-1Chasing Shadows
By Liana Hakes-Rucker
Copyright 2011 Liana Hakes-Rucker
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter One
Hot water beats on my shoulders and pools around my feet. The drain is slow again. The bottom of the tub is slimy with soap scum from yesterday's shower, and the one before that, and the one before that. How long has it been since the drain worked? I'm rinsing my hair now. Water is up to my ankles. I don't mind. I appreciate a foot soak. The soft thud, boom, thud of a stereo pulses through the wall from my neighbor's apartment. I close my eyes. Boom, da, da, thud, bang, bang. It must be a video game. The bass beats in time to my heart, or else my heart adjusts itself to the music. The shower curtain sticks to my arm as I turn my face into the spray. The thump, thump, pulse gets a little louder. Jesus, how can that guy even hear anything over that game?
"Ah!" soap in my eye. "Fuck!" I taste soap in my mouth. Wet plastic jostles against my shoulder as I rub my eye under the water. Pulse, pulse, boom. I can't even hear the water sloshing around my legs. Pulse, pulse. I blink my eyes open just as the lights flicker. No, that wasn't a flicker. Something moved in front of the bulb. I begin to turn when, boom, thud, thud, the curtain closes around me. I feel arms, like a meat vice, restraining me through the plastic. Pulse, pulse, wriggle, kick. Slosh, I am aware of my legs beating against tile and porcelain. All I can see is wet plastic just before the rip of the shower curtain is felt, not heard. I scream, short and angry. Bang, thud, boom, crash. No one hears my scream, not even me.
The sound of a siren cuts through the uneven rhythm of the video game. My eyes pop open. I am confused and wet and alone in the dark. "Ahrg, Christ." I recognize the siren as my alarm. It must be 6 P.M. I reach for it but my arms are pinned to my sides. The sheet is wrapped tight around my body, so is the blanket, so is the dark. I am soaked with sweat. "Ugh." I roll over, twisting and groaning. My arm is asleep. It feels as if it’s made of concrete and Play Doh. The siren alarm is underscored by the bass from next door creeping through the walls.
"Fuck." I moan again. Finally I work an arm free, not my best arm but good enough to end the crisis. My heart is still pounding from the dream. As I reach my phone to stop the noise, a shadow dashes against the wall. I hold my breath for a beat. My legs are still trapped in the bedding. I silence the alarm and when it quiets, its blue glare goes with it, leaving me light blind. Pulse, pulse, boom goes the neighbors game. With a few more desperate flails I unwind myself from the bed. I stand up in the pitch black room. My limbs tingle as blood pours back into them. I'm afraid to turn on a light and I am angry at my fear.
The cold air of the room hits my sweaty skin giving me the shivers. A bead of sweat eases down my back. It feels like a bug crawling under my shirt. Still dazed, I walk with intentional slowness towards the light. It’s a tall floor lamp. It stands by the wall switch, that doesn't work, for the overhead fixture, which is probably a fire hazard. I twist the knob on the lamp twice and the room is cast into dull relief. I blink several times. It doesn't seem nearly bright enough in here. The throb, throb, bang from the neighbor is making my sweat vibrate. "Jesus." I say and run a hand down my face. I see it again: a shadow darting off to my left. I turn, breathing evenly. Nothing is there. The urge to speak to the empty room is strong but that's the kind of thing people do when they're frightened, and I refuse to give in. Instead, I suck in a breath and pad casually to the second room of my three room apartment, the kitchen/living room. Here I proceed to turn on all three lamps, the two by the couch and the clip on office-style lamp I keep on the cupboard over the stove. None of the built in lights in my apartment really work. When and if they turn on, they make worrisome crackling noises. That's why I use lamps, even in the bathroom, which is where I go now, twisting on the floor lamp that is the twin of the one in the bedroom.
Thump, thump, boom, da, da, boom. The music is louder in here. I eye the tub and fight the urge to shudder. I step up to it, looking in. Dry swirls of dirty soap scum line the bottom, caking in the edges of the floor mat. Yeah I know, it's gross. I hug my arms to my chest and am startled by the movement I make in the mirror. I look at myself for a moment, pink shorts, white tank top sticking to an American excess of pasty, pale skin. My long hair is tied up in a top knot. The seven inch roots are light brown, and the ends, which used to be red, are now more blond than anything. My hazel eyes are ringed with dark circles. My face is decorated with a few zits which stand out in stark relief against the heat-flushed, blotchy tones of my face. Thump, thump, boom. the mirror vibrates with the video game next door.
"Goddamn." I breathe. I take the four steps necessary to get back to the bedroom. Here I straighten the sweaty sheets and grab a pair of jeans off the floor. I give them the sniff test. They pass. It takes me a second to locate a clean t-shirt and underwear. Now it’s back to the bathroom for a shower, a real one this time.
I can't quite muscle my way around the fear of shower time abductions. That's why I only draw the shower curtain half way so I can see out. Never the less, I have to strain to keep from visualizing someone lurking just the other side of it. Every time the plastic touches my skin I take deep breaths and refuse to be scared. Rinsing my hair with my eyes open proves to be impossible. Closing my eyes brings fear creeping into my belly. Fear triggers anger. Anger leads to the ultimate act of silly fear defiance: I wash my face in the hot shower while listening to the thumping sounds from next door. It’s exactly like my dream except I can hear my feet slosh as the water builds up around them. Just to prove that I am not, and never have been scared, I keep my eyes closed. An angelic expression of calm is plastered to my face as I shut the water off. I am standing here like this, eyes closed and naked, water up to my ankles in the half open shower, when I hear an exhale and feel a little gust of hot breath on my neck just below my right ear.
"FUCK!" I yell at the top of my lungs. I fling my eyes open and snap my head around. Nothing... no one.
Bang, bang, bang. "Keep it down over there!" It’s a man's voice, my neighbor. He's yelling through the wall.
