Knack (Benjamin Brown Book 1) Read online

  “How could we say anything that would attract attention, when we didn’t see anything that would attract attention?” offered Maddy. “Besides, I already have a hard enough time getting my uncle to be okay with me coming to this part of tow…this far from home.” Maddy grimaced and shook her head, annoyed at herself for almost dissing Mr. G’s business and its location.

  Rocking back on his heels, Mr. G engaged in a chortle. I swear, a chortle. A way-back-in-the-throat, rattling tenor-toned chortle. It’s one of many qualities about him that cause my musings on old age and what that would look like for me. Mr. G is just so comfortable in his own skin.

  “Well, now that puts me at ease—a bit. I’ve decided to close early today. I’m sure you all noticed. Would you two be terribly insulted if I hinted that I needed to speak to Benjamin in private before I close everything up and head home?” He looked warmly but pointedly at Maddy and Baffle. Heading home and “closing up” were kind of funny. Mr. G owned the building his pawnshop was located in and lived upstairs; I had also witnessed the uncomplicated five-minute closing procedures of the shop several times. If he was casting caution to the winds and I was in the shop, he would let me pull the chain on the neon sign.

  Maddy shrugged, “Whatevs. My ‘rents want me home before dinner anyway.”

  “Yeah. I have homework and there’s an episode of Firefly on tonight too. I need to rejoin the utopian microcosm that is my life,” Baffle chirped. Three inside jokes there: homework would take him thirty minutes tops if he really had any, he had seen all fifteen episodes of Firefly at least twenty times and his over-protective psychiatrist parents hadn’t created a home life he was in any hurry to get back to. He was just in a hurry to beat feet. Baff was smart but not the most stouthearted of our little group. The foiled holdup and strange circumstances we had all witnessed probably triggered a need to void his bladder.

  Nodding his appreciation, Mr. G went about the brief routine of shutting down for the night and my friends motored for the front of the shop.

  “See ya later Benny,” Maddy sang as she flipped open the deadbolt and hit the door.

  “Yeah, ‘morrow,” Baffle mumbled. I sincerely hoped he would keep his mouth shut. Almost a lock, but his parents were worrywarts and might pick up on his preoccupation. The only reason they allowed him to hang out with Maddy and me was because they thought it was good for his “socialization.” Translation from practicing-psychiatrist-parent-speak: Baff didn’t have any friends besides us.

  The door clicked shut and the bell gave an end of the day mournful little jingle. Mr. G trotted over, relocked it and turned to me.

  Yeah, so that wasn’t scary at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So, Mr. Benjamin Brown. Now that we have the environs to ourselves we need to discuss the inevitable and slightly sad (I knew I hadn’t imagined it) evolution of our relationship.”

  “I should be getting home soon too Mr. G. Are you mad because we were in here when that guy showed up?” I said nervously.

  “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin. We know each other better than that. Of course, I’m not angry, with you or your friends.… Although, the stout one you call…”

  “Baffle.”

  “Yes, thank you. Well, I trust your good judgment that he’ll keep today’s events to himself.”

  “I’m sure he will. He’s pretty good at keeping secrets.” Baffle’s intelligence didn’t make him quick witted, but he knew how to keep a secret. He knew things about me that I didn’t trust many people with knowing.

  “So, that leaves you and me. Let’s sit down and have a chat.”

  He chucked his chin in the direction of his office so I walked behind the counter and followed him into his office. His short legs and round body caused him to sway back and forth in a choppy gait.

  Mr. Goodturn’s office is a delight for the eyes, to me and my way of thinking anyway. A large window looks out onto the shop so he can keep an eye on the customers when he needs to be in the back for a moment. The customer side of the window is a mirror, but the other is a slightly smoky tinted window. Above the window is an artfully stuffed hawk, wings spread and head cocked in such a way as to appear to be watching over the shop through the one-way mirror.

