Evil Al - A Second Draft

I write this in 1985 when I was a wee lad. Just cleaned it up a bit as a way of stress relief. I hope you enjoy it. - EC

Evil Al
by E. Coli

Everyone called him Evil Al. Maybe he was evil because he was so damn short. Maybe it was because he didn't have any brothers or sisters. Or friends. His parents were pretty weird too, and no one wanted to talk to them. When I was a kid I used to see Al walking his big, black Labrador retriever up and down our block. He would tug on the boy's collar. Sometimes I'd see him tie the brute to a pole. He'd take a big stick, throw it, and yell "Fetch!" Old Ferg would lurch out and choke himself, and Al would kind of snicker. Then Al would pick up the stick and beat the animal until it was cowering and covered with blood. I always wanted to ask him what it was that made him do a thing like that, but at the time I didn’t care very much either way.

We grew up together on the same block in Lynn, which is just outside of Boston. Al lived in a house at the other end of the block. It was beaten up ten ways till Sunday and weeds covered the front yard like a neglected miniature forest. Before I could go out on my own I used to spend hours on a kitchen stool gazing out our kitchen's bay window. I used to see Al's parents all the time, and they looked like anyone else you might pass on the street, pretty normal. Except his mother wore this big flowery hat with fruit on the top, just like Carmen Miranda used to in the old movies. I used to think that she kept the fruit up there in case she got hungry. A few years later, I found out they were really made of wax.
When I got older, I started hanging around with a bunch of the other kids on our block. We played in the park and got chased out of the neighbors' back yards. Every so often, one of our parents would tell us we couldn't play with the one of the others, like forever, because they were a "bad influence". Like most kids, we ignored them and met the excommunicated friend around the corner. Evil Al stayed away, though. He just sat in front of his house and read his newspapers. Since he was smaller than the lot of us, I thought maybe he didn't associate with us because he was afraid he'd be beaten up. It wasn't uncommon for the smaller kids to get picked on. We all got into fights with each other anyway, but no matter what we did on our block, Evil Al was always there on his front stoop, reading his magazines while we happily bloodied each other to shiny red and black bits.

Al Grissom was the first to make a half-hearted but genuine gesture of comradeship to Al. It was the year he killed himself. The gesture was one that none of us had been willing to make. I think we were just afraid because Al seemed so different. At least that's the way it seemed years later.

"Hi," said Al Grissom, his hands bent behind his back and an I-Don't-Give-a-shit-if-you-talk-to-me look on his face. Al just kept staring at his magazine. Al Grissom tried to see some of the words but they were all in German.

Al had made a bold move. It was bold for him, since he was usually on the business end of our spontaneous street fights. He reached out and tore the mag from Evil Al's hands. And Al looked up at Al Grissom, expressionless. Al smiled nervously. It was a good-natured smile. He handed back the magazine to Al and held out his hand. Al didn't jump.
"I'm Al. Do you like to play stickball?" Al didn't answer, but you could see by the look in his eye that he wasn't big on stickball. But it was more than that. It was a look of natal horror hidden behind a calm white cloud. It was the look of sadness augmented by a stubborn cruelty. It's easy to say that now, as an adult, but back then all I can remember was that each of us were just plain scared and we didn't know why. Especially Al. He backed away from Al, slowly, like a cat ready to turn tail at the sight of a hungry Philippine in a Manila ghetto. And then Al said something. It was the first time I'd heard him speak.

"Why do you play stickball with them?" he asked calmly and with curiosity, motioning towards us with a regal wave of dismissal. "They always call you names and laugh at you. The Irishman, the Jew, every one of them. They make fun of your mother because she's always drinking. Like a whore, which she is. When you're not around, they say she killed your father. Do you think they are right?"

We were standing several yards away, and we heard every word. I couldn't figure out why no one did anything to Al, especially because what Al said was true. John was usually ready to start punching anyone his own size or smaller who he didn't know or didn't like the looks of. I was no bully but I wasn't a coward, either. Most of the time I stood up for myself, and always for a friend. It was as if our brief street education had given way to a hypnotic kind of awe. Like when some weird instinct that’s never shown up before pops up and yells “No!”, really loud so that the inside of your skull hurts.

