He sits and stares for a while at the room; it is mostly empty, with no sharp edges or blunt
points, but they haven’t gone as far as quilted walls. In the middle, two chairs on opposite
sides of a small table that has been bolted to the floor. Why do they always bolt down the
table, he wonders, but leave the chairs free? It's a test, he's sure of it. They think he's
crazy, or mad, or clinically depressed, or something much more interesting they’ve picked at
random from the DSM-V. They want him to do something, anything, just so they can write a word
on their notepads in red ink, assign him a category, and file him away.
table, then climb up to the ceiling, and smash the horrible compact fluorescent bulb there. It
doesn’t seem to fit in this room somehow, but a second look at the ceiling, with its hastily
plastered-over plumbing, convinces him that the room was once something else. The single round
bulb socket, with its yellowing plastic shell and vestigial pull-chain, is an original fixture.
The socket knows what this room was before, but it’s not telling. One of its screws is loose,
and draws his attention. He laughs, squeezing his knees tighter to his chest. He wonders if he
could get to that screw, twist it out, twist it into his own flesh, maybe his neck or a wrist,
before they could send someone in to stop him. The light flickers, as if daring him to try.
was a fire? How would he escape? A man wearing a bowtie enters. Bowtie -- blowfly -- bad eye --
Bradley. He remembers that the man in the bowtie is named Bradley, although he's unsure whether
that is the man's given or Christian name. He laughs; then remembers that the terms are
synonymous, that the other term he should have thought was 'family name' and stops laughing.
Jesus, he thinks, get a grip.Bradley just stands there, his expression inscrutable. That he carries a clipboard is not
surprising, but the included pen is blue, not red. When the door clicks shut, Bradley takes
three steps into the middle of the room, pulls out the closest chair, and sits down.
"Do you know why you're here?"
tick away the seconds. He'd always been fascinated by these clocks, when he would bother to
think about them at all. A couple of times, usually daylight savings time, but once after
someone had broken into The Office, Jimmy had watched them adjust the time on the clocks. He
didn't know exactly how it worked, although he always pictured miles of steel cable twisted
through dark hallways attached to each clock, winding and unwinding with mindless, mechanical
certainty. Anyway, he knew that the hands all turned at the same time, and they were probably
controlled from this very office. That was the rumor, anyway. As far as rumors went, it was a
fairly benign one.Why was he here? He'd never been to The Office before; he just wasn't that sort of kid. He'd
never thrown a fist in anger, never intentionally hurt anyone's feelings ... well, hardly ever,
anyway. What made today any different? Spit-wads? Seriously -- what the hell? It wasn't like
the two girls had been especially brutal with their teasing in physics that morning, he'd
certainly ignored worse. Sticks and stones, right? Christ -- he should save someone the trouble
and have that phrase chiseled onto a headstone now.
On the other hand, he now knew that the plain white Bic pens make excellent blowguns, for
small, moist projectiles at short ranges. That sounded stupid, even in his head; he'd have to
remember to keep that thought to himself.
He wasn't sure what the big deal was; while he didn't actually think that years upon years of
good behavior gave him any sort of exemption from 'the rules' it was irritating that he was
sitting here for what amounted to a childish prank, especially considering that Jack got away
with everything. How did he convince Dad to buy him that car? It wasn't fair; they were twins,
but Jack got everything.
This was so stupid; he didn't do anything wrong... Although that last volley did come close to
Courtney's eye.
"Did I hurt someone?"
Jane picked herself up out of the gravel, gingerly picking the odd stone out of her now bloody
shins and forearms. What a completely ridiculous question! Did the driver think that he could
run a light at a busy intersection, without looking, or slowing, and not hurt someone?
