Brutal From the Fare
Jonathan Berzer
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare…
--Yeats
His patrol begins at dusk. With the last of the day’s sun on his back, Julius strides toward the guardhouse, feeling like the lone town sheriff on a solemn trek to a dusty corral, where the outlaws wait to be gunned down. But when he opens the door of the guardhouse, he faces nothing more ominous than the soulless digital face of the timeclock. He taps his card to the reader and waits for the beep. His night has begun.
There’s a moment of passing bodies as the shifts change. The day shift guys in their white shirts and khaki pants trade hellos with the night guys who are dressed all in black. There’d been a great deal of debate within the homeowners association as to the guards’ uniforms, and it was determined that the look of the day shift should emphasize friendliness and approachability, as they would be the first impression for visitors and prospective residents. From dusk till dawn, the guards should be a whole other breed: black pants, black shirt, black combat boots. Julius likes the uniform. There’s nothing ambiguous about it. It says, Don’t mess with me or this place.
This place is one-hundred-and-fifty homes nestled among fastidiously manicured grounds that include tennis courts, swimming pools, a gym, playgrounds, a community center, shopping pavilion, and restaurants. It boasts generous open space for kite flying, strolling, picnicking, and kids’ soccer games. The architectural style is Mediterranean. The security is state-of-the-art. Every home is wired. A network of cameras hover over all the gates and common areas. An abundance of street lighting makes nighttime almost as bright as day.
Then of course, there’s the wall. The wall came first, then the community grew inside it. It hugs the perimeter for two-and-a-half miles. It’s ten feet from ground to crown, a massive construction of reinforced concrete coated in a slick plaster skin to make it difficult to climb, painted snow white for increased visibility. At its base grow knots of relentless bougainvillea whose sunny pastel flowers conceal thorns as nasty as concertina wire.
Tonight, the forecast is for a mild night following on the heels of a mild day. He’s in long sleeves and doesn’t expect to need his jacket until nine or ten. For a moment, he stands on the driveway as the maintenance crew unwraps a string of Christmas lights from the main gate.
He likes to think he’s an imposing presence. He’s over six feet and two-hundred pounds, but nobody who knows him would ever describe him as menacing. He was the big, quiet kid in the back of the class who drew space aliens in the margins of his notebook and dreamed of life on other planets. His size made him a target for every victory-starved football coach. He was cajoled into playing, then chewed out for not being aggressive. Rather than spending Saturdays trying to knock even bigger kids to the ground, he preferred digging for fossils with his uncle in the cliffs above the ocean.
He’s sure being the big guy got him the job. Everyone told him he was naturally guard material, but still the job did not come naturally to him. He had to train himself to sleep days to work nights, requiring a regimen of melatonin, headphones, sleep mask, and blackout curtains. But it doesn’t stop his kids from crashing into the room, cackling like mad crows as they fling open the curtains and jump on the bed. Eventually, Glory will come and shoo them away, bring the room back to darkness and leave him with a kiss. On school days, he leaves for work just as they come home and comes home just as they’re leaving. It’s not his idea of fatherhood, and Glory’s not crazy about any of it––the job, the hours, the place, having a husband who lives like a vampire, having to take on all the daytime responsibilities. But he makes enough so she can cut back her hours at the big box store and spend more time with the kids, and their kids get their mother instead of having to be raised by grandparents.
Glory says the job has changed him, made him steely, stony, cooler, as if the work of the guard never ends. She may be right. The nights of vigilance have bled into his off hours, and he faces everything from a family fast food lunch to a trip to the 99 cent store always mindful of threats. He doesn’t see that as a bad thing. His son likes seeing him in the uniform. His daughter imagines he’s some kind of superhero. Maybe he is, if a superhero is a semi-skilled laborer who takes on difficult jobs to support his family.
Carlson joins him on the driveway. Carlson doesn’t wear his uniform nearly as well as Julius. His shift mate is shorter and rounder, with stocky legs, wide hips and a bit of a belly. He’s extremely white with thin blond hair that almost matches the color of his skin. With his round face and puffy cheeks he’s far from intimidating, but he makes up for it by being loud and officious.
“We should be carrying.” Carlson sucks a fruit smoothie through a yellow straw. He has one at the beginning of the shift and another on his break. He calls it his weight-loss regimen. “We’re the nightshift guys. We should be armed.” Carlson has been lobbying for guns for some time but has never been upfront about it, as if it’s something he wants but doesn’t want to go on the record as having asked for it.
The home owners want every possible form of protection, but they draw the line at arming the guards. They say it goes against the spirit of the community. Julius didn’t take the job to carry a gun. He bristles at the thought of aiming at some mysterious figure in the dark, then choosing to pull the trigger, hoping he’s not killing somebody’s kid or some elderly resident with dementia who’s trying to kick down the locked door of the wrong house because he got confused about which home is his.
“They give us guns, we’ll end up shooting each other,” Julius says as he checks the battery level of his radio.
“I bet if they put it to a vote, the residents would agree,” says Carlson. “They wanna feel safe.”
“We don’t need guns,” says Julius with a grunt. “Half the people here got ‘em anyway.”
This makes Carlson laugh. The man finishes his smoothie with a giant slurp and tosses the plastic cup in the trash. “They want me to be a guard, I want a weapon.”
Bennington settles into his place in the guardhouse. Julius, Aquino, and Carlson will be on patrol. Bennington is the elder statesman of the guard unit, the one who does most of the facetime with residents and management. He’s known as The Bull, because that’s what he looks like, if bulls had thin moustaches and a love of flan. As he has a nickname of his own, Bennington was quick to bestow labels on everyone else: Carlson is Swede, though he has no Swedish ancestry; Julius Duncan is Orange for the once famous juice stand, or Duncan Donuts, for the cliché of the lazy policeman. Aquino is Angel, because of all of them, Aquino seems the least likely of people to end up a guard. Soft spoken with immense reserves of calm and patience, he’d been a caregiver until his charge died. Unable to find a new position, he turned his instincts for helping people into keeping them safe.
Aquino is hurrying through a cigarette before they set off. There’s no smoking on the job. “Good evening, Julius,” he says like a priest greeting congregants at Mass. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m good, Gabriel. How ‘bout you?”
“Yes, I am alright, though my knee is giving me trouble. I hope I don’t have to chase any wicked people.” Aquino smiles and puts out his cigarette. He’s the smallest of them but strong from spending years lifting bodies.
“You gonna be ready by Saturday?”
Aquino rubs his right knee. “Oh yes. I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t overdo it.”
Before they set off, Bennington gathers them together for the nightly pep talk. “Okay,” he says with a shout. “We’re the Samurai Ninjas of the night. We’re the baddest motherfuckers out there. Nothing gets past us. Now go kick some serious ass.”
Julius has been patrolling the nights of this place for three years, and he has yet to need to kick some serious ass. Bennington reminds him of a football coach who’s watched too many movies about football coaches.
