Zroc

New York, New York, USA

I get easily exhausted from the complexity of the lives I spy on. The cluster of people that I’m onto is rather peculiar. They are like kids thrown into the Black Forest, striving to stay alive. It’s amazing to witness how far the survival instinct can push us. Against my judgment, I find myself riding the emotional roller coasters of these individuals. Feelings are the last brutes to be domesticated. Sometimes I feel like a priest who bears the weighty burden of dark confessions.

Today, I am going to have a meeting with a guy who is supposed to have telepathic power. With his address on my lap, I’m pushing my wheelchair down this busy street. People eye me briefly and walk on as if I didn’t exist. I bet it won’t take half an hour before I escape from these pedestrians’ memories. An introduction is in order, isn’t it? I am Zroc, 31 years old, a perfectly average guy. I look so typical that I easily blend into the background. Of course, the wheelchair diverts attention as well. If asked, most of the time people would depict me as a thin blond white man with blue eyes. In fact, my physique leans toward chubby, and the eyes behind my glasses are hazel. The technical term for my hair is short straight brown strands. Sometimes, even I forget my appearance. So it is no shock if someone describes me as undecipherable. There is nothing to decipher. It is hard to judge whether I’m full of many contradicting personalities or lack any defining ones. My average appearance has been useful when dealing with the various individuals that I meet in the line of my work. Mistaking my featureless exterior for a non-judgmental character, people are often ready to share unspeakably personal secrets with me.

I’m finally in front of a small apartment building. Unexpectedly, from outside it looks pretty rundown. Until now, I have explored only the inside of the building. The music blasting from the second floor rocks the whole block. The doorbell is too high for me to reach. By the state of the place, it wouldn’t surprise me if the bell hasn’t rung for years. I double-check my voice recorder and notebook. The alley is a bit too shady for someone on their own. I concentrate hard and send the guy a mental message. Ding! The telepathic sentence is sent, but there is no response. I call the guy’s name over the screaming music. Still no answer. The man finally notices me when I reach out to him using my superpower, the cell phone. Soon, the main door is opened and the mind talker steps out with a surgical mask over his mouth. Judging from his hooked nose and angular jaw, he must be an Indian. I know there is no elevator in the apartment building but I ask about it anyway. The Indian guy shakes his head and suggests having our meeting at a nearby playground. As usual, his face is paper-pale as if it has never seen the sun. We both know that it is out of the question for him to carry me up to the 5th floor. He hands me a newspaper and a water bottle, leans forward, and slowly pushes my chair. I can tell many things about a person from the way they drive my wheelchair. According to my chair-psychoanalysis, the Indian man must be over-caring and easily intimidated. Most of the time, people are not willing to give away facts about themselves, especially to a stranger with a recorder. So I have developed several methods for collecting hidden knowledge.

