A Life On Fire Page 5

  “That, my friend, is probably the smartest question you’ve asked yourself yet.”

  “Oh yeah, right . . . not about where, all that existential bullshit,” Gerald said, dropping to the ground. He brought his knees up to his chest before lying down as if to do a sit-up. Instead, he stared at the sky, for the first time noticing that while it was blue like “his” sky, it was the wrong blue. It was more of a 1950s Daphne blue, like some old hot rod Archie and Veronica might cruise around in. His thoughts drifted in and around the sky’s color, whether he’d still have a job, if he’d ever quit lapsing into this fucked up alternate world, whether Archie wound up with Betty or Veronica, and whether he’d fucked either of them in that hot rod, with Jughead probably watching and jerking off in the front seat—

  Gerald shook his head. “I really need to quit drinking and get some real sleep.”

  Mr. Holman raised his eyebrow again, then nodded in agreement. “Substance abuse plus lack of sleep tends to be taxing on one’s body.”

  Gerald responded by laughing and shaking his head again. “No shit,” he said. He sat back up, hugging his knees to himself. “So I’m overthinking this whole thing, right?”

  Mr. Holman nodded.

  “My wife is dead. She’s been on my mind more than usual lately. Is that and this whole mess a coincidence?”

  “Keep her in your thoughts. She’ll help you now more than she ever could before.”

  “Before what? Before she died?”

  “Your world was not meant to house one such as her.”

  “One such as her . . . What does that mean? And what does ‘your world’ mean? I really am in a different reality, aren’t I? Or am I just going crazy?”

  “It’s not about crazy.” Mr. Holman straightened his glasses.

  “I have no idea what the hell that means, but I’m not even trying to figure it out. No more overthinking from me. But what about Tracy? Why did I see her in the forest that night, with all those fucking things assaulting her? What does she have to do with this?”

  “Perhaps you’ll get to ask her yourself.”

  “I already have, haven’t I? I talked to her the other day—” The memory of talking to Tracy after the car wreck flooded back to Gerald. “How many times have I been to this reality? This place? I feel like whenever I’m here, I can’t remember my world, but when I’m there, I can’t remember here.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re overthinking it again,” Mr. Holman said, sounding like Ward Cleaver patronizing Wally and the Beaver.

  Gerald rolled his eyes, but pressed on. “Fuck that. Did I talk to Tracy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see her whenever I want here?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gerald had expected a yes or no. “Not yet?”

  Mr. Holman shook his head slowly back and forth, stone faced.

  Gerald considered this for a moment. He realized getting answers from Mr. Holman wasn’t impossible, but took some finesse. He considered the wording of his question carefully. Rather than being confrontational, he chose to stay positive. “When can I?”

  “She told you, you have a choice.” Mr. Holman stood up, looking as if he was finished with the conversation and would soon be moving on.

  Gerald did not respond, but watched him with curious respect in his eyes. “I miss her,” he said, more at Mr. Holman than to him.

  Mr. Holman nodded again, this time closing his eyes and looking as if he genuinely understood.

  “Gerald,” Mr. Holman said, “you’re not in control here. Do not behave as if you are.”

  Before Gerald could respond, Mr. Holman turned and ran into the field, disappearing past the fence that hadn’t been there thirty seconds prior. Gerald turned around again and saw his house immediately behind him. He looked to the sky and saw that it had faded to its customary powdery pastel blue, streaked with clouds. No idea what to make of the encounter with Mr. Holman, or his parting words, he continued out to the field to retrieve his pistol.

  Gerald walked back and forth between the woods and the field for nearly two hours before he found the pistol, which turned out to be loaded, just as he’d thought. He took out the magazine, wanting to give it a thorough cleaning before it was fired again. It hadn’t rained in the last several days, but sitting out in the grass and dirt certainly hadn’t been good on it.

  He turned to walk home, but thought it was worth looking into the woods to see if there was any sign of the fire. He doubted he’d find anything, but had more courage to check with the daylight.

  Three more hours of searching through the woods turned up nothing, which convinced Gerald that either the events at the fire had for sure taken place in the other reality, or that he was for sure bat shit crazy.

  It’s not about crazy, he said, quoting Mr. Holman. He smiled, surprising himself when he realized he was looking forward to seeing Mr. Holman again. Maybe he’d try to be a little nicer and more civil to the guy next time. Or maybe he’d luck out, wake up in bed, find that the last three days hadn’t gone by, and there wouldn’t be a next time. Still, finding out that he’d communicated with Tracy in the other reality made it less unappealing. He wasn’t sure what they’d talked about, or even if he’d really talked to her, but anything was better than nothing.

  The back door to the house opened and Gerald stepped through. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong. There were no messes, no papers strewn about, nothing seemingly out of place, but he knew someone had been here. He slipped the pistol from his waistband and reloaded it as quietly as he could, deciding he’d rather chance firing a dirty gun than happen upon an intruder without it. A noise came from the bedroom, and Gerald sprinted down the hall. He burst through the doorway in time to see a shadow slip through the open window, curtains billowing. Gerald ran to the window and looked out but saw nothing. How could he have seen the thing, whatever it had been, slip out, but not see it running away?