Bennington returns to the booth while the other three go their separate ways. Carlson takes the patrol car to circle the perimeter. Aquino rides a scooter through the west end of the property. Julius covers the east end on foot. He prefers to walk. It’s the best way to familiarize himself with the night’s layout and spot anything out of place.
First stop is the community center, where he checks the doors and windows, then sweeps the perimeter of the family pool. Mr. Worth, in swim cap and goggles, is churning through the pool’s turquoise water. The resident swims with serious, athletic intent but pauses when he reaches the pool’s edge to greet Julius with a quick wave before setting off in the opposite direction. On a nearby tennis court, Mr. Lawson and Mr. Grayson are talking their way through an easy rally of groundstrokes. They too greet Julius as he passes and joke about having to play better now that they have an audience.
Julius pauses before the construction under way on the stadium court. The bowl-shaped arena is being prepped for Saturday’s celebration. The net’s been removed and the hardcourt has been covered with a carpet of artificial turf. Rising up from the court is a three-story wooden structure over twenty-five feet tall. Half-a-dozen steps lead to the main stage, then another dozen reach up to a higher platform. It’s topped with a turret-like crown accessible by a wooden spiral staircase. Now it’s all raw wood. By Saturday it will be painted and decorated.
Julius hears his name and turns as three of the community’s board members amble toward him.
“There he is,” says Glen in sing-song tribute, giving Julius a friendly swat on the back.
“Julius the man,” Neal chimes in, holding his fist out for Julius to bump. The guard obliges.
Max, the most formal of the trio, offers the guard a hand to shake. “How’s it going tonight, Julius?”
“Fine, fine,” the guard answers almost shyly, as the guys pal around him, offering fake jabs with elbows and fists. They are the top dogs of the homeowners association, the board members who got this community on its feet and now oversee everything. Glen is the visionary, a relentless charmer with an outsized personality. Neal is the money guy, always fretting about what things cost. He’s the one who keeps the lights on and signs everybody’s checks. Max has made security his obsession. He’s the guards’ advocate, the one who designed everything from their uniforms to the alarm system, the one who lies awake at night worrying about worst case scenarios. They’re the bosses, but they like to be on a first name basis with everyone.
“Look at this guy,” says Max, nodding at Julius as if the three men had been in the middle of a conversation of which Julius was central. “We need more guys like Julius.”
“Are there any other guys like Julius? I don’t think so,” says Neal.
Glen motions for his two colleagues to tone it down. “This isn’t the kind of thing we should be talking about out here.”
Max lowers his voice in response. “All I’m saying is, the other guys are fine, and for what we’re paying them, they fit the bill. But they look like mall cops. Julius looks like a cop.”
“You ever want to be a cop, Julius?” asks Glen.
“No, not really,” Julius answers. “When I was a kid, we’d play cops, but everybody wanted to be the bad guys.”
“I did,” says Neal. “I loved being the enforcer. Then I got into asset management, and there went the dream.” His self-satisfied grin makes it hard to know if he’s serious.
Max huffs with impatience. “The guards should reflect the standards of the community, period.” He slices his hand through the air to signal that he’ll say no more about it.
The four of them can’t help but gaze up at the construction site.
“What ya think? It’s getting there,” says Glen. “It’ll be done by Saturday, right?”
Max and Neal laugh and shake their heads. “It always comes down to the wire,” adds Neal.
“Usually, they’re a lot further along by now,” grumbles Max. “’Course it rained for three days.”
Glen nods with pride. “It’s our best one yet. Twice the size of last year.”
“We actually had to draw up plans and get a permit for the damn thing. It’s practically a house. Almost cost as much,” adds Neal.
“Yeah,” says Glen. “We might have gone overboard, but everybody loves it. It’s all anybody’s talking about.” Glen turns to Julius. “Glory and the kids gonna make it?” It’s a question, but the board member’s delivery makes it sound like a statement of fact.
“Yes, they are,” answers Julius.
“Oh that’s terrific. Can’t wait to finally meet them. That’s what the day’s all about. Staff and residents, one big happy family. You ready for your big moment?”
Julius looks down at the structure, which is in effect a giant stage. “I am, but I’m not much of a performer.”
“Same as always––just be yourself,” says Glen.
Julius hates it when people say that. Being himself means lying on a hammock under their gnarled sycamore, reading back issues of National Geographic from the library. He had to drop out before finishing his AA degree. He’s almost thirty but hoping to save enough for a four-year college, where he can study something in the sciences. He’s patient, diligent, not easily rattled, qualities that serve him well on his all-night patrols and would translate naturally to the tedious repetition of lab work, or to huddling in a blind for days on end, waiting for an animal to wander into view.
“Alright, guys,” says Max. “The man’s got a job to do.” They wish Julius a good night and wander off toward the front office, saying hello to residents they meet along the way.
Julius sweeps his light over the darkened homes of those who are away. He makes a point to check every door and window. Residents brag about never having to carry keys, about the freedom of taking a late night walk and never having to worry about what’s in the shadows. Nothing ever happens here, he thinks, as he stands in the middle of an empty intersection.
At the house on the corner, an older man is balanced precariously on a ladder that is aligned awkwardly outside his front door. The man looks like an accident waiting to happen.
“Hang on there, Mr. Miller,” Julius calls as he jogs to the man’s side. He grabs the frame of the ladder as the man reaches for the Christmas lights overhead.
“Hi ya, Julius,” replies the man. “Don’t worry about me. I do this every year.”
The man is replacing the Christmas colors with Celebration lights. Julius grips the frame of the ladder as Mr. Miller’s functional, comfortable leather loafers take one gingerly step after another until he reaches the rung that’s second from the top.
“It’s my small contribution to the holiday. You’re taking part, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answers. “I’ll be there.”
“Celebration Day is a great tradition. Where would we be without our traditions? I’d be up on that stage too if I was a little younger.”
Julius helps Mr. Miller down from the ladder. The resident wraps up the Christmas lights and shoves them in a box. He fiddles for the plug in the bushes, then the new lights come to life. The two men step back to admire the string of colors. Three colors in an alternating pattern—black, white, and blue—light the threshold.
“That’s nice,” says Mr. Miller with a sigh. “Oh by the way, in the corner by the east gate, there’s some overgrown branches from the oak tree. It looks pretty, but it might give somebody on the outside an easy way in.”
Julius tells him he’ll alert the maintenance staff. Mr. Miller pats Julius on the arm and carries his ladder into the open garage.
Julius walks to the end of the block and along the great stretch of grass that makes up the common green. Residents stroll by. They’re walking their dogs, dogs he knows by name. The residents greet him. Their dogs slide up to him to have their backs stroked. As a kid he was afraid of dogs. He was afraid of everything, especially the dark. Now he spends most of his waking hours peering into darkness, searching for what may be hidden there, chasing away fear with just a flashlight.
Carlson catches up to him at the halfway point of their rounds. Julius leans against the driver’s door of the patrol car. Carlson asks him if there’s anything to report, and Julius shakes his head.
