Winter Shade / Ryan M. Usher / pg. 32

interregnum d

Brian didn’t wake up late today.

He blinked the clouds from his eyes and noticed that it wasn’t night anymore. The pale winter sun was apparently on its way up for the day, and even his sleep-dulled mind could already tell that its journey hadn’t started very long ago. His alarm clock sealed the deal. It was only twenty past seven. He had a good forty minutes before he would have to drag ass out of bed and do whatever he could do to muster the courage to face the day. It most certainly was not going to be easy. All the horrors of the previous day were still pretty fresh in his memory, and he knew they were but a sneak preview of the Great Christmas Eve Disaster awaiting him today at work. Today, there would be twice as many people and they would be twice as rushed and four times as irritating. There was the consolation that he knew he would be on time, and would not have to start the day on Phelp’s shit list. It wasn’t a particularly big one, though.

It was this sense of impending doom that prompted him to get out of bed right then. He didn’t really want to. What he really wanted was to use this forty minute gift and catch a little more sleep, but there was no way that was going to happen. His alarm was still set. The little switch was in the correct position and everything. Yet, he simply did not feel like testing fate, not today. Oversleeping once was bad enough, but to do it twice in a row? On one of the busiest days of the year, no less? Even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to shake that thought, and his time would end up wasted awake and probably just staring at the ceiling. Getting out of bed now would be insurance. Besides, he’d have enough time to make some coffee. Brilliant.

He sat up and tossed the covers aside, stretching his limbs and his jaw with a great big yawn. Then, he pulled himself out of bed, which didn’t feel much unlike pulling a tooth. The apartment was kind of chilly and the bed was nice and toasty, and he had to beat back the urge to spit in the wind and get back under the sheets. Instead, he set off for the bathroom, where the party always started for real.

Most mornings found him running on auto-pilot for these daily startup tasks. Very little in the way of actual thought process took place during this period except for whatever was necessary to brush his teeth, put in his contact lenses, shave and strip down. It was a vital part of the morning ritual of transition from sandman to working-man, and it usually didn’t peter out until he was halfway through his shower, or sometime thereabouts. Today, he found his clarity a little early, while he dragged his razor across his cheek.

Brian had been a teenage boy like any other, and that meant that when he started sprouting his first tufts of facial hair, it was almost like a holy experience, an undeniable sign that adulthood was approaching in a quick-step march. Ever since that magical day some ten years past, he decided he would craft himself a goatee. His best friend at the time was a kid named Alex, and Alex was a year older than Brian. Alex had a goatee, which was cool, and a driver’s permit, which was super cool. Brian couldn’t get the permit yet, but the other status symbol was now within his grasp and he ran with it. Since then, it had changed in appearance and style several times, even to the point where it wasn’t even a goatee in a literal sense. The one constant was that he had not spent a single day of the last decade with a completely clean-shaven face.

Today was no exception. At the moment, he didn’t have the full deal going on. It was only on his chin now, but it was still there. And it was the craziest thing, but he kept staring at it as he got rid of the rest, and it made him pause when he got this sense that something wasn’t right about it. It was nonsense, of course, and those kinds of thoughts were no good as the day’s first. He shrugged and let it go. What else could he do? There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary going on here.

That was the truth. That was damn near canon truth. Yet, every time he drew the blade across his cheek, the stupid feeling kept coming back to him. It was a little amusing and, having not yet fully awakened, very annoying. Several times he felt tempted to bring the razor across his chin and be done with all of it. At least that way he could have that funny feeling when he looked in the mirror and know there was something legitimate behind it. He wasn’t quite feeling adventurous enough to actually do it, though. When he set the razor down on the sink, he still had hair on his chinny chin-chin. He traded blade for toothbrush, and that was the end of that.

So he thought.

He turned on the shower and let the water get hot while he finished brushing. Showers were only good if they were very hot, and his reflection was well on its way to being hidden by fog by the time he took a gulp of mouthwash and stepped in. He stood under the stream for a moment, letting it wash over his body and through his hair. Yesterday he had the shock and surprise of oversleeping to lend him the motivation to get his ass in gear. It was adequate, to be sure, but nothing beat this for waking up. It was the difference between keying a car’s ignition and having to use jumper cables. He enjoyed it, and he knew he should, because on a day like today was bound to be, this might very well prove to be the highlight of it all.

