The Cost of Knowing, page 1
To all the Black boys who had to grow up too early
THE CURSE OF KNOWLEDGE: a cognitive bias that occurs when an expert in a particular subject, communicating with a novice, is unable to explain a concept in simple terms that the novice can understand, due to the expert’s experience.
A HUSBAND AND WIFE sit at their dining room table one evening, watching a crime report on the news, sipping tea, and lamenting the violent state of the world. They’re thankful they live in a neighborhood where crime is rare.
The wife is on the local litter patrol. The husband regularly attends town hall meetings.
The wife is a natural peacekeeper. The husband is a natural protector.
The wife hears a noise outside. The husband gets up to investigate.
1 Scoop’s
I PICK UP THE ice cream scoop, and the vision begins.
I see a familiar light-skinned hand with knobby knuckles and dirt under the nails, passing the scoop I’m holding into a new, unfamiliar hand as dark as mine. This new hand is amply lotioned—no ashiness in the crease between the index finger and thumb. The nails are clipped short. A glittering, diamond-encrusted ring indicates this man must have more money in his wallet than I’ll make in my entire life. But the most telling detail, the revelation that might affect my future, lies in the background. Behind the two hands, sitting on the grass, is the sign that hangs over the front door of this place—the one that says SCOOP’S. In my vision, someone’s leaned it carelessly against the white siding, which is coated in a thin layer of green and black grime, the kind that builds up over months of neglect.
Scoop, the owner of this place, is going to sell the business.
I blink, directing all my focus into darkness, the abstract, nothing. I breathe. I think the word stop, and silently, I command the vision to end. When I open my eyes again, I’m looking down at the scoop in my hand. I’m back to the present day, turning the scoop over in my fingers. Only a second has gone by in the real world, even though I just watched a twenty-second vision. They always last only a moment.
I blink back into reality, still staring down at the scoop in my bare hand, and I briefly consider telling Scoop. But what would it change? What good would it do?
When you own the shop, you can make the rules, he’d say.
He’s never listened to my ideas before—not when I suggested we invest in a shelving unit so we can finally organize the supply boxes obstructing the hallway, not when I suggested we buy blackout curtains for the front lobby so the afternoon sunlight doesn’t turn this place into an oven, since we’re a damn ice cream shop and we can’t operate at ninety-five degrees without jacking up our refrigeration costs. Nah, he won’t listen to me, and even on the off chance that he does, Scoop doesn’t do anything without asking a million questions first. And my only answer to the inevitable question, “How do you know for sure?” will be “I can see the future,” an idea so ridiculous that I didn’t even believe it until I got out of that hospital and it started interfering with my daily life. I can’t touch anything with the palm side of my hands without seeing what will happen to it in the next few moments. The longer I touch it, the further into the future I can see. With most things, I can make the vision stop a split second after it begins, so it’s more like a photograph flashing in my head, but if I want to see further, which is rare these days, I can let it keep going for as long as I’m touching it.
I’ve picked up this scoop so many times working here. I’ve seen myself holding it while I’m wearing a tank top and my arm is glistening with sweat. I’ve seen myself holding it with my long sleeves tucked over my knuckles as the front door swings open and gusts of snow flurries fly in behind a customer who has no business buying ice cream in that kind of weather. Then it changes hands—a white hand is scooping ice cream as customers enter in tank tops. More kids staring from the other side of the counter in bathing suits and sunglasses. Then, gradually, people coming in with their hands red from the cold, fingers curled around hot coffee cups, ordering through the scarves pulled up over their faces. Two summers. Two winters. I’d say Scoop has about two years left before this place goes under. Two. I’ll have graduated and gone off to college by then. And even if this place closed tomorrow, there’d still be no point in trying to warn him.
I’ve tried to alter the future too many times to think it’ll work anymore.
I remember a vision I had during a camping trip three years ago—a vision I’ll never forget. Me, Aunt Mackie, my little brother Isaiah, my best friend Shaun, and his little sister, who’s now my girlfriend—Talia—spent a weekend at Starved Rock State Park out in Oglesby. Aunt Mackie was grilling hot dogs, and she asked me to put the bag of buns on the picnic table. I picked them up and caught a vision of Isaiah slipping on the bag, falling, and breaking his arm. So, despite the risk of flies and flying charcoal pieces landing on them, I took all the buns out of the bag, left them open on a plate, and tossed the bag in the garbage.
Crisis averted, I thought.
But then Aunt Mackie asked Isaiah to run the trash to the dumpster. The crumpled-up little bun bag rolled out at some point while he walked, and on his way back, his foot found the slippery plastic.
Another time, while walking past a construction site, I tried to prevent a beam from falling and bursting a fire hydrant, which I’d touched, by yelling up at the foreman to watch out! If he hadn’t been distracted, he might have caught it.
No matter what I do, it doesn’t help. The mess happens anyway, and I just end up embarrassed, often because it looks like I caused whatever I’d been trying to prevent. So I’ve stopped trying. Better, and less humiliating, to just lie low and let fate happen.