"Blow me!" I holler back. It feels good to yell at someone real. Pulse, pulse, boom goes the video game.
I step out of the shower, dry and dress in record time. I run a brush through my two-toned hair and pocket a hair band for later use. After slathering some way-too-expensive-no-where-near-effective-enough zit cream on my face I step into the main room and deliberately pause for several seconds, forcing myself not to hurry. Without looking into any of the corners, I gather up my wallet, keys, cell phone, netbook, netbook cord, spiral notebook, e-reader, pens and cigarettes. I throw them all into my badly abused messenger bag. I spend about six minutes looking for a lighter that works. I see another couple of shadow twitches but chalk it up to having already let myself get scared. Choking down the urge to yell at the apartment, I shove my arms into a dark blue hoodie, shrug on my shoulder bag and step to the door.
I am always just a little surprised to find that it is still light out. I work a night shift, and have foil taped over my windows so that I can sleep during the day. It’s like stepping out from a matinee every time I go outside. I blink several times and check my phone: 6:30PM.
"Damn I'm going to be early... damn I'm talking to myself." I smirk, as I turn the deadbolt with my key. I run a hand through my wet hair and try to shake the creepy feelings from my dream. Standing on the little porch outside my third story apartment, I look over the back alley at the slowly darkening October sky. My place is one of six tiny apartments carved indelicately out of what used to be a single family residence, back when people in this neighborhood could afford to own whole houses.
I slip a cigarette out of my pack and light it. I'm just putting my lighter back in my pocket when it hits me... What day is it? With this question comes a barrage of doubts: Do I work today? Did I work yesterday? I think I worked yesterday. Did I sleep just one day or did I sleep through work yesterday? Fuck, what day is it? As usual when these moments happen, I am torn evenly between panic and apathy. With a deep drag to prepare, I dig out my phone and check the calendar. According to the calendar it’s my day off, but once the doubts have surfaced there’s nothing for it but to check and re-check. “Goddamn it.” I mutter, sitting down on the top step of my fire escape porch. I troll through the numbers in my phone looking for Ashley’s. Ashley is a co-worker who usually knows what day it is, and may even have a copy of the work schedule. The same work schedule I entered laboriously into the calendar of my phone, but I can’t trust that now. As I hit the call button I see a small black bird teeter into and out of the corner of my vision. I'm not sure if it’s a real bird or just another shadow thing. I set my jaw and take a deep drag on my cigarette. Does it do any good to pretend not to see them?
“Hey, hot shot.” Ashley answers.
I exhale, modulating my voice for ‘cheerful’. “S’up, Buttercup?”
“We’re still going to breakfast right?”
“Of course...” That doesn’t answer my question, as night shifters can have breakfast at any time of day, before work, after work, days off, at 1AM, any time.
“You forgot.”
“No I didn’t forget.” I lie. “Not breakfast anyway. Um...”
“What, are you cancelling?” Ashley sounds resigned.
“No, Jesus. I’m not cancelling. I just don’t know if you mean before work or after work. I didn’t remember. That’s why I’m calling.”
“I meant today, like you suggested yesterday.”
“You’re not helping. Look, do I work today or not?”
“Oh my God.”
There is a pause while Ashley decides whether or not to help me. I take another deep drag. I can still hear the game but only just, mpf, mpf, mpf. “Well?” I prompt.
“Why don’t you just copy the schedule into your phone?”
I'm not telling her I already did that. She'll think I'm neurotic. So I say: “Jesus H Christ, I’ll just call HR.”
Ashley lets out a sigh. “Maybe you should. I never applied to be your personal secretary.”
“Fine.”
“Rosie’s half an hour.”
“Half an hour, half an hour, half an hour. “ I say, referencing Water World. Ashley doesn’t laugh. “So I’m off today.”
“Yes you’re off today.”
“Cool... you’re sure?”
“Oh my God.” Ashley hangs up.
“Bitch.” I say to the phone.
***
I push a cart slowly down the cereal aisle. I'm wearing ear buds. The Pixies croon idly about incestuous union. I grab grape nuts and chuck them in my cart. For the seven thousandth time I wonder why the hell it's illegal to smoke indoors. I consider the cavernous ceiling. Surely they could install some massive ventilation fan. They probably already have one. Nazis, hippy, fucking Nazis every one. My grip on the cart tightens. If someone tried to talk to me right this second I'd probably hiss.
The aisle ends. I turn right. Far off down the store, looking over the meat, is another shopper. I always like grocery shopping at 3AM. The people I see are just like me. Oh some trivial things are different: gender, race, etc.. For instance, the Meat Shopper is male, tall, with dirty blonde hair and he obviously cooks for himself if he's buying raw meat, which I surely don't. But the things that matter are the same. My fellow customer is wearing the jeans-hoodie-t-shirt uniform common to all night people of a certain age. His skin is pale, even a little sick looking. His demeanor is casual and unhurried. Most importantly this other human, this night meat shopper, keeps his gaze on the products, or the floor, or anywhere but me. None of that crazy, manic, friendliness of day shoppers with their eager willingness to converse with strangers. Night people avoid one another, as they should. I take one last quick glance at the unshaven shopper. Just long enough to appreciate the perfect V shape of his torso and his square narrow hips. Flash: what might it look like to wrap my legs around them? Now I turn down the soup aisle. Not that I plan to buy soup; I do not. Actually, the items I am here for are over near the other shopper. Whoops, there's that flash again. I'm taking the long way. I'm allowing him time to clear out of the area, as I should.
Nestled at the end of soup row is canned meat nook. I stop to consider. My thoughts sound something like: Ah, I'd forgotten about spam, and corned beef! Foggy memories of salty greasiness swim to the surface of my head. I pick up a can and stare at it, trying to remember. Do you cook this stuff? Mix it up with mayonnaise?