Under the front wheels of the hulking H&M Electrical Inc. pickup, which was still idling, as if
he was planning to beat a hasty retreat, was her beautiful vintage Schwinn. A sickening smear
of green paint vanished under the foul machine. She blinked, sighed, and then threw a bloody
stone at him, aiming for his stupid Yankees cap, but missed. He just glared at her, so she
lifted her arms up toward him, hoping the oozing mess they'd become after he knocked her off
her bicycle would be emphasis enough. When he just stared, Jane figured she might as well ask
her own rhetorical question.
"What do you think?"
passenger-side window, and felt a little part of him die. He was going to have to give up the
Mustang. God, how he loved that car! Ever since he had found her in a field, so rusty but full
of potential, and had poured so much of himself into restoring her piece by piece. He was even
nursing the idea of giving her to his son when he was old enough. Wouldn't quite be the same
handing over keys to a minivan.
Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! It's just a goddamned car, after all -- this gorgeous creature standing
in front of you, she's your wife, and she's carrying your child. And this hideous hunter green
box next to you, power everything, airbags everywhere, and more cup-holders than anyone could
ever fill, there was no doubt about it; this minivan will protect them, nurture them, take them
where they need to go. You can't even make that car-seat fit in the Mustang. Maybe it's time to
grow up, Walter. Welcome to the rest of your life, Walter.
yes. It's just a minivan; you can always buy another Mustang. Do it. Say it. "I don't know."Peter said it as if Michael had asked him if he wanted another cup of coffee; casual,
disinterested, maybe even a little bored.
Michael was floored -- this was definitely not the answer he had been expecting. His mother
had cried, his father had raged when he introduced them to Peter. 'I don't know?' 'I don't
know??' What kind of bullshit answer was that? You either loved someone or you didn't --
there's no foggy middle ground, no magical land of Idunno where you can wait and see which way
the wind blows, and you certainly couldn’t pour love into a to-go cup and microwave it later
when it got cold.
another story. Michael couldn’t think of a single time when Dad had taken an evening off work
to toss a ball around, go to a game – and he only saw Michael play Hamlet once, sneaking in
during the last scene but pretending he’d been there the whole time. Dad always managed to find
time to polish that damned Mustang, though.But the one thing he learned early on was that he couldn't live their lives for them. Living
his own life was hard enough. Take this particular moment in time; He'd finally found someone
he could see himself spending his life with, someone who understood him, someone who -- Jesus!
Who answers 'Do you love me' with 'I don't know?' Who!?
"How can you say that?"
they must have been in a hurry because the input connector was torn free, still attached to the
cable dangling from the wall. She shouldn't have called in sick, and left the new kid in charge.
She would have locked the back door -- No, actually she wouldn't have unlocked it at all; not
to take a cigarette break, and she certainly wouldn't have taken that cigarette break while
Susan was in the can puking up last night's beer and pretzels.
a pistol-whipping from the moment she interviewed him, she just didn't figure it'd be a literal
one. Jane didn't cry, it wasn't her thing, but she did feel herself getting very hot through
her cheeks and eyes. Mr. Anders was actually blaming the robbery on her. What a week! And the
itching, to top it off -- it would make the scarring worse, they said, if she scratched around
the stitches, but it was absolutely maddening. How could he blame her for this? "I wasn't there! Leave me alone."
that hid a bunch of cops on the other side, standing around drinking coffee, talking about some
other case. This looked like it was a closet or something, with just a couple of chairs and an
old filing cabinet for a table. Not enough room for the old good-cop-bad-cop in here. From the
looks of this cop, though, with the throbbing vein in his forehead, he probably just ate both
good-cop and bad-cop for an appetizer before coming in here for dinner.It was so stupid driving Marc around when he was strung out, but that's what friends do, right?
Why didn't he just tell Marc to go to hell when Marc told him about his brilliant plan?
