The Shadow People

by Joe Clifford

  What was wrong with me? I was a good guy. A nice guy. Women are always complaining they can’t find a nice guy. Well, here I was, a nice guy. Right here, waiting, ready for the taking. But, no, it was assholes like T to whom went the spoils. I felt ready for murder.

  I played music to make me calm down. Billie Eilish, The National, Lana Del Rey, older artists like Bonnie Prince Billy and Sun Kil Moon. I opened the window, feeling the sunshine, and refused to look up, accepting no surveillance machines hovered above. I was still me, Brandon Cossey. Normal, regular, good guy Brandon Cossey.

  When Sam answered her door, bleary-eyed and alone, such relief washed over me, I wanted to wrap my arms around her, lift her high, spin her around.

  “You’re alone,” I said, perhaps too gleeful.

  “Um, yeah.” Sam was dressed in a tee shirt and pajama pants, an ensemble she managed to make look chic with her sleep-tousled hair and drowsy gaze. Roused from a deep slumber, she looked tired, out of it, stifling a big, sleepy yawn like the wholesome college student she was.

  I beamed a smile and leaned in. Sam’s face scrunched up as she pulled away. I didn’t take it as rejection. I’d surprised her. I kept smiling. I’m sure I looked like an imbecile. A lot had happened in the past couple hours. Losing my job. Francis. The…people…I encountered. Or rather how I’d encountered them, reality observed through one of those old viewfinders you score at garage sales for twenty-five cents, toys from long ago. Click, click, there’s the Eifel Tower. Click, click. Now you see a camel, a barn, a donut. How could I explain my morning? The break-in. That stupid zine. Jacob, the paranoia, the dirty, awful thoughts that filled my brain without invitation.

  “What are you doing here, Brandon?”

  I half laughed, half spat an incredulous sigh that turned into a cough, which I couldn’t stop. Sam went to the sink for water while I hunched over, laughing, coughing, trying to maintain my upbeat smile and not break character, breaching hysterical.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Drink this. Have you slept? You look like you’re strung out. Are you…high?”

  “Ha! I don’t do drugs! I barely drink, you know that.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I don’t know much about you at all.”

  That sobered me up fast. The smile I’d been fighting to maintain, gone. I fought to cultivate a positive attitude. Despite everything, including her behavior last night, I’d stepped up, gotten over it, moved on. Then she had to go and say that? I thought I heard rustling inside and peered past her shoulder into the apartment, which was small and collegiate, but like Sam oh so stylish and cool. Obscure indie bands and hip-hop artists pinned to the walls. I’d heard of Daniel Spaleniak and Atmosphere, of course. But they’d be foreign to most. I bet she only listened to vinyl.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “You sure you’re alone?”

  “I already told you. No one is here.” Sam folded her arms. “Why do you keep asking that? And what business is it of yours?”

  What business?

  Took me a good ten seconds to come around and respond. “I don’t think I’m out of line asking the girl I’m dating—”

  “Dating?” Sam now closed the space between us, but not for the right reason. She slapped a hand on the door, which had already begun shutting. “We hung out a couple times.”

  “Coffee, lunch.” I waited before adding, “Dinner.” I wanted that one to deliver more of a punch than it did. “We kissed!”

  “Once. When we were both pretty drunk.”

  “I wasn’t drunk. And it was twice. Last night.”

  “No,” Sam said, drawing out the word. “Last night,” she added with great emphasis, “you mauled me. Like an animal.”

  “I thought it was passionate.” I couldn’t have said it any sadder.

  “Passion? That wasn’t passion. That was possessive. You crawling all over me, breathing heavy, shoving your tongue down my throat.” She stopped, and I thought for a second she might give me a chance. “And what was that macho bullshit outside the liquor store?”

  “That Anthony guy was trying to get with you. In the bar, he was staring me down.”

  Sam shook her head. “I’ve known T my whole life.”

  “And he’s probably wanted—”

  “T is gay.”

  “What—I mean—how, what—?”

