week twenty-nine: coward in the rye

Warning: this week's story contains strong language.

“911 Emergency.” “Oh, God, oh, God! Help, Help!” “All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!” “He’s got a gun and he’s shooting at all of us! Oh, God!” “Calm down, ma’am, try to stay-“ “Oh, God, he’s coming this way! No! NO!” “Uh, there’s only one and he’s got a gun- a pistol! A handgun!” “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” “I don't know what he's screaming!" “I can hear them! I can hear the shots! They’re coming this- they’re coming this way!” “We’re heading westbound, we’re going as fast as we can!” “This is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“ “Negative! Negative! Wait on the SWAT team!” “Mom? Mom!” “Hold together, help is on the way!” “Mom… I’ve been shot. There’s a guy here and he- ah- mom, I just- Oh, God, no!” “SWAT team is inbound, ETA five minutes.” “I love you.” “This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

…

In his dorm room at just before eight in the morning, Scott Green stood before the mirror and worried about his hair. As is typical in college sophomore males, his hair's a mess; a dirty blond mess. At the same time, however, a calculated mess. He hoped his hair would offset the fact that he was a little overweight, so he paid it particular attention. After once again straightening his thick-rimmed glasses, he grabbed his tan messenger bag and stepped outside. His class is at 8:30 so he knows he has time. He always hopes to run into someone on the way, but no one is much for conversation at this hour in the morning. Thus, deciding that no one would say hi, Scott put in his earbuds and turned on his iPod. He put it on shuffle, he didn’t care what, but he needed some of kind of sound.

How It Ends – DeVotchka

Scott needed something to concentrate on besides either of two things: Class and his parents. He didn’t want to think about class because, well, it’s class. There’s little else to say about that. He could worry about his homework or fret over any upcoming quizzes or exams, but the point to that is nil. Having music in the ear deafens any apprehension. And of course, the latter of the two is the more complicated issue. Scott wanted nothing more than to be completely independent of his family. He loved them, but tired of them dangling money over his head like the proverbial carrot on a stick. As such, Scott didn’t talk to or call them much. He felt bad about that, but this is his way of convincing them that he can do life on his own.

His first class is the only class he really cares about: Postmodern Literature. Scott always enjoyed English classes, and especially enjoyed this one because it dealt with modern issues, perspectives, and emotions. In other words, it applied. Upon arriving in class, he turned off his music, sat down, and eagerly awaited continuing their ongoing discussion of The Catcher in the Rye. Although Scott had read it before more than once, hearing Doctor Spencer analyze and explain every detail never failed in yielding new insight. It was as if hearing speech, but for only the first time understanding the words.

They were at the part of the book where Holden reflects on his old friend, Jane Gallagher. Interestingly, Jane never appears in the actual narrative; she only shows up in reflective passages. For some reason, Scott found himself oddly connected to this passage. Scott felt Holden’s pain as he misses an old and dear friend, who, Scott felt, could be a romantic interest. There is definitely something anyone could relate to in this section, especially those with the proverbial teenage angst, however, Scott felt as though it spoke directly to him. He could never fully place it, though. Perhaps, however, the biggest parallel Scott drew to his own life is Holden's constant self-victimization.

Doctor Spencer always liked to end his lessons with some kind of life lesson or application. He tried so hard to make his class practical rather than merely informative. And so he told his students, and Scott listened carefully, “You’re reading Holden’s story here and I’ll bet a lot of you are thinking about how much it applies to you or how you can relate. I don’t think anyone can read Catcher and not relate in some way. That’s the beauty of it. But I want to encourage you not just to accept Holden’s little pity party. You need to look at it, reflect on it, and, most importantly, do something about it. Is your life as bad as Holden Caulfield’s? Well, that just sucks, doesn’t it?” The class laughed. “You can do something about that. Don’t run away to some hotel; don’t run away at all. If things are bad, then do something about it. Holden is a lesson on what not to be. Don’t be Holden.”

With a grandfatherly smile, Doctor Spencer ended his class, “I’ll see you all next week.”

Scott left the classroom and immediately realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast. His stomach cried for nourishment. He had gotten to the point where it didn’t exactly matter what he ate so long as he was fed. Fortunately, Grove University is a big school and the western campus has a smaller cafeteria with all of the necessities. Scott made his way there, grabbed a single-serving bowl of Fruit Loops, and filled it with milk. Scott was one of those people who liked a lot of milk in his cereal, his reasoning being that the milk afterward is the best part. Hoping to find someone to sit with, he stood there and looked over the morning faces. There was no one. Only somewhat disappointed, and not at all surprised, Scott resigned to sit by himself. As he sat, he felt his loneliness, but laughed only slightly when he realized it just made him feel more like Holden Caulfield.

“Don’t be Holden,” he remembered with a smirk.

That was when he smiled, looked around, and labeled everyone a phony. Everyone there in their own tight-knit circles with no time for Scott was officially a phony. That felt good. Oh, you bet it did. Phonies.

…

Now, let’s take a look at a real phony:

Police Sergeant Jack Maurice drove his patrol cruiser right past Grove University. It was just another morning with just another cup of coffee. There was nothing really planned except for work. Well, work, and Jack had a meeting to attend; a very shady meeting. On his left, is Grove University, but that isn’t his destination. No, his destination is on the right in a residential neighborhood.

And look, college kids do drugs. Or at least most of them, right? But how do they get them, you wonder?

Luce Montenegro.

Montenegro sold crack cocaine and needle heroin to Grove students and made a killing. Through comprehensive investigation, Jack uncovered no signs of drug dealers in this area. None at all. Grove students must have gotten their stuff elsewhere. People like Montenegro don’t exist around here. Well, that’s what the official report will tell you.

Unofficially, Jack knew exactly where Montenegro was and had enough hard evidence to put him away for life. So, what’s stopping him?

Ten thousand dollars every month, that’s what. That’s enough to set Jack for life; something his policeman’s salary could never do. It’s truly a sad state of affairs when the men in blue are barely paid enough. Of course, you never joined the force for money. You joined so you could “help people” and “make a difference.” Jack did that. He just took a little extra on the side, that's all.

Jack pulled up to Montenegro’s house and schlepped his way to the front door. With his fist, he pounded and soon a tall, lanky Hispanic man opened the door: Montenegro. “Ho, officer Jack! You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Jack replied shifting uncomfortably. But he stayed firm. “You boys still being good?”

“As good as you’ll let us be,” Montenegro laughed. “You know, officer, I just gotta say man, we really appreciate bent cops like you helpin’ us out like this.”

“Fuck you,” Jack sharply exhaled. “Just give me the money so I can go.”

“What? You scared more coppers like you are gonna show? Don’t worry about it, homie,” he must have been at least a little high. Jack always thought dealers never did their own stuff, but Montenegro was his own man. Let him be. “Hey, Paulie, get this man his dough.”

“Thanks,” Jack grunted as soon as Montenegro handed him a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

“Look, man, you can come by any time and we’ll fix you up, man, okay?”

“No way, I don’t want to smell like you,” Jack turned and didn't lose any time making it back to his car. Right there he considered flaunting his badge and arresting them all. But no, not now.

“Real funny!”