In my career, information is far and away the best friend. What is my profession? I am a reporter currently working for Untold, a magazine favored by curious minds for its skill at digging out believe-it-or-not stories. Surprisingly, it has not a few subscribers. Some of our readers from exotic countries have impossible names. Craving for oddities is universal, I suppose. It isn’t as big as international news magazines like Time or National Geographic. Yet our subscribers are dedicated and enthusiastic about the topics covered by our magazine. To last as a reporter for a tiny company like Untold, you need to be a storyteller, a detective, sometimes a negotiator, certainly a spy, and above all a fighter. It’s ironic that my strong skepticism toward the media’s integrity turned me into a news chaser. You have to be dead dumb to miss the hocus-pocus in many news stories. I call the press an attention-mad dog. It will go to any lengths to get noticed. This canine barks menacingly at legitimate facts and slavers amorously over unproven hypotheses. Suppressing inconvenient truth under its muddy paws, it habitually regurgitates non-existent phenomena and wags its tail fanatically at scandals. I admit that there is no such a thing as a pure fact. A crucial part of the truth can be easily missed, the information carrier inevitably taints the facts with his own views, and the receiver is bound to have his own subjective interpretation. I always seek the real, or at least less contaminated, truth behind the synthetic news. There is no better way to do that than to become a news digger myself. The main goal in my investigations is to gather as much information as possible from various sources. That’s the best way to steer clear of subjective conclusions and misleading interpretations. Mining core facts is as laborious as construction work. A seemingly simple story can easily turn into a long-term project. For instance, once I had to chase what appeared to be a mundane kidnapping story for months, running into countless dead ends. The more I dug into the case, the more puzzling it became, with unexpected suspects, mystifying twists, and overturning surprises. All the trouble paid off when the mystery was finally solved. The real identity of the kidnapper shocked everyone. When the account of the missing girl was published, our readers enthusiastically sang the praises of its gripping storyline. My boss doesn’t approve of my do-it-right-or-forget-it approach. He is the best friend of the devil, for lack of a better term. Deadlines and the number of subscribers are all he cares about. An incarnate annoyance, he should be the dictionary definition of ‘a pain in the neck’. He is willing to publish any story if it is ‘juicy’ enough. Off the record, I must say that he is more like a businessman than a journalist. My fire-breathing boss isn’t the only stumbling block on my career path. One time I had to do a follow-up story to amend the account in my article. It was a humbling experience. Basically, I was completely deceived by a couple of con artists. I learned the hard way to trust no one in the story loop.

The Indian guy wants me to call him Thow, although I know from my background research that his real name is Andy. While walking to the playground, Thow plays a reporter and asks me personal questions. Everything about him is socially awkward. I want him to know as little about me as possible. At my ultimate test of his telepathy, he shouldn’t second-guess what I’m thinking. Exceptional free-association skills are often mistaken as telepathic power. So my answers are intentionally vague. I have been nosing around Thow for weeks and have gathered plenty of information about him, but nothing has been conclusive about his special talent.

The way I go about with my news hunting is straightforward. Before and after the interviews I carry out detective work. No matter how remotely it is related to the story, every stone has to be turned. Convincing rumors, conceivable tall tales, or believable lies always beckon with curved, luring fingers. I feel most helpless when I am out of leads. It’s often necessary to plow through documents decades old. There is nothing more superb than a little clue that throws light upon the path to naked truth. At first, the interviewees with wild stories appreciate captive ears. Yet most of them are understandably shocked when presented with the facts I have managed to gather behind their backs. These matters are shamefully personal, sensually intimate, or uncomfortably sensitive. Confronting interviewees with their dark secrets can be a delicate job. On average, I follow up two or three stories in parallel, often more than I can handle. There is unlimited supply of odd tales. Everyone has at least one wild story up his sleeve, patiently waiting for liberal ears.

Thow and I finally reach the playground. A broken bicycle and a big blanket are partially buried on the ground. Something unidentifiable has been burned down and a faint string of smoke floats from its belly. A refrigerator lies on its side, its wide mouth gaping at the skewed monkey bars. Everything here looks as safe as the sun’s breath. At least there is plenty of privacy for today’s interview. Thow nudges his hand toward me and asks for his stuff. I notice that he is wearing thin plastic gloves. I give the newspaper and the water bottle back to him. He spreads the paper on a half-eaten bench and sits down. The bottle in Thow’s hand has the distinctive Aquoa logo. So he knows something about me.

