https://www.angelfire.com/journal2/my_fiction/
pazu7@yahoo.com
The first death I saw that summer was Frank Barber. I heard the whine first, the brakes yelping against the pavement like some trapped animal. And then the thud. That was when I looked, because the thud was way too loud to be what I knew it had to be and it, of course, turned out to be; Frank.
He was a sudden a pile of ragged laundry held together by twisted limbs, bouncing into the intersection to the a chorus of brakes and horrified screams. Behind windshields, mouths formed big O's and shock written in the faces bobbing in the ensuing sea of attention. I couldn't stay afloat. The wall at the edge of Farnly's lot gave me the vantage, though my shoes gripped the crusty lip uneasily. Frank was dead. That much was plain. Not that I ever had any doubt that there was any other possible outcome to his quick relationship with the hood of the monstrosity, Ms Hoopers car, but seeing it there in front of you is different. No movie actor could ever look so dead. It was the first one that summer.And He was there. I really didn't notice him the first time, rather I remembered his presence when I saw him again. But it was a pretty clear memory. No so much because of what he wore or the way he looked, that was so indistinct that it could only be intentional, but it was what he did. Or what he didn't do. Stand out. He was, for all practical purposes, invisible. I wondered how in fact I had noticed him at all. Picture the scene. There's Frank in the middle of the street all bloody, limp, his skinny face with an expression more dramatic than I'd ever seen on him, and then the old Hooper widow all feathered hat and white gloves shakin' and trying to look like she might have a slight bit of composure left, fingers working at that fluffy thing she always wore around her neck and all the tears and 'I-never-even-saw-him’s’. And then all of a sudden, the restless sea rushing in waves out from buildings and cars and trucks and commuter busses and everybody twitching all talking about 'I saw this' and 'Did you see that' and eventually the ambulance and cops trying to make it's way through the cars and people and then, there at the edge just standing there like a casual afternoon stroll, looking too plain. fitting in way too much; him. And none of this occurred to me until Dizzy Morrison fell off the second story of the old condemned building on Brookshire. All the junkies played there. Haggard worried faces slipping under the rusted fence all day, in and out, in and out and the cops ignoring it all. And then Dizzy takes a fall. A leap? It was two things that had me there in the first place, a conspiracy of fates if you will. One was groceries; (I needed some) two was the fact that I owed Butcher Downs twenty bucks and couldn’t have it till Thursday. Otherwise I usually walk on Mercer where Butcher lives. I actually heard Dizzy hit. I actually heard the hollow clap of flesh and bone on the heated summer sidewalk. I almost dropped my groceries. You can picture this one too. There's Dizzy, unmistakably dead, a tangle of matted blonde hair and some stupid smile of surprise plastered underneath bulging eyes and the halo of red growing on the asphalt around him like some demented special effect. Then Marj and Steve Brady and all the rest of the local losers come running from the building, faces more urgent than usual. Marj and Steve taking hesitant steps toward the bleeding bundle wrapped in Dizzy's brown coat that he wore even when it was way too hot to wear a coat, so it couldn’t have been anyone else. Then all the 'ohmygawd ohmygawd's, and 'man-o-man's' and the junkies beating it in the other direction and finally the big guy that lives next to the building steps out to see what the commotion is and somebody's car wails to a stop. And then I see Him again. That when I realized Ms. Hooper had no more killed Frank Barber than Dizzy had fallen from the third story of a building whose stinking condemned interior he could probably navigate blindfolded, high, on a dark night. He did it. The Walker. That what I immediately named him. The Walker. You had to be there to understand. Nothing really makes any sense until you see it for yourself. Like a late night movie full of explosions and people falling out of airplanes and cars reduced to high velocity rubble in trite chase scenes, you'd change the channel to see if the rain threat held any real weight. But if even one of those overdone gimmicks were really happening you'd be in the front yard yapping about it with neighbors you didn't even know you had. Proximity makes all the difference. If you could have seen the Walker like I did that day, standing at the corner of Brookshire and 7th, dressed so inconspicuously that he could have disappeared any second, 'not moving' in the purest sense, showing lack of motion to be an act in itself; staring; staring at the spot where the ex-Dizzy Morrison spent his last sobering moment on the face of the planet, literally, if you could have seen it that way then you might have known too. The Walker did