When Jack looked back and rolled his eyes, Luce had already closed his door. The bent officer climbed back into his cruiser and resumed his patrol. Since his beat was in the area, he could keep other officers away from Montenegro. Ten grand a month is a good deal; no taxes to screw it up, even. Of course, Jack felt bad about it, but come on, Luce sells to college students. They’re gonna do drugs anyway, right? Not like anyone’s getting killed.

Yet.

…

Well, Scott labeled everyone a phony except for that pretty girl sitting alone just a few tables down. He wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Brittany. Ever since his first semester, Scott had admired Brittany, but couldn’t muster the courage to talk to her. He couldn’t even recall the sound of her voice. But to him, she was perfect: brunette and, though hidden by glasses, eyes green as spring. She was even in his literature class, evidence being the copy of Catcher she held in her hands.

As Scott enjoyed his Fruit Loops, he’d occasionally look up at Brittany. He loved the way she would subtly lick her upper lip before she turned the page or how she futilely tried to keep her bangs out of her eyes. But then, as she pushed her hair away once again, Brittany looked up and right at Scott. Man, she was pretty. She really was.

Stop staring, Scott.

His eyes locked with hers. He couldn’t look away. Brittany smiled patiently and might have even giggled a little before she returned to Holden’s world. Smiling, Scott returned to his cereal.

And then….

BOOM!

BOOM, BOOM!

Screaming. Bloody, bloody screaming.

BOOM! BOOM!

BOOM!

Everyone froze. The sounds and screams came from down the hall. No one dared move….

Someone finally cried, “Are those gunshots?!”

“Oh, God!”

Frantic screaming.

“Someone lock the doors!”

A young man ran to the doors and closed them. This was the only entrance. He cried, “There’s no lock!”

The shots and screams would not let up.

“Oh, no, oh, no… this doesn’t happen to me!”

“Dude, someone call the cops!”

“I’m calling my mom!”

“But what if it’s something else?!”

“Do you really want to take that chance?!”

Scott fazed himself out of the chaos as he realized he didn’t have his cell phone. He couldn’t call his mom or anyone else. Scott looked down at this breakfast and wondered what to do. It was all of a sudden that no one but everyone mattered. Scott glanced back to Brittany and saw the horror in her eyes as she looked to him. For an instant, a powerful connection manifested. Scott jumped to his feet. What are you doing, Scott?

“I don’t know,” he would reply.

A couple of bigger guys, the football type, stood and started trying to take command, “Everybody find somewhere to hide! Turn tables over!”

“These windows don’t open!”

“Oh my God! We’re trapped! We’re going to die!”

…

“All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!”

Officer Maurice was the first man on the scene. Since his patrol was right next to Grove, he pulled in only an instant after the all-units call was given. Jack just couldn’t believe it. These school shootings happen; you hear about them on the news all the time, but it’s just one of those things that could never happen to you.

Or so you thought.

Jack pulled onto the fire lane at the western campus and radioed to dispatch, “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” He drew his Beretta 9mm and took cover behind the car.

“On the way, 432, hold tight until backup arrives.”

BOOM, BOOM!

Jack heard the bloodcurdling screams and shouts as the gunfire continued. There could be no mistake; all hell was breaking loose in there. “Goddammit, this is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“

“Negative, negative! Wait for the SWAT team!”

Jack slammed his fist onto the car. He stood there, listening to the piercing gunfire and harrowing death. There wasn’t even imagining the terror inside. How could he just sit there while this happened? You know what? He couldn’t. Before tossing his radio into the car, he said only three sentences:

“This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

...

Despite all best efforts, there was no organization, there was chaos. Most froze, while others frantically stumbled about. There was literally nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.

Scott pushed through the fray and on to Brittany. He ignored everything; the screaming, the terror, the sporadic gunshots.... For some reason, this one pretty girl mattered above all else. Scott knew very little about her, but in his naïveté, he loved her. And with that, nothing else matters.

But before he could reach her, the door burst open. Everything stopped as everyone gasped in horror. It was that one kid. Everyone knows who he is; or knew of him. He’s that kid you see around, but never say anything to. No one knew his name. Sweat engulfed his angered face, his nose ran, and his furious eyes were constricted. Blood spattered his clothes. And in his hand was a semiautomatic handgun.

Grunting, this kid surveyed the room, shouted slurred, unknown words, and then opened fire.

Scott watched with wide eyes as blood sprayed and people fell. Dead. So much screaming, the gun blaring, spent casings hitting the floor.... Scott looked to Brittany. He could see nothing more than confusion and absolute terror. And he could sense the lingering question, “Why?” Their eyes locked. Both felt as though this would be the last thing they would ever see.

Brittany was right.

Her temple burst in crimson. Scott watched with utmost shock, horror, and sorrow as she fell from her chair and hit the floor lifeless and limp. Her table obscured his view, but he heard both her body and her book hit the ground. Why?

Scott turned to the shooter, who screamed completely unintelligibly as he showered random death. The slide locked, then the killer ejected his magazine.

Scott.

This is your chance.

The gunman pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and slapped it in. The slide racked forward.

Scott.

You know what Professor Spencer told you: “Do something about it.”

So he did.

…

Officer Jack knew to follow his ears. Keeping his Beretta raised and ready, he ran the halls. For every shot he heard, he had to assume someone lost their life. This is too much.

As he ran, he saw hundreds of horrified faces. They all looked to him as most bled, some cowered, and others still were merely corpses. Jack looked to them as if to say, “It’s going to be alright.” But he had to push aside thoughts from his head that he could have saved them if he had acted sooner. If only he had acted sooner….

But in a situation like this, you can’t think like that. You just can’t. You can’t think at all; just do. Jack needs to find this shooter and take him out. That’s all that matters; lives hang in the balance.

That was when Jack made the conscious decision to shoot first and ask questions later. There was no way he could risk anything at all. So Jack flipped off his safety and put his finger firmly on the trigger. These are two things against everything the books taught. But this is no place for the books.

There: the west side cafeteria. Every gunshot and holler came from there. In all of his visits to Grove, Jack knew that the cafeteria was a dead-end. If the shooter is in there, he’s stuck. No way out. Get ready, Jack, no turning back now.

…

Scott mustered everything and bolted the shooter. Before the gunman could react, Scott slammed into his side, bringing them both to the ground. With fury, fear, and courage, Scott bashed the shooter’s neck not once, but twice. That was enough. The madman released the pistol as he gasped for air.

In a frenzy, Scott grabbed the gun and came to his feet. He kept it trained on the laying gunman and considered exacting revenge. He should pull the trigger. He should kill this- this phony! For everything he’s done, for the unknown number of people he’s just murdered… for Brittany. Scott readied himself.

BOOM, BOOM!

Pain. Immeasurable pain.

What?

Scott looked to his side and saw a lone policeman at the door, smoking gun raised. He tried to say something, but nothing came. His chest was pierced and bleeding. Scott’s lungs faltered and breath came not at all.

Limp, Scott fell to his knees and then the floor. As he lay there, life draining, he looked to his side and saw Brittany’s lifeless body looking to him. Next to her, he saw the sleeve of Catcher in the Rye. For a brief moment, he put himself in Holden’s shoes again and she was Sally Hayes. Could they run away together; leave this world of phonies? Yes, but not together. Scott, if he could, would have sworn he could see her smile just that one last time. He really did.