“Quiet night,” he answers.
“Best kind.” Carlson replies. “You wanna switch or you wanna keep walking?” Carlson asks, showing no desire to get out of the car.
“I’ll keep walking,” answers Julius. “I see better when I’m walking.”
~ ~ ~
Celebration Day begins with a picnic that spreads across the entire common green. Everyone has turned out. The weather has cooperated to produce a mild day under a gentle sky of feathery cirrus clouds. Families mingle and lounge. A half-dozen barbecue rigs are pouring out smoke and the smell of cooked meats. The association has provided food and drink trucks, a bounce house in the shape of a castle, a cotton candy maker, and professional jugglers who toss bowling pins at each other.
Each year, just after Christmas as Celebration Day draws near, Glory becomes tentative and reserved. The change in her is so apparent that the kids ask what’s wrong with Mama. He tells them she’s tired from the holidays. For three years, he’s tried to convince her to come out. Every year, she’s refused. She makes other plans, says she’d rather spend the day hiking in the mountains or walking by the water. So he’s spent the last three years making excuses for why he’s the only family man there without a family. This year, he vows to himself, it’s going to be different.
A couple of days before New Year’s with the kids safely in bed, he asks Glory to sit with him at the kitchen table. With his hands wrapped around a mug of herbal tea, he takes a breath to make his case.
“I want you there. I want you and the kids to be there. I know what you think of the place, but it’s important to me that you be there.”
Glory sighs and folds her arms in front of her chest. “Haven’t you given them enough? You guard their houses while they sleep. You’re out there protecting them while I lie awake all night. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“I thought you wanted to go back to school and study science.”
“I do.”
“It’s a job, Julius. There other jobs. There better jobs. What they pay––it’s not worth it. I know they gave you a big fat check for Christmas but that don’t mean you owe them.”
He tries to picture himself at one of these better jobs, sitting in an air-conditioned office, sitting at a desk, coming in at 8:30, home by six. It would be nice, but the choice is clear to him.
“It’s not about the money,” he says. “Yeah, I could work at the shipping company with your brother. I could have a cozy chair in a cozy office. Probably make more, get better benefits. But I’d rather do this.”
“Why?”
“Because the world is a terrible place.” He hadn’t meant to say that. It just shot out of his mouth before he knew it, but now that it’s out there, he doesn’t regret it. He puts the mug aside and takes her hands. The gesture is so intimate it surprises her. “I know what you think, but this job’s given me something I never had before. I’m stronger because of it. Our kids gotta grow up in this world. They have to be strong. That’s why I do it. For them.”
“There are other ways for that.”
“Come out Saturday and you’ll see.”
And so she does. As they make their way across the great lawn, Glory brings up the rear, a picnic basket banging against her thigh, her face hidden beneath a sunhat. Julius leads his family around the spread of picnic blankets and beach towels. He greets each resident they pass, and the residents smile and joke about not recognizing him in the daylight hours. They’re enchanted by his young daughter and son, and flood them with compliments. Delilah is too young to know what’s going on. When she sees the bounce house, she assumes it’s someone’s birthday and there will be cake. Glory is polite and friendly but holds on to their son, Matthew, like he’s an emotional support animal. Delilah yanks on her father’s arm to drag him toward the bounce house. The residents are especially thrilled to finally meet Julius’s family. Then there’s the running joke that if Julius is attending the celebration, who’s watching the property?
“Oh somebody,” he says with a laugh. “I hope.”
Glory lays down blankets and starts to unpack a basket and a cooler. A jazz quartet plays sunny summer music under the shade of the gazebo. The Duncans join a gathering that includes the other guards and their families. Julius introduces Glory to Aquino, Carlson, and Bennington, and the half-a-dozen children that surround them. Julius nods to his wife as if to say, See, everybody’s here with their families. Before all the kids run off to the bounce house, Julius instructs Matthew to make sure his little sister doesn’t get knocked down by the bigger kids.
Glory slices apples and pears. She unpacks chips, sausages, and bread. The activity comes across as an outlet for the irritation she’s trying to conceal. “Look at this place,” she says with a scowl. “It’s practically wrapped in plastic.”
He can’t help but laugh. “They have their ways.”
He watches his son and daughter careen around the bounce house with a dozen other children. At first, he worries Delilah is too little to be in there. Then she knocks some kid twice her size to the mat. “That’s my girl,” he says with a laugh under his breath.
By four o’clock, the people begin to make their way to the stadium. They roll up their blankets and stuff trash into the bins that ring the green. His kids are preoccupied with cups of soft serve when Glen comes up to say hello. Julius stands to shake the man’s hand, and the man leans down to introduce himself to Glory.
“Isn’t this great?” asks Glen, waving an arm to everything around them. “It’s so good to see everybody just hanging out, being happy. Your kids having a great time?”
“They are,” says Julius.
Glen makes small talk about the neighborhood and about how much everyone loves Julius. Then he glances at his watch. “We’re about to get started, so if I may borrow your husband, Glory.”
“Of course,” she says wryly. “Duty calls.”
“I’ve saved seats for your family right up front,” says Glen.
Julius kisses his wife on the cheek and gives a quick hug to his kids. “I’ll see you inside.”
“Don’t be late,” adds Glen. “Don’t want to miss the opening. The opening’s the best part.”
Julius and the other guards fall in behind Glen as he walks across the green like the Pied Piper, collecting residents and service people in his wake. While the majority of the community will fill the court’s seats, Julius and the other participants head for the players’ entrance that leads to the facilities under the stands.
Julius takes his uniform and protective gear from a locker. The locker room is too small for all of them, so some have to change in the narrow hallway outside. As he switches from his Saturday hang-around-the-yard wear into the black uniform, his mind naturally trips into work mode. But this is not like the start of the night shift. The guards are quiet and tentative. Bennington’s rowdy humor is replaced by silent preparation. He’s the first one dressed and instead of the usual razzing of his coworkers, he stands stiffly against the lockers, fidgeting with the protective gear on his legs and elbows. Aquino sits with his hands folded together, eyes closed, appearing to be in the midst of some mental exercise. Carlson rocks in the corner, his arms in the ready position. They greet each other with solemn nods. Julius has seen this many times before; it’s the locker room before the big game, each player consumed by what’s expected of him, visualizing what’s to come and his part in it.
Neal pokes his head around the corner and announces that it’s time. The guards filter toward the doorway as Neal leads them to the end of the tunnel, where late-afternoon light spills in from the stadium.
Julius steps onto the court. He and the other guards join various community employees who climb up the structure and spread out along its width. It takes him a moment to adjust to the crowd. He’s seen crowds like this before, but usually he’s part of them. After night after night of solitary, silent patrols through hours of darkness, he reflexively recoils at the sight of hundreds of grinning, cheering faces. While he knows most of them well, the fact that they’re wrapped around him as a mass of bodies makes it hard to distinguish individuals.