He poured shampoo in his hand and ran it through his hair, and did it ever need it. Skipping out yesterday left everything thick and clumpy up on the peak. Then he reached for the body wash to take care of the rest, but all he got for his trouble was a bottle of mostly nothing. Not a major problem, until he looked for another and didn’t see one. In fact, he didn’t see anything else at all except his own bottle of Suave shampoo. That’s when that funny feeling came back, the one that made the whole picture seem slightly off-kilter. Where was her body wash? He saw no shame in borrowing hers, it was all the same shit anyway.

Whose body wash?

And where was her shampoo? Her cream rinse? They might share other things, but she always had that premium vitamin-enhanced stuff. She’d never be caught dead running his cheapo crap through her hair. And hey, the soap tray was empty too. Not that either of them ever used bar soap anymore, but that’s where she always kept her little pink razor. Now it was gone, and where could it

neither of whom? WHO had a pink razor?

“Christ almighty,” he said. He didn’t know who and whom. There wasn’t supposed to be a little pink razor in the soap tray. Who in the hell would be shaving their legs in this apartment? Certainly not him, and while he would never claim to know all of Tyrone’s dirty little secrets, he was pretty damn certain the dude didn’t keep his legs baby-bottom smooth.

Maybe Carrie?

Nah. Not likely. They’d been splitsville since August now, and while he was still kind of down about that, it had been four months over and certainly the statute of limitations regarding relationship-oriented flashbacks had to have passed by now. Besides, even when they were still together, she never left any of her shit over here. Of course, he’d used her shower a few hundred times. That might explain that.

It didn’t, though. He knew it didn’t, though he was at a complete loss as to explain how. Whatever it was, he was thinking about something that never was, just like the episode with his visions of a non-existent Brian Kimball with a smooth chin. That stupid soap tray had not held a ladies’ razor in all the time he’d lived here, nor had there ever been a bottle of hair conditioner. He never used the stuff, and Tyrone had no use for it at all, since he never had enough hair on his head for it to matter. So, where the hell were these crazy old vibes coming from? He tried other scenarios on for size, but none of them were any good and there weren’t even that many to review anyway.

Well, he had no intention of going unwashed for a second straight day. If there was no body wash left, there was still his shampoo. It would do in a pinch. It would keep him from smelling like old crotch. That was something everyone else would appreciate, and no one would ever ask questions.

A few minutes later he got out and dried off, then dug through the load of clothes in the dryer until he assembled a passable wardrobe for the day. The unit was definitely on the old side and one cycle never did the job completely. Unfortunately, no one had bothered to do that crucial second run, and now everything inside was damp and smelled like wet dog. He had the time to run it for a few minutes, but instead opted to air them out the old-fashioned way. Good enough for government work.

It was still ten minutes to eight when he had the big can of Maxwell House coffee on the kitchen counter, open and ready to go. He was pouring water into the little coffee maker’s reservoir tank when he found himself caught by a little inspiration.

Breakfast.

It had been weeks since he’d last had a good one, and that was only if frozen waffles counted as a good breakfast. Today he had time, and even a little extra cash padding his wallet. Plus, it was Christmas, damn it. He had no one to splurge for as far as gifts went. Why not treat himself today?

Decision made, Brian quickly put on his shoes, found his car keys and gave the cat a scoop of food for her breakfast. He’d already had his jacket on when he heard a door open in the hallway behind him. There stood Tyrone, half-asleep and shuffling towards the bathroom. He stopped when he saw Brian, and his one eyebrow slid upward.

“You know, just ‘cause you were late yesterday don’t mean you get brownie points for showing up early today,” Tyrone said.

Brian laughed. “What makes you think I’m going to work? You know what they say about people who assume, don’t you?”

“Let’s assume I do so you don’t give me the review, yeah?” Tyrone said, and that only made Brian laugh harder. “So really, what got you out of bed so early? Where you goin’?”

“Thinking I’ll hit up the Perkins up by Pinewood. I had this sudden French Toast craving. Want to come?”

Tyrone shook his head. “If they won’t let me in like this, it ain’t worth my time.” Brian knew they would not, but it would be funny as hell if they did, because all Ty had on was a pair of pink boxer shorts with little white hearts, a ridiculous-looking garment that was allegedly a memento of some long-gone girlfriend.