Al turned and bolted past us. Most of us could see that he was crying. John snarled weakly and wiped his dirty blond hair out of his eyes.

"I'm gonna kick his pasty little ass", he yelled. "Yeah", grumbled his little brother Richie. "There's five of us and one of him", I said, "so it'll be a fair fight."

And then we turned around and walked away. We probably could have killed him.
Al stopped playing with us after the incident with Evil Al. I think he'd believed what Al told him about his family, though none of us knew the real truth at the time, not until a few years later when everyone was talking about it in school. All we knew then was that Al's dad died when he was a baby.

Al moved away with some people from the government about a year later, right before everyone in town read about what his mom did in the newspaper. Then the fire happened in Madison. We got older and started going to school. So did Evil Al. He became the cruel butt of many jokes, probably because he was quiet and different and a bit on the scrawny side. Our clique enlarged, friends came and went, and by Junior High School, Evil Al jokes were all the rage. Even a few of the teachers were heard whispering them. Al never said a word about it, at least not that I heard.
When I was in eighth grade, Colleen McCambridge passed me a note in English class. I was crazy about her. When I look back on it, she and I participated in activities in my dreams that even adults can still get arrested for in some states. Of course, that was probably me and every other guy in class. So when she passed me that note, my heart screamed Reveille and jumped out of my chest like a cat being thrown into a fireplace on Christmas Day. My hands shook as I opened up the folded, blue-lined square. It said:
Have you heard this one yet? Why doesn't Evil Al have any enemies? Because all his friends hate him.

I was a bit disappointed, but it was a start. The smile Colleen flashed me when I looked up at her washed away the disappointment. Dark hair, wide blue green eyes and a wide freckled smile that Marsha Brady would have envied. Yeah, it was the 70’s. OK? A mutual fall guy gave us common ground with room for further market expansion. I beamed back at her like a dumb puppy ready to shit himself. It was my happiest day of Junior high school. And a profitable one for many years for the makers of Kleenex.

The sleek bawling of Mrs. Seagram cut down my joy. We used to call her Chowderhead because Andy once said he'd seen her in the cafeteria wolfing down a plate of clam chowder like a hungry pig, big pieces of the stuff stuck on her chin and her nose. Her great mass, just short of generating it's own gravitational field, gave credence to his tale. Her mouth was proportionate to her gut, too, and when she spoke, she yelled. God save the unlucky kid who tried to ignore her pushy screeches.

Chowderhead practically scared me out of my pants, which was a difficult thing to do, me thinking about Colleen and all.

"It seems Frankie has a little picture here." She motioned with a grandiose gesture towards Frank Ronson, a boy in the front row. Frank was one of the kids that kept to himself and was always nice to Al. She pronounced his name with deliberation and sarcasm. “Rrrrronson”, she said, rolling the ‘R’ with a kind of quiet nastiness. We all knew her smile meant humiliation for any of it’s tiny recipients.

"Franklin, would you care to share your artwork with the rest of the class?" The word "artwork" worked over her lips like the slobbering enunciations of a goofy cartoon cow trying to chew its cud.
"No, not really, Miss Seagram." said Franklin, challenging her with obvious fear.
"I think everyone should see what a promising young artist we have in our midst. Let me have it!" I immediately thought of Moe, Larry and Curly "letting her have it" but knew enough not to smile.

Frank gave her the wrinkled piece of loose-leaf. It was an exaggerated picture of Chowderhead, pretty good really, with flabby arms facetiously drooping just short of two barely visible knees. I could hear most of the class trying to suppress their amusement. A few giggles erupted around the room. Seagram looked up sharply and silence dawned.
"Stand up, Franklin, and show the people here what a true prodigy looks like." Franklin stood up slowly. He was a thin, gawky kid with typical tousled black hair, but he looked like he was sinking fast into the linoleum. Everyone braced themselves for the inevitable storm. And suddenly, from the back of the room, a weak voice that spoke with a certain strength piped up. It was Al.