…

Jack holstered his pistol and, with a hint of triumph, asked aloud, “Is everyone alright?” From what he could tell, that was the only shooter. It’s over; it’s all over.

And then a chubby girl in the corner shouted to him, “You dick! That guy just took down the killer! He’s the hero! You just- you just killed him you stupid pig!”

There were no words.

Jack holstered his pistol and cut out any remorse. There’s no time for that. “Then who is it? Who’s the real killer?”

The girl pointed at the floored kid who still gasped for air, “It’s him, dumbass!”

Jack glared at her before rushing to the killer. With the utmost precision offered by his training, Jack slapped handcuffs on his man. As he was lifted, the kid shouted again. Jack couldn’t understand him, but as he looked into the kid’s eyes, he saw the tell-tale signs of heroine abuse: constricted eyes, slurred speech, runny nose…. Oh, God.

As he led the killer down the hall, some of the kids were cheering. Jack couldn’t stomach it. He didn’t do this; it was that kid lying dead in the cafeteria. He's the hero. What’s his name? Officer Maurice looked no one in the eye. Officer Maurice is a goddamn phony and he knows it.

The killer screamed the whole way. No one could understand him. Maybe it was some foreign language or something, but it was slurred. Either way, the kid needs help and not just for his apparent drug abuse. Jack could only pity him, but more so all those kids inside. Especially for whoever that “hero” was.

After throwing the killer into his car, Officer Maurice radioed dispatch, “I’ve got the suspect in custody. Situation is under control.”

“What?! You had orders not-“

Jack turned off his radio. He didn’t have time for that bullshit. Jack knew he had done the right thing; it just didn’t turn out so well. In fact, it turned out in the worst possible way. There will be hell to pay. As the SWAT teams, ambulances, and other officers arrived one by one, Jack could only think, about damned time.

…

The lovely young reporter broke the story, “Just hours ago in the building behind me, the western campus of Grove University, a massacre unfolded. A single gunman, who I am told is a student, armed with a single handgun, came to class and started shooting at random. Seventeen students and faculty were injured and twelve were killed. Remarkably, the perpetrator was captured alive by police Sergeant John Patrick Maurice, who is now being referred to by some as the hero of Grove University. There have, however, been conflicting reports that perhaps it was a student who took down the killer. Here with me is Police Chief Armin Williams to answer some questions. So, tell me, what really happened?”

“Officer Maurice is one of the best men on our force. He took total initiative and stormed the building alone. He went in, found the suspect, and took him down.”

“Some students have told us about how another student took the shooter down and Officer Maurice killed that heroic student. What do you have to say about that?”

“Those reports are inaccurate and probably conjured up by do-gooder hippies trying to make us look bad. Jack Maurice is a hero and should be treated as such.”

What a phony.

Epilogue

That night, Officer Maurice just couldn’t get the image of Scott Green out of his mind. Jack’s district head had decided to let Jack go home that night and rest it out. The full investigation would have to wait until tomorrow, where Jack was sure to face consequences. Sure, the police chief had decided to play this for the media, but justice, and the truth, would have to be served. They’d make this private and secret. Jack would probably be forced to retire or something. Either way, his badge is as good as gone.

After a long, cold shower, a shave, dinner, and an hour of contemplation, Jack found himself staring at the blued-steel of his Beretta 92FS 9mm semiautomatic handgun. He slapped a fresh magazine inside and chambered the first round. Jack knew he had to do something with it. Something.

Scott Green came back to his mind. He could see Scott down the sights. And then the muzzle flare: Once, twice. He remembered his momentary relief and the shattering when he found out he had just murdered the real hero. God, Jack, what have you done?

That was when suicide presented itself as an option. He could do it; take the coward’s way out. He is, after all, the real villain in all of this. If Montenegro had been put away, then that kid would never have gotten heroin and maybe this would never have happened. But no, that’s too easy. Any honor left in Jack would never have permitted it. And then he got it.

Montenegro.

It’s time to do the right thing.

Officer Maurice grabbed his badge and his gun, put on his coat, and got in the car. That’s right: he’s going after that drug-dealing bastard. The drive was an easy one. It’s ten at night; there’s not much traffic. He passed by Grove and could see there were still emergency vehicles around; likely just to keep order. How do you go on after something like this?

Jack pounded on Montenegro’s door and drew his pistol; he kept it in his hand, but hidden behind his thigh. Luce, clearly high, opened the door, “Officer Jack? Yo, man, hella you doing here?”

“You’re under arrest.”

“Wait- what? Is this some kinda joke?”

“Yeah, it is.”

BOOM!

Jack blasted Luce all over the wall.

Satisfied, Jack dashed back to his car and grabbed a full jug of gasoline. He rushed inside the house and searched every room to make sure it was empty. Thank God it was. After spreading the gas around and taking samples of the drugs laying around for evidence, Jack flicked his lighter.

Flames, glorious flames.

The whole neighborhood looked on as Jack walked away from the blazing home. And as they watched, Jack drew his badge and a slip that read, “I’m not a hero.” Without any second’s hesitation, he put the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

This is as much atonement as it is cowardice.

week twenty-five: grandmothers and ghosts

The following story is only mostly true:

It's very safe to say that my grandmother and I didn't quite get along. We lived with her for a year when I was about nine, and I absolutely hated it. In fact, Granny J, as we called her, gets the prize for being the sole cause of the only run-away-from-home I ever attempted. I don't quite remember exactly why we didn't get along. Maybe it was her way of doing things, which was very old-fashioned, or maybe it was just because I was an obnoxious kid growing up. It's arguable that I still am, by the way. As I grew up, this animosity subsided, but you can imagine that having to spend a week with her didn't thrill me.

I think I was sixteen at the time. Mom and dad had to go off to some conference or another and they must not have thought I was quite old enough to handle the house on my own. I had the choice between staying with Granny J or my other grandma. My younger sister and even younger brother had already decided to stay with the other, so I chose Granny J. I guess I figured I could stay out of her hair and that I wouldn't have to worry about my siblings driving me crazy. Either way, there wasn't actually any winning in that situation for me. At least she had a TV, right?

This is one of those situations in life that either builds or breaks you. I'd like to say that I've always had an attitude of trying to make the best of things. I'd be mostly wrong, of course. This wasn't one of those situations. My only goal was to get through the week dead or alive; I didn't care. I didn't put my guard up or open myself up to new things, I just figured I'd go the course.

I'm not entirely sure Granny J was too thrilled with the whole thing either. I mean, it was certainly a sacrifice on her part to have me for the week, but I never really stopped to ask her. Oh well.

The first day was awkward. I got there and we got through the pleasantries. The usual how-are-you's and how's-school's, you know the drill I'm sure. Suffice to say, we didn't talk much. I spent most of time either locked away in my room reading or playing my Xbox on her TV. She was out a lot of the time, which is impressive for a woman in her mid-seventies. Granny J was an expert violin player and she taught and played as her profession. I never got the chance to really see her play.

