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Overview
-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Dangerous turns and rites of passage- a Huckleberry Finn for the 21st Century.
Published to widespread critical acclaim and made into a feature film, "ZigZag" is the namesake and touching tale of a strange and wonderful 15-year-old boy. ZigZag is autistic with an innocent curiosity and odd perceptions that give him keen insights into his oppressive world. His uncanny aptitude for numbers turns out to be both a blessing and a curse.
Beset by his neglectful father, ZigZag finds refuge in his friendship with a volunteer mentor named Singer, a forklift driver who does his best to keep his unusual friend out of danger. But the action heats up when ZigZag naively steals thousands of dollars from the safe at the restaurant where he works as a dishwasher.
With Singer's help, the unlikely duo plots to return the money and, in doing so, has to navigate a seedy underworld bent on bringing them down.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781440118036 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 02/12/2009 |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.65(d) |
About the Author
Landon J. Napoleon is a graduate of the University of Glasgow in Scotland and Arizona State University in Tempe, Arizona, where he makes his home. This is his first novel.
Read an Excerpt
But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?—William Butler Yeats,
The Wild Swans at Coole
zig·zag (zìg'zâg) n. 1.a. a line or course that proceeds by sharp turns in alternating directions b. one of a series of such sharp turns
Chapter One
Even when you got supertuned cells in your head, it don't stop the sting of the punches. At least since my new big brother give me the special powers, my dad ain't beating on me as much as he used to. I learned how to move like the light, so fast or slow people eyes don't know which. Half of me around a stack of plates, while the other half loads the machine with pink soap, all night surrounded by food stink but never notice because my nose can ZigZag the smells. Just like that, two big Z's and two little g's.
This is the worst part, when you don't know if the beating's done or if he just taking a little break, sizing you up like a football needs kicking. Now's when you got to use all your special powers to keep the noise blocked out, keep it out your head in case there's more punches or a boot on the way. A hard punch low in my back throws tire noise into my head so loud it knocks all the air out my body. My hands crawl around on the ground like they going on their own to find some air, but all they find is pavement and little pebbles. Just when everything's getting all dark, the air finally comesback and the coughing starts, which hurts just as bad. My forehead's on the ground now, which don't feel too good, but my body won't listen to what my brain's telling it. The air starts coming a little easier ... better ... better ... but it's still too early. Give in now, and the noise comes back twice as loud with the next punch.
"He ain't movin at all...."
"... pop your cherry and you disrespect me? Had enough you want a little more?"
My dad ain't too smart, always asking mixed-up questions that only mean more noise no matter what answer you give. Best thing is act like he just gave you the worst beating you ever had so he lose interest. Singer taught me that long time before he give me my new name.
"Listenin to me, you little fuck?"
"I do think you got the boy's attention."
They laughing now, Eddie and my dad thinking they so funny. The air's back in my head so the smell of the booze is real strong even way down here on the ground. I don't need to smell no booze to know they been drinking. When my dad leans down, I see all the red in his eyes.
"Now you listen to me, boy. You ain't paid your rent. Same deal as before. Two hundred bucks. By Friday or I'll beat you like you never seen ... and your sorry ass can find somewhere else to live. Ain't no free ride around here. Understand what I'm sayin?"
I feel my head nodding yes, but inside my body's saying no, no, no. I can think whatever I want around my dad without having to worry about him picking it up. Even if he had radar like the Toad, the booze would mess it up. He'll never see what I think on the inside.
"Answer me, motherfucker!"
He grabs me and pulls his fist back. My body goes automatic all on its own, tensing up full tight, eyes closed, air held down inside waiting for the blast ... waiting ... waiting ... then when the blast don't come, one eye opens to see if it's safe for everyone to come out. The fist is gone away, but my body keeps tense. You can't never give in to the noise.
"Yeah, OK."
"Yeah, OK what?" he yells.
"Yeah, OK I'll give you two zero zero."
"By?"
"By Friday."
"Or else what?"
"Or else my black ass on the street."
"Ain't as dumb as you say," Eddie says. "Catches on fast."
"We'll see. Now get the fuck out my face."
I don't so much get the fuck out his face as he gets out mine because they go up the stairs and back into the apartment. It seems like a long time before I can get up, the pain mostly deep inside my back, music and voices coming loud out the apartment again. I try to push myself up, but my shoulder has a real bad hurt inside. Instead I roll the other way, real slow, and use the arm don't hurt to push myself up. Feels like punches still in my stomach and back, hurts every time I breathe. Only way to keep the hurt away is to take little baby breaths.
