You Look Just Like Them

The judges stood in the middle of the darkened street.  They were gathered in a half circle, well manicured lawns and suburban houses lit by street lights on either side.  The centermost judge, her face obscured like all the others by a domino mask, read from an iPad in a stiff voice.        

At the center of the semi-circle a man begged from his knees.  He sobbed and cursed and bowed his head, and when this accomplished nothing he turned to the others, pleading with each judge by name, promising them his body, his life, his anything.

Still, the verdict was read unopposed.

Exile.

He was to be gone by dawn, never to return home again. 

#

The boulevard was bustling.  Horns honked and people shouted, the air still crisp from winter and carrying the scent of street vendors and their delicious wares on its breeze.  There were ladies with shopping bags and couples with strollers.  Businessmen hailed cabs.  Teenagers laughed.  A homeless woman sat with her back against an alley, her sign on display for the crowd to ignore.   

Lionel was in his usual spot; the small metal tables on the cafe patio.  He nursed his warm beer and puffed at his cigarillo.  The city passed and he watched, just like every other night.  No one stopped to greet him, no one asked where he’d been or how he’d been.  No one cared.  And why should they?  No one knew him here.  

He had his phone though, it being one of the only possessions the judges allowed him to take into exile.  And when last call came Lionel didn’t hear it, too absorbed in scrolling through the photos.  Soft blue light painted his features.  His nose nearly touched the screen.  He swiped and stared, swiped and stared, swiped and stared. 

Josie.  

The Mutt.  

The hammock on the back porch.  

The waitress tapped his shoulder.  With heavy eyes he looked up.  It was time to go.  But where, he asked her.  Where was he supposed to go?  

#

  Later the next week, in the backseat of a cab, Lionel checked the time.  So when the tires eventually came to a halt, Lionel did his best to hustle.  Money to driver, briefcase in hand, wind to his face, the street rolled out before him.  Down this block and another, then a quick turn and… shit.  Where was his phone?  This pocket?  No.  That pocket?  No.  Briefcase?    

Shoes slapping pavement, he sprinted to where he’d left the cab, and thankfully it was still there. 

Lionel beat on the window. 

“My phone!” he shouted.  “Is it here?  My phone!”

Not waiting on an answer, Lionel ripped the back door open and there it was.  Wedged between two seat cushions.  Sitting there as if it didn’t matter at all.  As if every memory Lionel cherished wasn’t encased inside.  As if it weren’t the only link he had to a lost life.

The thudding in his chest resided.  Lionel wiped his eyes.  Thank you, he mouthed silently.  He didn't know what God he was thanking, but if any were listening he hoped they heard.

#

In the darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling, Lionel tried to picture them.  Faint outlines appeared in his mind’s eye, before fading as they did more and more these days.  He tried again, and a vague outline of a man came to him; dark hair back in a ponytail, a half day’s stubble, that extra dimple when he smiled wide.  Lionel tried to focus, concentrating on what Henry had been wearing the last time he’d seen him, or what his voice sounded like.  But the harder he strained the dimmer Henry became, until finally the image faded again.

Lionel looked to his night stand, and cursed his weakness. 

Just a look, he said to himself.  Just a peak.  No harm in that.

He reached onto the nightstand, grasped the phone, and hit Home.

And there they were.

Proud Henry, standing akimbo over a dead deer.  Josie, her cheeks puffed and her dazzling green eyes crossed.  A swipe and there was Oswald, drool-covered frisbee dangling from his mouth.  Another swipe and his parents were reclined on the porch hammock.  And lastly the one of him and Bertrard after commencement, a shoulder to shoulder selfie.

Lionel stared at the screen until his chest grew heavy.  Then he placed the phone back on the nightstand, screen down.

#

Monsoon season came and passed.  After the rains, the city bloomed.  Splendor colored every flower and the birds spoke up.  The sun shined.  The heat rose.  There were May Day Parades and the Founder’s Festival.  Evenings shrank and day lasted deeper into the night.   

Lionel watched it all from his cafe.  He watched the city go by and remembered.  And when that wouldn’t work, Lionel had his phone.  Which made it all the worse when it finally happened.  Lionel could only use the drinks as his excuse, otherwise how else could he have been so careless?  

It happened like this.  Cigarillo in tray, beer in hand, phone on the table, Lionel saw him.  Bertrard.  It was the first since his exile he’d recognized and the sight of a familiar face, in the absence of one for so long, shook Lionel.  He knew Bertrard.  Bertrard knew him.  It had been so long since that had been the case he almost didn’t know what to do. 

After sitting a beat he sprang to action, leaping up in his excitement and banging his knee into the table.  His beer glass wobbled, almost recovered, then tipped sideways.  Amber liquid splashed across the table and soaked his phone.  The screen flickered, dimmed, and went dark.    

