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Will wielded his weapon – a piece of chalk and an eraser – much
in the way that Luke Skywalker did his light saber. For Will, ever dexterous
and swift, these items had become an extension of his own person and
a symbol of his authority, both of which needed bolstering on a daily
basis.
He had dreamt of being many things when he grew up – a firefighter, a
lawyer, even Indiana Jones – but he had never wanted to teach. A pathetic
job, to be sure, and when witness protection told him that he was Eric
Johnston, high school English teacher, he begged them to at least make
him a reporter in this one-horse town. One-horse, not two, he mused.
That’s how dramatically things had changed. The CIA had adamantly refused.
Now all that remained of his days as a reporter were his corduroy sport
coat, the half-eaten sandwich on his desk, and the pencil stuck behind
his ear.
He looked out over the sea of students. It turned out that classrooms
were just as overcrowded in backwater Minnesota as they were in LA. He
set his chalk on the desk and picked up his other favorite instrument,
the paperback book.
“
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They
have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many
parts, his acts being seven ages...” Mr. Johnston was nothing if not
eloquent. “I want you to finish act two and write me a quick three hundred
words telling me what Shakespeare is talking about.”
His announcement elicited a series of groans and complaints.
“
Hey, this isn’t LA. English is your first language. You ought to have
something to say about Shakespeare.” The words he spoke and the volume
at which he spoke them surprised him, as if he were listening to another
person entirely.
He awaited the lone cry that accompanied every assignment he gave out. “But
why?”
“
Because I said so,” he said, gripping the eraser and wagging it at them.
But the students were no longer paying attention to him. All eyes were
on the door, with shouts of ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ ringing out across the room.
Will turned to see what the commotion was.
The CIA had warned him that this might happen. A few weeks ago, he came
home to a message from a plumber he hadn’t called, the signal that he
needed to contact the CIA. He had considered a thousand scenarios, but
none of them involved Sydney being alive. He called in. Weiss explained
as much as he could to a friend with no security clearance, but it had
been more than enough.
“
Who is she?” Will recognized the voice. It was Tommy, the loud, obnoxious
kid who could never shut up.
Will shook his head. The bell rang and students rushed past Sydney, their
interest in Mr. Johnston’s mysterious visitor having evaporated as quickly
as it had materialized. The students were long gone and he was still
staring at Sydney, shaking his head. The memory of last night’s cold
SpaghettiOs eaten straight from the can prevented him from reciting the
speech he had practiced, the one where he told her for the second and
probably last time in their friendship that, dead or alive, she had ruined
his life.
“
Look,” he said in a hushed tone. “You and I...we don’t know each other
anymore.”
* * *
Sydney was nothing if not persistent, something which Will had forgotten.
After he had gathered his crossword and walked off to the teacher’s lounge,
he thought that would be the end of it. The teacher’s lounge was a magical
place where non-teachers dared not tread, but Sydney followed him in
as if it were just another room. He took a seat on the beaten up leather
couch and crossed his legs. Not the manliest of poses, but he had a puzzle
to finish.
He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and perused the clues, ignoring
Sydney, who had presumptuously sat beside him.
“
I always wanted to be a teacher,” she said coyly.
He glanced up at her, his eyebrow arched. “I wanted to be a reporter.” He
saw her wince at his words. He knew that he was being cruel and unforgiving,
but couldn’t stop himself.
“
Difficult puzzle?” She was unrelenting, and she knew exactly where his
weaknesses lay.
He gnawed at the tip of his pencil. “Heat having a bark as well as a
bite. Nine letters, last letter is ‘r’.”
Her smile was effulgent, radiating her gratitude. A small gesture, to
be certain, but it was a moment that only they could share. “Canicular.”
He squinted with mock skepticism. “Use it in a sentence.”
“
The canicular heat of the Carolinas killed the crops.”
“
Very alliterative...and I’m the one teaching English.”
The conversation lapsed as Will returned to his crossword. “Figurative
comeuppance, fourteen down, five letters,” he mumbled quietly. He again
dug his teeth into the pencil, leaving a deep impression. When he looked
up, he was unnerved by Sydney’s unflinching stare. The CIA had reiterated
that she was an unknown entity, that no one, not even she, knew where
she had been or for whom she had been working. He felt his chest tighten.
“
What’s with the pencil?”
“
Huh?” The object in question hit the floor and he rushed to pick it up.
“
It’s just...” The awkwardness had returned for an encore. “You prefer
using pen on a crossword. Throw caution to the wind, live a little. That’s
what you always told me.”
“
Check my file. I’m a different person,” Will replied hastily.
He swore that he saw incipient tears collecting in her eyes, but she
merely bit her lip. “Me, too.”
* * *
They hadn’t talked about why she had come or if he would ever see her
again. When she left the lounge that day, she handed him a piece of paper.
Refusing to look at it, he slid it into his wallet beside his emergency
$20.
Two weeks later, he received a postcard. One side had a drawing of a
goat’s head with one ear pierced and the other, a familiar scribble reading, “I
do desire we may be better strangers.” He pulled his wallet from his
back pocket and hunted for the scrap of paper. Unfolding it, he slipped
it into his jacket pocket and reached for his car keys.