“Come on, man,” Brian said, “Throw something on and come with me.”
“I’ll pass.”

“I’ll pay.”

“I’ll be ready in three minutes, bro,” Tyrone said with a smile, and retreated to his bedroom again. It didn’t take him even half as long as he said. Barely a minute later, he emerged wearing a red dress shirt and khakis. If Tyrone Stockton had one natural talent in this world, it was the ability to wake up, throw on whatever clothes were on the floor in closest proximity, and come out looking crisp and clean in a way Brian had to spend an hour to even come close to matching.

The weather yesterday had been on the warm side, killing a good deal of the snow that had fallen over most of the previous week. Today, the sky was a brutal gray and the wind had its edge back. Old Man Winter was ready to avenge yesterday’s losses with interest. Brian’s eyes were tearing badly, and wiping them offered only temporary help. He quickly got into his car and got it running. The heater knob was set to the max, but all that got him was more chilly air, so he put the car into reverse, backed out, and then got going through the parking lot. He shivered, and hoped the heater wouldn’t be too long in waking up this morning. In his rear-view mirror, he saw Tyrone pull out behind him in his pick-up, an old green Dodge.

Brian spent most of the drive lost in thought about the events of the morning, still without any way to explain any of it. He wanted to dismiss the whole thing and forget it ever happened. It was only logical. He’d had feelings of deja-vu before, and while this probably wasn’t the same thing, it felt close and it was just as likely to have no basis in reality. Even if it weren’t fake, so what? If hygiene products and his facial hair were the best triggers there were for this, it couldn’t be worth all the worry. Those weren’t the things that buried memories were made of.

It didn’t fly, though. It just didn’t fly. For as silly and trivial as the details seemed to be, he couldn’t shake them off. They picked and prodded at his mind, refusing to take their seats and be quiet, and why else would that be except that there was something behind it all? Whatever it was, it was bound to be nice and banal, an ordinary memory trying hard to be more than it should be. If anything, that only made it more of a pain in the ass, knowing that it would rack his brain until he figured out why, and that the end result was certain to disappoint. And it would his brain. That he knew. Once something like this got its hooks in, it would drive him up a damn wall until he beat it away.

The Perkin restaurant was, quiet conveniently, just across the street from the Weis Market, so there was no need to rush. He had a good fifty minutes to enjoy himself. He parked the car, got out, and waited for Tyrone. The wait wasn’t a long one. Tyrone was only seconds behind, and he guided his truck into a space next to Brian’s car.

“Looks like more wonderful winter weather on the way,” Tyrone said as he stepped out of his cab. “I don’t know how you people put up with this shit year after year. I’m already ready to quit on it and head back south.” Tyrone was born and raised near Rocky Mount, North Carolina, and he never missed the chance to lament about the climate.

“I don’t know how you people put up with those hot-ass summers down there, so suck on that,” Brian said, then looked up at the sky. “Looks like you’ll be driving in it when you go in later.” Tyrone said nothing, but the look on his face told that he clearly wasn’t looking forward to that.

“Should’ve had the news on while I was driving, ‘cause now it got me curious,” Tyrone said. “But I didn’t, so I just got to do the next best thing. Got a quarter?”

There was a pair of newspaper dispensers standing by the restaurant’s front door. One of them had the USA TODAY for fifty cents. The other had the Allentown Morning Call. Brian dug through his pocket and came out with two dimes and a nickel. Tyrone took it and added some of his own, then fed it all into the second machine, taking an Allentown paper. It was headlined with a story about last-minute Christmas shoppers, and all the heartache and misery and stress the poor little darlings had to endure for the sake of purchasing yuletide cheer for their friends and loved ones. Brian snorted when he saw it. He’d been on both sides of that wall in his adult life, and there was no doubt in his mind that the poor suckers working the counters in department stores or Wal-Marts or, God help him, cash registers at supermarkets, had it far worse than the soccer moms and old farts they had to serve. No one ever did stories on their trials.

Their first step into the restaurant found them greeted by a burst of very welcome warm air. Carried upon that winter-killing breeze was a wonderful collage of breakfast scents. A single breath gave hints of frying eggs, sizzling bacon, the thick sweetness of maple syrup and the sharp tang of black coffee. That one whiff was all it took to make Brian’s stomach report starvation, and he understood that it was a subtle yet effective trap. Once your scent receptors got hold of this, there was no turning around and leaving. You were hooked good and proper.

