The Instructions by Adam Levin
“You said thirty min—”
How long does it take to get a man on the phone?
“I think you can imagine. He’s not just some man. He’s a great American novelist. Some say the greatest. You yourself called him ‘the last great—’”
Don’t ever put quotes around my words again, Persphere.
“I’m not trying to upset you. Kindly hear me out. I’m just trying to tell you that it’s no easy thing. We rustled up his number from the telephone company, but it turns out he writes in a barn this time of day. A barn in Connecticut. It’s a big ole barn, that, with a bathroom and wiring, but a barn nonetheless. The barn’s behind his house and he doesn’t have a phone there, for reasons, I reckon, of concentration. After we tried him and got no answer, we rung up his publisher and got to his editor, who told us what was and then told us what wasn’t.”
And?
“And now we’re sending some good local lawfolks who live there to talk to him. It might take us a little more than seven minutes, though.”
Six.
“Right,” he said, “six. We’d like some more time.”
How much?
“We’d like ninety minutes—he’s really out in the sticks.”
You’ve got one hour.
“Much appreciated. Can we talk about something else now?”
The prisoners?
“Yes,” he said. “Well—prisoners. Wait. Are they hostages or prisoners?”
Get Roth on the line and they’ll stay safe, Wayne.
“Can we call you back on this line to talk?”
You can call me back as soon as you’ve got Roth. No concessions before then. And you can tell your boss I don’t much take a shine to fake Texans and their like. In your accents I hear deeply harbored contempt.
“Contempt for whom?”
For real Texans, Wayne.
“I rightly must say—”
Rightly come real or pick another accent. And use a better name. No one’s ever been a Persphere.
“We’ll—”
I punched END.
RICK STEVENS, NBC NEWSANCHOR: Sorry to interrupt you, Bob, but we have an important update: we’ve just received confirmation that Gurion Maccabee had indeed attended two of those schools we reported on earlier. I repeat, he had attended two of them. Now on the line with us from Chicago, we have Rabbi Lionel Unger, headmaster of the Solomon Schechter School, where the young terrorist was in attendance from 2001 til just this past May.
Rabbi Unger, a great number of your male students failed to show up to school today, and I take it this isn’t any kind of ditch-day prank.
UNGER: No sir, it isn’t. Jewish students do not engage in ditch-days, at least they didn’t used to, though frankly, we can’t yet say for sure why they failed to show up—no one knows. I, for one, suspect that they were told by Gurion of his plans to commit this act of terrorism and they all went somewhere to watch it on television.
STEVENS: Where might they have gone?
UNGER: Maybe to the home of a student with two working parents, maybe to a pizza parlor, it’s hard to say.
STEVENS: A pizza parlor.
UNGER: That is correct, sir. They aren’t aliens, these boys, but Americans. Like so many young American boys, ours enjoy pizza, and frisbee as well, even black dance music. They play yo-yo and ping-pong and wear denim jeans on casual occasions when slacks aren’t called for. Ice cream is something they find delicious. If you prick them, they bleed, sir. Like any American.
STEVENS: I wasn’t trying to— Just how many students, in total, are missing, Rabbi Unger?
UNGER: Two-hundred twelve, though three are legitimately ill with strept throat.
STEVENS: Two-hundred twelve from your school alone.
UNGER: Yes, from Schechter Chicago. That’s all our boys, grades five through eight, and a smattering of our lower-schoolers.
STEVENS: That’s a lot of young boys to congregate in a pizza parlor, let alone a living room.
UNGER: I see your point, and will consider its merits.
STEVENS: In the meantime, can you tell us what kind of student Gurion was?
UNGER: I can’t speak of his record. That’s private information, protected by the law. I can tell you, however, that I always suspected he was dangerous, violent, too big for his britches, and swollen-headed. He confirmed this for me last May in my office, when in the middle of a quiet conversation we were having, he physically assaulted me on the face with a stapler.
STEVENS: A stapler.
UNGER: My own stapler. He threw it at my face.
STEVENS: May I ask what the conversation was about?
UNGER: Is that important, sir? Is that really important? I tell you that during a quiet conversation in my office, this boy holding hostages, who was, I assure you, the one who murdered the poor murdered gym teacher, threw a stapler at my face—at my eye, which bled—and you search for motives in our conversation to justify the violence? No wonder, sir. No wonder things like this happen, sir.
STEVENS: Thank you for speaking to us, Rabbi Unger.
UNGER: My pleasure.
STEVENS: Now let’s go back to Bob Brians at Aptakisic Junior High.
BOB BRIANS, CORRESPONDENT: Thanks, Rick. As you can see behind me, the police and emergency services personnel are establishing a perimeter fifty yards east of the school, in accordance with demands made by the terrorists, demands caught on that exclusive NBC tape that we played for you just a few minutes back. I’m here with the cameraman who captured that footage, NBC’s own Ori Gold. Ori, it’s a privilege to meet you. You were sent here by NBC to tape the filming of a music video by up-and-coming popstar Boystar currently one of an unknown number of hostages being held inside the school. For viewers just tuning in, that’s him—Boystar—tied to that chair just inside the front entrance of the school. Now, Ori, can you tell us—
STEVENS: Sorry to interrupt you Bob, Ori, but we’re being asked to play Ori’s tape again for those viewers who are just tuning in. Here it is.