"It's my picture, Miss Seagram. I drew it at lunchtime. Do you like it? I think it looks very much like you." He said it with quiet calm and a long blank stare that didn’t blink.

Seagram raised her eyebrows and looked into his face. I was in the back row, just a few chairs away from Evil Al. I could hear her heavy breathing, her heart laboring desperately to keep the massive mound of white flesh alive. There was a look of shock on her face. I think part of it was because she'd been publicly made a fool of, having mistakenly accused someone of something they didn't do. Chowderhead didn't tolerate mistakes from anyone, including herself. More important, she was enraged that anyone, especially a mere seventh-grader, would dare admit committing an act against her. And so calmly, too. She slowly moved in for the kill.

A sadistic smile replaced the raging bull. She reminded me of a cruel POW commandant ready to administer the next delightful ordeal to an inmate.
"Won't you please join me outside, Al." Al got out of his chair, casually, and disappeared with Seagram into the hall.
When Chowderhead returned, she looked terrified, like the Devil himself had just bitch slapped her silly. The fat tissue was trembling visibly. Al was gone and I assumed he was on what we used to call the Trail of Tears to the principal's office. Why did he come out and take the blame for the drawing? I was the one who did it.

Several days later, I saw Evil Al sitting on the school lawn. It was just before class time and he was throwing a bunch of strange shaped stones that I’d never seen before, over and over again, on to the wet grass. I felt ashamed of my part in his long running harassments seeing that he’d just saved my ass, and I wanted to apologize. Unfortunately, I didn't have the guts to face up. The least I could do was say thanks.
"Hi. Did Chowderhead give you a bad time?"
"No", he said flatly, throwing the stones down on the ground again without looking up. I couldn't blame him for being cold. No doubt he'd heard all the wisecracks and cruel jokes we'd said about him over the years. I felt like an asshole and had nothing.
"Listen, I know you didn't draw that picture. Thank you for keeping me out of trouble. If I can ever return the favor..." The sentence hung in mid air like rancid flatulence, and it smelled just as bad.
He looked up at me. His eyes were far away, absorbed in something that maybe he didn't want anyone else to be a part of because it was just his. "That's all right. Seagram was persecuting a fellow artist. It was the least I could do." He offered a small smile. It was brief but not strained. Then he added, "I suspect she won't be bothering anyone, including artists, anymore."
He looked down again. I had invaded his private world in return for his favor and I felt like crap for doing it. And yet I also couldn't help but feel something uncomfortable, familiar yet elusive. Something angry, maybe rejected, I didn't know what. "Well, if there's ever anything I can do to help you out, just let me know."
I knew better than to wait for a response. I walked away and was glad to get out of there. My penance was done but I didn’t feel any better. Maybe I needed a priest. Hell, good luck with that. Maybe we all need one.

A month later my parents got the letter from the school. It said I was being suspended for "insubordination". It turned out some of the other kids' parents got similar letters. I swore I'd kill Evil Al. Who else could have done it? I didn't know how I knew it was him, but I did.

After it was over, I got together with Frank Gianetti and John Scopes and a few of the other assholes I used to call friends. They'd all been suspended, too. School authorities somehow learned about Frank and the dead cat, and about John's escapade in the coat closet with Marsha Wahl. So, together, we resolved to get back at Evil Al. We wove all sorts of intricate plans, but in the end, everyone agreed that a good old-fashioned beating was in order. I even bought a real police Billy club from Steve Aterra, a mean twelfth grader you knew never to smile around if you wanted your hips intact. Steve’s dad was a real cop, and from the bruises on Steve’s face, we knew which side of the family the asshole gene showed dominance. He didn’t like Al either and when he found out what we planned on doing, gave us a deal on the club. And then our slogan became "Evil Al, Dead!"