The first time it happened was when I went to bed that night. Now, I've always been something of an insomniac. It's been worse recently, but I could lay awake in bed for hours on end. It sucks. So, I lay there in my room and there are no curtains on the windows. I was admittedly afraid the first time I saw the lights on an airplane coming towards me. They were low and it looked like it could almost hit me. It was eerie. But the interesting part about the airplane bit is how my imagination would fly. Now, if you haven't noticed that I have a morbid imagination by now, I question your observation skills. I would imagine that terrorists were targeting me and that they finally got me. Lucky shot for them; I had been hard to find up until now.

Or maybe the plane was crashing. In my mind, I readied myself to get out there and help. Infinite possibilities I probably would have explored if I were a writer then. Alas, I was not and any imaginings from then are second-hand now and not worth much. A pity.

Far freakier than the airplanes, however, was the tapping. It was rhythmic and bore not just a slight resemblance to a lady walking on heels. I could hear said lady walking towards me and then walking away. Back and forth; forth and back. It was strange because I wasn't sure exactly what was happening. The tapping happened only at night, so finding an explanation in the daytime didn't happen. But there it was.

Back then I had the strange notion that I wanted to be a filmmaker. More like a stupid notion, I would say now, but a notion nonetheless. I imagined a horror movie about an old house haunted by the waiting spirit of an old woman. I never fleshed out characters or anything, but there was a lead. And it's one I'm following right now, but we'll get back to that later.

I'd come downstairs around noon, let's not forget that I'm a teenager at this point and sleeping was my prerogative. It still is, from time to time. Granny J would usually be out, but she was nice enough to provide lunch. I half expected to fend for myself, but she's my grandmother! I wish I had remembered that sooner.

When she was home at night, there was only thing on the TV: Turner Classic Movies. Old movies. Of course, I'd sit in there to give her company, but I would be reading rather than watching. After all, these are old movies. They're stupid, right?

Now, look, it's been four years and I wasn't exactly trying to record these events. I can't say for sure this is exactly how it happened. We're going to put it this way for narrative's sake though, alright?

It was that second day that she took me to the public library. I had honestly never been to a good library before. I had been to my crappy school library before, but this library was several stories tall and had more than just books. There were CDs and DVDs even. I took a few books, Star Wars I think, and I do remember grabbing a copy of the extended Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack. My interests in books back then was strictly sci-fi. I read for entertainment, not thought. Don't you just hate looking back on yourself and noticing just how much of a total idiot you were?

I swear, I walked right past a copy of Catcher in the Rye. I could have changed my life early!

The return trip home was revelatory in my experience in getting to know my grandmother. She let me put in a disc of the soundtrack. It was the theme from the beginning of the movie with the hobbits; beautiful music and Granny J noted the beauty. I couldn't help but smile at having shared some interest. We didn't talk much in the trip to the library, but something was there. I drew just a touch closer to my grandmother.

That night, I heard the tapping again. Back and forth; forth and back. I even put my shirt on and went out to investigate. I crept upstairs to the attic and found nothing that would explain this peculiar sound. Out the window, there was nothing. In all honesty, I had a nagging sensation of fear.

The next two or three days were more of the same. I have to say, I was thankful for the opportunity to relax. The family was gone and I was liberated to a point. When Granny J was gone, the TV was mine to play video games on. What fun!

Finally on one of those nights, I went downstairs to investigate the heel-tapping. Back and forth; forth and back. There was nothing in the TV room and nothing in the kitchen; only darkness and shadows. The living room, however, is a different story completely. I could see a light from the hall, which I thought was merely light from an open window, but oh boy, I was wrong. I walked in to see an bright-blue and curiously shining old woman. She stood upright and carried her purse gallantly. She wore heels and paced the room. I froze in fear. Perhaps she wouldn't notice me.

Move, Wes. She hasn't seen you. Move. Turn around and run. You can make it go away.

“Who are you?” I feel the words escape my lips.

She sees me.

Her eyes widen.

“Address me properly, young man!”

My eyes bolt open, “Um, sorry, miss.”

“Mrs!”

“Uh, Mrs! Sorry, Mrs!”

“Now, that's better. Who are you?”

“Uh, I'm uh-”

“Speak quickly!”

“Wes, I'm Wes, I guess.”

“Come, sit down,” she lightened up as I did exactly as she instructed. There was a couch against the wall in the middle of the room. I sat. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm, uh, living here for a week,” I don't dare answer more than she's asked.

“And why is that?”

I explain everything to her.

“I see.”

“Well, uh, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I live here, you see.”

“My grandmother lives here.”

“Don't argue,” she sits down next to me. “But yes, she does, but I live here as well.”

“Ma'am, if you don't mind my asking... are you dead?”

“Why, yes, of course! Don't you know a ghost, a phantom, a spirit- when you see one?”

“Well, no, I've never seen a ghost before, sorry.”

“Dear boy, we shall have to educate you, won't we?”

I chuckled, “I guess, ma'am.”

“Well, I died quite some time ago. I died a very impatient old woman and this is why I am that way now. You will die as you are, young man.”

“Die as I am, what do you mean?”

She scoffed, “An example. Let's say that you die in love, yet the one you seek loves you not. You are desperate. You will die desperate for her affection. Simple as that.”

“So, if I die angry...?”

“You will be an angry ghost, of course!” she laughed.

“What is your name, spirit?”

“Hannah DuBois, what is yours?”

“Wes.”

“Your full name, boy.”

“Julian, Wesley Julian, ma'am.”

“That's better,” she let out a hint of a smile. “What are you doing awake at this hour, shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I have trouble sleeping, ma'am.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Come here with me, we can do something about that,” she stands and approaches the dining room table. As if by miracle, there is a pot of tea with several teacups. “Sit at the table. I trust chamomile is to your liking.”

“Yes, it is,” I replied truthfully. I sat.

She poured tea into a pair of teacups and sipped very gently. It was delicious. “Chamomile tea will help you sleep, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, I want to help you, young man. I want you to know what I did not.”

“Alright,” I sipped. “Tell me.”

“How do you wish to die?”

“Happy, I guess.”

“You can't achieve happiness, boy, happiness is a passing and a supplementary thing. Many seek it out, but none find it!”

I nodded.

“What you want is to die content. What you need to do is accept where you are, accept who you are, and accept why you are.”

“Why I am?”

“That is for you to discover,” she stood. “Now, it's off to bed with you. I'm afraid I've had enough conversation for the evening.”

I stood and thanked her again for the tea. It truly was delicious. When I lay back in bed, I didn't hear the tapping. She must have gone back to her world. I lay there and pondered. One nagging question remained, however: Why had she died impatient?

I slept.

Die content.

When I awoke, my attitude was changed. I decided to join my grandmother at one of her violin lessons. She was teaching a young girl, so I wasn't exactly seeing her play, but it was likely the most important piece in finally understanding my grandmother. What I saw there was a content woman. She had a gift with her violin and she could share it with others. That's when I knew what I wanted. I wanted to find my gift and share it with others. Granny J had found purpose to her life and in that, contentment and, I daresay, happiness.

