The Half-Bearded Man (Fiction)

He stroked his beard for what would be the last time. He didn’t want to get rid of it but it felt right to. After all, today was the start of his new position in upper-management (a promotion, long overdue), and what better way to acknowledge this change in his life than by getting rid of the one thing that symbolized all those years when he saw no end to the long nights spent in the office or any immediate reward for his efforts therein.

    That’s why this beard has to go, he thought, because this promotion represents a  change in my life, and besides, I wouldn’t want to stand out from everyone on the top floor.

     As he smiled at the thought of being among the big cats on the top floor he started the trimmer—which felt odd in his hands—and began to trim as much as possible in order to be able to get a clean shave. He started on the right side of his face, trimming downwards from an appropriate, socially acceptable length of sideburn, all the way down to his neck, in stripes. He wasn’t sure if it was the beard’s grittiness that was slowing him down or his attachment to it.

    When he reached the half-way point, he stopped to clear the blade with his fingers, the accumulation of hair was making it significantly harder to continue. Somewhere outside, a gathering of birds took flight abruptly.

     He didn’t know if he heard it or felt it first.

    I must have felt it first, he thought, because you can see lightning before you hear thunder, but it hadn’t been raining when I last checked, so that particular bit of trivia is of no real use right now.

     He must have felt it and heard it at the same time, but separately, as if his body had split in two and one half felt while the other heard, and he experienced both so closely that it set his intimacy issues ablaze. He was frozen due to a combination of fear and confusion.

     That’s when he heard the scream.

     The scream came from many voices, alternating in tone but steadily rising in volume. He knew this wasn’t lightning. Or thunder. Or the time to be scared.

     He ran outside, throwing on the pair of pants he had set out for himself last night and bathroom slippers in his haste. The view he was accustomed to when he ran out of the lobby was covered in thick, black smoke with the occasional flame poking out. The courtyard he walked across daily was covered with debris, a mixture of concrete bits with steel poking out and scraps of furniture. One smoked-grey running shoe stood out, calm and useless amidst the chaos.

   While he maneuvered through the debris to offer any help he could, the first respondents showed up: firetrucks and ambulances, followed by police in vehicles ranging from squad cars all the way to bomb squad trucks. A garbage truck stopped for a minute to consider turning and entering the parking lot.

     Before he was able to assess the damage and figure out a way to help, before he was even able to be puzzled by how the respondents arrived so quickly, he noticed an officer looking at him and talking into his radio. He thought nothing of it until he was pushed to the ground, cuffed, and hauled away to an interrogation room somewhere.

******

Between repetitions of his alibi and the various abuse slung at him from the rotation of officers interrogating him, one question stood out in his mind; why me? He couldn’t wrap his mind around why he had been taken in.

     After a few hours of solitude, an officer simply walked in and said, “Guess your story checked out bud, you’re free to go,” before taking off the cuffs and walking out, leaving him to tend to his own bewilderment.

     As he rubbed his wrists and navigated his way out of the building—shirtless all the while—he was stopped by a man in a dress shirt, slacks, and a moustache to complete the outfit. He handed over a shirt and said, “My name is Chief Fowl and on behalf of the department I want to apologize for everything that you’ve been through. You have to understand where my officers were coming from when they took you in. During situations like that, you just go with your instinct.

     “I know nothing I can say will make this better, but I truly am sorry, and I hope you can find it in your… in your, umm… I hope you can understand and forgive us. We only ever try to do what’s best.”

   The chief nodded in satisfaction of his delivery, spotted one of his officers, and apologized before being on his way.

******

“I had woken up a little later than usual, so I was in the shower when it happened as opposed to walking down the hallway to the elevator as I usually do at that time. Had I not stayed on the phone longer with my loving mother last night and actually gone to bed on time, who knows where I’d be right now.”

     “Immediately after the explosion, I ran to my window to make sure my plants were okay. I saw the damage across the courtyard and my heart sank. Among the screaming I distinctly heard that half-bearded man and his ravages as he ran around the courtyard in circles, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I was scared and started crying and praying. Unfortunately, my plants had fallen off the window ledge and shattered on the ground, but at least I’m okay.”

