A Life Transparent

by Todd Keisling

  Donna closed her eyes and thought of Donovan. She feared for him, feared what might happen if he couldn’t do whatever was expected of him.

  He’ll find his way, she reminded herself, he always does. It was meager comfort, but she clung to it, ignoring the pangs of hunger in her belly and the sting of her bladder.

  The thought kept her warm in the bitter dark. She cherished it.

  It was all she had left.

  • • •

  The brothers waited for the crosswalk light to change. Across the street, a line of patrons stretched beyond the doors of Harrison & Main Booksellers and wound its way around the corner. Michael nudged Donovan and pointed toward the crowd.

  “Do you think your book could sell this much?”

  Donovan shot his brother a quick smirk. “No way. This self-help crap always sells more.”

  “Sounds like you’re in the wrong business.”

  “Maybe I am.” He observed another large group join the line from an adjacent street as traffic inched through the intersections. A breeze picked up around them, and the city’s colors shifted, losing depth and focus, allowing Donovan to see a different sort of crowd gathering outside the building. A few Yawning loitered in the middle of the street, towering over a churning sea of Cretins.

  Looks like the whole fan club’s here.

  They vanished and were replaced by two lanes of traffic. The traffic signal indicated it was safe to cross. Donovan took a breath, fixed his eyes on the bookstore, and made his way to the other side. Michael followed.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to this guy?”

  Donovan stopped at the opposite sidewalk and looked at the line. It ran the full length of the building. Michael grabbed his arm.

  “Don? Did you hear me?”

  “I did,” he said, “and I don’t know. It’s not every day I have to tell a man I’ve been sent to kidnap him, y’know?”

  “Well, you’d better think on your feet. This thing’s supposed to start soon, and the line’s not getting any shorter.”

  Michael was right. Donovan couldn’t see the end of the line, and he knew the bookstore was not very large. He looked to the entrance and smiled.

  “I think I have an idea.”

  He walked away from his brother, toward the front of the line. Michael called out to him.

  “Well? Are you going to share?”

  Donovan looked back. “Go get in line, Mike. I’ll see you inside.”

  A force swelled within him as the invisible hand clutched at his stomach, pulling him out of the Spectrum. Michael watched his brother vanish, and shook his head.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. He went to the back of the line.

  • • •

  In the span of minutes since his last view of the Monochrome, Donovan saw there were even more of the pale horrors. The street appeared to squirm as though covered in a thick layer of white insects. The mass was punctuated by even more Yawning, staggering over their tiny counterparts. In that moment, caught between both realities, Donovan heard their chattering cacophony with frightening clarity.

  They’re waiting.

  Ahead, two Yawning stood guard at the entrance. Donovan held his breath as he passed between them. The last time he was this close to one it had been trying to eat him, so he made a point of hurrying through the entryway. He positioned himself between the outlines of two figures, each with a Cretin on their shoulder. They looked up at him and grinned.

  Donovan winced. The foyer sprang to life as he flickered back. He stood between two women, neither of which paid him any notice. They each held a copy of Sparrow’s book. Donovan scrutinized a promotional poster on the wall.

  A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity. The title bled pretension, printed in bold letters across a sketched outline of a light bulb, with Sparrow’s name aligned at the top. A blurb read, “A revolution in human progression.” Donovan doubted that was actually the case, but the turnout for the day’s event proved he was one of a small minority.

  The line did not move for twenty minutes. Outside, police waved people through the intersections, the streets now at a standstill. Watching the urban chaos, Donovan thought, I want this guy’s publicist.

  He wondered what he would say to Dr. Sparrow. What could he say? Hi, I’m Donovan Candle, and Aleister Dullington sent me to find you because, if I don’t, he’s going to kill my wife. It was to the point, but sounded ridiculous in his head. He didn’t know if Sparrow would even see him.

  Doubt you’d be invisible to him, hoss. He’s public enemy numero uno in Monochrome land.

  His mind raced with possibilities—what might happen if Sparrow didn’t cooperate—but a push from behind displaced such thoughts. The line was moving. A woman bumped into him, confused, and her eyes glazed over when he tried to apologize. She squinted, straining to see him. Donovan shut his mouth and started walking.

  He moved through the foyer, past a counter of cash registers, and worked his way through the crowd. Rows of bookshelves had been rearranged for the event, and in the center of the clearing was a lectern. A small group of chairs were claimed by those at the front of the line, leaving the rest to stand and fill out the store to its capacity. Donovan found a spot close to the lectern, just behind the last row of seats.

  Then he saw the doctor, and his heart inched its way into his throat. His blood pressure spiked.

  Dr. Albert Sparrow was a tall man. He wore a three-piece suit, colored gray to match silver hair pulled back into a ponytail. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, accenting a grin which now spread across his face.

  Sparrow swaggered to the lectern, taking the microphone in hand with the confidence of a rock star. The audience erupted with applause. Sparrow basked in it, listening to the cheers.

  He leaned into the microphone and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Come again?” The crowd ate it up, cheering and whistling. Donovan inferred two things from the man at that point: he adored the attention, and he knew how to manipulate. Dullington’s interest in him was obvious.

