“Oliver Wakes”

by Dustin Heron

I.

They were looking to him to do or say something but hadn’t he? Oh, Oliver—his mother used to say. Oh, Oliver, why didn't you just say so? When he thought he had. Well, come on, then, just out with it—no more equivocation, just make a decision. That’s what they paid him for, after all. He made a big show of leaning back in his chair, tugging at the end of his purple tie, looking out the window. Or where a window should be; he was looking a blank, beige wall. God damnit, he thought.

“Bob,” he said. “We should hire Bob.”

There was a silent sigh of disappointment that reverberated throughout the room. It made the air thick.

“Robert,” he said, nodding. “He’s our man.”

“Ollie,” said Catherine.

“I choose Robert Gordon. He’s highly qualied. He’ll get along.”

“But, Ollie... it’s the Diversity Coordinator...”

Oliver turned back to the table, the rest of the hiring committee. Catherine, worrying at the gel grip that she continually pulled on and off her pen; and Juan, looking down at the table, his cheeks puffed up like a blow fish. They were his allies in the department—his lieutenants, he called them; he, the Director of Student Services, they, his subordinates—Catherine: Assistant Director; Juan: Learning Center Coordinator—but even so, and more than that, they were his friends. They were part of a (to be honest, infrequent) poker night, and sang on the charity choir each of the last seven Christmas Festivals, and had formed an action team for the local Anti-Fracking petition. And so he knew that their disappointment with him was a complex thing, both professional and personal, and deep: wasn’t Oliver the one who had stormed out of a budget hearing after he felt his data on minority student engagement had been ignored? Wasn’t Oliver the one who bragged of going to ISO meetings when he was in college? Wasn’t it Oliver who had stayed on teaching at the middle school in the Bayview when everyone else jumped ship? Wasn’t it?

“Robert has an excellent record on diversity,” Oliver said, finally. “And he knows the area.”

“Ollie, Vivencia...”

“She’s diverse,” said Juan, finally blowing out all his hot air. Ollie thought he could feel it.

“What a better way to represent our commitment to diversity?”

“She’s from L.A.,” Oliver scoffed. “A carpet-bagger.”

“Jesus, Oliver,” said Juan, smashing his palms over his eyes. “I don’t understand this.”

“Probably thinks we’re small potatoes,” Oliver waved a hand in the air. “Thinks we’re easy pickings. You heard her. International conferences, ‘social justice initiatives,’ equity vs. equality—come on. That’s not State College. That’s some...I don’t know. I don’t even know.”

“You don’t want to hire a strong Filipina because you don’t understand equity,” Juan said flatly and shook his head.

“It’s just a little communistic, is all I’m saying, Juan,” said Oliver. “It’s just a little ivory tower, okay? Bob knows our community. He gets that our school is filled with a bunch of farm boys—and girls!—who want to get hired on at the brewery, or at Harmon Ranch, or take their degrees and get the hell out of here. We’re not changing the world here. We are hiring someone to help make sure our students are all treated equally.”

“We need someone to make sure they’re treated equitably,” said Catherine. The gel grip had been torn into plastic chunks.

Oliver threw up his hands. “Same difference!” he said.

Hadn’t he made it clear that his preference was to not radically disrupt the campus culture? Improve it, sure—always. But people came to State for a certain kind of experience. Marching in protest was not one of them, whatever Catherine and Juan thought. Then again: they had a point: he had waffled on it himself. Vivencia Campos was certainly a strong candidate. Impeccable resume and references, passionate about education, full of ideals and hard data, prepared—a flawless interview, really. And confident, tough, thorough—but maybe, in the end, too confident; she had pushed hard her radical beliefs: she wasn’t shy about wanting revolution, about upending the “status quo,” as if it were all bad, what had been built here. In the end, Oliver’s decision had been sealed by this statement: “Education is an opportunity to overthrow the established prejudices of the system.” The system! Straight out of a junior’s poli-sci manifesto! Oliver was a high ranking college director, and he’d never met this “system” that everyone talked about. He’d never colluded in shadowy parking lots or over manhattans at some tony club to suppress and subject the masses to indignity and powerlessness. He worked hard to earn his position, just like you’re supposed to. He’d come from a tough upbringing, grown up on a farm, milking cows at sunrise, that whole thing; some would call his childhood “idyllic” but that was from a different vantage, certainly! No, Oliver believed that perspective was needed, always, and when one is young and fired up, one exchanges passion for perspective.