     “I hear like a big boom outside and I wake up, tinka ‘oh no,’ very scare because my kid uhh, you know, play outside very much and I tinking dey hurt. Run outside and see smoke everywhere but no find my kids. Then I remember kids all grownup, move to city and have good jobs. Feel very silly, and happy. And sad, becah my wife would laugh me very much if she was still here.”

     “All I heard was screaming and sirens, so I figured now’s a good a time as any to get up and see what it’s all about. Soon as it all clicked I ran outside to help out. Normally I don’t get up ‘til after noon, so I was pretty surprised at how clear and level-headed I was. It was probably the adrenaline. I still feel it now, even after all that.”

     “I’d seen him around before, how can I forget a man like that. I never thought much of him, you know, don’t judge a book by it’s cover and all that. But now, after this…”

    “My best friend and neighbor told me about a strange guy that hangs around the building, always crying and babbling, whispering spiteful things about our country’s space program and agricultural practices. I think this may have been the same guy, but I’m not sure.”

     “Neva see da guy befo, but I hear he a bad man. Vewy angwy. I angwy too. We all angwy sometime, but we don’ do a bad ting like dis. Is no good.”

     “Yea I heard about him. Never seen him before but I heard about him. Now that I think about it, there have been a lot of bad vibes in the air, but maybe that’s just the adrenaline talking.”

     “Like, I’m not one to judge, but as far as safety is concerned, maybe it’s okay to judge a book by it’s cover, especially if it’s liable to explode.”

     “Maybe she laugh still, whe’ eva she is.”

     As he watched the various news reports at home, he realized why he was arrested. He looked like a crazed lunatic with only a pair of pants on and half a beard; something the media was quick to capitalize on, referring to him only as the half-bearded man. And the bath slippers didn’t do much to help either.

     He didn’t recall the news media being there but somehow they had high quality footage of him being led into the police station where he was interrogated, the look of fear and confusion on his face (with, as one colourful reporter pointed out, a slight shade of dementia—mostly because of the half-beard), all this being zoomed in on and shown at various speeds.

     Even though no one recognized him or bothered to ask him anything, here was this portrait of him on TV painted by the recollections and biases of those that only knew of him by what they had seen on TV, or gathered from their own fear-fraught imagination, or worse still, what they heard and accepted without second thought—because in times like these, there is no room for doubt—what they heard and accepted from others who also weren’t familiar with him. Thus, this was no ordinary portrait of an ordinary man, but a distorted one; a portrait of a man who is capable of doing all that he is accused of.

    There were no reports of his release; instead, a constant loop of interviews with people that lived in his complex, spliced in between updates on the amputees of this incident, and short segments that concluded the facts as far as they were known at that point in time, all of which were repeated over and over again on the national news network.
    He was shocked when most of the tenants said they never saw him around the complex before, maybe even saddened.

     He was outraged when the on-site reporter for the national news network delivered a short segment concluding the facts as far as they were known at that point in time, a segment that the reporter delivered in his most stern- and official-sounding voice as follows, “Tom, from what I’ve gathered here today, the suspect has no name, he’s known only as the half-bearded man. Folks here have a lot of questions they’d like answers to, such as why only half a beard, why not half his chest hair or half his eyebrows too? Why only pants? Why not wear a shirt? They’re not interested in silly questions like motive, because it is clear that someone this deranged has a motive that is likely very irrational, beyond any normal person’s understanding. However, they are interested—like so many of us at home—in knowing whether or not this was an isolated incident, or part of something bigger. Whether this half-bearded man is part of a much larger network of more deranged half-bearded men. That’s all for me here at ground-zero Tom, back to you.”

     After seeing this segment for the second time, he looked out of his window. While the damage was undeniable, the serenity of the scene, the calm manner in which everyone was going about their night despite the events of the day, all this was not reflected in the looping footage of hysteria and confusion on the television. He turned it off and decided to sleep rather than reflect on what this all meant in terms of the media and manipulation.

******

The next day he got rid of the rest of his beard and got ready for work, slower than he normally would’ve. He wasn’t enjoying the leisure time that his new position afforded him so much as he was trying to resist turning on the news to see what was being reported. Yet, he knew as soon as he finished his coffee that immediately after washing his dishes and rejoicing in the thought of finally having both the time and the money to get a satisfactory dishwasher, that he would turn on the news to see what was being said about him.
     Not much.

