The Man Without a Shadow

Sometimes I catch myself reminiscing about impossible and improbable things, as if they really happened. The more I think, the more tired I get, until I just go outside and smoke. Even smoking isn’t a pleasure anymore—it’s a habit, a need to pull that hot smoke into my lungs, deep, deeper, as far as I can. There’s a moment of relief, but it never lasts. This stupid brain of mine keeps racing, left, right, up, down, sideways, anywhere.

I wonder what would happen if it weren’t locked inside this cranial box we call a skull. My good friend from Dayton says I should start smoking pot more often. That ought to slow you down, he says. And if you can’t pass a drug test for some dead-end job, who cares? You’re too good for them anyway. Then he adds, Actually, when I think of you in regular terms—you’re not employable in this country.

No shit, I said.

Then there’s that woman. She used to haunt me in real life; now she inhabits my micro-space, tossing little poisoned darts. At first, I felt nothing. But I feel it now. I wish she didn’t exist—at least not in human form. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s like a virus with twelve DNA strands, all of them lethal.

Was she special? She was, once. But then everything slowly slipped into madness. She entered a maze unguarded by sobriety and common sense—and she lost her way.

One by one, the lights passed by, slowly, lazily, indifferent to us. If I knew what to do, I’d do it. But I don’t. I’m in the dark, or maybe I just prefer to pretend I am.

If I start a story with the line “Some people…” you might think I’m about to start bitching about them. You’d be partly right. But most of the time, I’m trying to make a comparison. What if I were in their shoes? What if they were in mine?

Comparisons become self-evaluations. I hate that. I’m always afraid of the conclusions I might draw from all these failures my nerves have endured. Having too many advantages can be debilitating—out of too many choices, you choose nothing. Instead, you sit there waiting for providence, even though moving your ass an inch or two could produce significant results.

Inertia.

So here I am, wandering the plains aimlessly. Occasionally, I see light, a distant flicker, but keeping track of all the flickers we see can be boring. We’d rather do nothing, and wait.

Yesterday, I lost my shadow. No, really. You think I’m joking. But wait, listen, there’s more.

I was standing in front of a huge brick wall. The sun was somewhere southwest, and I expected to see my shadow stretching long across the bricks. But nothing happened.

How did I find the wall? That’s not important. I guess while wandering the plains aimlessly, I stumbled upon it. Anyway, I stood there. It was bright, but no shadow. I moved left and right. I touched the wall. Still nothing. The sun was setting, southwest from where I stood.

Then the call finally came in. It was him; the biggest and baddest boss of them all. He sounded so official, as if his own greatness weighed him down.

Here’s how it goes: if the Government says “sit,” you actually lie down. But don’t play dead—being overly submissive can help your career. For some faces, though, it’s way too late, even if they got down on their knees.

Really—what’s all this talk about Government and the Culture of Fear? What can they do to me that others haven’t already done? Hold me accountable? Kill me? No, I don’t think so. They wouldn’t waste any more time on me than I would on them.

This is how it works: some totally unknown people, total strangers, are deciding your destiny, and you don’t even know it. Would it help if you did? I don’t think so.

Another cigarette. I’m restless. Maybe another beer. Or a joint. Or something stronger—whiskey, vodka. Yes, vodka. It doesn’t burn your throat when you swallow it, but it works fast. It numbs you. Sometimes it even takes the pain away. I’ve tried painkillers and beer, painkillers and whiskey—but I dare not mix them with vodka.

And so the days go by, waiting, anticipating, yet nothing on the horizon. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth the trouble. But now it’s too late to back out. Gotta go to the end. If the final destination is what I’m waiting for, then I have nothing to lose, but nothing to gain either.

The woman. The woman who attracts and delivers misfortune. She strikes again. Why do I have to deal with it all over again, even though I’m miles and centuries away?

It rained all night. This time, instead of being soothing, the sound of raindrops was utterly annoying. I couldn’t sleep. Occasional lights from passing cars cast eerie shadows on the wooden walls. Once again, I was slipping into despair.

I had no idea how to control it, let alone avoid it. The reasons escaped me, and after a few minutes, I’d feel okay again. The dreams escaped me too.

Drifting between the real world and the dream world, strange scenes would appear. Sometimes I could hang onto them, but sometimes they’d literally fade away, and no effort on my part could hold them in my head. They just faded away, like they never existed.

We’re standing on a huge plateau, it looks like a big parking lot. There’s a long, rectangular building on my right. The Man is next to me. He’s wearing glasses. He says nothing.

Shifting into the present tense, we walk toward the highway. More people come. One of them is my relative—a close one. The rain again. There’s a pattern to it. You take a wide street, and every two miles there’s a turn toward the highway.

The rain.