The Speed of Dark

Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin, “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.

I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin, who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin, following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.

I put this out of my mind when I start again on my project.

At noon, I take the tires to another tire store, near the campus, and leave them to be replaced. I have the size and kind of tire I want written down and hand that to the desk clerk. She is about my age, with short dark hair; she is wearing a tan shirt with a patch embroidered in red that says: Customer Service.

“Thanks,” she says. She smiles at me. “You would not believe how many people come in here with no idea what size tire they need and start waving their hands.”

“It is easy to write it down,” I say.

“Yes, but they don’t think of that. Are you going to wait or come back later?”

“Come back later,” I say. “How late are you open?”

“Until nine. Or you could come tomorrow.”

“I will come before nine,” I say. She runs my bankcard through the machine and marks the order slip “Paid in Advance.”

“Here’s your copy,” she says. “Don’t lose it — though someone smart enough to write down the tire size is probably smart enough not to lose his order slip.”

I walk back out to the car breathing easier. It is easy to fool people into thinking I am like everyone else in encounters like this. If the other person likes to talk, as this woman did, it is easier. All I have to say are a few conventional things and smile and it is done.

Mr. Crenshaw is in our hall again when I get back, three minutes before the end of our official lunchtime. His face twitches when he sees me. I do not know why. He turns around almost at once and walks away. He does not speak to me. Sometimes when people do not speak, they are angry, but I do not know what I have done to make him angry. I have been late twice lately, but neither time was my fault. I did not cause the traffic accident, and I did not cut my own tires.

It is hard to settle down to work.

I am home by 7:00, with my own tires on all four wheels and Danny’s spare in the trunk along with mine. I decide to park next to Danny’s car although I do not know if he is home. It will be easier to move his spare from one car to another if they are close together.

I knock on his door. “Yes?” His voice.

“It is Lou Arrendale,” I say. “I have your spare in my trunk.”

I hear his footsteps coming to the door. “Lou, I told you — you didn’t have to rush. But thanks.” He opens the door. He has the same multi-toned brown/beige/rust carpet on the floor that I have, though I covered mine with something that didn’t make my eyes hurt. He has a large dark-gray video screen; the speakers are blue and do not match as a set. His couch is brown with little dark squares on the brown; the pattern is regular, but it clashes with the carpet. A young woman is sitting on the couch; she has on a yellow, green, and white patterned shirt that clashes with both the carpet and the couch. He glances back at her. “Lyn, I’m going to go move my spare from Lou’s car to mine.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound interested; she looks down at the table. I wonder if she is Danny’s girlfriend. I did not know he had a girlfriend. I wonder, not for the first time, why a woman friend is called a girlfriend and not a womanfriend.

Danny says, “Come on in, Lou, while I get my keys.” I do not want to come in, but I do not want to seem unfriendly, either. The clashing colors and patterns make my eyes tired. I step in. Danny says, “Lyn, this is Lou from upstairs — he borrowed my spare yesterday.”

“Hi,” she says, glancing up and then down.

“Hi,” I say. I watch Danny as he walks over to a desk and picks up his keys. The desk is very neat on top, a blotter and a telephone.

We go downstairs and out to the parking lot. I unlock my trunk and Danny swings the spare tire out. He opens his trunk and puts it in, then slams his trunk. It makes a different sound than mine does.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“No problemo,” Danny says. “Glad to be of service. And thanks for getting my spare back to me so quickly.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. It does not feel right to say “you’re welcome” when he did more to help me, but I do not know what else to say.