Chum

I’m walking down the disused alleyway towards this place, and I think I might be losing my mind. This is a new kind of stupid, even for me. My feet are dragging against the gravel, picking up pebbles and flicking them off to the sides. It’s like they’re in slow-motion. They’re my own, and they’re betraying me.

The air tastes like rusted iron and stale water; the smell of oldness seeping out of every crack in the building that looms ahead. It’s hot out, the sun baking the asphalt and making my clothes stick to my skin, but the sight of the abandoned structure gives me chills. It’s not even haunted, I don’t think, but it’s about as close as you can get to the word ‘haunted’ without ghosts being involved. Apparently a couple of years ago some people tried to buy it out, but they didn’t manage to raise the money, so here it sits, empty and forbidden in the center of Tacony, between warehouses and falling-apart apartments.

“I should turn back,” I whisper to myself, not for the first time. But my feet, traitorous as ever, keep moving forward.

My gut churns with a stew of anticipation, fear, and the remnants of a school lunch that tasted suspiciously like cardboard. I don’t even like drama, I don’t even like talking, but I’m about to step into a derelict building to talk to a classmate about how we’re going to fool everyone into thinking I’m beating them up. I feel like I’ve swallowed a rock.

The whole world’s gone gray. It’s one of those afternoons where the clouds are so heavy, they could crush the life out of the city if they fell. You know the type. It matches the twisting dread in my stomach, the kind of anxious flutter that feels like I swallowed a flock of agitated pigeons. I take the long way to the abandoned music hall, winding through the grimy side streets of the neighborhood, making an actual detour in my head, though the crow wouldn’t be fooled.

The building, an abandoned music hall, looms overhead, its historicness… historicity? That sounds right. Its historicity diminished like so many landmarks in this city by decades of disuse. Four floors tall or so, with a brick exterior and several windows that have been unceremoniously bricked up, looking so much like phantom doors intended only for use by screaming spectres. There was a padlock on the big, ornate wooden doors out front, but someone – I can take a guess – smashed it open. I push them out and pull up my phone flashlight, sweeping it over a modest lobby and grandiose stairs up to the second floor, covered in molding carpet, flanked by desiccated (that means “really thirsty” but in this case I mean, like, skeletal) wallpaper that’s peeling in strips.

Inside, the gloom of the hall is punctuated by shafts of sunlight streaming through the gaps in the ceiling, the walls, the non-bricked windows, painting the dusty air in tiger stripes of light and shadow. I can make out Jordan’s silhouette leaning against the railing, standing there like they’ve been waiting for hours, which they probably haven’t. Or maybe they have been, since it is a Saturday. Did they have better things to do? I have a sneaking suspicion that Jordan would show up five minutes late to their own funeral.

“Welcome to the party,” they call out as I approach, a note of amusement in their voice. Their casual demeanor contrasts sharply with the pulse pounding in my ears. They seem so comfortable, so at ease in this shadowy, dilapidated place, that for a moment I feel some sort of lizard envy towards them, the way a gecko might envy another gecko for getting the best heated rock in the sun.

Even as I’m shaking my head at their audacity, at their sheer mad energy, a tiny sliver of excitement stirs within me. I’m stepping into uncharted territory here, and despite my nerves, I can’t deny the thrill of the unknown. That’s what scares me the most, I think. It’s like I’m on the edge of a precipice, and part of me, the stupid, irrational part, wants to jump. “This is your headquarters?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, stepping over a broken stair.

“Don’t make it sound so formal. I don’t have a headquarters. This is a hideout. I come here to smoke weed anyway so I know where all the nails in the floor are,” Jordan replies, throwing their hands up in the air and shouting – “Watch out!”

I’m not startled. I just stare at them. “Does your hideout at least have amenities? Like a seat I can park myself in without stabbing myself on an old rusty screw?”

“You are so lame. And yes, there are couches. Sometimes squatters are sleeping on them but I’ve gotten good at escorting them out,” Jordan replies, dramatically flicking their hands behind them as they beckon me deeper into the murk of the abandoned music hall. I hear a gentle humming, and catch sight of a veritable fleet of tiny dehumidifiers and air purifiers, each one plugged into a battery cartridge, each one of those wired into what looks like a big battery with a solar panel attached. “I’ve been working on getting the place cleaned up, since I know you have standards and I want to prove my commitment to the bit,” they say, dragging out the word “standards” like it’s something naughty. “Trust me, it was a lot harder to breathe in here a week ago.”

