A Men

[Jack Allen]

Here's an old story I just dug up.


A Men
by Jack Allen

Part 1

The boss locked up late that evening and told him to go home. He said goodbye to Suzanne and the boss, zipped up his jacket and walked away from that greasy downtown burger grill. A wind straight off the lake as cold as a witch’s shoulder whipped across the street and stung his chin like his father’s old leather strap on the back of his legs. The heels of his shoes clicked on the sidewalk and he watched his shadow slide around under his feet as he walked under street lamp after street lamp, keeping his head down under the collar of his jacket, away from that damn wind.

His name was Hal. He worked in that diner for as long as he lived in that city. He hated that job and he hated that city, but never left either one. He didn’t know a lot in those days, but he knows a lot more now.

There was that certain time every day, just between work hours and night hours, those last moments before dark when the sun had gone down and there was just a glow in the sky, when the streets were the gloomiest and eeriest. After two years of walking home on those streets almost every night, he noticed it more and more. Those were empty and lonely nights and hell, he was used to it, because he knew in the morning those streets would be cruel all over again.

He glanced down that one alley on Third when he passed and from the shine of the full moon over the tops of the buildings he saw faint shadows moving far in the back and complained to himself about the drunken bums. They reminded him of his father every time he saw them. He despised his father and he despised them. He turned and started walking, but something stopped him and he looked down the alley again. Something about that shadow stuck in his head.

The steam heater in the corner of his flat pinged and clanked and he warmed his hands in the glorious heat. He leaned over the heater and looked out the window down at the street, where there was a mist, and the people who walked through the mist were only shadows. The sight made him shiver and he stepped away from the window. For the rest of the night he would stare at the television, crunching stale potato chips, until around midnight when he would drop off into a few hours of uncomfortable sleep.

Tuesday morning lit up warmer than Monday, but Hal was awake before his alarm went off, just like every day, in fear of those last few minutes before it rang. He climbed out of bed and dressed in the same clothes he wore yesterday, combed back the hair on his head and checked twice to make sure the buttons on his shirt were done up correctly.

On the sidewalk he pushed off on the same route to work he used since he started that job, up Third two blocks, over to Fourth and up one more block. He never changed the routine; the ritual never varied.

“Good morning, Hal.”

Hal tied the apron to his waist and checked to make sure it was tied correctly. He looked at Suzanne but didn’t say anything. She said hi every morning, and she had been there for two months. She straightened her apron and wiped away a ketchup stain with a wet rag. Hal wiped his hands on his apron and picked up the spatula to flip a pair of eggs.

“I need two pancake plates with sausage, and a side of scrambled eggs,” Suzanne said, and stuck the order sheet on the clip rack.

Hal took the piece of paper and looked around for the pancake batter.

She watched him start to work. “Hal, guess what I did yesterday,” she said.

He looked up at her like she startled him. He spread the batter into small pools on the grill.

“What?”

“I went to that audition yesterday, the one for that new tv show,” she said. Hal kept his head down. She frowned, then smiled. “I didn’t get the job, but I think they liked me. That means they might remember me next time I go to audition for a-”

“Miss?” the guy at the counter said, holding up his cup.

Suzanne sighed and stepped away to refill the coffee cup.

It was darker than usual that evening when the boss locked up. Suzanne waited outside. Hal finally came out behind the boss and she thought she saw a small smile on his face when he looked at her. She took a piece of paper and a pen out of her purse.

“Here, Hal, this is my phone number,” she said, and scrawled the number on the paper and held it out to him. “Someone will answer and you just ask for me, ok?”

“Ok.”

Hal rubbed the paper between his fingers. The boss shut off the lights and they stood under a dim streetlight. A moth had trapped itself inside the lamp and its shadow cast down on them like a monstrous bird.

“Why don’t you call me tomorrow? I’m going to rehearsal tonight and we both have the day off tomorrow, so why don’t you call me and we’ll go out?” Suzanne said.

Hal nodded. “Ok.” He folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.

“Ok. Well, goodbye,” she said, and smiled. A car’s headlights flashed on Hal’s face and she saw a faint smile on his lips.


“Hello?” came a second voice over the phone after the first voice told him to hold on and he waited almost five minutes.

“Uh, hi, Suzanne.” Hal clenched the receiver and looked around the street from the pay phone, squinting in the bright sunlight. He brushed his hand through his hair, still wet from the shower.

“Hi, yourself. I’ve been waiting for you to call.” She waited for him to say something. “Why don’t you come over and get me and we’ll go out and maybe enjoy our day off together.”

Hal nodded. “Ok. Yeah, ok. I’ll come over and pick you up and we’ll ... we’ll ...”

“Go out.”

“Yeah, go out.”

Suzanne pulled the key from the lock and flicked on the light. She turned to Hal and smiled.

“Thanks for the flowers, Hal,” she said. “You really know how to have a good time.”

“Yeah, I had fun, too.” Their hands touched.

