The Pale Blue Dot

James awakens to blackness and a scream reminiscent of the war camps of Iraq. It’s of a specific genre: a body part or appendage being stretched out of place.

James’ instincts propel him into action, but the painful yank on his wrists tells him he’s handcuffed to a pole. Then he hears the voice of the devil himself speak with a deep and cruel tone, “Tell me what I wanna know.”

There's blood in the hidden creases of his words. Adrenaline causes James to shuffle himself around the pole until he is facing the noise and the voice. It's a classic interrogation styled set up. Two chairs and a table. A single light above.

The dark voice belongs to a black man in a fresh suit, hanging over a poor balding schlub in his forties, stripped down to a tank top and jeans, belly hanging out, eyes white and wide looking up at a horror villain as a pair of tongs are buried into his mouth. The disquieting sound of creaking and crunching plays a horrific dirge throughout the makeshift dungeon.

“Now, you know what happens if I don’t get what I want,” the tormentor explains. ”We went over this in the orientation twenty minutes ago…”

Absent any regard for humanity, moving the tongs around some more, this demonic stranger leans in more closely, the creaks getting more frequent and climbing into the hidden crevices of James' heart.

“For every five minutes you don’t tell me what I want to know, you lose a tooth. That means you’re losing a tooth in about...”

The stranger pauses. Looks at his watch.

“NOW.”

The resulting scream sends a chorus of echoes throughout the empty building. James wishes he could rip the chains free like Sampson. But he finds himself in the one position he hates: helplessness.

A streak of red ripples from the captive’s lips down to the floor. He’s panting and sweating from having run this marathon of pain. But all these markings of pain are invisible to the captor. He’s too busy admiring his crimson-tipped memento.

“Look at that. That was deep in there. That must have hurt… But you know what really hurts."

His victim, of course, has no rejoinder.

The stranger continues as if he did, "It’s the upper first molars because they're even deeper."

He gets his tongs ready once more.

"Let me show you --”

“No, no, no! I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you,” the prisoner screams sound earnest as gold.

The dapper thug smiles and sits in the chair across from his prey, crossing his legs, plopping the tongs onto the table, nudging his prisoner to continue.

“It was Danny,” he says, eyes lowered. “Danny Weathers. He’s the one who told the cops.”

The stranger tilts his head to the right, unimpressed.

“Danny, huh?” he says, going into his lapel pocket. “That’s interesting because I know Danny. Actually, I have him on speed dial.”

He pulls out his phone.

“Now, it’s a little known fact that most torture doesn’t work because sometimes folks just tell you what you wanna hear. So, let’s run a little experiment on that theory.”

He pulls out a gun.

“I’m gonna call Danny and if he doesn’t corroborate your story, we’re gonna see how well your brain goes with the wallpaper.”

The gun is aimed right at the target's head.

“No, please! I told you everything I know!”

“Let’s see.”

He presses the button to start dialing.

“Please let me go! I won’t tell anyone about you! I promise!”

“It’s ringing.”

“This isn’t necessary. I swear I was telling you the truth.”

“Someone’s picking up.”

“OK, OK. It’s Ron. Ron Jenkins.”

Someone picks up. Devon is frozen in time, emotions hidden behind a cloak of apathy. 

Gun still held at the shivering man's head, Devon just smiles and starts to talk into the phone. His demonic persona has vanished and suddenly a smooth affable gentleman is in his place.

“Hello, Daisy? I was wondering if I could come over…. Yeah, I did use you in an interrogation again… Well, it worked. He’s pissing his pants as we speak… So, what time can I come? Around five --”

He pulls the phone away from his head and gives a sheepish grin.

“She hung up.”

Going to the next beat without a hitch, he pulls a knife out of his pocket and creeps toward his hostage who starts to scream frantically, squirming for release. His screams are cut short as the dapper villain merely cuts his restraints free.

He goes into his pocket and pulls out a thick wad of cash and hands a hefty sum to the bewildered man.

“Here. You like fixing cars, right? I say you leave town. Get a fresh start in an auto shop or something... because Glenn... this isn’t your line of work.”

“Yes sir.”

Glenn scurries out. The stranger then turns to James and a smile bursts onto his face.

“Look at this one. He’s an early riser, huh? I put a good two ccs in you and you’re already up?”