My latest article thoroughly exposed the deception of Aquoa, the biggest international mineral water company. Its dominance hadn’t been challenged before. I’m sure the company had never imagined its almighty reign could be placed on the verge of collapse by an obscure magazine like ours. On its 50th anniversary, Untold popped the blister of Aquoa’s dark past. Knowing the seriousness of the charges, I wanted to take more time to tie up loose ends in my investigation. But my humanity-deprived boss wouldn’t hear of it. By the way, I hate the Hawaiian shirt he wears day after day, year after year. He claimed that the timing couldn’t be better. I had to comply. My article got Aquoa’s dirty secret out in the open. In its infancy, the company secretly put addictive substance into its products over 5 years and managed to hide the hideous information for decades. The amounts of the psycho-stimulant were small enough to hide serious effects but large enough to sway consumer preference. The compound was known to be cancerous if taken in large amounts. In the publication, I revealed the name of the chemical and the exact amount introduced to each water bottle. It was also reported that Aquoa used illegal means to guard the top company secret for years. Certain officials were bribed and several employees were silenced in violent ways. The accuracy of the information must have disturbed the giant company. Aquoa has such international control over drinking water that my article has been quoted by major news all around the globe since its publication. Our magazine’s name was carried with the news and enjoyed its burst of fame for a week. People were outraged by the company’s foul play. Aquoa’s spokesman kept silent and refused to respond to our accusations. At a time like that, I was engulfed by the power of truth.

Thow and I get on with our interview. He looks as frail as a jellyfish out of water. I get my recorder rolling. The device should pick up Thow’s voice even though it is muffled by his white mask. I am worried, nevertheless. He asks me how I have found him. I lie and tell him that an anonymous reader of our magazine tipped us about him. He looks confounded. Truth be told, I accidentally discovered him on a hospital surgery table. Thow assures me that he can’t read my mind unless I telepathically send him a message. That’s good to know because I need to tell him a truckful of lies. Thow divulges particulars about himself that I already know. I pretend otherwise. He shouldn’t feel offended by the personal information I have on him, not just yet. I know as a fact that the Indian man wouldn’t have let me enter his place even if I could walk. For his own safety, no one is allowed in his holy sanctuary. Thow is another loner not by choice but for other reasons.

The extent of the information that I can gather by spying on others is enormous. This has been my big experiment, and I call these people my subjects. Shadowing others isn’t always as exciting as it first appears to be. I often have to risk my career and compromise ethical values. That’s not the worst part. In general, people’s lives are repetitious, uneventful, and downright boring. It requires the patience of a snail crossing a bridge. It is simply a miracle that my mind hasn’t gone disco as my grandpa put it. I can definitely relate to the stars as they watch people night in and night out. Some of the things I’ve witnessed are so shocking that I have determined to lock them up in my brain and take them to my grave. We all know the types of the things we do when we are alone. Admitting them is one thing, but watching others doing them is a whole new ball game. Take it from me. That’s how the bubble bursts. There is an ancient saying that one’s true integrity is measured by how he conducts himself when unwatched. It strikes the core of the truth and sheds light on whether we are intrinsically good or not. Once you discover someone’s behavior in the dark, you get easily attached to them. It is because you end up leaving yourself wide open to the intimate and vulnerable side of another soul. For the same reason, you feel much closer to your friend when he confides a deep secret to you. A strong bond immediately forms between you two, and you become a part of the secret.

Thow confesses that in his entire life he has met only two boys who could pick up his silent signals and one girl who could mentally transmit words. I guess it works like radio frequencies. Thow’s face suddenly darkens. He simply says that those kids are no more but he won’t elaborate. I am not happy when people tease me with a semi-naked fact. Nonetheless, my facial expression doesn’t show it. I remind myself once again that Thow can’t read my mind. What his statement entails is that it is very unlikely that he can prove his superpower to me today or ever. Thow coughs. I ask him to try me anyway. He pauses for a second and utters 'There’. Nothing happens. I ask Thow to try again and request him to speak slowly this time. He laughs and sneezes. I insist that it has to be the same message. Thow slowly articulates ‘There’. I mimic “You’ve got mail!” and wink. Thow laughs again. At that very moment, a crisp image of dark thick lips flashes in my mind. They definitely belong to a black person. When I am at the point of telling him what I just saw in my head, Thow puts his gloved index finger over his masked lips. I don’t get it. He warns me not to talk about it to another soul if I want to live. Heaven knows I intend to live longer than a mountain. Thow cautions me that I shouldn’t even think the image so loudly. I quickly scale down the image in my brain. Thow soon changes the topic and asks about my irresponsive legs.