I look up and a little black bird sweeps across the aisle. Fuck, I hate that. I hold my breath for a second. Birds get into stores on accident sometimes. It could well be a real bird, I tell myself. I'm not sure how long I stand here like this. When my chest starts to hurt I let out a long, slow exhale and throw the corned beef into the cart. I'm about to start walking again when I see a big shadow out of the corner of my eye. No, it's not a shadow. It's a person. I turn slowly, casually, just in case there's no one there. I don't want to be caught on a surveillance camera twitching like a freak. Here's Meat Shopper, standing right next to me, solid as a rock. And what's this? He's making eye contact. I am startled and embarrassed. His lips are moving; no way. I squint at the man and point to my ear buds which I honestly feel he should have seen easily since my hair is tied up in a top knot. He must be new or something. I turn my back on him pushing my cart further towards the end of the aisle. I haven't gone two steps when there's a tap on my shoulder.
Fast as lightning I turn around. "What?" I say way too loud. The track on my phone has changed to Nina Simone which was recorded somewhat softer. I can just hear the tall guy.
He sounds like: "Mwumph do you oo mich ah?" He's pointing at my cart.
With a sigh I remove an ear bud. "What." It's not really a question the way I say it.
"The canned meat." He says.
I can't tell if he's oblivious or just fucking with me. This is not how you meet people, fuck wad. "What about it?" I ask in a tone designed to illicit a never-mind-sorry kind of response.
It doesn't. "What do you do with it?"
I stare at the guy for a moment. His face isn't too bad, angular. His eyes are a little too wide maybe, brown though, nice. "Anything you want but they like you to pay for it first."
Meat Shopper laughs.
I sigh. I hadn't meant to entertain the shmuck and thereby prolong what is bound to be an awkward, and possibly painful, ending for one or both of us. I turn to go but he reaches over and touches my shoulder. Physical contact! It's like he thinks its noon or something. Maybe he's high. He opens his mouth to say something but I hold up a hand. "Fuck man, I thought you'd be cool about this!" I yell.
Meat Shopper's eyes go from smiling to confused, and I shake off his hand before walking away. By the time I turn the corner I've got my ear bud back in and Nina is singing about other people going to hell. I turn the volume up.
The rest of the shopping trip is ruined. My equilibrium is gone. I stare at the food products and can't remember what I needed. Something from the frozen aisle wasn't it? Flash of Meat Shoppers pink lips set in his scratchy unshaven face. What is that feeling? Is that guilt I sense? Oh no you don't, self. He was a crazy psycho meat buyer. Probably not even a night person, you dodged a bullet and you certainly just saved his sorry ass. Disgusted, I head to the check out. Better not to get perishables anyway, since doing so would mean I'd need to go straight home and put them away. I prefer not to get home until sometime after sun up. I load my items onto the conveyor: a can of sweet potatoes, microwave mac-n-cheese, grape nuts and corned beef. That's right, I'm shopping to fool the feds. Just to round it out I throw a lighter and a pack of mints on the belt. The cashier says something he is paid to say. I can't hear him over the old Metallica song that's blaring in my ears so I say "Great, Thanks." I deem this is probably appropriate, seeing as he doesn't stop and stare at me.
Outside I stoop down and load my groceries into my messenger bag before lighting a cigarette. There's still three or four hours before sunrise so I start a slow walk towards the nearest residential street. After about a block I stop. I look around to make sure there's no Meat Shopper. Now I remove my ear buds. It's better to be able to hear at night, alone, in the city.
Eventually my feet take me downtown to Grant Park and the memorial of Lincoln, or somebody larger than life, cast in brass and sitting in that proud, dignified position reserved for statues. Have you ever sat like that? I ask myself. Back straight, feet hip width part, hands on knees. The brass figure is situated on a stone courtyard thing which is shaped like a half circle with benches and a rail lining the circumference. I cross behind the statue and sit on the railing, with my back to Lincoln, looking out over the rolling grass of the park. The lights of the monument shine from below me over the lawn. They cast little rays of the brightest green. It has always seemed to me, when I sit just here, that the lawn is a still green ocean and I am looking out from the deck of a petrified ship. It feels easy and peaceful, and also like something great is about to happen. But then I am a person who is plagued with fruitless expectation. It seems life is forever about to begin, that something special and magical, or scary and death defying is trying to unfold; must be the brain chemicals.
I sit here smoking cigarettes, looking at my pretend ocean from my perch on my make believe ship, until my leg starts to fall asleep. I'm just stretching it out when I hear foot falls behind me. I look back, past Lincoln, but it's so well lit here on the monument that the world beyond is all ink and shadows. Suddenly, taken with a reasonable fear of discovery, I hop down behind the railing and press my body against the wall. The footsteps stop. I hold my breath. Were the sounds real? Do shadows make sounds now? Silence stretches out for a tense, little eternity then the footsteps start again. They're closer now. I take a deep breath. I'm not sure if I'm more scared to meet a phantom or a real person at this time of night. So, I bolt, running flat out over the ocean lawn towards the sidewalk a block away.
"Hey!" A female voice calls out.
I keep running, not looking back.
"Hey, Meegan, you moron, look around."
I stop and turn, feeling stupid and relieved. "Hey what's up?" I call, walking casually back. It's a girl from work, but I don't remember her name, and it's too late to ask. We've been sort-of friends now for weeks. The girl has long, straight, black hair and is supernaturally thin. At least she's also short, which lessens the blow of her being both pretty and nice.
"Who'd you think I was?" She asks with a grin.
"Fuck if I know." I smile back.
The girl, who I secretly refer to as Shelving Fairy since she works with me on the night shift shelving books, shoves her hands nervously into her pockets. "Come here often?" Shelving Fairy is trying to joke but her tone is tense.
I consider asking her what's wrong, but I figure if Shelving Fairy wants me to know, Shelving Fairy will tell me. So instead I cock and eyebrow and ask: "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Shelving Fairy laughs and nods her head towards the monument. "Enjoying public art."
