splat chapter eighteen

Suzie's neighborhood had been slowly changing. There were fewer TV flickers when she cruised by on the way home, and more empty windows, but just as many cars up on blocks. Like small animals deserting their hiding places before an earthquake, the neighbors had begun to move out, and they had better things to do with their money than renting moving trucks. They get friends and relatives to bring their pickups over for a few loads of couches and refrigerators, big TV sets and cheap pasteboard dressers and tables, garbage bags crammed full of clothes and household junk. They left just as much behind, too, and it sat piled up at the curb waiting for the solid waste guys and other scavengers.

But Suzie was in such a big hurry to get home and watch the news that she didn't notice several houses on the street missing their windows and doors, frames and all. Cars were parked carelessly in the street, and flashlights could be seen straying from room to room inside. But she didn't notice. She was still sniffling.

'Hey, kid. You're famous,' Alex said as she came through the door.

Jason tossed her a beer from the fridge as she sat down and put her bag on the floor between her feet. 'They've been running previews for hours.'

Philip muttered, 'Details at eleven.'

Suzie was more excited than worried. The guys were impressed, maybe. 'Did they see me? Do they know it's me?'

'No, we know it's you.' She sat back in her seat. That was good enough.

'There you are,' they chorused.

The news runs a teaser: a loop of stills from a traffic camera on Georgia 400. It catches the front of her car speeding toward the bottom of the screen while a minivan climbs up the barrier and smashes into a metal camera post. It happens very quickly. The picture is choppy and stilted. It looks brutal. The voiceover announces, 'Details coming up,' and they cut to an ad for a cold medicine.

Suzie threw herself back into the cushions. She felt hot and cold all over, like the top of her head was coming off. Beer sloshed onto her wrist and she wiped it off on her tuxedo skirt.

'Too bad we can't tape it,' said Philip, and they waited through a car ad, and one for some bank. Suzie didn't look up, her eyes focused on her belly, as close as she came to praying that it not be as bad as she feared.

'Our top story tonight: Police are responding swiftly to a sniper loose in Atlanta.' Oh shit. There's a still of her car in pixilated closeup at the corner of the screen behind Whatshername.

The anchor is looking serious, in a sun-yellow jacket that complements yet another hairstyle change, this time looking like a wavy bathing cap. She looks concerned, pissed off. 'Police tonight are looking for a sniper loose on Atlanta's highways.' The graphic disappears, and her face fills the screen. 'This evening, during rush hour, a sniper caused several severe injuries and a massive traffic tie-up when he attacked a driver on Georgia 400 with a paintgun.'

'Traffic cameras nearby caught the action as the assailant left the scene.' To hoots from the guys, Suzie and millions of other Atlantans watch footage of her blue Dodge Doohickey POS speeding away as the green minivan tries to wrap itself around the camera pole.

Then the TV shows a closeup of the sniper's car from the next camera, 50 feet up and 800 feet away. Seen through the windshield, fuzzy as shit, a white head with sunglasses and a blue shirt. It was very grainy. 'Police are searching for a blue 1994 Dodge Doohickey,' was all Whatshername said, but Suzie felt the chill hand of the law resting on her shoulder.

The scene switches to a report from the front of St. Joseph's Hospital, where the victim has been life flighted. 'The victim, forty-seven year old William Robert Norred,' the guys gurgle at this, 'is in stable condition with multiple injuries. Police are waiting for the victim to regain consciousness so they can get a composite sketch of the sniper.'

The anchor is back on, spreading the alarm. 'Police say that this attack is part of a recent rash of snipings around Atlanta, and are asking motorists to report anything suspicious they may see on the road.' A phone number comes up on the screen behind her, red letters on a black splat mark. 1-800-GOT-INFO.

An ad comes on.

The guys threw pillows at Suzie. 'You go, girl,' Demetrius said, pelting her back.

Jason held the pillow over his head to aim. 'That's your car, alright,' he said, lobbing it at her head.

'Good thing I never let you write on my car like you wanted to that time.' She threw the pillows back. 'I'd already be in jail.' The pillows all went astray.

Alex got up to head for the bathroom. 'What was that crap on your passenger seat?'

'Krispy Kreme bags, mostly.'

'Your disguise is awesome,' Philip said seriously. It felt great to get praise.

'Those are your legs, though,' Demetrius observed, 'and your arms.'

