The figure of a man exited the back door of a six storey brick building, and entered a wide alleyway. The building he had come from was mirrored by similar buildings standing on the other side of the alley and stretching along its length.
The man was lean and muscular, unless that part of his appearance was a deception created by his clothing. He wore an olive green sweater, covered by a matching, unzipped hoodie. He had on blue jeans, wool socks and hiking boots. His hands were shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. As he walked he hunched his shoulders.
It was early in the morning. The daylight was still young.
In that alleyway an observer would not have seen any other people. Faint sounds from unseen televisions and radios, the flushing of water through pipes, the honking of unseen cars, the growl of motors, suggested that the man was not the only person in the world or the only one awake at this hour.
Rats and stray cats darted into shadows or climbed into dumpsters at the man’s progress. He either was no longer capable of noticing such movement or was simply disinterested. He did not turn his head at their movement, the rattling inside dumpsters and trash cans, or the screeching and scratching that occurred when these denizens of the alley came into contact with each other.
The smells of breakfasts cooking wafted from apartments and eateries. It mixed with the scents of urine, rotting garbage and excrement. The man was not distracted by any of this. His nostrils did not twitch. He continued on his way. It was part of his daily routine, this walk, along with all its sights, sounds, and scents.
The man liked routine. He liked the commonplace. He had given up on big dreams long ago. He had no need for ambition. He preferred the simple: small joys, close friends, a job that did not overtax his mind or overstress his body. He did not need much. Only enough to get by. He considered anything more than that to be foolishness. Not everyone agreed with his views.
A figure in a black trenchcoat, black wide brimmed hat, face wrapped in a grey scarf, eyes concealed by dark sunglasses, hands covered with black gloves, crouched behind a trash can. He watched the other man’s progress. When the man in the olive sweater and hoodie neared his place of hiding, he called out to him in a loud whisper.
‘Blendheim. Psst. Blendheim.’
The man in the olive sweater, who was named Blendheim, ignored the whisperer. He kept walking, now moving a bit faster.
As the man passed the entrance to an adjoining alley, another figure standing with back pressed against a wall in the shadows watched him. This figure was also dressed in a black trench coat, and wore a black hat, grey scarf, dark sunglasses and black gloves.
As Blendheim passed the alleyway the man in the shadows croaked in a harsh voice, ‘Blendheim! Hey, Blendheim!’
Blendheim did not stop or turn his head. He kept walking, increasing his pace.
A sewer grate rose up from the alley ahead of him. Underneath it, Blendheim saw that a man in black hat, grey scarf, dark sunglasses and a black trench coat was holding the grate over his head.
‘Blendheim,’ the man said. ‘Don’t ignore me.’
Blendheim did ignore him. He walked around the sewer grate, resisting the temptation to force it back down with his foot.
Blendheim came to an area with several crates stacked haphazardly. He saw there were doors and windows in the surrounding buildings facing his path. There were several doors. His instincts told him he was surrounded.
He could not suppress a desire to look. He spun around. As he did he caught glimpses of people in black trench coats with black hats, grey scarves and dark sunglasses, disappearing back into partially open doors and windows, and ducking behind crates.
Some were tall. Some were short. Some were average height. Some were fat. Some were thin. Some were in between.
A chorus of voices rained down from above.
‘Blendheim!’
Blendheim thought they had grown desperate, for they spoke loud now, and no longer in whispers. He looked up and saw a multitude of black hatted heads pulling back from the edge of rooftops.
Blendheim turned to continue walking along his original course.
A dozen figures in black trench coats, black hats, grey scarves and dark sunglasses popped out of trash cans, potholes, manholes, and doggy doors. More appeared from behind rain spouts, delivery trucks, and sleeping junkies.
‘Blendheim!’ they shouted.
Blendheim stopped walking. He stretched out his arms to each side. He looked up at the sky and shouted, ‘Alright! I hear you! What do you want!’