The hostess was a mousy little woman named Sue. She led the hungry menfolk to an empty booth in the smoking section. Their waitress arrived just moments later bearing a large smile, a fresh hot canteen of the old bean juice, and two white mugs, which she promptly filled.

“My name’s Zelda and I’ll be serving you boys this morning,” she said. She was large and had hair so red that it couldn’t be anything but dye. She was also quite convivial, which alone made her the opposite of Sue.

“I’ll take the French toast,” Brian said.

“Bacon, eggs over easy and home fries will do me fine,” said Tyrone, “and I’d be much obliged if you kept that cup full. I’m a growing boy and momma says I need it.”

Zelda chuckled. “I think we can see to that, dear,” she said, and collected their menus. Brian sprinkled a packet of sugar into his coffee and took a sip. Tyrone wasted no time on such ceremony. He tilted back and emptied his cup in seconds.

“Woof, man,” Brian said, thoroughly impressed. “Maybe you should have just asked her to leave the pot here.”

“You’re a man of manifold ideas, I ever tell you that?” Tyrone said. He unfolded his copy of the Morning Call and hunted for the weather forecast. Brian took out the Classifieds and opened up to the Help Wanted section. He couldn’t imagine it being difficult to find a company that needed a bookkeeper or a systems technician, and he was certified to do both. It turned out not to be hard at all. He nicked a pen from Tyrone, and by the time Zelda returned with their food, Brian had already circled seven ads that attracted his notice, and later on he’d dig a little deeper for more. There would then be the task of doing up a resume and hoping that his scholastic achievements were enough merit to offset the fact that he lacked experience. It was quite the exciting feeling to be actually doing this, but also frightening. He hated being a register puppet, of that there was no doubt. The work sucked a big one. It was tiring and tedious. The public was unpleasant and annoying. The pay didn’t even come close to compensating for any of it. There was absolutely nothing about the job that made it worth keeping, save for one important factor: stability. Brian was never the kind to adapt easily to change. It scared him even when he knew it would be for the better.

When Mom and Dad moved out to Indiana seven years ago, it scared him so bad that he ended up staying here in Pennsylvania with his aunt and uncle so he could finish school in a place familiar to him. It wasn’t a decision he ever regretted, but it was a matter of picking one of two types of change. He could have gone with his parents, packed up the whole damn circus and trucked out to Indianapolis to take on his senior year on what to him seemed like another planet, or he could stay with Tom and Karen so that he finished up here. That was the lesser of the two evils, and that’s what he went with.

This decision wasn’t quite so world-altering, but it was ever so close. It seemed like a pretty obvious choice to make when he looked at it logically, but he had to wonder if it would have been so easy if it had been the middle of February or July or some other easy and lazy month when the crap would not have been quite so intolerable. It wasn’t very likely, he was afraid to admit. In a way, he was sort of thankful that it was late December. What he was doing was very necessary, but without that added impetus, it might have been stillborn, but that didn’t matter now, because if there was anything that Brian found less palatable than a career change, it was maintaining the current status quo. He would not be working behind a checkout counter ten years down the line. It would be the ultimate passive admission that his life was destined to go nowhere. He was going to avert that, and right now he didn’t care what factors were responsible.

He set the Classifieds aside and opted for the easier reading of the front section and its contents. He ignored the Christmas shopping article on the front page, and found little else to grab his attention. Middle East tension. President Bush requesting more soldiers for his enterprise. Congress expected to tell President Bush where he can stick his request. Triple homicide in Philadelphia. Abortion debate. The Pope.

The local portion didn’t seem to feature much in the way of interesting news either. Brian scanned over it as he ate his French toast. The food was good. Very good, in fact. Beat the hell out of frozen waffles. A glance at Tyrone’s watch informed him that he had only twenty minutes left until he had to cross the street and march up the gallows. It took a lot of the pleasure out of his meal. His last couple of bites tasted like old kitchen sponge. Compliments to the chef, he thought. The coffee was kind of bitter too, but at least that was by design.

He pushed the plate aside and folded the newspaper. There was still a good ten minutes to scan the want-ads a little more thoroughly. He had set the front section down when he saw an article on the back that he had overlooked. It caught his eye mostly because this little item took place close by.