Every seat is taken. There’s an overflow of people standing in the back and perched on the stairs that lead from the court to the top of the bleachers. It’s a fire code violation, of course, but nobody seems too concerned about that. Glory and his kids are in the front row. The kids wave and grin up at their father like he’s a star athlete stepping into a championship game. They turn their heads to take in the crowd. He waves to let them know he’s okay being up here.
Julius and the other guards take their positions on the first level of the platform. Today everyone wears black. Aquino is on Julius’s right and a day shift guard is on his left. On the second level are a dozen employees—groundskeepers, office staff, maintenance workers, cleaners, bussers from the restaurants. They too are dressed in the black uniforms of the guards, though they don’t look like guards. They look lost. Glen bounds on to the stage, microphone in hand and a dazzling white smile for the crowd.
“Hello neighbors, hello friends,” Glen calls out to rapturous applause and shouts. “Great to see so many of you here. This is what makes our community what it is. I want to say thank you to all of you. You make this possible.” Glen applauds the audience and the audience replies in kind. “And I want to thank all the staff and our friends up here. Aren’t they the best?” Glen and the audience applaud those on the stage. “So, enough from me, let’s get started.” Glen quickly descends to a place off to the side. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Glen announces with great dramatic effect. “Bring on the patriots!”
Julius and the other guards close ranks. The staff members behind them are not trained or conditioned as the guards are. They fidget and shuffle about. But Julius is ready. He adopts the posture and attitude that he uses as he walks the property. The darkness does not scare him, and he patrols the grounds daring something to leap out at him. But this is not darkness. This is the golden hour of the afternoon, the sun spilling its benevolent rays across the stadium and over the throng of spectators who now rise to their feet and erupt with a cheer that rattles his bones.
Then they charge the stage. Two or three dozen lead the way and another fifty or so follow. They come all at once like a wave. They scramble up the steps, waving batons and carrying flagpoles with oversized banners. The guards are supposed to stop them, but not really, for this is their day, their celebration, and the guards and staff are facilitators, like caterers at a wedding, servers at a family dinner. They are to remain in the background, even when they’re thrust on to center stage.
As rehearsed, Julius and the other guards raise plastic shields and lock them together. They bend their knees and hold their forearms like a well-disciplined offensive line. As the residents pour toward the stage, Julius loses sight of Glory and the kids. He sees only shouting and waving bodies charging toward him, their heavy-footed clamoring makes the whole structure shake. Then the crowd is on him. He is face to face with Max and Neal who have decorated themselves in patriotic warpaint and carry flagpoles like spears. Their genial smiles have been replaced by a furious rage that taken out of context might be seen as threatening, but Julius knows it’s only the excitement of the day that drives them forward. Max and Neal crash into Julius, and in an instant, Julius is on his back against the second level steps. The other guards retreat to the second level and reinforce the staff members, but the mob runs through them all as if they were paper targets waving from a clothesline.
Neal scrambles to get to the top with the ferocity of a man lost in the heat of combat, and as he does so, he kicks Julius in the head. There is a place in Julius’s mind that tells him it was an accident, but through the mayhem and the noise of the crowd, Julius thinks he hears his daughter scream. He grabs Neal by the ankle and yanks him back. The man tumbles into the crowd and rolls down the steps. As the flood of residents stomp up the stairs, Julius uses the shield to protect his face, though it’s more toy than tactical gear. They can’t help but step on him, kick him, fall on him, as they race to the top. He knows they’re not trying to hurt him, would avoid him if they could, but the mob pushes forth with a will of its own. Even residents who thought they were safe in the mob are brushed aside as a new line of patriots charges into the one in front.
It’s over in seconds. The patriots reach the crown of the structure and plant their flag in a slot created for just such a purpose. Then the stomping and shoving subsides, and the now hundred or so residents who have made it onto the structure pause in their places, raise their arms in triumph and let out a celebratory roar.
Julius finds four or five pairs of arms helping him to his feet and affectionate hands patting his back and shoulders. They ask him if he’s okay, steady him in case he needs help down the steps, but he’s able to convince them that he’s fine. They’re congratulating him, the way the winner thanks the loser for a close contest. The rage is gone. They are as mild-mannered and solicitous as they are when he meets them on his rounds, when he greets them as they pull their trash cans from the street or wash their cars in their driveways. Julius scans the front row. Glory has an arm wrapped around each child. He makes his way down to them, wiping his sweaty brow, glad to see that no blood has appeared on his hand.
Delilah and Matthew are frozen against their mother, only their heaving chests reveal how much they are alive.
“It’s okay.” Julius kneels to their level. “See?” He gestures back to the cheering, dancing throng behind him. “I’m not hurt. Daddy’s fine. They didn’t hurt me.”
Glen, Neal, and Max make their way down to the front and congratulate Julius on his valiant effort.
“You really took me out,” says Neal with a double-wide grin and a few claps on Julius’s shoulder. “Next year, I want you on our team.”
“Next year, we need more guards. It was too easy,” says Max.
Glen bends toward the kids. “Your daddy did great. You should be proud.”
A slight smile creeps across Delilah’s lips. “Daddy fell down.”
Julius puts a hand on her back. “Yeah, Daddy fell down, but I’m okay. Understand?”
Delilah nods vacantly.
Matthew touches his father’s fake body armor. “You got that one guy.”
“Yeah, he got me good,” says Neal. “Your daddy is one tough customer.”
“Ice bags and ibuprofen for everyone,” Glen jokes.
Through it all, Glory stands fiercely erect, her jaw set firmly in defiance. “The children need to go home,” she says in a voice that quakes with adrenalin. She looks at Julius with an expression he’s not seen before, one of numb horror, like the survivor of a catastrophe. “The children need to go home.”
“You saw me up there,” Julius says to his kids as he dabs sweat from his face. “I wasn’t scared. They knocked me down, but I got up.”
Classic rock blasts from the stadium’s speakers. Fireworks shatter the late-afternoon sky, though it’s not nearly dark enough. Residents who have captured the structure are in no hurry to surrender it, jumping and bounding around its surface, waving their flags as if signaling some far off compatriots. Bennington and Carlson stand with them, grinning and hooting, helping two residents raise a giant banner.
“We’re going home. Now.” Glory steers the children toward the exit.
Julius reaches down and scoops Delilah up in his arms. He holds her high on his shoulder and ascends the steps of the structure. Glory calls to him, but he only looks back and waves for Matthew to follow. The boy holds on to his mother, but leans toward the stage, his eyes darting from one to the other. Glory has her arms around him as if he could be swept up in an outgoing tide.
Julius climbs to the second level, makes his way through the throng. They pat his back and make space for him and wave to his daughter. He is helped up to the crown by the celebrants and turns to face Glory with Delilah high on his shoulder. She’s laughing and waving to her mother. Held up by her father, she’s the tallest one there.
Julius feels a throbbing in his knee. He must have fallen heavily and wonders if it will become inflamed and painful as the night wears on. He should get home and ice it. He has tomorrow off. He hopes that’s enough to be ready for his rounds.
