I’m clutching at straws, trying to deny any knowledge of what happened. That I’m roughly the same height as the perpetrator in the photo, carrying the same kind of jacket, wearing the same pants and shoes, all seems lost on the cop, but I’m sweating, just waiting for him to notice.
“Well,” he says, handing me a business card with the NYPD logo on it, a phone number, and an email address. “If you think of anything, be sure to let me know.”
“Sure,” I say, trying not to look too eager as I turn away and make for the stairs.
“Thanks,” Sharon calls out from behind me. I raise a hand in acknowledgement, not turning back.
Upstairs, I rush inside my apartment, my heart pounding in my chest. After deadbolting the door, I lean against the stiff, wooden panel, expecting it to be kicked in behind me by Officer Schwarzenegger .
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I ask no one in particular, half hoping someone answers from the shadows, half hoping they don’t. “Jesus, this is messed up. How the fuck did I get caught up in this madness?”
I stuff my bloody jacket in a garbage bag, tying it off and shoving that bag inside another plastic garbage bag. I repeat the process again and again, convinced I need to hide the scent, wondering how many times I should do this to avoid the smell of blood being picked up by a police dog. I’ll throw this in the dumpster behind the alley. No, too obvious. Got to be smart. I should burn it. Yeah, because burning garbage in the middle of New York City isn’t going to attract any attention. Shit. I could tie a brick to the bag and dump it in the east river. What the hell is this? The Sopranos? I’m manic. I need to calm down. With no other options, I stuff the garbage bag under my bed. Yeah, they’ll never find it there. And my mind reels with sarcasm and pessimism. I’m totally screwed.
“Shower and a shave,” I mumble to myself, feeling somewhat hungover. “That’s what I need. Fresh start. Just. Calm. Down. Reboot the day. You’ll be fine.”
I start the shower, knowing it will take a few minutes to warm, and grab a change of clothes from the bedroom.
I’m supposed to be at work. What am I going to say? No one’s going to believe this shit. I had a cold. That’s what I’ll say. Yeah, I had a cold for about eight hours, but now I’m fine. Completely believable. Lying has never been this difficult. Okay, I’m late. I’m just late. No reason. No excuse. Sorry. That’ll do, I think, stripping down and jumping into the shower.
I lather some soap and rub it on my face, looking at the rough stubble in a tiny mirror stuck on the tiled wall with a suction cup. My regrowth is worse than usual. What am I? The wolfman? Working methodically, I run the razor over my cheeks, up under my nose and around my neck. I’m about to tidy up my sideburns when a face appears in the mirror—a face other than mine. I jump, almost slipping in the shower and collapsing to the tiles.
Hands slip around my naked waist.
“Sharon?” I cry, spinning around and bumping into the shampoo on the shelf. The plastic bottle crashes to the tiles. There’s no one there. I’m going crazy. That’s it. I am certifiably insane. Brooklyn Mental Hospital—that’s where I need to go. I’ve got to get help. I can’t go on like this, unable to separate my imagination from reality.
I dry off, get dressed, and head downstairs. The door to Sharon’s apartment is closed. The police tape is gone, and I’m left wondering whether she was ever really there, let alone while playing police officer.
The air outside is brisk and refreshing, a dose of reality, just what I need.
A black car races down the street.
A gun fires.
I’m standing in the same spot as yesterday.
Sharon and Mark are there at the bottom of the stairs with their backs to me.
It’s happening again.
I cringe, grabbing at the railing and ducking on instinct.
The car slows at the corner, indicating and waiting patiently for the traffic to clear before turning and merging between a bus and a taxi.
Mark and Sharon cross the road, only it’s not Mark and Sharon, it’s some other couple wearing similar clothing. Of course they’re wearing similar clothing. It’s winter, stupid. Everyone’s wearing thick jackets, gloves, hats.
But the gunfire? There wasn’t any gunfire, just a car backfiring, or a door slamming. Everyone else ignored it, I should too, but I can’t. My hands are trembling as I walk down the stairs. I’ve got to get away from here.
“Keep it together, man,” I whisper, glad to turn my back on the brownstone.
I take the subway, heading downtown to work.
Call me paranoid, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Several people stare at me. Like every other sane person in New York City, I’m used to weirdos on the subway, but this time it’s me. I’m the crazy, paranoid conspiracy guy everybody’s avoiding. Or am I?
A young mother with a baby girl in a stroller stares me down, looking at me with unusual interest. Have I got something on my face? A quick peek at my reflection in the glass window opposite me says, “No.” I look away, trying to act relaxed, and then I glance at the glass window further down the car, using it again as a mirror to look indirectly at her. Yep, she’s still staring at me, ignoring her daughter. Creepy.
There’s an elderly man sitting almost opposite me reading the paper. Each time he turns the page, he folds the paper in such a way that he glances directly at me. He seems particularly uninterested in his paper. Sitting there, I time his page turns. He’s hitting roughly thirty seconds between pages. Apparently, each page contains exactly the same amount of content and nothing holds his interest for more than half a minute.
My heart rate goes up.
Am I just being paranoid?
What are they looking at?
Did I cut myself shaving?
Have I got snot hanging from my nose?
I’ve been so preoccupied by what happened after Mark was shot, it’s not until now that I stop and asked myself the most obvious question of all. Who shot him? And why?
Normally, I would stay on the train until Grand Central, but the Lexington stop comes along so I decide to test my conspiracy theory. I stand as the train pulls into the station, and walk over toward the door with a bunch of other commuters. Both the creepy mom and the elderly man follow. I catch their reflections in the windows.
The door opens and I join the mass of people leaving the train, only instead of going up the stairs, I double back, entering the same car through the second door further down the train.
Elderly creepy guy races to get back on board, following me through the door, while negligent mom reverses her stroller back through the first door and takes a seat again. Okay, so I’m not paranoid. I am being followed.
The train pulls out of the station. Fuck it. I’m going to sit down next to the elderly man with the square glasses. Might as well hit this head on.
Elderly incognito guy pretends to ignore me as I squeeze in beside him. He starts reading his paper, turning to the first page. We’re seated on a side bench the aisle.
“So,” I ask. “Are you having fun yet? Because I am.”
“Sorry,” he says, pretending he didn’t catch what I said. He knows damn well exactly what I said. What have I got to lose? Nothing. I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, that might not be entirely true considering Sharon shot at those police officers outside the brownstone and I helped her escape, but I don’t think I have a case to answer before a judge. She’s a psycho—a psycho from another planet—but a psycho nonetheless as far as American law is concerned.
How does the law apply to someone from another world? I’m guessing it’s the same as for foreigners. Sharon comes from slightly further afield than say, Australia, but the same principle must apply.