  “Because it wasn’t really there,” he said. Not in any real sense, anyway.

  Gerald called the office to see if they’d opened back up yet. There was no answer, even after the phone rang eight times. He let it ring another ten times and hung up. He thought about calling Matilda at home, to see if she knew what was going on, but couldn’t find her number in his phone.

  “You’ve known her how long and don’t have her phone number?” he said to himself. Many things were becoming evident to him, many of which he didn’t like, such as his apparent habit of taking those around him for granted. He’d have to talk to some of his friends and see if . . . and it struck him that he didn’t really have any friends.

  When Tracy was still alive, they’d had lots of close friends, but since she’d died, he’d cut himself off from nearly everyone. All except the idiots at work, he thought.

  Had he cut himself off purposefully? No, of course not. Looking back, he wasn’t even aware of the point at which he’d ceased to have any real friends, but it didn’t really matter, did it? The end result was the same, and whether it had been the day after her funeral or six months down the line, here he was, standing in the kitchen with no one to whom he could turn.

  No one?

  Well, that wasn’t completely true.

  Gerald smiled and chuckled through his nose as he thought about Wilson. Jesus, how long had it been since he’d talked to the guy? Tracy had never gotten along with Wilson so, as such friendships often do, theirs had faded considerably as she’d taken a larger role in Gerald’s life. Wilson’s number wasn’t even in this cell phone, even though Gerald had had it for nearly two years.

  Two years. A long time to go without speaking to the closest friend he’d ever had. They had grown up together, from the time they were eight years old. During school, they’d alternated spending the weekends at each other’s houses, spent countless hours cruising once they’d obtained driver’s licenses, drank their first beers together . . . not too different from many young American males. However, their story had come to an e
nd without Gerald even realizing it.

  He set to work digging through his desk to find Wilson’s number. He knew his drinking had been getting out of hand, and he needed to dial it back more than a few notches, but he needed to get back together with his friend before he did so. Hell, he needed to get completely obliterated with a friend, maybe get some of this shit off his chest. If they were drunk, he could tell Wilson everything, and even if Wilson remembered it the next day, he’d surely pass it off as Gerald’s drunken ramblings.

  “There it is,” Gerald said, smiling. He immediately frowned, and wondered why he had said that aloud. With all the shit he’d gone through over the last few days, talking to himself was probably the least crazy bit.

  He dialed the numbers into his phone, but paused with his thumb on the send button. What was he supposed to say? How do you initiate a conversation with a friend he hadn’t spoken to in years? Before he could chicken out, he decided to wing it and hit send.

  The phone rang three times before a man with slightly slurred speech answered it.

  “Wilson?” Gerald said.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Gerald.” The line was silent for a moment, and Gerald assumed he’d hung up. At least he didn’t tell me to fuck off, he thought.

  “Gerald, what the fuck man? How you doing?” Wilson’s voice raised in slightly drunken excitement.

  “Been better,” Gerald said, smiling. “It’s been awhile.”

  “No fuckin’ shit, it’s been awhile. What are you doing?”

  “Hoping you’re in the mood to throw back a few.”

  “Fuck yeah, man. You still local?”

  “Yeah, but it sounds like maybe I should head your way. Like maybe you already threw back a few.” He immediately regretted offering this. Now he’d have to ride the damn bike.

  “Got laid off from work a few weeks ago, so why the hell not, right? You remember how to get here?”

  “Yeah,” Gerald said, smiling again. “I remember.”

  Chapter 14

  Gerald knocked on the door, a case of Budweiser in his left hand. Even though Wilson hadn’t sounded angry at him, he thought he’d be better off not showing up empty handed. The door opened and Gerald saw Wilson, hair shorter and slightly heavier than the last time he’d seen him, step around it. Wilson stared at him a minute before grinning and grabbing him in one of those drunken straight guy hugs.

  “Good to fuckin’ see you, man.” Wilson pulled him in the door, pushing it shut behind him. “Damn good to see you.”

  “I know. You, too.”

  “What’s this?” Wilson said, pointing and taking the case of beer. “Peace offering?”

  And there it was.

  “Well, uh . . .” Gerald began, no idea how to address their ignored friendship. Wilson grinned again and laughed.

  “I’m just fucking with you. Here,” he said, tearing open the case and pulling out a can for each of them, “Mi casa es blah blah blah. Grab a seat and let’s get drinking.”

  Gerald smiled and did just that, knowing it was exactly what he needed.

  Two hours and a few beers later, Wilson sat back and ran his hands through his hair. “Holy shit, man. You’re not making this shit up, are you?”

  Gerald shook his head. “Wish I was. I’ve been flipping out. I wouldn’t trade seeing her again for anything, but . . . I don’t even know if that really happened. Don’t even know if any of it really happened.”

  “What about the guy getting hit by the truck? That would’ve been on the news or something. Shit like that doesn’t happen without everybody hearing about it.”

  “I don’t know if that happened here, or if somehow he followed me to the other reality.” Gerald still felt stupid referring to another reality.

  “What about the truck? Didn’t you say you’d seen it here?” Wilson seemed to be taking everything in stride much more easily than Gerald had expected.