Jonathan Berzer
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare…
--Yeats
His patrol begins at dusk. With the last of the day’s sun on his back, Julius strides toward the guardhouse, feeling like the lone town sheriff on a solemn trek to a dusty corral, where the outlaws wait to be gunned down. But when he opens the door of the guardhouse, he faces nothing more ominous than the soulless digital face of the timeclock. He taps his card to the reader and waits for the beep. His night has begun.
There’s a moment of passing bodies as the shifts change. The day shift guys in their white shirts and khaki pants trade hellos with the night guys who are dressed all in black. There’d been a great deal of debate within the homeowners association as to the guards’ uniforms, and it was determined that the look of the day shift should emphasize friendliness and approachability, as they would be the first impression for visitors and prospective residents. From dusk till dawn, the guards should be a whole other breed: black pants, black shirt, black combat boots. Julius likes the uniform. There’s nothing ambiguous about it. It says, Don’t mess with me or this place.
This place is one-hundred-and-fifty homes nestled among fastidiously manicured grounds that include tennis courts, swimming pools, a gym, playgrounds, a community center, shopping pavilion, and restaurants. It boasts generous open space for kite flying, strolling, picnicking, and kids’ soccer games. The architectural style is Mediterranean. The security is state-of-the-art. Every home is wired. A network of cameras hover over all the gates and common areas. An abundance of street lighting makes nighttime almost as bright as day.
Then of course, there’s the wall. The wall came first, then the community grew inside it. It hugs the perimeter for two-and-a-half miles. It’s ten feet from ground to crown, a massive construction of reinforced concrete coated in a slick plaster skin to make it difficult to climb, painted snow white for increased visibility. At its base grow knots of relentless bougainvillea whose sunny pastel flowers conceal thorns as nasty as concertina wire.
Tonight, the forecast is for a mild night following on the heels of a mild day. He’s in long sleeves and doesn’t expect to need his jacket until nine or ten. For a moment, he stands on the driveway as the maintenance crew unwraps a string of Christmas lights from the main gate.
He likes to think he’s an imposing presence. He’s over six feet and two-hundred pounds, but nobody who knows him would ever describe him as menacing. He was the big, quiet kid in the back of the class who drew space aliens in the margins of his notebook and dreamed of life on other planets. His size made him a target for every victory-starved football coach. He was cajoled into playing, then chewed out for not being aggressive. Rather than spending Saturdays trying to knock even bigger kids to the ground, he preferred digging for fossils with his uncle in the cliffs above the ocean.
He’s sure being the big guy got him the job. Everyone told him he was naturally guard material, but still the job did not come naturally to him. He had to train himself to sleep days to work nights, requiring a regimen of melatonin, headphones, sleep mask, and blackout curtains. But it doesn’t stop his kids from crashing into the room, cackling like mad crows as they fling open the curtains and jump on the bed. Eventually, Glory will come and shoo them away, bring the room back to darkness and leave him with a kiss. On school days, he leaves for work just as they come home and comes home just as they’re leaving. It’s not his idea of fatherhood, and Glory’s not crazy about any of it––the job, the hours, the place, having a husband who lives like a vampire, having to take on all the daytime responsibilities. But he makes enough so she can cut back her hours at the big box store and spend more time with the kids, and their kids get their mother instead of having to be raised by grandparents.
Glory says the job has changed him, made him steely, stony, cooler, as if the work of the guard never ends. She may be right. The nights of vigilance have bled into his off hours, and he faces everything from a family fast food lunch to a trip to the 99 cent store always mindful of threats. He doesn’t see that as a bad thing. His son likes seeing him in the uniform. His daughter imagines he’s some kind of superhero. Maybe he is, if a superhero is a semi-skilled laborer who takes on difficult jobs to support his family.
Carlson joins him on the driveway. Carlson doesn’t wear his uniform nearly as well as Julius. His shift mate is shorter and rounder, with stocky legs, wide hips and a bit of a belly. He’s extremely white with thin blond hair that almost matches the color of his skin. With his round face and puffy cheeks he’s far from intimidating, but he makes up for it by being loud and officious.
“We should be carrying.” Carlson sucks a fruit smoothie through a yellow straw. He has one at the beginning of the shift and another on his break. He calls it his weight-loss regimen. “We’re the nightshift guys. We should be armed.” Carlson has been lobbying for guns for some time but has never been upfront about it, as if it’s something he wants but doesn’t want to go on the record as having asked for it.
The home owners want every possible form of protection, but they draw the line at arming the guards. They say it goes against the spirit of the community. Julius didn’t take the job to carry a gun. He bristles at the thought of aiming at some mysterious figure in the dark, then choosing to pull the trigger, hoping he’s not killing somebody’s kid or some elderly resident with dementia who’s trying to kick down the locked door of the wrong house because he got confused about which home is his.
“They give us guns, we’ll end up shooting each other,” Julius says as he checks the battery level of his radio.
“I bet if they put it to a vote, the residents would agree,” says Carlson. “They wanna feel safe.”
“We don’t need guns,” says Julius with a grunt. “Half the people here got ‘em anyway.”
This makes Carlson laugh. The man finishes his smoothie with a giant slurp and tosses the plastic cup in the trash. “They want me to be a guard, I want a weapon.”
Bennington settles into his place in the guardhouse. Julius, Aquino, and Carlson will be on patrol. Bennington is the elder statesman of the guard unit, the one who does most of the facetime with residents and management. He’s known as The Bull, because that’s what he looks like, if bulls had thin moustaches and a love of flan. As he has a nickname of his own, Bennington was quick to bestow labels on everyone else: Carlson is Swede, though he has no Swedish ancestry; Julius Duncan is Orange for the once famous juice stand, or Duncan Donuts, for the cliché of the lazy policeman. Aquino is Angel, because of all of them, Aquino seems the least likely of people to end up a guard. Soft spoken with immense reserves of calm and patience, he’d been a caregiver until his charge died. Unable to find a new position, he turned his instincts for helping people into keeping them safe.
Aquino is hurrying through a cigarette before they set off. There’s no smoking on the job. “Good evening, Julius,” he says like a priest greeting congregants at Mass. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m good, Gabriel. How ‘bout you?”
“Yes, I am alright, though my knee is giving me trouble. I hope I don’t have to chase any wicked people.” Aquino smiles and puts out his cigarette. He’s the smallest of them but strong from spending years lifting bodies.
“You gonna be ready by Saturday?”
Aquino rubs his right knee. “Oh yes. I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t overdo it.”
Before they set off, Bennington gathers them together for the nightly pep talk. “Okay,” he says with a shout. “We’re the Samurai Ninjas of the night. We’re the baddest motherfuckers out there. Nothing gets past us. Now go kick some serious ass.”
Julius has been patrolling the nights of this place for three years, and he has yet to need to kick some serious ass. Bennington reminds him of a football coach who’s watched too many movies about football coaches.
