by Christopher Mari
It’s noon on a Friday in early February seven months after the war ended. Callahan’s in my office less than an hour and he’s already polished off half my whiskey and given me heartburn. It’s not so much his frontal assault on my booze that’s given me a sick stomach or the fact that I’ve joined him, it’s that after an hour of jawing and drinking he’s just screwed up enough courage to drop another missing person’s case in my lap.
I’ve probably handled a dozen or more of these cases since the Japanese surrendered. Nine times out of ten they’re guys who come back and don’t like the looks of their wives, their kids or their prospects and just take off. Once a guy turned up dead in a car crash on his way home to Lodi from overseas. But mostly it’s been about guys who didn’t want to be found in the first place.
Callahan’s all right for an Irish cop. Like most of them in New York, he drinks too much and doesn’t care for anybody who wasn’t born with a shamrock between his legs. And of course he’s on the take but that doesn’t bother me too much because he tries not to screw too many little guys while doing it.
“So where was this guy last seen?” I ask.
“That’s just it, Jake,” he says wiping his thick face with a red checkered handkerchief. It’s fifteen degrees outside and not much warmer in here on account of the busted furnace and Callahan’s sweating. “I know where the guy is.”
I lean back in my chair and pull open a desk drawer with my shoe. “If you know where the guy is, then it’s not a missing person’s case.”
“It is if the guy don’t know who he is.”
I grin. “Well that would make him missing to somebody.”
Callahan blows his nose and stuffs the handkerchief in his breast pocket. I lean my foot on the open drawer and light a smoke.
“It’s like this – this guy shows up at the house of a lady I know. He don’t know who he is or nothin’. But the lady takes him in because he’s dressed good and looks like a movie star. I seen the guy – he’d give Clark Gable a run for his money. I get the gist from her old man. He tells the daughter it’s okay for him to stay for a while but he wants me to check him out. So I go over and lean into him but it seems like he’s on the level about not knowing nothin’. I take his prints and come up with zilch. But this lady, she’s kinda taken a shine to him and says he’s as harmless as a fly. She don’t want him to go. I think she’s got it in her head to marry him. Anyway, the old man won’t have it unless he finds out who this guy is. The lady thinks he might’ve been in an accident, that’s why he can’t remember nothin’. So I figgered –”
I flick some ash on the checkerboard linoleum. “So you figgered I might be able to dig something up. Okay I’ll bite. You got anything to go on? He remember anything at all?”
Callahan shakes his blubbery head. “Nope. He says he knows he’s been in New York at least a couple of days. He’s got a funny accent, not foreign, but not from around here either. Could be a tourist who got jumped, some guy from a corn state. He didn’t have a wallet on him or anythin’, just this.” Callahan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small silver disk with a red jewel in the center that sticks out from both sides. “Can’t figger out what the hell it is.”
I look at it. It’s small but weighs a lot, heavier than a silver dollar though less than half the size. “And he’s got no idea what this thing is?”
Callahan pours himself another two fingers from the bottle on my desk. “Nope. And I had some guys look at it too. The jewel ain’t a ruby. Not even this Jew jeweler I know can figger out what it is – no offense, Jake.”
“None taken.”
“Anyway, nobody knows what it is. And you can’t even scratch or cut the metal at all.”
I flip it around in my hand. “X-ray?”
“Tried it. No luck.”
I rub my face and look at it some more. “I don’t have a lot to go on here, Callahan. You sure he didn’t say anything at all that might give us a clue?”
Callahan settles back in his chair and swallows the rest of his drink. “He did say he wanted to see an atom bomb.”
I whistle and wave him at the door. “Go away, friend. You should be talking to the feds, not me. This guy might be a red for all you know.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so. A lotta people been freaked out by the bomb.”
“I still say go to the feds. This is a job for J. Edgar Hoover, not a private dick.”
“I can’t do that, Jake. The old man don’t want his daughter to get into any kinda trouble.”
I lean my elbows on my desk. “Mind telling me the names of this old man and lady?”
“Taylor,” he says quietly. “Buchanan and Emily Taylor.”
That nails it. Buck Taylor owns one of the biggest brokerage houses on Wall Street and his daughter’s been a resident of the society pages since she turned eighteen. I don’t know what Taylor’s paying Callahan for but the big mick’s in it for top money. Which meant two things – there was no way Callahan was going to go to the FBI and there might be a way for me to shake a few greenbacks off that money tree for myself.