things. On the outside he was just another head bobbing in the throng of faces. Along for the ride. Another face drowned into anonymity by the onslaught of voices and screams and Marj fighting against Stevens grip on her wrist, insisting to stay and the tears and sirens. And then he was gone. With him left the certainty of what I'd seen. For a moment I wasn't sure I'd seen him at all. I left when Butcher showed up to get his share of stories. That night I tried, really tried to sleep. I had never realized how many little cracks were in my ceiling before then. I must have counted them a few dozen times unconsciously. Anything to make the images pass. Buddy was pissed in the morning. He hates it when I call in. "Sick again? Again?" he said "Yeah. Sick of working for you.." "You're not funny anymore Scott! I'm backed up for the next week and ..." "Did you hear about Dizzy?" "Dizzy?" "Dizzy... Toby's brother" "The Junky" he said it like that. Like it was a title. "Yeah. Anyways he falls out of this building yesterday..." "The one on Brookshire?" I grunted. He grunted. I finished the story and he pondered aloud what this might have to do with me not coming in to work. "I was there man. I seen the whole thing. Man I heard his head smack! I head his head smack! Like... like..." He grunted. "And so you're not coming into work." I wanted to explain about the Walker. I had just realized that he scared me. Fascinated me. Was beginning to consume my thoughts. Was I the only person that knew of him? Saw him for what he was? Whatever that was. I thought, for one incredibly quick moment that Buddy might get it. That maybe there were words that would capture my inexplicable insight. But I said, "I couldn't sleep last night." "Tomorrow your ass'll be here on time Scott," and the line went dead. I actually pulled the receiver away from my ear and frowned at it, like in some stupid movie. Then I hung it up. I took a dump, showered, toweled and combed and brushed. I dressed, slowly, methodically. My movements probably looked like that of some deranged robot. I sure felt like one. I ate some old hard ham cut up into scrambled eggs and cheese. Combed and brushed again. And then I went to look for Him. Imagine the odds against finding a person, an unknown person, in such a manner as simply leaving the house in search of said person. I don’t know what they are, but they must be staggering. This must be some manner of common wisdom. I didn't know anything about this guy. Who (or what) he was. Where he might live (I realized that his manner of dress spoke of no particular economic class) or where he might hang out if in fact hanging out is something he participated in. So, how did I know I would find him at the mall? I don't think I did. But it was not long after seeing him the third time, standing at the edge of the chattering sea at the food pavilion, that I began to understand something. This time it was a woman unknown to me. She choked on her lunch at the pizza place. Choked to death in front of the widened helpless eyes of a dozen impressionable schoolkids. I heard the sputtering cough, and saw the frantic helpless expression on the face of the cashier as the huge woman fell to the shining floor. The thick slice of pepperoni had lodged at just the right angle, and she fat enough to make the Heimlich impossible. But I knew the truth. What really killed her. I scanned the growing throng. And there He was. This time though I saw His exit. He was there 'not moving' and then suddenly he was moving. He ran a hand across his shirt, as if to flick something off. Then he left, walking so casually it was graceful, like a dance. I realized then why He seemed to disappear. One just never noticed him leaving. Everybody knows someone like that. Someone that's always already gone just when you're about to say 'see ya'. He was a ballet of normalcy sliding through the noisy mall, past shouting teenagers, rushing security guards, confused shop owners and out into the glare of the day. In the daylight it was obvious that he was from a long line of euro-descendents. He looked like he might live in a house that had no smells at all, had an old fashion television that was never watched. Windows might be opened but for some reason the light never quite made it into the room. You might pass by such a house as he might have lived in and never notice it until years later when you wondered why you never noticed that house before. He looked as if he might not sleep at all but simply cease to exist until the dawn of the following day. I moved stealthily at a distance behind him. I did my best not to let him out of my sight for a split second, for fear that he would simply disappear. But I did. And he did. Thursday was impossible. Buddy was more of an asshole than usual. And I didn't really get much done anyway except a few new paper burns. The UPS guy was a in a hurry as usual and some of the stuff had to wait till Friday. Buddy was burnt. He didn't even say good-bye. When I got home I heard about the inexplicable accident at the train station. Something about a