ALLENTOWN MAN CHARGED IN I-78 ACCIDENT

POPLAR GROVE - A collision on Interstate 78 Thursday evening has left both drivers injured, one seriously. Lehigh County Sheriff’s Deputy Leonard Pierczynski said William Harris, 38, of Allentown was treated for minor injuries and released into police custody after a blood test showed Harris’ blood alcohol content at 0.17, more than twice the legal limit in the state of Pennsylvania. Harris lost control of his pickup truck hear the Astoria Street exit in nearby Poplar Grove, veered across the median, and struck head-on a Chevrolet Cavalier driven by Sarah Easterbrook, 19, of Blacksburg, Virginia. Both she and Harris were taken by ambulance to St. Anthony Medical Center. Doctors listed her current condition as ‘critical’. Miss Easterbrook is a native of the Poplar Grove area and—

Brian read the article twice over, but that did nothing to alleviate the stunning disbelief he felt. Sarah Easterbrook. The name was so close to familiar that it tantalized, and he had only to think a moment before he realized why. He knew the name, alright. He also knew the face of the woman who owned the name. Fr the past few nights, he had seen her, but not until he had turned off the lights and closed his eyes. They were pretty nice dreams, all said, but until now they were nothing particularly special or memorable. He only partially remembered any of these dreams upon waking up, and he’d never given them but a moment of thought after.

All that changed with this article.

It’s just coincidence, his rational mind told him. It’s just one of those crazy little brain farts everyone has from time to time, like when you meet a total stranger you’re sure you’ve seen before but of course you really haven’t because she lives two states away.

It didn’t even sound convincing in his own ears, though he wished it had. It should have closed the book on the subject, and he didn’t need the extra complications anyway. Everything probably would have been fine. He probably would have been able to pass it off as a trick of the head, but there was the matter of a few other brain farts of a similar stripe, and they were a little too recent to ignore. He found himself suddenly sure who owned a pink ladies razor, and there was no flash of understanding or epiphany involved. He also knew why his patch of beard spooked him when he saw it in the mirror. The knowledge fit right into place too well for coincidence to explain. Coincidence could only stretch so far, and didn’t the same apply for dreams, too? What happened when those elements began to spill over into the real world? Brian didn’t know, but damned if he wasn’t seriously intrigued. It would be something to know why—

“Yo, buddy,” Tyrone said, making Brian jump a little in his seat. “Woo, did I knock you off your train of thought? You did look pretty deep there for a minute.”

“Uh, well, yeah. Guess I zoned out a little or something.” Brian said. He finished off the last of his coffee, glad for anything to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

“Better un-zone yourself and do it PDQ, ‘cause the magic hour fast approaches.”

Brian checked the time. 7:52. Well, how about that crap? “Here, I have to get going,” He handed Tyrone a twenty-dollar bill. “Tip good, ‘cause it’s Christmas, and keep the rest for yourself, also ‘cause it’s Christmas.”

Tyrone laughed. “Ain’t you just Mister Generous now? Alright, man. I got it covered here. You get on now before your ass is late again. You don’t need that today of all days.”

Brian nodded, and started for the door. As he got there, he heard Tyrone yell a belated thank-you, which brought a grin to his face.

With a little luck and some pep in his step, Brian managed to drive across the street, find another parking space in the Weis lot, and make it to the time clock with a minute to spare. Before he made it that far, he had been treated to a vision of the front checkout lanes. There a good many unpleasant words he could have used to describe the scene, and he decided that ‘apocalyptic’ fit most appropriately, even if it may have been a bit premature. Some of the registers were still empty, but having eight of them open at such an early hour was a testament to how bad things already were, and how much worse they were going to get. All eight lanes had long lines of restless shoppers snaking past the candy and magazine racks. Clearly, eight was already insufficient.

Here comes Number Nine, magical man of the transaction faction, reporting for duty.