Yet we never did anything to Evil Al. I was busier thinking about what might grab the attentions of Colleen McCambridge and her skinny legged girlfriends. My cronies had similar interests. When we returned to school two weeks later, Chowderhead was gone, too. For good. They found gallons of spoiled chowder in her gut, word was. I supposed she should have been more careful about what went into her mouth.

I forgot all about Evil Al. I saw him on the block a few times, sitting on his front porch reading his magazines and comic books, occasionally sketching on a large artist's pad. I reluctantly waved to him when I happened to pass and a few times I even saw a tiny smile of acknowledgement. He was in a few of my classes in high school, and one summer he was our very punctual paperboy. It was a job you could tell he took very seriously, what with the uniform and all those tiny numbers in neat rows. I never spoke to him, though, and he rarely said a word to me or anyone else I knew.
I'd made a career choice after graduation and was off to college in New Hampshire. You know, the kind of place where your dad and grandfather went so guess what, I was going too, like it or not. Animal House it was not. The only enjoyable part of the place was coming home and seeing Colleen’s old girlfriend, and now mine, Mary Elizabeth. Strange how manipulations take on lives of their own. Strangely too, it was there, in a third floor dorm smelling of old pulp and wax and wood, haunted by ghosts of old men I later would swear I could sometimes see, where I unexpectedly encountered Evil Al for the next to the last time.

Brouford College was a charming, old fashioned school in the White Mountains. Its prestigious status was known all the way from Frankfort, which was the next town, to New Haven Without that college, the town probably wouldn't exist, and the residents and businessmen of the town treated us with royal disdain. I was glad to be away from the big city, and life looked like a clean shaven path calling my name: Walk, August my boy. You're renewed. I'd received high marks last term and had those typical post adolescent dreams of becoming a Nobel Prize winning nuclear physicist author chef and Cassanova. I think my optimism scaled higher because I was away from home and my parents' never ending do's, don'ts and I-told-you-sos, all under my mom's ever present and benevolent watchful gaze. Yes indeed. The future certainly looked about as rosy as a baby's bottom after a good, healthy shit.

My dorm was an old building of nineteenth century brick, cloaked in banal sheets of dark green English ivy. It was like Harry Potter took a giant magical shit over Yale. I was only barely surprised to learn that my third floor room had electricity. Yep, it was all first class for Old August. An old, thin window looked out over the campus courtyard, deliberately reminding me why I was there. I half expected to see John Houseman, that fat arrogant English prick from The Paper Chase, walking across the slated square mumbling how he made money the old-fashioned way. In one corner of the white painted dorm was an old dresser, in another a halfway comfortable looking bunk bed. Relaxed, with a pair of soft bare feet propped up on the sparse footboard of the bottom bunk, was Evil Al. He was reading Fantastic Four Volume 1 Issue 17. “Defeated By Dr. Doom.”, it said on the cover.

It was a shock, naturally, but I took it well. Coincidences like this happen a lot. Just not to me. Hell, maybe not. Just last week I'd bumped into Colleen McCambridge on the outbound Revere train at Government Center. She had on a business suit and her tits, well they were still magnificent. I walked up and no longer intimidated like I was in junior high, smiled and said hello. She didn’t remember me but I didn’t take it personally, She was married and had a kid in her arms and claimed there was another one in the oven, though I couldn’t tell. She said her beau was a "bright young doctor." Which meant one of the football players had finally knocked her up and she'd had fast wedding and a shotgun reception. Then she kissed me on the cheek. I could smell her perfume coming off my face like steam off a dormant volcano because there was too much of it. “Wish I’d known you better in school. Maybe we can fix that some afternoon. Like next week?” Her smile was pearly and predatory. Her skin pale and freckled and just as supple as it had been from afar in Ms. Weinstein’s English class. And then she gave me her card. If I’d known it was that easy Kleenex dividends would be about ten cents lower for the past sixteen quarters. Point being, that was certainly a coincidence, pretty good odds against it, anyway. So I quickly resigned myself to Al's presence and said hello.

