"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller.
He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back?
An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.
(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)
Chapter IX
Me9
"The guys used to watch this show, you know? Guys I used to work with. A tire shop down on Main. Where it goes into the highway. You know the place? No? Whatever. Anyway,
when I used to work there, there were these guys ... and they used to watch
this show. Thought it was kind of
weird, you know?
"Well, they were regular.
Just average kinds of guys.
Not kids. Maybe as old as I
am. Even older. Who knows? Anyway, they were kind of rough. One of them ... named Pico, I think ... he'd even been in
jail. Boosting cars, something like
that. So they weren't like art
types, you know. Nothing wrong
with that, but they just weren't like that. Rough, like I said.
"Anyway, I'd been there about four or five months. Getting to know how things were, what
was cool and what wasn't – that kind of thing. Anyway, one day the boss wasn't around. He was this really big guy. I mean really big. Kind of wheezed when he walked, took
him forever to get from his car to his office in the morning. Even longer when it was quitting time.
"One day he wasn't there.
Think he had a doctor's appointment or something. Yeah, that was it, 'cause the next day
he had this big bandage around his arm.
I remember that. But like I
said, he wasn't around. So
naturally the guys and I slacked off.
Not stupid, right? Why work
when the boss isn't around, right?
"So Pico and I and the other guy we just sat around for a while. Just shooting the shit, you know. The game, pussy, the fuckheads in the
government – that kind of thing – then I guess we started to get bored. The other guy – what the fuck was his
name? – he started rolling washers
into the storm drain, like it was this game he made up or something. Guess it wasn't a great one, 'cause he
only did it for a few minutes.
"Then Pico, he looks at his watch. Then he looks at the other guy. Dick? Was that
his name? Shit. Whatever. So Pico looks at him – the other guy, I mean – like they
have this secret or something, you know?
Then Pico says to me, 'You wanna watch the tube?'
"I think, like, they're going to sneak into the boss's office and
watch a game or something, and they do that – kinda, I mean. We go into the boss's office, this
little room he has in the back. The
only thing really in there is his big desk with this huge-ass chair behind it –
for his huge ass, I guess – and some filing cabinets, a couple of old
calendars, shit like that. And
this little black and white TV. Little
thing, you know. Like 'so' big. Kind of looks like a toaster or
something with an antenna on it.
"So we go in there, right?
Make ourselves comfortable, or as much as we could, considering what a
dump it was. Then Pico, he starts
fiddling with the dials and all. No
cable – he's that fucking cheap. But
after a few minutes he gets a picture.
Not a great picture, you know?
But you can still see what's going on.
"Like I said, I thought it'd be a game – something like that. Or maybe a good flick. Well, that's what I thought it'd be. But it wasn't what they watched. Not at all.
"After a few minutes of stupid fucking commercials, the show comes
on, and it's a fucking soap opera.
I mean I can't believe it. These
guys watch this shit all the time.
Mostly record it at home, watch it after work. But that day 'cause the boss was out they could watch it and
not have to wait.
"I couldn't believe my fucking eyes, you know? At first I thought it was a joke, just
fucking with the new guy. See what
I'd do when these two rough customers put on the Young and the fucking Restless
or something. I almost laughed,
thinking that was the joke, but then I saw how they were watching it – and they
were really watching it, you know.
Dead fucking silence in the room, or talking when the commercials came
back on, and then it was nothing but talking about the show. I was fucking blown away.
"I watched – just because there was shit else to do and I sure as
hell wasn't going to suggest watching anything else. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen, and I'd seen a lot
of stupid shit in my day. Lots of people just
standing around and talking, lots of women crying, stupid fucking music. Christ, it was a piece of shit.
"One thing, though, I did see. There was this guy – a doctor, lawyer, something like that. Shit, I can't remember. But then there was another one. Same actor, I mean, but he wasn't
playing the same guy, he was supposed to be the doctor or the lawyer's twin
brother or something. Stupid,
right? I mean really stupid. I remember I wanted to laugh at it when
it was on, but Pico and the other guy were just too fucking serious about this
shit, so no way in hell would I do that.