Bennington returns to the booth while the other three go their separate ways. Carlson takes the patrol car to circle the perimeter. Aquino rides a scooter through the west end of the property. Julius covers the east end on foot. He prefers to walk. It’s the best way to familiarize himself with the night’s layout and spot anything out of place.
First stop is the community center, where he checks the doors and windows, then sweeps the perimeter of the family pool. Mr. Worth, in swim cap and goggles, is churning through the pool’s turquoise water. The resident swims with serious, athletic intent but pauses when he reaches the pool’s edge to greet Julius with a quick wave before setting off in the opposite direction. On a nearby tennis court, Mr. Lawson and Mr. Grayson are talking their way through an easy rally of groundstrokes. They too greet Julius as he passes and joke about having to play better now that they have an audience.
Julius pauses before the construction under way on the stadium court. The bowl-shaped arena is being prepped for Saturday’s celebration. The net’s been removed and the hardcourt has been covered with a carpet of artificial turf. Rising up from the court is a three-story wooden structure over twenty-five feet tall. Half-a-dozen steps lead to the main stage, then another dozen reach up to a higher platform. It’s topped with a turret-like crown accessible by a wooden spiral staircase. Now it’s all raw wood. By Saturday it will be painted and decorated.
Julius hears his name and turns as three of the community’s board members amble toward him.
“There he is,” says Glen in sing-song tribute, giving Julius a friendly swat on the back.
“Julius the man,” Neal chimes in, holding his fist out for Julius to bump. The guard obliges.
Max, the most formal of the trio, offers the guard a hand to shake. “How’s it going tonight, Julius?”
“Fine, fine,” the guard answers almost shyly, as the guys pal around him, offering fake jabs with elbows and fists. They are the top dogs of the homeowners association, the board members who got this community on its feet and now oversee everything. Glen is the visionary, a relentless charmer with an outsized personality. Neal is the money guy, always fretting about what things cost. He’s the one who keeps the lights on and signs everybody’s checks. Max has made security his obsession. He’s the guards’ advocate, the one who designed everything from their uniforms to the alarm system, the one who lies awake at night worrying about worst case scenarios. They’re the bosses, but they like to be on a first name basis with everyone.
“Look at this guy,” says Max, nodding at Julius as if the three men had been in the middle of a conversation of which Julius was central. “We need more guys like Julius.”
“Are there any other guys like Julius? I don’t think so,” says Neal.
Glen motions for his two colleagues to tone it down. “This isn’t the kind of thing we should be talking about out here.”
Max lowers his voice in response. “All I’m saying is, the other guys are fine, and for what we’re paying them, they fit the bill. But they look like mall cops. Julius looks like a cop.”
“You ever want to be a cop, Julius?” asks Glen.
“No, not really,” Julius answers. “When I was a kid, we’d play cops, but everybody wanted to be the bad guys.”
“I did,” says Neal. “I loved being the enforcer. Then I got into asset management, and there went the dream.” His self-satisfied grin makes it hard to know if he’s serious.
Max huffs with impatience. “The guards should reflect the standards of the community, period.” He slices his hand through the air to signal that he’ll say no more about it.
The four of them can’t help but gaze up at the construction site.
“What ya think? It’s getting there,” says Glen. “It’ll be done by Saturday, right?”
Max and Neal laugh and shake their heads. “It always comes down to the wire,” adds Neal.
“Usually, they’re a lot further along by now,” grumbles Max. “’Course it rained for three days.”
Glen nods with pride. “It’s our best one yet. Twice the size of last year.”
“We actually had to draw up plans and get a permit for the damn thing. It’s practically a house. Almost cost as much,” adds Neal.
“Yeah,” says Glen. “We might have gone overboard, but everybody loves it. It’s all anybody’s talking about.” Glen turns to Julius. “Glory and the kids gonna make it?” It’s a question, but the board member’s delivery makes it sound like a statement of fact.
“Yes, they are,” answers Julius.
“Oh that’s terrific. Can’t wait to finally meet them. That’s what the day’s all about. Staff and residents, one big happy family. You ready for your big moment?”
Julius looks down at the structure, which is in effect a giant stage. “I am, but I’m not much of a performer.”
“Same as always––just be yourself,” says Glen.
Julius hates it when people say that. Being himself means lying on a hammock under their gnarled sycamore, reading back issues of National Geographic from the library. He had to drop out before finishing his AA degree. He’s almost thirty but hoping to save enough for a four-year college, where he can study something in the sciences. He’s patient, diligent, not easily rattled, qualities that serve him well on his all-night patrols and would translate naturally to the tedious repetition of lab work, or to huddling in a blind for days on end, waiting for an animal to wander into view.
“Alright, guys,” says Max. “The man’s got a job to do.” They wish Julius a good night and wander off toward the front office, saying hello to residents they meet along the way.
Julius sweeps his light over the darkened homes of those who are away. He makes a point to check every door and window. Residents brag about never having to carry keys, about the freedom of taking a late night walk and never having to worry about what’s in the shadows. Nothing ever happens here, he thinks, as he stands in the middle of an empty intersection.
At the house on the corner, an older man is balanced precariously on a ladder that is aligned awkwardly outside his front door. The man looks like an accident waiting to happen.
“Hang on there, Mr. Miller,” Julius calls as he jogs to the man’s side. He grabs the frame of the ladder as the man reaches for the Christmas lights overhead.
“Hi ya, Julius,” replies the man. “Don’t worry about me. I do this every year.”
The man is replacing the Christmas colors with Celebration lights. Julius grips the frame of the ladder as Mr. Miller’s functional, comfortable leather loafers take one gingerly step after another until he reaches the rung that’s second from the top.
“It’s my small contribution to the holiday. You’re taking part, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answers. “I’ll be there.”
“Celebration Day is a great tradition. Where would we be without our traditions? I’d be up on that stage too if I was a little younger.”
Julius helps Mr. Miller down from the ladder. The resident wraps up the Christmas lights and shoves them in a box. He fiddles for the plug in the bushes, then the new lights come to life. The two men step back to admire the string of colors. Three colors in an alternating pattern—black, white, and blue—light the threshold.
“That’s nice,” says Mr. Miller with a sigh. “Oh by the way, in the corner by the east gate, there’s some overgrown branches from the oak tree. It looks pretty, but it might give somebody on the outside an easy way in.”
Julius tells him he’ll alert the maintenance staff. Mr. Miller pats Julius on the arm and carries his ladder into the open garage.
Julius walks to the end of the block and along the great stretch of grass that makes up the common green. Residents stroll by. They’re walking their dogs, dogs he knows by name. The residents greet him. Their dogs slide up to him to have their backs stroked. As a kid he was afraid of dogs. He was afraid of everything, especially the dark. Now he spends most of his waking hours peering into darkness, searching for what may be hidden there, chasing away fear with just a flashlight.
Carlson catches up to him at the halfway point of their rounds. Julius leans against the driver’s door of the patrol car. Carlson asks him if there’s anything to report, and Julius shakes his head.