“You gotta be kidding, Callahan. Emily Taylor’s got a crush on John Doe? She could get anybody she wanted just like that.”
He shrugged his thick shoulders. “Like I said she’s got it bad. And Mr. Taylor wants to find out who he is – on the quiet.”
“He know you’re talking to me?”
He nodded. “But that’s all he wants to know. Aside from what you dig up.”
“Got it,” I say stabbing out my smoke on the sole of my shoe. “Tell them I’ll be over tonight.”
* * *
Buchanan Taylor lives in one of the finest four-story brownstones on Park Avenue and lives there all by himself, excepting his youngest child. His two sons are now both married and in townhouses of their own and his wife died some years ago, leaving their daughter, now age twenty, as the sole lady of the house. From all accounts he gives her everything she wants, probably because he’s afraid to be up nights all alone in that big house counting his cash. As of ten days ago the Taylor residence added a new occupant, one John Doe.
The butler answers the door, a smooth slim balding gent with an English accent and a pinched pink face.
“Is Mr. Taylor at home?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Jacob Weiss. Sergeant Callahan sent me over.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Weiss. Come in. Mr. Taylor isn’t at home but Miss Taylor is expecting you in the library. This way, sir.”
I follow the butler past a curving central staircase into a book-lined room larger than most two-bedroom apartments in the city. Sitting on a couch facing the fireplace is Miss Emily Taylor, her shoes off and smoking a cigarette with her head leaning back on a pillow. Backlit by the fireplace I could make out enough of that flawless profile and long neck to know that if she had been born poor a Hollywood studio would’ve snatched her up as soon as she crossed the street. As it is she was getting her kicks in nightclubs with the well-heeled crowd and was likely looking at a life spending a rich husband’s money and summering on the French Rivera. That is, at least before John Doe entered the picture.
She slips on her shoes as I’m announced and the butler leaves us closing the double doors behind him.
“Miss Taylor, I’m Jake Weiss. Sergeant Callahan asked me to stop by.”
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Weiss?” She steps towards a well-stocked mahogany bar. “Drink?”
“Bourbon will be fine.”
She smiles at me exposing two rows of perfectly white even teeth. The fireplace sets her straw-blond hair aglow and adds an extra sparkle to her already vibrant hazel-green eyes. “I like a man who drinks. Men who don’t drink around women always seem to be hiding something.”
She hands me my drink and then pours herself one too. Then she sits on the couch opposite me crossing her slim ankles and picks up her smoldering cigarette. She leans her elbow on her knee and looks at me.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Weiss?”
“It’s a free country.”
“Are you Jewish?”
“I’m part of the tribe. Does it make a difference?”
“No. In fact it might help. Your people know a lot about oppression.”
“So they tell me,” I say sipping my bourbon. “How can I help you, Miss Taylor? Callahan filled me in on the generalities. Now I’m looking for specifics. You mentioned oppression. Do you think your John Doe’s some kinda political refugee?”
She smiles at me. “Please don’t call him John Doe. I’ve been calling him Bill. He seems to like that name.”
“Alright Bill then.”
She takes a last drag of her cigarette and dabs it out in a cut crystal ashtray. “I’m not really sure how to explain it. Ever since Bill arrived at our door he’s been frantic about going outside. He can’t explain why he doesn’t want to go outside – he just doesn’t know. I think someone’s after him. At first I thought that perhaps he had been in an accident of some sort, that’s why he lost his memory. But his fear of going outside – it’s something more. I just know it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Whenever the subject’s come up, he’s just frantic as I said. Otherwise he’s perfectly normal. More than normal in fact. He’s the most gracious and kind man I’ve ever met. Everything about him exudes decency. That’s a rare thing to find in a man in this day and age. You’ll see it when you meet him.”
“I’d like to meet him. Where is he now?”
“Upstairs resting. I told him I’d send for him once I talked with you.”
I grin. “So I passed the test?”
She returned it. “Yes. You have. You seem like an honest sort, Mr. Weiss. I believe you’ll be discreet in this matter.”
“I aim to, Miss Taylor. Is there anything he’s mentioned to you, anything at all that might give us a lead on his identity?”
