Solo

by Mike Kilroy

  It was the one with Ross and Rachel …

  Solo observed Lydia’s head bow, and then her sullen eyes peer at him from across the room. He could tell she felt bad for him, but was at a loss as to how to express it.

  He knew she cared for him deeply.

  BRG made a hasty retreat as Lydia slinked back to the table.

  She took her seat slowly and cracked a half smile. “Who was the freak in the nasty robe?”

  Solo shrugged. It occurred to him then that he didn’t know his real name. It never struck him to ask. He just knew him as Brown Robe Guy—BRG for short.

  “I can take care of him for you,” Lydia whispered.

  Solo chuckled. “That’s okay. He’s harmless.”

  “He’s in here. He’s not harmless. I can make it look like an accident. It wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Lydia’s face was expressionless and cold. Part of Solo knew she was kidding, but part of him wondered if she was serious. It occurred to Solo just then that he really didn’t know much about this woman who sat in front of him, leaning over the table and peering at him with the devil in her eyes.

  Solo stammered, at a loss as to how to respond. His fears were allayed by her sudden chortle. “I’m sorry, Morris. You’re so gullible.” Her face grew serious again. “I’m sorry about everything, Morris.”

  “Don’t you start saying ‘Morris’ after every sentence, too.”

  Lydia chuckled. “He’s an annoying little man, isn’t he?”

  Solo smiled. “God! Ya think?”

  “I can take care of him, too, you know.” She drew her index finger across her throat.

  Solo laughed.

  Lydia didn’t.

  They slipped into the game of war and Solo realized what a pointless contest it was. Just the math alone indicated no one could win—at least not quickly. Any gains Solo had made were quickly erased and vice versa. But it was a nice diversion and it at least kept her sitting with him and talking.

  “What do you remember … I mean … about us?” Lydia asked. Her voice sounded weird to Solo, almost as if she really didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “I remember we’re close. You always cared for me and stuck by me. I always felt like I could count on you.”

  She smiled and flipped cards. “I’m glad you remember that.” Then her face turned grim. “Do you remember … you know … anything else? Do you remember … the things you did?”

  Solo sighed. He didn’t—not really. He remembered his struggles, his idiosyncrasies, his quirks. He was eccentric, he knew that. He also knew there was a fine line between whimsy and crazy. He feared he had crossed it.

  He knew he was sick. He knew he needed help. But he felt very lucid and in control now and he told her as much.

  She smiled, but it quickly soured into a frown. “But you still don’t really know who I am, do you?”

  Solo felt like he did. He stopped flipping cards and looked at her for a long, long time. He could tell it unnerved and disquieted her, but he didn’t care. He tried to remember. He latched on to a few fleeting recollections, images of her playful smile, of her pulling at his hand and of her pecking him on the forehead and punching him on the arm. That, though, was the extent of his memory. It wasn’t very substantial, he painfully admitted.

  “I know you will never bail on me,” Solo said. “That’s enough for me.”

  “Do you know why I will never bail on you?”

  “Because you love me?”

  “Well, yes, but do you know why I love you?”

  That was such a broad question and one that caught Solo by surprise. Does anyone really know why they love another? Sure, there are the usual answers: physical attractiveness, common interests and trust.

  He had no idea why she loved him.

  Solo shrugged.

  “I hope you remember soon. Doc says I can’t tell you, that you need to remember it on your own. But I want to tell you. Maybe if you knew, things would come back to you. Things would be easier and maybe you’d understand.”

  “Tell me then.”

  She didn’t have the chance. Dr. Hu gripped Solo’s shoulders and squeezed. For a man as short and with as small a set of hands as Dr. Hu, he had a strong clamp. “Lydia, I think Morris needs some rest.”

  Lydia pushed herself away from the table and scowled at the doctor. “Fine. I’ll be back. See you later, alligator.”

  Solo watched her leave. He felt a crush of sadness come over him. He wanted to go with her, but knew he couldn’t.

  “After awhile, crocodile,” he whispered.