  “How what? He likes boys. What’s so hard to understand?”

  “But in the bar. He was…eying…you…”

  “One, he’s gay,” Sam continued, leaving me flailing. “Two, he wasn’t in the bar. T was coming back from the hospital. His mother is sick. Cancer. Stage four. As in not going to make it. T was pretty broken up. He needed a friend last night.”

  “Why didn’t—no one told me. If I’d known—”

  “What? You wouldn’t have acted like an asshole? I might’ve gotten around to an explanation, not that I owe you one, but you never gave me a chance before you started acting like a possessive jerk.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  “Listen, Brandon. I like you. I mean, I thought you were cute, and all semester I was hoping you’d get around to asking me out or at least working up the nerve to say hi. But after last night, I’m not so sure this is going to work. You’re moving away, and I don’t have time for—”

  I took a step back, recognizing how badly I’d messed up. I needed to spin serious damage control. The way her hand gripped the edge of the door, it was shutting in my face any second. And no amount of pounding was opening it back up. I didn’t want to blow this with Sam. I liked her. I’d misread the situation, confusing the man in the bar with her grieving friend. I wished I could hit rewind, go back twenty-four hours and do the day differently. But you don’t get that chance. I played the only card I had.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll be honest with you.”

  Sam waited.

  “I told you about my friend Jacob, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think I explained it right.”

  I then launched into the uncut version. Same premise, same tragic ending, but this time I fleshed out the origin story, ramping up stakes, punctuated by Jacob’s descent into madness. The first time I told Sam the story I didn’t want her sympathy or feeling sorry for me. Now I needed it. I didn’t lie. Everything I said was the God’s honest, one hundred percent gospel truth. I also recognized how hard I was tugging on heartstrings. It wasn’t acting. All the emotions and facts were real. When a tear welled, I didn’t do anything to suppress it.

  When I finished, I said nothing. This was a man throwing himself on the mercy of the court. Didn’t get more vulnerable than that.

  Took a moment but Sam opened the door and hugged me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s no excuse. I’m screwed up right now. The Balfours, my parents.” Pause. “Jacob.” I didn’t mention crazy old man Francis or grappling with bouts of paranoia, since I didn’t see how that would help my cause. “I’m not thinking right.” I broke free of the embrace, playing stoic, noble. I thumbed over my shoulder, in the vague direction of where my car might be parked. “I understand if it’s too much for you. We just met. It’s not fair of me to dump all this on you. Jacob was like a brother to me, and now he’s dead…” I left it there.

  “No, I get it,” she said, making it clear I’d struck the right chord. “I have a friend. Kara. Who is…sorta a lost cause. But she’s like a sister.”

  Still, I said nothing.

  “You want to come in?”

  I did. Very much. I also didn’t trust myself to stick a better landing than the one I’d stuck. This was a case of less is more. Walk away now, further ingratiate into good graces, live to fight another day. I hated pity, which was what that wounded, abandoned puppy dog routine I’d played invited.

  “No,” I said, lachrymose and dripping sincerity. “I should get some rest.” Pause. “Spend a little…me t
ime.”

  “Call me later?” Sam said. “Maybe we can grab a bite, catch a movie.”

  “Sounds good.” I turned to walk away, stopping for one last mea culpa, sheepish over-the-shoulder wave. I smiled, humbled and contrite, having pulled off the impromptu sketch of a good guy going through a rough patch.

  When I got to my car, I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. Boy, did I almost botch that big time.

  Starting the engine, I would’ve felt better if a sudden thought hadn’t occurred to me: so if that wasn’t T in the bar, who was that man inside Soyka’s staring me down? How about the other guy? Were they together? Was I wigging out? I wanted to believe that but I couldn’t shake what Francis said. I’d seen the zine. I’d asked too many questions.