And yet he was troubled by his discussions with Catherine and Juan. He’d come on a bit too forcefully, he thought, to make up for his own initial inability to decide. They’d challenged him and he’d had to put his foot down on whatever his decision was; he was the director, the decision was his. And he knew Bob. That had done it, too. The “system” comment and the fact he knew Bob. That was it, really. A tough call, Bob by a hair, but that’s how these things went. The dust will settle and everyone will move on.

But Oliver couldn’t, not quite yet. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was power-walking around campus, up and down the stadium steps, around the track, along the edge of campus, where quiet brick buildings gave way to a jumble of ramshackle student bungalows and, eventually, downtown: the raucous bars, the boutiques, the traffic. He wasn’t up for that, so he turned back towards campus and there was Vivencia Campos walking along, looking down at her phone. Had the calls gone out yet? Oliver wasn’t sure, but she was right there. He could have jumped and landed on her toes. He spun around, back to the street, but not before he heard, “Oh! Hello, Mr. West!”

Oliver pretended not to hear her but there it was again, “Mr. West?”

He waved over his shoulder. “Very busy!” he said.

“Mr. West!”

He stepped off the curb and turned just in time the see the cyclist speeding down the bike lane. And then there was a strange sensation, all over his body, of something bending just to the point where it’s about to crack.

II.

A pretty bad concussion, was how the doctor described it. As if that were an official diagnosis. He had to go through a battery of tests—memory and recall, that kind of thing—and he had to be iced up and bandaged for some of his nastier scrapes and bruises but before too long he was released and told to go home, take it easy. He watched the news: a mistake.

Over the weekend videos had been released showing two more black men killed by police. One, Philando Castille, was sitting in his car at a traffic stop. The other, Alton Sterling, had been shot several times while lying on the ground, cops all over him. They didn’t show all that on the news but Oliver found it online and watched the videos over and over again. He finally closed his laptop and sighed deeply. His head was throbbing. He took a few more ibuprofen and washed them down with orange juice. The sun was setting and dull golden light fell through the blinds.

He was powerless. He nodded at his own thought, so profound was the realization. Powerless. There was nothing he could do to save those men. He had never considered before that it might even possible, to save lives, and, confronted with the impossibility, he felt a deep sense of loss: some hope he’d never had, had died.

He leaned back onto the couch and watched the room grow dark. The videos were replaying in his mind. Why couldn’t one just say, “Don’t resist?” Why couldn’t one just say, “Don’t shoot?” How hard was it? It was like they were right there before him—the men and the guns and the mistakes and the solutions, too. The solution was right there. A calm, steady hand. Someone who knew already what the consequences would be. Ultimately, wasn’t this the crime: that there wasn’t someone right there who knew what would happen? Didn’t it seem so obvious, watching the videos—wasn’t it obvious?

He stood up and moved fitfully around the house. From the plain, hard Scandinavian couch covered with a hand woven Alpaca-wool blanket he’d bought in Chile, to his library, decorated alternatively with African tribal masks and oil paintings he’d bought in New York by the transgender Ukrainian artist whose name, ultimately, escaped him. It was a cozy room, tight and packed with books: complete works of Nabokov, of course, and Vollman, and Roth, and, his old friend, Dickens, whom Oliver liked to insist to amusedly chagrined English faculty was better than they remembered. But the lightning flashing behind his eyes wouldn’t let him concentrate on reading so he went, instead, to the bathroom. Not the guest bathroom, hardly used but spotlessly clean, a Klimt print hanging above the toilet, Inuit totem soap dispensers—no, he went to his bathroom, adjoined to the master bedroom, an airless closet with a yellow-ringed toilet and a mildewed shower. He looked into the mirror, smeary, dull, splattered with toothpaste foam, and he leaned in close and looking into his bloodshot eyes willed himself to feel better. Or, he tried.

The ibuprofen wasn’t working. Oliver’s head was thrashing, circular, like a wobbling washing machine. Juan was repeating something about Bob’s contract.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Oliver.

“Ollie,” said Juan. “He wants to be paid 25% more than the posted salary.”

Oliver squeezed the bridge of his nose. “And?”

“And that’s stupid. Why would we pay him more than a perfectly qualifed candidate—”

“Bob’s very accomplished,” Oliver said weakly, closing his eyes. “Just—just pay him. Find a way.”

The room was very quiet. Oliver looked around. Juan was gone. Papers were strewn all over the little conference room. Oliver walked down the hall to his own office. It was dark and quiet. The whole building seemed to have shut down. He looked at a clock. He must have fallen asleep. No wonder Juan was so upset. He called him.