Black hats and black trench coats showed themselves from every roof, window, and door. They appeared from behind every stray animal and every pile of garbage. Their heads popped out of sewers, from under passing cars, and from inside an abandoned baby carriage. They all cried out to him.
‘Blendheim! Call your mother!’
The heads disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.
‘Why?’ Blendheim shouted.
All the hatted heads popped out from their hiding places.
‘She wants to talk with you.’
The heads vanished back into hiding.
‘Okay. You win. I will give her a call.’
Blendheim pulled out his cellphone. He tried to remember his mother’s number. He had deleted and blocked it months before because of her frequent calls.
‘Don’t use your phone,’ shouted a hundred hidden voices. ‘You will need to use a secure line.’
A cellphone slid across the asphalt and stopped near Blendheim’s feet. He squatted down and picked it up. It was not like other phones. There was no keyboard, no apps, no anything. There was only one button labelled ‘Mom.’
Blendheim sighed. He pushed the button. His mother answered immediately. He saw her on the phone’s screen. Her immense pink form was floating in zero gravity while a robot gave her a pedicure.
His mother lived on a secret space station, cloaked from view, orbiting somewhere between Earth and its moon. She preferred space to the planet’s surface. Zero gravity was easier on her joints. She could move around without feeling the pesky pull of gravity on her flesh. She preferred the company of robots to people. Robots were always polite and loyal. They never made rude comments about her weight or appearance, resulting in her having to order their termination.
‘Hi, mom.’
‘Blendheim,’ she gushed. ‘My darling, so good to see you and hear your voice. It’s been ages. The things a mother has to do to get a son to call! You should be ashamed, but it doesn’t matter. I forgive you. I am happy to have you now, for this moment.’
Blendheim always wondered what went on in his mother’s head. Why did she feign so much affection? He found it hard to consider this woman to be his mother. He had been conceived in a petri dish. His mother had claimed in recent years to have carried him to term after her fertilized egg was inserted in her womb, but Blendheim’s earliest memories were of a woman with much darker skin holding him and letting him suckle at her breast. That woman, whom he once suspected was his mother, he now knew might have been a surrogate.
Blendheim did not even meet his ‘mother’ until he was eight years old. From the time he was weaned until he was eight, Blendheim had lived in a group home, cared for by dozens of nannies. There were over fifty other children there, of various ages, who he was told were his brothers and sisters, all born of surrogate mothers.
He knew from the time he was young that his mother was important, that she had power, and that she was smarter than most other people on the planet. He did not know what his mother’s name was. That information was classified.
His father? Blendheim was not sure who his father was. He had learned of some possible names back when he cared to investigate the matter, but these turned out to be only names. He had been unable to locate any photographs, addresses, phone numbers or biographical information that could be associated with any of the names. There was no documentation that he could find anywhere. All he knew was what he had learned from informants, persons that trafficked in information that was not readily available to the curious. It had taken him a long time to track down these sources. None of them were very forthcoming, no matter how much he paid them or what kind of torments he put them through. Most of them were gone now. Disappeared. Possibly liquidated. The best he had been able to piece together from what he did learn from ‘interviews’ with them was that his father was a scientist of some kind, who might have dabbled in world politics, more or less as a hobby.
Both of Blendheim’s parents had power, but were secretive about it. He knew that much. No one knew who they were, where they were, the sources of their wealth, or what they did to gain and hold the power that they had. Every family has its secrets.
‘Good to see you too, mom.’
Behind, in front of, above, and below Blendheim many ears were secretly listening. All of those ears were wrapped in grey scarves worn by cautious professionals in black hats, dark sunglasses, and black trench coats.
‘What do you want? Why did you ask me to call?’
‘What do I want? Do I have to want something to speak with you? I am your mother. I worry about you. I worry about all my children. Sometimes I just want to see your face and hear your voice to make sure you are okay.’
‘As you can see I am doing fine.’
