FILTERS 6

THE BLIND SPIRIT

Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

His brother sits cross-legged, television on.

His mother is in the living room, his father is in his office.

His mind is above the houses and the trees.

Figures all around him, dark shapes and clothed outlines. He sees a car nearby and follows it away. It takes a familiar route, and now he imagines his own car, winding through the groves. Projected lights in front of it, but itself in darkness. He sees it reach the well-lit street, and himself park and walk away. Beside the new apartments, mostly empty still. Down the alley, rough houses now, no obvious signs of destitution yet apparent all the same. No cars on cinder blocks, none parked in weedy lawns. Gravel drives and weathered pavement next to chain-linked yards. Something else, ineffable, underlining thrift. Maybe the rarity of porch lights, maybe the grime on windowpanes. Maybe the way the houses sit so closely, yet devoid of intimacy. He can hear the air conditioners, see them hang from windows, he sees their little draining runs of water, vinyl green with growth of mold. He sees new figures now, parents and their children.

Who did he inflict this on? Who did he deprive?

Who set the candle on the sidewalk, lonely bead of light?

He sees his brother join him. He sees the group of four.

He sees his ruthless movements, one by one they fall.

Did someone dial when they heard?

Were police nearby already?

And when they arrived, what did they find?

No gun for one, no bullets or shell casings.

Four figures on the ground, but only three are stirring.

Lights and sirens come, a crowd begins to gather.

Did you see what happened? Did you hear the shots?

I see a broken nose, I see a broken jaw.

I hear labored breathing, and from one nothing at all.

He reads the headline.

He thinks about his brother, he thinks about his parents.

He leaves his room and knocks hesitantly, entering after a moment.

"I didn't want that."

His father shakes his head. "You protected your brother. You did exactly what you were supposed to, never be ashamed of that."

"I'm not ashamed, dad. I wish it didn't happen."

His father makes a point of closing his book. "It is tragic."

Andrew frowns.

"It is tragic that the events in the life of that man brought him to that place, to make that decision. But that does not absolve him, nor does it condemn you. It is good that you were not looking for a fight, and it is good that you did not start it. But when they did, and when he drew that gun, you were not only right to stop them, you were obligated to. Whatever it took."

He says nothing.

His father asks "Did anyone see you?"

"No."

His father presses this. "Are you certain?"

One last secret.

"Yes. I know where everyone is around me. Mom is in the hall, Michael is in bed but he's awake. I have a second sight of what I can and can't affect with this, and what I can't is people. I don't need to see something to move it, I don't need to be anywhere near it, but I can't use this on people, dad. No one was outside near us, no one was looking out a window at us. Some moved when they heard the shots, and that is it."

His mother is sitting on the little bench in the hall. She's been crying; she's crying still.

Andrew sits beside her.

After a time she stands and kisses him on the head, and places a hand there and holds it.

Then she goes to bed.

Andrew is sitting at his desk, blankly gazing at a screen.

Michael stands and walks into the hall and knocks on his door. "That guy with the gun . . ."

"I know."

Michael stands there, swaying slightly, "They should have all died."

Andrew only looks at Michael, nothing more to say, and his brother leaves.

He sees blood on his hands.

He's out the door, running. Farther than he has before, mechanical responses to the cops who greet him. He lies in bed. Sunrise. He runs. He reads. He talks with his father. His brother talks to him. His mother hugs him. Sunset. He runs. He reads. Sunrise. He runs. He talks, he reads, he runs, he talks, he reads, he runs, day into night runs into day into night runs into day into night into day. He begins to feel better.

He packs little; his dorm is a furnished apartment in athlete housing. He has several plastic tubs of clothes, books, and sundries. His bag has his computer and what small things are left. His bed is made, his closet half-empty. The pinboard beside his desk is still full, the posters on his wall remain, a room in stasis until his parents decide what to do with it.

