Shadow Traffic

by Richard Burgin

  “You come to this place much?”

  “No, this is my first time. Took a wrong turn somewhere and wound up here. What about you?”

  “I’ve come here once or twice, when other places were too crowded.”

  “Yuh, there’s not much here, is there?”

  “It’s pretty minimal,” the man said.

  “Sort of how I picture hell,” he said, then regretted his words, shivered even as he thought of his apartment, but the man laughed.

  “I hear you,” he said.

  Hear what? Know what? Just what do you think you could know about me, he thought, thinking of his home with a shudder, and how could you know it, Mason wanted to say, but of course had to keep what had happened to his home a secret.

  “There’ve been many nights when I felt the same way, when it was like being in a part of hell. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen anymore, but it used to.”

  He turned toward the man again.

  “So, what’s the secret? Why doesn’t it happen anymore?”

  The man sighed a little. It was barely audible but Mason heard it almost as if the man felt he was the one being put upon.

  “You really want to know? OK, first I had to absolutely come clean with myself.” The man paused as if to let the impact of his fatuous revelation sink in. He cleared his throat portentously again before resuming. “Then I heard about an organization that could help people like me, people being eaten up by their sense of injustice, and fortunately I gave them a chance and went to their meetings, and that’s really what turned me around.”

  Mason nodded rapidly a few times. It was odd not to know if he were interested or not. “What’s the name of this organization, or is that a secret I shouldn’t be asking about?”

  “It’s called the Global Justice Society, GJS for short, and I’m actually heading over there for a meeting in a few minutes.”

  It had been a long time since he’d thought about that word— “justice.” It sounded both vengeful and satisfying and so ultimately unreal.

  “What does the society do exactly? Sounds like it has a pretty ambitious agenda.”

  “It does have an ambitious agenda and now that you mention it, it has a pretty intimidating title, I suppose. But the society really works with just one person at a time.”

  “How so?”

  “It interviews you to determine the source of injustice in your life and, more importantly, what you can do about it, and then it puts you into the right division that will help you get what you deserve.”

  “That sounds more like heaven than any society I know of.”

  The man laughed. “You have a good sense of humor, and I don’t blame you for being skeptical,” he finally said. “When I first heard about Global Justice I was, too. I mean ‘Global Justice,’ that sounded way too grandiose for me. But the thing about the society is, it doesn’t try to change the world, just help one person at a time in the way they need to be helped. That’s really it.”

  The man talked a little more about it and then invited him to go to their meeting, adding that they served hors d’oeuvres and free drinks.

  Incredible that he was walking with the strange man from the bar in South Philly en route to a justice society meeting, no less. Just before they began their walk the man told him his name was Archie—which didn’t help. He hadn’t known an Archie since the character in the comic strip he used to read as a kid, and yet he went with him anyway. They walked down Broad Street past the University of the Arts. While they walked Archie talked more about the society (although he hadn’t asked him to), as if he were a tour guide obliged to point things out. Mason didn’t listen to much of it. It was a January night and quite cold out and they were walking further away from his apartment with each step. Maybe I dread going back there even more than I realize, he thought. Maybe I can never return. He did manage to hear Archie say that tonight there was an awards ceremony at the society, held by the literature division but open to the general public. When he asked what kind of award, Archie said, “The National Book Awards—the Justice Society National Book Awards, that is. You look confused, but really you don’t think that any of the other world’s literary awards are fair, do you? That there’s one scintilla of justice in their selection? They’re as corrupt as can be, just like the Academy Awards or any other of their awards. It’s all deals and politics. That’s one of the things we correct at Global Justice.”

  He mumbled something, letting the wind eat most of his words while they kept walking. At the outskirts of Center City Archie took a left on Walnut Street, explaining that the meeting was being held at a private residence. Soon, in fact, Archie was ringing the buzzer in what appeared to be some kind of code until the door opened and they went inside. About thirty people, quite dressed up for the occasion, were seated in the large living room of a three-story townhouse. He had to sign some obligatory papers asking for his name and address.

  “It’s a good thing we’re fast walkers,” Archie said, “looks like the ceremony’s about to start any minute.”

  Mason nodded then watched Archie waving and shaking hands with a few people near him and saying, almost proudly, as he pointed to him, “I’ve brought a guest,” after which he felt obliged to smile and shake hands himself.

  He couldn’t pay much attention to the ceremony because he kept visualizing his apartment and wondering if hell really had taken it over, and if so, how he could ever go back there to get his things.

  From what he could tell it was an absurdly bloated ceremony, as most ceremonies were, filled with meaningless thank yous and transparently ridiculous attempts at self-modesty. He didn’t even hear the names of the first few awards. Instead, he was remembering taking a bath as a child and wondering how many years his father, then in his late fifties, had left to live. His father had been dead for a long time now, and lately he’d been wondering during the baths he still took how many more years he had left himself.