  ***

  Solo wasn’t sure this was such a bright idea. He vaguely remembered the place, but most of the recollections were of pain and loneliness.

  As he stepped through the door and stood on the cream-colored, shag carpet of his home, his heart raced and everything inside him screamed, “Escape!”

  Solo stood his ground. It was time to face his demons, even if they were just a sink full of dirty dishes and piles of wrinkled clothes strewn about the floor and furniture.

  His home was more of a cottage really—an old servant’s quarters on a sprawling acreage of land owned by a wealthy man who did what wealthy men do—a lot of nothing, it seemed.

  The house had a living room, a dining room, a small kitchen, an even smaller bathroom, and one bedroom. All of the rooms smelled and were in an extreme state of filth.

  It almost reminded Solo of the places he and Tom found in the After.

  “Do you remember anything, Morris?” Dr. Hu asked, looking at Solo expectantly.

  “I remember I was a slob.”

  Dr. Hu laughed. “That’s a start.”

  Lydia burst through the door, panting heavily. She carried a large cardboard box in her arms and grunted as she set it down on the lone exposed cushion of an old, brown couch.

  She took a deep breath and clasped her hands on the top of her head. “Well, doc. I lugged this stuff here like you asked.”

  Solo looked at the box, and then at the doctor. “Are those my things?”

  Dr. Hu nodded. “Take a look through it. See if it jars any memories.”

  “Why does she have my stuff?”

  “The doc wanted me to gather your personal belongings, so I did.”

  Solo felt an odd sense of foreboding. He also found it depressing that his entire life was reduced to the contents of one cardboard box with “SpaghettiOs” stamped all over it.

  At least it was a big box.

  He opened the flaps and peered inside. It was jammed with an assortment of items. The first thing he pulled from it was a brown, floppy fedora.

  “You played Sancho Panza in a school play,” Lydia said. “You kept the costume.”

  Next he pulled out a doll that had stringy brown hair and a flower-pattern dress. The plastic was faded and it was waterlogged. What startled him were the eyes: the doll had one blue eye and one brown eye.

  Solo’s heart thrummed quickly in his chest.

  “What is it, Morris?” Dr. Hu asked. “Do you remember something about the doll?”

  He remembered not something about the doll, but who the doll resembled. He was even more confounded about what was real and what was not.

  “No,” Solo said, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. “I thought I did, but, no.”

  “You’ve had that doll since you were a little boy,” Lydia said. “After the doll was … broken … you fixed it and replaced the eye with an eye from another doll. I told you they didn’t match, but you didn’t seem to care.”

  Solo set the doll down and reached into the box again. Next he pulled out a box of cards with “Uno” written across the top. Solo closed his eyes and giggled.

  Lydia laughed. “Oh my God. We played that game non-stop. You were so good at it.”

  Solo reached his hand into the box again and pulled from it a book titled “El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha”

  It was old—very old—but was in remarkably good sh
ape. Solo examined it closely and smiled.

  “That’s your most prized possession,” Lydia said. “I keep trying to get you to sell it—it’s worth a freakin’ fortune. But you won’t. You always say you would never part with it. Then you’d say something about not knowing what a girl is thinking or some crap like that.”

  “What man can pretend to know the riddle of a woman’s mind?” Solo whispered, but it was loud enough for Lydia and the doctor to hear. He could scarcely remember his own name, but Solo could recall lines from the book he held in his hands as if he had read them a moment ago.

  Solo traced the binding with his finger. He opened the book and rolled over the lines with his eyes. It was written in Spanish, but that didn’t matter. He knew the translation verbatim.

  Solo set the book down and reached into the box again. He pulled from it a blue metal lunch box that looked like a TARDIS.

  “I’m a big fan of Dr. Who.”

  Dr. Hu smiled. “Why thanks, Morris. I’m a fan of yours as well.”

  Solo and Lydia looked at each other and erupted into laughter. The doctor looked at them, rapt. “What’s so funny?”

  Solo reached into the box and pulled out an unopened package of red Solo cups.