Once the noise drifts away just a little, the head can start doing some thinking. He ain't getting my paycheck again, no way, not ever again. I got to think me up a plan and quick because today's ... Monday. That means Friday's got to be pretty soon, I think, but the best thing is tomorrow be Singer Day. He's good at thinking up plans. Couldn't tell you how many plans Singer came up with all these years like giving me a new name. My dad the only one still calls me Louis. That right there shows you how stupid he is. Louis was before I learned to ZigZag.
I get back on my bike, slow, slow, the one they knocked me off after I walked in and my dad was sticking his thing inside some girl from behind. Eddie had his thing in her mouth. They stopped soon as they saw me and started yelling. That's the first time I ever seen a real naked woman, and dad and Eddie both had things ten times bigger and shinier than the one I got. My dad threw a black Nike at my head, but I was out the door and on my bike, and somehow they still got their pants on and caught me.
ZigZag will think on that one later, though, because it's time to go see the Toad.
At work I watch the Toad open the office safe and remember the numbers in my head for later. The Toad's short and round, and he's got shiny skin looks wet, or is wet, no matter what time you see him. If he got a real name, ain't no one ever said it since I worked here. He's bent over turning that dial so I have to force my eyes away from his greasy crack. It's hard not to look at something you know you don't want to see, but damn if those little white numbers don't look six feet tall. Maybe this will be one plan Singer won't have to think up. That's what happens when you got special powers like me; you always seeing stuff you ain't even supposed to know about.
The Toad stands up and turns real quick like he detects my mind on him. All frogs got this same radar helps them catch flies they eyes can't even see. Then I think maybe I'm repeating the numbers in my head too loud. I look at the floor, trying to push the numbers out my head but somehow remember them at the same time because I'm sure his radar's picking them up. I can hear him chewing on the white tip of that little cigar he never lights. I look up. Even without smoke something about the Toad makes your eyes water and your head roll back.
"Louis, why do I always get the feeling you're up to something?" I forgot, the Toad's the other one calls me that. And like my dad, he's always asking questions he really don't want no one to answer.
"I ain't did nothin."
"Precisely."
I just flash him a ZigZag. This is pretty much how it goes with the Toad. He's always acting like he onto something, while I'm still trying to understand what he's asking. I shake my head, feeling better now. I got my own radar, better than his, telling me the Toad ain't picked up nothin; he's just out fishing for some juicy flies. I grab my check so fast I can see the surprise in his eye white.
"Only thing I'm up to is gettin started on them dishes." Really I'm the one should be handing him a check for the numbers he just give me, which are coming back into my head but not too loud just in case.
"Remember, shit stain, I got a hundred people could replace you yesterday. So the only way you keep this job is to keep not fucking up. Little spick in here yesterday asking ..."
The Toad's got a lot of different names for people work here. We got redskins, spicks, niggers, coons, faggots, butt munchers, chollos, kikes, gooks, wops, cunts, whores, sows, and white trailer trash. With owning the restaurant and all the people he's got to yell at, I don't know when he's got time to think up all them names. I block out what he's saying so I can pull back them numbers. The more he keeps talking, the more my mind swims farther away, like when my dad and Eddie were hitting me. Finally, I get down to a place where I can see the Toad's frog mouth moving but I don't hear him. That's the place where I can think. That's what so great about washing dishes; you ain't got to talk to nobody except in your own head. I do most of my talking on the inside, so people think they always got to talk extra when they around me to fill up space. Funny thing is you don't need to hear people's words to know what they saying. I don't say nothin, just stay down inside, safe, until the Toad finally shakes his head and waves me away like a fly he'll eat later.
Back in the kitchen the cooks are talking, laughing, and chopping lettuce. I got it blocked out, just catching bits here and there. I punch my time card and float over to my dish station.
... you one crazy African, ZigZag. Why don't you ever talk to us? You are dumber than this fuckin soup spoon."
I see the flash of silver leave his hand, and pull my head back. The spoon hits the mirrored window and cracks the glass. On the other side of that one-way mirror is the Toad's office.
"... you fucked up good now. Your ass is ..."
My mind lets go of whatever they saying because it don't really matter when you're repeating numbers in your head and you got dishes piled up from the lunch shift. Lunch bastards always skating out early because they know ZigZag can punch in and clean up they shit before the tumblers in the time clock move a notch, Sometimes my own mind don't even tell me what will happen next, like whether these numbers will stay in my head or take a ride down to my fingers. The Toad comes into the kitchen and yells at everyone, but mostly he looks at me. "Which one of you birth defects broke my goddamn window?"
