It s Not What You ThinkChapter 8
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I must’ve stared at that mirror for a good ten minutes before someone began knocking on the door, wondering what was taking so long. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very off. I left the bathroom, ignoring the guy who was glaring at me as he rushed past, desperate to use the bathroom now that he’d waited so long. I sat back down at my table in the restaurant, my brother, Micah, downing another beer. I had something of a weak stomach, and I couldn’t handle alcohol well at all. Currently, my cup of tea was only lukewarm, but I drank it anyway. I’d laced it with milk and honey, and it soothed my easily irritable stomach.
‘What the hell took so long?’ Micah grumbled.
‘Number two,’ I lied.
‘I ordered already,’ he told me, a note of disdain in his voice, ‘I got you clam chowder, or is that too strong for you?’
I didn’t much care for clam chowder, but, rather than complain, I just shrugged, ‘No problem.’
‘When are you gonna get a new job?’ he asked, draining yet another bottle of beer before setting it close to the edge of the table so that the waitress would know he needed a refresh.
I shook my head, ‘I haven’t quit my old job. Why would I want to?’
‘You’re a photographer,’ he said as if this was news to me, ‘And you don’t even work for a real company. You don’t have real health benefits, or a normal schedule.’
‘I do good business,’ I informed him, ‘I have more than a few clients, and I come highly recommended. I can afford my own health insurance. What’s wrong with that?’
Micah seemed only angrier at my defensive reaction, ‘Gary, you work out of an apartment, the same apartment you live in. That’s not a job, that’s a hobby. You need to get a real job, one with more security.’
I knew better than to argue with him. I’d always been smaller than him, even as kids. I’d gotten into photography fairly young, using my dad’s Nikon until Mom got me my own camera when I was ten. Meanwhile, Micah had played football in school, running back, working out every day, and, even now, years later, anyone could tell which one of us was the jock of the family. I’d learned at a young age to just keep my head down and avoid confrontations whenever possible
So, even knowing better, I surprised myself by responding, ‘It may not be a steady, 9 to 5, cube farm job like you’ve got, but at least I like what I do.’
I could tell by the way that his brows knit, his face seeming to darken into a scowl, that my response had pissed him off. After so many years of being cowed by him, my response was far from what he expected of me.
‘You better watch your fucking mouth, shutterbug!’ he slammed a meaty hand down on the table, causing the empty beer bottle to rattle and fall over the side, ‘Or I’ll watch it for you with the back of my hand!’
The booming quality that was Micah’s voice caused others to wince and stare, other conversations ceasing. The bottle shattered on the floor, and the waitress, who had already opened a fresh bottle and was on her way to bring it to Micah, halted and changed her mind. The bartender, a middle aged man who was no slouch, himself, plucked it from the waitress’ hand and started on his way over.
‘Sir, whatever your problem is, I won’t have you disturbing my other customers,’ he warned, setting down the bottle on an empty table near ours, ‘So keep it down, or you will be asked to leave.’
I kept my eyes down on the table, but I could almost feel the anger radiating from my brother.
‘How about you mind your own goddam business?’ Micah replied hotly, his voice still raised.
The bartender didn’t back down, probably used to dealing with rowdy customers.
‘This establishment is my business,’ he shot back, ‘And I’m not gonna ask you again to keep it down.’
Micah reached in his pocket, pulled out a couple of twenties, and slammed it down on the table, ‘Forty bucks says you’ll be sweeping up your own teeth in less than a minute.’
The entire restaurant area of the bar and grill was frozen, watching with fear and a morbid fascination. I watched, too, but with only fear. I’d seen Micah in fights before, and his self-control, bad in a normal situation, was almost nonexistent in a fight. Usually it took more than just one person to peel him off an opponent, and the opponent usually ended up in the hospital. I saw the waitress, her brown eyes wide, move within arm’s reach of the bartender, but I didn’t see what she pressed into his hand, which was behind his back, and, more importantly, neither did Micah. But we both found out quickly when Micah stood up and began to charge him. Micah froze suddenly, went completely rigid, and then toppled over. He twitched and groaned on the floor, and then I saw the Taser in the bartender’s hand, which is what the waitress had handed him.
