First Person

by Eddie McGarrity

  I agree with him. “You’ve come here to get away from all that.”

  “I’ve left it all behind,” he says, quite sure of himself in that instant, but the feeling fades and he goes in on himself again, questioning why he should say such a thing. I can see it in his eyes. I’m familiar with this reaction. It’s common after all.

  I decide to prompt him. “But one must have luggage.”

  Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he comes to a decision, though he expresses it half-heartedly. “I suppose.”

  Allowing him, a customer, the space he needs to decide what he wants, I step back. He reviews the stand where I keep the big pieces. He touches a few, but it’s clear that nothing is catching his attention. He’s not yet ready to make the decision, I suppose. From out of the blue, he says to me, “I’ve got regrets, you know, about the things I’ve done.”

  I pause. “Really?”

  He looks at his tie again. It’s a sort of mustard colour. He smoothes it against his white shirt and adjusts his collar. In the quietness of the shop, I can hear the bristles of his chin stubble prickle against the material. “I seem to have lived a rather ordinary life.” He pauses and looks at me. Confusion flutters across his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  I give him my best smile and don’t move from my position, discreetly away from him, my customer. “There’s no time for regrets when one is travelling.”

  “I guess not.” His smile, when it comes, is sad, but I recognise relief there too. I’ve seen it before in other patrons of this shop. I think he’s ready now. When I look at the luggage rack, it prompts him to turn his attention back towards it. He quickly finds a piece and slides it out from the rack. We cross to a counter where we examine it. It’s convenient to have a large flat space to view the items in the shop. The customer can move around and look at the piece without having to hold it up.

  “Good choice.” I snip the labels off their plastic ties and discard them in the bin. “Big enough for a long trip, light enough to carry. Are you satisfied with the colour?”

  “It’s kind of navy, isn’t it? I like it.” He knocks knuckles on the suitcase’s rippled surface. “I like the solid type.”

  “So do I sir.”

  His mood brightens and he starts to engage with the process. “Is it a popular model?”

  I examine it as I speak. “No, I believe you’re the first person to choose this type.”

  “How much is it?”

  I shake my head, and use as soothing a voice as I can. “Nothing. You’ve already paid.”

  Satisfied, he smiles broadly at me, showing his straight white teeth. He runs his hands over the item before smoothing down his tie. Sensing his hesitation, I decide to get things moving again. I slide the case off the counter and hold an open palm towards the door. “Shall we go?”

  Holding his breath, he nevertheless agrees with a nod. I hold the door open for him. I doubt he hears the bell and we’re outside again. It has cooled since we were indoors and the sun is fading behind high cloud blown in from the sea. He follows me up the street. He is blinking and looking around, but he can’t seem to focus, his breathing is becoming ragged.

  “Not long now, sir. We just need to find a spot.” I carry the luggage off the ground, despite it having wheels. We are leaving the empty town behind and arrive at an open piece of flat ground. I stop. He looks around, seeing nothing.

  “Is this it?” He’s not surprised, just asking me the question.

  “All our choices bring us here,” I tell him, placing the luggage gently on the ground. I kneel down beside it, laying it flat, and pressing the buttons which release the catch.

  His breath catches and I see him look around. Mist has blown in. Sea breeze reaches up to us. From experience, I know that his view of the town is obscured by this mist and he is beginning to feel disconnected from his surroundings; panicking almost. Smoothly, I stand and place a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your attention on the suitcase.”

  His brown eyes still when I speak before moving to the case. It lies open, showing its clean dark interior. He says to me, “There’s not much room.”

  “There’s all the space you’ll need,” I tell him as simply as I can.

  The mist moves again in the breeze and I hope he doesn’t glimpse the row upon row of suitcases lying flat and closed. Sometimes they do and I must handle their reaction. He looks at me. His breathing has stilled. “Will I dream?”

  I don’t know the answer to this question, though I am often asked. I swallow and nod. My hand is still on his shoulder. “Yes, you will dream.”