I no longer put up with her. There was more to it. I wanted to know my grandmother. I want to see her life. What makes her tick? That night, I left the Star Wars upstairs and sat down to watch old movies with her. The first one I remember was The Bridge on the River Kwai, a war classic. My vision, back then, of a good war movie had big special effects and a lot of action. I recognized Alec Guinness in it, of course, and that's where my connection was drawn. Being the fairly intelligent person I am, I decided to find something besides eye-candy to enjoy. There was writing, acting, and cinematography. These things pulled the story, not cheap roller-coaster thrills.

That's when it hit me: old movies are awesome.

It was during the commercial that I burped. I forgot Granny J was behind me on her computer and I was embarrassed when I realized what I had done. And then, I remember it very clearly, I heard a thunderous rasp. I confess this here to you now: I was out-belched by my grandmother. She laughed and I joined her. It was one of those moments you'll never forget.

That night I didn't hear the tapping. Instead of being afraid, I was disturbed. Was Hannah alright? I went down the stairs to find her sitting there at the table with tea already poured. She smiled, “I was waiting for you, Wesley.”

“Oh, thank you, ma'am,” I sat down with her.

“I see you've considered what I said.”

“Yes, ma'am, it's good advice.”

She laughed, “When you get to be a in place like mine, you don't give advice. You tell. I know things you could not possibly know and you can either choose to trust me or not.”

“Well,” I sipped my tea. “I trust you, Mrs. DuBois.”

“Good,” she smiled.

I had to ask, “Mrs. DuBois, you mentioned that you had died impatient. What do you mean?”

Hannah sighed, “On your last night here, come and visit me. I will tell you then. Meanwhile, we need to work on you. Understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I finished the last drop.

“Tonight, I leave you with this,” she put down her teacup. “To die content, you can't die complacent. Things can be changed. Sometimes they will change for the better and sometimes they will change for the worse. Complacency is surest way to change them for worse. Look at your present situation. How can you make it better?”

I thought on this.

“Now, shoo, go on to bed. You need your rest to grow, young man!”

I laughed very softly as I climbed back up the stairs and back into bed. I fell asleep quickly this time. Her tea must work.

You can't die complacent.

There were two days left. I didn't know it then, but these days were the last days I had to get to know my grandmother. Nothing happened during the morning or the afternoon, but we had a planned a dinner that night. We were going to meet my siblings and other grandmother at a hamburger restaurant. A very good one, exclusive to Memphis, actually. It's called Huey's. Look it up.

When we got there, I could see that my sister was tired. My brother was in his usual overly talkative mood, which gets on my nerves fast. Insanely fast. I could tell Rachel, my sister, was tired. Michael was mostly her responsibility and it must have worn on her. But me? I was, well, content. I had the opportunity to explore one of my most fascinating relatives. Now, my other grandmother, Mamaw, we called her, we knew her quite well. We saw her the most often and she still is something of a constant, wonderful presence. Trips to Granny J's were always more of a rarity.

Anyway, it was there that I saw what I could have been. I could have let it wear down on me, but I made the best of it. That's not to say Rachel was doing anything wrong at all, just that I was finally doing something right. All thanks to Hannah DuBois. But who is she?

That night, I again found Mrs. DuBois at the table, tea and all. She awaited me with a much more approving look. I found it oddly soothing. I sat there with her and asked, “How are you, Mrs. DuBois?”

“I am as fine as an impatient spirit can ever be,” she answered briskly. “But yourself. I need not ask, but put it in your own words.”

“I'm,” I paused. “I'm content.”

“Are you?”

“More content than before.”

“Could you be more than you are now?”

“Always,” I sipped.

She grinned, “Now you're getting to the heart of it. Boy, we are in a world that is constantly getting worse. It's getting worse because people are getting complacent. There will always be things to fix, things to make better. You need to be one of the people who is content, but not complacent. Take you and your grandmother, for instance, you are content with your relationship with her. Be content with it, but make it better. Make it last.”

“I will,” I finished my tea.

“Now, tomorrow night is your last night. Let's not waste our last hours. What do you want to do with your life, boy?”

I explained my love of film for her. How I had edited videos and garnered praise in class for them. I liked that feeling. I loved sharing what I had made. She listened to me and obviously fought her impatient nature, but there was enthusiasm behind it. I could tell. This was a lonely spirit and a beautiful one. I wish I had known her living.

The next day, again, didn't really happen until the evening. Granny J cooked for me. She made roast beef, which isn't my favorite, but it was good. I didn't enjoy the food so much as sitting across from my grandmother and enjoying her company. There was a bond, not of necessity like before, but of love. I wish I had this before, but better late than never.

She also made cupcakes. They were peanut butter, I think. I can't tell you if they were good or not. They didn't look good and I was a picky eater. I still am. But I told her how much I loved the cupcakes, but I never ate them. I'm sure the neighbor's dog loved them though.

That night was also something special when she turned on the TCM. The movie was called They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and it's about a Great Depression-era dancing marathon. This isn't subject matter I care about, but I deeply enjoyed it. I loved the seeing the characters broken and tired. And finally, at the end, when he shoots the girl, I was gripping my seat. It was emotional and released when my parents were toddlers. Granny J hadn't seen it either, but we discussed the movie in length. It was one of the greatest conversations I've ever had.

I discovered then that I love old things. I have a bitter distrust of remakes and new movies. Things were done better in a time long ago. Hannah was right. The world is getting worse. Perhaps I can fix it. I got it set in my mind then that I wanted to make films the way they used to be made. I don't hold onto this dream anymore, but I do hold onto the way things were. The way they should be.

I found Hannah staring out the window this time. She looked as though she wants out, but is trapped. I approach her and I say, “Mrs. DuBois, you said you would tell why you died impatient.”

She smiled and sat back down at the table. I sat with her and sipped at my tea. She sighed and explained, “I was already old before I died. In fact, I died in old age. I died at a train station. My son told me to wait for him. I paced up and down. Back and forth; forth and back. But he never showed up. He was never there. I sat down at the bench and fell asleep. I was angry and impatient. I never awoke again.”

“Do you know why your son was late?”

“Don't you see? He abandoned me,” Hannah said. “He decided that in the rush of the modernizing world, his mother was less important than his business. Please, I beg you, have patience. People, especially relatives, are far more important than anything else. My son never learned his lesson, but you can, Wesley.”

I drank the last of my tea, “Mrs. DuBois, I'm sorry.”

She looked into my eyes and I could see a faint ghostly tear, “Thank you, dear boy.”

I don't remember going back up the stairs that night. I don't remember returning to my bed. I don't remember how I got there, but I woke up in my bed a changed man. Somehow, I understood the world. Not fully, but pieces I never knew before were present. I had little time the next morning with my grandmother, but I made the most of them. I wanted all the time in the world with my Granny J.

When my parents arrived to pick me up, I was ready. There was resolution. I hugged my grandmother and, with sincerity like never before, told her that I loved her. She never was a sentimental woman, but she was old-fashioned; she held onto things. I learned that from her. Hold onto the things you should value. I still wish I had more time with her. More solid, quality time.

I never got time to myself with her again. When my family returned to our home in Brazil, she passed away just a little while later. It's one of those things that didn't hit me though until I saw her empty house the next year. It was haunting. I had hoped to see Hannah DuBois again, but I don't think I was meant to. I learned all that I was to learn from that mysterious, impatient spirit. I've never told anyone about Hannah DuBois until now.