Probably the gun, that big revolver looked like it should have been hanging up in a museum
somewhere, except for the way Marc had sawn the nose off. What a moron! You do that to shotguns,
not revolvers -- Sammy told Marc the gun was going to blow up in his face if he ever tried to
use it. He should have thought about why Marc had the gun, the 'Wild Bill Blaster' he called
it, after that time Marc asked him to drive the van out into the middle of nowhere. Maybe Sammy
was just lying to himself, and look where it got him!
something, but friends don't do that, right? No, friends just sit around in their cars, with
half a kilo in the glove box, let half a dozen cruisers, an ambulance and a firetruck box them
in. Could have at least closed the glove box if Marc hadn't broken the latch being all twitchy
and jumpy on the way over. No, he really wasn't sorry they carried him out of the apartment
under a sheet. Well, maybe a little. Marc was a decent guy if you caught him on the right day. "You were arrested at the scene. Of course you were there."
'The scene.' Some kid blows his own head off, probably buying drugs from the burnout across the
hall, and suddenly it's a 'scene.' You answer your door when they knock, with a fifth of Jack
one hand, this is an important game, after all, can't ruin it with cheap booze, and your
shotgun in the other hand, perfectly within your rights considering that someone just blew!
his! head! off! across the hall from where you live, and the next thing you know some stupid
pig has his knee in your back, and there's your Jack, not rolling away, because Mr. Daniel, God
bless him, sells square bottles, but spilling out all over the carpet. You see a chunk of some
kid's brain getting drunk on your liquor. Maybe that's okay, though, you figure; the kid's had
a rough day, let him have it. You're drunk enough already -- were the Yankees winning? You
can't remember. Did you call your lawyer yet? Do they think you killed the kid? You’ve never
killed anyone, even after he humiliated you then sold the Mustang just to rub salt in that
wound. Maybe you wanted to, but you just do your best to forget them instead, because forgotten
is worse than dead in your book. No, you never forgot, sorry, you never killed anyone.
"It wasn't me."
old lady is blind. He wishes she would just take her purse back, and let him go. They say his
little brother is a klepto, like it's a medical condition or something, but Tom knows better.
Scott steals things for kicks, because he's bored. Plenty to do in this city, but Scott has to
pick something stupid like this, doesn't care who he hurts. Little things like candy and pens,
Tom lets that slide, because he doesn’t want to have to explain to the cashier why he’s
returning half a Milky Way, and then they'd always be watching him.
worse. He should be out playing football, he's good at football, but he doesn't have time, not
when he has to spend so much of it trying to keep Scott out of trouble. He really wishes the
old lady would let go of him, just take her purse back and let go of him. Her fingers are like
talons, digging into his arm. Why did Mama leave them? “Who do you think you are?”
The medium stopped waving his arms for a moment when she asked. She almost felt bad; he was an
obvious, ridiculous fraud, but she didn’t heckle comedians, she didn’t boo actors. Maybe this
was the same thing; Jane knew that Susan wasn’t serious about anything metaphysical, even
though the reading was Susan’s idea.
She looked around the table, and wished they would all stop staring at her like that; it made
her scars itch. No, actually she was sort of immune to James’ baby-blues by now, since they
were almost always focused on her. So much so that she could tell the difference between Jack
and James just from a glance at their eyes. James had the tiniest ring of green around his
pupils that Jack lacked. Not quite identical twins, with completely distinct personalities.
Susan did seem pissed that she wasn’t playing along, but what did she expect? Jack had blown
them off to go talk to the recruiter again, even though he knew how much Jane hated the idea of
him in the military. It was disconcerting, then, when the medium had asked if she knew anyone
who had been accidentally shot, someone named Jack or Mark?
That’s exactly how cold readings worked, and she knew it: the medium asked random questions,
watched for reactions, and focused on the ones that created the biggest response. If you’re not
aware of what’s going on, it seems like he’s just read your mind. Didn’t make it any less
spooky, though, when it happened to you, especially if you’d been spending as much time
thinking about your own mortality as Jane had.
She rubbed her forearms together. It really hadn’t been that long ago, just a few weeks, and
she still hadn’t been able to throw away her mangled bicycle. Maybe she’d do that tonight; move
on with her life.