window being opened and a girder slipping from the vent and some more words that wrapped ineffectually around my eardrums and slipped away. I knew what really happened. I knew I'd never make it through Friday. But I did. Buddy didn't even talk to me. I got a lot done though and when he handed me my check he even smiled a little. I was back in grace. The Walker got a cop that day. The silver-gray newscaster, (an obvious toupee') dramatically recounted the rumor about the cops gun jamming and the fatal backfire and emotionally distraught family and on and on. Silver- gray did a good job of affecting remorse before he introduced the weather guy. I tried to sleep that night and was finally stolen off to someplace a decent semblance thereof. In my dreams I was at the birthday party for the mother of somebody I never met before and while muted thin version of Auld Lang Seine was offered by the face-less crowd, I saw a giant roach crawling up the wall. It flexed massive wings and began peeling the paint off the wall in violent gulps. I thought it would come for me next. But when it finally looked my way, as if beckoned by my thought, I realized it was just a bug after all. Just a big dumb bug in a nonsense dream. I dashed out of the house that morning, hoping that the Walker worked on weekends. I wasn't disappointed. I had dressed well for the occasion, trying to mimic the innocuity he had mastered. It had finally occurred to me that he might notice my scrutiny, not that he had anything to worry about for I'd never be able to convince anybody of anything without being hauled off. But I wanted to be safe. If it was possible to be safe with something like the Walker wandering around. I had made a mental note of the places I'd seen him and heard about on the news and found any pattern there might be was one beyond my admittedly limited scope of comprehension. But finding him was, as usual, so easy that it seemed to be preordained. A thought that should have bothered me. He was doing his casual ballet down Fifth Street when I locked in on him. I paced him for about five or ten minutes and he seemed to be just rambling. I wondered if he had a routine, maybe a method of choosing his next victim. Victim? Even as I thought it, the word was somehow inappropriate. I wasn't seeing things clearly. Yet. He turned onto Magnolia and then I saw how he worked. I saw him kill. It was some guy that I'd seen before, though I didn't know his name. We were getting farther away from my area though I had seen the guy around the park down on Seventh. The Walker stopped, seeming to adjust his glasses. But even within the innocuity of that movement there was some purpose. Some form of judgment pronounced and declared for execution. It was the way a man might be seen to decide to trim his lawn, suddenly, standing at it's edge, a quick flicker of some decision across his features that resolves into action. But the lawnmower would initiate a tell tale series of activities. The Walker, from all outward appearances, was standing. Nothing more. Staring at his next... the next person, number five, who was standing at the junction of two buildings. On the left was the tinny neon facade of Danny's Family Restaurant, though actual families frequented the place less and less as patronage of the clientele from the new pool hall across the street increased. To the right was the shabby exterior of the old skating ring which had yet to be courted by any prospective buyers and stood looking somehow forlorn in it's vacancy. As I watched the man, not wanting to admit my anticipation to find out what manner of death was rushing at him now from some unknown source, I realized that there was something about him that I recognized. My breath caught. I saw something, a flash that may have been who he was. It was in his face and actions. It was like a pale light, a glimmer of some essence like a visual whisper. At that moment I understood what dumbfounded meant. I am sure that my jaw hung open like some little kid at a magicians show. And then I shaded my eyes as the flare of neon light maddened for a second. The man, alerted jumped. But too late. The art deco lip of the old skating building came suddenly crashing down on him. It had grabbed a handful of Danny's Family sign as it fell and the man died in a pile of rubble and dust. He didn't wait this time, for the cover of crowd to make his leave. The usually casual strolling figure of the plain guy suddenly headed toward me at a fast pace. His usually calm features were annoyed somehow, his eyes more intense than they should have been, brows pinched and jaw working silent words muted by closed lips. Curses maybe. He passed by within arms reach of me. I withdrew, the hair on my forearms raising from the thrill of it, like standing too close to some enormous structure. Just the proximity was exhilarating. Then he was gone, just the racing of my heart remained as a witness to his presence. When my calm reluctantly returned I gathered myself and followed down the distracting clamor of neon’s and billboards that was downtown and