It’s not impressive. Well, it’s impressive for what it is, but I’ve been in comfier locales. Indeed, several ratty, mismatched couches have been dragged (judging from the scuff marks on the wooden floor) into a loose circle, a dirty carpet has been set down between them, and on top of that lie several fold-out tables of varying heights, each surrounded by plastic folding chairs. A smorgasbord of just… stuff sits on top of the tables – a first aid kit immediately jumps out at me, followed by several old flip phones, a swiss army knife, duct tape, zip ties… You know. Stuff.

Jordan dives onto the couch in the far corner and props their feet up on the armrest, folding their hands behind their head. I hover uncertainly for a moment before picking the least-broken looking couch and gingerly sitting down, crossing my arms and trying not to cough at a plume of dust that gets kicked up and sucked into the nearest air purifier.

“Ok, now the last part. Get comfortable, this might take a while,” Jordan warns, grinning at my expression of pure incredulity.

I struggle not to groan. “More surprises? I’ve already got my hands full trying not to trip over all the health hazards in this place.”

Jordan rolls their eyes at me but doesn’t comment on my incessant grumbling. Instead, they reach under the couch, producing a large piece of cardboard covered in smudged ink and several polaroids. It looks like a storyboard, of sorts. In every image, there’s a rough outline of a figure in a villain costume. “That’s me, by the way,” Jordan points, looking way too pleased with themselves.

“I guessed,” I respond flatly, trying to resist the impulse to get up and pace. I need to move, do something, not just sit here and absorb everything at once. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this hideout, stuck in my mind, stuck in this terrifying, electrifying unknown.

“Every polaroid is a scenario,” Jordan continues, oblivious to my internal spiral, “Each one representing a possible crime scene. It’s all hypothetical, of course. Staged.”

I lean forward, squinting at the pictures. There’s Jordan in front of a bank, then another of them standing over a tied-up woman on train tracks. Another has them pretending to adjust a massive, comically evil-looking laser. There are a dozen more like that. I realize, they’ve been planning this for a while.

“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Jordan merely shrugs, but the glint in their eyes betrays their excitement.

“A bit, yeah. Figured it would make things more fun. Here, have a look,” they say, tossing me a polaroid. It’s a shot of Jordan, standing on top of a city bus, their costume silhouetted against the night sky. A quick look reveals the artifice – these are all photoshopped pictures. Or rather, they are polaroids of a computer screen with photoshop being run on it, cutting and pasting Jordan into these elaborate villainous fantasies. Even the edge of the program window is barely visible in some of them.

“Your turn now,” Jordan suddenly announces, pulling me from my thoughts. I blink at them, confusion momentarily overriding the adrenaline that’s been steadily building since I walked into this place.

“My turn?”

“Yeah. To plan your moves, your grand entrance, all that superhero stuff,” they explain, looking utterly unbothered by the craziness of it all. “I mean, that’s why we’re here, right? To plan how we’re going to set up this little show?”

And suddenly, I realize what we’re doing here. We’re not just planning some scheme or concocting some grand adventure. We’re writing a story. Our story. And even though I know it’s ridiculous, and reckless, and probably borderline illegal, I find myself getting caught up in it. I think back to Jordan’s words in the schoolyard, their offer to step into the spotlight, to be something more than just a bystander. “You are insane,” I repeat, staring at them blankly. “I’m not going to doodle on your polaroids. I thought you had something more substantial already planned out.”

Jordan chuckles, waving their hand dismissively. “Nah, the polaroids are just for me. I get a kick out of envisioning how these things might go down. But, for you, I’ve got something a little different.” They pull a folded-up piece of paper out from one of their back pockets. “I’ve had my eyes on this place for a while now.”

They unfold the paper and I see it’s a hand-drawn map of what looks like a warehouse, complete with multiple entrances, exits, and what seems to be an assortment of crates and machinery. It’s not exactly a masterpiece of cartography, but the details suggest they’ve spent a fair amount of time working on it.

“A warehouse?” I ask, my voice echoing my skepticism. “How very original.”

“Not just any warehouse,” Jordan insists, waving the map in my direction. “It’s the old Dobson Textile Factory on the edge of town. Abandoned for years, pretty sturdy and roomy, and most importantly, indoors.” They wink at me. “You know, for me.”

I find myself reluctantly intrigued despite my initial resistance. “Okay… so you’ve got the setting. What’s the plan? If it’s abandoned, how are we getting an audience? Otherwise, we’re just doing… theatre alone in a dusty warehouse.”

“The plan,” they begin, adjusting their seating position to lean towards me, “is a little heist. We stage it so that I’m trying to steal something valuable – like, say, a priceless artifact. Except the artifact is actually just some hunk of junk I picked up at a yard sale.”

I can’t help but snort. “And where am I in this scenario?”

