A Life Transparent

by Todd Keisling

  He left for work, skipping the bypass and taking side-streets all the way across the city. Along the way he listened to the local rock station instead of his usual talk radio, cranking it as loud as the car’s tiny stereo could manage. His windows and rearview mirror rattled with each bass drum beat. Whenever he came to a stop, pedestrians would turn their heads and stare. He imagined he looked goofy, blaring this raucous music from the meager speakers of his four-door sedan, but he didn’t care. He would use his second chance and beat the flickering.

  The gray sight happened only once during his drive, just as he neared his destination. He saw specters walking along the sidewalks. Some of them had Cretins on their shoulders. It comforted him to see that some did not.

  When he neared his office building, he felt that unsteady pull at his stomach. It was fleeting. He drove past the Identinel offices and further into the city, ever mindful to take side streets just as he’d instructed Michael. After half an hour, he found himself back at the city park. He parked along the curb, and took a stroll. It was mostly empty at that hour, with only the occasional jogger or elderly person out for their morning walk. Donovan found a quiet spot near the fountain and took a seat.

  He thought about Donna, about his job. He’d practically had an affair with Identinel for nine years, yet nothing good had come of it. Sure, he and Donna had their house and their car, but that was all. Their love for one another was the only thing Identinel hadn’t paid for, but over the years Donovan’s commitment to the company had put a strain on that love like nothing else. For that he could not forgive his employers, and he certainly could not forgive himself. Not only had he let Donna down, he’d let himself down as well.

  He contemplated Dullington’s question: Who are you, Mr. Candle?

  Donovan realized he used to know. Always wanted to be a writer, he thought, as he idly plucked blades of grass from the earth, rolling them between his fingers before letting them fall. He’d discovered that desire for the written word during his college years, not long after meeting Donna, and it had been Chandler, King, and Koontz who had nurtured him through the early writing process. When one of his short stories took first place in his university’s fiction contest, he knew in his heart that writing was what he wanted to do.

  Back then, he’d had a plan: he’d get his degree, go to graduate school, marry Donna, write a bestseller, and support a family with his earnings. It wasn’t until the end of school that he realized how fantastic it all seemed, and the bitter reality was that this lifestyle he dreamed of living was experienced by so very few. There were no ads in the newspaper reading “Seeking English Majors Fresh From College.” With the job market in such a horrid state, Identinel had been his only choice.

  Donovan remembered something else Dullington told him. He’d said it on Friday, when they first spoke on the phone at Identinel. Actions breed definition.

  He thought about what he’d done to Sparrow, thought of the old man’s accusing glare, and felt a twinge of guilt. The old man had caused to something to surface within Donovan, a violent urge to protect what he cared about, and the means to make a difficult decision when it had to be made. Knowing the kind of person Sparrow was made it easier to make some sort of peace with himself, though he feared what he’d done would come back to him, that he would have to answer for it.

  When Joe Hopper, with his gruff, Southern drawl, spoke up, Donovan could almost smell the cigarettes on his breath. He had it comin’ to him, hoss. You did the right thing. It’s the rest of your life you should be concerned about.

  Donovan closed his eyes. What had he done to define himself?

  As the world bustled on around him, Donovan realized he’d traded his dreams for dull reality that first day at Identinel. It hurt too badly to think about how much time he’d wasted there. It’s only temporary, he’d said to himself as days turned to weeks, and so on. Time eroded, and soon he found himself ten pounds heavier. His hair was streaked with gray. The creativity upon which he’d once prided himself was all but gone. Joe Hopper had finally been born out of a last-ditch effort to prove to himself he could create.

  And now that effort had died, just as empty as his own life.

  Is this how I want to be remembered?

  Donovan stood and brushed grass from his trousers. He stared up at the sky and the surrounding skyscrapers, then back down at the row of trees. The flickering reminded him of his brief chase through the Monochrome. As he walked to his car, he realized that Aleister Dullington’s intervention in his life was, in some ways, a good thing. It was the wake-up call to his future happiness.