  Sparrow reached into his suit coat and pulled out a pair of glasses. As he did, a woman in a black dress walked to the lectern and whispered in his ear. He nodded, leaned in to the microphone and cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me. I need your attention for a moment.” Sparrow’s voice boomed over the sound system. Most of the crowd’s cheers slowly died down. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears the store is at capacity. I’m afraid if we let anyone else in here, we’ll be in violation of the fire code.”

  Donovan turned and saw the entrance doors were closed, an angry mob of readers peering inside. A scan of those who got through revealed Michael was not among them.

  Looks like I’m on my own, he thought.

  “I’d like to welcome you, and to thank you for coming out and joining me today. As most of you probably know, my name is Dr. Albert Sparrow.”

  More cheers came from the audience. Donovan remained unimpressed. He hoped that if he ever made it as an author, he wouldn’t be as pompous as this man. Sparrow’s smile was that of a man full of himself; worse, it was the smile of a man at the height of power, one who knew he could say whatever he wanted and these people would still cheer for him.

  “First, I will read from our favorite book for thirty minutes, after which I’ll take a few questions. Then we’ll move on to the signing. And if you didn’t bring your copy, don’t worry—the store has plenty in stock.”

  Sparrow held up a hardcover copy of the book. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat once more, and opened to a bookmarked page.

  The gray sight overcame Donovan, and he witnessed something that left him dumbstruck. While the rest of the store shifted into varying shades of gray, the good doctor remained in full clarity, standing like a Technicolor beacon in a silent film. All around him, Cretins cringed as he spoke. His voice was garbled in
the droning language of the Monochrome.

  Hints of the Spectrum bled through the gray haze, and Sparrow’s voice became clear as Donovan’s gray sight relented.

  “‘—apter one: The Disease. There are two sides to every coin: light and dark, day and night, good and evil if one is inclined to take it that far. As human beings, we restrict ourselves to one side at a time. We wake up in the morning, we have breakfast, we kiss our spouses goodbye and we travel off to work. Then, at the end of the day, we come home, we have dinner, we relax, we sleep. Over the course of time, however, the human mind begins to fit this self-imposed mold—an act which it is not meant to perform, as this routine causes a state of banal atrophy.

  “‘Unfortunately this is a common side-effect of the nine-to-five grind. The human existence isn’t meant to be confined to a box, a computer screen, a telephone, or any other device for a large amount of time. We begin to lose touch with reality, with our loved-ones, with our own lives. Mediocrity is a disease of our society, and unlike diseases of the natural world, this one is entirely man-made. Affliction is a choice.

  “‘Over the course of this study, three distinct ‘life’ dichotomies will be discussed in further detail, but for the purposes of this introduction, each will be broached so as to set the proverbial stage.’”

  Sparrow paused, turning the page. Someone behind Donovan coughed. The rest of the audience was silent, hanging on the doctor’s every word.

  “‘A life ordinary is the setting in which most of us live our lives. It is not aware of the layers underneath or above; rather, it is merely aware of itself and its own formulaic devices. A life ordinary plots itself from point A to B to C and beyond, until it reaches a point at which the obvious choice is to return to A, and so the poisonous cycle repeats until death. Over the course of this life, offspring are taught to live the same lifestyle, propagating yet another ordinary, banal existence.

  “‘However, there are grave consequences for some of those who choose to follow this bleak path to its destination.’”

  Donovan listened, understanding creeping into his mind. He could see the road Sparrow was traveling, and it looked very familiar.

  “‘Some of us bury ourselves in our jobs, becoming machines of a sort, built with only one purpose—to do more work. Others may devote their lives to one thing, shutting out all of life’s delights and interesting quirks. Some choose to convolute the very essence of humanity by saturating themselves with mediocrity. At this point, a life ordinary deteriorates into a life transparent.

  “‘A life transparent is a life in flux and transition. It is a liminal state, fraught with confusion and despair, attributed to a constant feeling of ennui. Most times, however, when one enters this stage it is too late for recourse. A person living a life transparent stands upon the threshold of decision: to vanish into obscurity, continuing on their self-destructive journey into a monochromatic version of the world devoid of life and warmth, ignored by those around them; alternatively, a person living a life transparent may take a road less traveled, if they recognize the symptoms early on.

  “‘A drastic change in lifestyle is necessary. This requires identifying the source of mediocrity and expelling it from daily life. It could mean changing one’s job, finding a new hobby, or eliminating any other malignant preoccupation. Only then can one find the means with which to breach the veil and reenter the world’s spectrum. It is through this ‘life pitch,’ so to speak, that one may leap from the precipice of virtual anonymity, transcending through a subset of dichotomies—hesitation, penitence, liminality, definition—and land safely in the shoes of a life random.’”

  Dr. Sparrow looked up for a moment, adjusting his glasses, and he locked eyes with Donovan. Sparrow’s face reddened. Donovan might as well have been the only person in the room. He felt exposed. The doctor’s sharp glare left little room for denial: he could see Donovan just fine.