‘Fine. Is that what you call it? I understand you still aren’t married. I hear you are not even seeing one particular person. You flit around like a butterfly. It seems you have no interest in letting me hold a grandchild in my old age.’
‘I don’t have to get married to father a child. I could donate to a sperm bank. Besides, as far as I know, you and my father never married.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Blendheim wondered if his mother was on the verge of revealing new information.
In a steady voice he asked his mother, ‘Does that mean you were married to my father?’
‘You don’t know that either.’ She waved her hand. ‘It would be better if we changed the subject. That whole area is highly classified.’
‘Is there anything else you need to talk to me about?’
‘Of course. You are my son. Are you still working at that record store?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Vinyl is so... so retro.’
‘I like it. I am happy there.’
‘It’s not too late to change direction. You can still make something of yourself. You did really well in math and science when you were young.’
Memories came back to Blendheim. There had been plenty of tutors at the group home, but at age eight he had been sent to a boarding school of some kind. In many ways it was a prison. Every aspect of the day was regimented. He and the other students were constantly challenged, mentally and physically. Blendheim recalled having to solve complex problems on a chalkboard. Who teaches a nine year old quantum mechanics? Blendheim lamented those years of constant study in STEM subjects, interrupted only by highly disciplined training in jujitsu, boxing, muay thai, weapons use, and survival lessons in different types of wilderness areas. How empty he felt when he learned other children in the real world made friends, played, and went to amusement parks when young.
‘For Christ’s sake, mom! I am thirty two years old. I’m a grown ass man. I can live my own life and make my own way. I don’t like math anymore, and I’m tired of science. I am into other things.’
‘You have other skills you could develop.’ His mother smiled, thinking back to Blendheim’s childhood. ‘You were good with languages. Good at assembling and repairing equipment. You were quick with your hands. You knew where all the nerve bundles were, and how much pressure it took to make somebody more cooperative. Your instructors praised your skills with joint locks and breaking bones. A crack shot, too. Put a gun in your hand and you would always hit the target. Remember those throwing knives I gave you? You used to like to play with them back then. You were a fast swimmer, fast runner, great to watch in any race… The organization could find a role for you. You could be very useful after some refresher courses.’
‘I do not remember you coming to any of my races,’ Blendheim said.
‘I had the events videotaped so I could watch when I had time.’
‘Strange thing, in the world I live in, where regular people exist, you don’t have to maim and kill people as much as you might think. I think it is better to try talk things out when I run into difficulties rather than rip someone’s throat out or rupture their tendons and ligaments.’
‘That’s what I am trying to do right now,’ his mother said. ‘Talk things out. If you are not interested in getting your hands dirty, you could still help teach the next batch.’
‘Not interested.’
His mother paused, then let out a sniffle. ‘I thought you had a talent for chemistry at one point. You could make a bomb faster than anyone else in your grade.’
Blendheim did not respond.
His mother’s eyes seemed to implore him.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I am not asking only for myself. Your father has also been watching you. He is very disappointed. He expected so much more from you. You are his own flesh and blood, without any gene splicing or technical enhancements like some of the others. You had the best genes by nature, his and mine. You could have done so much, become so much, but here you are, living in a third rate city working for shit wages in a record store. Wouldn’t you be more happy working with family?’
Blendheim was silent.
‘Come on, Blendheim. What do you say?’
He responded slowly.
‘I am happy, mom. I like where I am and what I do. I like my life now. I did not like it before. Tell me. Are you happy with your life? Really happy?’
She stared at him. Her face revealed nothing. Then again, maybe it did.
‘That’s classified,’ she finally said.
‘Does that mean you are not happy?’
‘You are probing a sensitive area. Discussion of this topic is prohibited.’
‘Is everything about you and my father top secret?’
‘Not everything.’
