The Man Who Could Move Silverware

Peter Lewellan

“... today’s civil trial came to a stunning conclusion with the jury awarding a settlement of $220 million against Diversified Technologies in the industrial injury case,” Brian Williams paused for effect.  “This court victory is unlikely to comfort the reclusive Mr. Elksblood since surgeons at University Hospitals have been unable to remove the almost invisible metal particles that penetrated his cerebral cortex thirty-five months ago.   His long-term prognosis is grim.”

“Grim?” Jonas asked the television set.  “It’s more than damned grim . . ..”  He turned off NBC Evening News.  “Let me shove microscopic shrapnel in your brain and check your prognosis!” 

He looked down at the old Formica table with its scratched green top and saw the paper plate filled with cold Our Family brand spaghetti.  The empty can sat on the nearby counter.

Jonas knew he needed to eat, but the mere thought of food elevated the pain swirling in his head.  On a scale from one to ten with ten being the most intense pain you’ve ever experiences and one being ....  Jonas hovered between a three and a four.
This was the third time he’d faced off with the food in the last hour.  The generic canned spaghetti had little circles for pasta—like Spaghetti O’s, but without the quality control.

He blinked his eyes and immediately the pain climbed another level, four and then five.  His hunger fed the pain.  Jonas hadn’t eaten anything since Tuesday when the jury started deliberating.  He struggled to keep his eyes open and to focus on the food.  He blinked again.

White-hot spears thrust into sinuses.  Waves of pain rolled over his lips, cheeks, and forehead.  His mouth caught fire.  A nine, definitely a nine!

“Aaaarrrrgggggghhh!”  The scream brought him enough relief to regain control.  I bet my neighbor loved that one, he thought.  The pounding on the walls echoed the pounding in his brain.

“Hey, buddy,” Wall Pounder shouted, “take those millions of yours and shove ‘em up your ...!”

Another wave of pain washed through his cortex.  Jonas wanted to scream, but his mouth refused to open. The pain was cellular.  His brain imploded, each cell fused to the next.  Stasis. Then another wave—millions of nuclei burning—as they pulled back away.
He slumped into the kitchen chair. 

I’ve got to eat something.  He looked down at the spaghetti and then at the silverware.  I’ve got to pick up that fork and bring it to my mouth. 

As he stared the fork slowly began to rise until it reached his lips.

“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.  The fork clattered to the table.



Months later Jonas turned from the want ads to the stock quotations.  It’s hard to break old habits, he thought.  He wasn’t used to having money.  After the accident he lived marginally on disability pay as the civil suit grounds its way through the courts. 

With the settlement finalized, credit cards filled his mailbox.  He planned to move to Thailand or Australia or Guatemala or the Netherlands—somewhere where prostitution was legal.  He budgeted $100,000 for companionship.  If he was still alive after that money was spent, he planned to buy a bass boat or a yacht.  He wavered between the two.

Jonas lowered the newspaper with his mind and looked at his living room.  His old TV had been replaced by a 60” Sony LCD.  His new sofa, recliner, and love seat were all in red calfskin leather contrasting the new beige carpet.  Along one wall was a series of boxes filled with stereo components, video equipment, CDs, computers and software, an X-Box, Play Station, and Wii, dishes, shoes, small appliances, and dozens of other items he could no longer remember buying because of the bends in his brain.  One night alone his invoice from QVC came to $35,000.

He turned to face the supper set before him--Budget Gourmet Swiss Steak, microwave sweet potato fries, and a gelatin salad from the Safeway deli.  Time to eat, he thought.  With his mind he lifted first his knife and then his fork and then he started cutting his meat.  Piece by piece he lifted the steak to his mouth and ate.  “Think I’ll watch the news.”  Without moving he turned on the TV and adjusted the volume with his brain.  Built in remote, he thought as he heard the familiar sounds of Wall Pounder next door.
“Turn that thing down.”  Jonas turned to face the adjoining wall were the shout had come from. His mind lingered on the image of Wall Pounder.  Suddenly all his anger and pain focused on that image.  Instantly his pain was relieved.  A moment later he heard a scream next door.

How’d I do that?  His pain returned as he lost the image of his neighbor.  The new television shorted out in a shower of sparks.  “There goes another one,” he laughed turning back to his meal, but he was no longer hungry. 

Jonas stacked the silverware, glass, and dishes with his mind and moved them to the sink.  “Some day I’m going to learn how to wash them.”

As he rose the metal particles shifted in his brain sending a current down the left side of his body.  He paused, commanding his body to first block the pain, then move again, this time more slowly. 

