That Other Guy
by Brian Clark
In a switch on the Jekyll and Hyde story, journalist Richard Callaghan transforms from an arrogant, insensitive and stingy man into an easygoing, kind and generous guy who likes to be called Ricky (a nickname that Richard detests). The answer to the mystery of the alternate personality will be found deep inside Richard’s brain, but not before Ricky turns his life upside down.
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Table of Contents, chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 |
Chapter 8
The voice sounded distant, like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel or the bottom of a deep well.
“Hey, Mr. Cool. Are you all right? Mr. Cool?”
When Richard felt the hand on his shoulder, his body shuddered and his eyes flew open.
He looked up into the gaunt, acne-scarred face of a young man standing over him, his icy-blue eyes wide with concern. He had a blond buzz cut and a strip of wispy hair on his upper lip that barely qualified as a mustache. Frayed jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt hung off his skinny frame.
“You OK, man?” he asked, withdrawing his hand from Richard’s shoulder.
Richard looked around. He was sitting in a large room with a scattering of dilapidated furniture: an ancient leather couch with torn cushions; a collection of stained, moldering armchairs; a couple of battered Formica tables surrounded by mismatched kitchen chairs. There was an old TV in the corner. Cracked and peeling linoleum covered the floor. Through a propped-open door, Richard could see an even larger chamber, this one filled with row upon row of cots, only a few of them occupied.
“Man, that was freaky, dude.”
Richard looked back up at the buzz-cut kid hovering over him. “Pardon?”
“We was just talkin’ and you kinda zoned out. You all right now?”
Richard smoothed his hair back with his hand. “Ah, yes, sure, I’m fine.”
He looked down and realized he was sitting in an armchair just as filthy as the others. An errant spring was poking him in the back. Buzz Cut slumped into a chair a couple of feet away.
There was only one other person in the room, an old man with a swirling grey beard thumbing through a newspaper at one of the tables.
Richard knew where he was. It could only be Good Samaritan House, the homeless shelter run by Ryan Doyle. What he didn’t know at the moment was when he was. Or how he got here. He wasn’t wearing his watch and a quick pat of his pants pockets revealed that he didn’t have his cellphone, either.
“Do you happen to know what day it is?” Richard asked.
The kid laughed. “What day it is? Hey man, who’s the homeless guy here? It’s Saturday.”
“And what time is it?”
Buzz Cut pointed to a wall clock Richard hadn’t noticed. It said 7:30.
“And that would be p.m., would it?”
The kid laughed again. “Wow. Mellow Mr. Cool is just too cool to know what time it is. Yeah, it’s p.m.”
“Actually, I’m not really too keen on that moniker.”
“Huh?”
“Please don’t call me Mr. Cool,” Richard said.
“Oh. OK, sorry. Just Ricky then, eh?”
“Well, to be honest with you, I’d prefer...” Richard trailed off and expelled a breathy chuckle. “Oh, what the hell. Sure, call me Ricky.”
He stood up slowly — and immediately felt woozy. The room spun and his vision swam. He dropped back into the chair, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Some kind of chemical smell — probably a disinfectant — was fighting a losing battle against body odor and the funk of stale tobacco.
Buzz Cut leaned forward in the seat. “Hey, Ricky, you don’t look so hot. You’re white as a ghost. Maybe I should call for help.”
“No, no, no, not necessary, I’ll be OK. Just a little lightheadedness. It’ll go away. I just need to sit here for a while longer.”
“OK, Ricky, long as you’re sure,” said Buzz Cut, settling back in the chair. “So, anyway, like I was tellin’ ya before, it ain’t much.”
Richard took another long breath and massaged his temples. “Um, it isn’t?”
“No, just a basement apartment over on Glenmore, a single room and bathroom, what they call a bachelor. But it’s clean and it’s furnished and it’s all mine.”
“Sounds great.”
Buzz Cut grinned. “Thanks to you, Ricky.”
“Pardon?”
“And like I said, I’m gonna pay back every cent. That’s a promise.”
Richard cupped his face in his hands and slowly shook his head. “Remind me again how much I gave... um... that is, how much I lent you.”
“Well, it was $1,200. That’s for first and last month’s rent and a bit more for food and clothes.”
Richard moaned. “That Ricky is going to send me to the poor house,” he mumbled.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Listen, could you...”
Richard looked up and saw the old man approaching. He looked like an ancient hippie, complete with flowing beard, grey ponytail, red bandanna and tie-dye T-shirt.