Susan mouthed her own question back at her; ‘who do you think you are?’ Mocking her. It really
pissed Jane off, and she decided she’d had enough of this charade. She pushed her chair back
hard enough to scrape the hardwood floors. The medium snapped out of his trance, looking
puzzled, and set his hands down flat on the table top.
She didn’t want to answer that question, didn’t feel like she should have to answer it, but an
answer came nonetheless.
"Nobody."
Jimmy stared at the phone now, as if it would tell him why she had hung up rather than answer
Jack’s question. The display blinked, updating the time to 8:34 pm, but that was not the answer
he was looking for.
He had panicked a bit when Jane told him that she was going for a ride in Jack’s new Mustang.
Jimmy tried, perhaps a little too emphatically, to convince her that Jack was a demon behind
the wheel, and the storm that was rolling in over the mountains was supposed to be nasty. A
joyride tonight was just a bad idea. She said he worried too much.
Then, on the other end of the line, Jimmy heard Jack ask her who she was talking to. He
expected her to say ‘your brother’ the way she always did, with that strange little laugh of
hers as punctuation.
It was an odd conversation, and he was still replaying it in his mind when the rain began to
fall. Jimmy was soaked to his skin before he closed the phone and walked back inside.
"Nobody?"
Michael hates it when therapists do this. There’s a theory out there that suggests that
repeating a patient’s own words back at him or her will allow the patient to better explore
their own ideas. Mirroring, they call it. He just calls it crap, but then again, this is his
opinion of the whole profession.
He closes his eyes, and tries to breathe normally. Right now he can’t help but think that he
wouldn’t recognize normal if it were wearing a nametag. He starts to remember, and tries,
desperately, to resist, but it’s no use. Everything floods back, threatens to wash him away.
He still doesn’t feel anything yet, so he is able to appreciate the absurdity of the chain of
events that have led him to this point. Leaving the video store, he noticed that his cell-phone
was gone, and the punk stocking shelves denied having seen it.
Michael was in a foul mood when he left, and the liquor store was right next door. It had been
a year since ‘the scene’, as he thought of it, and he hadn’t touched a drop since. This
afternoon he bought beer. Beer. The horrible, watered-down 3.2% beer they sold in this town,
and he drank one before his pager went off. If he had his cell phone, he could have told them
to send someone else. But with no phone, and with only one – maybe two -- beers down, he had
no excuses.
The lines came down in the rain all the time. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was
important to be fast. Nobody wanted a routine call to become a story on the evening news.
Barbequed children, with their adorable little bicycles and scorched teddy bears, do not make
for good public relations.
He
drives that way all the time, but with all of the lights out here, he
didn’t
recognize the weird five-way intersection until it was too late. As
soon as the
bright flash registered as headlights, not lightning, he stomped the
brake
pedal to the floor. An airbag hit him hard; the night spun around him,
then
stopped much too quickly.
Michael
threw the door open as far as he could, barely hearing the sound of an
untouched bottle of Jack smashing itself open on the blacktop. Dial
911, he
thought, but his cell phone was gone. He couldn’t see in
through the mangled
passenger side of the car, and he couldn’t quite get down to
the ground, so he
had to scramble across the back trunk.
It
was a Mustang; it had to be a Mustang. It really was not the time to
get into
his father-issues. Fortunately the kid who tumbled out of the
driver’s side had
a phone, and was already shouting into it about the crash, and his
girlfriend,
and please, please hurry. He looked pretty banged up –
Michael was afraid to
see what sort of shape the girlfriend was in.
Some
morbid curiosity compelled him to look in the car. Now he would give
anything
to un-see the girl. It wasn’t so much the blood, but the
crushing weight of
recognition that descended on him at that moment. The girl on the green
bicycle
was here, barely breathing now, unmistakable despite her condition.
Here,
months later, had he actually killed her?
The
night filled with red and blue lights. A flurry of activity swept
around him,
almost washed him away. Then the conversations began.