The cooks keep cutting lettuce, steady sound of them heavy knives hitting the cutting boards, but they ain't laughing no more. I keep washing, concentrating on the numbers because I never write anything down unless Ms. Tate makes me. Better to just think things in your head. Not too loud, though, with the Toad so close. The Toad walks toward me and leans across the dish station so he can run his finger along the crack in the glass. Nothing real around here until the Toad feels it. He don't say nothin to the cooks, just looks at them and back at me through the steam coming up. Everything quiet now except them knives: foop, foop, foop, foop ...
"You break my window, fuckhead?"
I shake my head.
"Louis ... what did I just tell you not more than three minutes ago?"
"Numbers to the safe" jumps out my mouth so quick I ain't got time to grab it back.
"Uh-huh. You got numbers on the brain. Now tell me who broke the window, or it comes out of your next check."
"I didn't break no damn window, less movin my head out the way flying spoon counts."
"All right then. Who?"
The Toad's really working that little cigar, around and around in the corner of his mouth. His forehead gets extra shiny whenever someone breaks something, even by accident. The little craters on his neck filled up with wet now and makes me want to ZigZag extra small and hide in one of them, underwater, where they ain't no noise. I look at the cooks and can mostly remember how two of them locked me in the walk-in for so long took me three days warm back up. The big Indian never did nothin to me, like a tree got a ponytail, about the same size and never makes a sound. Can't decide yes or no whether he likes them other cooks.
"Didn't break no damn window."
"One more time, Louis. Tell me who did it, or it comes out of your next check."
I got to think—because the check he just give me only one five nine two one, and my dad wants two zero zero, and now the Toad wants money—but I can't with everyone staring, and the noise starts up slow, slow, then faster ... like a far-off rumble you know only going to get worse, louder, louder ... then right in the side my head where I can't get it out, the pain so bad, everywhere pain, and the Toad keeps yelling but now I really can't hear him, the brain just goes soft, no more, make it stop ... big Indian looking at me with some kind of chicken skin hanging off that black-handled knife, sting of the punches rising in my back except ain't no one hitting on me ... running out the door? no, dad grabbing me, holding me tight ... making me watch Eddie play with his big shiny thing, dad pushing me to the ground, his knee across my throat with his big shiny thing in my face, I can't breathe ... someone trying to take off my pants ... the naked lady, music and laughing, the naked lady still trying to get my jeans down ... don't matter, need air ... need air ... can't breathe, hands looking for air, looking, my hand on something cold and heavy, swing it up at dad's head, and the air comes back....
"Jesus Christ, Louis. Take it easy. Forget about the fuckin window. Take it easy ... just don't throw anything else."
When my head comes back, I'm underneath my dish station, which is where I go to make the noise stop. All the pieces of slippery food and greasy buckets and bleach bottles don't bother me none because I know it safe down here. Sometimes I can't remember how I got here; I always know why. A whole crowd's staring down at me, the Toad, big Indian, the other cooks, waiters and waitresses, like they paid money and waiting for the show to start. That's when I sense the tumblers in the time clock about to make they move, my supertuned cells buzzing cus all the lunch dishes still piled high. I ZigZag into position son fast everyone make a noise together like oooohhh ..., and then I'm flying through the stack, feeding full racks into the machine so fast its gears and wheels be smokin—
"Louis! C'mon. Stop it." The Toad's got a hold of me by both shoulders like he afraid of what he seen, too much speed for his brain to soak up. "Take it easy. Fuckin chill!"
He's just afraid I almost ZigZag right out his universe and then he ain't got no one to wash the dishes Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Sometimes when you got the special powers you got to slow things down, always slow, slow, slow, so no one get scared.
"I'm all right. Don't worry none about me."
"Jesus, don't flip out on me like this. Bawlin your head off throwin my dishes one minute, then acting like a goddamn maniac. I'm not running a day-care, so get your shit together. Just used up your last chance. Got it?"
I nod, but I can't hardly concentrate because my fingers itching to load dishes. When the dishes piled up high like this, they give a sound, like little bells only I can hear ringing that don't stop until the dishes clean. I dig into the stack, slower, slower, just half speed so I don't scare the Toad again.
"Christ," he says, walking toward the door. "What a fuckin night, and it hasn't even started."
Soon as the door swings shut behind him, I ZigZag back up to full speed, faster, faster, my left hand working the sprayer while my right feeds the dishes onto the racks and into the machine, the noise gone, pushed way far away, until all I hear is the machine spitting hot water and chewing on dishes and the numbers to the Toad's safe, over and over again in my head.