Chapter 17 Hideo
HIDEO
It’s New Year’s Eve and Bertie has almost talked me into it.
There’s a category for goatees in the competition tonight, and he’s been pushing me to do it for years.
I’m hedging my bets, so if I get brave enough, I’ll be ready.
I’m busy in the bathroom, sculpting the contours, when my phone rings. Orion’s number pops up on the screen.
“Orion! Good morning. This is a nice surprise.” Maybe he’s decided to join us at the Bash tonight after all. Bertie has been working on a costume for him all week, just in case, with a cape and cowl that would give him plenty of cover.
“Morning, Hideo. Are you free? Could you come by the house? Soon?”
He sounds different. Clipped.
“Is everything okay?”
“I need some help. Please?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
Now I’m worried. This doesn’t sound like Orion at all. When I pull up in front of his house, the reason is obvious. The word “FREAK” is spray-painted across his front door in big red letters. Such a miserable way to end the year.
I dash to the door and he must have been waiting inside, because he lets me in without knocking. I open my arms and pull him in, giving him the shoulder he probably needs. He must be devastated.
Surprisingly, he gives me a tight hug, but then releases me.
“I could use some help,” he says, no nonsense. “There are a few things I want to do.”
“Let’s sit for a minute,” I suggest, worried he’s in shock. “Tell me what happened.”
I follow him to the kitchen, and the story emerges with eerie calm.
“Do you know who did this?” I ask.
“Some kids down the street. I’m sure it’s them. I’ve been going out and getting the mail every afternoon this week without my mask. They were across the street yesterday, pointing and laughing at me, and they’ve been riding by the house all morning.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Not directly, but I heard it all when they were laughing. Freak, monster, stuff like that.”
“Do you know where they live? Should we contact their parents?”
“What makes you think they’re any different?”
“Well, teenagers aren’t known for their restraint, but maybe you’re right. Apples and trees, after all.”
“Just so you know, this isn’t the first time,” Orion continues.
“I get graffiti once or twice a year, and I’ve gotten used to it.
It’s just part of the never-ending chatter about my tentacles…
but this time is different. I want it to be different.
When I saw it, I remembered your tribe comment, and I think you’re right.
I’m always going to be a Cthulhu freak to those kids, and there’s not much I can do about it, but I’m not a freak to you and Bertie, and that’s the important thing.
I need a community, one that doesn’t include people like them, and I’m ready to find it.
So, first of all, I’d like to give you this. ”
He reaches down to the end of the table and picks up a stack of papers, neatly ripped in half, and hands them to me. It’s my treatment plan from the clinic.
I look at him dumbfounded, and he says, “I won’t be needing your services.”
This is huge. He’s finally seeing himself for the wonder he is.
“Orion, I don’t know what to say, but I know I want another hug.”
I gather him up again, but this time with joy.
“This makes me so happy,” I say, holding him tight.
“Me too. It’s the right choice.” He says this with such conviction that I’m left with no doubts. Now, I need to do everything I can to support his decision, and this new outlook. There are bound to be more stumbles ahead, but I’ll be there to help. Bertie and I will both be there to help.
I release him and say, “I’m guessing there’s more.”
“Yes, I’d like to join you tonight at the Bash.”
“Give me a second,” I say. “I need to tell Bertie. He’ll be thrilled. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but he’s been working on a costume for you, in case you decided to join us.”
“He is so damn sweet,” Orion says. “You are such a lucky man.”
“We’re both lucky men,” I say, and for the first time, I think he believes it.
“Don’t tell him about, um, outside, but please invite him over when he’s finished at work. We can tell him then.”
He’s so considerate—Bertie would be furious all day if he knew. I dash off a quick note and invitation, and get back to Orion.
“Do you know what you want to do about the graffiti? Are you going to report it to the police?”
“I usually just paint it over and get back to my life, but I think I will report it this time. I looked into it and there’s an online reporting system.
I don’t want to make waves, but I also don’t want to let it go without some action.
I haven’t been back outside yet, but I want to get some pictures and file one. ”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“And I’d like to paint the door. Today.”
“I’m happy to help. Do you want me to take care of it?”
“No,” he says, crossing his arms. “I need to do this. I’m done with hiding, but I’d very much like your help. Let’s go get the paint.”
This new confidence is thrilling, but I watch him closely.
He’s not making a big deal of it, but he’s just had a traumatic experience, a true hate crime right here on his doorstep, and he’s probably off balance.
The process of filing a report and painting the door will be a perfect step forward, allowing him to regain some personal agency over the loathsome situation.
“I think I have enough paint left over from the last time I did the house,” Orion says, rummaging through a big stack of messy cans in his garage. “Could you grab the brushes and a drop cloth? They’re over by the garden stuff.”
The paint is easily accessible, not buried in a dusty corner, and the drop cloths are neatly folded next to the box of brushes. That’s telling me something important. It’s easy to see this isn’t the first time he’s dealt with graffiti, but maybe a police report will help to make it the last.
When we have everything in hand, he squares his shoulders, embodying his giant stature, and walks out the side gate without a mask. I can only guess at the strength this simple action takes, after so much time hiding and worrying. I follow closely behind, ready to support him however I can.
We both snap a bunch of photos, documenting the crime, and spend a few minutes filing the police report.
One task finished. Then we get to work on the door.
Orion spreads the drop cloth to protect the porch, I give the paint a good stir, and we start laying on brushstrokes.
We focus together on the graffiti, getting it out of sight as quickly as possible.
As we’re painting, I wonder why he doesn’t build a more substantial fence around the property, something more opaque than his weathered waist-high slats.
Most of the neighborhood has the typical variations on picket fences, but there are certainly a few houses designed for privacy, so a high fence wouldn’t be out of place.
Almost as soon as I think about it, though, the answer becomes clear.
A fence would be a target for similar defacement, perhaps an even easier target than his front door.
It would simply extend the fortress walls a few paces closer to the sidewalk.
When the hateful scrawl is almost obliterated, Orion is looking much relieved, but it’s short-lived. Three teenagers wheel down the road on their bikes, wearing big smirks. They stop across the street and whisper amongst themselves, laughing and pointing at us.
I see Orion’s shoulders tighten, but other than that, he ignores them completely and focuses on finishing the last few strokes to cover the F. I catch his eye and nod toward them, and he says, “Yep.”
It’s intolerable. Maybe he can ignore them, but I can’t.
I march out to the gate, pulling out my phone.
They haven’t fled, but the joking has stopped and they’re watching me with wary eyes.
It’s obvious they’re just suburban kids, filled with the false confidence of inexperience, who haven’t done anything like this in their lives.
Just a bit of fun for a sunny afternoon, something to relieve the boredom, not caring in the least about the disproportionate impact it has on Orion’s life.
When I reach the sidewalk, I aim my phone at them and take a bunch of pictures. This catches their attention. They fully understand the power of social media to destroy lives, although that isn’t my intention.
Then I say, in a calm, loud, unthreatening voice that the entire neighborhood can hear, “This is a hate crime, and people in this state go to jail for less. If we see you here again, anywhere near this house, we’ll include these pictures of you in our police report. So shove off!”
One of the fellows has the gumption to flip me off, which I also catch on my phone, and then they slouch away, hopefully for good.