  In the back corner of the office is a dark roll top desk that contains multiple cubbies for storing all sorts of interesting bits and pieces. The walls are lined with shelves from floor to ceiling and are crammed with gizmos, classic toys, vintage sculptures of comic book characters and superheroes, books, rocks of every shape, size and color, coins in plastic, crystals and so many other items that they defy categorization.

  Hopping into his antique wooden desk chair, he motioned me to the only other seat in the office: an old metal folding chair that has so many fine dents and scratches in it that it almost passed for art—almost. It was uncomfortable as hell.

  He spun his chair so that he was facing me and peered at me through his ridiculously thick glasses.

  “Benjamin, can I take you into my confidence today?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want to share something with you that only a few people know about. And I want to let you in on something I know about you as well.”

  “Okay.” That sounded cryptic, but my nerves had settled down and I was trying to get comfortable on the chair.

  “I know you and your pals saw what happened to the man who tried to hold me up. It’s okay. There was no helping it. His ah…arrested state was my doing.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. You see, although they manifest in different ways, you and I have what I call knacks.”

  A rollercoaster was ripping along for a spin through my insides. I knew I was different, but I had harbored an apparently inaccurate delusion that only two other people knew about it.

  Nodding at my obvious discomfort, he continued. “You’re safe here Benjamin. Your secret is safe with me and I want to make sure mine is safe with you. I’ve watched you in the shop.” He nodded toward the two-way mirror. “Your show on the street, and the parks too, from what I hear, and I think that’s harmless, but risky. My talents are not as subtle as yours, but I’m much more circumspect about displaying them.”

  I decided that keeping my mouth shut and limiting my potential stupidity to head movements was the safest course. So I nodded and swallowed the bile that was attempting to bubble up in the back of my throat.

  “The best way to describe it is that I can slow things down. The closer I am, the better it works and the smaller the scope, the more control. I need as much quiet and as few distractions as possible or my knack will “slip” a little until I “set” it. Start to break down. If I’m using it to repair something, that isn’t a big problem. If I’m employing it with something more dynamic like today, it could be disastrous. But, I don’t use it that way very often.”

  “So you “slowed” that guy? What happened when you took him outside? For a walk?”

  He ignored my second question. “So, that knack is subtle. I’ve used it to benefit my business, and I try never to use it in a way that will hurt anyone. But I’ve had years of practice, and I typically use it in a controlled environment, pretty much just here in my shop.”

  I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your ability but wasn’t sure how to break the ice so to speak. Today’s little encounter seemed like an omen. You saw mine. I reasoned that it was probably time to let you know I had seen yours.”

  I was willing to continue to pretend ignorance.

  Smiling in an agreeable way, Mr. Goodturn turned back to his desk and pulled a small wooden top from one of the cubbyholes. Wrapping a piece of string around it that had a small, flat piece of metal at one end, he steadied the top with an index finger touching its tip and then quickly pulled the string. The top whirled around the surface of the desk in a tight circle. Placing the string to one side, he stared at the top intently. My eyes traveled to the top and its gyrations and I saw the change. The top continued spinning, but its path was n
ow very slow. The speed with which it was revolving didn’t seem capable of keeping it upright.

  “Why doesn’t it fall down?” I asked.

  Shrugging, he said, “Not sure. But when I focus on something slowing down it affects everything within the space it occupies, excluding my physical presence of course. That’s why when I held the man’s hand that was in here earlier the slowing process didn’t extend to me. The top’s physics aren’t impacted by outside stimuli unless it’s touched. He tapped the top and it wobbled but stayed upright and continued to spin slowly. Mr. Goodturn cleared his throat and looked away from the top and at me expectantly.

  “How long will it keep spinning?”

  “Depends. Not forever because that’s a function of the energy from the original spin. But it’ll go on for a while, unless I stop influencing it.”

  “How long can you do that?”

  He glanced back at the top. “Something this small? Hours. Something bigger? Less than that.”