If you see her, tell her I said hello.

week eight: comatose

As always, spending a night on the town with his girl induced unique joy in the heart of Jim Heller. The crisp, cool early Autumn air fed into their romantic frolicking. Dinner at a local Italian restaurant proved itself quite successful, as Jim even managed to avoid the marinara sauce staining his thoroughly white shirt. The food, however, lost luster in comparison to the fine companionship found in the woman he loved. Penelope McCormick: strikingly beautiful with hair like the leaves of fall, and eyes like those of spring. Everything that Jim could hope for in a woman was found in Penelope.

Throughout their schooling, Jim fascinated himself with Penelope. While he hid in the background, she drew the attention of so many others. Long did he consider it hopeless that the perfect girl, who possessed the rarely-found gift of choice, could ever love a nobody like Jim Heller. In a quizzical blend of courage and aloofness, Jim found himself telling Penelope of his feelings for her. To his surprise, she returned the interest and their relationship began. And soon, this bond of romantic friendship blossomed into love.

They held hands as they walked through the bustling activity and brightly festive downtown. The town lights brilliantly advertised products of every liking and delicacy. Times Square, 1966: a place of expanding promise, capitalist temptation, and carefree enjoyment. Jim and Penelope together found it oddly romantic and nothing short of the perfect place to enjoy their time together. They found a bench and she put herself against him as his arm went around her shoulder. Closing their eyes, the world became whole in their hearts. To put this moment in the most bromidic of manners: nothing else mattered, nothing but their love and each other.

After working up a considerable amount of courage, this time the wisest and truest of all courage, Jim released his lover and stood from the bench. In confusion, Penelope pondered to herself why her lover stood. The moment was one that even those most deaf to emotion knew not to break with silence and to Penelope, emotion blared, so she remained quiet. Her answer came to her in the best of ways as Jim took a knee and a heartfelt, but subtle smile. Penelope's hand reached her gaping mouth in surprise. Carefully, she listened as Jim asked of her, “Penelope, I love you so, so much. I want all of this, the love, the time together to never end. You are so beautiful and I'd be a fool to pass you up. Penelope McCormick, will you marry me?”

Words escaped her. One simple word needed to come. Penelope stood to her feet and with a tear of a joy, she exclaimed, “Yes! Yes!” Jim helped to put the diamond ring on her finger and then he stood. Their eyes shared a moment of connection and at last, they pressed their lips together. Many things are lost in the abyss of time and memory, but not this kiss; it stands forever. When they finished, celebration was in order. A wine perhaps? It mattered not. The pressing need to just go somewhere filled the air. Again, their hands joined and they were off.

They were so carefree that they went to the street caring not for whatever might oppose them. First to realize this mistake, Jim looked to his left and saw the headlights. His first, and only thought was to Penelope. He pushed her out of the way. The two lights and the blaring horn signaled the impact as the car slammed through his body. Jim flew through the air and rolled on the pavement. The world faded away as he saw Penelope over him crying, “Jim! Jim!”

Existence disappeared.

He awoke to the presence of literally everyone he knew. They stood around his bed in a darkened room, looking upon him with remorseful expressions. Jim knew not where he lay, but instantly he knew he did not like it. At the center stood Penelope and his mother. None seemed to be phased by the fact that he had survived his car crash. Something from within kept Jim from speaking. It could then only be assumed that the same thing stopped all around him from doing the same. Fear and confusion flooded his mind, which struggled to ascertain time or place.

When Jim closed his eyes, the people vanished and suddenly, no longer did he lie. The surreal grew to a point of absolution, with the only reality being the man before him. A nondescript man sat before him in an equally nondescript chair. No room provided occupancy, only an empty void. Overwhelmed, Jim fell back and landed in a chair like the plain man, who told him, “Relax.”

Jim replied with nothing but a look of confusion and to an extent, despair.

“Relax, there is nothing you can do but relax now,” the man poured him a glass of water. “Drink.”

Jim took the glass and drank. His composure stitched itself together and at last he asked, “Am I dead?”

“If you were dead, would we be talking?”

“Then where am I?”

“You're nowhere. This place isn't real.”

“Not real?”

“That's right,” the man answered. “This is the only place you can be right now. You've lost your connection with the world and now you're reconciling by making them in your mind.”

“I don't understand.”

“Give it time and you might, but you might not. Either way is fine, because neither way really matters.”

Jim shook his head and took another sip, “Who are you?”

“I am just like this place. I'm not real, therefore, I'm no one. You needn't worry about who I am.”

Taking him at his advice, Jim tried then to pick up the pieces. He saw flashes of the night before. Penelope smiled at him from across the table and then again said yes at the bench. Then the headlights blinded him before he flew through the air. Last he saw her panicking face before he knew to ask, “What about Penelope?”

“She's fine, but she's broken up about you. You mean the world to her.”

“She means the world to me.”

“I know.”

Jim drank some more, “Where is she?”

“She's with you now.”

Jim looked around, “No, she isn't.”

“Yes, she is, you just don't know it.”

“How can I not know it?”

“The car crash didn't kill you, Jim, but your mind has been severed from your body. The world, time, place, none of it matters now.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's okay.”

Jim sat back in his chair and sighed, “But who are you?”

“I'm the closest thing you have to a link to the outside world. I am, for a lack of a better word, your subconscious. I can hear everything that goes on and I keep you breathing, but I am passive.”

“So you can hear Penelope? What is she saying?”

“She's reading your favorite book to you, Catcher in the Rye, she's about halfway through.”

Jim smiled.

“She's been coming in for weeks now, talking to you.”

“But I can't say anything back?”

“No, I'm afraid you can't. Your mind has only just started letting you actually think more than just the subconscious, much less move any of your body.”

“Oh,” Jim stopped smiling. “I'll be out of this soon then.”

“No one can say when you'll awaken, for now, all you have is this.”

“This?”

“We're in your mind.”

“I'm dreaming?”

“So to speak, yes, you are, but this is the only reality that you have right now. Embrace it.”

Jim found no understanding as he tried to wrap himself around all of it. He found it exerting.

“Your mind is tired, Jim. It's time for you to rest.”

Jim nodded and the closed his eyes. He had many more questions, but exhaustion overtook him.

When he awoke again, Jim found himself in the same place with the same man. Nothing seemed to have changed and everything stood in timelessness. He had hoped that after this rest, he and Penelope would reunite. Instead, he returned to this strange place. Jim asked, “What's happened? Outside, I mean.”

“I can't say how long it's been, but Penelope finished Catcher in the Rye and then she read through The Things They Carried, now she's reading Heart of Darkness and she's about a fourth of the way through.”

Jim laughed, “She should put that away, she hates that book!”

“She hasn't missed a single day in visiting you.”

“It must have been months then that she's been coming. What has she talked about?”

The man's face was saddened, “She talks of how she misses you and how she'll never leave you. She loves you much. Sometimes she gets on the bed and just lays with you. I wish you could feel how she holds your hand. There is so much hope in her voice. People tell her that she should move on, but she is faithful.”