    The latest update on the national news network had been that the police had released the suspect they bought in for questioning, a suspect whom they—both the police and the news—now referred to as a person of interest, and that they are still investigating the incident. There were no deaths to be reported (this was said by the reporter with something close to disappointment, and although this wasn’t the same reporter from last night, her voice was just as stern and official, with a little more charm to it), but there were a couple of amputations, injuries, and a lot of boring property damage.

    He turned off the news knowing he should be happy that they had reported his release, but he wasn’t.

     As he dodged cordoned-off areas on the way towards his car, he slowed down upon the realization that he no longer had a car. His parking spot, as a result of the laziness of the super, was not only across from his apartment (on the other side of the courtyard), but also within the blast radius of yesterday’s explosion.

       

******

As he bumped shoulders with people on the buses and train to work, certain phrases kept racing in his head, desperate to keep up with the speed of his commute.

     “Someone this deranged…”

     “He’s known only as the half-bearded man…”

     “Part of a larger network of more deranged half-bearded men…”

     The commute to work was filled with red-eyed students and people on the way to their jobs, both blue- and white-collared. It was also filled with their commentary on yesterday’s incident and the suspect, who, unbeknownst to them, was both released and among them, too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay attention to theirs.

     “Yesterday just goes to show that we need more restrictions. Someone shouldn’t just be able to walk into a store and buy explosives.”

     “Did they say why he did it? I kept waiting for them to, but then decided to go to sleep.”

     “Typical repressed homosexuality. A bunch of guys getting together to blow things up. And that prerequisite of half a beard, how sexist! Say what you want about that one group overseas, but at least they’re progressive about their membership.”

     “What bothers me about the whole thing is this ardent obsession with symptoms. We think that by getting rid of the symptoms, we get rid of the underlying cause, or worse, we forget about underlying causes altogether. Just because it fits into the news cycle doesn’t mean that it isn’t more complicated than that, more nuanced.”

     “I think you’re missing the point.”

******

 

Rather than head straight for his new office and drop his stuff off, he went to his new manager’s office to explain where he was yesterday.

     After the manager was finished with the phone call he had walked in on, he began to explain his whereabouts and the events of the last 24 hours, but he was interrupted midway.

     “Look, I don’t even know how to begin to explain what happened here yesterday, but kid, you’ve been demoted.”

     “But, but it was a mis- It’s all been cleared u- This is bullsh- This is ri-ridiculous. What, what, what’s… what’s the reason for this if, if I may ask?”

     “The CEO’s deadbeat of a son wanted your job and unfortunately, I couldn’t refuse. Sorry kid.”

     “Oh, so this has nothing to do with me being a suspect in that explosion yesterday?”
    “Nothing to with that explosion? Of course this has something to do with that explosion. This has everything to do with that explosion! Our PR team had a field day—along with legal—in trying to keep your name from getting out there. It’s a miracle that your old manager figured out that it was you in time, or your ass would have been fired, and worse, our reputation here would have suffered.”

     “But, but everything’s been, been cleared up. I’m, I’m innocent.”

    “Yea, and I wear my wife’s panties because they’re comfortable, but that doesn’t change a thing now, does it?”

    The secretary buzzed in, “Sir, Mr. Sihra is here to discuss the numbers for the upcoming budget.”

     “I’ll be done here in 2 minutes Ellie, so send him in in ten. Oh and Ellie,”

     “Yes sir?”

     “Do check if I’m on the phone next time before you send in a blubbering idiot like this fine gentleman here, that is, if you’re not too busy reading those magazines of yours.”

     “I’ll make a note of it, sir.”

     He took a deep breath before continuing, “Listen kid, you have to understand that we did our best to keep your name from leaking, but that doesn’t mean it won’t leak. So we decided that the best course of action for the company as a whole is to remove you from your executive position until this whole thing blows over. Once the waves have settled, you can have your job back.”

     “H-how long will that be?”

     “About two, three years, tops. I’m sorry, this isn’t easy for any of us, well, except for me, but that’s beside the point. Look, just keep doing whatever you were doing before and pretend you never got the promotion to begin with. Or use the knowledge of a guaranteed executive position to get over whatever you’re feeling, I don’t really care, just get out of my office. I have to see if I can squeeze a raise out of this uptight ass of an accountant.”

     As he turned and began to walk out of the office, he stopped, and in an attempt to regain some kind of dignity from this meeting, asked, “Sir, do you really wear your wife’s panties?”