What a depressing thought that was. He got his till from Phelps, who showed his usual good Christmas cheer, and opened up on Register Fourteen. The second he turned on his light, people in the adjacent lanes turned to face it, drawn to it as a moth was drawn to a porch light. Thus began the exodus from those lines as the poor suckers at the ends found new life and new hope thanks to his boundless mercy. The first one was an old woman, just like yesterday. She was a withered little thing who might possibly have been eyewitness to a Civil War battle or two in her prime. She was just as painstakingly slow and methodical as yesterday’s specimen, too. It was shaping up to be every bit as horrible as he had been expecting. He did have one minor bit of consolation, though. That little byline in the Morning Call would give him plenty to think about while his body went through the motions.

Sarah Easterbrook.

The name played a wild game both upon his tongue and within his mind all day long. It wasn’t an unusual name by any means, though maybe just a bit too long. Filling out forms with that one would probably cause a cramp or two. Probably wouldn’t find more than a handful of Easterbrooks in any city’s phone directory, except maybe in the likes of Philly or New York. Still, the name took on a sort of exotic quality for him as the day wore on. It was never enough to excise the very visible specter of work. On a day like this, nothing short of nuclear holocaust would be likely to pull off a feat like that. It proved surprisingly easy to place them out of the way, though. It was almost like driving a car. You could do it for hours on end, over hundreds and hundreds of miles and through all kinds of traffic patterns and road conditions, and most people do it all the time without utilizing so much as a shred of conscious thought, treating the task of handling a car as an extension of the body’s own reflexes and the mind’s own instinct. The mechanical processes were simply delegated to some quiet and unobtrusive corner of the mental cellar and the task ends up being executed with no more effort than blinking or breathing. No stranger to long highway adventures, Brian knew that watching every road sign and mile marker was a sure way to make the journey long and monotonous. It was pretty much the same thing, doing this job. Identical basics with different applications, that was all. Boring work. Stupid work. Something to keep the body occupied, but the mind, most of it anyway, was in another place with another person.

Sarah Easterbrook.

There was precious little that was clear about her and her situation save for what the Morning Call saw fit to tell in its little byline, and the newspaper alone was hardly enough to set Brian off on such a strange thinking trip. He could not connect Sarah Easterbrook’s name to the face of anyone he could think of, and the name itself, on its own, sparked no buried memories. Logically, he knew he was being rather silly, maybe even with a slight touch of crazy. But logic could not explain the rest, the fragments that lurked in the dark fringes, the little bits and pieces of his dreams that were finding their way to the surface in the waking world. He knew there had been dreams, and it was maddening to remember so little when it seemed so important to remember, all the more so because he couldn’t even remember why it was so important to remember. Every attempt to turn inward and probe the tattered remnants of those old dreams led him to nothing but frustrating dead ends and turn-arounds. This was worst when he tried to picture her face.

Sarah Easterbrook.

And so forth his brain went for the remainder of the morning. The mysterious Miss Easterbrook served as a wonderful distraction from the seething hordes and mindless repetition and robbed him of

saved him from

peripheral awareness. Noon arrived early, hours so, it seemed, and he didn’t even know that until he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was another cashier named Jan, a little woman who was closing on fifty and would forever be denied reaching five feet in height, today sporting a bright red Santa cap and a big smile. A smile, believe it or not, and not one hiding a secret grimace, but an honest show of happiness.

“Hit your lunchtime, Brian,” she said. “Go on, now, and don’t you take too long.” The prim tone of her voice contrasted well with the large and genuine smile spread above her chin. Jan was one of those rare people in life that seemed to truly love her job, and that had to go at least double for any kind of retail drudgery. By means beyond his ability to understand, she drew energy from the chaos around her instead of the other way around, as was often the case for him. He felt a small measure of admiration for her and that particular quality. At the same time, he wondered just what kind of mental state was necessary in order to enjoy this madness, and what kinds of substances were required to bring it about.

He wasted no time diving headfirst into his short parole. The first thing he did was make for the front door. Outside, near a cluster of well-worn vending machines, were the store’s own newspaper dispensers. Here he could get the Philly paper in addition to the local rag and the USA TODAY.

Well, on most days, anyway. Today, however, the Morning Call was all gone.

“Shit on toast,” he muttered. There was no chance in hell the USA TODAY would devote so much as an inch of copy space to a story like Sarah’s in a town this small and underwhelming. The Philadelphia Inquirer would be slightly more likely, but even there the chances were maybe one in fifty. So now what? He could cross the street and get another from the Perkins, making the big assumption that they’d still have any left, and with the traffic on the street as bad as inside the store, it was certain to prove more troublesome than worthwhile.