Suzie snorted, but looked at the mutating freckle on her left arm. 'Yeah, right. Like I have distinguishing limbs.'

'It's a good look for you,' continued Philip, 'and the glasses are fabulous.'

Jason got up and went to the fridge. 'You look like a blonde bimbo.'

Demetrius nodded. 'A Buckhead Babe.'

Hey. I've got one,' Jason said, passing out beers on his way back. 'Why do blondes put their hair up?'

Alex returned. 'To cover the valve stem,' he said, making his way to his seat. 'What did the blonde name her pet zebra?'

'Spot,' Jason called. Suzie groaned. Another ad came on. Philip became absorbed and stopped listening.

'What's black and fuzzy and hangs from the ceiling?' They thought about it. 'A blonde electrician.'

Demetrius and Jason groaned this time.

Suzie got up. 'I know one. Why are blonde jokes short?'

They waited. 'So men can understand them.' They were pissing her off. She headed for the front door. There's a reason there aren't that many redhead jokes.

Alex stopped her. 'Where you going?'

'To move my car. Don't you think I should go park around back?'

He shook his head. 'Better leave it where it is.'

Jason agreed, 'There are a million of those things.'

'Nah, leave it there,' Demetrius added. 'The Marta cops won't even think about it unless it's not where it usually is.'

Jason said, 'Yeah.'

'And anyway,' continued Demetrius, 'under those yellow street lights your car looks red.'

She walked back to the couch and sat down. 'You don't have anything in the car, do you?' Alex asked her.

'It's all in my bag.' She touched the bag at her feet, and thought about how much she liked the guys, and how good it was to have friends. Then she wondered, Why not show them the cause of all the commotion? She took her paintgun out of the bag, and twirled it for them. It looked kind of puny once she had it out, with sawed off, rough edges. It looked cheap, pre-broken. She sighed. Her efforts always looked so paltry when she saw them through the eyes of others.

She sat with the gun in her lap for a moment, staring at the ad with the rest of them, then she shouted in frustration, and while all the guys were looking over to see why, she pulled up the muzzle and shot the gun at the wall. Suzie felt a slight push back from the paintball as it left the chamber, then a bloop reached their ears, and the ball lobbed itself across the room, flickering in the TV light, and threw itself into the middle of a new tag on the far wall, with just enough energy to split a seam and fling a circle of greasy yellow paint over the black writing.

The guys cheered feebly. Suzie was relieved. They would have made fun of her if it bounced off without breaking. As it was they made fun of her for its cheesiness.

'That's such a small mark,' Jason started. 'How do you blind a windshield with one of those? Does it even shoot automatic?' She shook her head. 'I didn't think so.'

'And what'd you do to get it so slow?' Demetrius wanted to know. It was his before he grew out of the phase. 'There's no power in that, you can't do anything with a weak ass speed like that.'

Alex lit a cigarette. 'You're paintgun's so gay.' The rest of them fumbled for their packs.

The ads were over.

A title comes up: Homeless Sweep. The graphic is a picture of a broom, sweeping dust and bits of trash offscreen. The white middle aged co-anchor in the gray suit takes the story. 'Police raided a homeless den on Pine Street  tonight, and arrested more than thirty homeless men and women.' The camera shows a line of scruffy handcuffed blacks and Latinos waiting to be loaded into the vans. 'Three people were taken to Grady Hospital with injuries,' he says as a graphic of scales and a gavel fades in. 'The rest have been taken to the Straight Path Center for processing'

He looks at the camera as the graphic dissolves, and is replaced by a nicely-done graphic of a barbed wire fence; US Border painted on a sign. A section of barbed wire has been pried open and is rimmed with bits of colorful Mexican clothing that got caught as new immigrants squeezed through. The guys thought it was a good graphic.

'Police raided a collection point for illegal Hispanic workers,' the co-anchor intones. The copter cam shows police cars and vans swooping from all sides on a bunch of short, inoffensive guys with mustaches, dirty jeans, and yellow work boots, standing around waiting to be hired as day laborers. 'Police surrounded fifty-two illegal aliens loitering near the Home Depot on Lindberg Drive, as part of the new Georgia Homeland Security crackdown on illegal aliens. This roundup brings the recent total to four hundred and sixty-eight.'

'How many?'