  His father once told him that to betray oneself was the greatest sin of all, and to forgive oneself was the hardest thing to do. Donovan understood that now.

  He started his car and pulled away from the curb. It was after ten on a beautiful Monday morning. So this is what Mondays are really like, he thought, smiling. He turned a corner onto another side-street and stepped on the gas. It was time to make his life pitch.

  • • •

  He drove back to Identinel, took the parking space closest to the building, and ran inside. Some of his coworkers acknowledged him, stopping to stare as he jogged across the foyer. Their notice was a sign that he was doing the right thing, and he could not hold back the huge grin on his face as he burst into Timothy Butler’s office.

  The Tammys sat across from Butler’s desk, their mouths framed wide as they bickered about something. Butler, on the other hand, sat in his executive leather chair with his hands behind his head. All three were startled to see him. He stared at each one, focusing on their faces. The mere sight of them made his stomach churn, but he held his grin.

  “Candle,” Butler said, “what is—”

  “My name is Donovan. If you call me Candle one more time, so help me, I’ll cram a headset up your ass.”

  Fire and smoke spewed from his mouth. He could taste it on his lips. It made him ravenous for more.

  “No one gives a shit about your stories, Butler. We don’t care. Pay attention the next time you walk into the lounge. Everyone becomes suddenly occupied with other things for a reason, Tim. Think about that.”

  “Mr. Candle,” Tammy Quilago snapped, “I think you’re out of line—”

  “Tammy,” he said, still smiling, “shut your mouth.”

  Her face blossomed red. He watched it climb up her neck and flood her cheeks. Tammy Perpa started to chime in, but he held up a hand to silence her. The air was thick and hot. He hesitated for a moment, the smile pulling at his face. Two words perched at the tip of his tongue, where they’d been for the last nine years aching and waiting for their turn to be spoken. That time had finally come.

  “I quit.”

  He turned and left the office. Outside, his coworkers peeked over their cubicles, headsets around their necks and eyes wide. Now they can see me, he thought. He was halfway to his desk when Butler and the Tammys emerged from the office. They walked toward the lounge and gave him grim, shocked glances.

  As they passed by, Donovan experienced the gray sight for a brief interval. What he saw both frightened him and filled him with sick satisfaction. The three of them—Tammy Perpa, Tammy Quilago, and Timothy Butler—were fully visible, shimmering with the same sickening glow as Dr. Sparrow. He could see their wrinkles and graying hairs, their bad taste in clothing, and the frowns on their faces. Other people in the office appeared as dark phantoms with Cretins on their shoulders, and Donovan knew those creatures were not there for him. Not today. The Tammys and Timothy Butler would know a life transparent soon enough.

  The office’s color returned. Donovan chuckled to himself as he boxed up what little belongings he had. It was before noon on a Monday, and he was leaving Identinel a free man.

  He did not look back.

  • • •

  He made one stop before returning home. The local animal shelter, where years before they’d adopted Mr. Precious Paws, was located not far from his neighborhood. He wandered between
the rows of kennels and cages until his eye fell upon a tiny, orange ball of fur. When he leaned closer to the cage, two ears perked up, followed by two wide, green eyes. The tabby kitten purred.

  A tag hanging from the wire mesh gave the feline’s information. The owner had vanished, leaving behind a pregnant cat. This kitten was the only one of the litter to survive.

  He smiled and poked his finger through the cage. The kitten pawed at it.

  “I’ll call you Mrs. Precious Paws,” he whispered.

  • • •

  A few days later, Donovan received a phone call from his brother in the middle of dinner.

  “Please don’t answer that,” she said. “Finish your meal.”

  He looked over, saw it was Michael’s number on the ID, and winked at Donna. Any other time he would’ve let it ring, but he and his brother had grown close following their adventure. Donovan suspected Michael’s call had something to do with his story, most likely about the role he had played in inspiring its character. Maybe Joe Hopper was useful after all, he thought, pressing the TALK button.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Don. What’s going on?”

