Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  The smell from earlier is still in the hallway as you return home. Stale now. Less appetizing. You unlock your door and enter. Someone has been there. Items have been subtly moved. Drawers left open. This is not an unusual occurrence. It's been happening for some time now. Whenever you are away for any length of time. Sometimes while you are sleeping. You wake up or arrive to find unsettling disturbances. At first you just assumed it was forgetfulness on your part -- thinking you'd left your shoes at the door when you actually took them off elsewhere -- or perhaps due to the wind as you always keep the windows open, or maybe an unnoted bump in the night as you stumbled through the darkness for a glass of water. But the instances have become more pronounced. And you've come to expect them. Taking precautions before heading out or turning in.

  You make a quick check to be sure that nothing has gone too far astray and take a seat at your desk. Opening the top drawer and fetching a pair of scissors and a bottle of glue. And your hand then moves to the back of the drawer and your head swivels to be sure that whoever it was who was here hasn't decided to stick around. Unlatching a hidden compartment and pulling out a leather-bound scrapbook -- placing it at your feet as your attention shifts to the newspaper you purchased on the crowded streets not ten minutes before.

  And you set about on what has become a daily ritual. Clipping any story related to the latest disappearance. Police statements. Physical descriptions of the person in question and a list of character traits -- hobbies, professions, haunts, that kind of thing. Sobbing quotes from friends and family. Editorial comments.

  Recaps of the previous disappearances -- noting the similarities in the cases and chalking it up to another in a 'wave of mysterious occurrences.' Nobody's officially using the word 'crime.' But that's what they're thinking. That's what we're all thinking...isn't it? And one more crude sketch of the man who was last seen in the company of the missing person.

  The composite drawings are beginning to converge. You have them pasted on two sides of adjoining pages. Six on one side. Six on the other. You'll have to start another page if tonight produces one more. What began as a long-haired drifter sort has now become a fairly respectable looking man in his late 20's or early 30's. The earlier witnesses have since altered their details to fit more closely with the newer renditions. And the man's face you now look at, with glue drying on the back of his head, could be any of a thousand people who inhabit the city. Medium hair, moderately good looking, medium build, average height.

  You've seen this man many times. In one way or another. If the hair was parted on the other side. Or if he grew a mustache or a beard. If he was wearing eye glasses or a hat. You've even seen him in the mirror.

  But how many of those thousands of men are keeping a scrapbook of these events? What is your interest? Why have you pasted all of these articles and headlines and drawings in this book? The question hovers through the room as you put the book back in the secret compartment and place what remains of the newspaper in the sink -- running water over it until it becomes an unidentifiable wad of muck. And you toss the wad into a bucket to let it dry...before taking it somewhere many blocks from here to dispose of.

  Curious behavior indeed.

  As you are drying your hands a knock comes at your door.

  Chapter 3

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for someone that I believe lives here."

  Before you stands a woman of striking beauty. With shoulder length blonde hair and extremely harsh features. She speaks with an accent you can not immediately place. She's not young. Perhaps in her forties. Her eyes are searching, darting behind you around the apartment. Her mouth is hungry. This could be your lucky day.

  "Well, you've found him. I'm the occupant of this residence."

  She looks you over carefully. "No, you're not him."

  You do not want to discourage her. But what should you say?

  "Perhaps the person you are looking for is a friend of mine and was paying me a visit during your encounter."

  "No, I apologize. I've obviously made a mistake"

  She turns to leave.

  "Wait. There is somebody else who lives here." Think, think. Could this person in question be the same one who disrupts your belongings? "Can you describe him to me?"

  She does not trust you. You can see this in her demeanor. But she is desperate. You pick this up as well. She must find this man.

  "When will he be returning?"

  "It's hard to say. Our paths rarely cross. To be honest, I barely know him." Clever. You feel better for telling a bit of truth. "You are more than welcome to come inside and wait for a while. I was about to make some coffee. And I have food if you're hungry."

  "No. That's impossible. I have to be going. Thank you anyway, it's a very kind offer."

  "I could relay a message for you. If you'd like."

  "Yes. Thank you. He has something of mine. He was supposed to bring it to me yesterday but he did not appear. Please leave him a note or tell him in person that I was here and that I'll be attending the carnival this evening. I would very much appreciate it if you could do that for me." She pauses and gives you a long look that falls somewhere between flirtatious and downright lurid -- and will undoubtedly be finding its way into your dreams for many nights to come. The effect completely obliterates any obvious inquiries to her or yourself as to this reference to the carnival. "And perhaps you could encourage him to bring me what is mine. As you can no doubt guess, I am very eager to have it back. I would be extremely grateful if you convey my urgency and exercise whatever amount of friendly persuasion you might possess."

  Okay. You're hooked. Damn you're enjoying this. "Can you tell me what the item is? So that I can speak to him more candidly. And please...can I have your name?...so that I can identify you?"