then turned as he walked calmly up the quiet drives that sliced through the pseudo suburban terrain that surrounded the business district and then by nondescript smaller business zones to the seedier side of the town where dark police cruisers competed with darker vehicle for dominion on the sullen garbage lined streets. He was moving fast now. Much faster than I'd seen in the short time that I had been acquainted with him. At the thought I felt a strange kinship. Indeed it was as if I suddenly became aware of a relationship with some distant idol or movie star. I felt a chill at the thought that I had some strange admiration for this ... man? But there it was at the base of all my thoughts. Some kindling flame of... worship? Idolatry? I followed. He stopped finally at the mouth of the stairwell that led into the twisting walkways of Harris Park, deserted now save for the outcast souls for whom it served as home. They were often seen during the day hours gathering bottles discarded clothing or food such as their need. At night they disappeared into the crannys of the city, noticed only when some sick teenagers indulged in the sanctioned madness of chasing or beating them, or some innocent passerby chanced to upset a part of their hastily erected shanties. And now the Walker was here. He stood at the bottom of the stairwell for a moment, arms crossed, one finger flicking at his chin as if pondering strategy. He never looked in my direction but he knew I was behind him. Nothing in his movement or manner told me this. But somehow I knew. And I knew that it didn't matter to him. He was suddenly action again and dashed up the stairs into the park. I followed quickly taking the huge cement steps three and four at a time. I was panting when I got to the top and into the central area of the park. The Walker had already started down a dark trail engulfed in brush and the overhang from poorly tended trees. His steps were calmer now. He was walking again like a man on familiar ground. He continued this way for a short time, trekking deeper into the mysterious park and then he stopped. I stopped. I could feel him feeling my presence. It was like the heat of someone’s breath too close. Like that but inside my body. In my soul? Yeah. It must have been the soul. Is that possible? I waited. It dawned on me that I was waiting with him. We were together. When I awoke the next morning, the part of my nightmare that decided to follow me left a stench on anything that might have helped me forget the lingering images of the night before. The boy in the park wasn't a resident. That much was simple. You didn't have to see the clothes, the shoes, watch, or the expensive shades dangling from the leather pocket in his coat, or the freshly cut trim of his retro duk-tail. I saw all that, yes, but just the cautious way he walked, shuffled into the darkness told me he was out of his natural habitat. Way out. The guy he was following, however, seem much too calm. Dangerously comfortable. The Walker was invisible, as I must have been. The two young men that we witnessed were too preoccupied in the anticipation of their differing intentions too allow either of us cognition. I stifled my shallow breaths as I realized which of them was about to feel the sting of mortality premature. I saw his secret light, the mist of a pale prescience that I knew was visible to only myself and one other. They disappeared into the dark of a cluster of trees and there was silence. More silence. Then, finally a youthful laugh, almost a giggle. Innocent. His last. The laugh was cut short and an awful, desperate sound, terribly childlike, suddenly filled all the crannys of night shadows. Then a thud. Heavy and wet. The screaming stopped. I started breathing again. The boy who shouldn't have been here was here no more. The man he had followed was in the grassy clearing again, and then, as quickly, he was gone. There was no need to call the police. What would they find? Some desperate addict who feigned one appetite just to feed another? Or maybe one more in the growing torrent of tortured souls wreaking revenge an innocent (innocent?) unsuspecting world. It wouldn't matter anyway, the real killer was beyond suspicion. I had left then. Almost running. No more! No more! I had seen enough. I was as empty as the starless black of sky above the humming streetlights I passed. I must have had no face to the cars that rushed past me. I might have been as unnoticed as the Walker. What time had I finally arrived home? When had I finally pressed into the welcome cushions of my bed and felt the shock of the day wither and float off then, to some forgotten dance of images? I can't recall. It wasn't important. "So is this is new improved Scott?" Buddy gazed at the stacks of unpacked boxes and then at the clock. I only grunted in response. “Hey, what the fuck is with you?" His eyes locked mine like he was trying to look inside my skull. What would he see there? The possibilities scared me. I must have gotten lost again. Lost in the routine of physical motion that is my duty. The