The gum-chewing girl raised her hand. “I heard your nickname is Serpico.”
“What?” said Gus.
“Serpico. Is it true?”
“I don’t know,” said Gus. “I guess some of the guys call me that sometimes.”
The girl raised her hand again. “Is that, like, some kind of joke?”
Gus’s eyes narrowed.
More banging came through the wall.
The next room: Serge sat in the back row with folded arms. A gavel continued banging on the front table. Serge was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He’d never seen so much unconnected movement in his life, all these nervous rituals and spastic noises. Then the moderator had to bang his gavel again every few minutes to restore order before the next introduction. “Hi, I’m Sam.” “Hi, Sam.” And more ridiculous stories. Have to keep dusting the house. Have to keep making sure the doors are locked. One person couldn’t stop washing his hands, one dreaded contact with faucets, and another had both problems and just stood at sinks a long time. Serge wasn’t one to judge, but what a pack of loons!
The gavel banged again. It was Serge’s turn. Everyone was staring at him. Serge didn’t want to go.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said the moderator.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Serge.
“You’re among friends.”
Serge looked around at all the tense, panicky faces staring back at him. Sheesh.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Serge, look—”
“Hi, Serge!”
Serge checked his watch. “I’m missing
“What seems to be your problem, Serge?”
“Nothing.”
“Take your time. And remember, anything you say here is privileged.”
Someone kept scooting his chair back and forth. The gavel banged three times.
“Will you stop with the gavel?” said Serge.
Someone turned the lights off, then on, then off. The gavel banged three more times. The lights came back on. Serge was at the breaking point. What a crazy meeting! Actually, it was two meetings. They were in one of those double rooms with a sliding accordion divider in case a large group needed the extra space. Another meeting was under way on the other side. Someone kept opening and closing the divider. Serge caught glimpses of glazed adults in a variety of robes and talismans. The Lower Keys Chapter of People Susceptible to Joining Cults. The members attended religiously. The moderator was trying to get them to stop coming. The divider closed.
The first moderator politely touched Serge’s arm. “Everyone here is on your side.” Then he touched his arm two more times. Serge jerked away. “You’re creeping me out!”
The divider opened. A man stood at the front of the other meeting wearing a bishop’s mitre with the insignia of every ship in the star fleet. The divider closed. The gavel banged three times. Serge grabbed his head with both hands. “What the hell is wrong with you people!”
“Serge, please…”
“I will not ‘please’! All I’ve heard since I’ve been here is a bunch of whining.
“Could you lower your voice?”
“Dammit!” said Serge. “I thought this was going to be some kind of cool club. Like Mensa. Special crafts and hobbies, take field trips, maybe pool our awesome powers for a shot at the Guinness book. Instead, all I hear is complaints!…” Chair scooted; people made crackling sounds with fingers, necks and jaws.
The gavel banged three times. “Quiet!”
Serge snatched the gavel away and banged it at the moderator. “No,
The moderator picked up the gavel. “You have to bang it three times” — bang, bang, bang — “then set it on its special presentation stand, perfectly straight, equidistant from the four edges.”
Serge picked up the gavel, snapped it in half and threw the pieces down. “There. You’re fuckin’ cured.”
The moderator made a sucking scream. He fell sobbing into his chair with the two pieces, desperately trying to fit them together.
Serge faced the room. “Don’t you understand? The answer is inside each of you! Don’t follow anyone else! Be your own leader!
The divider was open. The moderator on the other side had lost his audience. They were listening to Serge.
The lights went off, on, off.
“That’s it! I’m history!” Serge stormed from the room.
The hallway was quiet except for Serge’s footsteps. “Unbelievable.” He glanced in the window of the next door. A deputy was at the front table. “Please! I’m begging you!…” Serge kept walking, other rooms, other agendas. People afraid of closed-in open spaces. People who love too much. People who try to get attention by staging hang-glider accidents. Serge looked in another window, a lone man tapping on a computer: People Afraid to Leave the House, telecommuting to the meeting. The next room, a sign outside: AA.
“At least it’s tradition.”
Serge passed the door and heard giggling. He took another step and stopped. “That laugh… no, it couldn’t be—” He took another step and heard it again.