“You listen to what Mr. Cool has to say, there, Bob,” the old man said, looking at Buzz Cut. “He knows it all. Mr. Cool is perspicacious. Mr. Cool is beneficent. Mr. Cool is omniscient. Mr. Cool has achieved cosmic consciousness, perhaps even unity consciousness.”
The old man’s eyes were wide and glowing. He began to speak rapidly.
“You know what Maharishi Mahesh Yogi said, don’t you? The Great Seer said, ‘The knowledge from an enlightened person breaks on the hard rocks of ignorance.’ Or perhaps Emerson. He said, ‘Within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related, the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but—’”
“OK, hold on there, old-timer,” Richard said, holding his hands up in the air. “Thank you very much for the lecture. But Bob and I were in the middle of an important discussion.”
The old hippie’s shoulders sagged and the light faded from his eyes. He scowled. “Mr. Cool, you have forced me to reassess your level of consciousness. I now doubt that you have even reached the level of transcendental consciousness. Now if you’ll excuse me.” The old man turned and stomped out of the room.
Bob watched him leave, then looked back at Richard and grinned. “Somebody told me old Zack there was some kinda perfesser at the university, psychology or philosophy or somethin’.”
“Interesting. So, tell me, Robert—”
“Ah, I kinda like to be called Bob, ya know.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Sure. Bob it is. Now, about—”
“Oh, that reminds me, I found out what palin... ah... palindromic means.”
“Excuse me?”
“Palindromic. Isn’t that it, Ricky? Ya know, coupla times you called me your palindromic pal.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Zack told me. It’s my name, right? It’s spelled the same forwards and backwards.”
“Yes, that’s right, Bob.”
“That’s so cool, eh? Zack says there’s a bunch more, like regular words. Let’s see, there’s ‘level’, and ‘refer’ and ‘madam’ and, um, ‘racecar’. And Zack says his wife’s name is Hannah. That’s another one. He says he hasn’t seen her in, like, fifteen years, though.”
“Yes, Bob, palindromes are fascinating. Now, about this money and your laudable pledge to pay it back. Could I ask how you plan to do that?”
“OK, well, that’s my other big piece of news. I got me a job interview tomorrow.”
“Ah, well done. Very commendable. What’s the job for?”
“Cleanin’ offices. So I figure I oughta be able to pay you back 50 bucks a week.”
Richard nodded slowly and bit his lower lip. “Well, Bob, that would be a good starting point at least. But you know, someone your age... how old are you, by the way?”
“Twenty-four.”
Richard frowned. “Come on, how old really?”
Bob gave him a sheepish grin. “Nineteen.”
“OK, so why aren’t you still living at home? You can save more money that way. I didn’t leave my parents’ place until I was about 24 or 25.”
Bob crossed his arms, looked down at the floor and grimaced. “What are ya, senile? I told you all that,” he said, looking back up at Richard, his jaw clenched. “You want me to tell you again what my old man did to me?”
Bob looked down again and rubbed the back of his neck. He swore quietly. After a moment, he lifted his eyes and his look softened. “Sorry I called ya senile, dude.”
“It’s OK. It’s how I’ve been feeling lately.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You say your job interview is tomorrow, Bob?” Richard said.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
“No. I got me a pair of tan slacks and a blue dress shirt from the Goodwill store.”
“All right, that’s good,” Richard said. “And remember to shake hands firmly, look them in the eye when you talk to them and answer their questions as honestly as you can. And show confidence. That’s how you get a job: showing confidence.”
“OK. Thanks, dude.”
“And don’t call anybody dude.”
Richard got to his feet. He still felt a little unsteady, but the worst of the dizzy spell had passed. “Do you know how much this job pays, Bob?”
“Ah, well, it’s minimum wage, $11.25 an hour. Plus, it’s just three days a week.”
Richard put a hand over his mouth and slowly shook his head. “Ah, Bob, that’s probably not even enough to live on. You couldn’t pay me $50 a week. You couldn’t even pay me $5 a week.”
“Well, they said if things work out they might be able to take me on full time. And the salary goes up to 12 bucks an hour after a year. That’s if I get the job, o’course.”
Richard folded his arms and looked around the room. “Tell you what, don’t worry about paying me back for now. If you get the job and if you get on full time, then we’ll work something out.”
Bob jumped out of the chair and grabbed Richard in a bear hug. After an awkward moment, Richard hugged him back.
Copyright © 2021 by Brian Clark