  “That’s all you’ll drink out of,” Lydia said. “You won’t drink out of glasses, especially at restaurants. The waitress always looks at you funny when you ask for water in a plastic Solo cup.”

  Solo cup for Solo—how ironic.

  Solo reached into the box again. Lydia bit her lower lip and shot an uneasy glance at the doctor as Solo pulled a photograph from the bottom of the box.

  It had been cropped significantly, scissors carving around two children, a boy and a girl, standing close together on a porch of an old house. The colors were faded and the image blurry, but Solo could make out the faces. One was his, clearly, as a young boy. The other was Lydia.

  “Do you remember this picture?” Lydia asked.

  Solo studied it again. The memories were there, but frustratingly fleeting.

  “Vaguely,” Solo said.

  Lydia’s voice quaked. “Turn it over.”

  Solo peered up from the photo to look at Lydia and then at the doctor. They had such serious looks on their faces. They were so tense and uneasy. It scared Solo.

  He flipped the picture over. Scrawled on the back in red ink was: “The twins, June 1980.”

  Solo let go of the photo from his quivering fingers. It floated to the floor and to his feet. He peered at Lydia who had tears running down her cheeks.

  “You’re my brother, Morris. My twin brother.”

  Solo couldn’t breathe. Thoughts flooded his brain in a gush. How could I not remember that? How could I not know she is my sister? What the hell is wrong with me?

  He punched at his head, his knuckles burning with pain. Dr. Hu raced to him and jammed a syringe into his arm. Solo saw a ring of black creep around him. “Lydia, you’re my sister?”

  Lydia pushed her fingers through his thick hair and smiled. “It’s okay. You know now. You know now.”

  ***

  Solo sat slumped in the chair in front of Dr. Hu’s oak desk. He stared blankly at the stack of neat papers that sat upon it, at the fountain pen placed perfectly perpendicular to it, and at the large glass of cold water.

  “I want to try something, Morris.” Dr. Hu’s voice was as soothing as ever, but it had lost its charm.

  Solo creased his face with a frown. “Whatever.”

  A tall wiry man entered the room. He had large, sunken eyes, thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a pencil moustache. He looked creepy, but his smile was kind enough. “I’m Dr. Kline.” His voice was also soft and kind. A voice like that must be a prerequisite when working with Swiss-cheese, convoluted minds. “We’re going to help you.”

  “How? I didn’t even know my own name, my own sister. How can you help me?”

  “Hypnosis,” Dr. Hu said.

  Solo had never been hypnotized before. Well, at least he never remembered being hypnotized before. He wondered if he were hypnotized, if he’d even remember. It was a paradox, he supposed.

  “What do I do? Count backward from a hundred. Follow a pocket watch with my eyes?” Solo asked.

  Dr. Kline laughed. “No, Morris. We’ll do some deep breathing and we’ll get you very relaxed. Is that okay?”

  Solo nodded.

  “Okay, Morris, take a deep breath and as you let it out, close your eyes and begin to feel yourself relaxing.”

  Solo did.

  “Now become aware of your arms. Relax your arms. Let them grow more and more comfortable. Let your muscles become loose and limp.”

  Solo did.

  “Now your legs. Relax your legs. Let them grow more and more comfortable. Let your muscles become loose and limp.”

  Solo did. He felt as if he were floating. He felt as if the world had melted away around him, as if he and Dr. Kline were the only two people on the face of the Earth.

  “You’re doing fine, Solo …”

  ***

  “Solo!”

  He stirred and pried his eyes open, the image of boots and worn cuffs of camouflage pants blurred. Solo licked his lips and tasted blood. He looked at his fingers and saw a smear of red on the tips. The pavement was cold and wet and his long, mussed, tea-colored hair dripped.

  Solo took a deep breath and pain shot through his ribs. He tried to steal himself against the ache, but couldn’t. His head throbbed.

  “Solo, get up!”

  His eyes finally focused on the boots. They were muddy and one was untied. Solo thought that odd.

  “They threw your sorry ass out on the street like garbage,” Tom said. “Fuckers.”