James has nowhere to go so all he can do is glare as the man continues.

“Seargent James Wallace. Four tours in Iraq. A purple heart. That’s some badass shit right there. A pleasure.”

He holds out a hand for a handshake. It's obvious he's doing it on purpose since he knows James is handcuffed.

“Oh sorry. Let me get that for you.”

He starts to uncuff James and James finally speaks.

“Who are you?”

“I am a person who extracts information and encourages compliance in a variety of ways, but you can call me Devon.”

He says the words a little too smoothly for what James already knows of his occupation. He narrows his eyes at James and holds out his chest.

"Who's paying you?"

"Sometimes it's a criminal, sometimes it's the cops, sometimes I go pro Bono. But that's none of your concern. Follow me."

Devon leads him over to the table and two chairs under the light.

“Come over here, have a seat. We can do a little pre-interrogation interview.”

James just looks at it.

Then that hidden darkness enters Devon’s voice just a smidge as he says, “I’m pretending you have a choice here.”

Not wanting to be dominated, but also not wanting to risk life, James chooses the compromise. He sits down but slowly.

Devon sits across from him leaning back casually as if they were buddies at a bar.

“So, you own a property on Crenshaw but you don’t wanna sell.”

“Oh. I’ll sell. I’m just looking for the right buyer.”

“What about The Black Directive? They want to buy so they can build a rec center.”

“So is that what this is about? A bunch of thugs wanting a playroom?”

“Former thugs and it’s about finding out what’ll get you to change your mind.”

James’s eyebrows raise at the perceived threat, “And what will you use to change my mind?”

He says the last three words as if they were a cuss word. Devon, a man who just tore a tooth out of a human being’s mouth, doesn’t bother reflecting James’s aggressive posture. In fact, he makes a joke. 

“What if I said pretty please?” he muses. “Would that get you to change your mind?”

James just glares back.

”Well I guess I can scratch that off the list.”

“And what else is on your list?”

“Well, you already saw Pearl, my tongs. There’s also hammers, nails, kneecapping, burning, enemas --”

“Contortion, chopped off limbs, needles… You’re going to have to lengthen that list real quick, son. I went through it all at the hands of those bastards in Iraq and I never cracked. What makes you think some thug playing dress-up is gonna crack me today?”

“You pose an interesting question. You say you never cracked?” he leans in, puts on his devilish tone just for the occasion, “All of my victims have cracked.”

Then he gets up, with a sudden bright and sunny demeanor. James marvels at how seamlessly he goes from one mood to the next.

“Tell you what. Let’s make a bet. If you don’t crack, I owe you a lollipop. How’s that sound?”

James is starting to think that bamboo under his fingernails wouldn’t be half as torturous as Devon’s sense of humor.

Devon leads him out, “Let’s go.”

And to James’s surprise, they leave the confines of the dilapidated building and find themselves in broad daylight walking down the sidewalk.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s an enhanced interrogation room down the street. We gotta hurry if we want to get the best machines though.”

Yes, James confirms it in his mind, his sense of humor is way worse than torture. On the way to their “interrogation room” Devon sees fit to pick up an ice cream cone. Licking it like a carefree child, he explains his purpose along the way.

“During World War two, the United States tried all types of methods to get prisoners to talk,” he’s chomping into the cone part at this point. “Shock interrogation, sleep deprivation, beatings. You know, basic stuff. But only one group was especially successful. And you know how they got their prisoners to talk?”

As they come to their destination Devon opens up a door marked Trinity Arcade. Welcoming his captive in, he says, “Ping Pong.”

James scowls.

“I’m afraid I’m not a ping pong guy,” could never be said with more venom.

Nonetheless, Devon led him in, saying, “How about Call of Duty?”

It is strange to see an essential contract killer pull a Power Charge Card out of his wallet. Devon makes a big deal about him paying for James’s game as if doing so makes him a gentleman. At first, James does not want to take the game seriously. He doesn’t want to give Devon the satisfaction.

But whether it’s a simple game of cards on a Saturday afternoon or a war simulation with a gun to your head, the male spirit of competitiveness always wins out in men like James. Especially if it involves shooting things.

At first, he was just trying to just hit the enemies on his side of the screen. Then, when some of those on Devon’s side kept creeping over to his, he felt the need to coordinate. 