* * *
Will liked to believe that he went with his gut instinct, that he had
known all along what Sydney had in mind, but it wasn’t true. When he
laid eyes on her that day in the classroom, he had thought she was selfish,
willing to endanger both their lives to indulge the fantasy that neither
of them needed protection. He smirked as he threw his backpack over his
shoulder. It was a long-shot that brought her to Duluth. Maybe things
hadn’t changed.
The very day he had received the postcard, he had driven south three
hours just to make a phone call. He could have used the payphone at the
Food N Fuel across the street, but he didn’t want to have his hopes dashed
because he was too lazy to lose his tail. She was offering him a way
out, a way back to the person he used to be. Finding a secure line was
the first step.
The number connected him to the polite and happy voice of a travel agent,
letting him know that he could pick up his tickets in Chicago.
* * *
Will’s means of escape were limited. Duluth was the kind of town people
never left, either because they were too poor or too dull. Greyhound
and a wad of cash in his pocket was the only way out of which he was
aware.
Will stood in the station’s bathroom, reading the directions on the box
of hair dye as if the outcome really mattered. “Always do a test strand.” He
watched Eric Johnston chuckle in the mirror for the last time. All he
needed was for the color to be different.
Twenty five minutes later, a new person emerged from behind the cold
steel door. He didn’t have a name or a past, just a pair of vintage plastic
black glasses that obscured the face beneath them. Will tossed his wallet,
the last vestige of his alias, to the homeless man lying on the floor.
The man blinked twice as his eyes popped with surprise.
* * *
Will entered the office of A&A Holidays in downtown Chicago. Everyone
else was wearing a suit, while he was clad in a worn field jacket from
the Army/Navy Surplus store and jeans with holes the size of a well-developed
grapefruit. The young woman behind the desk jumped up and ran over to
him. “You’re not our usual client,” she said, smiling. She handed him
an index card.
6349 N. Clark
Midnight
He looked back up at her. “This is my itinerary?”
“
Special request.”
As she turned to go back to her desk, Will tapped her shoulder. “I haven’t
been to Chicago in...forever. What’s the nearest stop?”
“
Red line to Granville. Seven blocks west, two blocks north.” She shrugged
sympathetically. “Dicey neighborhood after dark. I’d walk like you know
where you’re going.”
* * *
The ferocity of the wind had only increased as Will walked away from
the El. The gusts tore through his jeans and tousled his hair. He had
conveniently repressed the harsh reality of Chicago weather patterns
much in the way that one might forgive the foibles of a senile grandmother
during a holiday dinner. There were other people on the street, but thanks
to the helpful advice of the travel agent, they induced anxiety rather
than comfort. Putting one foot in front of the other, he didn’t look
up until he reached 6349. He smiled as he read the sign: Stacks and Steaks.
His watch read 11:45. He took a deep breath and tugged at the door, but
it didn’t budge.
“
Push,” she whispered in his ear.
He leaned into the door. “Do we know each other?”
“
Don’t believe we do,” she responded. “How do you feel about the counter?”
“
Love the counter.”
She grabbed a menu and slid onto the stool. A man in a t-shirt and an
apron stained with grease peeked out from the kitchen. “Howdy, Sani.
Love the blue hair.”
“
Thanks, Gus. Two of the usual.”
She put the menu back in the condiment rack. “So, Sani?” He mumbled her
name a few times, testing its sound on his lips. “You seem like a regular.
What’s good?”
“
Coffee’s not bad.” She studied him with warm, eager eyes. She reached
for his glasses.
“
Sy...Sani.”
She shushed him, her voice hissing gently. “No one’s watching us.” She
folded up the glasses and put them into his shirt pocket, and then she
ran her fingers through his hair. “We match.”
He looked up, as if he could see her fingers playing with his hair, but
said nothing.
“
I didn’t think you’d come, thought I’d made a mistake. The way those
students looked at you-”
“
Bored, uninspired students. Wasn’t me.”
He could see her dimples forming their response before she began to speak. “Blue
hair, clunky glasses, Stacks and Steak...” she said, gesturing to the
rest of the restaurant. “This is you?”
He shook his head. “When you put it that way, yeah. Whoever I am, I want
to know you.” He grinned. “Only the meek get pinched. The bold survive.”
“
And we’re the bold.”
“
All the world’s a stage. One man in his time plays many parts.”
“
If there are seven ages in a man’s life, what age are we in right now?”
Gus barreled out of the kitchen, plates in hand. “Two eggs, sunny side
up, hash browns,” he grunted, winking at Sani. “Extra brown. Times two.” He
set them on the counter.
Will smiled at Sydney. “The one where you pass the hot sauce.”
-fin-
Shakespeare Quotes:
“
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They
have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many
parts, his acts being seven ages...” As
You Like It, Act ii. Sc. 7.
“
I do desire we may be better strangers.
As You Like It, Act iii. Sc.
2.
Ferris Bueller Quote:
“
Only the meek get pinched. The bold survive.” – Ferris
Bueller’s Day Off
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