  “Is that your ‘knack’? Just the slowing thing?”

  “Pretty much. Oh, I can intuit the heck out of things, predict what someone is going to say or do. But that’s hardly a knack.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” I said, watching the top.

  “So, now, back to you my young friend. Show me your trick.” He nodded in the direction of the top.

  I was still plenty nervous, but I was experiencing a miniature rainstorm of emotions. I liked Mr. Goodturn. I trusted him, but no adult knew my secret and my experience with grownups, present company aside, was generally bad news. But, I wanted to show him. I wanted to show off a little and I wanted to tell someone I respected about my…knack. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t already shared my “specialness” with someone else.

  Spinning lazily along, the top was navigating a small circle. Its surface had been painted a bright red, God knew how many years ago, but time and use had dulled it to an orangey hue and chipped away bits of color all over its surface. I focused on it and each slow revolution resulted in a color and texture change. Chips filled in, and the warm color turned dark, until the top was a glossy black that gleamed in the yellow light of the office.

  Mr. G laughed softly and clapped his hands once. “That’s lovely Benjamin!”

  At a loss for words, the rollercoaster running fast and smooth now, I contented myself just beaming with happiness at being able to share my “knack.”

  “How long?” he asked.

  “It’ll stop as soon as I do.” Not entirely true but I wasn’t prepared to share that yet.

  “Ah.” He seemed pleased.

  I dropped my focus and he obviously did too, as the top skittered back to full speed and sped to the edge of the desk where it flew off into his waiting hand.

  “So, we’re a couple of interesting fellows, eh?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Now we need to move on to the evolutionary discussion.”

  I kept my nerves under control. “What’s that?”

  “Benjamin, I never had any children of my own. My wife is long passed on. This shop and a few old friends that I don’t see very often are all I have left in this world. I’m content. But I have an interest in you and your welfare. I can’t pretend that I’m your father or even an uncle, but I would like to think that we’re friends. If I can see through your…ah…activities, then someone else might as well. That would almost certainly be a bad thing.”

  “You think I’m going to get into trouble?”

  “Possibly. Almost assuredly if you aren’t more careful.”

  “Do you know why I do it? Perform magic in the parks?” Now I was getting that hair-raising tickle at the back of my neck. How much of my little charade was known?

  “That’s your business, and your mother’s. But I think you should be careful. And I think you should also be realistic about your friends too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I was irritated. Baffle and Maddy were people I trusted. They were my only friends. And as much as Mr. G’s reference to my mother put me at ease, the insinuation that one of my pals might narc on me—not cool.

  Easily sensing my defensiveness, he sighed and rested his hands on his knees.

  “Let me tell you about an experience I had that will illuminate what I’m talking about.”

  “No. I don’t think I have time. I really need to leave.” Uptight and now questioning whether I should have shown him anything, I was in a hurry to get home.

  Sighing again, he looked at his hands in his lap. When he looked up, I could see he was disappointed but hey, too bad. Don’t trash on my friends when you don’t really know them.

  “Okay, Benjamin, but can we agree to keep what we talked about here just between us? Our knacks?”

  Getting up, I felt my hands nervously tug at loose folds in my pants. “Sure. I mean, I don’t want you to go telling anybody about my…stuff either.”

  “All right then.” He stuck out his hand. I took it and shook it quickly. His hand was cool and dry.

  Mine was hot and sweaty.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Back out on the street, I hurried to cover the short distance to my building. It’s a four-story brick building that was probably a hotel back in the day, straight up and down, flat roofline and painted an uninteresting brick red. All the street-facing windows have small fixed awnings over them. The alleys on either side are narrow enough so that no vehicle can get through. The alley-facing sides of the building are covered with windows that belong to apartments and at ground level, small, cloudy, thick wire-laced windows that I had never seen open run from front to back. Someone must have thought it was important to let murky light into the basement. A row of dumpsters and a service entrance toward the back were the only other features on the side that faced the building that housed Mr. Goodturn’s pawnshop. The other end of the alley opened on a wide strip of land that was choked with weeds and backed onto a wash that’s screened off by a tall cyclone fence with razor wire that ran the length of it.