‘Then tell me your real name. Tell me the name of my father. Tell me about my family. Who were my grandparents? My ancestors? What did they do? Where did they live? What about my siblings? How many brothers and sisters do I have? What are their names? What do they look like now? How come we can never get together as a family and hang out, like other families, real families, do?’
‘Unfortunately, I cannot answer your questions.’
‘Let me guess,’ Blendheim said. ‘It’s all classified information. I don’t have the security clearance necessary to know anything about my parents, my brothers and sisters, or any of my relatives.’
‘I am not able to comment on your specific questions. I can confirm that you have many brothers and sisters. You have met many of them.’
‘When I was a child? In that group home and at that boarding school of sorts?’
‘I can’t give you specifics, but you are a smart boy. You were always good at solving puzzles.’
‘So they were my brothers and sisters, not just at the group home, but at the school. I long thought that might have been the case. I wish you had let us know that back then. I wish you had let us know each other’s names instead of having us address each other by our assigned numbers. I wish you and father, whoever he is, would have made it clear that we were family.’
Blendheim’s mother gave him a look of complete innocence.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Really?’ said Blendheim. He let out a sigh. ‘You confirmed that I have hundreds of brothers and sisters, but I do not recall you ever visiting us except when we were being tested.’
‘Hundreds?’ his mother replied. ‘Do you really think one boarding school could house all of your siblings?’
‘Thousands, then?’
‘I am not able to provide specifics,’ she replied. ‘I care about my children. All of them. Sort of. But I also have other duties and responsibilities.’
Blendheim did not respond for a while. There was too much to think about. When he spoke again, he said, ‘I suspected I had more brothers and sisters than the ones I met. I guess you had your eggs cloned. You could not have donated that many. Sperm from different sources. Genetic engineering. Thousands of surrogates in third world countries and underprivileged households in this country. If you can afford to live in a private space station and have private boarding schools for your offspring, you could have paid for all that. You must have access to enormous resources.’
She gave him her game face again.
‘I am unable to comment.’
‘What can you tell me?’ Blendheim pleaded.
‘I can tell you that I love you.’
Was that the beginnings of a tear in her eye? No, it couldn’t be, Blendheim thought. Whatever it was, moisture or a reflection of light, it was gone a moment later.
‘Oh, ho,’ he chuckled. ‘This is new.’
‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
Blendheim had not been expecting this, and yet he wondered why.
‘I am your mother,’ the woman in the space station said. ‘Despite everything.’
There was an awkward pause before Blendheim spoke.
‘I feel something for you,’ he told her. ‘I am not sure what it is.’
Slowly she asked him, ‘Do you hate me?’
‘I don’t hate you,’ he told her. ‘I did for a while. Hated both you and “dad”, whoever he is. But, I am past that now. You are who you are. I am who I am.’
His mother sighed.
‘Thank you. I guess I should not have hoped for more.’
‘You can always hope,’ Blendheim said. ‘So can I. But, if you want things to change, you will have to change, at least a little.’
She sighed again.
‘I am trying,’ she said. ‘I am doing the best I can under the circumstances. Trust me on this. Please? Look, I am not authorized to tell you this, but you may want to know, many of your siblings work as astrophysicists, aerospace engineers, physicists, medical researchers, surgeons, cryogenic scientists, and as computer hardware and software designers. They are among the best in their fields.’
‘That’s nice, mom. I am happy for them. I hope they are happy with their lives.’
‘You also have many brothers and sisters who work in, shall we say, “international relations”.’
Blendheim looked around him. He was able to catch sight of some of the people in black hats and black coats who had been watching him before they completely hid themselves again. He waved to them. To his surprise, some waved back.
At least I know for sure who they are now, he thought.
He told his mother, ‘I hope they are happy as well.’
‘I could tell you more if you were to “come into the fold”, so to speak.’
‘I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I can do that. Not everyone is cut out for that kind of life. Not everyone wants to rule the world.’
His mother laughed, ‘Rule the world? Hah! Why do you always think so small?’