“All I know is that he seems to be very learned. He claims to have read all of the books in this library, including the ones in French and Latin. I can say that of the ones I’ve read he seems to know them inside and out. In fact he’s been able to discuss an extraordinary amount of subjects at length. And in addition to this, he seems to have one particular obsession. He wants to see an atomic bomb.”
I sip my drink. “Now that’s a very particular obsession.”
She leans in. “It makes me wonder if he’s a scientist of some sort. He seems to know all about the sciences, especially physics. I wonder if he’s been subjected to some kind of communist brainwashing. I’ve read in the newspapers that they’re able to do that sort of thing.”
I stand up. “It’s a distinct possibility. Mind if I see him now?”
“Of course.” She picks up the phone and dials a house extension. “Garner, would you ask Mr. Bill to join us in the library?”
In less than five minutes the doors open and the butler Garner escorts our mystery man in. Bill’s wearing a short-sleeved white polo shirt and brown tweed trousers and stands about six feet four inches if I was to take a wild guess. Not only taller than me but taller than most guys I know. And better built if I’m any judge. The guy’s all lean muscle. He could probably lift both of us without trying. Miss Taylor makes the introduction and my hand is met by a warm firm dry grip. He looks me right in the eye, no nerves showing. His slick black hair is thick and neatly combed and his brown eyes are all firm confidence.
I give him a once over as he fixes himself a drink. Not a mark on him, not on his face or his arms. That rules out his being in an accident. Even after ten days some bruises or cuts would still be showing. Good looking guy though. Could be a con man, here for this skirt’s dough? Nervous breakdown maybe? Shell shock from the war? Doesn’t seem likely. Not this guy. He could’ve ridden the bomb all the way down to Hiroshima and not have broken a sweat.
Bill sips his drink standing at the bar and then looks at the glass grinning like he’s never had bourbon before. Or maybe he’s never had one out of a glass as expensive as that one. Miss Taylor pats the cushion next to her and he takes the seat, crosses his legs and gives me his full attention.
She’s right. The guy looks legit. I don’t get any funny vibes off of him personally. It’s just the whole story that stinks.
“So Bill,” I say, “Miss Taylor’s asked me to come by and see if I can help jog your memory.”
He gives me that same warm inviting smile. “Jog my memory?”
“You know. Help remember who you are.”
“Are you a psychiatrist, Mr. Weiss?”
“No, I’m a private eye.”
“Private eye?” he asks again and then laughs. “Oh a private detective – someone charged with the maintenance of lawful activity or the investigation of crimes, usually employed by a private concern, such as a hotel detective, or as a contractor for fees. Since we’re not in a hotel, I’m assuming you’re the latter.”
I look at Miss Taylor and make a face. She laughs. “Bill always defines things like that, as if he’s quoting the dictionary.”
“Well that wasn’t verbatim, Emily,” Bill says with a carefree laugh.
“Alright,” I say crossing my legs. “So we know who and what I am. Now we need to know who and what you are, Bill.”
He sets his drink down on the coffee table. “It’s as Emily’s likely told you, Mr. Weiss. I can’t remember anything before I arrived in New York. I believe I was here for two days before I came to Emily’s door asking for help. I know I slept on a park bench for at least one night. Before that however –”
“Zilch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t remember anything.”
“Exactly.” He sits back on the plush leather couch. “I do hope you can help me, Mr. Weiss. Both Emily and her father have been so kind to me, but I believe my presence here is making Mr. Taylor rather nervous.”
“You’re making no one nervous, Bill, especially not me.”
He pets her hand.
“Okay – let’s go back to those couple days before you showed up here. What do you remember?”
He rubs his wide jaw the way a stage actor or a kid play-acting would. “Let’s see. I remember several sights. I went to the Statue of Liberty. I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge. And I was at the Empire State Building. You have marvelous architecture in the city, Mr. Weiss. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So you remember other buildings in other cities?”
“A poor choice of words on my part. I should say that I don’t believe I’ve ever been in New York. It’s really a wonderful city.”
“Were you with anyone? Did you talk to anybody?”
“I spoke with many people. Mostly tourists. We talked about the sights. I remember talking to a couple from – Idaho was it? We talked about the view from the Empire State Building.”
“You could be a tourist like those people.”
He smiles at Miss Taylor. “That was what you thought.” He turns back to me. “I don’t feel like I’m from around here. Nothing seems familiar, not a street, not a restaurant. Even the food and the cars don’t seem familiar.”