"Me too."
"So..." My dark haired friend looks around, trying for casual, but achieving paranoid. "Wanna walk with me?"
I shrug. "Sure. Where to?"
"That way." Shelving Fairy points North and West.
"Awesome. I love that way."
Shelving Fairy smiles and starts off at a fast clip. "Good lets go."
I scramble to match her pace. For several minutes the two of us walk quickly in silence. We go west one block and north the next, then west, then north and so on until Grant Park is a calm, still memory. I am torn between feeling an awkward desire to think of something to say, and trying to be grateful for the kind friendship where silence is acceptable. Except it isn't, is it? Have I really known Shelving Fairy long enough for this? Have we bonded so well stocking books that we can now enjoy this easy silence? Which isn't really easy anyway, as I am exerting an embarrassing and considerable effort to modulate my breathing so as not to sound like an asthmatic Saint Bernard.
"Oh fuck it." I say, breaking the silence. I stop where I am, and lean against the wall of a closed drug store.
"What? What is it?" Shelving Fairy asks.
After a few breaths and some phlegmy coughs I light up a Camel. "You still here? I figured you'd have made it to Canada by now. Why'd you stop?"
Shelving Fairy looks guilty. "Sorry. I know it's... I know I seem weird right now, but I had to get out of the park."
I shrug. "Yeah I got that part." I say. "So we still need to hurry? Running makes you look guilty you know." Shelving Fairy laughs a little. I notice how white her teeth are and swallow yet another cause for jealousy. Flash on her teeth, what would they feel like to my tongue? Fuck, don't think that! Bet they taste like mint. Straight face, straight face.
"We don't have to go so fast I guess, but can we keep going?"
"Yeah sure. Just keep us smokers in mind. We're a dying breed you know."
As we start off again Shelving Fairy looks at me strangely. "Can I bum one?" She asks in a pitiful little voice.
"You don't smoke."
"I used to, and I could really use one." Shelving Fairy runs her hands through her hair.
I glow at her and offer a Camel. "Always ready to welcome a lost sheep back to the fold." I say and its true; smokers love it when you smoke, its vindicating.
"Thanks. Listen, you wanna get some food?"
"Yeah, Golden Waffle?"
"Where's that?"
"Two more blocks up and about four that way."
Shelving Fairy shakes her head. "Too close to the water."
Silently I give the girl props for weirdest reply of the evening by a character other than me. We keep walking for a few steps. "So..." I begin.
"Look." Shelving Fairy cuts me off. "Never mind, okay? Golden Waffle is fine. We'll sit in the back." I am about to tell her to relax when I stop myself. When was the last time I got to be the normal one? The calm, reasonable one? So I just smile instead. This is great.
"So you wanna talk?" asks Shelving Fairy.
"Huh? About what?"
"Anything: work, school, your family, early childhood."
I look sideways at Shelving Fairy. "You're the one who seems like she has something interesting to say."
Shelving Fairy shrugs. "Maybe, but I don't want to talk about it. So you talk. Distract me."
"Not much to say." I answer. "Let's see, there's that new guy at work, what's his face with the squirrelly eyebrows."
"Doug."
"Whatever, Doug. He likes you."
"He has squirrelly eyebrows?"
"You haven't noticed? They curl like linoleum, gay, stringy, fucking linoleum. You could braid those bitches. And he's in love with you."
Shelving Fairy makes a face like 'whatever' but she preens a little and straightens her shirt so I can tell she's pleased. "He is not in love with me."
"Of course he is." I lower my voice to the generic imitate-a-guy pitch. "Here let me lift that book for you. I'm going to the store can I get you something? So, uh, I'm in this band." I square my shoulders and look at my bicep. "Yeah I just came from Balley's, you know, total fitness."
Shelving Fairy laughs. "He's just being nice."
I gasp dramatically. "You like him! Ha! Another love connection blossoms at the Flagship."
Shelving Fairy rolls her eyes. "What about you? Who are you seeing?"
"Nobody. So you're seeing him?"
"No, but I might. He's a nice guy."
"Eyebrows." I whisper.
"I like 'em bushy." Shelving Fairy replies. We both laugh. I wonder if this would be a good time to ask Shelving Fairy her name.
"Do you live around here?" Shelving Fairy asks me.
"Nope. North side."
"Huh. So you came down here for what, Drugs? Prostitution? Cause I hear you can get better of either up there."
I laugh a little, just as much as the comment merits. "I just troll around at night and my neighborhood's not that bad."
"So, drugs then."
"Look, there it is." I point to the little yellow sign that says 'Golden Waffle'. "Two more blocks."
"Good I'm starving, and quit ducking questions unless you're a secret agent, in which case I promise I'll never tell."
I am taken aback. If she only knew how unlikely it is that I'd actually have foresight to dodge anything. "It's not like I know much about you either." I say.
Shelving Fairy glares at me, and I feel guilty for some reason. "You know everything. I'm from New York. I moved here for school. I live in the dorms. I have two sisters. I'm twenty. Hell no one at work even knows your age. What's with that?"
"I don't know." Ah fuck, now she thinks I don't remember our conversations, just like Ashley. Am I really this bad of a person?
"Look I'm not that hungry anyway so if you don't want to talk that's cool. I can go."
Panic, anger. "Jesus, I know you're running from the mob or some shit but don't take it out on me, and anyway I meant it, like, I really don't know. I don't know how old I am other than mid-twenties. I don't know where I come from or where I was born, or raised, or by who, or anything."
"Fuck you Meegan. You are so weird."
I sigh. Why am I about to confess this to Shelving Fairy? Because she remembers my name, that's why. "Really. Three years ago, give or take, I washed up on the beach near downtown in the middle of February. Some lady called it in. Thought I was a corpse. I can't remember shit. Don't tell anyone."
"Bullshit."