‘Not the world?’ Blendheim said excitedly. ‘What is it, then? What are you shooting for? The solar system? The galaxy?’
His mother laughed more. It was painful for Blendheim to listen to her mirth. She gave her son a very serious look.
‘If you want to find out, you will have to join us.’
Again, he did not know how to respond. After a few minutes of silence, Blendheim said, ‘No, not now. Maybe some day. For now I just want to live a human life.’
‘Dear boy,’ his mother told him. ‘We all live human lives, but some of us get to live ours on a grander stage.’
Silence followed.
Eventually, Blendheim said, ‘Thanks, mom. It has been good talking to you.’
‘I guess this means goodbye,’ she said.
Blendheim heard the emotion in her voice. Maybe it was real. This was his mother, he thought, and this is the first conversation that I have had with her that she had seemed anything like a woman with such a title.
‘It means good-bye for now,’ he told her.
‘Keep the phone,’ his mother told him. ‘It only reaches me. Don’t worry about any bills. It is on me. Call me once in a while. Please? Will you do that for me?’
‘I’ll do that. Once in a while. Bye, mom.’
He hung up.
Blendheim looked around. He did not see anyone in a black hat, grey scarf, dark sunglasses, black trench coat and black gloves. While he didn’t see any of his brothers and sisters who worked in ‘international relations’, he knew they were there.
‘Nice to meet you!’ he called out. ‘Nice to know we are related. Hope to see you again sometime in different circumstances. I would like to get to know you each of you better, as individuals, as brothers and sisters. Maybe we could grab a beer sometime.’
After he said that, Blendheim realized he would need to rent a catering hall, or possibly a stadium, for any family gathering.
One gloved hand appeared from behind a chained up bicycle. It waved and gave thumbs up in Blendheim’s direction before being pulled down by other gloved hands.
Blendheim shrugged. He put his mother’s phone in his pants pocket. He went back to his morning walk that often seemed to go nowhere, but always ended up somewhere, usually back at his apartment, before he breakfasted and got ready for work.
After Blendheim was out of sight, several people in black hats, dark sunglasses, grey scarves, black trench coats, and black gloves shared whispers wherever there were shadows.
‘I could never speak to mom the way he does,’ said one.
‘Me neither,’ said a second. ‘She would have me killed, like she did with what’s his name.’
‘What’s so special about Blendheim?’ asked a third. ‘Why does she put up with him like that? She lets him get away with anything. He can do whatever he wants. ‘
A fourth figure broke into the conversation.
‘Favourites. Every mother has a favourite. That’s why he can do it. He’s the favourite. ‘
‘I sure as hell know I’m not the favourite,’ a fifth figure interjected. ‘She had me hung by my heels and whipped last month for making a mistake on a job.’
‘At least she didn’t have you killed like what’s his name,’ said the second.
‘Shush,’ said the third. ‘One of us might have to report all of us. You know we are not allowed to discuss personnel issues.’
A collective sigh rose from the shadows.
‘I wonder what it would be like to be mother’s favourite?’ said the first.
‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,’ said the second. ‘None of us will ever be in a position to find out.’
The first let out a quiet sigh. The other figures in the shadows also sighed.
These sighs were heard, as had their secret conversation been, by their countless unseen brethren concealed in the vicinity. They responded with a sad and low collective sigh that echoed through alleys and sewers and over rooftops.
Average citizens heard a low rumbling while sitting at their tables eating their morning cereal with toast and bacon, and downing their cups of orange juice or coffee. Since the sighs were quiet when they issued forth from mouths and lungs, the rumbling seemed far off, nothing to worry about. Some people wondered what the source of the noise was, but did so in a slightly disinterested way, for if it was from far away it held little meaning for them.
Blendheim was not deaf to the sound. He heard it while he did his morning circuit of streets and alleys. He did not know what the sound was or where it came from, but it seemed familiar in a strange way. And that made him feel very sad.