  "He will know these answers. I and my belongings are not easily forgotten."

  And with that, she walks away. Her legs moving with a precision that you take every possible moment to admire. Lighting a cigarette as she descends the staircase. Another burning aroma mingling in. You watch as more and more of her blonde head disappears with each step. Wow. Her perfume remains in your doorway, along with her phrases. And you take them all in, indulging in her essence, noting all the details of the conversation. Securing one in particular. Grabbing it in mid air with a deep, slow breath. Yes...it's safe to say that you will be 'attending the carnival this evening'.

  Upon her departure, the inevitable elements of reality immediately begin to settle in. Perhaps she knocked on the wrong door. The building on this block all share similar characteristics. Three or four stories. Arched entrance ways. Facades with only the slightest of differences. And the same could be said for any number building on the adjoining blocks. It was probably dark when she visited last. Yes, she was obviously mistaken. But that doesn't mean you should deny yourself...

  But she was so determined. What were you doing leading her on like that? You should have confirmed her error and assisted her along the way to hopefully the right door. You actions may very well have prevented her from reclaiming what she is rightfully hers. Who are you to take such liberty with people's emotions?

  Just because you are presented with the opportunity does not mean you should take advantage of it. Right? You must now take every action to help her. Even if that means finding her and confessing your indiscretion. But how will she react? She'll be mad and blame you for everything. She'll have her boyfriend beat you up. Who knows?

  Wait, who knocked on who's door? You didn't seek her out to cause trouble. And what if she wasn't mistaken? What if she had the right address? Who is this fellow she's looking for? He might be able to provide more than a few insights. But another thought presses at your mind. Are you sure it wasn't you she was seeking after all? Now that she is safely out of your sight, her mention of the carnival soun
ds a chord of warning. What are the odds that two complete strangers would lure you to this place in the span of less than an hour? Was her mention of this place an invitation? Is this all a big setup? Is this a game of cat-and-mouse and, if so, what are the stakes?

  Are you thinking straight? Get a grip. You're the one in control here. Let's not forget that.

  Chapter 4

  You make a pot of coffee and a couple sandwiches. Sitting down at a wooden table which stands beside a window looking out on the busy street below. The window is open so the sounds of the city drift into your apartment. You like the distraction. Your mind is troubled and right now all you want to worry about is eating your lunch. Looking out, chewing your sandwich and sipping your coffee, you begin to drift down lanes of thought. Some old. Some new. This is your most common pastime activity. The people who have known you over the years call you a daydreamer. You don't pay it much mind. The thoughts never come to anything. They're just thoughts -- floating around in your head and into the world.

  Hovering in the sky. Watching over the struggling souls and bent-over old men and rusted train cars. Meandering out to sea.

  Letting it all go...

 

  Your coffee has gone cold and you've finished your sandwiches. Your face conveys a mixture of melancholy and trance-like tranquility. But a sound within your apartment breaks the spell. Bringing you back to reality.

  It's the phone this time. Ringing through the apartment like an alarm. A sudden and loud disturbance that makes your heart race. It takes you a moment to identify the source, thinking it might be the doorbell -- hoping for a return visitor. You do not rise to answer the phone. You can't remember the last time you answered a phone. You think it's bad luck. Nobody you know would be calling you here. And you do not want to speak to somebody you do not know over the phone -- that's never a good thing. It could be a solicitor who would take up your time trying to get you to buy some product or sign up for some service of which you have absolutely no interest. Or it could be the police, bothering you with questions. Or a wrong number. It could be someone who knows of your existence and is looking for some bit of information. If it's important, they'll show up in person. Like the woman did earlier. If it's not, you don't want to hear it.

  The ringing ceases and all is quiet. No sounds come through the window. Stillness has crept over everything. The hour of the blackout has struck. And all citizens must observe it with all due diligence -- conserving all energy within their domain. No driving. No traveling of any sort. No conversation. The streets have emptied. Part of the new collection of laws drawn up to deter looting and other unsavory behavior. The phone call was probably an announcement from one of the neighborhood watchmen. Informing you of the shut down. Doing their part.

  It's the hour of nothing. And in this sanctioned off arena, your mind begins to worry. Churning in dark abandonment. The floodgates open and you sink into the abyss.

  Here you go again...

  We all kidded each other. So many times. Gathered around a lonely campfire with our plans for the future. Casting crackling silhouettes against tethered shelters. Gazing up at the eternal sky and making our simple observations. Connecting the dots to find some sense in our lives. What did we know?...back then. Of what it means to come face to face with the brutal limits of our

  human condition.

  Walking the straights and the narrows. Running to the whatever landmark we decided was safe -- at the slightest sign of danger. Stepping out onto basement landings to get a breath of air during those days of laying low. Years are there for a reason and they have a way of piling up when they're feeling neglected. And you can see them from desert motels and from early morning kitchen windows. Finding yourself seated at a cheap table with a cup of coffee and a plate full of stupid mistakes. Burying your head in hands and sifting through a random collection of what-if realizations. Fighting the morning sun -- with its unkind ruminations...how many times has it risen looking the same and how can you ever measure the ways you have changed?

