Pieces [ONC 2020 LONGLIST]

I could not travel both

I marched through the days, my personalities tucked in their cozy boxes ready to unpack when needed.

On Tuesday, Seneca received a visit from Mr. Klingston. "Good to see you're back," his boss said. That night, Mr. Hale was ghosted again. He waited until 10:45pm but none of the stragglers paid any mind to him.

By Wednesday Mr. Hale was a regular bridge folk, another lost soul caught like a fly on the sticky paper that was the night life under 129th. He waited only until 10:20pm.

Tonight, on a boring Thursday night, Mr. Hale picked his mind, desperate to reassess any clues he missed, and what the truth about his murderer mystery was worth to him. His mind was a cluttered mess.

No.

My mind. MY MIND. I reminded myself as the cold metal bench pushed through the back of my jacket. I pulled myself to sit up again and glanced up and down the dimly lit street. It was 10:10. It was madness to come back. I'd missed a step, or misread the poorly designed black-on-black business card. Who does that anyway?

I stood and straightened my jacket collar when a short figure on the bench across the street stood as well. I froze. They froze. I stepped to my left, the stepped left a moment later. I stepped right. It was like a delayed mirror.

"What do you want?" I shouted. Only my echo replied. "Is this some sort of game to you?"

We waited. I don't know why I stared so long. They wore some type of face covering, and a black hoodie with jeans as far as I could tell. They were quite a bit shorter then me. I think I could take them if this turned to a fight. As we analyzed each other a lone car passed. Its headlights illuminated our surroundings. Their black face mask that covered everything but the eyes. The dirt on their jeans. And their hands by their side. I gasped. In their hands was a sliver of black paper. The black card. Then the car and the light was gone. They walked towards the bridge.

"Hey!" I shouted and ran across the road. "Wait!" They didn't stop, but they didn't run either. I caught up with them and walked by their side.

"I have one of those too. That card." I said. 

"Quiet! Not yet," a gruff voice answered behind the mask. Silently, I followed him under the bridge. He turned around the corner of one of the bridges supports and stopped abruptly.

"Don't tell me your name. You can call me Stan," he said. His eyes squinted into what must've been from a grin. "I knew you'd come, kid."

I exhaled, "So it is you." That grumpy old man. I guessed right. I mean, I'd had a lot of guesses but he was one of them so I was still right.

He started to lift a manhole cover on the ground beside us, "If you're not gonna help, don't stand so close. You smell like piss. Shouldn't have laid on the bench."

I think he's joking but I smelled my shoulder anyway. He was right.

"C'mon." He said and climbed down the hole. Stan chuckled, "Well, at least everything smells like piss down here."

At work we have to attend occasional work-place-safety meetings. One time we learned about abduction. The rules were simple common sense. Never be alone at night. Never follow a stranger to someplace you don't know. And never ever put on a face mask and jump into the sewers.

"Hey kid, you working on a midnight tan or what?" he called.

I took a deep breath—certain the air down there could somehow smell worse than the air up here—climbed in, and pulled the cover over my head.

It was darker than my apartment could ever get. Like a smelly, moist cave, I flung each foot beneath me and tried to feel the next step. Finally my toes scratched cement on the bottom. Stan flicked on a flashlight and tapped a pipe three times.

"You had that this the whole time?" I protested. "It would've been nice to see where I was going. You could have—"

"Shhhh!" Stan groaned, "It doesn't help to shine a light at your feet." Far too delayed to be an echo, three knocks sounded from the tunnel to our right. "Let's go." He stomped towards the sound.

I glanced at the ladder. My old life waited above. I could go back now. It would probably be fine. I haven't robbed a bank or done anything illegal. I could go with Stan. Be killed and never found. I do not like Stan. But I have to find the truth. Even if it comes from a disgusting place like this.

I followed after the light from his flashlight, careful to walk several paces behind. Every so often he'd tap the wall again. And again three taps would reply.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

"We're meeting to decide where to meet."

"Oooooh." I said, like his answer somehow made sense.

I tried to track our movement in the sewer, but soon the pipes and turns blurred together. Was that two lefts and a right or three? In the distance, hushed voices carried to us. Stan stopped tapping and picked up his pace.

A group of people stood around an electric lantern. Between the echos and their whispers I couldn't make out any coherent words.

"Hey! Stan! It's about time you joined us," a man turned from the group and walked towards us. The light from their lantern hit me. He stopped. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. Everyone hushed.

"Stan. I thought we agreed. No more outsiders. It's too risky."

"Oooh he's an insider, even if he doesn't know it yet. Trust me on this."

"We trusted you last time. And now there's only seven of us left," an older woman with braided, gray hair answered. I felt her searing gaze. "Go back. Pretend this never happened."

I've been asked to do a lot of that lately, but this time I agree. I nodded and shifted my weight. Stan grabbed my arm.

"He could be the key," he pleaded.

The group groaned. Some threw up their arms and turned away.

"Fine. You want me to play that card? As the leader of the New York regional division I invoke the right of legacy."

The man huffed, "What?! You can't do that!"

"He's not even a member yet!" Another shouted. Protests danced through the tunnel. I felt like a kid during gym class who's picked last and forced to play on a team that doesn't want him.

"Shut up!" Stan roared. The group quieted, a little. "And listen." He dropped my arm and turned toward me. "What do you know about the collection?"

Rushing water from the sewers gurgled beside us. Someone coughed.

"I—," I cleared my throat. "I know it's what happens when memories are collected."

They were unimpressed.

I kept talking. "Usually bad memories, or things the government feels we would be better off not remembering. Blue memories. However, they can't remove gold memories."

The man's eyebrows raised. In the dim, flickering light I couldn't tell if the others were interested.

"See?" Stan nodded. "This kid has seen some sh—"

"I don't trust him," a young boy spoke.

"I know," Stan softened. "I'm not asking you to trust him. Trust me. This time we'll get it right."

A few shook their heads or nodded. Then the group split up and started walking away.

"We're meeting at Warren's," the older woman shouted.

The man walked towards us. As he passed he placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Welcome to the Dirty Mind rebellion."

It was never asked and I never openly agreed, but at that moment it was like I was hired as an intern. For better or worse, I joined their world now. Or if it was like Stan said, I had been in it and didn't even know.