I was shocked, no pun intended, to see my brother, bested, twitching on the ground. The waitress retreated, presumably to call the cops, and the bartender remained where he was, his finger on the trigger and ready to deliver more electricity if necessary. He glanced at me, noticing my pale, nonthreatening demeanor, and he quickly and correctly inferred that I would be no trouble. I made no move to stop him as he scooped up the forty dollars in his free hand and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans.
‘You’ll be asked to give a statement,’ he informed me in an almost conversational tone, ‘So I would suggest you stay right where you are. Do you know this guy?’
‘He’s…’ I croaked, ‘He’s my brother.’
‘Are we gonna have any problems out of you over this?’
I shook my head, and even then, everything just seemed really off. I could hardly recall why Micah had wanted to meet me here. I couldn’t remember much since about three o’clock, coming back to develop the photos I’d taken for a client’s son’s Bar Mitzvah.
The police showed up, arrested my brother, and began taking statements. As several people heard my brother’s threat, and because the bartender was fully qualified with the Taser, not to mention well within his right to use it, it was pretty simple. Micah was led away in handcuffs, and I found myself explaining to an officer everything that had happened. Even then, I couldn’t help but feel like this was just… off. It was difficult to explain how this could be, just that it was. The officer left, and the bartender offered me a beer, but I declined, in my normal, non-confrontational way. Everything in the restaurant area returned to normal, at least for the other patrons. The waitress brought me the bowl of clam chowder that Micah had ordered for me, looking me over closely as she did so. She was cute, but I was me, so I thanked her, but refrained from making any small talk, giving her no reason to stick around. As she walked off, I ate my chowder.
For some reason, the bartender offered to cover my chowder and two cups of tea, but I quietly insisted, leaving a twenty on the table, weighed down with the fork I didn’t use, and I left. Outside, the wind bit deep, and I zipped up my jacket. For almost ten minutes I stood there in front of the bar and grill, peering out around me, wondering why it seemed so dark. It was only five-forty in the afternoon, and the sun was still up, though not for much longer, but it seemed much too dark for the time. I walked to my car, which was small, unassuming, just like me, got in, and called my mother to let her know that Micah was in jail again.
‘Mom, hi,’ I greeted, ‘It’s me, Gary.’
‘I know it’s you,’ she replied, amused, ‘Who else calls me Mom but you?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I buckled my seatbelt, ‘I just wanted to call you to let you know what happened.’
‘What happened? Are you okay?’ Mom’s amused voice became worried.
‘Me? No, I’m fine,’ I assured her, though I didn’t feel fine, not really, ‘It’s about Micah. Mom, he got arrested again.’
She was quiet as I explained everything that had happened, and, even
once I was done, she remained quiet for another moment or two.
‘Mom?’ I asked, ‘Are you still there?’
‘Hmm?’ I heard her answer, ‘Oh, yes, Gary, I’m here. Why don’t you stop by? I haven’t seen you in almost a month, since your father’s birthday.’
I sighed, recalling that incident, which was next to disastrous. My father agrees with my career choice even less than Micah, and, after his fifth screwdriver, he never fails to mention his distaste of photography, and of photographers in general.
‘I don’t know, Mom,’ I said, ‘We both know how he gets, especially lately.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ she assured me, ‘He’s snoozing in his chair in the den. Please, could you come by? Don’t make your old mum beg.’
‘You’re not old, Mom,’ I said dutifully, ‘Okay, I’ll be by in about half an hour or so.’
I drove, only half paying attention to traffic, distracted by how the sky, which should be and was sunny, wasn’t half as bright as it should be, how the shadows themselves seemed darker than usual, and almost alive… alive? I wasn’t sure, but the shadows almost seemed to waver before my eyes. Something definitely wasn’t right. I somehow made it to my mother and father’s house, the same one they’ve lived in since I was a kid, without getting myself or anyone else killed. My mother was waiting outside, rocking in a wooden rocking chair my father had built years ago. I parked, got out of my car, and walked up to the front steps leading to the front porch. I ascended the steps as Mom reached the edge of the porch and we hugged for a few seconds.
‘Gary,’ Mom patted my hair down, or tried to, anyway, ‘Come and sit on the porch with me.’
I nodded and took a chair next to her rocking chair.
‘Gary, how have you been lately?’ she asked, the concern as transparent as the window behind her.