Neither Botha nor Jerry had broken out of the bathrooms, but both of them were conscious and they shouted for help as we entered the Cage. Benji shouted back so they’d know we weren’t saviors, and all shouting stopped.
We sat Brodsky down on the desk of a carrel on the Cage’s east wall—the wall opposite the bathrooms—with his wrists tied together behind his back.
Are you comfortable? I said.
“Tch,” Brodsky said.
I want you to be as comfortable as possible, I said. That’s why we put you on this desk—you’ve got three walls to lean on. If you’d rather lean on one of the carrel walls, we’ll tilt you. Just say so. The main thing is I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Those idiots in the bathroom—as soon as we leave, they’ll try to convince you to squirm off this carrel, crawl over, free them. Don’t try it, Mr. Brodsky. You’ll end up hurt. The way you’re tied, if you go face-first, you’ll knock yourself out when you hit the floor, maybe break your neck. Hurl yourself sideways so your shoulder takes the impact, and that shoulder will break, and maybe your clavicle. Go legs-first with that foot—you can imagine the pain. You can’t walk as it is. But say I’m wrong. Say you squirm off, land lucky, undo your bindings, drag yourself across the floor, get the bathroom doors open—you’re still locked in here, and you won’t get out til I say you get out, and that won’t even be that long from now, so—
“None of this is solving your problems,” Brodsky said.
I have no intention of killing you, I said. I’m not planning to do you any more harm. I’ve brought you to the Cage to keep you out of harm’s way. No one who’d hurt you has keys to this Cage. Understand me, though: If one of you somehow does get mobile enough and pulls that alarm on the wall—and I don’t see why you would, since you looked outside when we passed the front entrance, saw that the cops have already arrived, and you’ll be happy to share that information with the idiots in the bathroom—if, though, for some reason you pull the alarm anyway, it will give m
While I was speaking to Brodsky, the Five and the Ashley had gotten there with Maholtz.
“Please, Mr. Brondsky,” Maholtz said.
“Show some mercy,” said Brodsky. “You’re better than this.”
You guys get his phone? I said to the Five.
“Eliyahu’s got it,” The Levinson said. “We got something else, too,” Glassman said. “Show him, Mr. Goldblum,” Pinker said. And chinning air at Shpritzy, Mr. Goldblum told me, “The loverboy’s got it.”
Shpritzy had his hands in the Ashley’s back pockets. He took one out, reached into his own back pocket, and produced a mint-tin. I opened it up. It was jammed with pills. One kind was small footballs, orange-flavor-Pez-colored; another was generic Adderall caplets; the third kind was horsey and white with a split.
What are these pills? I said to Maholtz. He could barely stand up. His knees kept touching.
“Which pillns?” he said.
All of them, I said.
“The white one’s a paindkiller—hydrocodone. The caplets, Adderall, are speend. The footballs’re Xanax. You take those for paningc.”
He wasn’t lying about the Adderall.
How strong is the first one?
“Four’ll knock you out.”
Knock who out?
“Anyone,” he said.
There were twenty in the tin.
How many you want? I said to Mr. Brodsky.
“Three,” he said.
Atop Botha’s blotter, next to a coffee-mug—koalas playing tennis, Australian flag background—a bottle of water was sitting unopened. I brought it to Brodsky and, one at a time, I fed him the pills. The third time, I spilled a little water on his shirt.
Sorry, I said.
“It’s okay,” Brodsky said.
We left the Cage with Maholtz and locked it down.
How about one? I asked Maholtz in C-Hall.
“How about one what?”
Pinker socked his shoulder.
Hydrocodone, I said.
“One’s pretty strong.”
“How strong?” said The Levinson.
“It’ll make you feeln happier.”
What about pain?
“It depends on the pain.”
Shpritzy smashed him on the cheek.
“What?” he whined. “What do you want to know?”
Look at Benji’s hand.
Maholtz looked. All of us looked. The hand was so swollen, the pinky- and the ringfinger-knucks were lineless.
“Stop looking,” Benji told us.
“Take four,” Maholtz said.
Four’ll knock him out, I said.
Glassman hit him.
“You’re right! It will! What can I tell you? It’s not my faulnt!”
Pinker socked him again.
“Maybe take the Xanax? It makes you not care much. Your pain seems dindstant; you don’t really mind it; take one for ‘a feeling of warmth and well-being’; the pain’s still there though… If he can stand some pain, and doesn’t want to be too happy, I’d take two hydrocodone instead.”
If he passes out...
“I understand,” said Maholtz.
It’ll hurt a lot before you die.
“I know,” he said. “It hurts a lot now.”
You want some of these drugs?
“Please,” he said.
No, I said.
I held the open tin out to Benji.
“Maybe later,” Benji said. “I’m too dry to swallow.”
“You can chew them,” said Maholtz. “Or crush ’em and snornt ’em would be evend better. Either way’ll taste bintter, but they’ll work a lot faster, hit a lot harnder.”
