knew about her power. She’d been pretty closemouthed about it. When she stopped giggling and could speak again, she said, “This is Xerxes.”

I reached out so we could shake, and he slipped his tiny hand into mine. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said. He sounded like Marvin the Martian.

“You should take that act on the road,” I said.

Niobe stopped laughing. I was baffled. I mean, I’m not the greatest joke teller in the world, but I didn’t think my comment had sucked all that bad: besides, as deuce powers went, Xerxes’s wasn’t a bad one.

“Uhm, I guess we should move along,” I said. “It was nice to meet you, too, Xerxes.”

Niobe led me to another bed. I wasn’t certain of this patient’s gender, so I decided to follow Niobe’s lead.

“This is Jenny,” she said. “Jenny’s card turned about a month ago. She isn’t sick, but she keeps expelling her internal organs when she gets too excited.”

“Hey, Jenny,” I said. “You’re not going to spew on me, are you?”

Niobe gave a little gasp, but Jenny laughed. Or kinda gurgled. “Usually people are too freaked out to say anything to me,” she said. “You know, I was rooting for Drummer Boy on American Hero.”

“I can see why,” I said. “He’s a musician and chicks dig musicians.” That was my polite response when people said anything about Drummer Boy. I still thought he was a massive douche even after Egypt.

“Would you sign my book?” One of her flippers shoved an autograph book across the bed.

I flipped through it. She had an astonishing number of famous people. She must have started it before her card turned. I found a blank page toward the back and scrawled my name and a dedication across it.

“There you go. I can give Drummer Boy a call and see if he can send you a signed picture. I mean, if you’d like that.”

“That would be so great!” Jenny said. “Oh, dear, I think you better stand back.”

Niobe and I moved back and, sure enough, Jenny hurled her innards. It was not only disgusting to look at, but the smell was awful.

“Okay, well, I think Bubbles has a flight to catch,” Niobe said.

The flight to New York had been about what I expected: long, boring, and way too crowded. (The less said about the flight from Carlsbad to El Paso the better. Terror in the skies.)

I was ready to get back home to Stuyvesant Town. It wasn’t in the hippest part of the city, but it felt like a real home to me. It was at Fourteenth Street and Avenue A. Lower East Side, but not quite trendy—yet.

The neighborhood was only just beginning to be gentrified. It still had lots of cheap clothing shops, good ethnic food (also cheap), and some great bookstores within walking distance. And the Stuyvesant Town complex remained what it had been designed for—middle-class housing.

Of course, I was living there illegally, subletting from a couple who had moved to Columbus after their baby was born. They’d wanted to be closer to the relatives, but hadn’t wanted to give up the idea of being New Yorkers. So we’d agreed that when they wanted to come back, I would vacate. That had been two years ago, so I felt pretty secure where I was—for now.

But I couldn’t get home from the airport without transportation, and today there were only a handful of cabs and a wicked-long line to get one.

I eventually found myself in the back of a makeshift cart being pulled by a joker. He was at least eleven feet tall, almost all of his height in his legs. It was weird as hell being dragged through NYC by daddy longlegs. I wondered where he got his pants tailored. At the Big and Tall Men’s Shop?

Traffic was almost nonexistent. But we still had to navigate around cars that had been abandoned by their owners. Bikes shot around us, the riders whooping at us as they went by. The buses were running, as there had been an executive order to keep them operating.

Things had been bad when I’d left, but they seemed worse now. There were boarded-up shops on almost every street. And the places that were open, mostly bodegas, had signs out with shocking prices on them.

The joker pulled over to the curb in front of my building and I paid in cash. Between the Committee stipend and the endorsement work I’d had over the last year, I was doing okay. Who knew letting a Volvo hit you could be so lucrative? And with commercials, I didn’t have to wonder if the rest of the people involved were going to be alive the next day.

I walked up to the fourth floor. Good for the muscles, I thought.

When I absorbed energy, I didn’t just get fat. My muscles got bigger, too. That much I’d figured out by myself. So I’d started training to give myself as much muscle as I could pack onto my frame. I was certainly more buff now, but my body type didn’t bulk up. I wanted to be more agile when I was fat. The muscles helped with that, too.