"Whatever, Google it. Coming to breakfast?"
"Huh. I don't necessarily believe you, but it's an interesting lie. So, yes, I will allow you to consume food at the same table as me."
***
Shelving Fairy is quiet, unnervingly so, as we look over the menus. I remove my hoodie and from it take my Camels and lighter, placing them on the table between us. Shelving Fairy doesn't even look up at me before reaching out and grabbing another one of my cigarettes.
"Like ridding a bike isn't it?" I say.
"Hmm. What are you getting? And if your so amnesiated how do you know you name's Meegan and what about ID cards, social security numbers, bank accounts, all that stuff?"
I light up a smoke as well. Less than half a pack left. I wonder if I have any more at home of if I need to go out and buy another carton. I guess my silence stretched out for too long because Shelving Fairy smacks the menu on the table to get my attention.
"Hello? It's called a conversation, weirdo. You have to participate."
I sniff and flash a sideways smile. "What were you running from?"
"I told you, I'm not talking about it."
"Bullshit. You're dying to tell me. I can feel it. Besides you know I'm good with secrets. You can say anything and I'll never tell a soul."
Shelving Fairy takes a delicate drag on her cigarette. "There's no proof that everyone has a soul, so you're promise means nothing."
I laugh before I realize that Shelving Fairy wasn't joking. "Well shit." I say.
Shelving Fairy turns in her seat looking out the window several booths away. "You first anyway."
"I'm going for the ham and cheese omelet with a side of sweet potato fries, since you asked."
"Okay, good start." says Shelving Fairy. "I think I'll get a blueberry waffle because I damn well deserve one, and a diet coke."
At this moment the waitress returns. She looks from one of us to the other. "I heard you ladies." She says. "So if that's what you want I've got it down. Anything to drink for you?" She asks me.
"Water is good, and coffee."
"Thank you. Need cream?"
"That'd be great thanks." The waitress leaves and Shelving Fairy looks expectantly in my direction. "When they found me they took me to the hospital."
"Naturally." Shelving Fairy has a sparkle of disbelief about her.
I roll my eyes and continue. "There was a white board in the room where they write the name of your nurse every shift. One of the nurses' names was Meegan. She was pretty, but rude sometimes. Jones I just picked out of the air."
"So you named yourself after a rude nurse."
I shrug. "I wasn't feeling so hot, and I figured I didn't want to aim too high." Shelving Fairy laughs and after a beat I join her. "The other stuff was a hassle but not too bad. The cops got me a social worker, Melody Smith. Again, you can Google it. She got me all legalized and she still calls or stops by when I miss too many appointments, which is a lot."
"Why does she stop by? Aren't you all adjusted? You have a job and place to live, at least I'm assuming you're not homeless."
"I'm not homeless. My case is still open and will be until my memory comes back, which could be any second now or never. So I'll probably always be in the system unless I leave the city. I can't imagine the city police department would really care enough to keep up with me if I disappeared."
"They never found out who you were? What about your parents? Your friends? Were you in school? You could have like, a PHD and you'd never know it."
I nod. "True. I could also have like a million dollars in student loans, a defunct mortgage, and an arrest record. I wouldn't know any of that shit either. Trust me I've thought about it."
Shelving Fairy considers. "So it's not all bad then."
"Nah. I'm cool with it. You're turn."
Shelving Fairy sulks. "I thought your story would be so much more interesting than that. It's kind of a let down."
I laugh. "Sorry my life is a disappointment to you... You're turn!"
"Yeah, Okay." Shelving Fairy snubs out her smoke and before she can start talking the food arrives. We eat in silence for a few minutes. I get distracted by the television hanging from the corner of the diner. It's muted but hey, moving pictures are moving pictures right? The sound of silverware hitting an empty plate draws my attention back to the table. Holy cow! Shelving Fairy can really pack it in. What's it been three minutes? Shelving Fairy is all done and pulling money out of her pocket.
"Hey!" I say. "Spill it."
Shelving Fairy glares. "Not that it's any of your business, but I did happen to engage in some slightly illegal activities related to herb like plants that are common in nature and so should not even be illegal. I saw a cop car cruise by the fountain, which is where I was with this guy. The car flashed its siren for a sec and the guy, His name is Froilan. He's from Hungary. He's pretty cool, goes to my school. He's a video major. Anyway he freaked out and ran towards the water so the police were chasing him and I decided to head west."
"Oh."
Shelving Fairy looks a little sheepish. "Yeah, maybe I got a little paranoid."
"A little." I smirk. "I totally thought you'd have a cool story, but it turns out you're just exactly as disappointing as I am."
Shelving Fairy laughs at this. "I don't know, I'm pretty disappointed."
"You still high?"
"Eh." Shelving Fairy shrugs. "A little. I could eat about four more of those waffles so I think we'd better go before I order them. Hey you're not like one of those drugs-are-bad-you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself people are you?"
I scowl. "I don't know. I could be any kind of person at all, but in my three long years of life experience, I'd say I don't know enough yet to be able to pass judgment on you... Not for smoking up anyway."
"You smoke?"
"Nah. My brain's already damaged, so who knows what drugs would do?"
"Seriously." Shelving Fairy looks at me dumb founded.
I nod. "Yup seriously."
"Huh." Shelving Fairy slurps up the last of her diet coke through her straw. "Well you have to let me dye your hair then. You're roots are killing me."
That caught me by surprise. I laugh loudly, charmed. "Sure, whatever. What color?'
Shelving Fairy shrugs. "I'll think about it, but we're doing it this week for sure."
"I work all week."
"Yeah for eight hours a night. Oooo, where will you find the time?" She says sarcastically.
I sigh. "I have to sleep."
"Well what time do you wake up every day?"
"Sixish."
Shelving Fairy's eyes bug out a little. "That leaves like, five freaking hours every day. Plenty of time, trust me. Here," Shelving Fairy hands me her phone. "Put you're cell number in there. I'll call you and we'll work it out."