Whatshername is back on. The graphic is Suspicious House Fires, a burning rooftop in the dark. This time there's smoke rising with the flames. The guys made fun of the letters again. They've even got a little intro, like Darth Vader theme music. 'There has been a tragic house fire in Atlanta earlier tonight,' she says with heavy sorrow in her voice. 'Police arrived at the scene to discover three bodies. Another hangs in the bAllence. Here's Gloria Morales.'

The guys leaned forward. Gloria is wearing a slim black suit in the dark night, and casts a shadow on the thick smoke hissing up from the smoldering rubble. She is flatly lit by vehicle and camera lights, and looks stark against the shifting grays and reds behind her. 'I'm on Wylie Street in East Atlanta, the scene of the former home of an elderly couple who were babysitting their three tiny grandchildren.'

'Hey, that's our neighborhood,' Suzie said.

'Right at the edge,' Alex pointed south with his head.

'Yeah.' They were fascinated.

'Police are saying it's another case of possible arson,' she announces grimly. 'This is the thirty-first in a row, and police have no answers.' Gloria pauses dramatically, and then gives them the facts.

'Three children were killed tonight as this house,' she gestured at the rubble, 'went up in flames. Police think they may have been playing with matches because the fire started at the back of the house.' She sniffs with scorn. 'However, their grandparents, who were babysitting them at the time, insisted that the children were fast asleep and that there were no matches in the house. The grandparents have been taken to Grady Hospital with multiple injuries and smoke inhalation. They are both in their 80s. The family's name is being withheld the next of kin are notified.'

The camera pans out over the house, a raised floor, stuck up on bricks. Blackened studs rise up, all that remain of the walls. A brick chimney in the middle. Piles of fallen-in roof and steaming ex possessions.

'She looks kind of spooked,' Demetrius remarked. 'Do you think she saw any bodies?'

'How fast do the news crews get to the scene?' wondered Suzie.

'They pick it up on the scanner and sometimes they're there before the fire engines,' Jason said.

The shot switches back to Gloria. Now she looks angry. 'Police say they're confident that they're gathering vital clues from the fires.' She wags her head. 'They believe some of them may be linked.'

'Like duh,' Jason remarks.

The scene cuts to Gloria confronting a policeman. 'You must have some leads by now,' she says accusingly.

The cop replies, 'The methods are similar in many cases, yes. But there are only so many ways to burn down a house, after all.' He shrugs, 'So it's hard to tell. It could always just be old wiring and cheap electric appliances, you know. It's not always arson.'

The camera cuts back to Gloria. 'Police are still investigating the house fires,' she says sternly. 'From East Atlanta, I'm Gloria Morales.' The guys cheer.

The co-anchor is back, smiling. 'In just a moment, some good news about Hartsfield-Jackson Airport construction.' And the ads come on.

It's a guy in a white lab coat, with thick short gray hair, thick glasses, a microphone and a clipboard. 'Here at the Light Beer Institute,' he says into the camera, 'we're committed to finding innovative ways to drink responsibly. Let's take an instructive look at some options.' He approaches a geeky looking labcoated guy, and sticks the mic into his face. 'Dr Victor Reznik, What are your scientists working on?'

The camera pulls back to show a desk. 'Well, Bob, to the nonscientific eye, this may look like a nice hot steaming cup of coffee. But it's really a cleverly disguised 8-ounce snack sized can of Light Beer.'

The scene cuts to show the boss walking by in the hall, stopping to look in at his office droid hard at work, a fresh cup of coffee on his desk.

'Hey, Johnson, take a break once in a while, You're working too hard,' he says sternly.

Johnson lifts his mug. 'Here's to hard work!'

The scene changes to the inside of a conference room during a boring presentation, lights lowered, unreadable charts and graphs on the screen. Several guys at the far end of the room wink and lift their coffee cups in a merry, but silent, toast.

The ad ends, and one selling mortgages comes on. It was loud, and nobody wanted to watch it, so Suzie grabbed the remote and pressed the mute button. 'I really need to hide my car. What about if we paint it with spraypaint?'

The guys thought about this. 'We can do some writing, man,' mused Demetrius. 'With a solid background, and maybe figures. A piece.'

Alex shook his head. 'No, let's save that for the Krog Street tunnel like we discussed.'

Jason added, 'Yeah, we don't want to draw attention to the car.' He looked at Suzie. 'We got some black, but not enough to do the whole car.'

'We can get some first thing tomorrow,' Alex said.

Suzie raised her hand. 'Um, that wouldn't be any earlier than 3:30 in the afternoon, would it?'