     “Even if I were married, I wouldn’t be able to, on account of my dick being much too large to enjoy tight undergarments to any useful degree of comfort, a handicap you or anyone in your family tree will never be able to relate to. When you come back here in a couple of years, make sure you get better at whatever it is you were trying to accomplish with that. Now, kindly get the fuck out of my office.”

******

As he walked down the hallways of his not-so-former position, he couldn’t help but feel angry.

     Yea sure, things could have been worse, but the fact that they weren’t doesn’t negate how bad things actually are.

     Something was itching to break out of his subconscious, some connection, some revelation that would put everything into perspective, but it was stuck under phrases still circling his head from yesterday’s broadcast. 
     “Someone this deranged…”

     “He’s known only as the half-bearded man…”

     “Part of a larger network of more deranged half-bearded men…” 
     He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened the door, and waited for his not-so-former manager to put down his phone. He didn’t, but he still managed to say, with a hand over his receiver, “Hey, how are you. Don’t be a stranger, come in, come in, have a seat. What brings you here?”

     “I don’t know if you’ve heard or got the memo, but I’ve been demoted from my executive position. I’m just checking in to let you know I’m here and to confirm whether I can start back at my old desk, or if you’ve filled it in my absence.”

     “Hold on, I’ll call you back hon’.” The manager put down the phone and leaned back in his chair. “I did get the memo; you don’t work here.”

     “No, see I used to not work here, but then I got demoted and I’m back. You should know this, you’re the one who saved my job, I thought they would’ve included you in the loop. Also, thank you for saving me and my job sir.”

     “Unlike you, they did include me in the loop. You don’t work here any more, you work down in the warehouse. And you’re welcome.”

     “The ware-… Wha-wha-why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Wh- this, this doesn’t make any sense. I u-understand a de-demotion from an executive role, b-but why do I have to w-work in the th-the warehouse?”

     “They don’t want it to seem like you’re a vital asset to the company in case word gets out that you work here. I mean, can you imagine what that would do to our stock?”

     “We make and sell baby furniture, we’re not a Fortune 500 company!”

     “Not with that attitude. Besides, we provide a living for thousands of loyal workers, and we can’t forget about our shareholders either. So what if you have to wait a couple of years to get your executive position back, think of all the good you’d be doing.”

     “…”

     “I know this sucks, but these things happen. You just have to deal with it. Whenever something bad happens to me, I don’t dwell or complain because that’s pointless. I try to take the lesson away from it and move on with my life. It may not be the perfect way to deal with something, but it works for me.”

     “…”

     “Look, I know today must be a lot for you to absorb. Tell you what, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. I’ll let Dave know—he’s the warehouse manager by the way. Here’s his number. Just go home and relax kiddo.”

******

As he walked home from the bus stop, his former manager’s words were all he could think of, “whenever something bad happens to me, I try to take away the lesson from it and move on…” But what was the lesson in all of this? What could I have done to prevent it all?

     It was around noon when he stepped into his apartment, and rather than shower and eat in front of the TV like he normally would‘ve after getting home from work, he dropped his work bag, changed out of his suit, and headed back outside.

     He walked past his fellow tenants who stood in circles on the now-clear courtyard, tenants who were smiling, laughing, exchanging information, gossiping, waving others over, and occasionally glancing at him as he made his way to the bus stop.

     He stood there waiting for an empty bus, but ended up getting on the first one that showed up. He took his seat among those who, on this sunny afternoon, were on the way to a friend’s house or a factory job or the mall, or just out for an afternoon in the city. The conversations, if there were any, floated between subjects concerning celebrity gossip, a sense of lost security and general fear after yesterday’s incident, and the price of food these days.

     An old lady, apparently prone to motion sickness, hummed to herself while the bus was in motion. Her eyes, though shut, grimaced at every bump along the way to her eventual destination.

     He didn’t notice any of this. He was remembering a conversation he’d had with his father when he was having trouble with girls as a teenager.

     “Dad, why is it that only bad things get noticed, like being an asshole or something?”

     “Don’t swear.”

     “Sorry.”

     “It’s okay. To your question, well…”

     His father paused in reflection—or something like it—before continuing, “A piece of armor only shows the dents made by axes and swords that managed to make contact, they don’t show the times the person underneath dodged the hits. Thus, like dents in armor, bad things are noticeable.”