  “Not much. Just having some dinner. You?”

  “Ah, nothing really. Just finished up for the day.” Michael paused for a moment, then spoke in a hushed tone. “I keep trying to remember what happened. And I know something happened, but it seems like each time I go back for a detail, it just isn’t there.”

  Donovan closed his eyes. He’d experienced the same thing with Donna. Some details of the weekend remained, but others were lost to her, and Donovan didn’t have the heart to fill them in. He preferred to be the only one to remember it all. For his wife and brother, some things were better left forgotten.

  “It isn’t important,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you hear? I quit my job.”

  Michael’s mood lightened. “I did. I’m really proud of you.”

  Donovan’s cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it. I know I don’t say things like that very much, but yeah, I really mean it, Don. You really surprised me. I didn’t think you would.”

  Donna finished her dinner, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. Mrs. Precious Paws scampered after her, pawing at her ankles.

  “And,” Michael went on, “I’d like to offer you a job.

  He felt a lump in his throat. “A job? Doing what?”

  “Being my partner.” An uncomfortable silence drifted across the line. Michael cleared his throat. “I mean, you’ve seen all the paperwork I have to deal with—”

  Donovan laughed. “Me, a private investigator? You’re serious?”

  “Well, you’ll have to be licensed first, but yeah, I’m serious. I figure it’ll give you something to write about. And it’s good job security, too, what with people disappearing left and right all the time.”

  The laugh they shared was a nervous one, but both knew the other meant well. Donovan accepted, and though the rest of the conversation whirled around the usual trivialities, he did not lose focus of his new prospect. Working with his brother seemed exciting, even validating, and when Donna later asked why he wore such a goofy smile, he could only say, “I’m going to work with my brother.”

  • • •

  Donovan Candle experienced the flickering for the last time at 11:33 PM on a Saturday night. It had been two weeks since the incident, and the gray sight had become less frequent over time. The violent tugs at his stomach were reduced to vague tickling sensations, more uncomfortable than painful, and were so faint that he barely noticed them anymore.

  He sat in his office staring at the blank computer screen. Over the last two weeks, he’d grown more as a person than at any other point in his life. If he’d done enough to remain in this reality, he and Donna would finally make their trip down to the shore for a weekend.

  “Things,” she’d told him, “always have a way of working out.” He knew she was right. And somehow, as the days went on and the flickering decreased, he knew this was the case with his fate. Tonight, he sat down to begin the novel he’d put off for so long. It was his brother’s encouragement that finally spurred him to action. Michael’s job offer had started the wheels in his mind. Together, he thought, we’ll be Candle and Candle. Just like Holmes and Watson.

  He’d never seen himself as a detective, but after all that had happened, he realized it was just the kind of excitement he craved, even if reality couldn’t match what he put to paper.

  And so he’d wandered into the office after psyching himself up to face the interminable white space of his word processor. He sat down, pecked at the keys, and opened up the file for The Great American Novel.

  He stared at the title and deleted it. That’s not right, he thought. There is no such thing.

  Instead he typed, “Monochrome Dream.”

  Just as he was about to jump to the next page, his vision went gray, and he felt the tickle of a hand around his gut. In the liminal space of his office, he saw the figure of Dr. Albert Sparrow. The old man shot an accusing gaze at Donovan, blaming him for his own actions, his own fate. Donovan no longer felt guilty. He stared back, shaking his head.

  “I proved you wrong,” he whispered.

  The gray sight faded for the last time, and the tickle in his stomach ceased. For first time since that fateful Tuesday morning, he felt whole. But he did not dwell on it. Instead, he turned his attention back to the title.

  “Monochrome Dream,” he wrote, “by Donovan Candle.”

  He scrolled to the next page, a great white nothing daring him to act. He typed in italics, “For Donna,” then sat back and smiled. Her love was all the meaning he would ever need, and it marked the perfect place to begin. Donovan heard Joe Hopper admonishing him from somewhere beyond the white space, in the depths of his head.