He puts on the backpack and sends the tubs into a stack that follows him down the stairs, through the kitchen, into the mudroom. He lets the stack fall into his hands and carries it to the driveway where his father helps him load them into his car.

They talk over the final plans for the route and they leave, the brothers first.

Michael keeps to his phone. They're out of the city, still on the 75. Andrew listens to a podcast.

Past Macon, Michael finally talks. "Do you ever worry, like thinking that your gift is cheating?"

"No. I've never used it in games, that would be cheating. The cameras would eventually catch something, anyway."

"Would you use it if you could get away with it?"

"Tough question. If I didn't care about cheating and I thought I could get away with it? Then I'd probably use it in golf."

Michael scoffs, "Golf?"

"Hell yeah. Tiger Woods has made a billion dollars and the PGA doesn't have the four-years-out rule, so I'd make the tour as soon as I qualified."

Michael asks "So why not play right now?"

"Every stroke would be a chance to use it wrong."

Michael laughs, "Yeah, you go on tilt and you mess up a putt and the ball takes a hard right."

"Yeah, exactly. In football I just have to be fast, and I'm already fast. Get me the ball, that's it."

Michael's playing chess on his phone. "Do you think you would be slower without it?"

"When I was younger I felt it when I was playing sports, but when I, ah, opened it, the feeling went away. I'm even faster now, so if it's helping me, I can't tell how."

Michael asks "What if you were?"

"I asked dad that and he said it doesn't matter. He said 'You can't just choose to be a world-class athlete, you're born with the talent and you have to develop it. If you didn't have your gift, or you didn't know you had it, and you still ran that fast, it would be no different than if you were knowingly using it to run that fast.'"

Michael laughs again, "Yeah no shit of course dad would say that."

"But he's kinda right. I didn't ask for this. If I ever meet someone who can run faster than me and they don't have this, what's the difference? But. . . I do know I have it. But I don't use it knowingly. So if it's making me faster, I don't know how, so I couldn't stop it even if I wanted."

The conversation slows and stops. They pass Valdosta and the state line. At a rest stop Andrew looks at an adboard reading THE PANHANDLE'S ONLY CAGED MEGAGATOR:'JURA'CKSONVILLE PARK'

Michael eventually talks again. "Do you think I have it? Like you? But I don't know it?"

Andrew shrugs, "Dude I have no fucking clue. Have you always had some weird feeling at the back of your head you can't explain?"

"I don't know, if it's always been there would I notice?"

"I could always tell something was going on. It was like–you know when dad taught us about cars and the machines in his shop, and then the next time you heard a car making a sound like that you recognized it and remembered all the times you heard it before? It was like that. One day this thing I'd always quietly felt resolved into something I could actually touch. But who knows? Maybe that's just how it worked with me. Dad's sure I'm not the only one, and I am too, but it's been six years and we still haven't heard the faintest rumor of someone doing what I can do. Not that we're searching for specific words, but we've both spent a lot of time looking for weird stories and we've never found any."

"You've never read any like the bear. What was that like?"

"It was running at me. I'd do it again."

Michael says "So that's what you meant in the lockers on signing day. You want to be the best so everyone knows your name and you make a ton of money and if the government tries to fuck with you, you can throw money at people to help."

"Yeah, exactly."

They pass Lake City.

"I–" Andrew hmms.

Michael looks at him, "What?"

"I'm worried about this. The gift."

"Why?"

"Bullets don't work, and that wasn't the first. . . 'protective' aspect I discovered. Last summer I was outside, no shoes on, and I stepped on a nail, but it bent over flat. Then last Christmas I was helping mom before dinner and I grabbed a skillet that had just come out of the oven. I didn't know, I just took it and moved it. I should have burned the hell out of my hand, I remember thinking it was obviously dangerously hot, but my hand was fine. Do you remember that fight we had with Parkview? A guy tried to punch me and I think he broke his hand. Dad thinks explosives might not work."

Michael says "Dude, if bombs don't work either what are you worried about?"