  Out the side screen door to do another day. What else are you going to do? Really...

  Was there a day? A moment? An hour? Long ago. Did a flash visit you on a random corner some mile down the road? Telling you that you were free to move right along on your beaten path but you do have a choice. Maybe you should have just pulled over to take a look at the map and get a couple hours of rest. Sometimes the road needs fresh light to be seen clearly. There's only so far you can go when you stay safely between the lines. No directions were ever paved.

  No destination was ever marked. You've got to be skeptical when they try to fold away the world into pocket-sized convenience. You'll never get there from here. Not now. And if you could go back and locate your violent skid marks you'd just find a brand new set of matching lanes, looking so proud and full of themselves...so sure of their destiny.

  Bags were packed and so much was left behind. Seasons change... turning evening into muddy water and synthesizing sand into pale-gathered misty thunder. Gazed-upon horizons glowing with the promise of surrender and sweet escape. Playing hide and seek with frozen images...cracked and broken and settling on boarded up resting places -- shelved by tired arms...tattooed with old stories. Save your memories for someone who cares. Closing time is close at hand and you're not the only one who has business here.

  Dead-man's curve is always there...lying in wait to claim another set of sad eyes. With trunks filled to the brim, buckling on impact, leaving a smuggler's ransom out in the open...a miserable treasure chest of symbolic manifestations. Making their way to a salvage yard existing in the exiled spaces of our lives. Waiting in shame to be sifted through by shadowy refugees. Washed up on a foreign shore. Searching for some idea of a better world. Ideals ground down to dusty

  recriminations. Willing to settle for whatever image of freedom they're able to get their hands on...some trinket to soothe the fenced-off wounds...something to hold on to as the sun sinks into the west. Tighter and tighter.

  Crossing a line within yourself. Arriving at the edge of a run down continent. A payphone receiver is dangling in the breeze. The diner sign is burned out. And you're standing on two legs in the middle of the road. Deciphering the tilted sign at the edge of this tombstone existence. A simple word that carried a once-upon meaning you can't quite translate.

  Welcome...

  Where are you? What is happening?

  It's the dead of night. And the war is in full swing. Artillery blasts somewhere in the deep blackness. Nothing that will ever be confirmed. No official accounts in the morning papers. Maybe they're just going through the motions, flexing a bit of muscle -- conducting exercises to cast a shadow on the latest battle of words. Maybe they're setting off some excess inventory...knowing next time around there will be a whole new and exciting collection of bigger, smarter, more destructive, more silent peace keeping forces. Or maybe those percussive sounds are in your head...reverberating through your skull as you sweat out another in a series of nightmare missions. Stumbling along a charred shoreline.

  Eyeing one of the countless shells littering the forsaken beach, looking so beautiful and innocent. Holding it up to hear the music of oblivion...to escape into murky wonder of the ocean. Listen hard. Hold it closer. Seems to be a storm out at sea. Wind crashing into the abandoned battlements, waves commanding an all-out retreat, a crack of thunder exploding in your ear.

  A white cloud descending...

  Wake to nothing. To the dead sound of the city. Looking out. Letting your gaze fall on the shadowed memories that stalk these hidden hours. The blackout is in effect. Yes, but things are not as they were. You're in the middle of it all. The streets are crowded with burning tires and surly, sleep-deprived lawmen -- with loosely holstered side arms dangling within easy reach of any number of weary arms. Inviting trouble. Directing traffic and pointing towards sinister looking side roads at your inquiry. You're
lost in the depths of a vanishing border town excursion. Your life is getting lost in this mad shuffle. Lock the doors and move. Just move. And keep moving. Nobody's in any position to lend a hand out here. You're on your own.

  Returning to your seat beside the window. Keeping your restless vigil for the word and nursing your tattered nerves. Tomorrow is always there. Just beyond the scattered sky. And it will be expecting you to make an appearance. Sitting still. Resolving yourself to nothing...to all that awaits your weary word. Knowing it's out there. Knowing there is no escape. Only survival.

  And the faces of the missing have gathered around the table. Dropping in to find out if you have any information as to their whereabouts. They know about your scrapbook and your secret fear. But they're not here to point fingers. They just want to be found. And they're hoping you can help -- that you can find it within yourself to...

  An air raid siren announces the end of the blackout. The city can go back about its business. You return to the day. The missing have gone. You're in a state of unsettled exhaustion. You go to get a glass of water and again notice that many items in your apartment have become disturbed. For one thing, the handbill regarding the carnival, which you removed from your pocket earlier and placed on your desktop, now lies next to the phone in the kitchen. And beside it rests the still drying ball of newspaper.