'I know,' Demetrius suggested. 'Try protective discoloration.'

'Huh?'

'Housepaint,' he said. 'Comes right off, one trip through the carwash. You can put it on yourself. Get it at the new Lowe's across the street.'

'While we sleep,' Alex added.

'Yeah. I know about housepaint.' She sighed. 'It's a lot of work being a vigilante.'

'Hey girl, you're a celebrity,' Alex replied. 'Quit your bitching.'

'You're notorious.' Jason started singing the song by that name, but nobody remembered the tune, and it ended up like a football chant.

Suzie didn't want to be infamous. It wasn't about her. This was a sore point. 'But they don't know anything about me. They have no idea I'm doing it to punish bad drivers. I can't figure out how to leave a message when I shoot someone's windshield.'

Philip got up to get more beer. 'Paint Drive Good Or Else on some wall on the Connector with your paintballs,' he suggested, handing her a can.

'That's not a bad idea,' she said, popping the top and taking a swig of foam.

'Call in a statement on the tip line,' Jason said.

She choked. 'And get recorded and voiceprinted? No thanks.'

'And traced,' Philip added. Another ad came on, a screaming guy in a suit, standing in a parking lot full of SUVs.

Alex suggested, 'Send a letter.' They watched the TV as the camera cut to a woman in a halter top and short shorts lounging on the hood of an Escalade.

'Email the Creative Loafing from a cybercafé,' Jason added, and then the woman wriggled and their ideas ran out of steam.

'It's the heat,' the car salesman shouted. We've gone crazy!' He throws his arms out wide. 'You can get anything you see here for a hundred dollars.' He turns to the woman, wilting on the hood, who jiggles like a bowlful of jelly. 'Nope, not you, Donna.' He turns back and marches in toward the camera. 'And hey, ask for the Wolfman!'

She shook her head, tired of thinking. 'No, no. I'm too paranoid to make statements. I don't want to get caught, and all these things make it more likely than ever. People have to know I'm not just some crazed commuter, pissed off, sitting in traffic.'

She paused for a moment, revealing her deepest feelings on the matter. 'I've suffered at the hands of dangerous whackos,' she said with emotion in her voice. 'And by God someone's got to stop them.' She almost mentioned her superhero vow, but thought it would sound silly. Anyway, they'd heard it all before.

'I don't think anyone's gonna care why you're doing it,' Demetrius said, as the news came back on. 'Maybe it'll come out at the trial.' Suzie cringed.

The graphic shows a Delta jet landing on the runway, the smoke peeling back from its wheels. The airplane is wearing a hardhat. The title behind Whatshername's head says Airport Construction. She looks cheery and amused now, her eyes bright and sparkly as she announce a feelgood story to follow the tales of death and destruction.

'Airport Officials announced today that construction on the eagerly-awaited Fifth Runway is approaching a landmark goal.'

The camera pans across acres of flat, compressed, shiny red Georgia clay being slowly bricked over with house-sized blocks of concrete paving, laid by an ant army of round-barreled cement trucks. There's red dust everywhere. Maurice Black is reporting, sweating in the sun. 'Here at the Fifth Runway, project managers report that they're on schedule and under budget,' he begins, tucking his tie into his jacket against the wind.

He turns to interview a white construction manager in a shirt and tie, with a basketball belly and a hardhat. 'This is a significant achievement,' he congratulates the manager. 'How did you do it?

The man nods to the camera. 'We've taken advantage of a new program to reduce costs. It's the key factor behind our ability to be on time and stay under budget. Through a subsidized client-leasing arrangement, the state is supplying our workforce needs, and we're projecting significant savings on the overall cost and speed of completion.'

Maurice nods, and turns to the camera. 'What's remarkable is that, if it continues like this, the Fifth Runway will be the first bond-funded project ever completed on time in the history of Atlanta.'

You can see the sun setting at their backs, the dirt runway unnaturally flat, planes coming in to land at the airport's working runways almost a mile to the north.

Maurice turns to the construction manager, a sneaky look on his face. 'I'll bet airport officials are happier with the new runway than they are with the new terminal.'

He gets the merest nod from the construction manager, and turns back to the camera. 'Recently, the architects for the $700 million dollar construction project were fired before submitting final plans, and the terminal, as a result, is almost $200 million dollars over budget before even getting off the drawing board.'

He turns back to the construction manager to force a comment. 'Project managers are looking at different proposals,' the guy mumbles, looking at the ground. Then he must have shut up, because Maurice goes straight to the close, and the scene cuts back to the studio.

