The Adventures of Hayesman: Volume one

The Adventures of Hayesman
Volume one: Hayesman and Goliath


The way Cardinal Hayes is shaped, it’s curved inward. Slightly concave, inversely convex, totally half-circle. There is a steady pitter-patter in the empty halls, echoing, reverberating, rolling sounds traveling in and out. These noises—there are two of them—are a steady backdrop sound, a leaky faucet in the night, a muffled argument through the walls.

There are no other sounds. Silence. Just that pitter-patter belonging to footsteps.
These footsteps belong to two people, one is evil, and the other is a lone individual, struggling to find his way in life. He is struggling to run, to continue to dash, because it is his life he’s running for. He has to run; running is his only option. Turn and fight? Totally dumb. Run up the stairs? Hardly effective. His pursuer is fast, faster than he is, by far, but nonetheless is still lagging behind. There is nothing significant here, just simple slow-paced jogging.

The figures—they’re two of them—are smudged silhouettes on the hallway walls, slowing morphing and diminishing as they run past. It’s reverse cat and mouse. The hunter has become the hunted. The world is turning in reverse. The fleeing figure grunts as he lunges in forward steps, a stomp, and pitter-patter rhythm. The pursuer matches each stomp with four pitter-patters. The pattern is pitter-pitter-patter-stomp-pitter patter. It is never ending, a looped recording, an inexhaustible counterexample of exhaustion. No end in sight. No light to see the end in sight, either.

The suspense builds; grunts emit, footsteps sound, the figures anticipating the inevitable confrontation. Inevitable is only a word— an adjective— and does not describe the confrontation. Only dialogue can describe this confrontation.


The fleeing figure—the cat in flight—feels his heart slam in his chest. His chest is tight, his throat dry, his eyes blurred. A faint copper taste—probably blood—is in his throat, along with traces of bile. Legs, filled with lactic acid, trudge in stomp-steps. No end in sight. No sight to see the end in sight.


The way Cardinal Hayes is shaped, it curves inward. The curve is dangerous. During the day, it’s called Collision Curve. You collide at the curve. Head-Hurt Helix. This curving curvature. Beware of its rate of change. This is where the fleeing figure runs into a desk. The desk, surface beige-like, and chair—sort of red—are neatly set symmetrically in the center of the hall. It is near the elevator, the hall is dark, and there is the sound of collision.

A squeak of surprise reverberates though the empty halls. It continues with a thud, a wooden clatter, and a metal clanging—and a wail of despair. The rapid pitter-patter continues and then slowly, almost undiscernibly, slows down, transferring to a rapid trot. A faint shadow creeps behind the fleeing (but stationary) figure on the ground. The shadow belongs to someone who is about 6’1, wide and pudgy-fisted.

“What a loser,” the figure that owns the pudgy-fisted shadows says.

The figure on the ground cannot respond; he can only crane his head backwards, upside-down; he sees the other figure like he was standing on the ceiling.

“Say what you say, corpulent individual,” the sprawled figure says.

“Ooh, tough words.”

“I am only warning you.”

“Warn me more—I like it.”

“Appease you, I shall not.”

“Wuss”

“Please, remove thyself from my presence.”

“Over my dead 200-pound body.”

“If that is the way you want it then.”

“Hopefully, you realize how strong I am. Shot Put, baby. Mr. Track Star. Give me my props.”

“Dare I ask what kind of props?”

“Should I laugh at that, or punch your face in?”
Tension. Suspension. Detention. The large figure cracks his knuckles, signaling haste.

“I am going to issue you detention.”

“No thanks.”

“Not a request.”

“I have no time for this. Now, Hanespan, or whatever your name is, I am going to beat you senseless. Last wishes?”

“It’s Hayesman, vile creature, and you are flirting with a Saturday.”

“I am not afraid of detention.”

“Good. No problem. How many?”

“I am not afraid of anything.”

“Three?”

“Redrum is murder spelled backwards.”

“Glad to see your spelling’s up to par, Derrick.”

“No names. I hate my name.”

“Too late.”

“Ooh, boy,” Derrick says and puts and hand on his head while coking it back. “I am so going to love beating you senseless.” He balls his fists and coughs, moving into a mock boxing formation. Brow furrowed, he steps forward; Hayesman steps backward.

“Final chance,” Hayesman says.

“Me or you?”

“Take a wild guess.” As he says this, he is removing an object from his pocket. Concealed, secret, clandestine, this object is small and indiscernible in the darkness. Hayesman holes it in a closed fist behind his back.
Derrick takes another step forward, fists waving in small arcs; Hayesman steps back.