     “So what you’re saying is that I should take more hits?”

     “If I’m saying anything, it’s that you should show people that there is someone under that armor, someone who’s alive, who’s interesting and worth listening to…”

******

He walked without aim around the downtown core. The afternoon sun reflected off of various surfaces and caused him to cast an assortment of shadows that appeared and disappeared to cues long forgotten.

     How could someone’s life change so dramatically in such a short period of time, and they not do anything about it?

     But what could one do?

     I mean there has to be something that can be done in a situation like this?

     Yet nothing came to him.

     When you get a cut, you apply a bandage, but what d’you do when your life falls apart inexplicably? What’s the lesson in all of this? Is there even one? Am I missing out on some great message in all of this, a sign pointing me to my true purpose?

     He remembered his maternal aunt who was the black sheep of the family and whom he first lived with when he came to the city to find work. What caused her expulsion from the family was her career as an exotic dancer, but this career also led her to her true love, George.
     George had the misfortune of being stabbed on his way back from some errand or another. After 3 days, his condition was declared stable and his aunt decided it was appropriate to finally leave his bedside and get refreshed at home. She had barely left the hospital lobby when she too was stabbed, eventually dying some hours later.
      His mother flew half-way across the country on a day’s notice to tend to her sister’s burial, a burial that was religious despite the atheism of the deceased. Among the presence of politicians, clergymen, scholars, and other notable members of society, his mother stood out to the priest tending to the ceremonies. She impressed him with comments like, “God called her up, who are we to be emotional about his wise decisions,” and, “Mysterious are his ways, sure, but while I may not know the intricacies of his great plan and what it’s building up to, I have faith nonetheless.” For all this, you would have never guessed that it had been seven years since the two sisters last exchanged words. Or maybe you would’ve, considering how little the deceased was mentioned in the utterances that passed through her sister’s lips. 
     Is this the kind of destruction with purpose? Is there method in the madness of the universe? Or did I just get the short end of th- 
     “Can ya spare some change for me, so I can have a little food sir?” 
     He stopped and looked at the homeless man who had interrupted his thoughts. His sudden realization that he was in an area he didn’t readily recognize startled him. He had taken no stock of where he was heading.
     “Hey pal, it’s cool if ya don’ wan’ to talk to me, ya don’ half to get all weird on me and all. Just gimme a shitty excuse and move on with ya life.”
     “I lost everything.”
     “If I had a dolla fa’ e’vy time I heard that one, shit, you’d be the one askin’ me fa’ money.” His scraggly beard twitched and twisted as he laughed at his own remark.
     “In one day I lost everything. I don’t know what to do, what to say, what to think, or even who to blame.”
     “Ahh look pal, I been and still am there. Ain’ much you can do on accoun’ o’ cause these things jus happen to happen. Tha’ jus the way it is, ain’ your faul’. Now, unless ya ga some spare change, we’d bes’ be on our separate ways.”
     “It’s not my fault…”
     “Yea I know, ya change is in ya other pants, the ones ya lost inna day huh. Real slick fella, I hope ya have a good day, and may ya rot in hell ya son of a bitch.”
     He left the homeless man and continued to walk, repeating the words that helped click everything into place, “It’s not your fault.”
     Everything about his situation suddenly made sense because he realized it didn’t make any sense at all. 
     Obviously I can’t come up with anything to do; none of this is my fault. Everything that’s happened to me is because of someone else, from the officer who arrested me because he thought it was the right thing to do, to my demotion on account of paranoid board members.
     But all of my problems do stem from my arrest, so just because I can’t rectify for something I didn’t even do, doesn’t mean I can’t take any action either.
     But what sort of action?
     Do I ask the arresting officer to apologize? It makes sense to. It’s the civilized course of action. But the arrest damaged more than my reputation and respect, it’s had practical effects on my life, calculable figures of damage as well as immeasurable ones to my social and personal life (not that I had much of one to begin with, but still).
     So do I sue the police then? Even if I can get past the fact that they might’ve had good reason to arrest me, can money fix everything? 
     He continued walking down the sun-beaten path, past the dozing homeless, past the purse-clutching women, past the travelling parade of shopping bags, past the empty parking lot, past the car that just pulled in to said parking lot, past the two guys that just got out of the car-
     Actually, he stopped when the two guys got out because they ran to the hood of the car and started laughing. Their laughter rose with the progression of the story they were listening to; except there was no story, they were just laughing amongst themselves. Two guys in a now nearly-empty parking lot, just laughing and laughing, louder and louder…

******

He got home just before the evening rush hour. Not knowing what to do with himself or his situation, he turned on the TV.

