What You Make It: Selected Short Stories. Michael Marshall Smith
we got back to the street we were late and so Matt and Joey ran on ahead. I would have run with them but I saw that the man was standing down the other side of the block, and I wanted to watch him to see what he was going to do. Matt waited back a second after Joey had run and said he'd see me after dinner. Then he ran, and I just hung around for a while.
The man was looking back up at the block again, like he was looking for something. He knew I was hanging around, but he didn't come over right away, as if he was nervous. I went and sat on the wall and messed about with some stones. I wasn't in any hurry.
‘Excuse me,’ says this voice, and I looked up to see the man standing over me. The slanting sun was in his eyes and he was shading them with his hand. He had a nice suit on and he was younger than people's parents are, but not much. ‘You live here, don't you?’
I nodded, and looked up at his face. He looked familiar.
‘I used to live here,’ he said, ‘when I was a kid. On the top floor.’ Then he laughed, and I recognized him from the sound. ‘A long time ago now. Came back after all these years to see if it had changed.’
I didn't say anything.
‘Hasn't much, still looks the same.’ He turned and looked again at the block, then back past me towards the wasteground. ‘Guys still playing out there on the ’ground?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it's cool. We have a fort there.’
‘And the creek?’
He knew I still played there: he'd been watching. I knew what he really wanted to ask, so I just nodded. The man nodded too, as if he didn't know what to say next. Or more like he knew what he wanted to say, but didn't know how to go about it.
‘My name's Tom Spivey,’ he said, and then stopped. I nodded again. The man laughed, embarrassed. ‘This is going to sound very weird, but… I've seen you around today, and yesterday.’ He laughed again, running his hand through his hair, and then finally asked what was on his mind. ‘Your name isn't Pete, by any chance?’
I looked up into his eyes, then turned away.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It's Jim.’
The man looked confused for a moment, then relieved. He said a couple more things about the block, and then he went away. Back to the city, or wherever.
After dinner I saw Matt out in the back parking lot, behind the block. We talked about the afternoon some, so he could get warmed up, and then he told me what was on his mind.
His family was moving on. His dad had got a better job somewhere else. They'd be going in a week.
We talked a little more, and then he went back inside, looking different somehow, as if he'd already gone.
I stayed out, sitting on the wall, thinking about missing people. I wasn't feeling sad, just tired. Sure, I was going to miss Matt. He was my best friend. I'd missed Tom for a while, but then someone else came along. And then someone else, and someone else. There's always new people. They come, and then they go. Maybe Matt would return some day, like Tom. Sometimes they do come back. But everybody goes.
I always assumed I was going to get old. That there would come a time when just getting dressed left me breathless, and I would count a day without a nap as a victory; when I would go into a barber's and some young girl would lift up the remaining grey stragglers on my pate and look dubious if I asked her for anything more than a trim. I would have tried to be charming, and she would have thought to herself how game the old bird was, while cutting off rather less than I'd asked her to. I thought all that was going to come, some day, and in a perverse sort of way I had even looked forward to it. A diminuendo, an ellipsis to some other place.
But now I know it will not happen, that I will remain unresolved, like some fugue which didn't work out. Or perhaps more like a voice in an unfinished symphony, because I won't be the only one.
I regret that. I'm going to miss having been old.
I left the facility at 6.30 yesterday evening, on the dot, as had been my practice. I took care to do everything as I always had, carefully collating my notes, tidying my desk, and leaving upon it a list of things to do the next day. I hung my white coat on the back of my office door as always, and said goodbye to Johnny on the gate with a wink. For six months we have been engaged in a game which involves making some joint statement on the weather every time I enter or leave the facility, without either of us recoursing to speech. Yesterday, Johnny raised his eyebrows at the dark and heavy clouds overhead, and rolled his eyes – a standard gambit. I turned one corner of my mouth down and shrugged with the other shoulder, a more adventurous riposte, in recognition of the fact that this was the last time the game would ever be played. For a moment I wanted to do more, to say something, reach out and shake his hand; but that would have been too obvious a goodbye. Perhaps no one would have stopped me anyway, as it has become abundantly clear that I am as powerless as everyone else – but I didn't want to take the risk.
Then I found my car among the diminishing number which still park there, and left the compound for good.
The worst part, for me, is that I knew Philip Ely, and understand how it all started. I was sent to work at the facility because I am partly to blame for what has happened. The original work was done together, but I was the one who had always given credence to the paranormal. Philip had never paid much heed to such things, not until they became an obsession. There may have been some chance remark of mine which made him open to the idea. Just having known me for so long may have been enough. If it was, then I'm sorry. There's not a great deal more I can say.
Philip and I met at the age of six, our fathers having taken up new positions at the same college – the University of Florida, in Gainesville. My father was in the Geography Faculty, his in Sociology, but at that time – the late ’80s – the departments were drawing closer together and the two men became friends. Our families mingled closely, in shared holidays on the coast and countless back-yard barbecues, and Philip and I grew up more like brothers than friends. We read the same clever books and hacked the same stupid computers, and even ended up losing our virginity on the same evening. One spring when we were both sixteen I borrowed my mother's car and the two of us loaded it up with books and a laptop and headed off to Sarasota in search of sun and beer. We found both, in quantity, and also two young English girls on holiday. We spent a week in courting spirals of increasing tightness, playing pool and talking fizzy nonsense over cheap and exotic pizzas, and on the last night two couples walked up the beach in different directions.
Her name was Karen, and for a while I thought I was in love. I wrote a letter to her twice a week, and to this day she's probably received more mail from me than everyone else put together. Each morning I went running down to the mailbox, and ten years later the sight of an English postage stamp could still bring a faint rush of blood to my ears. But we were too far apart, and too young. Maybe she had to wait a day too long for a letter once, or perhaps it was me who without realizing it came back empty-handed from the mailbox one too many times. Either way the letters started to slacken in frequency after six months and then, without either of us ever saying anything, they simply stopped altogether.
A little while later I was with Philip in a bar and, in between shots, he looked up at me.
‘You ever hear from Karen any more?’ he asked.
I shook my head, only at that moment realizing that it had finally died. ‘Not in a while.’
He nodded, and then took his shot, and missed, and as I lined up for the black I thought that he'd probably been through a similar thing. For the first time in our lives we'd lost something. It didn't break our hearts. It had only lasted a week, after all, and we were old enough to know that the world was full of girls, and that if we didn't hurry we'd hardly have got through any of them before it was time to get married.
But does anyone ever replace that first person? That first