“The chase continues.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“What—“

Deftly, Hayesman flicks the object forward; it enters Derrick’s mouth in mid-word, causing him the step back, hands clasped on his throat and gagging. Hayesman steps forward. Smiling, he says, “Nice try.”

Derrick falls to his hands and knees, body convulsing. A faint gurgling sound emits from his mouth. Hayesman takes another step forward.

“At first you fell, try, try, try, again. I’m the best, don’t yet get it—forget it, when I spit it, it’s crazy. Wise words. ”

Derrick stops gurgling. He remains silent in his worshipping position for a moment. A faint quiver rocks his figure and he lurches forward, rising to his full height.

Number seven on the football team.

Tackle is the best word here. Derrick grabs Hayesman at his midsection and pushes forward. Hayesman squeals in a voice unlike his own as he feels Derrick’s weight bearing down on him—two hundred and ten pounds, all muscle. It’s crunch time—literally. Hayesman manages to prevent his head from hitting the ground; nonetheless, a jarring pain still travels from his chest to the rest of his body. Derrick stands up and rubs his hands together.

“I would punch and kick you in a violent fashion but I have better things to do.” Derrick turns away, brushing his clothes off.

“Like?” Hayesman says, interrupting his own low moaning.

Derrick stops, turns, and says, “Now that you mention it—nothing.” He takes a few steps forward, his face solemnly beaming.
Hayesman rolls to the left as Derrick’s foot hits the spot where his face would have been. He is standing in a junction between the classrooms and the elevator. The water fountain is close by but he is in no position to drink from it. Derrick steps forward, a full four inches taller than Hayesman. .

Derrick says, “You know, this reminds me of that old tale of David and Goliath, except this time, David gets squashed like he is supposed to. Your name isn’t David is it?”

“No names.”

“David was a cur to have to use a slingshot. He should have taken his beating like a blessing. You like that—beating, blessing? Goliath really should have expected something like that; after all, David played a harp. You can trust people who play the harp. Harps are the eponymy of strange. Give a guy a harp and you’ll never see him the same.

As Derrick spoke, Hayesman was drawing yet another object from his belt, circular and spherical, round and sphere-shaped. Awaiting that one particular moment, decisive in its spontaneity, where it would offer the most irony, that one grand and infinite aspect of situation, the one flagrant exposition or the event, summarizing the situation, surmising a afterward outlook, totally retracting the moment into focus, allotting a full and absolute finale, evident in its palpability, completely and totally encompassing the whole incident, creating a make-shift viewpoint on the current episode, removing the players from the setting and transferring them to a 2-d surface, one bereft of the events prior to the one in question, adding to the true being of their existence, with one meaning—to provide the mediums for the event, the message, the morale, the point, the unambiguous intention, the apparent crux, the plain aim, slowly building to the climax, passing it and transgressing down the steep incline of the falling action, resolving the conflict, closing the curtain; this moment was close, smell and indulge it.

Speaking, Derrick says, “You don’t play the harp, do you?”

“I play the bassoon.”

“Wind instrument?”

“Yeah.”

“You good at it?”

“I get by.”

“No harp playing involved?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Oh, it’s like a flute?”

“Yeah.”

“You really need strong lungs and clear windpipes. You can’t really play wind instrument with poor lungs. You’ll wind up choke—“
The circular object flew once again. The moment was decisive, no ambiguity to it. The word was unfinished. Irony. Read it and weep. Derrick’s eyes bulged and he once again fell to his knees. Though his gurgling, he uttered a few words—a sentence—before allowing his face the hit the ground:

“What the heck is that?”

“Something I stole from a pharmacy.This is bitter irony. I am the David without a slingshot. You are the Goliath without a clue. I meant to be home by nine, but you detained me. I am sorry I had to do this to you; nonetheless, you should be awake in about twelve hours, just in time for the second bell.”

He pulls a pen and pad from his pocket, and writes something down; then he pulls the sheet off of the pad and places it under Derrick’s sleeping face. He steps away, surmising the spectacle—a fallen student, chair and desk. Wincing, he limps towards the stairway. As he opens the door, he turns back again, examining for evidence of his presence. He grimaces and proceeds to walking down the stairs, his blazer dusty and his tie billowing from around his eyes. The door closes and blows the yellow sheet of paper from under Derrick’s face. It reads, Derrick Watson, homeroom 3d; for offence, it says, instigating a confrontation + unlawfully entering building . At the bottom, the initials HM are written. Hayesman, protector of the studious, vanquisher of the belligerent, friend and ally to the faculty.