"After the show was over we went back to work like nothing had
happened. But I kept thinking
about that other mguy, the twin guy.
Thought about it all day. Fuck,
the rest of the damned week. I
mean, I don't have a brother or anything, so I don't know what that's like, but
I thought it might be really weird to have someone just show up who looked like
you, but wasn't you, you know?
"But that's not what freaked me out. What really fucked me over was thinking that maybe Pico and
this other guy had twins like I was thinking of – and maybe they were the ones
that didn't like fucking soap operas.
But was my twin with them, always wishing he was watching that kind of
shit?
"Spooky, you know?"
* * * *
I had a car. I didn't have to walk. But I did anyway. My logic was simple, direct: he had a
car. Driving was something we had
in common. He had a car. He drove. I had a car. He
drove.
I walked. That was mine. Mine alone.
The shy was bright and
cloudless blue. The sun seemed to
fill up a good quarter of it: so big, so bright, so hot. I wished I had sunglasses. Instead, I kept my eyes half-closed,
seeing only the fractured sidewalk, tumbling trash, dead dirt in municipal
planters, my shoes, and the shoes on the feet of other pedestrians.
I didn't know where I was
going. I just walked.
That I didn't have a direction
was something else I had that he didn't.
I knew it was probably a mistake, that I should have stopped, thought
about what had happened, what I should do, but I didn't. Instead, I walked – just walked.
Four feet, instead of two. Bare, instead of wearing shoes. The dog that approached and then passed
was an Average Yellow Dog. Someone
with expertise could have said what breed it was, what characteristics it had,
but for me it was yellow and average.
Envy at its gold fur, its wobbling tongue, its kind brown eyes:
beautiful and simple, direct and unexceptional.
We had something in common,
something we shared, the dog and I: it wasn't thinking where it was going,
either. It was just walking. Its dog brain was full of basic
dog-things: eat that food, piss on that hydrant, hump that leg, wag that tail,
lick that hand, bark that bark, chase that cat – instead of wildly crackling
thoughts.
I wished I was even more like
the dog. When cornered it would at
least have a few hundred thousand years of survival instinct to fall back on. Me? I had a few dozen James Bond and kung fu flicks – and
watching wasn't doing.
It could have been one or two
or even three hours – hard to say – but eventually my stomach started to
complain loud enough for my dog-imitating brain to hear. Stopping at the next red light, I
lifted my head, noticing that the so-hot sun had fallen down a good hunk of the
sky. Breakfast and lunch had both
passed me by.
On the same corner was a
little cafe. I didn't recognize
it, but I knew its type: precious and upscale, a new menu to go along with a
fresh coat of pastel colors over what used to be POPS or MAINSTREET GRILL or
even just EATS. Now, though, it
was called CAFE 307. The number
wasn't the address, so I had no idea what it meant.
"One?" a waiter said
when I walked in. He was younger
than I was, dressed in jeans and a yellow shirt. I could immediately see him flecked with paint, pondering
the subject of his art as well as how he was going to spend the fortune he was
going to make selling it.
"Yeah, thanks," I
told Arty. He led me from the
front door to a bare wooden table in the back. His hair was close and broadly dyed blond. A few years ago it would have been
dark, long, and restrained into a ponytail. Fashion had changed, and so had he.
"The specials are–"
and then I didn't hear anything he said.
Words came through, sometimes very clearly, sometimes broken,
disconnected from any meaning: "Chicken" "Ham"
"Salsa" "Pine nuts" "Sardines"
"Truffles" "Glazed" "Cheese" "Olives"
"Sea Bass" "Oysters" "Steak" "Fries"
"Macaroni" "Brazed" "Garlic" "Shrimp"
"Polenta" and others.
"Thanks," I
repeated, bringing up the menu he'd brought, cutting his stare from my face.
I think he asked if I wanted
water. I must have said I did
because some was brought a few minutes later.
Like with the specials, the
words on the menu didn't make sense.