"Well even if I couldn't be threatened, you and and mom and dad could be. But that's not it. What happens if someone comes along with this who wants to do bad things? What if they're criminals, or terrorists? What if they can't be stopped?"

Michael offers "Electricity? Poison?"

"What if those don't work? There's more, I told you that I've tried to move myself, it's not that I think I can't, it's that I think I can't right now. If a guy has all of that, and he can fly, what do you do to stop him?"

"What if you tried to stop him?"

"What if it doesn't work like that? What if we're both equally unstoppable forces and immovable objects? I either can't tell if someone has what I have, or I haven't actually met or ever been near someone who has it. If someone has this and has been around me, and there's no way for me to recognize them, then it's possible they could use it and nobody would ever know. They could sit in their living room and rob a bank. It would be obvious what happened, except you wouldn't know who did it."

Michael says "That's a wild thought, bro."

They reach Gainesville and stop at a supermarket. Andrew calls his mother, "Hey, we got to Gainesville, we're at a Publix. Where are you guys at?" The conversation doesn't last long, when Andrew pockets his phone Michael asks "How far?"

"Thirty minutes or so."

They walk through the parking lot. The sun is high and the air stifling, few cars parked. Tuesday just past noon, nobody's shopping. The lot is a pristine black, the smell of fresh asphalt hits them, the markings solid satisfying lines of stark yellow, stark red, stark blue, stark white. In the field, Andrew sees rippling heat, black asphalt almost white, the air above it a pleasing gradient of the currents of heating and cooling air. The store is comparatively freezing and almost empty but for the staff. They enter, immediately appreciating the AC.

Michael looks at a rack of UF apparel. "I get more of this stuff for free, right?"

"Right."

They get pre-packaged sandwiches and Gatorade. When they go to check out, the cashier says "You're a tall one. Do you play for the school?"

"This'll be my first year."

She says back "That's nice, what's your name?"

"Andrew Black."

She smiles, "Well it's good to meet you, Andrew, I'll be keeping my eye out for you on TV. Good luck!"

They eat at tables outside the store. Michael says "They're all going to recognize you soon."

"Yeah."

Michael says "I like it here."

"What, this Publix?"

"Shut up."

They walk up and down the small strip mall talking until Andrew sees his parents pull up beside his car. James says "We'll follow you to campus."

His legs and the car feel much better for the final stretch.

Michael's face is turned to the window, looking at the trees.

Andrew enters and exits administration with his mother.

The athlete dorms are nine identical orange terracotta four-floored squarish buildings in two staggered rows with a university-appropriate exterior design philosophy where aesthetic paid for efficiency. A tenth single-floor same-bricked widely-windowed building is in the relative middle of the complex without immediately apparent purpose. Its surroundings are obviously residential: balconies and parking and also signage prefixed with a proper noun and suffixed with HOUSE. Andrew knows the one-story to be the local office, though exterior proof of this must be oblique because he doesn't easily see it even as he approaches it.

He opens a glass door that says COMPLEX OFFICE and RESIDENT LOUNGE and CAFE in three lines of small white text and enters a lobby that stretches out into stubby wings: the lounge has couches, desks, and televisions, the cafe is full of tables. Michael wanders to the lounge.

"Hello!" says a woman in a university shirt behind a white counter atop a tall and wide orange desk with large, white-stroked blue letters that say THIS IS GATOR COUNTRY. Behind her is a doorway and window with blinds drawn and a figure at a table, not visible where Andrew stands. Andrew steps up to the counter and holds out his papers, "Hi, I'm Andrew Black, I have these letters from the school and Coach Miller on my housing, the administrative office said this is already all in the system."