That’s the real reason I don’t tell Scoop what I saw. Whatever I say, whatever I do to stop it, this place is doomed.
“Alex!” snaps that commanding voice from the kitchen door. I jump, dropping the scoop into the dirty sink water, sending an explosion of suds in all directions, soaking the front of my apron and dousing my face.
God, ew, a little got in my mouth.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes. Before I can say I’m okay, he’s moved on. “Ross is going on break soon, so I need you up front.”
I drag my dry forearm across my face, pull off my other glove, and remove my glasses. The vision flashes. One of me wiping my lenses off on a shirt I’m not wearing. One I don’t even own yet. I’ve touched my own glasses so many times that I must be at a few months into the future with visions of them. I make the vision end, and I do exactly what I just saw myself do—wipe them off. It’s become routine for me. Touch item. See vision of exactly what I’m about to do with the item. Do exactly what I saw myself do in the vision.
“Daydreaming again?” asks Scoop. His voice is quieter and kinder this time.
Sure. Daydreaming. That’s the closest thing to it that he’ll understand, so I nod. I grab the hand towel hanging above the sink and wipe my hands before removing my soaked dishwashing apron. I hang it up by the sink to dry and sigh as the full weight of Scoop’s words sinks in, heavy like an anvil on my chest. I need you up front.
I hate working up front. Not because I don’t like talking to customers—I’m actually pretty good at that part, and the customers are usually nice. They’re mostly young parents with kids under ten, who are in and out in a few minutes. And the kids are almost always well behaved and happy while they’re here because, hey, they’re getting ice cream. Nah, I hate working up front because it means touching a million items with my bare hands.
It’s an anxiety minefield out there.
Visions fly through my head with everything I touch, like one of those old-school slide-projector things—every tap of the register screen, every dollar I count, every spoon I pick up, every hand I brush while giving out samples, every cup, every cone, every scoop. I can’t focus on all of that and do my job. I can’t constantly be thinking of what’s going to happen and stay focused on what is happening. It’s too much.
“Can I go back to dishes after?” I ask. Dishes. My safe place, where I can wear my dishwashing gloves and live vision-free for a while.
A droplet of dishwater that was caught in my coily hair races down my forehead, and I wipe it away and sigh, anticipating the answer.
“Sorry, champ,” he says, although with his accent, it sounds more like “shamp.” He leans against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his black apron and explains, “After Ross takes his break, I’ve got Ashlynn going home. I need you up there till you’re off at six. Okay?”
It’s going to have to be okay.
I can already feel my heart rate picking up speed, that racing adrenaline that makes me jittery like I’ve had six cups of coffee and a Red Bull. On really bad days, my mouth gets dry and I start sweating. Sometimes it happens for no reason. Sometimes it happens if I’m anxious about something that would make most people anxious, like an exam, or speaking up in class. Sometimes it happens because I’m with Talia. Today, it’s happening because I have to do my job. Just the thought of going out there to the front counter freaks me out. It’s pathetic. I’ve been working here for four years. I shouldn’t be this afraid anymore. What kind of man am I? Come on, Alex. I steel myself, pinching the skin on the back of my hand, which is supposed to help with anxiety.
It doesn’t.
I used to be able to wear cheap latex gloves up front. We used to have to wear them while scooping, as mandated by the health department. I’d put them on, cancel a quick vision of them, and go the rest
I take a deep breath and follow Scoop through the tiny hallway, which is crammed to the ceiling with unlabeled boxes of flavor powders, industrial cleaning products, ice cream toppings, napkins, and spoons.
This whole place is a fire hazard, a fall hazard, and an accessibility nightmare. Scoop sometimes sends me back here to put bottles and boxes away where they actually go, so we can have access to the handwashing sink on the wall behind the mountain, just before scheduled inspections. And it’s always me, because I can squeeze my five-foot-seven, 140-pound ass into places some of the others can’t. I shouldn’t have to watch vision after vision of supplies I don’t need, just to find some damn napkins. Not when I’m getting paid the same eleven dollars an hour as everyone else.
But I can’t dwell on that or I’ll get even more jittery and irritable. The quickest way to get through this day, like every day, is to take a deep breath, keep my head down, keep to myself, and keep my hands closed and close to me. I fold them against my shirt and slip between the boxes and the wall. Damn, I swear it gets narrower and narrower every time I walk through here. I keep my eyes on the back of Scoop’s head and follow him out to the front counter, where the sunlight has already started cooking the employees. It smells faintly of sugar and dairy products.
The novelty of smelling ice cream all day wore off by the end of my first week. Now I barely smell anything. But I’ve heard that’s normal. Aunt Mackie used to work in a movie theater, and she said eventually she stopped smelling popcorn when she walked in. After a while, it just began to smell faintly of butter substitute and hard work.
There’s only one customer out here—a bearded man in his early thirties in shorts, a striped T-shirt, and expensive sunglasses. He’s pulling a sample spoon out of his mouth and taking forever to decide on a flavor.