“You get that guy. I’ll get this one!”“Cover me while I take out this big fella!”“You take the head, I’ll go for the tires!”

Between the four-star veteran and the criminal gunman, they’re able to finish the game in less than three hours. For most, it takes five. When the final boss drops to the ground, Devon and James high five in celebration.

Next thing you know, they're playing basketball, trading stories. Devon is on a streak, hitting five out of his last six. James is doing an admirable job of giving him a run for his money. Devon sees this as the spot to make his move.

“So why you not selling?” he says, ball swishing through the hoop.

“Oh, this again,” James rolls his eyes as his ball rips through the net also.

Devon goes ahead and puts a theory on the table.

“Does it have anything to do with the fact that the proprietors would be of a certain shade?”

“Don't be ridiculous! I had black folks in my platoon.”

"Well, black folks in your platoon? That must mean you're Malcolm X."

Devon has a rye smile as he hits his fourth in a row.

"Very funny. But I'm not giving that property to any old body."

After missing, James swishes a shot.

"I did my research. And this Black Directive you talk about has that Kaepernick fella -- big as day -- taking a knee on their website..."

He swishes another.

"And I did not endure hours upon hours of torture just to prop up a bunch of thugs gathering around to take a dump on the flag."

He swishes one more shot. The buzzer goes off. Game over.

Devon just smiles, tilts his head.

"I suppose you're not open to a discussion about critical race theory," Devon muses.

James looks ready to slap him.

"Hey, you have black people in your platoon," Devon says, collecting the tickets coming out of the machine. "I thought for sure that made you a liberal arts major."

They stroll away from the game and make their way across the room. Devon changes gears.

“Alright, let’s trade tales. Who’s the youngest person you killed.”

They are hitting it off so well, the question is seamless.

“I don’t know," James remarks. "He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. But he had a gun.”

Devon doesn't even flinch.

“I got you beat. I killed an eleven-year-old. Typical gang story, revenge. He was out there with his older brother. He was eating ice cream, ain’t that some shit? It was like something out of a movie. After that, I was scared of myself.”

”Scared of yourself, why?”

“Because I didn’t give a shit. Didn't feel anything. From then on, I knew I was cold-blooded. I mean, how you deal with the deaths?”

“You don’t. It just eats a part of your soul every day.”

“I just try to buy my soul back a piece at a time. Unfortunately, I don’t have any other talents so I do it the best way I know.”

“That’s why you gave that guy that money?”

“A part of it. But we both know I’m not getting the rest of my soul back.”

Then out of nowhere, James asks, “Who’s Daisy?”

Devon pauses. Cracks a smile, which fades to a subtle longing as his eyes look into the distance. Finally, he comes up with, “Someone I don’t deserve."

"Hey let's check out this NASA simulation," Devon says, changing gears. "Right this way."

The final game sticks out like a skyscraper in a forest. It's a huge metal black box that towers over all the other games. As the two of them step in, James realizes it's more of a ride than a game. They take their seats side-by-side and fasten their respective seatbelts.

The door shuts behind them and it's all darkness eerily reminiscent of the darkness James found himself in upon waking. The chamber starts to rumble and then James gets the feeling that the metal black box is taking off. A screen in front of him lights up with a view of the ground, then the ground turns to an expanded view of grassy terrain, then an entire city. Eventually, he can see the whole country, the continent, then the green and brown ombre shades surrounded by a soothing oceanic tone. Eventually, the entire world is a fragile blue dot below them.

The sight amazes James in ways he cannot even fathom. He peeps over to Devon who is even more entranced, staring into the monitor in a daze, seemingly intoxicated.

As if detecting the watching eyes, James starts to narrate, eyes never leaving their target, “They say that when astronauts see the earth from far above they experience something called The Overview Effect. You just see the world as one. No borders. No battles. Just a peaceful ball floating in space and suddenly all your problems -- all your petty disagreements -- just disappear. Some say the experience radically transforms your entire perspective on the world..."

He pauses as if searching for something and then adds, "Maybe even makes you a better person.”

James is lost in the beauty of that pale blue orb also. But he snaps out of it just in time to scoff.

“Is this 'Overview Effect' supposed to convince me to sell my property?”