  I let him go. He rubs his chin stubble again and breathes out. He steps into the suitcase and lies down. He pulls the lid down himself, something not all customers do. Of course, I secure the latches myself, crouching down again. I wait for a moment in that position and think of him. As predicted, our time together was pleasant.

  I tap the surface of the suitcase gently, before standing. My knees barely make it but I’m soon upright. I pat myself down. I’ve become a little dusty and need to make sure that I am presentable. It would not do for someone to visit my shop and find otherwise.

  The mist has gone and the sun is poking through the high cloud, ready to shine again. Beyond the town, from my elevated position amongst the rows of suitcases, I see the pier reach into the water. The ferry is returning. I head off towards it, ready to meet my next customer of the day.

  Good Morning, Neighbour

  I KISS MY wife goodbye. She straightens my tie before smiling and waving at me as I walk down our path. Our son stands to her left, still in his pyjamas. He rubs his eyes sleepily and clutches a teddy. I smile broadly at them. I am next to my car. It is a blue station wagon. Opening the car door, I wave again then my briefcase is on the seat next to me. The car has started up and I am driving out of my driveway.

  On leaving our street, I turn left onto Main Street. People are going about their morning business. A yellow car passes, travelling in the opposite direction. Checking the traffic behind me, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I adjust my glasses. Sunlight pours through the window and warms my arms. I wave as I recognise a neighbour pushing a stroller down the sidewalk; her child shakes a rattle in the air. Another neighbour parks his green car outside the drugstore and ambles inside.

  The only light on Main Street is suspended over the intersection. It is at red. Slowing my blue station wagon to a halt, I wait behind a black SUV; its darkened windows concealing the occupants. A high-pitched squeal behind me, then to the left of me, and now in front of me, as a red sports car appears from nowhere, rounds me, and then smacks into the black SUV in front. The driver of the red car jumps out of his door and is firing a pistol, side-on with the handle pointing off to the right.

  I am alarmed and don’t know what to do. My jaw lies open and my eyes must be popping out of my head. Gunfire explodes around me. The driver of the black SUV gets out. He is enormous, barely fitting into his black suit. He is firing a machine gun. Despite his size, the gun is still huge and its bullets punch great holes into the red car. Neither man has yet been hit by a bullet. My windshield is holed twice, two round circles that spread out in a jagged pattern. The bullets have not hit me.

  Police sirens pulse up ahead and blue and red lights flicker into my eyes. The two men stop firing at each other and turn to face the direction of the police. Two black and white cars land on the intersection and the officers are on their feet, leaning into the gap between their car door and the vehicle itself, firing their weapons. Machine gun and angled-pistol fire is hammered back at them. The man from the red car is jumping up and down, firing casually. The man with the machine gun is poised, anchoring his feet and firing with more care. Neither takes cover.

  My windshield takes some more hits and I duck. Glass shatters all around me, crunching onto the seats and floor. Cowering beneath the steering wheel, I flip the car into reverse and lift my foot from the brake, feeling the car begin to move backwar
ds. The gun battle continues. Warily, I lift my head to see through the space where the window had been. A police officer is falling to the ground. In that instant, through the gaping hole where my windshield should be, I see his face contort in pain, as he clutches his chest and crumples backwards. His body goes slack. I press the accelerator.

  My car swerves erratically backwards until I see my neighbour, leaving his green car to go into the drugstore. I shout out, “Get in your car! Run!” But he does not hear me. I see my other neighbour with her stroller. The child rattles its toy and gurgles at the sky. I shout out to her, “Get in! Get in!” She ignores me and continues along the sidewalk. I realise she is going towards the intersection. I press my horn but she continues, oblivious. I kick the brake to halt the car.

  I look through my windshield up ahead; my windshield, it is intact. Rapping it with a knuckle shows it to be whole. I look to the seat beside me and see only my briefcase. There is no shattered glass there, or on my lap, or on the floor. Looking up ahead again, I see the intersection. I can hear myself breathing. The intersection is clear. The light is green and traffic flows through. There is no gun battle. I wait for a moment, breathing and listening to the engine idling. A black SUV overtakes me and cruises down Main Street.