They floated off the page, mixed into combinations I didn't remember – or
at least didn't sound appetizing: "Five Spice Ice Cream" "Tomato
Roll" "Flattened Eggs" "Whipped Scallops" "Boiled
Mint" "Saffron Figs." In a box to the side were three words: The
Ever Popular.
"Need some more
time?" Arty said, appearing again by the table. It seemed like he'd just left. I repeated those three words, not knowing what I'd ordered. For a drink I looked down, saw a glass
with ice and said what it was: "Just water."
A bell rang, the announcement
of another diner. Turning in
reflex, I saw a mother pushing a stroller. She was in sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a sweatband, and
running shoes. Her face was hard,
muscled and toned into a brown leather mask. In the stroller, the infant also had a headband. Girl or boy, the kid was jogging before
it could walk.
Running Mom took a table
nearby. The menu concerned her,
and it took a long time for her to order.
When she did, Arty's otherwise up and happy brow collapsed and his
professional grin soured. Outdoor, Running World, Pilates Fitness World, Fitness Magazine, or Working Mother must have had something
about gluten. Some Web site,
e-mail, chat room, or forum must have mentioned something about peanut oil. A friend, coworker, fellow parent, must
have said something about sugar.
The Ever Popular clattered
down in front of me. Eggs,
pancakes (blueberry), hash browns, and cantaloupe – gluten, peanut oil, and
sugar in one commonly agreeable package.
I didn't like eggs, didn't care for pancakes (blueberry), didn't prefer
hash browns, and I didn't care for cantaloupe.
I almost asked Arty for
something else. But then I picked
up my knife and fork and started cutting – not really caring what I sliced or
what ended up grouped together on my fork. If I didn't like eggs, if I didn't care for pancakes
(blueberry), if I didn't prefer hash browns, and if I didn't care for
cantaloupe, then he wouldn't either.
I wasn't him. He wasn't me.
I ate. He might be eating – wherever he was. But he sure wasn't eating eggs,
pancakes (blueberry), hash browns, or cantaloupe.
Thinking of him – actively
putting my mind to him – pushed away the last of the dog brain I'd been trying
to run on. Eggs, pancakes
(blueberry), hash browns, and cantaloupe almost tumbled from my fork.
It didn't matter what I ate,
or if I drove or not. I knew that,
but it was hard to admit it to myself.
Easier to think all it would take would be to stop driving, start eating
a different breakfast, wear a different designer, watch different TV shows, try
to be a different person.
The eggs were slimy, the
pancakes (blueberry) were too sweet, the hash browns too oily, and the
cantaloupe gave me gas. But I ate
them anyway.
Like I said, easier than
accepting what I knew: he didn't want my life.
He wanted me.
* * * *
Out: full belly, a growl
pacified. Out: leaving behind a
paid bill, a tip, a squalling baby, a worn-down (but toned) mother.
I could have stayed there all
day. It was a nice enough place,
but the longer I sat, the more my mind began to circle the drain. The more my mind circled the drain, the
more my hands shook. The more my
hands shook, the more my heart raced.
The more my mind raced, the more my breath came up short. The more my breath came up short, the
more my eyes darted. Better to get
up, get out, change the scenery.
At the door, though – one foot
in, one foot out – my brain went 'round and 'round, my hands began to shake, my
heart palpitated, my breath wheezed, my eyes buzzed, all because a voice from
behind me, from the clatter and hiss of the kitchen: "Nice to see you
again."
I had never been in the place
before. A quick turn, to see the
source. Not the one I'd just
tipped, but another waiter. Wearing
a smile that said more-than-familiarity, he waved.
Out: slamming into the
half-closed door with a wood and glass bang I knew made everyone turn to stare. Out: on the sidewalk, my legs molten,
threatening to bring me down – hard – onto the cement. Out: a quick brace against the hot door
of a parked car. Out:
too-long-a-moment while my hands stopped shaking (just a bit), my heart stopped
hammering (just a bit), my breath stopped rasping (just a bit), my eyes stopped
twitching (just a bit).