Ashlynn, who stands what feels like a foot taller than me and who always wears a too-tight brown ponytail that’s creeping her hairline farther back than any twenty-year-old should have, glances over her shoulder at me with that jaded smirk of hers. Ross, the malnourished Dracula-looking guy whose eyes always look like he hasn’t slept in years but somehow always ends up right at the front at the scooping counter, is feverishly tapping his foot, hands on hips, watching the man with the sunglasses, his eyes quietly urging the man to make a decision.
Scoop decides to bail him out.
“All right, Ross,” he says, motioning toward the hallway with two fingers. “You’re on break. Ashlynn, you’re scooping till Ross gets back.”
Shit. That puts me at the register.
Calm down, Alex, I tell myself. Just three more hours and you can go home and nap this stress away.
Ross can’t get his apron off fast enough. He turns from his post behind the counter, yanks his pink apron over his head, and has a cigarette and lighter out before he even reaches the hallway. Ashlynn nods and moves dutifully to the counter where Ross was standing. The customer, who’s now watching Ross leave in the middle of the transaction, seems unfazed and points to a tub of green ice cream in the corner. Ashlynn never speaks unless she absolutely has to, so I’m sure she’s relieved to be able to scoop ice cream and hand out samples with minimal conversation except “Welcome to Scoop’s,” “Which flavor?,” “Cup or cone?,” “What size?,” and “Have a great day.” That means I, on the other hand, am stuck at the register, touching everything—clicking buttons, counting cash, swiping cards, getting preordered ice cream cakes out of the freezer, distributing receipts, and handing out coupons and allergy info sheets. And I have to explain all the time that “yes, sir or ma’am, some of our flavors do have artificial colors and sweeteners, but they’re all FDA-approved.” It’s the same answers day after day.
Our only gluten-free flavor is strawberry.
No, strawberry isn’t vegan. Coffee and vanilla are our only vegan flavors.
Yes, the coffee is caffeinated.
Vanilla isn’t GMO-free, but the sweet cream is.
No, the sweet cream isn’t vegan. Only coffee and vanilla.
Shoot me.
I slip on a bubblegum-pink apron and pull my cobalt-blue visor down low on my forehead, canceling the visions for each, right after I see myself hanging both of them up at the end of my shift. I sigh and adjust the visor so it rests comfortably. My hair is cut short—a fade on the sides and slightly longer coils on top. I was relieved I didn’t have to carry an Afro pick and pocket-size styling gel anymore when we switched from baseball caps to visors last year, another expense that Scoop decided would be more effective at keeping us employees cool than blackout curtains. Apparently you lose 20 percent of your body heat through your head or something? I don’t know.
In the corner of my eye, I see Ashlynn turn to leave down the hallway.
“We’re out of spoons,” she grumbles. “I’m going to find more in the back.”
As soon as I’m left alone out here, the front door swings open, and I take a long, deep breath and log into the register, clicking my name and typing in my four-digit PIN.
I punch 1. Vision of me pressing the 0 on the register. Stop. I punch 0. Vision of me pressing the 0 again. Stop. I punch 0 again. Vision of me pressing the 4 on the register. Stop. I punch 4. Vision of the register’s welcome screen. Stop.
“Hi, welcome to Scoop’s,” I say to whoever just walked in, as the register lights up with my name.
Welcome, Alex Rufus.
Shit, it’s hot in here. It’s three in the afternoon, and the sun is blinding through the west window, beating down on the whole area right behind the register where I am. Sweat is already beading on my forehead, but I put on my most convincing smile and look up at the customer. A woman about my height with short reddish-brown hair and bright green eyes walks over, looking like she stepped right out of a J.Crew catalog. The redheaded little girl holding her hand looks like she’s about seven, but she’s sucking her thumb with the enthusiasm of a jittery toddler. When they reach the counter, she buries her face in her mom’s stomach and puts all her focus into her thumb.
“Hi,” I say, trying to ignore the slippery suction noises coming from the little girl’s mouth. I’m sure this woman and her daughter are both cool, but I need them to get the hell out of here with those mouth sounds.
“What can I get you?” I ask. The woman is staring past my head at the board behind me as if it’s changed in the last five years. Literally the only thing that’s ever changed is our prices. She must be brand-new here.
“Canna get a child’s size cone for Mabel, and a single scoop fer me?”
Her accent is either Irish or Scottish—I can’t really tell. She’s reaching into her brown leather purse, fishing around for something to pay with, but I’m missing information.
“Which flavors, ma’am?” I ask.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “What’s the pistachio flavor like?”
It tastes like pistachio, I wish I could say.
“It’s nutty and a little less sweet than the others,” I have to say.
God, it’s so hot in here. I have to remove my glasses and wipe the sweat out of my eyes now, but it doesn’t help much because my arms are already dewy. I end the vision of me putting the glasses back on my face. I use her indecisiveness to step away from the register, where the sun is beaming through the window, and stand behind the ice cream counter instead. I rest my hands on the cold metal shelf behind the glass for some relief, until the room fades to black and I see an image of this place drenched in darkness except for moonlight. I see the window, and the summer moon is outside in the sky, shining down on this place. It’s peaceful after hours, and cool, and I long for that kind of quiet right now.