I shrugged, ‘Okay, I guess. I did a Bar Mitzvah today, and the client is paying about three hundred dollars for it, and I’m supposed to be doing another client’s wedding and reception next Friday. You should see where they’re doing the wedding at, it’s amazing-‘
‘I meant, how are you doing?’ she elaborated, ‘How are things going with you?’
I was confused. What real reason did she have to be worried about me?
‘I’m doing okay, Mom. No real complaints.’
She shook her head, ‘When you called, you sounded quite distracted.’
‘Well, you know how things are between Micah and me. And it was pretty bad at that bar and grill. Should we go and bail him out, or what? He’s only gonna be that much worse if we leave him to stew in a cell all night.’
‘Gary,’ she sighed, ‘That’s why I wanted you to come over, so we could talk about Micah.’
‘Yeah, and that’s fine, that’s why I called.’
‘Gary, there is no Micah. You’re an only child, always have been.’
I paused, frowning, getting more confused. What was this, some kind of joke? I’d never known my mother to play pranks before.
‘Mom, you’re kidding right? It’s Micah we’re talking about. You know, your oldest son, my brother, big guy, played football in high school. Micah.’
‘Gary, you don’t have a brother.’
I took a deep breath, trying to figure out the point of this joke, because it had to be a joke. I’d just spoken to Micah less than an hour ago.’
‘Mom, this isn’t something I’d just make up. Are you telling me that the bartender Tased thin air? That makes absolutely no sense!’
My mother winced, shrinking back a little in her rocking chair, and I struggled to remain calm.
‘Mom, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. This has got to be some kind of joke, though. I remember Micah, growing up with him, which wasn’t the greatest. He’s always been bigger than me, better at sports, better with the girls, and kind of a jerk to me. It’s not like I just made him up or something.’
‘Son, that’s exactly it,’ she persisted, ‘You did make him up. You never had a brother, let alone one named Micah. You had few friends, being so shy and reserved, so you must’ve made him up.’
I stood up and began pacing, agitated and a little angry that my own mother would play this mean prank on me, ‘That’s just not possible. I mean, if I’d made him up, don’t you think I’d make up a nicer brother, someone who would never pick on me or call me a runt? I don’t understand why you’re doing this, Mom.’
My mother shook her head, nervous, ‘Gary, I love you, and I would never do any such thing. I’m telling you the truth.’
I ran my hand through my hair, getting upset, and I abruptly turned and descended the porch steps and hurried to my car, ‘I’ve gotta go, Mom. I don’t know what this is, but I just don’t think I can deal with this right now.’
‘Gary, please,’ my mother called after me, ‘I’m trying to help you!’
I got in my car and drove home, perhaps a little fast, but not exactly reckless. I pulled into my spot, hurried to my door, and let myself in. I was trembling, enough so to drop my key twice before I could unlock my door. I sat down in my recliner and tried to calm down. Whatever the reason for the darkness, it didn’t extend into my apartment, thankfully, and I was able to relax a little. Something was happening out there, but I was safe in there, at least. Still, between my mother, and whatever was going on out there, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Nobody else seemed to notice it, whatever it was, which meant that either I was special in some way, or I was crazy. I didn’t feel crazy. In my apartment, everything seemed solid, real. The shadows cast by the lights I’d turned on were as they should be, the light level normal. I walked to the front door, opened it, and was immediately aware of the lack of light in the hallway. The lights were on, same as always, Durst, the building superintendent, was good about replacing blown bulbs. But, for some reason, the light they emitted was dimmer than normal.
I backed up until I was standing just inside the threshold of my front door, and I could see where the light from my apartment terminated right there at the threshold, not spilling over into the hallway. I stuck my arm out until my wrist and hand were in the hallway, and made note of how the light in my apartment stopped right there at my wrist. Something was wrong with the world outside my apartment. I closed the front door and went to my bedroom window. I opened it up and took the screen out. I stuck my arm out the window, and got the same results. I put the screen back in and closed my window. I felt like I wanted to tell somebody, I wanted someone to see what I’d found, but I couldn’t think of a single person I could talk to. I didn’t have any real friends, same as when I was a kid, no one to confide in. And, even if I did, what if nobody else saw what was wrong but me? If they couldn’t see it, then that meant they were part of it in some way. What if someone else walked into my apartment? Would they see how much brighter, more normal it was there?