She's enthused, "Yes it is! We've been waiting for you, welcome to the University of Florida, Andrew, we're thrilled to have you here! I can't wait to see you on the field. I'm Susan, I'm what's called the area clerk for this complex, so any questions you have moving forward, feel free to send them to me, either in person or at any of my contact methods, and I'll give you those in just a moment, but first I need you to fill this out!" Clearly routine, she hands Andrew a clipboard and a pen. When he hands them back, Susan thanks him and calls out "Emilia!" and the figure at the table rises and walks to the doorway and says "What's up?"

"Emilia, this is Andrew Black. Andrew, Emilia is a student and on the complex staff, and Emilia if you would, please guide Mr. Black to his dorm."

Emilia says "Yeah, of course, follow me."

Michael has heard and rejoins them ("This is my brother") as they walk through the back of the building, past doors marked OFFICES and STORAGE, to another glass door and a covered path. The office is like a hub, and covered paths spread to each building like spokes. Emilia is talkative, Andrew is quiet. "Everyone usually walks across the grass, but the walkways are nice when it rains." Andrew notices her legs and her shoes and waits for her to pause and asks "Do you know any good areas to run around here?" He knows from satellite pictures the little thickets that dot the campus, but not what they look like beyond that. Emilia says "There are paths in the trees, but they're pretty short. I just go to the student fitness center. Do you run a lot?"

"Yeah, outside practice, depends on how I'm feeling."

His parents join them, and the brothers and James each take tubs from the car. Emilia holds the door open, then leads the family up the stairs. There's a concrete floor and concrete steps which seem at odds with the enclosure, Andrew can see through the space to the ceiling, four floors up. As they're on the stairs, Emilia says, "These used to be open, but something with how they were built caused too much water to get in so they closed them up."

At the door Emilia says "Oh yeah, the one bedroom. You can see everything in here, then."

The dorm opens to a navy blue carpeted living room with a couch and table and four chairs and a glass door to a balcony. The dorm is at the back corner of the building relative to the rest of the complex, and Andrew can see through slightly-open shutters one such campus thicket, branches and leaves almost immediately ahead of the balcony. A television is mounted to the wall with a table beneath it. To the right of the living room is a small kitchen, which Emilia points around. "Everything you need." Past is the bedroom, which shares a wall with the living room, and the bathroom, which shares a wall with the kitchen. Entering the bedroom gives Andrew a mild feeling of home, as like his old bedroom there is a mini-hallway made from partitioning space for the closet, windows on two sides, and the room even seems the same size.

Emilia leaves. Michael, who's had a grin since they entered, says "Solo. Sick."

"It was the only way I'd come, because of. . ."

Michael says "Oh yeah. Man, what's that like?"

"Thought I'd go crazy. Haven't yet. I don't miss feeling tired."

Michael says "You could pitch every day."

"Nah, man. You know how great it feels to get the ball and know nobody's catching me? Or to be in the backline waiting for whatever poor guy has to try to dodge me? I like baseball, but I'm not meant for it."

Michael rolls his eyes, "You ain't meant for football either."

"Ain't that the truth."

Michael looks at his feet, "I wish I had it."

"Me too."

James takes the bag of toiletries into the bathroom, Michael turns on the TV.

His mother says "Let's get your clothes put away."

As she's putting shirts on hangars, she says "I wanted time so just you and I could talk."

"Yeah, mom?"

"You've come a long way, Andrew. I've thought for so long about that day in your father's office, I've been worried that you were . . . that things weren't going to end well. I've been so afraid that sometimes I think I didn't even get to enjoy watching you play, but–"

Andrew's thoughts have often strayed to this broader subject, but his mother fearing for him wasn't part of that. "I'm sorry, mom."

She smiles, "Don't be. I wouldn't trade it. This is who you are, and that night with your brother. . . Everything was leading to that, Andrew. Whether it was God or just good luck, you saved him as much as you saved me. I don't feel worried about your gift anymore. When I thought football could be your way of getting away from it I couldn't be happier. Now I wonder if you shouldn't run away from it, and if football shouldn't be your life after college."

"I wonder that too, like maybe I should be helping people. I said that to dad last week."