This made Jim smile and a tear came to his eye, “I want to be with her.”

“You are.”

The tear dropped, “But not like this. Not like this.”

“I know, but one day you'll be free. One can only hope.”

“I need to be out of here.”

“You are lucky to be alive, Jim, and healing takes time. Let it run its course.”

Jim nodded and then closed his eyes again. Periodically, he would open them again and the man would still be there. They talked of many things, mostly things stored in his mind. He entertained himself to pass time, which was still lost. Mostly, however, they talked of Penelope, who never stopped visiting day by day. Jim was glad at this, up until a certain point.

“She needs to move on,” Jim told the man.

“Why? She still loves you and you love her.”

“It's been years now,” Jim started to cry again. “It must have been years. She's read so many books now that I've lost count. I appreciate it, but she can't love a man who can't love her back.”

“You do love her.”

“I can't show it to her, I can't give back!”

“Perhaps just being there for her to talk to is enough.”

“It isn't! It can't be! I don't want that for her! I want her to find someone and to be happy with him because I can't make her happy any more. All I have left is false hope and sorrow,” Jim sobbed. “She needs to move on. She needs to go on without me.”

“She doesn't want to, Jim.”

“I don't want to be here, but that's just how it is. She doesn't want to move on, but that's the best thing for her. She's so beautiful, she can't waste it on a vegetable that can't appreciate it.”

The subconscious said nothing as Jim went back to into his sleep. He slept for a long time, longer than ever before.

When he awoke again, he was surrounded by utter darkness. The man no longer sat before him because there was nothing. Jim panicked and then felt that he was in his own body again. He grinned before realizing his situation. He lay straight and then when he tried to sit up, he head met a soft roof less than six inches above him. Trapped! A box? No, a coffin. Jim squirmed and fought as he knew he could not be dead! He yelled and screamed, tossed and turned, and breathed hard. As the air escaped him and thought he had found his dying breath, the coffin opened. Jim squinted for it was bright.

When he opened them again, he found himself in a strange room. It did not take him long to realize that he was lying in a hospital bed. Everything was different, it was almost as if he was aboard a spaceship. The equipment in the room seemed so different, but so advanced. How long had it been? Jim looked around him and saw that the room was empty. Sunlight crept through the window, indicating it must have been around midday, at least at Jim's estimation. For a few minutes, he said nothing and didn't try to call a nurse. Instead, he just tried to understand it all. He knew he had been in a coma, but had it really been so long?

A woman dressed in white suddenly entered the room. She saw Jim's wakened eyes and jumped in shock. He was awake! She instantly called, “Doctor! I think you better come in here!”

“Where am I?” Jim asked.

“You're in a hospital, Jim, you've been out for a long time.”

“How long?”

The nurse looked down at the floor.

“Well?” a pause. “How long?”

“It's been thirty-eight years.”

“Thirty-eight years?” Jim's eyes went wide. He just couldn't grasp it. Thirty-eight years? Last he remembered, he had proposed to Penelope at age twenty-three, so he must be fifty-one. Fifty-one. “Oh, God!”

An older man wearing a lab coat stepped through the door and asked the nurse, “What did you tell him?”

“Just how long it's been and where he is.”

He nodded to her and she left. The doctor turned to Jim and told him, “Listen, you need to stay calm. Your mind is in a state of reboot right now and-”

“Reboot?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the doctor realized that 'reboot' probably didn't mean anything to someone who couldn't quite grasp that he no longer lived in the 60's. He snapped his finger and traded his words, “Your mind isn't used to working very hard right now. You need to give it time to get back up to speed. Don't try to think too hard.”

“How can I not th-?” it hit him, “Penelope? Where is she?”

“She comes by once every two weeks now,” the doctor told him. “Listen, I'm afraid I can't tell you too much, I could risk knocking you right back out. I'm going to have the nurse get you some food and then we can work from there.”

The doctor walked out of the room as Jim sat up. No ease came to him as he came up, but the effort proved worthwhile. He looked around the room and saw the things around him. Jim could honestly say that he recognized very little of the medical equipment. Too much, too much to take in all at once. Thirty-eight years tried to come to him in an instant.

“I have to see her,” Jim stood to his feet but quickly fell to the ground as he lost his balance. He hadn't walked in thirty-eight years. Somehow, his legs just couldn't do it.

The nurse burst in carrying a tray of food and exclaimed, “Oh, no!” She helped him back onto his bed and then fed him without saying much at all. The food was standard hospital fare, nothing special. One would think that a man gone for thirty-eight years would have cravings, but 1966 is Jim Heller's yesterday. The real and true yesterday never existed for Jim. There were a lot of forgotten yesterdays; too many to count.

The doctor came back in later in the day. Very carefully and very slowly, he tried to recount the last near-forty years to Jim. Lifetimes passed and there could be no assurance as to who lived and who had died. The internet, the end of the Cold War, the destruction of the World Trade Center towers, globalization, and so many other things eluded his understanding. He felt like a time traveler who had gone into the future to get a glimpse of where life would go, but turning back could never happen. Time and its ramifications eluded him. Despite the doctor's best efforts to keep the history as objective as possible, Jim's questions always shifted back to his dear Penelope. But the doctor refused to let her come in. He told him to take things one step at a time. Time. Time was all he needed. That isn't how Jim saw it though. He saw that he had lost enough time already. Time he didn't know was there in the first place.

Fortunately, the next day brought better tidings. The doctor informed Jim that he had gotten in touch with Penelope and that she would be on her way. Worst of all was the wait, not the eery feeling that she wouldn't be who she was when he had proposed. Jim had gotten the chance to see himself in the mirror. It was haunting. His hair had grayed, his face had wrinkled, and he had gained weight. Jim Heller wasn't there, it was someone else. He had changed but it just didn't feel that way. The same man stared back at him through the mirror, but he was a twisted version of what should be.

When Penelope walked through the door, Jim saw that he was right. He didn't recognize her. Her hair had darkened and was highlighted with silver streaks, her face had wrinkled, and her once excellent figure was elderly and sagging. She wore a beaming smile on her face as she approached the bed. Jim returned it with a tear in his eye. He was both overjoyed and disappointed, not that she was ugly, bu that he had missed the chance to grow old and ugly with her. He had every intention of doing just that.

“Jim!” She sat at the chair beside him. “Oh, God, I can't believe it! It's been so long!”

Jim shook his head, “It's not even been a day to me.”

“I know,” she sighed, “This must seem so strange to you.”

“That doesn't even begin to describe it, Penny.”

Penelope reached over and held his hand. She bore a slight smile as a tear rolled down her cheek, “Oh, Jim, I waited for you for years. I waited so long. I came by every day to see you. I read you your favorite books.”

“I know.”

“You do? You heard?”

“I don't remember much,” he sighed. “It's like a dream, or a long gone memory but I have bits and pieces.”

“Jim,” she sobbed, “I could only wait so long. I'm married now.”

Those words pierced his heart like a sword through the thinnest fabric, or a nail through bread. His world shattered into the tiniest of pieces. All that he cared for and all that he wanted belonged to someone else. The friendships that he had spent the years of life cultivating would be long gone. There was nothing left in this world for Jim Heller. At very first thought, it was a feeling of betrayal. Jim tried his hardest to understand, but it felt as if she had cheated on him and run away after a night. But there she was, old and gone. At that moment, Jim wished he were dead.