boxing, wrapping, tagging, stacking; a monotony of motion. Was I sitting again? Watching the things that I had began to see on the way to work this morning? Must have been. Buddy was acting ticked off, but was really concerned. And it was hard for him to show concern. His father had made sure of that when he'd left his dog in Arkansas, abandoned him on some desolate back street when he'd packed up his family and headed to Oregon. Buddy was five "We'll get you another friggin dog. You aint cryin'.. you cryin? Jeez and Mary. Don’t be a gawdam sissy Buddy, we'll get you another gawdam dog!" and his mothers, "You're a big boy now, Buddy," even when he wasn't, when he was still just a little boy in a big boys body staring out confused at a rapidly changing world... he'd made it though. And how did I know all this? And how did it come to me so fast? Buddy was still watching me. "I'm sick or something man. I feel like shit." "Can't keep this up Scotty," a serious whisper. No more messing around. "I know." And I did know. I knew too much. It wasn't a big rush or anything. It was slow. persistent. Everything just sort of came at me. Suddenly people had this leaky valve and their lives hissed out like compressed air, their story carried in the scent. I smelled them all. I saw them too. Saw them in the thin haze of pale light in which they were enveloped. Justin, the guy from the sales office and the collection of dead bugs he had at seven and at fifteen the cat he'd tortured with a friend and the drunken girl he raped at college and how the memories of those actions, the impulses that drove them repressed, still gave him warmth somehow. And there was Marjorie with the weird last name, starts with a Cz.. and her boyfriend, the one her husband had found out about and forgave her for, the one she had never stopped seeing even as she swore it was over; and then Stan in the parts department who was still looking for a man strong enough to take his fathers place, someone to berate him, mock his efforts, hit him occasionally; Mary at the lunch counter and her fuzzy warmth of beauty, a thin crust above the suicidal uncertainty that she lived in most of the day; and all the faces of harried customers, a hundred unwanted impressions a growing reek of sensation. And every once in a while I’d see a luminescence that was different than the ones around it. The colors spoke of a secret portent longing to press into the real world. Like the one on the boy last night. These lights filled me with an ominous dread. I had to.. ".. go home" Buddy grunted. Didn't even look up from whatever paperwork consumed him. "Get outta here. Call me when you're ready to work and I might put you back on the schedule." It didn't matter anymore. The thought of being unemployed faded into the background when I hit the street, and the cacophonic lives of everyone I passed were read to me. I was crazy with the strain to control my face; to keep from giving away my astonishment at every person I saw I knew what I had to do. That night was cool, a breeze blew over the city chasing off the heavy sag of grime in the air. I knew where he would be and he was there. As if he had been waiting. Yes. He had been. I felt him feeling my presence again. It was almost a greeting this sensation. Like a nod of an invisible head, a whisper, 'Ahhh, couldn't stay away, huh?'. But I wasn’t scared anymore. I followed. Where were we headed this time? These were deserted streets, outskirts of the city, too remote for even the derelicts to roam. And still he walked. I trailed obediently at a discreet distance. How far? Then from across an dark expanse of undeveloped property distant arena lights came into view and there came the roar of motors like ebbing thunder. So that was it tonight. The racetrack. The walk took some time. I wondered when it had happened. When had I made this pact. For that was what it must have been. Some deal of sorts had been struck between us. Somewhere beyond the realm of words, where only casual glances were needed to seal the contract. We arrived. He paid and entered. I waited, then I paid and followed. I sat a few rows from him. The stock cars raced by, wrecked blurs of bright colors and smoke. A tinny voice raised above all the screeching and whining of engines, calling names and numbers and advertising crap to eat and drink and the sponsors of cars, and then an entire section of the front row lit up in the light of such intricacy I forgot all else about me. I moaned audibly and then steeled my face in case I had drawn any ones attention. This was what he had to show me. This would explain all. It was beautiful. They were all there. Together. Bathed in the pearl light of their shared destiny. Everyone of them. The threads of their lives perfectly intertwined to bring them here in this instant. Together. They didn't even know they knew one and other. And I was there to see. No It was more then that. I was there to more than just witness. I was there to learn. The Walker nodded his head so slightly and I watched as the florescent green GTO slid, bounced against a beaten red