“So helpful all of a sudden.”
I told a soldier called Feld to fish a chair from the pool and bring it to Cody at the Side Entrance.
Feld said, “Thank you for the mission, Rabbi.”
June bit my shoulder to keep herself from giggling.
You’re welcome, I said.
Feld wanted high fives. We gave him high-fives. He ran to the pool. We continued up C-Hall.
Maholtz asked me, “Why do you hate me?”
I said, Everyone hates you.
“I know,” he said. “I know that,” he said, “but they hate me cause I scarend them or had what they wanted. You weren’t ever scarend of me. You never wanted what I had. Except for the sap. And then you took it, and now I don’t have it, so why do you hate me?”
Maybe it’s your accent.
“I’m from Pinttsburgh,” he said.
Maybe you shouldn’t be.
“I can’t help where I’m from.”
We turned at Main Hall. Feld was talking to Forrest Kenilworth and Cody. The chair sat dripping in front of the door.
So maybe it’s your face. The way you look at girls like you’re scheming to corner them.
“I was borng this way, though. I can’t help how my face loonks.”
So maybe it’s all the banced things that you say.
“They just come out of me. I’m hated, I feel it. I say those things without thinking, from hurnt. I can’t help that either. It’s not my faulnt.”
I guess, then, I hate you for being so helpless.
The Five tied him to the chair with his belt and his laces.
“What now?” said The Levinson.
Head back to the gym, I said. Stick by Eliyahu.
The Five took off with the Ashley.
“Should we follow them?” Feld said.
No, I told him. I’ve got more work for you.
“Yes!” Feld said. “You hear that, guys?” he asked the other nine Israelites who’d helped carry Brodsky. “There’s more work to do!”
“Calm down,” Benji told him.
“Sorry,” Feld said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Benji said. “I’m just saying: stay stealth.”
“Stealth,” Feld said.
“Stealth,” June whispered.
“Stealth,” whispered Feld.
Maholtz twisted in his chair to see me. “Goo-ree-ing,” he said. “I’m the same as you, Goo-ree-ing. I’ve acted real bandly, I know I’ve acted bandly, but I’m the same as you. We’re all the same as eanch other. Hating me’s the same as hating yourself. Look in my eyends.”
I looked in his eyes. In his eyes I saw irises, pupils, red whites.
You’re an object, I told him. We determine your purpose.
“I’m a persond,” he said.
You’re part of a weapon.
Understand what we’re doing? I said to Forrest.
“Cops come we hurt him, call you on the celly. He’s our side-entrance Boystar.”
Right, I said. I’m leaving three more of these guys here for presence.
I told Feld he should stay and picked two more soldiers.
Listen to Forrest, I told them. He’s in charge of you. Ben-Wa by the front door’s in charge of all of you.
“We can’t watch TV?” “We want to watch TV.”
“TV-shmeevee!” Feld shout-whispered. “This job’s important.”
I’ll rotate you back to the gym soon, I said, but we need to be more visible or the cops might get ballsy, so don’t leave this post til I send three more soldiers.
“Just two,” Feld told me. “I’m here for the long-haul. I’m here to do a job.”
RICK STEVENS: This just in from our Milwaukee bureau: Iris Fine, the grandmother of a boy in Kenosha who used to go to school with Maccabee, claims to have discovered an email that was sent last night to her grandson Sandford in which Maccabee allegedly invites his former schoolmates to come to Aptakisic Junior High School to perform some kind of unspecified religious ritual. We’re currently working on acquiring a copy of that email from Ms. Fine. Right now, we have her on the line from Kenosha. Ms. Fine, this must be trying for you.
FINE: You don’t know the half, Mr. St
STEVENS: Your glasses, Ms. Fine?
FINE: Do not take that tone with me unless you want I hang up and call ABC News instead, and forward them the email when I find my glasses. Where did I put them? When I read the email, I was wearing them… Then. Then I arose, verklempt, from my chair… I paced around the kitchen… I called the police and was put on hold… I had a butterscotch from the cupboard—
STEVENS: Did you leave them in the cupboard?
FINE: You think I haven’t checked the cupboard? Wait! Here they are.
STEVENS: You found them? Where?
FINE: I’d rather not say. What I would like to say is what I called to say to my Sandy: Sandy, if you’re watching, and I sincerely hope you are because that would mean that you’re somewhere inside and warm where you should stay and call us from and we’ll send your uncle to pick you up and feed you and bring you back here, you’re a good boy, a nice boy, a boy who loves his bubbie, and this Gurion Maccabee is bad, Sandy. He’s troubled, I’m sure, I’m sure he’s had his share of troubles, but he’s murdering people, and maybe to you this seems like Cowboys and Indians or Cops and Robbers, but if you behave like he does, you will be considered a terrorist. You should have heard the tone the policeman used when I called to help him. Like we were the criminals. That’s how bad this is. I will love you either way because that is how strong my love is for you, Sandy, but I will be very, very disappointed and even ashamed if you become a terrorist. It’s not nice at all. It’s just not nice.