  Was I now a target?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Talking one’s self down off the ledge is not difficult to do if you have a solid foundation to operate from. I was not Jacob. I was not Francis. I was not any number of the homeless bums I passed as I drove through city center back to my apartment, these lowlifes on cardboard mats, eating the food people left atop trash receptacles, crouching in feces-stained trousers, these alcoholics and drug-addict bums. I wasn’t judging. I’d never lacked compassion. I worked in healthcare. I was planning on a career devoted to helping others. One doesn’t go into nursing with designs on growing wealthy. There’s more to life than money. That said, I’d never be one of those people. I could’ve been. My parents abandoned me. I caught a lucky break when Mrs. Balfour took me in. I was grateful, gracious, and humble too. I also knew no matter what, come hell or high water, I had an inner resolve that screamed survivor. I made mistakes. As the Sam debacle last night attested, I wasn’t impervious to dropping the ball. But driving off into the distance, looking at how I’d circumvented that disaster, I rode with my head held high, basking, a conquering hero.

  I took pride in smooth talking my girlfriend on her porch. Using my wits and wherewithal, I remedied a bad situation. I didn’t beat myself up too much over the tactics I’d employed. I hadn’t lied. I had lost a good friend, and it did bring up a lot of issues from my childhood. Getting laid off from Ledgecrest contributed to my struggles. Losing one’s job over doing the right thing? Stings. Lesser men would let the stone drag them down. Not me. I was in it to win it. John Lennon was right: there are no problems, only solutions.

  Fishing for gum, I instead found Francis’s crumpled-up number. Dropping the wad of paper back in the center console, I continued my hunt—I knew I had a pack somewhere—my effort rewarded with a couple sticks of Juicy Fruit. A form of nostalgia. My mom used to love Juicy Fruit.

  Before heading home, I stopped off at Starbucks for a latte, drinking it in the parking lot while I checked my email. The drive back to my place was fifteen minutes, maybe twenty depending on traffic.

  I hadn’t been driving long when I noticed the car in my rearview mirror.

  Cortland was a small town, but not so small it didn’t get visitors. Despite living there for the past several years, I didn’t know every resident. In fact, I knew very few. Not sure why the car in my rearview stuck out, registered on my radar, but I knew it didn’t belong; knew whoever was behind the wheel wasn’t from here; knew they’d come to do me harm.

  When the turn to my apartment came up, I kept going. The car did too. It wasn’t on my bumper, maintaining appropriate distance. I took unexpected, sudden turns, and it followed. I took four rights, a big circle. They mirrored every move, leaving no doubt. I passed the Dollar Tree shopping plaza, hooking left at the movie Cineplex, a right by the underpass. Plenty of traffic—cars, trucks, motorcycles—it was easy to blend in.

  They never lost sight of me.

  I hit the light on Grimes Avenue, stopping on the yellow. I tried to get a good look at the driver. Three cars buffered between us. Couldn’t see much. Regular, dark car. I made out at least two faces, maybe a third passenger in the back. I also couldn’t stare long. I didn’t want to be too conspicuous, let them know I was on to them.

  This wasn’t me overreacting in a bar, fueled by overstimulation and stress. I’d come down from that jag, thinking levelheaded and clear. These people wanted to hurt me. As certain as I was living and breathing.

  When the light changed green, I didn’t move, and soon the horns began bleating. The Grimes and Montello intersection was one of the bigger ones in town, attracting congestion. I couldn’t blame people for being angry—I was holding them up. Between the horns, I could hear the obscenities directed my way. The whole time, I kept one eye on that car—a blue or black sedan—several lengths back. When the light turned from yellow to red, I floored it, burning rubber and screwing over anyone behind me—including whoever was tailing me.

  I took the long way home, hitting the interstate, exiting two towns early, pulling into a gas station. My hands were shaking on the wheel. Filling up, I tried to convince myself paranoia was a bug, contagious. It had burrowed into my brain, inspiring head games, false memories, call it what you want. I’d fallen for it. Even as I told myself this, I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest, a rodent scurrying the walls, frantic and desperate to escape.