     Aside from a brief mention of it here and there, the national news network had moved on from yesterday’s incident. There were more pressing issues to be reported on, and celebrity scandals, political rumblings, stock market activity, footage of cute animals, censored footage of murders, national crime statistics, weather reports, a highlight reel of social media complimented with anchor commentary—commentary itself lightly plagiarized from social media—and much, much more relegated the incident to a little blurb that would float by on the screen every now and then. It was only in the local news outlets that the incident was covered to any serious extent, the national news network had moved on in pursuit of other stories that would captivate and enthrall their viewers.

     He turned off the TV. The sound of televisions blaring in other apartments, of sound systems blasting, of dinners being prepared, of kids running around, of laughter unbound, all of these noises and more seemed to build and build along with the nervous jitter of his leg. Eventually, he got up and walked over to his computer.

     Unlike TV, the internet never moves on. Or, to put it more accurately, with its ability to store things for later perusal, the internet functions as a haven to those who wish to delve and to those who wish to move on, simultaneously. Thus, the power is in your hands to curate your web experience.

     He found others like him on the web, others who didn’t move on, who had pressing questions and thus, echoed the sentiments he currently held. He found a forum with threads dedicated to issues surrounding the incident, issues like injury counts, the status of the investigation, and more, along with a fund set up for the victims. As he delved further, he found threads concerned with the half-bearded man, his motive, how he carried out the attack, a write up on the officer that took him in, his (the half-bearded man’s) release, where he likely was now, and what he was planning next.

     RoyaleAVECFromage_196 posted the following:

         

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Here was a man who had enough, who took matters into his own hands. But unlike other flawed rebels, he disappeared. He let his work do the talking, he let the conversation about the incident speak for itself. The best way to shut someone up is with silence. Already I’m hearing of underground uprisings that this guy has inspired. Forum, if you don’t hear from me… well…

     Underneath this comment were replies dedicated to pointing out how naïve and lost this commenter was.

     As he browsed further, he saw threads discussing theories about how the incident was staged, how it was part of a global conspiracy to shut down propane production. Further still, he found threads idolizing the half-bearded man and his ways, his stand against corruption, against the structures of the past that served only to shackle and repress in today’s times, whatever that means.

     But what disturbed him the most was when he clicked on the profiles of some of the commenters. These people were commenting on threads that weren’t related to the incident as well. The same user who would post a comment on the propane conspiracy would post in a thread about a Texan football team. A user who would post a comment related to possible motives behind the incident would also contribute to a thread about astronomy news. Even user RoyaleAVECFromage_196 was commenting about films in between comments about the incident.

     This showed him the fragility of the web and its depth. Sure, all these threads weaved together to form a conversation about the incident, but while the conversation was wholly about the incident, no individual contributor was wholly dedicated to it. It was just one of the many conversations a user was having, unlike him, who was too affected by the incident to think about anything else. To him, this was reality; to them, the incident was just a hot topic to pass time until the next hot topic came along, or until boredom or the pressures of everyday livin’ called on them.

     He turned off his computer.

     Do I even need to act?

     Should I just move on with my life?

     But what life do I have left to move on with?

     I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I should do anything, but I feel like I have to.

     He was surprised to hear the looping mantra of yesterday’s broadcast still chanting under all of his thoughts.

     He thought about that broadcast and the portrait of the half-bearded man it painted. On the one hand, he saw the half-bearded man as a lunatic, a psychopath, deranged, hostile, a champion of violence; in other words, exactly how the broadcast wanted him to view the half-bearded man. On the other hand, well, internet comments painted the half-bearded man as a champion for the voiceless, a hero in his own right; he didn’t quite see it like that, but he understood where they were coming from.

     It’s crazy to think that we’re the same person, but we’re not; I am who I am, he’s how others saw me at that one particular point in time. I can never be like that, no one could. Right?