I obey but say. "I don't always answer my phone though, especially if I don't know the number."
Shelving Fairy shakes her head. "Why not? Ducking bill collectors you don't have? It's a 312 number. You'll answer. You'll think its work calling."
"Ha!" I say. "There's no area code I'm less likely to pick up for."
"Fine. Hand me your goddam phone, and put some money on the table so we can get out of here, before I start eating the napkins."
I smile, handing over my phone and Shelving Fairy smiles back. I'm totally gonna get her name now. When Shelving Fairy hands it back I bring up the phone book to look for the new number. I don't have to look far. There it is. The first entry is now a 312 number listed as 'answer the fucking phone' which is too long for the space so it ticks by like stock numbers. "Cute." I say.
"I thought so." Shelving Fairy replies. "Look I'll see you at work tomorrow. I'm gonna go home K?"
"Yeah sure. Hope you're friend's okay."
"Huh?"
"The Hungarian, pot head, video major."
Shelving Fairy nods. "Ohhh Froilan... yeah I forgot." Shelving Fairy giggles. "Later!"
I exhale heavily as Shelving Fairy hops up and takes off. I finish the rest of my omelet, and the waitress brings the check. When I see the check I sigh again. Shelving Fairy didn't leave enough money. Shelving Fairy only left three dollars. Crazy, pot head Shelving Fairy. Good thing I brought enough money. I pay for the meal and leave Shelving Fairy's three dollars for the tip. Ashley would have never done that... but fuck Ashley, honestly.
***
I watch as the sunrise turns all the windows amber-gold. Soft light like this makes the city seem clean and wholesome. All the junkies have crawled back to their corners and are sleeping it off. All the teenage gangsters have filed back to their mother's houses. The day walkers are alert but quiet at 8 AM. I am standing on the Randolph platform just north of downtown. It's the one closest to Golden Waffle, naturally. It's crowded up here with hundreds of men and women in suits every shade of gray, the charcoal universe. The South bound train arrives and ninety-seven percent of the commuters cram their wool and linen covered bodies into it. I stay put. As they pull out, a brisk breeze stings my cheeks. I take a deep breath of it, filling my lungs with exhaust-a-la-pancakes. There's another diner below me. I'm headed north, home, home at last. It's been a weird night. I rub my hand over my face. It comes back oily. I wipe it on my jeans. I wonder what I look like to all those healthy, busy, day people. This has got to be the one time of day I actually appreciate them. They're off to make the world safe for democracy and all that, to stave off Armageddon another day. If a nuclear holocaust ever comes on America, it'll come by day I think. Maybe I'll sleep through it. Ah, here comes my train.
Chapter Two
I am standing quietly in the elevator. I am currently sharing it with four customers who are going up. They seem young and obnoxious to me, can't be older that fifteen. I have my ear buds in, Aerosmith blaring. The teenagers glance at me every few seconds. They're obviously speaking in whispers, but it’s for their own benefit. I can't hear and don't care what they're saying. The elevator stops on the third floor. The four kids get out, going no doubt to try and shoplift the latest gangster rap CD by whoever. As they leave, my eyes are drawn to the back of their waist lines which must be what they intended. Two of the girls are wearing neon bright thongs that stick up over their low-rise, painted on jeans. Is that still a thing? Their exposed flesh looks red, must be cold. It’s October for Christ's sake. I raise an eyebrow.
When they are gone I slip my little round key out of my pocket and into the slot marked B. With a ding that even I can hear, the elevator heads for the basement. It stops on the ground floor first. Here Ashley is waiting along with our old, hippie co-worker Heath. Every work place has an old hippie. Our old hippie has psoriasis. Heath's face is in the process of molting. I concentrate on not staring at the old dude and not avoiding looking at him either. You have to strike just the right balance of attention to seem like the sight of flaking skin doesn't fascinate you. I'm so caught up in my political correctness that I almost miss the angry, injured look on Ashley's face. I haven't mentioned the breakfast we went to the other day, yesterday I guess, and I may never. It was brutal for both of us.
We arrive at the basement and I remove my ear buds. It’s still too early to clock in. I dump my bag on the floor by the employee coat rack and head to the break room for coffee. I ignore Ashley because I lack the social skills to do otherwise. After yesterday, what should I say? What can I? I mean she literally said, very loud, in public... never mind. She made her position clear. My boots squeak on the tile letting everyone know two things. One: It’s raining outside. Two: I am here! Screech, screech.
Shelving Fairy is already here. She smiles up at me. She's sitting across the gray, plastic table from Doug. Doug's eyebrows are catching the fluorescent light and giving his mannish face a crazy glow.
"Hey." Doug says, pulling out the chair next to him for me to sit in. This surprises me as I've never really spoken to Doug before.
"Join us." Shelving Fairy chirps.
"K." I am suspicious immediately. Both of these people are wearing looks of expectation that can only bode ill for me. I nod to Doug and say to Shelving Fairy something non committal like "What's up?"
Doug adjusts his phone on his studded belt before answering in a hushed voice, as if I had asked him instead of Shelving Fairy. "Fin told me."
Oh hell, I think. Then I get distracted. Wait, he said Fin. "Fin." I repeat after him trying not to make it sound like a question.
Shelving Fairy blushes. "Doug calls me Fin. I think it’s cool."
Huh. "So, should I start calling you Fin?" I ask. I'm about to get a name for Shelving Fairy!! This is awesome. Now I'll be able to use it to cuss her out appropriately for confiding a secret of mine to man she doesn't even know! Ashley would never have done that. At least I don't think she would have. I guess. I don't know since I never told her.
Shelving Fairy shrugs. "You don't have to. You can still call me Cassie."
Eureka! I smile. "So why Fin?" I ask Doug.