I was born with them this way. Or, at least that is what I was told by my grandpa, Martin, a hot tempered farmer. Despite all his sacrifices to raise me by himself, I used to hold a grudge against him, specifically against his sudden death. As a just-fledged young adult, I didn’t know how to cope with the death of my only family. No one should go through that type of shock. Although I thought like a boy, I knew that much. One windy morning, Martin was found stiff and cold on his bed. A chronic breathing problem had bothered him for years and it appeared that the sucker finally got him. He always kept his window open for fresh air. On that terrible morning I noticed in his room an empty plastic bag dragged over the floor by wind, capturing the exact image of Martin’s lifeless body. After that morning, for several months, whenever I saw a vinyl bag dancing in the air, the traumatic feelings I had on that day shook me all over again. The saddest part of the whole thing is that we had another argument about my parents the night before his death. Shaking with anger, I raised my voice to him that night. I never got a chance to say sorry. The dreadful morning is something I have struggled to come to terms with. It was beyond me how Martin could breathe his last knowing that his disabled grandson would be left all alone in the unkind world. During my adolescence I considered him to be a stubborn old fool, handing down his unwanted temper to me. Later I realized that he had actually created a strong person out of a wimp. I miss him terribly. As time goes by, I appreciate his jokes much more. It used to be irritating to hear the same jokes a thousand times. His rusty memory was guilty as charged. Martin would call anyone he disliked a communist. That annoyed me too. As I grow old, I often see him in myself. For all I know, he raised me all alone. I used to be upset with him because he refused to tell me anything about my parents. He simply said some things were best left unknown. One day while Martin was out harvesting, I dragged myself through the whole house, searching everywhere. But not a single photo or letter of my parents’ was found. The only unusual things I stumbled upon were a TV set completely covered with dust and a piece of paper in a wooden box. If I remember correctly, the paper, yellow with age, was an official certificate of some description. Curiously, the document had the name ‘Fave’ on it. I couldn’t help but wonder whether my disability had something to do with my parents’ absence. The mystery remains until this day. I am not sure what the toughest part of my childhood was: being parentless, being disabled, or being surrounded by ever-multiplying commies. I never shared this with anyone else, but I have a vague memory that I used to be able to walk and run just like other boys. I have no idea how I have deposited this piece of knowledge at the base of my skull. It may be one of those childhood fantasies that just don’t fade easily. Due to my disability, I spent most of my childhood at home reading books and newspapers. It got me addicted to all flavors of stories, histories, and facts. My grandpa, a firm believer of a TV-free life, called TV a heap of dung full of maggots. Our only window on the world was a faceless old radio. Movies and television shows never interested me even after I became an independent adult. To this day, I never expanded my horizon wide enough to own the idiot box. Instead, I turn to the radio for daily news. Probably the anti-TV syndrome runs in my family. It always drives me up the wall when I am stopped in the middle of a story and unable to find out how it ends. Similarly, the worst thing that can happen to a bookworm like me is to see an author pass away without finishing his book series. This tale-addiction eventually got me involved in journalism where I get paid to put my nose where it doesn’t belong. I guess I have a little wicked gossiper in me. To find fresh news-worthy stories, I spend a great deal of time eavesdropping at places where big mouths thrive such as bars, restaurants, and hair salons. Swimming pools are wonderful places to discover subjects.

I stay stingy with my personal information and still don’t bear my heart to Thow. Our interview has to be cut short because Thow’s coughing fit is out of control. Unfortunately, I don’t get to dredge up enough private secrets to give him the shock of his life. Before Thow disappears into his building, he warns me once again about the secret I received from him at the playground. That is the last I saw of Thow. Who could have known that he would kill himself today?