He turned off the lights and picked up his jacket from the closet hanger and opened the closet door to let the jacket out.  The jacket met him at the front door along with his car keys from the kitchen counter.  As he walked down the hallway to the elevator his mind shut and locked the door.  What else I can do.  The elevator door closed as he closed out the last of his pain.



Too many ferns, Jonas thought, looking around The Garden.  It’s a greenhouse, not a restaurant.  At the old places, the cafes and bars he had frequented before the accident, too many people knew of his quirky behavior, his outbursts of pain, and his new wealth.  He wanted to hide in plain view.  With his hand tailored suit, his styled and feathered brown weave in place, and his Italian leather billfold filled with cash, he was determined to swim in bigger ponds.  There were some disadvantages.

The headaches became more frequent.  It was difficult to go back to a place after he had suddenly risen from his linguini with pesto sauce and screamed.  Frustrated with menus in a French, Italian, or Greek, he had a tendency to throw things with his mind, which fellow diners found disturbing, but big tips soothd the wait staff.

The Garden trip had started out badly.  His first crime seemed to be eating alone.  He was seated at a tiny table in the corner away from the more social patrons. Tiffany, his waitress, had snickered at Jonas’s suggestion that she was an attractive woman who, perhaps, would like to go out after work.  His embarrassment led him to order the lobster at “market price.”  Her rejection was typical of his attempts with women.  He’d lost his ability to be causal.

Jonas ignored the food set before him and concentrated on the people around him.  An aging woman in an ancient fur piece was talking loudly to her friend across the table, gesturing with her glass of red wine.  “Harold says it’s impossible to get good piece work done in this country.  He contracts ninety percent of his parts orders outside the country.  No one blames him.  ‘Buy American.’  That’s fine for those union trash, but for quality at a good price, I say try the Pacific Rim.”

The woman reminded him of his ex-supervisor’s wife.  Jonah had spent many hours waiting outside Mr. English’s office as his boss talked on the phone with her.  He moved the woman’s fingers away from her wine glass with the slightest pressure from his mind.  He watched as the glass fell, spilling its contents on her pale green dress.  Surprised, she rapidly stood up.  As she stood, Jonas raised the table legs closest to her so that the contents of the table were spilled over her dinner companion.  She had neither spilled the wine nor tipped the table, but it appeared as though she had done both. Jonas smiled.

His mind ought out Tiffany, his waitress, and found her standing beside a young businessman, his fork poised above his crème caramel custard. Jonas selected a fork from another table, lifted it and, with all the force of his brain, firmly planted it in Tiffany’s left buttock.  She howled as Jonas removed the fork and replaced it on the table.  The young man rose to assist her, still clutching his fork.  She slapped him before he had a chance to ask what was wrong. 

Jonas looked around the restaurant.  People were settling back into their plush chairs.  Let me shake them up. 

Despite the throbbing in his brain, he summoned as much energy as he could and slowly began to sweep the room with his mind.  Everywhere he looked the silverware moved.  It shook; it rattled; it sprang from the hands that held it and flew away.  Waves of silverware spread with Jonas’s gaze. 

Then, finally, bored with these games, Jonas turned his attention from the scene to the patron in the corner opposite him.  She had flowing red hair reaching below her shoulders.  She wore a white ruffled blouse with a bow tied at her slender neck. 

He looked intensely at her delicate face as she surveyed the room.  He tried to imagine her skirt and legs, obstructed by the tablecloth.  He tried to imagine what she must look like underneath that blouse and skirt.  That kind of mental power he did not have. 

As he stared at her he saw a sudden look of shock.  She searched the room until her eyes fixed on his.  The surprise turned to fright as he fixed on those green eyes and would not let them go.  With great effort Jonas moved her left hand to the bow at her neck and slowly forced her to untie it.  He had never felt such mental resistance to his force.  Through the increasing pain in his brain he lifted her right hand to her blouse and forced it to begin unbuttoning it.  The terror in her eyes increased, but he would not let her face turn away, or allow her mouth to scream. 

As her hand reached the last button, Jonas broke contact.  What am I doing?  She sat straight up for a moment revealing her small breasts and black lace bra to him, then she crumpled in her chair.  “I’m so sorry,” he said aloud as he quickly rose from his seat, threw money on the table, and exited the room without waiting for his bill.