Brian re-entered the store. There was a large heater unit positioned above the automatic doors, and he stood under it for a moment. The powerful gusts were pleasant against his chilly skin and blasted his hair like so many palm trees caught in a Florida hurricane. As he made his way towards the rear of the store, he hoped that one of his co-workers had purchased a copy of the Morning Call while one still remained, and was considerate enough to leave it behind in the lounge area. Well, there is hope when there is nothing else, he thought as he weaved through the aisle and the people milling within it. It was just a few minutes past noon, and it occurred to him that there could not be very many individual hours in an entire year in which this store held so many customers. It was one of those mostly-useless factoids that one might see in a magazine byline. All it meant was that there was a marginal amount of satisfaction to be gained from enduring such abnormal conditions and making it out with your wits intact. There was that much.

He already had a cigarette perched in his lips as he entered the lounge. There were very few people in here, but his prayers hadn’t gone unheard, for someone had indeed left behind a copy of the Morning Call. Unfortunately, several other someones had gotten to it before him, leaving it dismantled and scattered all over the break room like a badly-savaged carcass. He tried to reassemble the entire front section, picking a page from one pile and trying to match it with pieces from another, but that quickly proved daunting. Besides, why waste the time? He knew exactly what he was looking for, and it was all on one page. And because fate had very much decided to be a fickle bitch this morning, the one page he wanted happened to be the last page he found, folded inside of the Classifieds of all things.

He sat down and opened the paper. The article was on the back page of the main section, nestled between the back-end of a page-one article and advertisements for jewelry and cars and a particularly cheery block featuring warm Christmas wishes from the law offices of Harvey, Smith and Ellington. No holiday season feels complete without a pack of sharp-toothed legal predators bearing messages of peace and goodwill. The irony was there and then forgotten just as quickly as he absorbed himself in the article.

His awareness tunneled as he read the blotchy newsprint, soaking up the words as if he were a sponge and the ink still fresh and wet. It wasn’t a very long one, and as soon as he finished, he began again. And again. By the third re-read, he was no longer actively comprehending the actual words anymore. Rather, he was scanning the text itself, looking for something more, a flash of understanding, a reason why this strange compulsion had visited him with such speed and force.

Sarah Easterbrook.

Again and again, and even again.

This inconspicuous little piece of local journalism was a record’s groove that his needle could not escape. He felt driven from some unseen outside force, though it wasn’t external and he knew it. He was the driver, and within the driver lies the secrets. This woman—this girl, she was something of dreams, in a seemingly literal interpretation of the common phrase.

Seven times. Eight times.

The words, the letters, the all-encompassing paragraphs all meshed together by this point, not so that they had lost all meaning, but certainly they had served their purpose. They were the spark. The powder had been there all morning, and now the fuse was burning, but slowly. Too slowly. He needed more answers, and there were no more to be found here.

He set it aside and rubbed his eyes, sore now from their high-intensity aerobic workout. Blood beat at his temples in a moderate tempo. Each pulse pushed a dull ache across his head. He took a drag of his cigarette, or at least he tried to. There was a moment of bewildered surprise at its refusal to cooperate, until he looked at it and realized he had forgotten to light the goddamn thing. It came as no surprise that his battered old Scripto was already in his hand, turning cartwheels between his fingers in a nervous metaphor for the circles turning in his brain.

“You need some help with that, bud?” The voice came from above and behind, thick and gravelly, the voice of a man who could write five books about proper cigarette-lighting techniques without covering anything twice.

“Hey, Jimmy,” said Brian. Jimmy sat across from him. He held a cigarette of his own, and the tip glowed a gentle orange. He held it out for Brian to use as a light. Brian looked at it for a moment, pondering the offer for a moment. Ultimately, he refused with a wave of his hand, slipping the smoke back into its pack and from there into his pocket.

“It tough up there?” Jimmy asked, and Brian had no chance to answer before Jimmy laughed. “Like I don’t fuckin’ know without having to ask, you know? Even if I didn’t know what today was, I could tell just by lookin’ at ya.”

“Am I that pretty, James?”

“Shit no, padre. But you was all zoned out just now, starin’ at the table like you expected it to start talking to you or something. It was weirdin’ me out a bit, truth be told.”