“This isn’t for you," Devon responds, still pulled in by the artistry in front of him. "It’s for me.”

When all is done, Devon goes by the ticket counter and trades his tickets in for a snack. After that, he takes James back to the abandoned building. He has one more thing to show him, he says. But first, he gives a little speech.

"I let you watch my little show when you first woke up to get a feel of what would make you crack."

He pulls out a suitcase from under the table they were at before.

"Torturing you wasn't going to work," he continues. "With your history, I'd be wasting a good pair of tongs. But torturing someone else..."

Devon pulls out a laptop and lays it on the table.

"That's a different story."

When he opens the laptop, a video begins to play and Devon simply explains, “You can stop this."

Objects begin to move on the screen. It's a person.

“What is this a live feed?” James asks.

Devon doesn’t answer. He just lets it unfold.

James watches a blurry image. A woman with long brown hair walking late at night. A couple of men come by and talk to her. She talks back and they don't like what she has to say. It starts with a slap and then escalates. Suddenly, the woman is on the ground and the sound of punches and kicks rings from the speakers. The horrific vision playing in James' eyes.

“That’s enough!” he screams in horror. “Stop it! Stop it! I said stop it!”

He's pleading with Devon, grabbing him by the front of his shirt having to resist falling to his knees. His eyes are filled to the brim with desperation but Devon barely flinches.

“You can’t stop the past, James,” says Devon causing James to turn back to the screen. He sees the figures moving into the light. A couple of white men were beating a black woman.

“They were undercover cops wanting info on a thug. They didn’t like his girlfriend’s attitude. So, that happened.”

Devon shuts off the laptop.

“The woman never walked again. And maybe if her boyfriend wasn’t so much of a hoodlum, she wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she wouldn't have to sip all her food through a straw for months. Maybe she'd still be walking to this day. Maybe."

He lowers his head, as if mourning. Then he lifts it, to continue.

"But you can stop that from happening again if you help open up this charity. They'll get people off the streets and make a difference. And I'm pretty sure the world won't blow up because they have a kneeling football player on their website.”

James thinks and then asks, “What was that woman’s name?”

Devon isn’t in the mood for stupid questions.

“You know her name.” 

James looks back at the closed laptop and then back at Devon. He paces around, putting things together then he realizes.

"So, this was Pro bono. And you're doing this to win her back." he smiles, feeling more confident in his decision. “I can’t help you with your booty call.”

Devon's demon leaps into action and he grabs James by the throat. The most venomous and bloodthirsty tone, he's ever heard from the creature today, "It's not some fucking booty call."

James is struggling to release himself from Devon's grip. He could go unconscious at any time. He's fading toward darkness when suddenly, Devon lets go.

"If you're saying no, say no," Devon warns. "But don't make up bullshit reasons."

There's less bravado in his tone as the veteran somberly states, "I'm saying no."

Devon looks at him with the scariest type of eyes. Not happy, not angry. But eyes hiding all intent. The silence carries on just long enough for James to get uncomfortable and finally, Devon lets out an, “OK.”

James stands there confused. “OK? What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re free to go.”

James lingers for just a moment before starting toward the door, but Devon stops him.

“Oh wait! I almost forgot. You won the bet.”

He goes into his jacket and pulls out the item.

He smiles, “Your lollipop.”

James looks at the piece of candy with two noticeable markings: the words "Trinity Arcade" printed on one side of the wrapper and a phone number scribbled on the other. He's a little confused. But he realizes the time for confusion is over. It is time to go home. Putting the prize in his pocket, just because, he walks toward the door before pausing to ask, “Aren’t you scared I’ll tell the cops?”

Devon is leaning back in his chair, the prospect of a squad of cop cars at his doorstep a distant fifth in his hierarchy of cares.

“They know where to find me,” he simply shoots back and then he says something that chills James’ skin. “They just won’t do anything about it.”

James slides out the door, his former captor staring at his back.

That pale blue dot is playing like a movie. It expands into an inexorable longing. A longing to put old things behind. Release the past. And shift your world into a new paradigm. A refreshed way of living. A warmth flows through him and momentarily he's changed.

Devon's phone rings. He answers.

“Hello.”

He listens.

"Sure, but just one thing."

He smiles.

“Can I have my lollipop back?”