Scareship_Issue8

aloneness and stabbed him deeply. He carries a hammer with him
now to break windows, and he finds a nearby hardware shop and
takes a crowbar for the filing cabinet in the bar manager’s office,
and the desk drawers. When he opens the desk drawer, the crack
and splintering rip of wood is so loud that he looks around.
“Jackass.” Then he laughs. “There’s never a cop around when you
need one.”
He sits in the manager’s chair and goes over the phone
numbers in the date book he finds there. They have an expensive
beer he hasn’t tried before, from Holland, and he sips at it and calls
each number in the book, even the business numbers.
Nobody ever answers. When they have voicemail, he leaves a
message with his number and address, asking for them to contact
him. “It’s important,” he stresses. No point in saying why: he
suspects that would have a negative effect on them. “Oh yeah, let’s
call the nutjob who left that message.”
Of course, that assumes there’s anybody there to listen to his
message.
He finds employment records in the file cabinet, but no
pictures. Jen, Monica, Cheri, Anne. “You look like you might be a
Jen, darling, is that it? I think we can rule out Ted, at least.” He
finds a ledger, and the last entry of cash and expenses is for the day
before the world disappeared. Or moved away? “You can come
back any time, really.” He wonders if he imagined the people
there, the girl. If they were there, maybe drifting briefly back from
some alternate dimension or reality, then the ledger would have
been updated. Or would it have been, in this... wherever he was.
The numbers might be up-to-date somewhere else, someplace he
can never go.
He thinks about cleaning the place, but can’t imagine why he
should. Then he cleans it anyway. Puts out new silverware and
napkins and glasses. He doesn’t bother with the manager’s office,
how could he fix what he’s done there? The hell with it.
Then he looks around and leaves, and never goes back.
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