Jim Heller never found true happiness in his life. He found a dead-end nine-to-five job somewhere and tried his best to scratch a living. It was hard for him because so many concepts taken for granted were alien to Jim. Eventually, however, he found himself in a unique position in that he could remember the 1960's as if they had just passed. The comatose was an asset to the nostalgic and the historians. Purpose was granted to him, but not happiness. Sometimes Jim would visit Penelope and her family, but these visits served only to remind him of the gaping hole in his heart. That tragic night, Jim Heller survived, but the Penelope he knew had died to him.

She remained faithful to him in a way that could never be what Jim wanted. Penelope was his rehabilitation. With delicacy and care, she helped him understand the world in which they lived. There was barely a snippet of what he remembered in the world. Jim couldn't understand the world and he had no friends left. Common ground was scarcely found for Jim, yet Jim Heller lives on today somewhere, still cobbling together a meager existence. He is admirable in that despite life running from him, he tries to catch up with every nth of effort. Despair and anguish attack him; giving up seems to be the most profitable alternative at times, but Jim lives on. And that's about all that can be done: live on. Live on despite the atrocities.

Live on.

week seven: the shadow

1992

Agent, double-agent. Intelligence, counter-intelligence. Eyes-only, ears-only. Strike, counterstrike. Blind, double-blind. Just a couple of things in the business they throw out to make us learn. All it really does is confuse us; I never paid much attention to the jargon. But at the same time, it's important. The more we study it, learn it, and love it, then more the enemy has to learn about us to fully understand us. The problem with that is that it makes understanding ourselves even more of a challenge than understanding them. Keeping track of both is tiring work, especially considering just how many enemies we've been stacking up over the years.

When the Soviet Union fell, there was a lot of money in being in the intelligence business. Unfortunately, all of this work was dirty money, very dirty money. The agency wound up giving me the job of playing clean-up man. I was to get in, play dirty, and take out our own agents who were playing the field. It isn't an easy job playing the field you're trying to burn.

Most of the best money was in tracking the movement of the massive weapons stockpiles that went missing when the Soviet Union fell. A lot of it went to arms dealers, but the best open stockpiles were kept in secret locations. The people who knew where to find these stockpiles, were the now unemployed KGB agents. A few of our own agents figured out the potential for profit here and decided to make a move.

The first bust was simple enough, it was just a regular stash of AK's, Makarov pistols, and a few RPG-7's. A KGB informant hired one of our agents to act as a letterbox between himself and an Irish arms dealer. My job wasn't to care about the weapons and where they went, it was just to kill our guy. If I took him out before the deal could be made, great, but that was secondary. The funny thing about dirty agents is if they're dirty in one way, they're dirty in another. I managed to lure him out in the open using a honey pot, or basically I paid a woman to get close to him. It was as simple as that: sex.

Sex sells, sex kills.

I never got to find out if the sale wound up going through or not. Doesn't matter though, I got the job done. Detaching yourself is critical if you wanna do my job. You start getting attached, then you start losing your ability to pull the trigger. You can't pull the trigger, then the other guy does it first and you're dead.

I got a lot of jobs after that. I had to do a lot of things to get my targets. The easiest way was to play dirty. I made myself look like I was just as bad as they were and then I could be trusted. The were a lot of lies and it was confusing work, but it paid off. I was good at what I did.

My newest target is a guy who goes by Shadow. Not a very creative name by any stretch of the imagination, but it fits the bill. Actually, if Croatia's OBS is to believed, Shadow is just their code word for the guy. All I really have is their word, which is the source for our intel, the Russian's intel, and so forth. He got himself quite the reputation as the dirtiest man in the books. I used everything I had to try to flush this guy out. Decoys, honey pots... everything. None of it worked. That was when I decided I would hit the source of the intelligence: Croatia.

Instead of playing this one in the dark, I decided to play this one naked, or without any cover. The Croatians knew who I was the whole time. I didn't like having my cards down like that, but there was no other way. They tell me they've captured one of Shadow's associates and arrange for me to interrogate the guy. It's a pretty lucky break for me that the Croatians have it out for this guy too. Apparently the Shadow's been taking stuff from them just like everyone else. A lot of people want this guy dead.

The first guy I'm supposed to meet is a man whose name is Boris, nothing else. It's obviously a cover, but that doesn't really matter. Pretty quirky guy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I meet him outside an abandoned trainyard and I remember exactly how he greeted, “You're the guy, yes?”

He was supposed to ask me for a password, but I figured he was dispensing with all that, “Yeah, I'm 'the guy'.”

“Don't bullshit me, American, you need the password.”

“You didn't ask for it.”

“Password or I walk.”

“The red mirror reflects blue.”

Boris laughs at that, “I wonder how they think of these passwords...”

“You got me,” I answer with a sigh.

“Silence. You speak when I ask you to speak.”

“But-” I cut myself off realizing that this might be some protocol I'm not familiar with. The Croatians are ex-Soviet, so I figure their way of doing things must be different.

“Come, prisoner is inside,” Boris says as he walks to the nearest building. It was old and rusted, exactly like you might see in a movie. The air was pretty musty and I can't imagine what kind of molds and diseases grew around me. Inside was just one guard with an SKS and a guy with the crap beaten out of him tied to a chair. Part of me felt for him, but the part I act on didn't care. Boris yelled at the prisoner, “Hey! Wake up, we've got a guest. You're going to tell the American all you know about Shadow.”

The man doesn't even look up, “I told you,” he spat blood, “all I know.”

“Look at the American when you speak!” Boris ordered.

The man looked up at me and then squinted, “Oh, God.”

“What?” I ask.

He starts to laugh, “Oh, my God, this is too funny. Sucks for you though.”

I shot my eyebrow up as high as it went.

The prisoner just keeps laughing as he explains, “I get it now! There is no 'Shadow'! That's why nobody can find him!”

Boris punched the guy, “Talk!”

“If you'd stop hitting me, I was getting there, Boris,” the prisoner said in the most condescending way I could imagine. He cleared his throat, “You are the Shadow.”

“What?” I didn't understand. That's not possible, my job is to find and kill the Shadow.

“In all the confusion of war intelligence, your dozens of covers started to cross over and eventually they formed just one master identity: The Shadow. So, little did you know,” he laughed again, “you set out to kill yourself!”

Boris opened up a file, where he must have had a picture of the one suspected to be the Shadow, and then looked at me. His eyes went wide.

“Spy games sure suck, don't they?”

I see Boris reaching inside his jacket for his pistol. I could reach for mine, but what would the point of that be? I could beg for my life, but that wouldn't do anything, would it? I was free for the killing. I'm a deniable asset; the Croatians can kill me without any diplomatic ramifications. This is the end.

Boris' pistol is out and he takes aim. Before he fires, he asks, “How does it feel? To atone for all of your murders and lies?”

“It's a relief, to be honest,” are my last words. In a split second, there's a boom followed by a sharp pain in my forehead. There's nothing after that. I'm dead and that's that. Spy games sure suck, don't they?