  Instead of getting back on the road after I was done pumping, I pulled my car into a parking spot and headed inside to get a drink. Less because I was thirsty and more to give me something to do. The cashier rang me up. I grabbed a copy of the newspaper. The guy gave me a funny look. Maybe because I was on the younger side and people didn’t read much print these days.

  “Crossword puzzle,” I said, unsure why I felt the need to explain myself to some high school dropout riddled with acne scars.

  Back behind the wheel, I’d started feeling all right, when I saw the kid again, the boy in blue. It was him all right, the same one from the rest home, the scruffy-faced urchin who’d been standing outside after I’d gotten fired. I knew it was the same kid because he had on the same goddamn padded blue coat in summer. He was across the street, traffic zipping past, cars and trucks and tractor-trailers. I wasn’t hallucinating him. Then again, how could I be sure? People like Mr. Johnson, Jacob, Francis—each believed his own lies. This is what made delusions so dangerous. To the sufferer, visions seemed real. Except I could prove whether the boy was there. All I had to do was cross the road.

  I was on the corner of Second. The way the streets lined up meant to drive to him I had to go all the way down to Leland, make a U, circle back to pull along the opposite side. Or I could save time and run across the street, fifteen, twenty yards, albeit through busy two-way traffic.

  I walked to edge of the gas station lot. He was right there, on the other side, unflinching, brazen.

  We remained fixed on one other. With the cars zipping past, my view interrupted, eye contact was hard to maintain. I waited for a break in traffic. Moving van, Prius, pick-up, Prius, and I made a run for it. Cars swerved and laid on their horns, tires skidding. I couldn’t keep an eye on the kid, too preoccupied with not ending up a roadkill pancake.

  By the time I danced across all four lanes, he was gone.

  What was happening to me?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Making my way back to the gas station, I located a proper crosswalk three blocks away. Afternoon thunderclouds rolled in trying to cool off the day, which had remained warm, a recipe for a lightning storm. I felt the first raindrop on my arm. I liked the cloudbursts, the way they’d break the heat, tar fumes rising from the asphalt. I checked the sky, dark clouds roiling, tumbling over one another, darkening the horizon. Comforting. Somehow, time had gotten away from me. I didn’t know how—maybe I was gawking at the sky—but it took me twenty minutes to get back to my car. No wonder the gas station attendant stood waiting.

  “You can’t park here,” he said.

  “I wasn’t. I thought I saw…my friend…across the street.”

  He gazed out at passing traffic. Beyond the curb, a baseball field unfurled. The scrapyard kind, with an all-dirt infield, a sho
rt stack of bleachers on one side. A hard wind swept down. The field was empty. There was no kid.

  “You can’t leave your car here,” he repeated. “I was about to call the cops.”

  “I’m leaving.” I hit my fob to open the door. No beep. Which meant I’d forgotten to lock it, which I never did. I remembered locking it.

  “Did you go through my car?”

  “Huh?”

  “My car is unlocked. I locked it.”

  “You can’t park here.”

  “And you can’t go through people’s cars.”

  “I didn’t go through your car, asshole.”

  I took a step toward him, and he backed up. I wasn’t a physical guy, but I also didn’t appreciate the invasion of privacy.

  Fear gripped me, an unspeakable fear I couldn’t explain, like a trio of phantoms was at my back. I spun around. No one there. I stood in the parking lot, on the verge of a fistfight—which I hadn’t been in since the third grade with Scott Simard. Cars and trucks from the freeway whipped past. I was hunting specters, tethered to a yo-yo. I’d convinced myself it was going to be okay. And then the car. And then the boy in blue. The gas station attendant. Unlocked doors. A cycle. I was caught in a time loop.

  I flashed a stern look at the attendant. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, pal.” It wasn’t posturing. In that moment, I was so wound up, if I threw a punch, I might’ve killed him.

  When I got in the car, I didn’t know where to go. I feared going home. My own home. And I hated myself for it, sitting in that Arco parking lot. The attendant ran inside as the skies opened up, the heavens unleashing judgment on me, splashing buckets. On the road, bright strobe after bright strobe, high beams blistering through the murk and misery.