“Now where were we?” Benji said to me. “Right. I remember. Riot’s a tougher word than hyper.”
But the action’s already called hyperscoot, I said. I said, The action already has a name. I said, You can’t just change the name of something because—
“I’m not changing the name of anything. Riotscoot isn’t the same phenomenon as hyperscoot. The intention makes it different, no matter what you say. Anyway, even if I was changing the name of something — aren’t you the guy who calls Jews ‘Israelites’?”
I said, We were Israelites first, Benji. I said, And what about explosions? If a gas main accidentally blows up and kills twenty people, it’s called an explosion. If I blow up a bomb that kills twenty people, that’s also called an explosion.
Eliyahu was tugging on my sleeve.
“But it’s also called terrorism,” Ben-Wa piped in. “Because you did it on purpose.”
Not if it’s on a battlefield, I said. I said, If I use a bomb to blow up twenty enemy soldiers on a battlefield, it’s called heroism, not terrorism. In all three instances, though, it’s an explosion.
“Please stop,” said Eliyahu.
“Yeah, quit it already,” said Vincie. “You’re both right, or both wrong, and it’s totally fucken boring, so why don’t you just slapslap for it?”
“No way I’m gonna slapslap with Gurion,” said Nakamook.
Why not? I said.
“Why don’t we arm wrestle?”
No way, I said.
“Why not?” said Nakamook.
I said, How about the Electric Chair?
“What’s the Electric Chair?”
It’s what you called I’m Ticking the other day, I said.
“You can’t change the name,” said Benji.
It was the Electric Chair first, I said. I said, Actually it was the anti — Kathryn TeBordo, then the Electric Chair, but the girl who invented it changed the name of it, so we should honor that.
“You just call me a girl, man? Like as an insult? That’s sexist. And also kinda pussy.”
You didn’t invent it, I said.
“I invented it Monday night,” Benji said.
I said, June invented it years ago. She had a fever. You’re just a Tesla.
“I fucken hate Tesla,” said Vincie. “What was that song? ‘Love Song’? ‘So you thi-ink that it’s o-vah-ah.’ Why can’t he pronounce his fucken r’s, that guy? I hate when they don’t pronounce their r’s. It’s only the singers with hairstyles that don’t pronounce their r’s. Hairstyles are fucked.” “Is that true about the r’s?” said Chunkstyle. “Vincie likes sweeping statements,” said Mangey. “This is a rhetorical trick characteristic of many tyrannical world leaders,” said Anna Boshka. “Rhetorical trick? You’re so smart, Boshka.” “You are a nice boy, Remus,” said Boshka, “and if you were to ask me to go walking with you, I would not refuse the request.”
You’re that Indian calculus kid, I said to Benji.
“Now Gurion speaks of Srinivasa Ramanujan.” “Sriniwhatta Whosajon? You’re so smart!” “Soon your surprise at my wit will begin to sound like contempt, sweet Chunkstyle. Tell me about my eyes.” “You’ve got the most beautiful hazel eyes.”
“You couldn’t even I’m Ticking for a second on Tuesday. I’ll have a contest with you. Winner names both actions.”
Bring it, Ramanujan.
“You want to count us down, Vincie?”
“Don’t you even worry pretty darling. I know you’ll find love again,” Vincie half-sang. Then he said, “Three.”
And Benji and I faced off.
Then Vincie said, “Two.”
And the Cage got quiet.
Vincie said, “One.”
And we inhaled deep.
And Vincie said, “Go.”
We started to tremble.
Ten seconds into the contest, a bright white flying-saucer shape bloomed from a silver dot in the center of Nakamook’s forehead. I was sure I had one on my own forehead, and I wished there was a mirror. I tried Nakamook’s pupils, but they didn’t reflect me; they were aimed at the ceiling. The ticking of my brainblood wasn’t very loud yet at all, and although they were muted as if they had to pierce fuzz first, voices from the Cage filled those spaces of the soundscape that the ticking didn’t occupy. “Look at how red they’re getting!” “This is not a thing I like.” “It’s just a contest, Eliyahu of Brooklyn.” “…a grand-mal—” “The nasty way their jaws are bulging.” “…don’t pop a filling.” “I hope their tongues are safe.”
At the thirty second-mark, Benji’s eyes began to wobble in their sockets, and the saucer started throbbing. With every throb, the saucer expanded a little, covering more and more of Nakamook’s face. The ticking’s rhythm stayed steady, matched the throbbing’s beat for beat, and each drop of brainblood whacked the backs of my eardrums louder than the last.
I thought: The decibals are mounting at an incremental ratio equi-valent to the one by which the saucer expands, and language is turning weird on me.
The fuzz between the ticks thickened, and the voices of the Cage began to blot out. “Looks bad like____or a seizure.” “My uncle____and got comatose.” “___long?” “___til today.” “Youth______merciful thing.” “_______orkian.”
By sixty seconds, I wouldn’t have been able to see myself even if I was nose-to-glass with a mirror — Benji’s face was obscured to the neck and the hairline by bright white throbbing light. I couldn’t even see the corners of the saucer anymore. I felt good, though. Warm.
I thought: You need to breathe.
I breathed.
The saucer kept throbbing, growing. The brainblood whacked harder, the fuzz between the ticks became impenetrable. I lost count of the seconds at ninety, gave up tracking time. Breathe, I thought.
I breathed.
There was no more Nakamook. Only bright white light. Not even the saucer’s outline remained within my field of vision. There was throbbing, ticking, breathing, and me. Breathe, I thought.
I breathed.
A silver dot appeared in the center of the whiteness. It bloomed into a brighter, whiter flying-saucer shape that began to throb in time with a new ticking of blood against a less taut part of my eardrum. This ticking was basser than the first one.
I thought: I am making this happen. I don’t know how, though.
And then I thought: How do you make anything happen, like—?
Breathe, I thought.
I breathed.
How did you make yourself breathe? I thought.
You didn’t make yourself breathe, I thought. You let yourself breathe, I thought, and barely even that. You can slow your breathing — you can halt the in- and exhalations of your lungs temporarily — but you cannot halt them indefinitely. Eventually your lungs will inhale and exhale, whether or not you want them to. Eventually you will be breathing.
Breathe, I thought.
I lifted the halt on my lungs. My lungs breathed for me. Out, then in.
I thought: They are only your lungs in the way that June is your girlfriend, Nakamook your best friend, Judah your father, the Israelites your people: they are only your lungs inasmuch as you are their Gurion. To be yours does not mean you control them. To be theirs does not mean they control you. It only means there is mutual influence. And the more one element influences the other, the more the other influences the one. What you animate animates you back.
Exhale — no don’t, I thought.
And despite the hot pain in my chest, I did not lift the halt on my lungs. My lungs strained. Strained against what, though? Strained against the halt? Against me? My lungs strained against me? Against my will? The idea of me, an integrated being with a singular will, much less a will that could be exerted with predictable results — let alone desirable results — grew less comprehensible as my oxygen shortaged and the heat of my chestpain increased.