Out and then away, walking as
fast as I could without running. Putting
the cafe behind me, putting the waiter behind me, putting his stalking behind
me.
At the corner, the rush and
bustle of traffic drowned out my thoughts. But not all of them.
The dog was gone, my previously primitive brain-state tamed instead into
a neurotic, quivering mess.
He wants me, was all I could think. Over and over, 'round and 'round the
black center of the sink. He wants me, he wants me, he wants me–
A car came down the street,
just one of many. But it wasn't
like the others doing their rushing and bustling. The one in front of it was dark gray, the one behind it was
bright red. It wasn't either. It was white. A white Volkswagen.
Just like mine.
Just like his.
I ran. Away from the car, I ran. Far away from the car I ran. The alley was wide, a chain-link fence
on the right, dumpsters and trash cans on the right. Again, as I ran: He
wants me. Over and over,
'round and 'round the black center of the sink. He wants me, he wants
me, he wants me–
Another street, but this time
with less rushing, less bustling. Quiet
industrial office buildings, silent parking lots, hushed small manufacturing
firms. Panting, chest squeezed by
a vice, I braced myself against a fake-looking tree, a failed municipal attempt
to make the area look less cold and empty. I was glad it failed.
I didn't want human warmth.
Or at least one certain someone's warmth. Human or not.
Human or not ... he wanted me. He did. That much was clear.
Not my life. Not my job, my
friends, my family, my 'things.' He wanted me. He wanted to have me.
To take me.
I looked up at the sun, a
blinding ball of yellow in a painfully blue sky. Church was nothing but weird-shaped buildings and The Ten Commandments at Easter. I knew Jesus, of course. Knew about Jesus, of course, I should
say. But that's all he was when I
got old enough to actually read what he and some of his followers were saying. Especially about guys like me, who
happened to think Chuck Heston would be fun in bed and the Son of God had the
most delicious bedroom eyes...
But now ... was he? Could he be? Was it possible?
If God moved in mysterious ways could the devil move in even more
mysterious ways? A copy, a Satanic
double, let out from a sulfur and brimstone condo to chase me down, take me,
make me into – what? What the hell did he want?
I shook my head, trying to
chase away the colors the too-harsh daylight had burned into my eyes. Closed, all I saw with them were blue
and red washes and flares.
Open, I saw the small
industrial park. Open, I saw
distant traffic on a busier artery.
Cars passing this way and that.
Red and dark gray, blue and green, dull silver and yellow, and white. Of course white. There are lots of white cars out there. Lots of them. Lots of Volkswagens, too. Very popular manufacturer, Volkswagen.
I didn't run, but I did walk
very fast. Away, very fast. Away, very fast from that busier street. Deeper into the park.
He'd come close. Too damned close. The thought of how close made me stop
my very fast walking and stand still in order to shiver from toes to nose. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. In the
dark, his hands. In the dark, my
hands. In the dark, our lips. In the dark, our skin.
But that wasn't all he wanted. If it was, he wouldn't be out there,
wouldn't be taking more and more of me away. Wouldn't be watching me. Wouldn't be following me. Wouldn't be driving around the city. Wouldn't be ... out there.
No heaven, no hell. If he had horns and a tail then they
were very small. Besides, in the
dark, his hands; in the dark, my hands; in the dark, our lips; in the dark, our
skin. Flesh and blood all around. I was – so was he.
So what did his flesh and
blood want with my flesh and blood?
The sun was falling, the air
cooling, night coming. In my safe
maze of uniformity, shadows cast by small manufacturing buildings began to
lengthen. Hours still, before
complete darkness. Hours still,
before the sun completely set.
Without direction, I walked. Without permission, my eyes tracked
feverishly back and forth, then forth and back, looking for anything that
wasn't stunted trees, gray buildings, slate-dark streets, sagging lengths of
heavy chain across the mouths of empty parking lots, glass doors, glass walls,
and signs dull with simple information and not the artistic allure of actually
trying to coax shoppers off the streets.
I didn't know what he wanted. But I knew who he was trying to be – who
he had copied, imitated, duplicated, reproduced, stolen, faked.