  “At first I thought it was either-or, but now I’m not so sure, like maybe there isn’t a definite division between the two,” Gerald said, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

  Wilson lit a cigarette of his own and stood up. “Gotta hit the head, man. Be right back.” Gerald laughed and nodded. He’d be making a trip to the bathroom soon, himself. Gerald stood, wanting to finish his cigarette outside. He realized the irony of wanting fresh air while smoking, but didn’t care. Apathy was getting to be a common feeling for him.

  Three steps from the couch, Gerald’s head began to spin. He stopped, trying to remember how much he’d had to drink. He knew the cool outside air would help the wooziness, but he wasn’t sure if he could make it to the door. He turned to go back to the couch, stumbled, and collapsed. Crawling, he made it back to the couch, climbed onto it, and passed out.

  “Wake up!”

  Gerald’s eyes snapped open to a face only inches from his own. His vision cleared, and he expected to see Wilson, but instead, it was Mr. Holman.

  “What the f—” Gerald stopped abruptly as he noticed he wasn’t on Wilson’s couch, or even in the apartment. Instead he was lying in a field of dirt. The sun was up, but for some reason there was a campfire burning nearby. He knew he should be getting used to this by now, but growing accustomed to such reality shifts was a frightening prospect. Who knew how long he’d have to adjust.

  Gerald rolled onto his back and yelled, unable to take the idea of this going on the rest of his life. He stood, sober, and turned to Mr. Holman.

  “I can’t take this shit anymore. Tell me what the fuck is going on, or I’ll eat a fucking bullet.”

  Mr. Holman raised an eyebrow, holding Gerald’s stare. “Threatening suicide? I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Gerald.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” Gerald said. “Why didn’t you just stay dead?”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “More of the cryptic shit. Wonderful.” Gerald grimaced. He turned from Mr. Holman, patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette. Mr. Holman tapped his shoulder, holding a pack to Gerald, who promptly snatched it from the outstretched hand. By the time Gerald had one in his mouth, Mr. Holman was offering him a lighter. Gerald took it, though more reluctantly than the cigarettes. He lit the cigarette, dragged deeply, and exhaled, sighing.

  “Why is this happening?” he asked again.

  “You know I can’t tell you. But I think you know.”

  “No. I don’t. If I knew, I’d do something about it. Something to stop this shit.”

  “Would you?”

  “What, do you think I’m enjoying this?”

  “What have you ever enjoyed?”

  Gerald started to shout, but something about the question froze him. He closed his mouth and looked off, really considering what he had enjoyed. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply, and whispered a name, the name that had tormented him these last several years. Hr. Holman stepped closer and placed his hand on Gerald’s shoulder.

  Still staring away, Gerald said, “So what am I supposed to do?” He raised his cigarette, taking a final drag before flipping it away.

  “I’m not here to tell you what to do. That is your choice.” Gerald turned to Mr. Holman, but he was gone. He looked at the fire, watched the orange flame fade to green, then purple. As the flame then shifted to black, he faded right along with it.

  “Hey, Gerald, wake up, man.”

  Gerald snapped awake, entirely conscious and sober. “What the—” he started, but was cut off, almost choking on his tongue. It felt swollen, inflamed as if infected. He clutched his throat, unable to think of anything else to do.

  “Oh, fuck, man, you’re choking,” Wilson said. Gerald shook his head, mouthed “water” and continued trying to pry his throat open. Wilson ran to the kitchen, filled a glass halfway, and ran back to Gerald, almost shoving it into his mouth. As soon as the water hit his tongue, the swelling subsided, and he could breathe again.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, coughing. Gerald tried to stand, almost f
ell, and settled for doubling over with his hands on his knees. “How long was I out? What happened?”

  Wilson looked at him, confused despite the story Gerald had told him earlier. “Out? I don’t know, man. I went to take a piss, came back and saw you on the floor. Couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.”

  Gerald stared at him in disbelief. A minute or two? “I think I was in the other reality again. Sometimes I can remember things. Like now, I remember Mr. Holman.”

  “Oh shit, the guy who got hit by the truck?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s always him that I see.”

  “Like in Pet Sematary. The doc can’t save that college kid that got hit, and he keeps coming back to help them.” Great. Of all the books in the world for his life to mirror, it was hard to think of a worse one than Pet Sematary.

  “If I start burying shit in the backyard, you should get really worried.” Gerald was surprised he had a sense of humor about this. Wilson stared at him for another second or two, then burst out laughing.

  “Fuck man, this shit’s nuts. No way I could hold it together as well as you.”

  “Hold it together? Are you kidding? I haven’t been to work in I don’t know how long. I’ve spent almost every moment I can remember drunk or in some fucking alternate reality. I wake up in the field behind my house, then walk home to find beer cans shot up all over the place. A guy chased me down the street with scissors and got hit by a truck, and his body was disintegrated. Disintegrated, like it’s fucking Star Trek or something.”

  “If it was Star Trek it would be disruptors. Or phasers.” Wilson held a straight face for a minute, then cracked up again. “Come on, man. You gotta lighten up about this. Just go with the flow, know what I mean?”