  I put the car in drive and follow the black SUV. A yellow car passes, travelling in the opposite direction. The neighbour with the stroller continues with her journey. The child rattles the toy. My other neighbour locks his green car and goes into the drugstore. I see now that he is locking it before turning to the building. I notice this for the first time and that the child in the stroller is a girl. I hadn’t seen this earlier. I arrive at the intersection behind the SUV. A familiar high-pitched squeal and the red sports car rounds me to collide with the SUV. The occupant gets out, but this time it’s a woman who gets out and not a man firing a pistol side-on. She is a tall blonde in a red dress, a long split up each thigh, with silver pistols in holsters where her garters should be. She takes all the time in the world to ready herself. She even looks at me for a moment and winks. Then the shooting begins. A pistol in each hand she is coolly firing at the SUV. The driver of the black SUV is the same burly male as before. He is firing a machine gun.

  This time I do not hesitate. At full speed, I reverse up Main Street. I see my neighbour at his green car outside the drugstore and I scream at him to run but he ignores me again. Our other neighbour and her little girl in the stroller head back down Main Street. I lean on the horn and know that my shouting is useless but what else can I do? The yellow car passes me on the other side and this encourages me to change direction. I pull on the wheel and my blue station wagon lurches round in a circle. The tyres squeal as the vehicle is flung round and amazingly I don’t lose any speed and I start to move forward away from the intersection.

  I speed into my driveway and run up to the front door. I am panicking. My wife is at the door. She smiles at me and adjusts my tie. Our son stands at her knees. He is clutching a teddy bear and rubbing his eyes. I don’t understand how they have just stood there since I left them. I try to talk to my wife as she smiles and adjusts my tie. “We have to call the police. Something very strange is happening.” She smiles and reaches out for my tie, but I grasp her hands in mine. “What are you doing?”

  I realise I am shouting. Our son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. I look at my wife. She is still smiling. I want to grab her and handle her inside but she seems so fragile. She is wearing a flower pattern apron over a yellow jersey and a puffed skirt. Her eyes, though shining with love for me, are flat, like they are painted on. She looks through me almost. Blonde hair is flicked away from her face as she smiles at me. Her hands have been removed from my grip and she adjusts my tie. I see, as if noticing for the first time, that her nose crinkles as she takes enjoyment from this morning ritual.

  Our son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. His eyes widen. Something behind me has taken his attention. My wife sees it too. She screams. Her hands are on my shoulders and she kicks one of her feet in the air behind her. I turn around and see a gas tanker, a huge truck, crash through our neighbour’s house; straight through. It tears up his yard and is coming towards our yard, towards us. The cab lurches to the side and the tanker begins to jack-knife. The truck’s tyres chug in ever increasing volume as the driver tries to right the vehicle. I see his expression beneath a red cap as he panics. Finally, the truck is over on its side and it explodes.

  The sound is enormous and the blast knocks us all off our feet. Heat washes over us and a yellow fireball pushes into the air mutating into a black cloud in the shape of a mushroom. Gunfire crackles through the sound as the red sports car from earlier spins into our street pursued by the black SUV. The man in the red sports car, the first driver I saw earlier, is behind the wheel. The driver of the SUV is leaning out his window and firing his machine gun. Police sirens from Main Street can be heard.

  I look at my wife. She is alarmed and clearly doesn’t know what to do. Our son is crying, standing again, his teddy still in his hand, though held loosely at his side. My wife’s eyes search mine for an answer. I tell her, “We have to go.” She nods, absent-mindedly, and I help her to her feet. I lift our son up and hold him close. Keeping low, we run towards the back of the house. Leaving in the car is not an option because of the tanker and the gun battle which both block our way out. Flocks of police cars move in, their white doors open for the officers to spill out and fire at the combatants.