  He followed the pants up to the torso and the torso up to the face. It was bearded and tired, the lips forming a scowl, the eyes narrow and disapproving, the nostrils flared.

  It was Tom.

  “I told you,” Tom said in a more hushed tone. “I told you not to trust her.”

  Solo pushed himself off the pavement and braced his right arm against his ribs. Rain came down cruel and cold. The wind howled, cutting down to his marrow like a blade.

  This isn’t real. It couldn’t be. The pain in his side and the labored breaths through his busted nose told him otherwise.

  Tom sure looked real. His bad breath was real enough. Bad breath is better than no breath. That was something Tom would say—if he were real, of course.

  He can’t be. He’s no more real than Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. He’s no more real than Dr. Who and the TARDIS.

  Solo told him as much and Tom cocked his head and smirked before barking, “Is that right?

  “You can’t be real. None of this is real. It’s all in my head.”

  Tom slapped him across the cheek. Slapped him hard. It sent ripples of discomfort throughout Solo’s face and battered body.

  Solo caressed his cheek in his hand, his jaw slacked, as Tom glared at him, and then thrust his face so close that Solo could feel the long, coarse, gray whiskers of Tom’s beard rub against his tender skin.

  “Open your eyelids,” Tom barked. “This is as real as it gets.”

  Chapter Five

  Totally Mar-red

  Solo stared at the brown boots, one laced, the other unlaced.

  He was mere feet from them, hiding under a bed. Next to him was Eye Lyds, a young girl in footed leopard pajamas, tangled hair, scared and breathing heavily.

  Solo placed his hand over her mouth. Her large, brown eyes stared at him, wet and unblinking. “Shhhh,” he said softly. “It’ll be over soon.”

  The boots turned and clumped away.

  ***

  Solo backed his face away from the bristling whiskers of a man who he thought was all in his head.

  He still thought this. The slap and the bad breath and the whiskers meant nothing. It was all imagined—a fabrication of a damaged mind.

  Solo caught a glimpse of the silver hardhat sitting in a puddle twenty yards away
. He smiled as he thought Mar must have left it for him. He shuffled over to it, scooped it up and stared at his faint reflection. He looked terrible—puffy nose, blood-red cheek, tired and droopy eyes. He always looked a fright, but more now than ever.

  He slipped the hat on his wet hair and patted the crown. It was his only worldly possession and he would treasure it.

  “What’s with you and that damned helmet?” Tom bellowed as he turned to stomp away. “I don’t know why I came back for you.”

  “You never left.” Solo’s statement stopped Tom’s determined strides.

  He set his slit, angry eyes on Solo. “You still think I’m not real. Do I have to slap you again?”

  “You can’t prove to me you’re real.”

  “You can’t prove to me that I ain’t. I’m here, by God. I’m fucking here, in this forsaken place with you. This is a test. Life is like a grindstone, whether it grinds you down or polishes you depends on what you’re made of. What you made of, Solo?”

  He never knew Tom to be so profound. Folksy, domineering and a pain in the ass? Yes. Insightful and inspirational? Hell no.

  Solo had no answer, so he just said, “Whatever, Tom. What do we do now?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Tom’s walk was brisk.

  Solo followed.

  As usual.

  ***

  The air was cold and crisp and Solo could see mist tumble from his lips with each of his labored breaths. Tom walked more slowly to allow Solo to keep up.

  “So, what are you?” Solo asked, defying his pain and hurrying to walk closer to Tom. “Are you my subconscious? My super-ego? My ego? Or is it my id? I can’t keep those straight.”

  Tom turned, folded his arms and curled his lips into a snarl. “You’re fucking useless.”

  Tom stomped away.

  “Where are we going? Are we there yet?”

  “We’re gonna ambush those bastards.”

  Solo hurried to catch up to Tom again. “Okay, wait. You know where they went?”

  “Of course I do. While you were making goo-goo eyes at that bitch with the weird eyes, I was analyzing her. I know exactly where she came from and where she went.”