  Get to it, hoss.

  Donovan put his fingers on the keys and began to write.

  • ACKNOWLEDGMENTS •

  This book has a weird history that goes back to 2006. It’s a history about which I’ve written at length in other places, so I won’t recount it here. It’s been a long road, and there is a long list of people I need to thank. Many hands went into making this book happen, in its various forms, and I need to document them:

  My undying thanks to my wife, Erica, for tolerating many late, lonely nights while I worked (and re-worked) this book. She kept me grounded when I needed to be, let me fly when there was no other option, and encouraged me when I didn’t think I could go on. Thank you, Erica. You made me believe again.

  Gratitude to my son, Gabriel, for teaching me that I have so much more to learn, and for inspiring me to reach for higher things greater than myself.

  I owe most of this book to my editor, Amelia Snow, for taking on the project very late in the game, and believing in it. Her input made this book what it is, and her devotion to it did not waver. I think there were points at which she believed in it more than I did, and her belief helped pull me out of those poisonous doldrums as we raced for the finish line (even if we disagreed on the glass lenses).

  Emma Fissenden worked under a ridiculous 48-hour window to film and produce this book’s trailer. She was joined by Dan Goldberg behind the camera, and who lent his voice to the project. Travis Conrad Reichstein contributed his musical talents, composing “Monochrome for Piano in A Minor,” giving the trailer (and the book) its own unique, classic sound. Sean Michael Errey portrayed Donovan Candle, and was joined by Brittney K. Robbins, Randy Nanjad, Emily Fister, Jillian Clair, and Raúl José on screen.

  Tony Mahan, my best friend since junior high, lent his ear to many rants and raves about publishing, writing the book, and life in general. He also served as a technical advisor for the usage of firearms in this novel. The scene at the end of chapter five was plotted with enough trajectory detail to rival the research of the Warren Commission. If I got anything wrong, blame me.

  Laura Lasky made it a point to check in on me every few weeks to make su
re I was well, breathing, and of sound mind. I was usually two out of three.

  My good friend Michael Lalonde kept me entertained with his comic, Orneryboy, and his girlfriend, Jennifer Krebsz, kept me clothed with the help of Sick On Sin.

  Kelsey Desrosiers made me believe this story could be something more than a short story. It wouldn’t be epic without her.

  Cara Wallace provided crucial insight at the 11th hour, laying the foundation for the jacket copy which now exists on the cover.

  Thanks are also in order for my writer friends present, absent, or departed: David Rockey, Phill English, Meg “Megatron” Finney, Bill Brown, Jon McRae, Steve Smith, Hope Fields, Henry Baum, Roxane Gay, Kirsty Logan, Tracy Lucas, Jenn Topper, Zoe Winters, Jessie Carty, Schuyler Towne, Thomas Purbrick, and Maija Haavisto.

  My family and friends, who are too numerous to name here, dealt with my chronic absence from all manner of social events. They’ve offered various forms of support over the years, to which I am forever in their debt.

  My coworkers at the “day job” have put up with my chronic sleep deprivation and pedantic tendencies for several years now, and there isn’t a day that I don’t appreciate their support and acceptance. Thanks Allan, Denise, Natascha, Steve, and Toni.

  A trio of “super fans” have followed and supported this book since its original publication, and it would be a crime not to mention them here: Andrew Blemings, Matthew Rogers, and Eric Wiebe. Thanks, guys, for sticking with me after all this time. I hope you didn’t cry foul at the changes this time around. I know you caught them.

  Last, but certainly not least, the folks over at Kickstarter.com are due my eternal gratitude. They contributed to this project and made this definitive edition possible. They also paved the way for many more publishing adventures to come. Seriously, folks, without you, I wouldn’t be writing this.

  This last sentiment should be extended to you, dear Reader. Whether you’re friend, family, Kickstarter backer, or a complete stranger—thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the book, and I hope to see you around next time.