They rowed by the sprawling house with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake.

“Pretty deluxe,” he said, resting his oars as they drifted. “Place like that set you back two million at least.”

“I’ve never seen anyone in it,” she said, shading her eyes. “Just the caretaker mowing the lawn.”

“Must be nice,” he said.

Over the months they kept an eye on it, even made a bet about when they might see the owners. They never did.

It was she who first noticed the windows. “All that fantastic view, yet the shades are drawn tight.”

“Must be a story there.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

Anyone less on the ball might have missed it, but Henry wasn’t one of those. Sheeple he called them, gullible consumers of whatever garbage was slaked in front of them, be it TV shows or sports or fast food.

Henry stayed one step ahead of them.

It wasn’t until the last payphone had been ripped out that he surrendered his pager, opting for a decade-old flip phone.

Even so, he knew they were watching him, probably more closely than before because he wasn’t on the rest of their grid.

But at least he hadn’t found any trackers in his walls.

 

Friday Fictioneers

Always the fear of waiting. Will they come? Will they forget me?

They never forget, of course. Yet this feeling of dread gets stronger with every passing year, seems to grow inside her as though her brain is swelling inside her skull, pressing into it, striving to escape.

She becomes obsessed with ritual, counts her footfalls, takes notice of birds. She avoids using the verb to be in any form, as though naming a thing will give it shape, make it real.

Soon she avoids talking altogether.

But still the formless fear grows to fill her.

She becomes furtive, watchful.

Friday Fictioneers

He set his half-full mug of coffee on the sill without seeing the amazing view.

He stood up, took his raincoat from a hook and opened his office door, walked wordlessly past his secretary and the rows of desks.

He went into the hallway and pressed the elevator button, heard the rush of the car in the shaft hurtling up the twenty-two floors of the Transamerica building where he had worked for fifteen years, worked his way from the copy room all the way into the corner office he’d just left for what turned out to be the last time. 

Friday Fictioneers

“It’s just for a couple days, man. I swear.”

“I know brother. I got you. I wish you could have the couch, but you know Giselle. She promised Ladonna she wouldn’t let you crash with us.”

“You gonna get in the doghouse she finds out?”

“I’ll handle it. You and me, we go way back. She knows that.”

“There a bathroom here?”

“Down the hall there’s a janitor closet got a toilet and sink. The lock’s busted, so you shouldn’t have no problem.”

“What do I say if somebody asks me?”

“You worry too much. Nobody ever comes down here.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

“I love the space. Will the smell go away?”

“That roller door is perfect. I can drive the Aston Martin right in. We’ll put in one of those lifts like we saw in Chicago. The one you said was like Batman.”

“The ceilings are divine. Can you imagine everything that went on in here?”

“Don’t be so romantic. People lived lives like anyone else. Now this third floor has serious potential. Raise the ceiling so we can walk out onto a terrace.”

“I want to keep those tablets on the front. I think it will be lucky.”

“Are you crazy?”

 

Friday Fictioneers

Perhaps it is the water, or maybe the act of doing something innocuous like washing dishes, but she can only cry at the kitchen sink.

She’d made the discovery by accident. She’d been scrubbing a plate when a paroxysm of grief surged through her, racking sobs that were thankfully drowned out by the rushing faucet.

She’d stood there weeping, the water cascading over her hands matching the tears rolling over her cheeks.

Afterward she felt amazing.

Cleansed.

Free.

Now after dinner she quickly gathers the plates and silverware, shoos her family from the kitchen, her heart skipping in eager anticipation

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

I pretend they don’t exist.

Wait, that’s not it exactly.

I know they exist. They exist more than I do.

This is the problem.

I’ll be on the bus, staring at somebody and I start to think their thoughts, look into their faces and hear their inner voices.

I become them.

All of them.

Their voices crowd my head.

My own voice gets lost in the crowd.

I can’t tell if I am thinking, or they are.

It’s a jumble.

So I never look at them, wear sunglasses and headphones with the music turned up loud as it can go.

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

“He was sent home again. Not a stitch on this time.”

“Can’t they stop him?”

“They would, but nobody sees him undress. It’s like one minute he has clothes on, and the next minute he’s starko.”

“Does he still say he’s invisible?”

“He doesn’t say it anymore, but I’m pretty sure he believes it.”

“Even though everybody can see him?”

“Look, I have no idea why he’s like this. All I know is that it’s a problem. It’s getting worse, and everybody there is at their wit’s end. They can’t exactly fire him, you know.”

“I may have an idea.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

The warehouse was brick-oven hot, but Chaim was the only one who seemed to be sweating. The man in crisp shirtsleeves sat cool behind the desk, his dry palms leaving no stain on the paper as he filled in the form.

“Living relatives?” said the man.

“None.”

The man looked up at him. “You’re certain of this? We will verify everything you say here.”

“I may have some distant cousins in the States, but no living relatives that I know of.”

“And you understand what we do here?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you have heard stories?”

“Of course.”

“Which stories?”

 

Friday Fictioneers