  The building on the other side of mine is an abandoned warehouse. Large blank walls are dotted with high windows, a shocking percentage of which are cracked or broken. In the last two years, I had never seen anyone go in or out. It’s in front of this cheerful structure, the pawnshop, that my friends and I sometimes conducted my little business when we aren’t using one of the nearby parks. Those were the “activities” Mr. G had referred to. I’ll get to that in a bit.

  The front door to my building is an oversized wood and glass number. It’s very heavy and wearing so many coats of paint that the wood surfaces are rippled and dimpled.

  Guests have to buzz in; tenants have magnetic ID cards that they run through a card swiper next to the entrance. I don’t need keys or mag cards to get in.

  I stumbled through the doorway, barely getting my left leg over the threshold before the door swung shut. Then I prepared to make my assault on the stairs. The building was constructed without an elevator and the only way up is wooden stairs from the foyer and mailbox area all the way up to the fourth floor where, as luck would have it, I live.

  Taking the stairs one at a time and steadying myself with the handrail, I can make pretty good time, but depending on what I’ve been doing on any particular day, it can be grueling. My bad left leg sings to me all the way up. I try to tell myself that the exercise is good therapy for it. My thoughts are entirely immersed in the events at the pawnshop. Oddly, the weird stuff with the would-be robber is less worrisome than my conversation with Mr. Goodturn.

  He knew about my knack (may as well call it that), my little business and possibly my living arrangement with my mom. What else would he know that I thought was a well-kept secret? My living situation was, to say the least, unconventional and I didn’t want anybody poking around in it and asking questions for which I didn’t have good answers.

  And what about that crack “Be realistic about your friends”? What the hell was that? I hadn’t told Mr. G everything about all of my s
pecial qualities. The illusion thing was the one I used that was the most easily seen. But another knack that I thought was more valuable, and that didn’t improve with use, was my ability to read someone. It wasn’t specific or black and white. If I concentrated on someone that I could physically see, I could get a sense of what they were all about. Good, mean, smart, lazy or dangerous, and what they were feeling at the moment. When I was little, I hadn’t thought it was anything special. I thought it was something everyone could do, you know, like hearing a melody or seeing certain colors. Over time, and after my other talents started showing up, I realized it was unique to me, sort of a hypersensitive intuition.

  The point of bringing that up is that I had used that knack when Baffle, and later Maddy, and I had become friends. So, I knew them. I didn’t need someone telling me to be realistic. I knew the two of them at a more basic level than anyone else could possibly know.

  Baffle was Sampson Baffle. His parents called him Sam but everyone else called him Baffle or “Baff.” I mean seriously, when you have a last name like that, who would ever bother with your first name? And Sampson? Yeah, that invited no end of teasing and not-very-funny irony. He was short for his age and stocky. To say he had freckles would be like saying it rains in Seattle, and his fair complexion was good for at least one painful sunburn every summer. I thought his most endearing quality, and at times irritating, was his incredible clumsiness, physical and verbal.

  We had met in the eighth grade right after I had relocated to Seattle. I had been busy trying to blend into the local student population and attracting as little attention as possible. My disability and Baffle’s sublime lack of coordination had really pooched that one.

  ***********

  Baff had been eating at the end of a table on his own. I had been a couple of places farther down the community table and had considered joining him, but you need to be careful about who you choose as a friend during your first week. He had been pushing his food around on the tray and generally just messing around. He'd already made a makeshift accordion snake out of his straw wrapper and looked bored. My mom used to say idle hands are the devil's tools. Case in point: Baff had begun shooting spit wads at the light fixture over the table. Since the light fixture had been a good twenty feet over his head, it took a dense wad and a lot of air to get the kind of distance he had needed to hit the light.