I knew him rather well. The original. Me. A stop in
my thinking, a stop in my walking.
A heavy brick wall, all cinderblock and inarguable mortar cut across my
world. I'd reached the end of the
park. Above and beyond were the
poles and wire of power and/or phone lines. It was too tall to climb. Turning right for no reason, I went back to walking, back to
thinking.
Both were a mistake.
* * * *
Step the way you step, and so
it would be the way he steps. Think
the way you think, and so it'd be the way he thinks.
I put myself into his shoes,
which were also my shoes. I put
myself into his mind, which was also my mind: he was what you wanted. No
one else would do. You watched him. You studied him. You learned all there was to know about
him. Then you began – slowly at
first – to do what he did, to look the way he did: wore clothes like his, you
cut your hair like his, you talked like him, you moved like him, you tried to
think like him, you wanted to become him – totally and absolutely.
Then, when you were ready, you began to inch your way into his life,
becoming him: friends, coworkers, strangers, maybe even relatives. You fooled them all: they never
suspected, they never doubted that you were him.
A dumpster, crammed with
crushed cardboard boxes, hid most of the corner where another wall of bricks
met the one I'd been following. I
met this angle and turned right: the only direction to go without going back.
It was all you wanted, everything you wanted: to become what he was, to
become him – in mind as well as body.
Wherever he went, you were there before him. When he changed, you changed.
Then, you were ready. You
picked the time, you chose the place.
But he rejected you.
Another cardboard box, more
than likely dropped before getting to the dumpster. Two feet tall, three feet long. Could have held anything: a computer, a TV, a microwave
oven, a shelving unit, a piece of mysterious industrial equipment, maybe even
food or the things that, when cooked together, made food. It didn't matter.
It was in my hands, picked up
and held without a thought. It
wasn't heavy. I wouldn't have
noticed if it was.
Fingers curling, my nails cut
into the paper, puncturing the stiff brown outside. Distantly, I felt the corrugated interior of the cardboard
crush. I kept curling, kept
clawing: the tearing was loud in my space between industrial building and
cinder block wall. The box became
anything but square, the material of it ripped and shredded in my hands.
He rejected you!
No box, no paper, no
corrugated material, no cardboard: my mind went away from what I was seeing,
instead projecting on the inside of my forehead: flesh and blood. Too much flesh, too much blood.
Fingers curling, I imagined my
nails cutting into his skin, puncturing the soft pale outside. I kept curling, kept clawing: the
tearing was loud in my space between my ears. His body became anything but whole, the material of him
ripping and shredding in my hands.
The dog mind came back, a
roaring white of fury: rip flesh, break bones, tear off fingers, burst eyes,
smash teeth, crush ribs, pulp the insides, tug and rip away the outsides. Horror movies, nightmares, traffic
accidents: blood slick and copper, bones twig and branch breaking, marrow
popping, organs spilling, skull splitting, brains splashing–
In my hands: no box, no paper,
no corrugated material, no cardboard.
Instead scraps and pieces, bits and fragments. Breathing hard, I let the remnants fall to the pavement. Around me were shreds of brown, flecks
of brown, crumples of brown–
Fading, ghosting away... In my hands: no box, no paper, no
corrugated material, no cardboard.
Instead scraps and pieces, bits and fragments. Breathing hard, I let the remnants fall to the pavement. Around me were shreds of flesh, flecks
of blood, crumples of tissue – but then the dog mind went away, and it was just
an alley behind an industrial building, and at my feet was just litter.
He wanted to be me, he wanted
to have me, and I rejected him.
If he'd become me – totally and completely become me then he'd be
thinking what I was thinking.
Leaving behind a destroyed
box, I began to run once again, thinking of blood once again – but this time my
blood on his hands.
* * * *
Turning right had been a
mistake. I said that, didn't I? Can't remember. If I didn't, then I should have. If I did, then saying it again was not
enough.
I knew what he wanted: me. I knew what he'd do to me if he found me: my blood on his
hands, because I'd rejected him.
