Installation 29: Take Him Down previous
James Trehorn prided himself on staying just a little bit later than everyone else at The Museum. He was oblivious to the usual “pack it in for the day” activities others began at 4:50, preferring to stay at his desk working on meeting agendas, notes, scheduling and the like. Once people began their migration down the halls to the lobby to turn in their badges, he sat up straight at his desk, hands folded and watched through the glass doors of The Director’s suite. Some people waved but most were so used to James and his all-seeing eyes they just ignored him.
One Wednesday evening, James flipped off his desk lamp at 5:35 and gathered his satchel and coat. He went down the hall and was about to pass by the Marketing and Public Relations office when he noticed a light was still on inside. He tried the door and it opened.
Fern looked up from her desk, startled.
“Oh,” James said. “I wasn’t aware anyone else was still working.”
“I stay until 6:00,” Fern said.
This was distressing to James. Someone was working later than he was and by quite a bit of time. Half an hour.
“There are rules,” James said. “They don’t like us to stay past 5:30 unless absolutely necessary so they can secure the building. I’m surprised your supervisor…”
“It’s quite necessary,” Fern said. “I have so much work to do.”
“Might I suggest skipping lunch?”
“I don’t eat lunch,” Fern said.
“How about coming in a little earlier?”
“I come as soon as they unlock the doors,” Fern said. “And they won’t give me my own key. I asked.”
“Pity,” James said. “Should I walk you out?”
Reluctantly, Fern got up from her desk and collected her handbag and coat. As they made their way towards the lobby, Fern watched James.
“It might be nice to have a hot cup of coffee right now,” Fern said. “After the day I’ve had.”
“There are quite a few cafes in the area,” James said. “I’m sure all of them would love to sell you some coffee.”
“I hate sitting in a restaurant alone,” Fern said, knitting her unibrow with displeasure. “I find that people always stare.”
“Well,” James said. “Perhaps if you could find a café with dim lighting it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“What does that mean?”
“I only mean that shadowy corners and ill-lit rooms must be a comfort to you,” James said. “A relief from people curious about your… disfigurement.”
“My disfigurement?”
“I mean… Your condition?”
“My condition?”
“Whatever you’ve got… Or whatever happened to make you…” James sputtered, at a loss for words.
“I have no condition,” Fern said. “And nothing has happened to me. I admit I’m no Sports Illustrated swimming suit model, but I wouldn’t say I’m chopped liver!”
James was about to beg to differ when they arrived at the guard desk and Henry Rickenbottom reached for their IDs.
“I’d like an escort to my car,” Fern said to Henry.
“Sorry, we’re short staffed tonight,” Henry said. “I’m on desk until 6:00. Barney didn’t show.”
Henry waited for James to offer to be Fern’s escort.
“Well,” James said, coughing weakly into his fist. “I’m late for a dinner date. I’d better be off.”
He turned and left The Museum, walking quickly along the sidewalk that led to the parking ramp. He checked behind him once and saw that Fern was headed in the opposite direction. Assured that he wouldn’t have to look at Fern’s twisted countenance any longer, he slowed his pace and began to whistle.
He approached an area lined on both sides with thick bushes. Passing through them, he felt a chill and stopped to put on his jacket. When he started to walk again, he thought he heard something behind him. Not footsteps but the click and rattle of a poorly maintained bicycle. He stopped. The noise stopped.
He walked. Click, click, click.
He spun around.
There was a boy on a bike. Even though it was a chilly night, the boy wore a black t-shirt and no coat. He was pale-skinned and had a shock of red hair that swooped down and nearly concealed his eyes.
“Would you like to pass?” James asked.
The boy smirked and kept his eyes down on the ground.
Annoyed, James turned around and walked on towards the ramp.
The click, click, click was joined by a chunk, chunk, chunk. James whirled around.
There was another boy. This one looked identical to the first - same clothing, same red hair, same smirk. They sat on their bikes, all gangly legs and arms, not looking at James.
“If you’d like to pass, please do,” James said.
The red-heads said nothing. From behind them, further down the sidewalk, James could see yet another boy biking towards them. And from the side came two more, biking across The Museum’s pristine lawn, leaving tracks. All of them gathering behind him, none of them speaking. All of them smirking.
James hesitated, considering another attempt at diplomacy. Then he started to run.
He ran to the only place he could think of: his car. It was, of course, parked inside the otherwise empty parking ramp. In his haste, he ran past the doorway to the stairs and ran up the ramp, circling around. The tires of the redheads nipped at his loafers and left skid marks on his pants. He could hear them breathing, all at once, like one mighty organism. Ahead he saw his silver Audi, gleaming in the moonlight. It looked surprisingly serene. If only he could make it to its protective shell, he would lock the doors, start the engine and run the bastards over like frogs on a highway.
But this was flawed thinking. Because even a man who spends as much time jogging and cross country skiing as James could not outrun a gang of redheaded boys on bikes. They overcame him while he was still yards from his car. One of them reached out with a piece of something metal and struck James in the knee. He crumpled to the ground.
Around him he heard the skidding of tires against pavement as they surrounded him, kicking him, tentatively at first, but then picking up speed and enthusiasm.
“Stop!”
A voice boomed out across the parking ramp. It was not, James realized, his own voice. He was doing nothing but whimpering.
“I said to take him down,” the voice said. “Not hurt him.”
James looked up. It was a masked figure wearing a guard suit and top hat.
“Go on,” the Phantom said. “Get out of here.”
The redheads got back on their bikes and circled around the spot where James lay. Like sharks that smell blood in water, they seemed unable to simply leave. The Phantom darted at them, threatening to push them from their bikes. The circle of bikes spun out into a line and, in a matter of seconds, the redheads disappeared.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” the Phantom said.
“Do I know you?” James asked, sitting up to cradle his knee.
The Phantom pushed him back to the ground and held him there. James could feel the strength of the man’s arms; the force with which he held him down was daunting.
“Do you work out?” James asked.
“Let’s just say I have a lot of empty hours to fill,” The Phantom said.
“Would you happen to have any suggestions for the triceps?” James asked.
“Christ, don't you get it? ” the Phantom asked.
“What?”
“I’m going to beat your ass, James Trehorn,” the Phantom hissed. “And you can’t stop talking about exercise?”
James opened his mouth to reply and the Phantom inserted his boot into it. Then he jumped on top of James and pummeled him, slamming his head back onto the pavement.
Down below, the redheads waited, balancing on their bikes while listening to James cry out. Whether they waited because they enjoyed it or because the Phantom owed them money, candy, or dirty magazines wasn’t clear. It was also not clear, the next day, exactly why the cameras set up to survey the outdoor areas, including the ramp, went down at 5:30 and came up again after 10, when James finally crawled from the bloodied concrete to his Audi and drove himself to the emergency room.