Simon Says

Simon says things, and we listen. Often times, middle of the day, of class, he’ll come up to the front and smile to the teacher, usually after some announcement so that he wouldn’t be interrupting, and tell us things. And we listen. Rapturously. The baritone voice that fills the space, without unnecessary flourishes but a certain inflexion that hypnotizes, rhapsodizes, sensuous and cool. Pauses between words and sentences and syllables, so breathless; vacuums that suck us in, and a pace that beats out a rhythm so strong and stable, yet unpredictable — keeps us on our toes, ears wide and vulnerable. Simon says. And we fall — follow.

Simon says that we do an excellent job at promoting school spirit. He points to the rallies, the cheering at the games, the way we take care of the freshmen and show respect to the administration, and the principal, Mrs. Hinkel gleams. He continues, waving his arms across the plane of people in front of him, addressing all of us personally, his deep brown eyes glancing across with an intense intimacy: that we connect on a personal and spiritual level, he articulates, is the foundation of a strong and ultimately successful community. And that is what we have here.

Cue the curtain calls and the whoops and haws and shrieks that come as he basks in this brilliance display of reverence. Though none of us really like Simon — with his undeniably exasperated smile and formulaic speech (however enticing), and his firm handshakes and boisterous laughter. Kelly says we should kill him: smother him with a pillow at night, she says, but then she sulks, and looks down. It’s raining. Simon says rain is a sign of life; but with life comes misery, he warns while he wears a knowing face, which is why rain can cause so much misery and gloom: it is the way life is. Even we have to cheer at that, I must confess.

Simon says that we should ban plastic bags here in our city. I called up the mayor and all, and explained the environmental and economic impact, and how it would affect the town citizens, he says. And what happened? Oh, it passed. Oh? You just have to say the right things at the right time, he follows quickly. I see, I see. And Simon points up at the sun: sure looks bright today, eh?

Simon’s mom brings dinner up to his room around 6pm each day. A good, hearty steamy meal to satisfy his stomach as he pours over his work and fine tunes his speeches. Everything I do...is a product of hard work and persistence, he claims. Over and over again, with tweaks in his wording, he expounds this mantra to us, until we want to blow off his kneecaps and pull out his teeth. It is rather infuriating to hear him speak his poetry, his lyrical madness, ping-ponging in my ears as I lay awake in bed. My fists are clenched, but when he comes and talks to me, my mind softens ever so slightly as to calm down enough to listen and understand. Do you understand? he asks. And I nod. I bob my head profusely, yes yes, I do.

We need to do something, Simon says in all seriousness, and I’m surprised. The setting is the school’s front parking lot, around 4:30pm. He’s standing on the curb, while I stand on the street, so he’s looking down at me with his hands in his pockets. His expression — it’s not quite yet condescending, but approaching it. And once I shift a foot to the left, his head blocks the sun behind, casting this ominous shadow on me. Dark, perhaps, but Simon once said during english class, sometimes a detail is just a detail; I was just glad to be in the shade. Laughter breaks out (I think I started it) once Simon continues: sometimes I just see a lion on the boat. The uproar takes a while to die down — scoffing and coughing as I’m bent over slightly. Is it something I said? he threatens. Except I’m not threatened. So he laughs along and comes forward and pats me on the back. That makes me want to stab him. How gracelessly he handles things — how cringeworthy.

Simon says things that make no sense, but he says it all so sensibly; when I check my watch, thirty minutes have passed in what seemed like a blink of an eye. What is this trance? And when Simon stops speaking, I feel almost petrified and paralyzed, the lights appearing much brighter than before. He comes, clutching a book under his arm, a book without a title, and though I don't have a clear view, I am sure of it, the entire book is blank.

That’s the way it is, he remarks. Nothing is here, nothing is there, there’s nothing at all! Simon chuckles, and the rest of us sighs and facepalms. There is a moment of silence and empty echo before someone says, fuck this, and then a violent slam, a shot — Simon falls and none of us blinks an eye (but maybe two). It’s so quiet, Jasmine whispers to my right.

Paramedics arrive within five minutes even though no one said they called 911. Simon gives a thumbs up as he’s carried away on a stretcher. We still stand there, in a trance, disbelieving. Less than two weeks later, Simon calls the principal that he’ll be coming back soon. You’ve gotta be kidding, Mrs. Hinkel says. No ma’am, Simon says, it wasn’t my kidney; it was my liver that was hit.

When he finally makes his return, it’s drizzling. Naturally he stumbles to the front. We are waiting, always.

Simon says. And when he finishes, his lips close and then spreads into a winning grin, and we have to get up on our feet and cheer. Clap until our hands are red and our ears go deaf — what an absolute scumbag, we tell each other as we clamor towards the stage. For a second he makes eye contact with me, my heart skips three beats, and the applause rains on.