He looked up without surprise. One of Wagner's operas played almost at mute level from an old boombox on the side of the bed. And although it was I who'd initiated the conversation, I felt somehow triumphant when he answered on the first attempt. I was proud in a weird kind of way as if I were about to be let in on some great secret. His acknowledgement was my dog food and I was eating it up and I didn’t know why.

"I'd heard you were coming", he said.
I'd always been a little bit paranoid when it came to things involving Al. Almost as if he were reading my thoughts, he said "It's funny the way things like this happen, isn't it? Perhaps it is destiny. I don’t believe in coincidence. Here. In a bookstore. On the subway.”, he said and smiled.

I reached out my hand, waiting for a shake and awkwardly forcing myself to meet his unblinking dark blue eyes. Al surprised me again by accepting. His grasp was surprisingly firm, commanding actually.

"I'm glad you're my roommate, Augie. I guess you know I like people to let me alone. You've always respected my wishes in the past. As far as that goes. I trust it will continue for the length of our stay, my friend." It wasn’t a question, and I was happy to oblige. He continued to examine me like a bug under a microscope. He barely let out a smile from his thin, cherry red lips, but I distinctly saw it and for some reason felt grateful. Strange thing was, I sensed that he knew how I was feeling, like he’d made it happen.

"Well, I've always respected you, Al", I began to lie. But he wasn't listening to me anymore. He picked up a magazine and was peering down at it as if I wasn’t there. I guess I was dismissed. I snuck a glance at the cover, expecting to see a copy of Crypt Tales or Aquaman. It was a copy of Hustler.

Well, maybe having Evil Al for a roommate would be all right after all. A least I wouldn't get hassled by some know it all computer geek or airheaded jock. I'd forgotten all about that thing in seventh grade.

The first six months of school were a breeze, and it breezed by. Both Al and I spent much of our time studying, together in the same room though we could have easily been kilometers away. I was in the sciences, a field Al often called a waste of time, and Al was, of all things, majoring in art. Art and politics were the only things he seemed to hold any kind of passion for, though he generally kept pretty quiet about what he might believe. The only exception was the day his mother died. Al got pretty soused. I was expecting him to cry or something. Instead, he went on a five hour long tirade about the shabby state the country was in. I was glad he didn't drink very often.

Al didn't womanize as far as I could tell, though he did mention that he was in love with one of his classmates. "Well, did you ask her out?" I asked, genuinely interested. I was growing to like Al with a sort of dispassionate, removed affection. He looked at me with a mild expression of disgust and said, "I would not dare."

I wasn't doing too badly with the opposite sex, and one night Al consented to letting me have the dorm to myself. He even seemed to take a secret glee when he helped me sneak Brenda into the room. That ended up in a disaster, though. The dean must have been waiting in the wings, and then word got out through the olde college grapevine to Mary Elizabeth. I got a fistful of reprimands but that was about all. The dean said it was because he liked me, but I think it really had something to do with my high grades and my parent’s bank account. Plus any pubic punishment of a 4.0 GPA student would probably have set an unfortunate example, thereby punishing him more than me.

During mid-fall semester, I had my first real talk with Evil Al. It wasn't anything I'd planned, as our life of shared separation was a comfortable one and I had to desire to engage with him, which I didn’t. We left each other alone, and that made for a perfect relationship. Or at least a working, peaceful coexistence.

Al was lying on the lower bunk, which he had claimed on the first day of school last fall the way Tyrone or Julio does in the Big House. He was smoking a pipe, an unexpected habit he'd taken on a few months ago. His bare feet were crossed and propped up on the wooden foot of the bed. Several pornographic magazines and strange political rags I'd seen on the Dean's hit list (anything but Disney seemed to be on his Farenheit 451 burn list) were strewn over his carefully made bed and the dorm room floor. I had to avoid stepping on them when I walked into the room.

"I think a punishment is deserved here," I heard him mutter. He was looking at me. For the first time since we were five, he smiled. It was a warm, powerful smile. I felt like this guy had it, whatever "it" was, and I'd have no choice but to help him with any task he might ask of me. I was openly shocked at how happy he seemed. And inside, I was even more shocked at how good his pleasure was making me feel. I was swayed. For what and why, I didn’t know. But I was definitely swayed.