  I hold our son in my arm and hold my wife’s hand as we enter our back yard. Water spits out a sprinkler as we cross the lush grass. We reach the fence and run along to the gate. My wife unlatches it with her free hand and we are out into the alley, leaving the sound of gunfire behind. I look up and already the cloud has dispersed into the air, leaving only a blue sky. Looking back to the alley, a dog sniffs around a lamp-post then scampers off.

  A man walks up the alley towards us. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and he carries a newspaper. He is smiling. My wife is in a state of total panic. She clutches my hand. Our son, still in pyjamas, buries his head in my shoulder. As the man approaches, I say to him, “Turn around! Go back!”

  As if he did not hear me, the man smiles at me and says, “Good morning, neighbour.”

  I go to stop him, to say something more, but my wife pulls at my hand, saying, “We have to go. Go now!”

  I agree. At the end of the alley, the street is quiet at first but as we pause, considering which way to go, the red sports car rushes past. For a moment, I feel like everything slows down and I see the driver behind the wheel. It is the blonde in the red dress. She smiles and winks at me before gunning her car on. Gunshots bring the moment back to normal speed and the black SUV hurtles past, its driver leaning out of the window and firing his machine gun. I see for the first time that he is balding at the crown of his head and the rest of his hair is close cropped. His black suit is old and frayed at the lapels. His tie hangs loose around the open collar of a grubby white shirt. All this I see in a heartbeat as bullets zing and smack around us. I don’t know how we are not hit.

  When the cars have gone, we cower at the corner of the alley as police cars rush after the two vehicles. I look at my wife. She is scared but is beginning to come to her senses. She checks on our boy. He is unhurt. My wife tells me this with a nod of her head and a relieved sigh. The man with rolled up sleeves is still in the alley and he wishes us a good morning as he heads off with his newspaper. My wife and I exchange a look which means we don’t understand what is happening but we no longer care about that. All we care about is our son.

  I ask her, “Where shall we go?”

  “The bridge.” She is sure about this, so we go.

  We walk through many streets, some I know, but most I don’t. Everywhere we go black SUVs and red sports cars are involved in a deadly chase. A few people are like us, frightened and scared, and running away from the mayhem and confusion. But others, most we see in fact, are like the man with the rolled-u
p sleeves and newspaper. In fact, they are like my wife and son were when I went back home. They are impassive, unconcerned, sometimes cheerful at best. We see men who can only be brothers of the man with the newspaper. They are dressed differently, some with rolled down sleeves, or even a tie and hat, but unmistakeably relatives of the man in the alley. We don’t know what to make of this so we keep going.

  “Which bridge are we going to?” I ask when I realise my wife is leading us in a direction I’m unsure of.

  “It’s this way,” she says. Her voice is a forced whisper. Her knees are bent as she makes quick progress despite her white high heeled shoes. Our son’s head remains buried in my shoulder. His teddy is missing, dropped somewhere behind us. She pulls at my hand as we make our way through a less affluent area. Burnt-out cars litter the street. Wooden houses sit back from scrubby lawns. An old woman sits on her rocking chair and smiles at us. She seems flat to me, unrounded, but she smiles and waves at us from her raised porch. Flaked paintwork speckles the front of her home. Tiles are missing from her roof. My son lifts his head and waves back at her silently. This makes her very happy. As we leave her, she has stopped rocking and holds her palms together in front of her mouth like she is thinking about something.

  The sun pushes through hazy smog. It is hot and I am becoming tired from carrying my son. Behind us, the sound of car chases is diminishing. Up ahead, two youths confront another boy, pushing him against a wall. My wife pulls us up a different street to avoid them. My glasses slip down my nose. Our son strokes my shirt where the sleeve meets my arm above the elbow.

  Buildings begin to thin out. We’re in more of an industrial area now. Blocky buildings have been shuttled in amongst one another, threaded by alleys. Thin streams of water trickle down slopes. A black SUV is parked outside a building advertised as “Inner City Ink Inc”. The script is lurid and stylised. A bald-headed man stands outside the door smoking a cigarette. His left foot is placed on the wall behind him while his right is planted on the ground. Revealed by a white T-shirt, tattoos cover his arms. He ignores us.