That stupid panda graphic floats over the co-anchor's shoulder. He is showing off a growing collection of cartoon pins on his lapel. Whatshername smiles indulgently.

'Zoo Atlanta closed its doors today for approximately six weeks while the first stage of construction is completed,' he says. The camera shows a crane lifting elephants, giraffes, and hippos over the gates. Squawking, braying cages are being forklifted out through the entrances.

'Zoo officials say the wildlife will be held in various zoos and other facilities until the dust settles.' The anchor looks at the camera, his distinguished face bearing a fond smile. 'Kudzoo and her family, the zoo's beloved lowland gorillas, are taking a vacation to the National Zoo in Washington, DC. Enjoy your visit,' he grins, and they cut to an ad.

 'Are you fat?' a male voiceover says. The scene opens on a guilty-looking woman slouching through a room in a too-tight red dress.

'Do you think you're the fattest person in the room? Do you feel uncomfortable in your clothes?' There's a closeup of the back of a woman wearing a tight blouse, her bra straps and panty lines cutting into her flesh.

'Don't you wish you could fit in?' The picture shows a happy bunch of chunky women lounging in hammocks.

'Join the people who want you to feel happy in your skin. Eat what you want, when you want.' There's a dinner party, everyone is reaching for seconds.

'Feel good about yourself and good about your weight.' The scene dissolves to the number for Diet Busters. 1-800-WHY FIGHT. 'Join today.'

A technical school ad comes on, where a Sally Struthers lookalike reads out a list of technical trades you can enroll today for. Among them is Culinary Arts. Call today. Suzie went to the bathroom. They teased her when she came back in; they'd noticed a resemblance between Suzie's disguise and the woman selling degrees on TV.

The news is back. Project Ending Homelessness is back up on the title bar. The anchor relates how former homeless men are being taught new skills at the Straight Path Center for Rehabilitation. 'These new skills are worth $8.3 million a year to Georgia taxpayers,' she announces proudly. The graphic dissolves, and a list of jobs and products scrolls by. It looks like the earlier career ad, and has a lot of the same jobs listed there.

Alex read a few. 'Textile workers. Metalworkers. Electricians. Hey, data entry technicians? Slaughterhouse workers? Gross. I hope you get a choice, like when you join the Army.'

The Georgia Corrections Department  logo comes up. Whatshername looks serious, but proud to be an American. 'A new program is putting what makes America great to the test, as clients of The Straight Path Center participate in a pilot program to train and fully employ, people who were previously condemned to a life of hopelessness.'

'The Governor made a statement today,' the anchor says in voiceover as the camera cuts to a shot of officials on the steps of the Capitol. Microphones and cameras impinge on the view.

'With one blow, we are solving two persistent problems in our corrections system.' The Governor raises two fingers. 'Violence and disorder inside the prisons, and the cost of caring for a growing client population throughout the state.' There is polite applause. The camera cuts to another sound bite. 'In exchange for enrollment in this new program, clients will be paid an hourly wage, and it's possible to earn other privileges. Work is voluntary, but most are choosing to cooperate.'

'Wages,' Demetrius laughed. 'I'll bet everything gets deducted out of their paychecks. Food, clothing, rent on their cells.'

'Who wouldn't cooperate?' asked Philip. 'They'd put you on bread and water and twenty-three-hour lockup if you didn't.'

The official continues. 'We set out to solve the problem of inmate idleness, to provide rehabilitation and job training, to build good work habits. Our goal is to make every client a model citizen, and to make the corrections system economically independent and self-supporting.'

'Prisons Inc,' shuddered Jason. 'Worse than the Army.'

The co-anchor comes on. 'Next up, digging up East Atlanta, where major surface arteries such as Memorial Drive and Bouldercrest Road are closed as workers replace aging sewer pipes. How that's going to affect your traffic? Also, sports, and the weather. Back in a minute,' and they cut to more ads.

The guys'd had enough news, and fought briefly over the remote. The winner began surfing through the channels.

What they didn't see were the eviction notices from the management to everyone in the complex. They hadn't noticed that several other tenants had moved out and stopped collecting their mail, and never wondered why there was so much debris on top of the mail shelf. They were also ignorant of visits being made to a few holdouts left in their neighborhood; representatives of the development company offering to assist with the moves.

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next, suzie stays up late