Creepy Kid

He shows up in costume, like the others. Tie-dyed shirt, eighties track jacket. I figure he’s supposed to be a hippie, but the look doesn’t suit him. Maybe it’s because he’s shaved his head, or because his pallid skin lacks the sheen of your average countercultural icon. Maybe it’s because he clenches his fists far more tightly than a hippie ever would. Or maybe it’s because his occasional sniffles remind me of wet rats. Whatever the reason, this kid gives me the creeps.

When I watch The Silence of the Lambs, I often sense that Anthony Hopkins intentionally looks at me when he talks about people he’s eaten. His pupils focus in on me, as if to say “Now you know my secret. Now you are implicated in my sin.” Each time this happens, I have to pause the movie. “Stop looking at me, Anthony Hopkins,” I reply in my mind. “And stop eating people!”

The way this kid stares into the light, there is a measure of Hannibal in him. He’s not just staring at the lamps. He’s staring at me. He sees through me. I can feel the spit of his disdain as it accumulates in his thyroid. He does not like it here. He does not want to talk.

From the nervous looks now circulating on the dark side of the table, I can tell I’m not the only one who sees it. Good old N., though, he keeps right on interviewing, his hulking shoulders hunched over a notebook full of questions.

“What is your greatest fear?”
Silence.
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
Nothing but stare.
“Remember, you must answer every question.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” he finally drawls.

He might as well have said, “I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice Chianti.”



(Flesh out a metaphor)