"That's from my last name, dumb ass! Finoglio." Shelving Fairy, I mean Cassie, rolls her eyes. I tell myself to try and remember Finoglio as I take a sip of my coffee and cringe, fucking holidays. The cafe gets its coffee flavors from corporate. Staff coffee is whatever's not selling. This one is trying to be pumpkin pie, or apple sauce, or some other damn thing that doesn't belong in coffee.
"I think I'll call you Fin, maybe."
Doug is beaming at Cassie, Fin, Shelving Fairy, in a way that makes me embarrassed for both of them. “So, Meegan,” He says. “Don’t worry. I’m not telling or anything. I get it, totally private, like emotionally heavy. But you should know, the guys in the band will think this totally rocks. We’re like, guaranteed to write a song about you.” He puffs up his considerable chest. He is so proud of himself. He clearly doesn’t know I’d like to kick his teeth in... He’s planning to tell his band... His fucking band. Fuck wad. He continues talking as I fume. I just catch the end. “You know cause I like have you to thank for, uh...”
Fin smiles a big goofy grin and flips her dark hair over her shoulder. The hair is long enough that it swats the chair behind her where Ashley is sitting, with her back to the group, pretending to read. Maybe she really is reading, whatever, to me it looks like eaves dropping. “Yeah I never would have had the guts to just ask you out like that if Meegan hadn’t said you liked me. Meegan you are so totally perceptive.” Fin says. And now I get a blast of the smitten smile from her. It’s disarming I’m ashamed to admit.
“Yeah so.” Doug shifts forward so his elbows are on the table. “Fin’s coming to practice on Saturday, and if you’re off, you should come too.”
I try to keep a blank face. There is almost nothing I am less interested in than watching a bunch of trendy, douche bag, boys practice whatever trash chords they’ve managed to string together into something called a song. There is a tiny possibility that I am looking at a member of the next Nirvana, but I doubt it. I open my mouth to voice some polite refusal when I see Ashley’s smirk. So what comes out of my mouth is:
“Sure. Sounds cool. What kind of music do you guys play?” Oh God, I am going to regret this. Mentally I’m already stealing myself and preparing a little list of compliments I’m going to have to cop to.
Shelving Fairy, no Fin, looks visibly relieved. She doesn’t give Doug a chance to answer. “Oh thank God.” She says. “I was sure you were going to say no, actually, and I only know Doug, so I was really nervous about meeting his friends, uh, band mates, by myself.”
Doug runs a long bony hand through his hair and I want desperately to smooth his eyebrows. I see Ashley get up so I check my phone. 10:55. Time to check in.
***
I saunter down the main aisle of non-fiction on the second floor, pushing a cart of migrating books. Those are the ones that move to other sections where they don’t belong during the daytime. I keep a trash bag tied to my hip and disposable gloves in my back pocket. So my walk has a sound track: crackle, swish, crackle, swish as my hips move. No one else on my shift carries a trash bag, but no one else stocks near so many of Flagship’s deep window ledges. The ledges are wide enough to sit on, which of course customers do. They wouldn’t, if they knew what I know. The book shelves butt up to the windows, creating cozy nooks for reading and quiet contemplation. For the homeless, crazy, or nasty people of the city these are also excellent places to pee, jack off, rip up books, eat stolen candy, throw trash, discard tampons, leave condoms, etc. Once I found a used hair dye kit. Evidently there was a customer who found it imperative to go auburn right then. Like; ‘I’m just sick to death of this blonde, DAMN IT!’
I reach the history section and turn down the medieval row. Stocking is awesome. It’s meditative, and just engaging enough to keep me from over thinking all the other aspects of my life. I am in the process of moving all the books over and up, to make room for my re-shelves, when I see movement to my right. I look there, to the window. I’m on the second floor like I said. The plate glass is a big dark pool with city lights barely visible beyond my own reflection. There it goes again. It’s a dark little flicker, reminiscent of a bird but less solid. It’s right there between the shelf and the window. It even has a reflection! Oh my God, when have I seen one straight on before? Ever? There is a tap on my shoulder. I turn but, surprise, no one there. With a nervous sigh I go back to my task. What else should I do? They’ve never appeared at work before. It must be stress. I know I’m crazy, but this is getting out of hand isn’t it?
“Jesus.” I mumble.
“He’s not here.” Ashley sneers, surprising me. “We keep him and all his other crazy friends by the elevator. You should know that.”
I stiffen. “I thought you were done with me.” I say, trying and failing to keep the resentment out of my voice.
Ashley hooks her thumbs into her belt loops and places a delicately shod foot on my cart. How can she wear heels like that? “You’re such a cow.” She says quietly. “You didn’t even know Cassandra’s name two days ago, and now she’s your replace-a-friend? I hope she likes keeping track of all of your shit for nothing. Not even a thank you. Honestly,” Ashley looks over her shoulder. “I don’t think she’s up to it. She’s too tiny to hold you together, and too smart not to see through your bullshit. I wish I had been.”
“Look.” I say. “I told you I’m sorry. I took you for granted. I’m a shit. I know it, so forgive me or fuck off.” I hold my breath. Was that too strong?
Ashley’s face is frozen in a sick looking smile. With a graceful little leg stretch she knocks my cart over, spilling books, magazines and sideline merchandise on the floor. Now she turns on her heel and sashays towards the escalators.
That’s right, I think, I’m selfish and juvenile. Poor, poor you for putting up with me all this time... Cunt bag. I calmly finish my book shifting before tackling the spilled cart. I’m just starting to stack the books back up, when I can hear Allen approaching from the children’s section. Allen is the supervisor. Everyone calls him Super Al behind his back, but from what I know he’s pretty cool for a boss. He’s wearing pleated gray pants with a thin black belt that bands across his spherical mid section like the metal rings on a wooden barrel, or twine around a hay bale... You get the idea.