“Juan, I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“About the contract, or something else?”

“Uh,” said Oliver, “for falling asleep in there.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ollie,” said Juan, who hung up.

Oliver called again. “Juan—I’m sorry. My head, it’s just...I’m having a bit of trouble right this minute, okay? Please forgive me.”

Juan breathed heavily for a few seconds. Oliver could hear Juan’s children laughing in the background. Finally, Juan sighed and said, “You okay? You need anything?”

“I’m okay,” said Oliver. He looked around. The streets were dark and he wasn’t sure where he was. Crickets were chirping, the moon was hidden behind tree branches, there were lights in the distance but they seemed very far away.

“Well,” said Juan. “Get some rest. We need to talk about this contract.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Oliver, walking towards what he thought was a brightly lit porch. He hung up and continued on. The sidewalk was uneven, broken up and jumbled, there were no streetlights, and he stumbled several times on his way towards the lit-up house. He figured it would help him re-set his bearings, but when he reached the light he saw it wasn’t a house at all: the steps led up to a concrete slab overhung with dull yellow lamps. He climbed the steps and walked along. He saw some people up ahead, a little huddle of them. A light wind pushed some old newspapers across the concrete. He hurried towards the people. From behind him came a whining sound, high pitched and metallic. He turned. Over to his left was nothing but darkness but through the darkness came a speeding light. It’s horns were blaring. It was a fast moving train. It whipped past him and began to slow. In its lit-up windows Oliver could see tired-looking people leaning up against each other. The train slowed and came to a stop up near where the group of people were still huddling. It was quiet again, and Oliver could hear shouting.

The group of people turned out to be several police officers—no, not police; transit cops—and they were directing three young, black men to lay on the ground. The young black men were handcuffed. BART police, Oliver could see their patches now. He hurried up to them. One of the cops, younger, white, shaved head, was staring down at one of the black men. His hand reached towards his hip.

“Johannes!” said Oliver.

The BART cop turned.

“Don’t,” said Oliver, hands up. “Please.”

One of the other cops came running up to Oliver, grabbing him, and by that time Johannes Messerle had turned back to Oscar Grant. But Messerle did not pull his gun, or his taser. He landed a firm kick at Oscar’s ribs and went on shouting.

The BART cop holding Oliver shoved him up against the rough wall of Fruitvale Station and something in Oliver’s head ashed and screeched and everything went dark.

III.

Oliver woke up on his couch. The throbbing in his head had receded somewhat, but his body ached, and his throat was dry. He sat up. Afternoon light brightened the room. He went shakily to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Despite his disorientation, he remembered clearly the events of the night before: he had travelled through time and saved the life of Oscar Grant.

He went to his laptop and Googled “Oscar Grant” and found the usual slew of stories about the tragedy, or reviews of the movie. He frowned. The stories must have been cached in his computer. He called Juan.

“Feeling better?” said Juan.

“Hey, Juan—yes. Yes, I’m feeling better. Quick question: what happened to Oscar Grant?”

Juan was sternly quiet. “Is this some kind of fucked up riddle or something, man? Because, if so...”

“No, no. Please, uh, my memory. Oscar Grant: do you know the name?”

“Yeah man he was that poor brother that got shot by that racist cop. What the fuck is going on, Oliver?”

Oliver found he was still shaking. “I don’t know, Juan. I’m sorry to bother you.” He hung up, but not before he heard the beginning of what sounded like an epic curse.

Oliver went to work, but found he had no attention for it. He saw that the light was on in Catherine’s office, and he invited her for a walk around campus. They walked in silence for some time, Catherine holding her head down, to keep her eyes out of the sun, which was falling in a late summer blaze across the brick buildings, but also, Oliver knew, out of embarrassment and shame. He hadn’t made the decision she wanted him to, and now it hung between them.

“It’s alright,” he said finally. “You can be mad at me. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” A flat joke.

“I’m not mad,” she said.

“Oh?”

“No. I’m just—confused.” She looked up at him. Her pale blue eyes, her graying hair: she’d been talking about retirement and now seeing her so bare, so willing to let her guard down, Oliver could see how tired she was. How ready she was for something else. “Ollie, Vivencia was exactly the kind of person we’ve been agitating for. I don’t understand why we didn’t hire her.”

Oliver put his hands in his pockets and his hung his head. It was such a fair, honest question. He sighed. “I don’t know, Cathy. I don’t know.”

“Then what the fuck, Ollie?” She threw up her hands.