“A thousand pardons. Actually, I was just reading the newspaper. Believe it or not, but I’m actually bolted together pretty well today.”

“Must be damned interesting then, ‘cause you was at it for a good long time. You mind?”

Brian shook his head and let Jimmy take the paper. He read it slowly and carefully, and as he watched, Brian suddenly pictured Jimmy in a scarlet robe and slippers, sitting in a leather chair and poring over the works of Chaucer or Dostoyevsky while puffing on a cherrywood pipe. It was a far cry from the real deal, who sat in a smoke-filled lounge in a supermarket with a cheap-ass Bailey menthol perched in his mouth, and the only thing scarlet about him were the blood stains on his butcher’s whites.

“Ain’t that a damn shame,” Jimmy said after finishing the article. “You know what they should do with these fuckin’ lushes? Give ‘em the old Chinese water torture, that’s what. Only, do it with the beer, you see. Make it the cheapest, nastiest crap you can find, too. That’s how my cousin Todd went out, you know. Not the water trick but from the front end of a Cadillac driven by this fat old broad. I remember her, seeing her in the police station. She had really red hair and it was dyed so heavy that I wondered if she used it as a tampon. She was cryin’ and her makeup was running down her face. Turned out she had a belly full of Old Kentucky that day, didn’t even see Todd on his bike, she said.” He set the paper down and ground the rest of his cigarette in the tray. “So, this girl here, she someone you know?”

Good question, Brian thought. There was no satisfactory answer, either. So he went with the honest one instead.

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Maybe she’s like a childhood friend of yours or something? One-night stand you made yourself forget?” Jimmy gave a salacious wink, and while Brian knew he was only kidding around, the implication made him, well, a little upset.

“She’s five years younger than me. And besides, look at that name. If I knew someone named Easterbrook, I can’t think I’d forget it.”

“It’s a mouthful,” Jim agreed. “Well, if she was someone important, I guess it’ll come to you sooner or later.” He paused. “Or it’ll stay on the tip of your tongue or whatever and pick at you till you go apeshit.”

“Good ol’ Jimmy, always with the encouraging words.”

“Mom always said I was a helper.”

“She ever tell you you were a smartass, too?”

Jim considered it for a moment. “Nup, never did. I was a good boy, perfect from my toes to my nose, she liked to tell me.” He stood and pushed the chair away hard enough for it to hit the wall. Then he reached up as if to touch the ceiling, first with one arm, then the other, and followed it with a twist. It looked to Brian like Jimmy was doing some kind of silly dance, and in a way it was, it was one of those silly dances older people do that makes every joint in the body pop like corn in a kettle. “Welp, it’s been nice chattin’ ya up, but I got to get back to work.”

“Busy back there?”

“Shit yeah it is. But it ain’t quite the freak show it used to be though, not since we started sellin’ those pre-cooked holiday meal things. Now everyone that don’t want to spend all day slavin’ in the kitchen cookin’ up their own shit opts thataway. And I can’t blame them really. That’s what Nadine’s been doing the last couple-three years now, and you won’t see me complaining. See you later, Brian.”

“Later, man.”

Jimmy left, and soon a few others filtered in and assumed positions wherever there was a good empty chair to be found. Weariness hung over every one of them so thick you could almost see it, like fog hugging the ground on a humid morning. Each eye sat in its own cradle of dark circles. Not one of them said anything to him, save for one of the guys from Produce asking for pieces of the newspaper Brian had accumulated. He surrendered them without argument. Certainly he got all the important stuff committed to memory after the crash-course read he had given it. He rested his head on his arm and relaxed. The dingy old wall clock stood square in the center of his view, and his eyes fixed on it, watching it tick off each remaining second of his little break-room parole at breakneck speed. The little red hand beat a furious orbit. Only fifteen more such orbits and he’d be back at his cash register and facing the fray. There, the clock would be very out of sight, and there were none up on the front end in easy view. He knew that the second hand on this clock, and every other functional clock in the world, would continue at the exact same quartz-regulated pace without change or pause, but it would be very difficult to remember that physical law once he was back up there again. It was hardly so difficult to imagine it slowing to a crawl the very nanosecond he flicked on his station light. Not hard at all. After all, someone would think it was funny. He closed his eyes and lay his face against his forearm, closing out the harsh fluorescent light, and let conscious thought go play for a few minutes.

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