“The food and the cars, Bill?” Miss Taylor asks. “But food and cars are the same all over America!”
“Would you like to take a cab ride with me, Bill? See if anything at all strikes you?”
I’ve never seen a face crack before. I’ve heard that expression a million times but I’ve never seen it happen until this second. Smooth composed Bill is gone just like that. And in his place is a broken fearful man with wide eyes and trembling hands.
“No I can’t I just can’t –”
Miss Taylor touches his arm. I lean in holding my hands up. “It’s okay, Bill. Nobody’s gonna force you to do anything you don’t wanna do.”
“Bill Bill darling it’s all right you’re safe here with me –”
I stand up and walk over to the other side of the room to give them a minute. I can’t slug the guy and drag him out the front door. So how the hell am I going to get to the bottom of this without getting him out of this velvet cage?
“Bill,” I call from across the room.
He looks at me with haggard eyes. I almost feel sorry for him. “Is there any place in particular that sticks out in your mind? Anywhere that seems like it’s got some meaning for you?”? He swallows his drink and makes a face. “The observation deck of the Empire State Building. It’s the first place I remember. And it feels as if I need to be there again.”
“So why don’t we all go? Emily can tag along.”
He shakes his head over and over. “Please don’t think I’m being rude, Mr. Weiss, but I simply can’t go.”
I step towards them. “Why can’t you go? What’re you afraid of, Bill?”
He looks at me for a long while but doesn’t look at Miss Taylor, as if he’s never admitted this before. “I’m afraid of doing something wrong. I’m afraid of making a mistake.”
“A mistake, Bill?” Miss Taylor asks. “What could you possibly do –”
“Miss Taylor, can I talk to you in private for a minute?”
I barely give her time enough to close the doors before I lay into her. “Miss Taylor, this won’t do. I can’t help him if he won’t help himself.”
“But he does –”
“I’m not gonna argue with you. What did he say about the bomb?”
“Mr. Weiss, I –”
I step up to her. “You’re holding out on me. What did he say specifically?”
“Nothing I swear. All he said was that he had never seen an atomic bomb and wanted to see one.”
“He could be a spy, Miss Taylor. Did you ever consider that? A Soviet sleeper agent who came here to get our secrets.”
“Not Bill. You’ve seen him. You see how gentle he is.”
“All I’ve seen is a man who could be a con man, could be a spy, could be anything. And if he’s telling the truth about this amnesia then he really doesn’t wanna get it back. He’s happy here with you, Miss Taylor. Anything that upsets that scenario upsets him.”
“But that’s just it. Something terrible has happened to him, don’t you see? We can’t upset him. We can’t do anything –”
“We can and we will. You want to get to the bottom of this, don’t you? I’m no shrink but we’ve gotta do something that will jar him a little, something that –” I reach into my pocket for a smoke and find the disk Callahan had given me.
I hold her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna hurt him. But I am planning on ruffling his feathers some.”
* * *
“You recognize this, don’t you Bill?”
The disk flashes in my hand throwing firelight and lamplight all over the room. “Yes. It was in my pocket when I arrived.”
“Remember anything else about it?”
“No,” he says sadly. “I don’t.”
I flip the disk to him and light a smoke. “Hold it in your hand and concentrate on it. Think about the first time you saw it.”
“That was on the observation deck.”
“You already had it on you?”
“I had it in my hand, just like this.”
“Think about the first time you saw it on the deck. Think about the Empire State. I want you to try and remember what you were doing just before you saw it.”
“But Mr. Weiss –”
“Come on now, goddamn it. Concentrate. You can do this.”
Bill stands between the two couches before the fireplace with the disk in his hand. He keeps his eyes on his palm as he furrows his brow. After a minute or so he closes his hand over the disk along with his eyes. This isn’t going to work. So much for that money tree.
Miss Taylor jumps up like the couch is on fire and runs over to me. I’ve been so busy looking at Bill’s face that I haven’t noticed his hand. It’s glowing red, not from the fireplace and not as if he was holding his hand over a light bulb. His whole damn hand is red up to the wrist like it’s been dipped in red paint and is giving off light. Then all of a sudden my ears pop and I feel a strong breeze but none of the windows are open. Bill opens his eyes and sees what we’re seeing.
A man’s standing next to him.