  Finally, a hush fell upon the room and he heard the master of ceremonies say, “And the winner of the National Book Award for Fiction is Geoffrey Crumple.”

  Instantly the room burst into applause, and a bearded man in horn-rimmed glasses and a suit that was too small for him rose to accept the award. He’d never heard of Geoffrey Crumple. He was not the best-read man in Philadelphia but he still read, fairly avidly in fact, until a few years ago, and yet he’d never heard of him. Even more absurd was why this modest, local ceremony was called the National Book Awards. Clearly it was not the real National Book Awards, so why steal its title?

  As the Justice Society cleared the chairs for the reception, which he thought he would attend just long enough to get some free snacks and drinks, he asked Archie about this.

  “Geoffrey Crumple is a brilliant novelist and deserves the National Book Award far more than the person who supposedly won it.”

  “Where can I buy his books?”

  “Geoffrey’s too uncompromising a writer to be published commercially. You can read him for free on the Internet. Just go to his website, www.crumple.com.”

  “Are the other winners published exclusively on the Internet too?”

  “Yes, all of them are. Just pick up a program before you leave and you’ll find their websites.”

  He nodded and mumbled, “Will do.”

  “So, Mason, what do you think? Pretty impressive ceremony, wasn’t it? You’ll have to come next week. We’ll be awarding the Nobel Peace Prize—it’s maybe our biggest event of the year.”

  This time he nodded silently then turned toward the table at the far end of the room where a bar was set up and excused himself. Now he only needed to stick to his program—have his drink or two with some of the hors d’oeuvres on the table and make his exit, stopping to say a brief thank you to Archie, but absolutely not giving him his address or any other contact information. The last people he wanted to hear from, especially given his state of mind recently, were Justice Society members. Though they seemed like benign enough lunatic
s, they were lunatics nonetheless, with their National Book Award and Nobel Peace Prize. At least, in their total devotion to healing their own egos, they didn’t appear to be harming anyone else’s, although it could be argued that their delusional ceremonies were increasingly separating them from reality. Not that he couldn’t understand their kind of separation firsthand—he had merely to think of his apartment—but that was really all the more reason to keep these people at bay who were now joking and laughing and drinking as if a real event of consequences had just taken place that they were all privileged to attend.

  He put down his mostly emptied drink, thinking he would get some food from the hors d’oeuvres table. These lunatics were well financed, he thought, as he put some olives onto the chef salad he was constructing. Just then he noticed a quite pretty redhead in a purple dress a few feet away from him in the fruit section. He looked at her and thought he hadn’t felt attraction, much less love, for anyone for a long time. There was injustice for you. I wonder if the Justice Society ever deals with people like me, he thought, as he unconsciously moved into her section.

  “You look like you’re building quite the culinary masterpiece,” the redhead said, indicating his salad, which was embarrassingly large. He immediately decided he wouldn’t add any fruit to it.

  “Once again, my eyes want what I can’t or shouldn’t have,” he said.

  “I know the feeling.”

  Apparently everyone knows everyone else’s feeling, he thought, and yet people were so alone.

  “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you in the arts division?”

  “I’m here for the first time, actually, so I guess I’m not in any division at all.”

  “Well, welcome to the Justice Society. My name’s Julia.”

  He told her his name and they shook hands. He hadn’t held a woman’s hand in some time and wasn’t eager to let it go.

  “So what do you think of the society so far?”

  He finally released her hand and looked slightly past her, where Archie was talking to someone but also apparently looking at him.

  “It’s all very new to me. I’m not sure I completely understand.”

  “I know I was confused at first,” she said. “I was like ‘who are these people and what do they think they’re doing?’ Is that how you feel?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hey, you want to talk about it for a little while? There’s a table over there where we could sit, unless you’re with somebody?”

  “No, no, I’d love to talk with you about it,” he said, as he followed behind her. Now, don’t sound angry, he said to himself as they were sitting down, and control your sarcasm. Then he resumed looking at her face, which was even more pleasing in this setting.

  “So how can I unconfuse you?” she said, just before taking a bite of her fruit salad. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on an answer and ended by releasing perhaps the most ineffectual gesture in his repertoire, a shrug. This, in turn, provoked a brief look of frustration in her. Then he could see her concentrate again as she rephrased the question.

  “I guess I don’t understand what you don’t understand,” she said, smiling pleasantly at him again. “Go on, fire away. Like I say, I’ve been there, I won’t take offense.”

  “For one thing, I don’t understand why the society calls them the National Book Awards. There already are National Book Awards.”

  She looked directly at him with a serious look on her face. “These are our National Book Awards.”

  “So you think the winners all deserve them?”

  “Of course. We support each other totally in the society, and you can’t support someone if you don’t believe in them, can you?”

  “Even though all the winners self-publish on the Internet?”