They had stopped in the shade of a cedar tree, on a small lawn before the Science Building. “I made the safe decision,” he said. “That’s part of my job, you know? I’m accountable for the hires we make. Do I wish it could be different? Yes. But it’s not. These things take time. Changing the culture, all that. We have to go by increments, okay? Bob is a safe hire. A good hire. One that everyone can be happy with.”

Catherine looked away. “I’m not happy with it. I think Bob sucks.”

“Cathy.”

“He sucks, Oliver!” She stamped her foot—actually stamped her foot! She looked at him with such a withering heat. “He’s just a guy. Just another white guy. Who needs him?”

“Cathy...”

“Enough, Ollie,” she swatted at the air, as if his words, or he himself, were fly. She took a deep breath. “I’m so tired of this.”Now he looked away. The sun was slowly setting. The sky was dull blue, the heat was rising off the concrete, a lazy wind blew through the paths between buildings. “Do you think,” he asked, “do you think there’s another world? Where things are different?”

“Oh!” she said. “Now you want to get philosophical?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He smiled at her. They had been friends for a very long time, but, he knew, at that moment, that there would come a day—sooner than later—where they no longer spoke to one another. “I just think—there has to be, right? A world where people are a little safer? Things are a little easier? Simpler? Where it’s possible... I don’t know.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile. “It’s a nice thought, Ollie. But it’s a fantasy. I’ve got to go. I think...I think I need a few days, okay?”

Oliver nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

She left him there, in front of the Science Building. He looked around. A dead campus, huddled into itself before the students arrived, a sense of expectation hanging off the walls. He felt strangely energized, in a distant way, as if he’d had espresso too late in the day and the false energy was rubbing up against his weariness. Why hadn’t he told Catherine about the BART station? That’s what he’d wanted to do. But now, in the light of day, on the familiar campus, it seemed ethereal, far-away, unrelated to his life. And yet: his cheek was rough and raw from the concrete walls at Fruitvale Station, he had new bruises on his arms where the BART cop had grabbed him. He could remember the smells of the station, the feeling of the wind, the look in Messerle’s eyes. It was detailed and tangible and real. Something had happened to him that allowed him to move through time and he could use his power to save people’s lives—if not in this world, then in some other. There is a world where Oscar Grant is alive, he thought, thanks to me.

IV.

Each night before he slept, he focused his wobbling mind on a name, or a face . Trayvon Martin. Eric Garner. Tamir Rice. Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. And each night he woke in some windswept landscape: there’s George Zimmerman leaving his house with a loaded gun. There’s Eric Garner standing on the street corner. And there’s Oliver West, ready to step in. Take a different street, Trayvon. Take your hands out of your pocket, Alton. In the morning, his head would be pounding, his mouth dry, his whole body wracked with wearying use, but he knew he’d done good. He was making some world a better place.

Catherine took an extended leave of absence, then led for early retirement. She was just done, she told Oliver in a text message. Juan had been busy: he’d become the advisor for the Latinx Student Union and an LGBTQ+ Inclusion committee member. He was teaching beginning Spanish at the local Peace and Justice Center. Just like Catherine, he didn’t come to the irregular poker night. He didn’t sing in the Christmas Festival Charity Choir. In the spring, they posted for Catherine’s position. The hiring committee consisted of Oliver, Juan, and Vivencia Campos—who’d been hired as an EOPS Coordinator and was sitting in for her Director.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Oliver,” she said as they took their seats.

“Oh?” said Oliver. Truthfully, he felt ragged and weak. The night before he’d stood watch over Sandra Bland.

She smiled. “You were lying in a gutter, pretty bruised up, last time I saw you.”

“Ah, yes,” said Oliver, tapping his temple lightly. “Nasty spill.”

“Well I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad we get to work together after all. I was disappointed I didn’t get the position in your department, but I have many ideas on how we can support each other. Would love to get together with you and—Bob, is it?—and Juan, of course, and chat.”

Juan nodded amicably but shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I’d love that,” Oliver said. “Bob, though—busy man.”

Vivencia smiled tightly. “I imagine.”

They interviewed seven candidates; a grueling day. At the end, Oliver stood and stretched and said, “Well, a little break before we deliberate?”

“Sure,” Vivencia chuckled. “Not sure how much deliberation we’ll need though.”

Oliver took her meaning. The black woman. Nonetheless, they took a break. Oliver walked the halls. His loafers squeaked on the linoleum. The fluorescents cast a yellow, ghastly light and hummed loudly against the evening quiet. Vivencia would push for the black woman, Annette. Juan would join her. Two against one. The other candidates blurred before him and he couldn’t think of his own finalist. What had he thought of Annette? Did it matter? So be it. He would agree. Everyone would be happy, and he could go home to do something that really mattered.