"Punishment?" I asked quizzingly, cocking my head in a questioning way. I tried appearing nonchalant but my surprise was plain and naked. Al grinned sweetly and I had a most unusual feeling. Thinking about it now, it sends chills up my spine, but at the time it seemed right and natural. I wanted to follow Al to the ends of the earth. It was this overpowering desire to make Al happy, regardless of the cost. At that moment, I'd have killed my parents if he'd asked me to. And even more fucked up, I sensed he knew it and was really enjoying it.

"Yes, punishment", he mused. "Sometimes punishment is necessary, don't you think? It cleans out the system, helps make everything pure the way it was thousands of years ago."

He had asked for my opinion and I felt honored. I began to babble out all kinds of ideas that seemed intelligent at the time but had little cohesion. I can't even remember what they were now. It's a damn shame how a young man like myself should have such a bad memory at this stage in the game, but I suppose that's something a lot of people have to deal with.

Al stopped me in mid sentence by holding up his hand. He puffed on the pipe, then looked up at me from a concentration of strange conviction and smiled again as he blew out some delicious smelling cherry red. He seemed warmer than I ever could have believed. I was astounded at how you can think you know someone and how surprised you end up when you learn how wrong you’ve been.

"Augie, does the means justify the end? Does it really matter how you go about things as long as the desired results are achieved?" He looked solemnly in my eyes and didn't let go. Silent, he waited for my reply.
I thought for a few minutes and then answered. "I honestly don't know, Al." I had come to call him by his name a little more fluently, though a secret place in my mind still tried called him Evil Al. "It can be at times..."
"You mean the means."
"Well, yes, I think so, though many would disagree with me. Like, say you wanted a car you'd seen parked somewhere. You could steal it, one way or another, and have the car. But the means would have been immoral. And if the police caught you, you'd have to return the car and pay a price - fine, jail, probation, whatever. However, you could earn the money to buy the car and have it permanently for yourself without any hassles."
"Assuming it didn't break down."
"Yes, you'd have to maintain it. And if it broke down, you'd have to fix it or get it fixed. But you wouldn't have to worry about going to jail. Of course, someone else could steal your car."
Al waved away my words with a small dismissive hand and pressed his back against his pillow with an all knowing sigh. He seemed to be holding court even if it was just me.
"What I'm trying to say, Augie, is do you do something that everyone says is wrong if you know the outcome will remedy a critical situation. Don't think about the mundane, think globally. Let's say you have an oppressed people, they don't even know they are oppressed. They've been enslaved for many years, hundreds let's say, and their oppressors tell them 'We're your benefactors' but they're not. You know that these are your people. You have the chance to bring them to freedom. Is it moral to take a violent route if all other means are unfeasible or lack expediency."
I thought about what he'd said but not really asked me even though it was phrased as a question. I saw Al's eyes. They were powerful and charming. I felt almost honored that the quiet kid that talked to know one would regard me with such an important issue. And yet, it was all rhetorical and condescending He’d obviously already decided the answer to the question. Why did he need validation from me? Later, feeling a cold shudder, I came to realize it wasn’t validation he was looking for.
"Well, Thomas Jefferson himself said that the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants every twenty or thirty years if freedom were to be preserved. Of course, if there were a nonviolent route, I'd be all for it. What's on your mind, Al?"
"Say this enslaved people, this great race, has been freed. What sort of punishment do their captors deserve? What is to be done with them?"
"If you punish the ex-slave holders with violence or cruelty, you become just as guilty and evil as they." I said.
Again he waved that small, dismissive hand. You know what they say about small hands.