I pull my .45 out of my shoulder holster and shove Miss Taylor behind me. I don’t know how the hell he got in here without any of us noticing. Maybe I’m going nuts but it’s like he’s just come out of thin air. He’s an older gent, sixty-five, if I was to take a guess. He’s wearing a dark brown suit and hat and is holding a black notebook.
“I’m so sorry for taking so long, Verackal, but you weren’t at the coordinates so I –”
He turns to see the two of us. “Oh dear.”
“Care to explain where you came from, pal?”
He points a bony finger at my gun. “That’s a weapon, isn’t it?”
“You better believe it. Drop that notebook.”
“You mean my – oh yes certainly.” The notebook thuds on the hardwood floor. “Of course you think it’s a notebook. How silly of me.”
I get myself between him and the others. “Sit down. Keep those hands where I can see them.”
“Yes yes.” The man looks around nervously. “Oh this isn’t right. Not at all.” He glances at Bill. “Verackal – why did you summon me here in front of these people? I explained the rules to you about using the Ipwich Device.”
“Ipwich Device?” Miss Taylor wonders. “You mean the disk?”
Bill takes a step towards him. “What did you call me?”
The man blinks at Bill. “Why – you mean to say that you don’t know your own name?”
“No – that’s what Mr. Weiss and Emily were –”
“Oh my.” The man rubs his face. “This hasn’t happened in so long. Certainly not since I started working –”
“Pipe down you,” I say waving the gun at him.
Now he blinks at me. “Pipe down?”
“I said shut up. Jesus. I’m asking the questions here.”
The man shook his head. “I can’t, Mr. – did Verackal say your name was Weiss? I really can’t answer them. It’s against company rules.”
“Company rules?” I laugh. “You just popped into this lady’s house, pal. Mind telling me how you did that?”
The man folds his hands in his lap. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr. Weiss.”
“Odds are in my favor, pops. I’m the one with the gun.”
“Yes,” he mutters. “I can see that.”
“Mr. Weiss,” Miss Taylor says leaning on my arm, “please don’t.”
I jerk her off. “You sit down, sister. Both of you.”
They sit together on the couch facing the man. They both look scared but Bill’s got a weird look on his face like he’s remembering something. I turn to him but keep the gun on our visitor.
“You know this guy, Bill?”
“Something about him, Mr. Weiss. I just can’t remember –”
“It’s all right, Verackal,” the man says like he’s comforting a little kid. “These things happen once in a while. As soon as we get you home, you’ll be just fine.”
I look at him. “Where’s home?”
The man looks at me. “I said I wasn’t answering any questions so please don’t bother to ask.”
I put the gun to his left temple. “You’ve got three seconds.”
Miss Taylor jumps up. “No, Mr. Weiss! Please.”
“I said sit down!” I turn back to our friend. “So what’s it gonna be?”
The man looks at me with disgust. “You would do it, wouldn’t you? You were all savages.”
“Were?” I ask with a smirk. “I’m still here, pops. Now then. One, two –”
“All right!”
I step back and look at him. I’ve never seen anyone so scared. And I’ve put a few guns to heads in my time. I keep the pistol on him.
“Who are you and where the hell did you come from?”
“Mr. Weiss,” the man says slowly. “My name is – well it’s not important. I’m a remote access operator of Time of Your Life Travels. I work for a travel agency.”
I push the barrel into his temple. “What kinda travel agency?”
The man glances at me sucking on his teeth. “A time travel agency, Mr. Weiss. The man you call Bill is one of our clients. He wanted a travel package to 1940’s America. He wanted to see New York and New Mexico. In particular he wanted to see what you call an atomic bomb.”
“A time travel –” Emily Taylor trails off. She looks at Bill, her eyes wide. “You mean to say that you’re not of this time, Bill?”
“More than that, dear lady,” the man says smugly. “He’s not even human. His appearance is an illusion, as is mine.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off Bill. “Not even human –”
I dig the gun into his head. “What did you do to him? Why can’t he remember anything? Why’s he so afraid to go outside?”
“Memory loss happens occasionally in time travel,” the man explains. “Not often but it does. Certain clients lose their personal memories while still retaining their higher brain functions – the ability to read and write and so forth. It has something to do with the individual’s inability to accept that he’s traveling back to a time before he existed. Therefore he loses all memory of his identity. It’s an infrequent occurrence I can assure you. But it does happen to certain parties for a variety of psychological reasons. As to his fear of going outside, it’s likely a residual concern about altering the time stream. We’re very strict about telling our clients not to do anything that might interfere with future events.”