They reconvened in the conference room. Everyone organized their notes. Oliver cleared his throat. “Well, let’s have it. Final thoughts?”

“I, personally,” said Vivencia, glancing meaningfully at Oliver and Juan. “Thought the best candidate was obvious.”

Juan nodded. “Me too.”

“So we’re decided,” said Oliver, clapping his hands. “Annette.”

Vivencia laughed; Juan tried not to. “Are you kidding?” she said. “That poor woman was in over her head.”

“Fifty-seven ‘um’s’,” said Juan.

“You counted?” she said.

“After the first couple of dozen, I couldn’t do anything else. So probably round that up to seventy or so,” said Juan. They laughed.

“I thought she was incredible,” said Oliver. He could feel his face growing hot.

“This job is out of her league, Oliver. Clearly, the best candidate was Eric.”

Juan nodded.

“Eric? Eric?” said Oliver. “That white guy?”

A silence fell. Juan seemed appalled; Vivencia, amused. She looked down and took a deep breath and said, with a hint of a laugh, “He was the best candidate, Oliver. Young, energized, great resume and loads of experience at the JC level. He can be a major asset in helping our transfer students. Juan?”

“Yup,” Juan said, slowly placing all of his notes, the resumes, the CV’s, into a folder. “He was the best candidate. Funny as hell, too.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Oliver, standing. “Annette would be incredible for this department.”

“Why?” asked Vivencia.

Oliver opened his mouth but caught himself before he said it.

“I see,” said Vivencia, gathering her things. “Well, maybe you should talk to your Diversity Chair about that.”

It took him a moment before he realized that she had left. He could hear her footsteps receding down the hallway. Juan was staring at him. “You okay, Ollie?” he said.

“You know, the things I do—” Oliver said, and left the room at a trot, chasing after Vivencia. He caught her at the elevator.

“Oliver, please,” she said. “Don’t apologize, or—” she turned and looked at him. “Whatever it is you’re going to say. Just don’t.”

He realized he was out of breath, sweating, he knew his face was red and fustered. “I never get it right,” was all he could manage to say.

The elevator bell rung, the doors opened. “Maybe next time,” Vivencia said flatly, stepping inside. The doors began to close but Oliver stuck his hand out; the doors paused, and opened. Vivencia sighed loudly. Oliver stepped inside. The elevator lurched and began to drop and Oliver said, “You don’t even know me, or the things I do. You’re basing everything off of one incident.”

She cocked her head at him. “It isn’t my fault if you feel guilty, Oliver. I think you’re worried that the way you behave and the decisions you make and the things you truly believe don’t match how you see yourself. Or how you want to be seen. Trust me, Oliver—you wouldn’t be the first white liberal to be more comfortable with people of color in theory than in person.”

His face grew hot and his stomach bubbled. He reached out and hit the elevator stop button. The carriage rocked and squealed and Vivencia cursed. A dull alarm sounded somewhere. “In theory?” he said. His voice sounded small but he was also certain that he had shouted. “Every night, I—” He took a deep breath. Vivencia had stepped away from him, shielding herself into the furthest corner of the elevator. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not,” she said, reaching into her purse.

“No—listen!” he said, stepping forward. He knew she was going to blast him with pepper spray. He knew it was going to burn; he felt confident that it was going to be a new pain, greater than what he’d ever felt before. But he had to make her understand. So he would take the pain—but not yet. He grabbed her shoulders. She flinched but didn’t scream.

“I save them!” he shouted. “I save them,” he whispered. “Every night, I go... somewhere. And I save them.”

“Of course you do,” she said, smirking. “Of course. A savior. A white knight, riding to the rescue. I know who you are, Oliver.”

He relaxed his grip, let go. “Thank you,” he said, and wept.

When it came, it was, as foreseen, terribly painful. A flame that reached through his eyes, across his brain, down his spine. It felt as though his face were melting off, though he knew it wasn’t. He tried to hold onto that thought: that it was just his imagination. Only in his imagination was the pain everlasting, the scars permanent, the humiliation real. The squirming, screaming creature clawing at its face, sobbing and slobbering and begging—whom? and for what?—that wasn’t him. He put this image aside; he had the power to ignore it; and in his mind he was himself again. In his mind he went somewhere else. In his mind he turned away and there found comfort.