The industrial park had ended,
the wall I'd been following stopped.
In front of me was a busy street, cars moving right to left and left to
right. All very fast. Night was more than threatening: the
cars that moved from right to left and left to right were led by blinding
headlights and followed by crimson streaks from taillights. Across the street, streetlights had
begun to flicker on, piss-yellow sodium glows mixing with the white and the red
going from right to left and left to right.
Not just across the street. Without a sound, the one above me
winked on, throwing a sour, piss-colored glow all around me.
There was no way to tell a
white car from a yellow one. Lots
of cars, many of them could be yellow, many of them might be white. Might not be him. Might be him.
Having arrived where turning
right had led me, there was no choice but to keep going in that direction. To the left was the dark industrial
park, what had been a safely quiet spread of uniform gray buildings was now a
haunted maze where a loud voice – or a scream – wouldn’t be heard.
Right it was, then. Quickly, but only a trot, not a run. My legs were stone, iron, lead, heavy
elements polluting my body with painful radiations. My chest was rasping phosphorus, churning aid, spasms of
fists speed-bagging my heart.
Don’t hurt me. Please
don’t hurt me. I’m sorry. So sorry. Please ... ‘round
and ‘round in my head. But as they
did, I knew that if they were being said, and I was hearing them, they wouldn’t
mean anything at all. I wouldn’t
listen, so he wouldn’t listen.
The liquor store was an island
of bulletproof glass, irritably buzzing fluorescents, crossly droning neon, and
squalling Muzak. A bell announced
me. Behind the counter, a Working
Stiff – flannel shirt, jeans, skin tan from outdoor work and cheap motor oil,
face rough from outdoor work and cheap beer, eyes hard from outdoor work and
cheap entertainment – looked up at me, checking for trouble.
"Hiya," the Working
Stiff said in a light tone, clearly not seeing trouble in me.
I wasn't hungry. I didn't have a car. I didn't need a pine tree air freshener. I didn't want a copy of Hustler. I didn't need a lottery ticket. I didn't need directions. But I still came in, nodding to the
Working Stiff, and began to walk up and down the narrow aisles like I was
hungry, did need gas, did need a pine tree air freshener, did want a copy of
Hustler, did need a lottery ticket, did need directions.
He was out there. I knew that. He was looking for me.
I knew that. He wanted me. I knew that. He wanted to hurt me.
I knew that.
Somehow a bag of potato chips
ended up in my hands. French Onion. Ridges. I didn't like potato chips, even ridged French Onion ones, but
I kept it in my hands as I walked up and down the aisles while the Working
Stiff watched.
After a time – how much of it
I had no idea – I felt that I had walked from the aisle of 'slow customer' to
'what the fuck?', baiting his eyes from casual examination to hard suspicion.
The added peppery burn of his
look made my heart more than race.
Slipping out of my fingers, the French Onion ridged chips fell to the
tiled floor. "Shit," I
said, a moment after they landed, my voice shrill and far too loud. I bent down and the bag was in my arms
again in a split second. Take it easy, I told myself. Take
it easy.
"Rough night?" he
said when I put the bag down on the counter. Voice cool and relaxed, he made my heart slow to a walk. Just a guy. Just a Working Stiff.
Just a guy who was a Working Stiff doing his job.
"Yeah," I answered
in small tones, face tilted down in submission. I wanted him to like me. I needed him – okay, anyone – to care about me, so I
wouldn't be alone.
"Been there, man,"
Working Stiff said with a slight smile.
I didn't know how to answer
that, so I just kept grinning. A
pair of headlights swung by the windows, their stern glares washing away the
garish colors inside the store. It
was hard to see what color the car was.
It could have been white.
"Something bothering
you?" the Working Stiff asked as he punched buttons on his register, the
chimes of money sharp and clear. I
couldn't tell by the way he asked whether his question was kind concern or wary
distrust.
Even though I shook my head I
said: "Yeah, kinda." Even though I reached out for my unwanted
purchase I said: "Not a big deal, really." Even though I grabbed the
bag I said: "It's just that–"
"Yeah?"