“You, my dear Bloodhound, make your grand debut by busting in to save the day,” Jordan replies, grinning wide. “You swoop in, thwart my dastardly plan, we put on a good show, get a few photos for posterity, and then I manage to narrowly escape your clutches. To fight another day and all that. And in the meanwhile, I have a couple of friends who love streaming and drama. A superhero fight isn’t a thing that happens every day. I just need to tip some people off and get the rumor mill started.”

I stare at Jordan for a few moments, before finally shaking my head. “This is a lot to take in,” I admit. “You’re suggesting we set up a fake crime just to draw attention to ourselves. What if we get in trouble?”

“Get in trouble for what? Nobody owns the building anymore. I’m not stealing anything of actual value, and it’s big enough that we can yell and scream and not get in trouble for noise complaints. The only thing we could get in trouble for socially is lying, which isn’t a crime,” Jordan tries to convince me, splaying their fingers out, wiggling their hands. “I mean, if it were, I don’t think our justice system would work at all.”

“Do you ever stop making cop digs?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“No,” they reply truthfully.

I glance again at the map, noticing the crude sketches of crates and machinery drawn within the warehouse. “How do you know this place so well?”

Jordan smirks. “Scouted it a couple times already, for… various purposes. Used to play hide-and-seek in there when I was a kid. I know it like the back of my hand.”

The rest of the afternoon flies by as we dive headfirst into planning. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Jordan has a flair for theatricality that’s as unnerving as it is captivating. They guide me through the twists and turns of the imaginary heist, pacing the worn-out floorboards of the music hall as they narrate the supposed events.

“You’ll come in from this entrance,” they instruct, pointing to one side of the map. “There’s enough of a vantage point there for you to make a dramatic appearance.”

“Sure, because that’s what we’re going for here,” I quip, but I don’t protest further. I’m still finding it hard to believe that I’m actually considering this, but I’m beginning to see a strange kind of logic in Jordan’s madcap plan. Maybe I’m spending too much time around their corrosive presence, but they’re the only person that’s given me the time of day in the past week, so I consider it a small price to pay.

There’s a kind of joyous energy in the way they plot our scene, their words flowing with an enthusiasm I can’t help but begrudgingly admire. They chuckle as they mark out different places on the map, assigning me a path to take and areas to avoid. Every so often, they’d look up and ask, “You’re okay with this, right?”

And, despite my better judgment, I find myself nodding. I want to believe I’m doing this because it’s a means to an end, not because I’m actually interested in their game. But there’s a part of me, the part that’s drawn to the thrill of the chase, the unpredictable tangle of this absurd spectacle, that’s starting to come alive. They explain wrestling terms to me – that I have to be the friendly “Face” that looks good while they’re going to be the nefarious “Heel” that cheats, lies, and tricks me because they can’t succeed without underhanded tactics.

As the sun begins to lower in the sky, we get up from our map-filled corner and start moving. Jordan guides me through the choreography of our upcoming ‘fight’, an elaborate dance that’s less about inflicting harm and more about creating a spectacle. They twirl around the room, performing mock punches and kicks, their movements fluid and graceful.

“Don’t actually hit me, okay?” they remind me as I mimic their movements, trying to match their rhythm. “Just make it look good.”

“We’re not really going to hurt each other, right?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. But I need to hear it again, to assure myself that this is all just a game, a pretense for popularity and notoriety. Now that I know Jordan’s face and name, the idea of actually hurting them makes me feel a little sick inside. The paranoid part of my brain wonders if that was their game this entire time. I shake off the thought.

Jordan gives me a reassuring look. “Not if we rehearse it well. All about control, Sam. We’re not going to start throwing punches for real. That’s not the point. Save those for the real bad guys.”

For some reason, this gives me comfort. We continue our dance, our movements growing more synchronized as we grow accustomed to the rhythm of each other’s bodies. We’re in a peculiar kind of harmony, the two of us, working together to create a narrative that is nothing but an elaborate illusion, dancing together like this is some sort of eerie ballet.

As the afternoon wanes, I realize that this isn’t the worst way to spend a day. Sure, I never imagined myself choreographing a fake superhero fight with a self-proclaimed villain, but there’s something about the absurdity of it all that makes it bearable, even enjoyable. I have to admit, there’s a thrill in creating this spectacle, in being a part of something larger than myself. And every time I throw a punch into Jordan’s chest and they stumble backwards, they “sell” it, and fall over their heels into the awaiting couch or cushion below, I feel a sense of smug satisfaction wash over me in an awesome wave.

“And break!” Jordan suddenly announces, wiping the sweat off their brow. They settle down on an old, dusty recliner and pull out a water bottle from their backpack, which had been lying on the floor this whole time. They gesture to the spot next to them, inviting me to sit as well.