"What'd he say?"

"That it's my decision, and I don't owe this to anybody, and whatever I choose to do with it is my right. But he also said that if I really wanted to help people there's no better way than money. I can't be everywhere. So if I want to change the world, I should start a charity when I go pro."

His mother laughs a little, "Your father's a very smart man."

"Is he right?"

She says "Philosophically? I'm sure. But philosophy has a bad track record head to head with real life. You could start a charity right now, people would donate to you if they knew what you can do. But I don't think it's the right time for that, for all sorts of reasons."

"I know whatever I choose it'll be after I play my four years here. I made this commitment, I owe it to the school. Maybe I'll figure something out along the way. Or maybe people like me will finally start showing up and I won't have to feel guilty about playing football."

She says "That's good, you need to honor your commitment, but you shouldn't feel guilty even if no one else ever appears. People will love watching you play, you'll make the world a better place by playing football, even if that's all you ever do. So, game plan. Camp's in August, what will you do to prepare?"

"Aside from class I'll be working out every day. Devaris has been texting me, I'm sure he'll have advice."

She hugs him, "That's good. I am as proud a mother as there is on this Earth, Andrew, and I'm not just saying that because there's no one like you, even though it's true."

"Thanks, mom."

Andrew likes Emilia. She recommends a restaurant.

They pass the track and field complex, the baseball park, and the arena, and they turn at the football stadium. "Good planning," remarks James. Andrew's mind is elsewhere, above, at the top of the massive concrete bowl. From the lighting pylons, down the great incline of bleachers, to the field. To the tunnels, through closed doors into hallways, the obvious home lockers and offices, figures suffuse, even with games months away. More halls. More tunnels. Staircases and elevator shafts, long ramps with parked and charging golf carts and trolleys, to the fan concourses, the hollows of bathrooms and concessions between pillars and beams and walls of concrete, covered in brick. Level to level, from the artificial caverns to the seclusion of private suites and press boxes.

"I really like it here." says Michael.

"I do too."

Michael shakes his head, "No, man, I'm going here. For sure."

"It would be cool to have you on campus. A lot of schools want you, though, you have a lot of choices."

"Yeah, but if I'm here I'll convince you to play baseball."

"If you play here, I'll think about trying out."

Michael says "They'd let you walk on."

At the restaurant a man behind the counter recognizes Andrew.

They eat. They talk. They walk back and say their goodbyes.

James says "So we'll get to St. Augustine tonight, spend the day there tomorrow, and then tomorrow night we'll drive to Tybee island, I'll keep you updated."

"Yeah, dad, have fun."

Andrew hugs his mother.

In the morning, he joins a group and tours the campus.

Andrew is sitting in his dorm. The lights are off, his television on but muted, laptop open to a finished YouTube video. A breeze comes through the open balcony door, screen shut. A text from Emilia is left on read. He wants to run; he ignores the clock. He's on the little spartan couch, legs kicked out, head leaning back against painted concrete blocks. His eyes are closed, he roams the city.

A blind spirit.

He sees the life within the trees. The roads that intersect, cars and their passengers. One moves from thoroughfare to neighborhood. A turn down one side-street, then another. A garage door opens, a sleeping figure rouses, a dog sits in front of a door. The blind spirit returns to the sky; below, two figures embrace.

The door locks behind him.

He's down the stairs, through the door, jogging across the grass.

It is humid, dark, and cool, and as it begins to rain he hears birds and insects and the wind in the trees. He is in no hurry, on the other side of the track, the park, the arena. He laps the stadium, a pause at the front of Heavener, the great glass and steel and brick facade, and swipes through a side-door, on to the conditioning wing.

There is a single occupied treadmill; offices with few people at desks.

Andrew goes to work.

Farmer walks, deadlift holds, chin-ups.

The treadmill stops. The figure walks across the floor, approaching him.

Devaris Walker says "Andrew Black, already getting at it."