XVIII.

Dissolve. Sunset, and the sea reflecting it. Seagulls cavort. Not evil seagulls with stomach cameras; regu- lar seagulls. They dart and circle around one another; they say “Quee! Quee!”

A small cruise boat bobs. On a lower deck, we hear a clutter-clearing class in progress. On the upper deck, a man, outlined against jagged streaks of red and purple clouds, is in crisis, shuddering, babbling to himself: “In the case of you vs. me, in the case of car vs. cow...in the case of dog vs. tree...just in case I’ll tear myself open while the kitchen delivers you stew. The grip of the patriot’s pen is pliable! Giving!”

He’s delirious, feeling only shame. A cramping twinge of self-loathing seizes his throat as he recalls a defining event:

He’s 14, on vacation with his family in upper Long Island. Two nights ago he stole baseball cards from a weak kid and he’s got them stashed in the bedroom of the grey cabin his folks have rented for the summer. And he’s quite damn sure that the 8-year-old kid next door saw him take the cards. He’s seen the pest in the rec room, whispering to no one, twirling in circles without a care. He definitely knows everything.

The 14-year old, whose name is Greg Kucharo but his friend calls him Kootch, sees a TV commercial that night which addresses his dilemma: a kind man, with the bearing of a healer and a couple of extra eyebrows, who looks soulfully into the camera and says “We’ll take care of everything. Ophunji Jams and Jellies.”

With a flashlight under his bedcovers that night, seizing his last hope, Kootch scrawls a letter, to be mailed to the address on the Ophunji Peach Jam jar he found in the pantry: “Dear sirs...I know my neighbors know. And they must be silenced.”

A couple of weeks later something very odd happens to the younger kid while he’s using the soda machine...

Kootch continues to sing to himself on the top
deck of the cruise boat, rocking slowly and clutching his left shoulder. “Sometimes I sound like I know what I’m talking about...even worse - sometimes I FEEL like I know what I’m talking about. Well, I’m sorry, yes I’m sorry. ‘Cause I just want to cry almost all the time.”

A heavy wave rocks the boat...Kootch lurches forward, vomits a little, mutters “you knew it...you told me so. I’m sorry. Thank you - I love you - I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The clutter-clearing class-goers below chirp happily about the joy of making space in their lives.

The boat is buffeted by an insanely huge wave and Kootch is lost in a vomiting, grief-stricken guilt hallucination, his own bizarre, shock-haired, rodeo-clown self hovering above him and mocking him: “PUT HIM UP ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK!! HE’S A NO-GOOD KID!!! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HE DID!” and on and on. Kootch falls on his back and bawls.

Slowly a group of silent figures ascends from the lower level of the boat; they surround Kootch, touch heads above him and enshroud him in a tent of love and support.

It’s The Quiet Children.

The group we saw back at Ophunji’s studio wasn’t them (it was The Scorpions, supplemented by members of Air Supply’s touring band, dressed up in Quiet Children costumes). The real Children escaped the attack of Quaigo’s men, and brought an unconscious Kootch back with them to this, their modest cruising yacht. Now they sail, for the island of DaDunDa.

One of the Children reaches up and removes her head, which is a mask (none of the others wear masks - that’s really the way they look). It’s Ami. Scambot’s ex-. She reminds Kootch of Betty Hutton.

“I’m all sorts of evasive action!” she proclaims to Kootch, urging him to his feet. “Eight ways of saying ‘look over there!’” She furrows her brow.

“I’m crankin’ on workin’ on what I’m trying to tell you.”

She’s kept herself hidden from Scambot since they broke up, but she’s kept her eye on him. Watched over him intensely, in fact, while collecting information, which she’s then reported to The Quiet Children - who are primarily an intelligence-gathering group, using their one-hit wonder status as a means to hide in plain sight. They’ve toiled for years to uncover
the evidence needed to bring the bastard Ophunji to his knees, often in tandem with a muck-raking, subversive journalist friend of theirs named Mike Barno. And, as it happens, Barno recently became the fifteenth journalist in thirteen years who’s chosen to supplement their income by assuming the identity of ‘Campland’ Standish.

For now, Ami’s concern is to soothe Kootch. She gestures with crisp enthusiasm. “Makes me laugh, how hard this is...these diversions and marginal thoughts...wanna throw up the shutters and hit the lights...sayin’ ‘Yes! We’re open! Now! We’re open!’ ”

The rest of the Children ease sideways into a party groove, knitting their voices into contrapuntal layers. “We’re gonna have a good time...we’re gonna have a good time...”

And they are. Kootch’s upchuck is gently sponged off of his clown shirt, and, still shaky, still troubled, he sings along.

Sail on they do, toward their own surveillance center under the dirt of DaDunDa, two miles away from the R.E. Burger Power Plant near Shadyside, Ohio, where they will keep an eye on Scambot’s travails and Ophunji’s transgressions at a safe remove.

A few of the Children grab a couple of acoustic guitars, a bass and a 5-piece drum kit, set them up under the stars, and sing a gentle song to accompany their long journey.

La doh da DaDun deDa
La doh da DaDun de Da...

Some young ones stand together, head to head, and they sing. More and more Quiet Children ascend from the lower deck to sing the last verse. 29 of them total - the ones with the hit song were the tip of an iceberg. “This is a force to be reckoned with,” thinks Kootch. “How long before they know I betrayed him? Do they know now? They must!”

Paranoia slaps his mind, smacks irritatingly at his neck and skull, and is then vaporized by the sound of the voices, the swaying of the boat, the fading colors of the sunset.

He empties his head of turmoil and gives himself over to the moment. All’s peace, at the moment.