What was the noise Lionel made at that moment?  

Inhuman.  Guttural.  Beastly.  

Quickly he swept the phone off the table and wrapped his shirt around it.  He dabbed and dried and blew, but despite all this the screen wouldn’t respond.  Buttons clicked, pounded, and squeezed produced nothing.  

Dead.

Lionel didn’t even remember having seen Bertrard.  He sat back at the table and covered his face with his hands.  Passerbys stared while he sobbed, but what did he care?  It was gone.  They were gone.  And though his exile had been final for some time, now was the first moment it felt permanent.

#

And so it remained.  At the store the geek in his blue polo told Lionel there wasn’t anything to be done.  Dejected, he snatched the lifeless phone and was prepared to storm out.

“You’re him, right?” the geek asked.    

Lionel feared where this was going, and said nothing.  

“You’re Michael Belltree,” the geek said, eyes widening. “The Summer Son.  The Prince of Knives.”

Lionel didn’t blink.  He didn’t move much at all. 

“Showed you my ID when I came in,” he finally said.  “Name’s Lionel.”

The geek huffed and looked pleased to find himself party to a secret.  

“It was a crime the way they treated you,” he said in a low voice, checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t overheard.  “What you did was right.  And I’m sure your countrymen are proud of you.”

There wasn’t any answer Lionel could provide.  He felt the door rushing at him and he turned to make it a reality.

The geek shouted after him.

“Where are you going?  Lemme get a picture!  C’mon man, you’re a hero!”

#

After that the cafe wasn't the same.  The beer tasted flat.  The cigarillo hit a bitter note.  The people walking past seemed to move on a strange frequency.  The city wasn’t right.  But it never had been.  It wasn’t his.  And now, shiny new phone on the table beside him, that fact was never more obvious.  

Lionel hit the Home button, but there wasn’t anything that felt remotely like home there.  

And so it remained.  

That is until one night a month later, when Lionel saw him again.

Bertrard.

He was shuffling up the other side of the street.  Blinking, Lionel rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.  

Yup, it was Bertrard.  

This time Lionel didn’t screw up.  Not that there was much left to screw up, but still.  He grabbed his phone, stubbed the smoke, and, practically running, came upon Bertrard from behind. 

“Hey!” Lionel shouted, clasping the man’s shoulder.  Bertrard spun around.  Or, more accurately, someone spun around, because this wasn’t Bertrard.  It was a man with a face shaped sorta like Bertrard’s, wearing a jacket sorta like the one Bertrard used to wear, moving in a manner sorta like Bertrard used to.

“Can I help you?,” the man asked.  

Lionel felt a tightness knot his stomach and worried he might get sick.  He tossed off some apology and turned back to the cafe, but the man followed after him.

“No worries there buddy, no worries.  I’ve got a familiar face.  Get that all the time.  But since you’re here, maybe you can help.”  And from there the man launched into a story about a lady waiting for him across town, and that he could really use some help with the transit fare to get back to her.

Feeling too sorry for himself to care for others, Lionel started to wave him off when an idea struck him. 

It wouldn’t be real, and it wouldn’t be the same, but it might be something.

Lionel pulled some cash from his pocket.  That got the man’s attention and real quick he was all ears.

“You can have this,” Lionel began.  “But you have to let me take your picture first.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Nothing like that,” Lionel said.  “Just a picture here on the street.” 

The man puffed his chest and stood back, posing.

“No, not like that,” Lionel said.  He took the hat from the man’s head and told him to remove the nose ring.  He looked him up and down, studying him.  “Fix your hair,” he said.  “Like this.”  And he showed the man.  

Lionel stepped back and studied his work.  It would have to do.  Even if it wasn’t real, it would be something.  He leaned in and put his arm around the man’s shoulder, just like in the picture of him and Bertrard at commencement.  The photo snapped.  Lionel pulled away and checked.  

Close.  Not the same, but close.  

Sorta.

He handed the man his cash and left before any questions could be asked.

#

In the darkness of his room Lionel tried to picture them.  Bertrard.  Oswald.  Henry.  And when he couldn’t picture them, he pulled out his phone.  He looked at the photo of him and fake Bertrard.  He knew it wasn’t Bertrard, but with an effort he could lie to himself.  And with his eyes squinted he almost believed it.  

In the crush of the darkness, in a room that wasn’t home, he almost believed it.

#

The boulevard was full for a Wednesday.  Lionel watched attentively.  Faces, clothes, body language.  Looking for a memory.  For an echo of someone.  He had the money and he had the time.  He’d find them.  Josie was in this crowd somewhere.  So was Henry.  And his parents.  And if they weren’t out there tonight, maybe they’d be there tomorrow.  

Lionel would keep looking.

Where else did he have to go?

End