Spread before him on the new quarter-sawn handcrafted oak dining room table, were Styrofoam boxes filled with every item on the Safeway deli salad bar that had looked good to him an hour ago:  pea salad with real mayo and pearl onions, strawberry Jello with Mandarin orange slices, pickled herring fillets in wine sauce, pickled herring fillets in sour cream sauce, cold spaghetti in Italian dressing with black olives, coleslaw with apple bits, baked beans with maple syrup and bacon slices, tuna tulips, cottage cheese with chives, pickled beets, garlic dill pickles, and seven-layer salad.  The sight of the containers made he want to puke, but he had to eat. 

Jonas had lost seventy pounds since the accident, almost fifteen pounds since the settlement. He was six feet, two inches and weighted 105 pounds.  He looked like he’d vacationed in Auschwitz, rather than Key West.  The last out-call masseuse he’d hired assumed he was dying of cancer or AIDS.  She was especially gentile with him, almost compassionate, which left him feeling more lonely than ever. 

Jonah’s mind began positioning a slice of herring to a Ritz cracker when he heard a knock on the apartment door.  It was a light tap, but firm, not at all tentative.  More perfunctory.

He turned to the door, but before he could get up the deadbolt slid back, the chain released and dropped to the side of the doorframe, the knob turned, and the door slowly opened.  Standing in the entranceway, armed folded across her chest, was the young red-headed woman from the Gardens.  She did not look happy.

“Come in,” he said awkwardly.

“Thank you.”  She moved effortlessly into his living room, surveying the stacks of unopened merchandise.  Her eyes finally came to rest on the untouched food on the table.  She looked at his shallow cheeks and pale face.  “You need to eat.”

“Hell, I know that ....”  But before he could finish the thought, a wave of serenity washed over him.  The anger dissipated.  He felt at peace and hungry.  Jonas picked up a slice of herring and began chewing.

“I was furious after what you did to me at the restaurant,” she said.  “I wanted to hurt you, but my handlers wouldn’t let me.”

Handlers?

“You caught me off guard.  I didn’t perceive a threat until it was too late.”

Jonas closed his eyes and tried to recapture the image of her, her long red hair and creamy white shoulders, her blouse open down the front, her black lace bra.  His revelry was interrupted by the sound of his dishwasher opening and silverware being put in the rack.  “You don’t have to worry about cleaning up,” he started to say as he opened his eyes.  “A maid comes ....”

The red haired young woman was still standing in his living room, her arms still folded across her chest.  Jonas glanced into the kitchen where plates and pots floated into his dishwasher.  He watched in amazement as two tablets of dishwasher soap rose from under the counter and positioned themselves in the machine.  When it was full, the dishwasher switched on.

“Did you do that?”

“It wasn’t your maid.”

“But ....”

“Do you think you’re the only person in the world with gifts?”  She walked over to the oak table and sat down in the chair farthest from Jonas.  She picked up the container of seven-layer salad.  A clean fork drifted into her hand.  She ate the salad slowly and precisely the whole time she studied him.

“Were you in an accident, too?”

She shook her head.  “Everyone comes by her gifts a little differently.  Few of us share a common history.”  She met his stare.  “You have a gift.  It may not seem like it now, but it is a gift.  Don’t abuse it by doing stunts like you did last night.”

“What’s to stop me?”

“Us.”

Jonas looked to the still open front door, expecting to see others. Suddenly he was struck by pain unlike any other.  On a ten-point scale, this was an eleven.  He collapsed into his chair.

“Make no mistake about it, you were able to do what you did last night because I was careless and distracted.  Feeling sorry for myself because ....”  She looked over to him and saw his pain.  She sighed, and Jonas felt immediate relief. 

“I can get you in contact with others who have gifts.”

“Gifts?”  He blinked.  The wave of contentment returned along with his appetite.  He grabbed the container of baked beans with bacon and began eating.

“Remote sensing.  Cooling touch.  Precognition.  Telekinesis.”  The redheaded woman finished the seven-layer salad and picked up the container of coleslaw.  “Even within our little circle, people are hesitant to admit all that they can do.”

“Why?”

She looked up from the coleslaw.  “Fear of exploitation.  After last night’s events, outside forces are already assessing what you can do for them:  the CIA, foreign and domestic terrorist cells, Fortune 100 firms, telejournalists, The National Enquirer.  They all want a piece of you.”  She put down the empty container and picked up a tuna tulip.  Meanwhile Jonas finished the baked beans and returned to the plate of herring.  He grabbed some crackers.  “Best keep a low profile,” she advised.

“And how do I do that?”

“Relocate.” She looked over to him, tearing into the herring, bits of cracker salting his beard and smiled. “I can help,” she said finally. “We have safe houses.”

Jonas looked into her eyes, unable to recognize the look her saw there.  Another wave of serenity flowed over him.  “I’d like that.”