Suzanne stood a little closer. “Can we go out again?”

“You mean tomorrow night. After work?”

“Yes, tomorrow night.” She smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Yeah, sure. We can go out tomorrow night.”

“Good. Then you can show me your apartment,” she said. Before he could protest, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. He became stiff and tense, then limp as a noodle in her arms. “Goodbye, Hal. Don’t be late for work tomorrow.”

“I won’t. Goodbye.”

She watched him go to the end of the hall and listened for his footsteps on the stairs before she went inside.

 

[Jack Allen]

Part 2

Hal tucked his head down into his collar to protect himself from the wind and hurried to get home. He was anxious for tomorrow to start so he could go out and by new clothes and a new pair of shoes. His face was flushed with warmth and he had a smile that grew bigger with every step.

He noticed no one around and slowed. Curious, he was the only person on the sidewalk. The click of his heels echoed off the brick walls and steel doors like gunshots. His shadows darted in the mist and seemed to leap out at him.

He walked faster.

The shadows followed him, poking out around corners and staring him in the face. That mist was back. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, ready to break into a run, and stopped dead. The world fell silent. The mist swirled about his legs like a witch’s arms reaching out for him, tingling the hair on his legs. He was in front of the alley on Third.

The walls shot up on either side like cliffs. He couldn’t see the tops. The alley opened like a cavernous mouth trying to swallow him. An odd smell wafted out, a smell he learned too well working in a kitchen: rotted meat.

His nose wrinkled and he backed away a step.

A warm wind spilled over him like a sigh from the huge mouth, and the walls trembled like lips. The breath chilled him, not like the wind off the lake, but like his bones were packed in ice.

He looked down at his hands. They were covered with moisture, like sweat, but it was oily.

“What the f-” he started to say, but a quick motion cut him off.

There was that shadow again. Far ahead down the dark alley he saw a figure among other shapes, taller than the others and very dark, blacker than the darkness around it.

Hal stepped into the alley, drawn toward the shape as it faded. He stopped abruptly. There it was again, closer this time, much lot larger than he first thought. It wore an old, heavy cloak, dark in a way that seemed to absorb light. Hal looked around and saw other figures moving in the dark shadows, but none appeared to have anything to do with the giant figure.

The tall hooded cloak turned, very carefully and without haste, without swirling the mist. Hal noticed how, oddly, the smoke seemed to come from the area where the figure stood, as if from beneath the cloak.

Just as he was about to ask the figure about this, it all came into view. The figure’s skeleton hand reached for him. Hal was seized, frozen in his tracks, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Beneath the hood there was only blackness, black nothingness, and all around swarmed the faces of dead souls.

Hal bolted back the way he came as fast as he could, shoving his way through decrepit, rotting bodies that appeared suddenly in his path, never looking back, running to save himself. He raced up and down the city streets until he was sure he had lost them and when he stopped he was in his apartment with his back against the door and the door was locked.

He was safe. He opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. Sweat ran from his face down his neck and his lungs burned. He took the glass to the bathroom, set it on the edge of the sink and ran a towel under the water to wipe his face.

The cool water soothed his burning skin and settled his nerves, but his hands were still trembling. He breathed in the smell of the water, so much sweeter than the smell of that alley. Hell, he must have imagined the whole thing.

He saw a reflection in the mirror and jumped. His hand knocked the glass of orange juice. It toppled off the edge and smashed on the floor. Hal spun and stared into the blackness of the hooded cloak. The long, snaking skeletal arm reached out. Hal ducked as it grabbed for him. His heel skidded on the orange juice and he fell. He rolled away, popped back to his feet and ran out of the apartment and down the stairs.

He hit the street at a dead run. He coughed and fell tumbling. He coughed again and spat out dead flowers. They were choking him.

From up the street behind him came a wall of fog that dimmed the street lights. Hal ran in the only direction he knew.

The diner was locked up and empty. The streets were deserted. The mist was catching him.

He coughed again and pulled black flowers and rotted stems from his mouth. They caught in his throat, choking him. He thought of one more place and ran as the mist licked at his heels.

His heels made little sound on the wooden steps. He climbed slowly, growing weaker. His face turned blue and his throat swelled. He reached for the door. It fell open and he heard a scream. Suzanne stood over him in the hall that led from her bedroom, with a towel wrapped around her waist.

“Hal, what’s going on?” she shouted.

He tried to speak, but only a choking gurgle came out. He pointed to his mouth. A black petal lay on his tongue.

“Oh, my God,” Suzanne said in a whisper.

He was heavy in her arms and too weak to move. She lifted him, wrapped her arms around his chest, clasped her hands together just under his sternum and squeezed. Hal’s arms flailed and he coughed up a cloud of black flower petals. Suzanne gathered her strength and squeezed again.

Hal moaned once and went limp. His head dropped to one side and his arms hung lifeless over hers. She let him slide to the floor and touched his anguished, colorless face.

“Oh, Hal. I thought I was helping.”

End.