Needing something to do, I went to develop any pictures I hadn’t got around to taking care of, but there were none. I’d developed the Bar Mitzvah pictures before going to meet (the imaginary) Micah, my (nonexistent) brother at the bar and grill, where he was (or wasn’t, if you believed my mother) Tased and arrested. That was it. If Micah did exist, there would be an arrest record for him at the police station. I turned off my lights, marveling at how, even darkened, my apartment seemed more normal than outside, and locked the door behind me. I got in my car and drove down to the police station where Micah had been taken. I walked in and went to the front desk.
‘Help you?’ the officer looked up from his magazine.
‘Yes, my brother was arrested earlier, and I’d like to see what’s going on with him.’
The officer looked at his computer, ‘What’s his name?’
‘Micah Barnes. He was arrested at Vallenci’s Bar and Grill earlier.’
The officer typed in the name, peered at his screen, and shoo
k his head, ‘There’s no one by that name here.’
‘Are you sure? It was only about an hour or so ago. The bartender Tased him when he got too out of hand, and he was arrested.’
The officer stared at me for about ten seconds or so, not saying anything, and then got up, ‘Wait here a minute, I’ll ask around.’
I waited almost ten minutes before the officer returned, looking a little irritated, ‘Sir, none of my officers is even aware of any disturbance at Vallenci’s. Either you’re mistaken, or you’re intentionally wasting my time. Would you like to guess which option I’m leaning toward?’
I felt chills racing up and down my spine as I tried to make some sense of this, ‘Would he have been taken to another precinct?’
The officer stared hard at me for a moment, and then answered, ‘No. Vallenci’s is within our jurisdiction, so any disorderly would be brought back here.’
I blinked, my mouth getting dry, ‘Oh… maybe I’m mistaken… sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Maybe you should get checked out or something, by a doctor or psychiatrist,’ the officer suggested, ‘I think you’ve got some problems.’
I thanked the officer and left, getting back into my car. I sat there for a bit, feeling disoriented. I knew I had a brother, I could remember him distinctly. I remember growing up with him, for Christ’s sake! And now it was like he’d never existed. Then an idea occurred to me: maybe, whatever it was that was going on, the darkness, maybe it had something to do with the fact that nobody remembered Micah anymore. Maybe, somehow, it had just swallowed him up, not just physically, but completely, erasing his existence from everyone’s minds. But then, why not mine? How was it that I still remembered him?
There had to be someone else who might remember him, I decided. I couldn’t be the only one! I returned to the Vallenci’s and went to the same table I had been at before with Micah, but both the bartender and the waitress were gone for the evening, replaced by another, shorter bartender and a slightly prettier waitress. I ordered a cup of tea when she came by, and she didn’t linger as the previous waitress had seemed to do, and I had a nice, piping-hot cup of Earl Grey, with two small cups of half-n-half and four packets of honey in a few minutes. I laced my tea, took a few sips, and surveyed the restaurant side. There were about twenty five or twenty six tables, not including bar stools, and there were eight other parties in the restaurant side. Other than the four people up at the bar, I was the only single party here, but I was used to it. As I looked around, I saw bartender from earlier enter the bar. He went into the back for a moment, and I caught him just after he came out.
‘Excuse me,’ I caught his attention, ‘Do you remember me from earlier?’
He studied my face for a moment, and then answered, ‘Tea guy, right?’
I nodded, ‘Yeah, that’s me. How about my brother? He was at the table with me. You two had a bit of an altercation.’
He shook his head, ‘I don’t usually have altercations on weekdays, just every so often on weekends. No, you were at the table by yourself, quiet, just a cup of tea and some… some soup or chowder or something, right?’
‘Are you sure? You don’t remember earlier, the big guy that threatened you? You Tased him and had him arrested.’
The bartender frowned, suddenly wary of me, ‘I think you’re mistaken, pal. I haven’t had to use my Taser since I was certified on it, and I haven’t had anyone arrested today, either. Are you okay? You look really nervous all of a sudden.’
‘This just doesn’t make any sense,’ I mumbled, ‘He had to have been here. I remember everything that happened. We were arguing because he doesn’t see my being a photographer as a real job. He got loud, and you came over, and then the waitress gave you the Taser, and when he came at you, you put him down while the waitress called the cops.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ the bartender nodded, ‘Follow me.’
I followed him into the back, and into his office, where there were six monitors on one wall. The bartender brought up the surveillance video from a few hours ago.
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