******

Officer Davis changed out of his work clothes and showered as he normally did after getting home. He then heated up some dinner in the microwave and flicked through channels on the TV to find something good to eat in front of. On most evenings, he could zip straight to the channels with something worth watching, but today they just kept on flicking by.

     “One life temporarily ruined versus one possible terrorist on the loose; honestly, you made the right call…”

     “I’d ‘ve done the same thing…”

     “If it look like a duck, sound like a duck, move like a duck, it gotta be a duck. So you arrest the one crazy-looking guy who ain’t actually crazy, so what, everyone makes mistakes…”

     He didn’t notice the microwave go off, or the knocking on his front door, or that he’d flicked through all the channels twice.

     He had shot a man on the job, and although that man never recovered function in his legs, the guilt Davis had felt then was nothing compared to now. Yesterday he had arrested a man—an innocent man as it turns out—on the grounds that said man was a terrorist, and if the rumors were true, the innocent half-bearded man’s life… half-bearded man… shit, what was his real name?

     At this point, Davis became aware of the banging on his front door and walked over to it. He looked out the peephole and then, eventually, opened the door.

     Here he was in front of him, the half-bearded man, now beardless.

     Davis asked, “What’s your name?”

   He started crying as he recalled his name and the memories that followed, the memories of the person he was but, after all that had transpired, a person whom he was not sure that he still was. Something had caused him to forget who he once was and, in his haste to get here, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to remember and recapture the past, or grasp and forge a new future. The choice was his…

******

“Thank god you got here when you did Samberg, this is just horrible. I’ve never seen anything like it,” said the young officer in charge of escorting the detective to the crime scene.

     “First of all, it’s detective Samberg. You don’t have enough years under your belt to refer to me without rank.”

     “Sorry sir, I’m just a little shook is all, didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Won’t happen again.”

     “Is it that bad?”

     “Well, yes and no. It’s weird. One officer called it unsettling, and I’ll be fucked in the ass like a German school girl if I can find a more better way to put it.”

     “Unsettling? More so than that one guy we caught who only stabbed people who visited stabbing victims in the hospital? Boy that’s still a fucking mouthful.”

     “Well, on that one, the motive was unsettling. Here, it’s the MO that’s unsettling, but that’s only if it’s a murder. If it’s a suicide, then the whole thing is just sad.”

     As they walked down the hallway, passing slightly ajar doors with curious eyes glimpsing through, Samberg was silent.

     “Suicide? Why’d they call me then?”

     “Well, it looks like a suicide, but the scene seems to say murder. But I’m not the detective right? Anyways, we’re here, so have a look for yourself sir.”

     The young officer opened the door and Samberg let himself in. He felt like he walked in on a funeral held in a library. The room’s occupants—scattered around a focal point that clearly wasn’t the flat screen that was in the living room (still on from last night it seemed)—the room’s occupants were in a gathering around a body. The body. Samberg nudged his way through, fighting down an out of place need to apologize as he did so. He finally got to the body and, with an experienced eye, absorbed as much detail as he could.

     Then he burst out laughing.

     He laughed louder than he could ever remember. The shrieks of laughter echoed off the walls and cut through the silence of the room.
     Murmurs arose as the laughter continued, on and on and on until the chief on the scene interrupted by yelling, “What’s the meaning of all this Samberg? This man was one of ours, show him the respect he deserves!”
     “I-I’m sorry I, I just can’t. If there’s a case here, you’ll have to give it to someone else.”“If it’s a murder, there’s hardly anything to go on Samberg. You’re our best hope dammit.”
     “I can’t take this case seriously. I can’t look at the corpse and not laugh, I mean half his hair and eyebrows are missin’. Just give it to someone else chief, there’s nothing I can do here.”
     The atmosphere in the room was that of a tennis match between two greats locked in a long set.
     Chief Fowl collected himself before continuing, “But we don’t have any evidence. Hell, we barely got a murder here Samberg, but you can’t walk off if we do. We’ll need to build a case if we got a murder, we’ll need to move quickly. The public can’t lose faith damn it, I won’t let it happen! I’ll suspend you if I have to.”
     Samberg looked away from the chief. He gave the corpse another look and burst out laughing again. He calmed down, walked over to the chief, unclasped his badge, and handed it over to him.
     Samberg turned around to leave, and this time, the crowd parted before him.