"It's just that ... there's
this guy out there. Drives a white
Volkswagen. Kind of ... a problem,
you know? I don't really want to
run into him."
The grin on his face was wide
and toothy. It was not a pleasant
sight: obviously his employment didn't include dental. "Know that story," he said,
though obviously he couldn't have.
"Don't have to tell me twice."
The grin? Must have been the grin. He didn't know me, but he seemed nice
enough, even remotely concerned. Putting
my bag down on the counter, I began by saying something like "You think
you have it all figured out–"
I didn't tell him everything. I couldn't do that. But I asked him enough to keep the grin
on his face, to keep the remote concern coming from him. Casually, sideways, from a different
direction, I asked him what he might think if he saw someone who looked, acted,
exactly like him.
That's when he told me about
soap operas and long-lost twins.
* * * *
I'd pushed it. The grin was there but it had begun to
slip. It was good while it lasted
though. The world – at least for
the last few minutes – had become warmer, kinder, average, ordinary: just two
guys in the middle of the night having a warm, kind, average, ordinary
conversation. But all through it,
tickling the back of neck, was the thought of another pair of headlights
harshly white through the big glass windows of the liquor store. A pair belonging to a white Volkswagen. A white Volkswagen belonging to someone
who looked, acted, exactly like me.
It was time to go. Where I didn't know. To do what, I didn't know. To run? To hide? To
find a way to make him run? To
make him hide?
"See ya," I told
him, taking up my bag of French Onion ridged potato chips and moving toward the
door.
"Later," was his
answer. It would have been fine
and good if that was all he said. It
would have been warmer, kinder, average, ordinary if that was all he said. But it wasn't, because that wasn't all
he said: "Best of luck with the Volkswagen – and that blond guy, with the
blue eyes."
I hadn't told him about him. I hadn't told him who the owner of the
white Volkswagen looked like. I
hadn't mentioned someone who looked, acted, exactly like me.
Which meant one thing: that
someone else had. Someone who'd
been in the store, maybe even that night.
Someone who'd looked, acted, exactly like me.
* * * *
I'd dropped the bag of French
Onion ridged potato chips. Where,
I didn't know. Somewhere it was
laying on a sidewalk, probably still puffed up with air. Or maybe someone had stepped on it,
bursting it, spraying salty snacks over their feet.
Feet like mine?
The liquor store was behind
me, maybe fifty feet or so.
The street I was moving down
was dark, revealed only by the amorphous yellow glow of sodium streetlights. Traffic was light, but more than enough
to make me want to scream: every car was a Volkswagen, every Volkswagen was white,
every white Volkswagen was driven by a young man with blond hair and blue eyes,
every blond haired and blue eyed driver was me – looking for me.
I saw the cars, I saw the
sidewalk, I saw the urine-glow of the sodium streetlights, but I also saw
blood: mine sprayed through the air, mine slick on the ground, mine from the
impact of a quick and heavy bullet, mine from a rearing and cutting saw, mine
from a flashing knife edge, mine from the pounding impacts of a hammer, mine
from the rushing blur of a car, mine from ... how I didn't know, couldn't be
sure. But I did know, could be
sure, that it would be from him.
Don't hurt me. Please
don't hurt me. I'm sorry. So sorry. Please ... 'round
and 'round in my head. I knew that
if the words were being said, and I was hearing them, they wouldn't mean
anything at all. I wouldn't
listen, so he wouldn't listen.
He was out there. I knew that. He was looking for me.
I knew that. He wanted me. I knew that. He wanted to hurt me.
I knew that.
A form, appearing and
disappearing as it crossed from night into the yellow cones of streetlight
illuminations. A form ahead of me. Moving away? No, it was approaching.
Two arms, swinging at its side. Two legs, scissoring as it walked. A head, immobile. A he. A person. A
man.
I suspected before I knew. The 'no' that burst in my head, deep in
my mind, was an echo: a statement of the visually obvious.
A mirror had been held up to
the world. A reflection of myself.
He was coming at me.
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