"But you already agreed that the end justifies the means, that expediency is sometimes preferable.” I handn’t but Al was enjoying putting words in my mouth. I realized he was really a bit of a charismatic idiot. “Are you like the common man, who claims morality and justice only so long as it serves his ends? Think about it. You've got a lot of resentful ex-slaveholders on your hands. Do you seek retribution? If not, what to do with such folk so that they become productive members of society without causing any further trouble?" I didn't know what to say so I shut up. Al puffed on his pipe and glanced at my textbooks, which were scattered all over the floor.
"You know", said Al, "there is an art to reading. I know people who read enormously yet whom I would not describe as well read. True, they possess a mass of "knowledge", but their brains are unable to organize and register the materiel they've taken in. On the other hand, the man who possesses the art of correct reading will instinctively perceive everything which in his opinion is worth permanently remembering, either because it is suited to his purpose or generally worth knowing. The art of reading, as of learning, is this: Retain the essential but forget the unessential." It sounded great if you were just interested in hearing what you wanted to hear. In which case, why bother reading at all. Unless of course it was Captain America # 420.
I didn't know whether to take his comment as an insult or as concerned criticism. Al's tone was irrational and self-righteous, but it was also a signal that the conversation was at an end. I’d been dismissed.

Two days later came the tragic Brouford fire. Seven hundred people burned to death because systems that had been checked just a few weeks before had failed in a number of different ways. School was dismissed for the remainder of the semester, an optimistic pronouncement which illustrated the folly of hope. A spokesman for Brouford announced we'd "receive refunds with all possible expediency". The police thought it was arson, and after two days of intensive questioning, myself included, they caught up with the culprit, the now well known Martin Finklestein, who was tried and convicted six months later, and executed back in 1985. None of us ever received our refunds, and Brouford was so laden with lawsuits that it declared bankruptcy and closed down for good. I went home and prepared to finish my studies at Northeastern University in Boston. On the way home I saw Al on the train. He was sitting in a corner, forlorn and depressed. I tried to approach him but it was obvious he wasn't interested in conversation.
"What are you going to do now?" I asked him, curious.
"I don't know. I'm failing art, failing it miserably. I've got an offer to attend Harvard. I think I might accept."
I hadn't realized that Al's overall marks were so good that he'd been getting offers from schools like Harvard. I felt a twang of jealousy.
"That's great!" I exclaimed, genuinely happy for him. "I'm glad things are working out for you, Al."
He looked away and I took a seat. Neither of us said anything more, and I got off at my stop without saying goodbye.
And that was the last time I saw Evil Al.

A lot has passed since those days, though in real-time it's only been about fifteen years. Like everyone else, I saw the pictures of Albert Hanks in the newspapers and magazines, and I even voted for him in the '96 election. The mysterious man with the powerful voice who had assumed the administrative reigns of the country two years ago was, however, just as much a stranger to me as he was an enigma to the rest of the populace. Nevertheless, they'd come out in record crowds and cast their ballots for him and for his cleansing policies. I know now that the Depression had a lot to do with it, as well as the Kiev Crisis under the old Reagan administration. But back then, Al Hanks had invoked a kind of religious fervor. Most people didn't even know why they'd voted for him. His Great New Age was what the editors called a "successful disaster". Programs originally intended to secure the nation became wide scale institutions of suppression. First, it was the Communists. Then the Jews, the blacks, and anyone with a foreign-sounding name or dark colored skin. Finally, even the Whites were putting their own in Rehab Camps, all of them "enemies of the State". The government was breaking apart.

Now, of course, things are different. There aren't many people left around to remember anything. The Virus is slowly destroying my body and my brain, the virus meant for the Jews and the Black man. Word has it that President Hanks committed suicide last year, but with no communications network no one knows for sure. The only thing I do know is that I will be dead in a matter of weeks. So, for posterity, I've written this small "biography" for any doubting historians or visiting aliens with white skin who may read this thousands of years from now. If anyone is left.

I never really knew President Hanks very well, and I was never his confidante, save for the brief conversation at school which I've described. The only thing I can say for sure about Albert Hanks is that he wanted to be a superhero who could punish the guilty, the foreign hordes that had corrupted his pure people of whom he was not even a part. Was it guilt? Was it a need for a sense of superiority? Some speculated a need for approval. Others said it was a small penis or some silly sexual malformation. But in the end, he was really just an asshole.