“Quiet night,” he answers.
“Best kind.” Carlson replies. “You wanna switch or you wanna keep walking?” Carlson asks, showing no desire to get out of the car.
“I’ll keep walking,” answers Julius. “I see better when I’m walking.”
~ ~ ~
Celebration Day begins with a picnic that spreads across the entire common green. Everyone has turned out. The weather has cooperated to produce a mild day under a gentle sky of feathery cirrus clouds. Families mingle and lounge. A half-dozen barbecue rigs are pouring out smoke and the smell of cooked meats. The association has provided food and drink trucks, a bounce house in the shape of a castle, a cotton candy maker, and professional jugglers who toss bowling pins at each other.
Each year, just after Christmas as Celebration Day draws near, Glory becomes tentative and reserved. The change in her is so apparent that the kids ask what’s wrong with Mama. He tells them she’s tired from the holidays. For three years, he’s tried to convince her to come out. Every year, she’s refused. She makes other plans, says she’d rather spend the day hiking in the mountains or walking by the water. So he’s spent the last three years making excuses for why he’s the only family man there without a family. This year, he vows to himself, it’s going to be different.
A couple of days before New Year’s with the kids safely in bed, he asks Glory to sit with him at the kitchen table. With his hands wrapped around a mug of herbal tea, he takes a breath to make his case.
“I want you there. I want you and the kids to be there. I know what you think of the place, but it’s important to me that you be there.”
Glory sighs and folds her arms in front of her chest. “Haven’t you given them enough? You guard their houses while they sleep. You’re out there protecting them while I lie awake all night. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“I thought you wanted to go back to school and study science.”
“I do.”
“It’s a job, Julius. There other jobs. There better jobs. What they pay––it’s not worth it. I know they gave you a big fat check for Christmas but that don’t mean you owe them.”
He tries to picture himself at one of these better jobs, sitting in an air-conditioned office, sitting at a desk, coming in at 8:30, home by six. It would be nice, but the choice is clear to him.
“It’s not about the money,” he says. “Yeah, I could work at the shipping company with your brother. I could have a cozy chair in a cozy office. Probably make more, get better benefits. But I’d rather do this.”
“Why?”
“Because the world is a terrible place.” He hadn’t meant to say that. It just shot out of his mouth before he knew it, but now that it’s out there, he doesn’t regret it. He puts the mug aside and takes her hands. The gesture is so intimate it surprises her. “I know what you think, but this job’s given me something I never had before. I’m stronger because of it. Our kids gotta grow up in this world. They have to be strong. That’s why I do it. For them.”
“There are other ways for that.”
“Come out Saturday and you’ll see.”
And so she does. As they make their way across the great lawn, Glory brings up the rear, a picnic basket banging against her thigh, her face hidden beneath a sunhat. Julius leads his family around the spread of picnic blankets and beach towels. He greets each resident they pass, and the residents smile and joke about not recognizing him in the daylight hours. They’re enchanted by his young daughter and son, and flood them with compliments. Delilah is too young to know what’s going on. When she sees the bounce house, she assumes it’s someone’s birthday and there will be cake. Glory is polite and friendly but holds on to their son, Matthew, like he’s an emotional support animal. Delilah yanks on her father’s arm to drag him toward the bounce house. The residents are especially thrilled to finally meet Julius’s family. Then there’s the running joke that if Julius is attending the celebration, who’s watching the property?
“Oh somebody,” he says with a laugh. “I hope.”
Glory lays down blankets and starts to unpack a basket and a cooler. A jazz quartet plays sunny summer music under the shade of the gazebo. The Duncans join a gathering that includes the other guards and their families. Julius introduces Glory to Aquino, Carlson, and Bennington, and the half-a-dozen children that surround them. Julius nods to his wife as if to say, See, everybody’s here with their families. Before all the kids run off to the bounce house, Julius instructs Matthew to make sure his little sister doesn’t get knocked down by the bigger kids.
Glory slices apples and pears. She unpacks chips, sausages, and bread. The activity comes across as an outlet for the irritation she’s trying to conceal. “Look at this place,” she says with a scowl. “It’s practically wrapped in plastic.”
He can’t help but laugh. “They have their ways.”
He watches his son and daughter careen around the bounce house with a dozen other children. At first, he worries Delilah is too little to be in there. Then she knocks some kid twice her size to the mat. “That’s my girl,” he says with a laugh under his breath.
By four o’clock, the people begin to make their way to the stadium. They roll up their blankets and stuff trash into the bins that ring the green. His kids are preoccupied with cups of soft serve when Glen comes up to say hello. Julius stands to shake the man’s hand, and the man leans down to introduce himself to Glory.
“Isn’t this great?” asks Glen, waving an arm to everything around them. “It’s so good to see everybody just hanging out, being happy. Your kids having a great time?”
“They are,” says Julius.
Glen makes small talk about the neighborhood and about how much everyone loves Julius. Then he glances at his watch. “We’re about to get started, so if I may borrow your husband, Glory.”
“Of course,” she says wryly. “Duty calls.”
“I’ve saved seats for your family right up front,” says Glen.
Julius kisses his wife on the cheek and gives a quick hug to his kids. “I’ll see you inside.”
“Don’t be late,” adds Glen. “Don’t want to miss the opening. The opening’s the best part.”
Julius and the other guards fall in behind Glen as he walks across the green like the Pied Piper, collecting residents and service people in his wake. While the majority of the community will fill the court’s seats, Julius and the other participants head for the players’ entrance that leads to the facilities under the stands.
Julius takes his uniform and protective gear from a locker. The locker room is too small for all of them, so some have to change in the narrow hallway outside. As he switches from his Saturday hang-around-the-yard wear into the black uniform, his mind naturally trips into work mode. But this is not like the start of the night shift. The guards are quiet and tentative. Bennington’s rowdy humor is replaced by silent preparation. He’s the first one dressed and instead of the usual razzing of his coworkers, he stands stiffly against the lockers, fidgeting with the protective gear on his legs and elbows. Aquino sits with his hands folded together, eyes closed, appearing to be in the midst of some mental exercise. Carlson rocks in the corner, his arms in the ready position. They greet each other with solemn nods. Julius has seen this many times before; it’s the locker room before the big game, each player consumed by what’s expected of him, visualizing what’s to come and his part in it.
Neal pokes his head around the corner and announces that it’s time. The guards filter toward the doorway as Neal leads them to the end of the tunnel, where late-afternoon light spills in from the stadium.
Julius steps onto the court. He and the other guards join various community employees who climb up the structure and spread out along its width. It takes him a moment to adjust to the crowd. He’s seen crowds like this before, but usually he’s part of them. After night after night of solitary, silent patrols through hours of darkness, he reflexively recoils at the sight of hundreds of grinning, cheering faces. While he knows most of them well, the fact that they’re wrapped around him as a mass of bodies makes it hard to distinguish individuals.
