I no longer question the Gift. It’s there when I want it, crackling at my finger tips. Like a power, like electricity but nothing like either. I call it the Split. I draw a line with my mind and the whole becomes halves. Any whole. Want me to cut your cantaloupe in half. Done. Arguing with your ex over who gets Bosco the bulldog? Zip. Split the check, split a hair, split the scene — no, none of those. I’m talkin’ about molecular bifurcation.
I suppose the feds will track me down through streetcams or credit card patterns. Hell, if I can cut a limo full of prom-dates right down the middle — only three died, I could have sliced it horizontal—like a fillet, but there’s no ghoulish fun in that; the stretch just keeps rollin’ down the street until it misses a curve and hits a wall or lightpole. Only then does the top half shift forward a bit, and I do mean the whole top. If I can split a limo, then who’s to say someone can’t track this Gift of mine.
But, no one even pays me the kindness of a second look. I am cautious mind you. This trail of destruction I’ve left, if you could connect the scattered dots, it might make sense to a savant. No, I’m not any type of specially gifted, or cursed. I’m just me. I like juicy hamburgers, cold beer, racy movies and curvaceous bodies. I used to fish and camp and smoke weed, but why? I’d rather whack downtown fire hydrants and watch the panic. Or slice out a big chunk out of an ocean pier, watch it sway and crumble like old bread, leaving people on both sides curious but terrified.
No, the Split doesn’t just split. It’s more like a molecular scalpel of indeterminate length. I could be a hell of a plastic surgeon. Tummy tucks, and titty lifts, but I’d probably get distracted and slice off a nipple or a nose.
I’d rather just cause general havoc.
And that’s why I’ve come to the city-by-the-bay. It’s time to see if I can split at a distance. Yup, those two-foot round cables on the Golden Gate are begging for my attention.
I’m on the Marin side. Because? I don’t know; being trapped in the city after I’ve had my fun would be a surefire grope and choke. Crowds and tears and whining seems like it would defeat the high I’m hoping to get.
So, I’m sitting on this concrete wall, the Bay is sparkling, the sky is Easter blue, at least a hundred thousand people are on, around or arriving at the bridge. I’ve positioned myself for optimal voyeuristic viewing as well as line-of-sight to the mid-span dip on the bay-side cable. I’ve split stuff further than this, in fact it was one of my first: when I was eighteen, a crow at six am, high in a dead pine tree down the street. That fucker would not shut-up. All it took was the visualization of a samurai sword descending like a guillotine to cut the bird in half.
I’m concentrating now, imagining the steel windings all twisted tight, each bound to its brothers and other brothers and wrapped up with the whole damn orphanage. Then I start to picture one iron atom getting pissed at its neighbor, and the atomic bonds weakening. In a minute it becomes easier.
“Wave now, honey,” this guy next to me yells into his phone. I see out on the bridge a couple of kids and a dark haired wife with scarf and sweater. She’s got one hand to her own phone, the other waving back.
I’m about three quarters of the way through. I started on the inside and worked as a spiral on my way out.
“Hey, you want me to take a picture of you waving in front of your family?” I keep imagining the weevil crawling ever outward — at the spot just to the right of this man’s family.
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Get back to the wall and I’ll back up here.” He looks me in the eye and I motion for him to wave. I’ve finished my last circular transit and speed up the process to separate the last half an inch of cable still holding the whole thing together. But I don’t have to keep at it. The stresses have finished my work. I snap a photo just as the deck of the bridge dips and tilts down. “Great picture, here you go.”
I get those last words out just before the most gawd awful twang sings from the middle of the bridge. The railing has tipped almost horizontal now and the cars are diving off the edge. The wife and kids are gone. The vertical ties begin to snap like broken piano wires.
It’s a good show.
The man, as well as every other human who is not immediately impacted, stands with a dumbfounded look on their face. Cars and SUVs just continue to spill into the bay. I see the tops of the towers start to bend. I doubt they’ll collapse, but it’d be a helluva sight.
The road deck is splitting apart and falling in massive chunks. I’d have thought the superstructure beneath would have helped stabilize the whole thing. Nope. It just twisted away. Probably due to the two thousand cars weighing the whole thing down.
It’s pretty much over now, except for the wailing and screaming and crying. I turn my back and walk down into Sausalito to get a beer and maybe a bite to eat.