“This can’t be.” Bill stands up. “How could I not be human? I eat, I sleep, I breathe –”
The man waved his hand. “Nevertheless it’s true, Verackal. You’re actually a – well there’s no point in telling you. You wouldn’t believe me. I assure you, though, you’ll get your identity back and a full refund for your troubles as soon as we make the return trip.”
“But I’m not going anywhere! I want to stay here, with Emily. She wants me here.” He turns to her. “Don’t you?”
She hasn’t taken her eyes away from him. “Bill –”
“Alright enough!” I say. “Nobody’s going anywhere.” I turn back to the man. “And you – can the Buck Rogers racket and start giving me some straight answers.”
The man eyes me. “I might be able to explain this more clearly if I showed you my, er, notebook.”
“Okay. But slowly, pal. No funny stuff.”
He reaches down to the floor and picks up the notebook. “Oh certainly.”
Then he opens the book and a flashbulb goes off in my head. What feels like a second later I’m on the couch between Bill and Miss Taylor. They’re both down for the count.
The man approaches me holding his notebook to his narrow chest. “Oh you’re awake, Mr. Weiss. I compliment you on your recuperative powers.”
“I can’t move.”
He gives me that same smug smile. “Merely the aftereffect of my, er, notebook. You’ll be able to move after I complete the adjustments.” He takes a pen out of his coat pocket and starts jotting down notes in his book.
“Adjustments?”
“To your memory, Mr. Weiss. We can’t have you and Miss Taylor – or the butler and Mr. Taylor for that matter – walking around with memories of us. It would be bad for business.”
“You’re gonna lobotomize us?”
He laughs softly. “Nothing so barbaric. I’m going to replace your recent memories with new ones. You won’t remember us, but you can remember whatever you like.” He scribbles in his notebook. “Do you find the young lady attractive?”
“You’re kidding right?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll just replace all of your memories with those of a love affair. It would easily explain why you’re in this house. There doesn’t seem to be anything in the historical records against it.”
* * *
I leave Emily’s place around midnight with the smell of her perfume in my nose and memory of her lips on mine. Even after all these months I still can’t figure what she sees in a guy like me. She could have anybody in the world if she wanted to. And even her old man doesn’t mind me. It’s crazy I’m so lucky. I don’t know how I got so lucky. But I’m not going to walk under any ladders on my way home, just in case.
I toss my keys on my kitchen table and start to empty my pockets. Stuck on a five dollar bill is one of Emily’s bobby pins. I put it in a bowl on the mantle in the living room to remind myself to give it back to her. That girl loses so many things. She’s got no memory for anything.
My phone rings. I look at my watch – just past twelve-thirty. If it’s a client I’m hanging up. I don’t care how hard up I am for money. Callahan’s on the line when I answer.
“So Jake, how’d it go?”
“How’d what go?”
“Didn’t you go over to the Taylors’?”
“Sure I did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What about the guy who’s been shacking up there? The one Emily Taylor’s got the hots for?”
“The guy shacking up there?”
“What’re you, drunk? The guy I told you about.”
My mouth goes dry. I barely get out the words. “I gotta go, Callahan.”
I replace the receiver and light a smoke. I’ve been on some benders in my day but to forget something like that? Could I have it so bad for Emily that I can block this kind of thing out? She told me all that running around was all over now. She said she was going to play straight with me.
I peek out my blinds. My street’s quiet, like there’s not another living soul anywhere. I suddenly feel like I’m in a haunted world. I should go out and clear my head, try to remember what Callahan told me. There’s no point in staying home with just memories.
Who am I kidding? What do I need to remember? I’ve just got to do it. I’ve got to break it off with her. There’s no point in being played for a fool. But still, it’ll be pretty hard letting a girl like Emily Taylor slip my mind.
About the Author
Christopher Mari was born in Brooklyn, New York and received his education at Fordham University. His fiction, nonfiction and poetry have appeared in a number of publications, including The Absent Willow Review, Citizen Culture Magazine, Midnight Times, and Third Rail. He is also the editor of four reference books.
©2010 Christopher Mari