Every seat is taken. There’s an overflow of people standing in the back and perched on the stairs that lead from the court to the top of the bleachers. It’s a fire code violation, of course, but nobody seems too concerned about that. Glory and his kids are in the front row. The kids wave and grin up at their father like he’s a star athlete stepping into a championship game. They turn their heads to take in the crowd. He waves to let them know he’s okay being up here.
Julius and the other guards take their positions on the first level of the platform. Today everyone wears black. Aquino is on Julius’s right and a day shift guard is on his left. On the second level are a dozen employees—groundskeepers, office staff, maintenance workers, cleaners, bussers from the restaurants. They too are dressed in the black uniforms of the guards, though they don’t look like guards. They look lost. Glen bounds on to the stage, microphone in hand and a dazzling white smile for the crowd.
“Hello neighbors, hello friends,” Glen calls out to rapturous applause and shouts. “Great to see so many of you here. This is what makes our community what it is. I want to say thank you to all of you. You make this possible.” Glen applauds the audience and the audience replies in kind. “And I want to thank all the staff and our friends up here. Aren’t they the best?” Glen and the audience applaud those on the stage. “So, enough from me, let’s get started.” Glen quickly descends to a place off to the side. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Glen announces with great dramatic effect. “Bring on the patriots!”
Julius and the other guards close ranks. The staff members behind them are not trained or conditioned as the guards are. They fidget and shuffle about. But Julius is ready. He adopts the posture and attitude that he uses as he walks the property. The darkness does not scare him, and he patrols the grounds daring something to leap out at him. But this is not darkness. This is the golden hour of the afternoon, the sun spilling its benevolent rays across the stadium and over the throng of spectators who now rise to their feet and erupt with a cheer that rattles his bones.
Then they charge the stage. Two or three dozen lead the way and another fifty or so follow. They come all at once like a wave. They scramble up the steps, waving batons and carrying flagpoles with oversized banners. The guards are supposed to stop them, but not really, for this is their day, their celebration, and the guards and staff are facilitators, like caterers at a wedding, servers at a family dinner. They are to remain in the background, even when they’re thrust on to center stage.
As rehearsed, Julius and the other guards raise plastic shields and lock them together. They bend their knees and hold their forearms like a well-disciplined offensive line. As the residents pour toward the stage, Julius loses sight of Glory and the kids. He sees only shouting and waving bodies charging toward him, their heavy-footed clamoring makes the whole structure shake. Then the crowd is on him. He is face to face with Max and Neal who have decorated themselves in patriotic warpaint and carry flagpoles like spears. Their genial smiles have been replaced by a furious rage that taken out of context might be seen as threatening, but Julius knows it’s only the excitement of the day that drives them forward. Max and Neal crash into Julius, and in an instant, Julius is on his back against the second level steps. The other guards retreat to the second level and reinforce the staff members, but the mob runs through them all as if they were paper targets waving from a clothesline.
Neal scrambles to get to the top with the ferocity of a man lost in the heat of combat, and as he does so, he kicks Julius in the head. There is a place in Julius’s mind that tells him it was an accident, but through the mayhem and the noise of the crowd, Julius thinks he hears his daughter scream. He grabs Neal by the ankle and yanks him back. The man tumbles into the crowd and rolls down the steps. As the flood of residents stomp up the stairs, Julius uses the shield to protect his face, though it’s more toy than tactical gear. They can’t help but step on him, kick him, fall on him, as they race to the top. He knows they’re not trying to hurt him, would avoid him if they could, but the mob pushes forth with a will of its own. Even residents who thought they were safe in the mob are brushed aside as a new line of patriots charges into the one in front.
It’s over in seconds. The patriots reach the crown of the structure and plant their flag in a slot created for just such a purpose. Then the stomping and shoving subsides, and the now hundred or so residents who have made it onto the structure pause in their places, raise their arms in triumph and let out a celebratory roar.
Julius finds four or five pairs of arms helping him to his feet and affectionate hands patting his back and shoulders. They ask him if he’s okay, steady him in case he needs help down the steps, but he’s able to convince them that he’s fine. They’re congratulating him, the way the winner thanks the loser for a close contest. The rage is gone. They are as mild-mannered and solicitous as they are when he meets them on his rounds, when he greets them as they pull their trash cans from the street or wash their cars in their driveways. Julius scans the front row. Glory has an arm wrapped around each child. He makes his way down to them, wiping his sweaty brow, glad to see that no blood has appeared on his hand.
Delilah and Matthew are frozen against their mother, only their heaving chests reveal how much they are alive.
“It’s okay.” Julius kneels to their level. “See?” He gestures back to the cheering, dancing throng behind him. “I’m not hurt. Daddy’s fine. They didn’t hurt me.”
Glen, Neal, and Max make their way down to the front and congratulate Julius on his valiant effort.
“You really took me out,” says Neal with a double-wide grin and a few claps on Julius’s shoulder. “Next year, I want you on our team.”
“Next year, we need more guards. It was too easy,” says Max.
Glen bends toward the kids. “Your daddy did great. You should be proud.”
A slight smile creeps across Delilah’s lips. “Daddy fell down.”
Julius puts a hand on her back. “Yeah, Daddy fell down, but I’m okay. Understand?”
Delilah nods vacantly.
Matthew touches his father’s fake body armor. “You got that one guy.”
“Yeah, he got me good,” says Neal. “Your daddy is one tough customer.”
“Ice bags and ibuprofen for everyone,” Glen jokes.
Through it all, Glory stands fiercely erect, her jaw set firmly in defiance. “The children need to go home,” she says in a voice that quakes with adrenalin. She looks at Julius with an expression he’s not seen before, one of numb horror, like the survivor of a catastrophe. “The children need to go home.”
“You saw me up there,” Julius says to his kids as he dabs sweat from his face. “I wasn’t scared. They knocked me down, but I got up.”
Classic rock blasts from the stadium’s speakers. Fireworks shatter the late-afternoon sky, though it’s not nearly dark enough. Residents who have captured the structure are in no hurry to surrender it, jumping and bounding around its surface, waving their flags as if signaling some far off compatriots. Bennington and Carlson stand with them, grinning and hooting, helping two residents raise a giant banner.
“We’re going home. Now.” Glory steers the children toward the exit.
Julius reaches down and scoops Delilah up in his arms. He holds her high on his shoulder and ascends the steps of the structure. Glory calls to him, but he only looks back and waves for Matthew to follow. The boy holds on to his mother, but leans toward the stage, his eyes darting from one to the other. Glory has her arms around him as if he could be swept up in an outgoing tide.
Julius climbs to the second level, makes his way through the throng. They pat his back and make space for him and wave to his daughter. He is helped up to the crown by the celebrants and turns to face Glory with Delilah high on his shoulder. She’s laughing and waving to her mother. Held up by her father, she’s the tallest one there.
Julius feels a throbbing in his knee. He must have fallen heavily and wonders if it will become inflamed and painful as the night wears on. He should get home and ice it. He has tomorrow off. He hopes that’s enough to be ready for his rounds.