Mustang and then flew, actually flew over the embankment, ripping the fencing away like cotton candy. Ripped metal sliced through the screaming group before their terror really had a chance to set in. Before they had a chance to realize that this was it; their last moment on the planet. The splash of colors was amazing. I was in instant tears for the beauty of the display. The fear, hope, dreams, the very history of the dying lit up before me like a divine light show and I was lost in it. Everything inside me spilt out. All the anxiety and confusion of the last week left me in a rush of tears and joy. Nobody noticed me. The ensuing flurry of activity made me invisible. And when I looked, He was gone. I had been wrong. I had to let him know that I had been wrong about him. I left quickly. He couldn't have gotten far. The sky was new. The stars visible through the city haze were a billion eyes watching me. The lights of the city were a million candles lit for my march home. I was something new, reborn under a huge faceless monstrosity of concrete and steel. The huge empty buildings of the industrial area had taken on some new dimension. I was transfixed as I passed them. Everything was reborn to my eyes. How could I have missed this before? Maybe it was the way I missed everything. Like everybody. The way they all missed Him. How could he have lived like this. Seeing all this. Knowing all that he knew. How had he stayed sane? Had he? And suddenly there he was. In front of me at an intersection his back to me. In this new light of my vision he looked thin, vulnerable. He knew I was there. Knew of the rapture that had seized me and knew also of my new understanding. Something passed between us. Even at this distance it was like an electric shock up my spine. A thought too immense to cognize that settled into the body instead, waiting for the time when I was ready to see. And then he lit up. It was Christmas, explosions, a fire of some eternal origin, and his body was a small dot within. And for the first and only time, he turned and looked at me. His eyes were longing with an intensity that would have made me weep had I not been steeled against it. To anyone who passed we were two completely unrelated individuals walking on the same stretch of sidewalk on a lonely dark night. That was if anyone noticed us at all. But to me he was a magnificent display of some divine pattern. A luminous schematic of fate. I understood now. As much as I could, I understood my task. Our deal that had been written on the very fabric of reality. I let him go. ‘Yes. Yes. You're right, old man, it's time. Good-bye.’ This was only a gesture. A casual tweak of my chin as if an itch had annoyed me. He turned. Simply and unceremoniously walked into the intersection. Against the light. The driver of the speeding truck never had a chance to even hit the brake. The witnessing was the most beautiful I had seen and would ever see. I remember that time clearly as I sit in the quiet house that nobody ever seems to notice. It was his home before. I guess it still is after a fashion; for what have I become after all? Crude matters like food, rent, have not concerned me since I am taken in to this awful responsibility. The money is there. The food is there. Some agency above logic’s crude restraints ordains this so. I ask no questions anymore. It's been that long, eh? So long that nothing seems amazing anymore? I walk among the unconscious multitude endlessly. None notice me. Where ever I am I slide through the gauntlet of curious gazes unscathed. Untouched by the willowy fingers of scrutiny. I have not just witnessed as I had once assumed, but I have played such a part in the passage of fate that should I express this it would drive anyone mad to hear. I give them permission to go. They never know their own weariness. But I see it as simply one would see the warp of shelves in an old bookcase, or the gradual fraying of old coils, losing grip on the huge segments of the life they support. In parts of their being they don’t even know exist, they are relieved. I am overcome by the beauty of it. Or I was. I grow tired. I have been tired for some time now. Some time ago, I can't recall just how long, the days blur from one to another so, I saw Buddy. He didn't recognize me. Didn't even see me as he hurried off to whatever business he had to attend to. But his face, withered with time reminded me of those days. I thought of the life I once had. It wasn't that bad was it? Simple. Uneventful perhaps. Blessedly uneventful. I just want to sleep for a while maybe. Or to walk in the daylight without the secret screams of agony and loneliness coming upon me from every direction. But there is a chance for me. A young man. Not so different than myself back then. A loner. One who watches the world pass him by as if he is not a member of the weary procession. Strange to others. Yes, he is like myself. I think he sees me. Knows me. Knows of my secret task. Perhaps tomorrow I will see him again. Then I will know for sure that he follows. Maybe we can come to an understanding.