He stops when he gets to my row. “Tipped the cart huh?” Super Al makes super observations. I know from watching other people that I’m supposed to laugh here. Like observations alone count for observational humor. I chuckle obligingly. “Gotta be careful though.” Says Super Al. “We’re in line for the safety bonus again, so don’t you be the one who blows it.”
“Yes Sir.” I say with what I hope is a sweet, friendly, sane smile.
“I’ve told you Meegan, Call me Allen. Sir is my father.”
How old do you have to be before you must relinquish the use of that line? Another polite laugh seems required here. “How about Super Al?” I ask. Oh shit, shit poo. Did I just say that out loud? Allen looks quizzical. I feel I should explain. “Cause you’re the supervisor?” I say softly, while batting my eyelashes.
There is a pause, during which I am sure the fate of my job is being decided, before Allen bursts out laughing. It’s a big rolling Santa Claus laugh that suits his figure. “That’s great.” he says. “Or should I say, that’s super.” Super Al winks and continues on his round.
I groan inwardly. He is such a dad, I think, but then I stop myself. How would I know really?
***
Its 7:06 in the morning. I and seven co-workers, Super Al included, wait at the door like kids at a concert. We hold our bags open, one at a time, for the day shift manager to riffle through. If you bring any books, movies or CDs to work, it would behoove you to have your receipt taped to the front of them, no matter where you bought them. I tape all my receipts to the inside, front cover. I smile remembering my last purchase, and how much evil joy I took in buying seven different books on seven separate transactions, and then taping the receipts in right there, with the cashier’s tape. That day shifter still glares at me when he sees me. Fuck him though: silly, cashiering motherfucker. I laugh a to myself before I realize I’m doing it.
Oh well, everyone lets out an unexplained, sinister, little chuckle once in while right? At least I’m not ducking invisible shadows. Which reminds me of the one I saw in the history section. Damn, Ashley made me forget it until just now. I’ll have to think about that on the ride home. It was so much more real than the others have ever been. I wonder if it’s time to check myself into an asylum. I know I won’t though, no matter how justified. I will wait for the cops to come cart my ass away like any other self respecting lunatic. I’m hungry and I really need a cigarette.
***
Want to get to know your co-workers the fast way? Have your hair dyed three different colors. I am cringing inwardly and trying for some posture that is neither conceited nor mouse-like. It’s below forty degrees tonight. Usually colder weather thins the heard when it comes to smokers, but tonight almost everyone who can stand to smoke is smoking. They've all come out to continue to gawk at me. Fin insisted I wear my hair down tonight in order to better display her handiwork. The hair is basically blonde with light pinky-red stripes. Then there are the two streaks of baby blue located just above and in front of my ears. If I were to tie the top half of my hair back the blue would show, but with the hair down it just suggests itself under there. I am not entirely sure how I feel about this. Inwardly I cannot refer to it as my hair, it’s the hair. At least it'll make Halloween easy; Rainbow Bright it is.
Betty, the co-worker who always likes me, smiles. "You did good Cassandra." She puts the emphasis on 'san'. "Fixed up my baby."
I smile too. I'm not sure what I ever did to get on Betty's good list. I'm more than a little afraid that it's all a misunderstanding, but that never stops me from basking in the unwavering acceptance of Betty's superior personality.
"Thank you, Miss Betty." Fin says. "You can call me Fin though, Doug started that and I like it."
"Ha! Bull shit little girl." Betty says. "Did your mother call you Fin?" When Betty says fin it sounds like a kind of slug. I laugh. This is great. Fin rolls her eyes. Betty continues, "And what happens when you dump that boy, Doug." Betty snorts. "Stupid ass name if you ask me, which I realize you didn't, but that doesn't matter."
I laugh some more, giggle actually, like a kid.
"You shut up." Fin says to me. "Or I'll turn you back into a frog. Meegan calls me Fin." She says to Betty.
"Hmm." Betty takes a very effeminate drag off her cigarette and squints at me.
I just laugh again. With this hair it’s really all I can do.
At this moment Kathy comes to the door. "Breaks over ladies and gentlemen." Her high voice is trying hard to sound friendly.
"Yes Ma'am." Betty calls back, and with her as our leader, we all file back into Flagship.
Kathy is our supervisor tonight as Super Al must, by law, be allowed some nights off. When we've all gotten through the door she locks it and says, "Hold on everybody, we're having a staff meeting. Everyone please head up to the cafe so we can get started."
***
At the meeting I take my spot next to Fin and Doug. Conceptually, one would imagine that the purpose of holding a staff meeting in the cafe is so that everyone can sit. This is not so. All the chairs are up on the tables, waiting for the cleaning crew who comes in at five to mop the floors. Taking them down would only mean putting them back up again, so we all stand around in a semi-circle facing Kathy. Funny, there never seems to be any call for a staff meeting when Super Al is here.
Kathy clears her throat and smoothes the front of her tight fitting, red, angora sweater. She is wearing it over khaki colored pants and brown sensible shoes. Kathy's boobs are each roughly the size of her head. When she feels like she has our attention, Kathy begins to speak.
"The reason I called you is not a good one." She smiles regretfully. "Day shift has had this meeting earlier, so some of you may already know. Two days ago the floor safe behind the registers came up short, and this isn't the first time." She holds up a hand to stop the objections she imagines are coming. "Now I know you're going to say that the store is only open for the first hour of your shift, but that is also the hour before we close out the drawers for the night. And I also know that none of you are cashiers, so you don't have pass codes to the registers and only managers are supposed to have pass codes to the safe..." She pauses for dramatic effect, or to catch her breath. "Still someone is doing it, and we can't yet rule anyone out. Also, and this is more relatable, shrinkage has gone up noticeably this month, and corporate suspects employee theft. Frankly, I've seen the numbers, and I suspect too. So, what this all boils down to is, bag checks at shift change are going to become more thorough and we can't have anyone taking breaks outside anymore, especially at night."
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