  • • •

  The man in the crowd caught Sparrow off guard, threw him off his game. He always prepared for the worst, expecting that Dullington might send an army to any one of the stops on his publicity tour, but until that moment he’d not yet encountered them. There were others, of course, but they always came before or after his public appearances, turning up in airport bars or at restaurants, trying to pass themselves off as fans.

  Sparrow could easily spot them. There was always the tell-tale signs of dirt under the nails, hair that hadn’t been washed in weeks or months, a foul stench. Lately, Dullington had taken to giving them the means to disguise themselves—even the whore had dressed her part—but this man in the crowd was different.

  He didn’t look like one of Dullington’s puppets. At a glance, he looked like a normal fellow, but the longer Sparrow stared, the more he recognized the quiet desperation in the man’s eyes. More importantly, the man noticed Sparrow could see him.

  For a moment, Sparrow faltered at the lectern. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and the gun holstered inside his coat pulled at him. Paranoia swept over him in a heated wave.

  He felt the room shift around him, felt the wrenching pull in his torso. It was a cold reminder of what awaited him if he let it catch up. I won’t go back, he thought. Never. He locked eyes once more with the man in the audience, trying his best to transmit a warning across the space between them.

  Do not fuck with me.

  Sparrow returned to the book, and read to the end of the chapter.

  • • •

  The audience applauded as Dr. Sparrow finished the reading. Donovan had observed a change in the doctor’s demeanor since they locked eyes: he was less boisterous than when he’d first approached the lectern, and when the crowd saw fit to give him a standing ovation, he had merely thanked them.

  A moment later he excused himself, motioning to the woman in the black dress. She took his place at the microphone.

  “It will be just a few minutes before we conclude with the Q&A.”

  Donovan kept his eye on Sparrow. The old man walked along the back wall toward a short hallway. A sign hung above the opening that read “Restrooms.”

  Better now than never, he thought. Donovan pushed his way through the crowd, circumventing the lectern and following after his target. He jogged through a maze of bookshelves, past a group of store clerks, and into the hall. Entrances to both restrooms stood opposite one another. A third door, labeled “Employees Only,” stood at the end of the hall.

  The door to the men’s room swung to a close. Donovan pushed it open and stepped inside. Dr. Albert Sparrow ran water in the sink. He let it pool in his hands before wiping down his face and forehead. He looked sallow under the fluorescent lights. They aged him twenty years.

  He dabbed his face with a handkerchief, pausing long enough to regard Donovan in the mirror.

  “Can I help you?”

  Donovan blinked, searching for the right words.

  “Aleister Dullington sent me.”

  “Of course he did.” Sparrow looked down at the sink, then into the mirror. He smiled, shaking his head. “This will never end, will it?”

  Donovan wasn’t sure what to say. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the situation. Dr. Sparrow now appeared old, feeble, far from the smug bastard he’d made himself out to be.

  “I’m so tired of this.” He looked up at Donovan and put on his glasses. “Would you mind accompanying an old man to his car? I need my medication. This old heart isn’t what it used to be.”

  Donovan agreed, following the doctor out into the hallway. They turned left through the Employees Only area, passing a small lounge and entering a loading zone filled with boxes of books. Donovan paid little attention to anything but the old man, the way his silver ponytail swished back and forth as he walked. He feared that if he took his eyes off the man, Sparrow would disappear.

  They exited the building at the far side, stepping out into a wide alley. There was a silver BMW parked alongside the loading dock, marked with out-of-s
tate plates and flagged with a rental company’s logo. Donovan wasn’t surprised by the car’s elegance; it was just what he imagined a man like Sparrow might drive.

  “Dr. Sparrow,” Donovan began, “listen. I need to—”

  “Please, son. Spare me. I’m sure whatever story he’s given you to justify your actions helps you sleep at night, but it won’t work with me. Just let me have my medicine before you do what it is you’ve come to do.”

  “You know why I’m here?”

  Dr. Sparrow reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He disengaged the lock, prompting the car to chirp in agreement, and walked around to the passenger side door. Donovan stopped at the trunk. He wanted to plead with the man, explain the situation. Together, maybe they could find some sort of solution. Something that would work in their favor.

  “Been after me for years,” Sparrow mumbled. The old man turned, looking first to the alley’s entrance, then back at its exit. “I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.”

  Donovan said nothing. He approached the side of the car. “Look, Dr. Sparrow, this is about my w—”

  Donovan Candle suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  • 10 •

  NEGATIVE SPACES

  At first Donovan wasn’t sure what to do or say. Even after facing George Guffin and narrowly escaping the Yawning, he still found it difficult to suppress his bladder at the sight of a gun pointed at his face.

  “I’ve learned not to trust a single fucking thing any of you rubes say. I don’t care why you’re here, or what he’s promised you in return—I’m not going back, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep it that way.” Sparrow pressed the barrel harder against Donovan’s skull. “Do you understand that, son?” His elderly demeanor was gone, and Donovan realized it had all been a ruse. “I’m going to remove you from this equation just like the rest of them, and—”