  “We’ve learned not to confuse ‘success’ with merit. Certainly not success in the other world.”

  “What do you mean by ‘other world’?”

  “The unjust world. The world outside the Justice Society.”

  “So you don’t find it strange that the best books of the last year were all written by members of your society?”

  “Kind of a miracle, isn’t it?” she said, smiling broadly, without a trace of irony.

  He looked at her closely and thought he wouldn’t hate being in his apartment so much if she were in it with him, even though she was a little crazy. Besides, he thought, what she believed was no more delusional than what a lot of religious people believed, what with their talking snakes and virgin births and resurrected people. But now he had to keep the conversation going. She had that concerned look on her face again.

  “So, are you up for any awards, too?”

  It must have been a good question because she smiled again. “I’m in a different division, nothing to do with writing or any awards.”

  “So, what determines which division you’re in?”

  “That’s what the interview process is for before you become a member.”

  “You can’t choose yourself?”

  “Of course you help choose, but you need guidance, too, to make such an important decision. The guidance counselors at GJS are super. They help you find where you really need justice in your life the most and that’s the division you enter.”

  He continued to look at her closely.

  “Can I ask what division you’re in?”

  “Sure, we have no secrets from each other. I’m in the marriage division. I’ve had a very unjust love life, so far. I married a couple of cheaters from the other world so now I’m waiting for my reward.”

  “How is that going to happen, exactly?”

  “The society will find me a husband. I have faith in them and so I can be at peace with myself until they do.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d need any help with something like that.”

  “Why thank you, Mason.”

  She was smiling so fully and spontaneously he decided to say more. “You’re so pretty I’d think every man you’d meet would want to marry you.”

  “My goodness,” she said, putting her hand over her heart, “such a wonderful compliment. At the society we call them ‘sweet justices.’ So thank you for the sweet justice, Mason.”

  He smiled and felt himself blush, though he tried to stop it. He decided he should ask some “serious questions” then, so she’d think he really wanted to be a member (otherwise how would he ever see her again), and asked her how and when the society started. She told him it started just three years ago and that next month there’d be a big anniversary celebration. When he asked her who started the society, she quickly said in a reverential tone, again completely bereft of irony, “Our founder, Mr. Justice.”

  “Is it just a coincidence that his name is ‘Justice’?” Mason said.

  “We don’t know or care what his name was in the other world. Most of the members think of their former names as being slave names. I mean, if there’s no justice in your life you really are a slave, don’t you think? Julia Seeker is my new name, my real one. Except for the IRS I never use my other one.”

  He cleared his throat, reminding himself again not to sound sarcastic (which he thought had cost him a number of women in the past). “So is Mr. Justice here tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were? But no, he’s in L.A. developing our West Coast branch. I did get to meet him once—he’s an amazing man.”

  “You mean you’re not just a local group?” he blurted.

  “Oh no, our mission is much bigger than that. We started right here in Philadelphia but then branches followed pretty quickly in New York and Boston and in D.C., too. And now we’re in the West Coast, in Santa Cruz and L.A., and soon we’ll be in London and Madrid.”

  “They certainly could use some justice in D.C.,” he said with a smile.

  “Gotcha. But really everyone needs justice everywhere, so I’m not surprised by our success.”

  He asked her then how they grew so fast and whether they advertised a lot.
Again she had an immediate answer, as if she knew his question in advance, saying they weren’t about being a big, slick organization that advertises a lot. “We don’t really have to advertise,” she said, “’cause you know what our best form of advertising is?”

  He made a gesture to show he was completely mystified.

  “Word of mouth. When you have a great idea that the world really needs, people tell each other. It’s like Founder Justice says, ‘the need creates the demand.’ How did you find out about us, for example?”

  He looked across the room at Archie, who still appeared to be staring at him. “I just started talking with a guy named Archie in a bar and he told me about it.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with an uneasy expression. “Well, the important thing is you’re here now.”

  “So anyone can just come in to your meetings?”

  “Of course, we’re not secretive. We have no hidden agendas or secret rituals and we ask for very little money beyond our dues, too. Any full-fledged member can swear you in. If you’d like, I could make you a member tonight.”

  He raised his eyebrows, as if to slow up his response. “That sounds quite possible.”

  “I’ll have to ask you a couple of fairly personal questions,” she said, pushing back a few strands of auburn hair from her eyes.

  “That’s OK, but do you think we could go someplace a little quieter, maybe get a cup of coffee and do it there?”

  The uneasy look flitted across her face again. “I’d love to, but unfortunately there’s a senior members’ meeting after the ceremony and sometimes they go on for a pretty long time.”

  “Of course,” he said, noticing that Archie had just gotten out of his seat and was walking toward him in a straight line.

  “Could you possibly give me a number where I could call you to set up my membership meeting with you?”

  She looked a little hesitant. “Sure, if you like, but anyone here could do it.”