THE MAIN CHARACTER

 

Roy Dorman

 

            The new waitress at Chuck’s Diner, Sadie Windsor, looked at Frank Davis skeptically. 

            Frank was dressed in his usual casual morning attire:  T-shirt, sweat pants and running shoes. Sadie probably thought Frank could be one of those “dine and dashers” she’d been warned about.

           Frank was used to being looked at closely. He’d also been given his share of side-long glances all of his life. 

          All of his life? What life? Who’s life? He had no past to speak of. At least no past he could remember.

          Frank took a twenty out of his wallet and put it on the table in front of him.

         “That should probably cover what I’m gonna have,” he said with a smirk.

         “Okay, then, what’ll ya have?”

         Frank ordered bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. Sadie went up to the order window and put the order slip on the spike.

         “That guy ever been here before?” she asked the cook, Bobby Smith.

         “Yeah, he stops in for breakfast a couple times a month,” said Bobby. “Quiet guy. Don’t say much. Heard he leaves a good tip, though.”

         “Really?” said Sadie. “Guess I might’ve misjudged ‘em.”

         “Been comin’ in as long as I’ve been here, and that’s goin’ on twenty-five years. Name’s Frank somethin’ or other.”

         “Come on, Bobby,” said Sadie. “He don’t look to be a day over forty.”

         “That’s true. He don’t seem to age much. Some people don’t. Odd, but it’s not any odder than a lot of things in life.”

         A customer at a corner table near the kitchen looked up from his newspaper. Andrew Wells was a writer. He wrote private detective novels, and this conversation piqued his interest. He’d seen Frank Davis at Chuck’s a few times.

         Andrew knew a guy who hadn’t aged a lot. Well, he hadn’t known him personally, this guy had been a character in one of his early novels. That character had been part of a government experiment.

         The novel hadn’t sold well. Too sci-fi for the crime genre.

         But Andrew was between novels right now and had some time. He thought he’d check this guy out.

         “Morning” he said as he passed by Frank’s table on the way out.

         Frank looked up, smiled, and went back to his bacon and eggs.

***

        “So, how come you been following me?”

         Frank was reading and nursing a craft beer at Otto’s Not Inn. Andrew Wells was sitting on the bar stool next to him, also reading and having a beer.

         “Following you? I guess I’m not sure what you mean.”

         “Like I see you at Chuck’s Diner, at Mary’s Deli, and now here at Otto’s. What’s the deal? You lonely?”

        Andrew knew he’d been made, and from all of the crime novels he’d read and written, the smart detective usually fessed up when he’d been caught.

         “Okay, I’m a writer,” he said. “I do crime stories.  I overheard that waitress and the cook at Chuck’s talking. The cook said you’d been coming into Chuck’s for at least twenty-five years.”

         Frank just stared at Andrew. He had a very intimidating stare.

         “You don’t look to be over forty,” Andrew mumbled. “Just professional curiosity.”

         Frank continued to stare, but then said, “So, it’s a crime to look younger than you are?”

         “No, no. I also dabbled in science fiction early in my writing career. I had a character who stayed forever young after undergoing some government experiments.”

         Frank took a sip of his beer. “That guy and me may have something in common.”

         He then finished his beer, put some cash on the bar, and got up.

         “Hey, wait a minute,” said Andrew. “You leaving?”

          “Yep. Maybe see ya at Chuck’s or Mary’s sometime.

***

        Two weeks later, Frank walked into Chuck’s. He strolled over to Andrew’s table and sat down.

        Sadie raised an eyebrow, but came over with her order pad.

        “The usual, Frank?”

        “Sure, that would be great, sweetie.”

        “I’m not your sweetie.”

        “Yeah, but you’d like to be.”

        Sadie blushed furiously and stomped off with Frank’s order.

        Andrew extended his hand and Frank shook it. “I don’t think we got around to names at Otto’s. I’m Andrew Wells.”

       “I know. I asked the cook about you. And then I checked you out on the Internet.  Seven books published. It’s been two years since the last one. Takin’ a break?”

         “And you are?”

        “Frank Davis. But I’m probably not on the Internet.”

        “Or anywhere else, either,” Frank thought to himself.

        They were quiet for a bit, but Andrew’s curiosity forced him to keep the conversation going.

        “Yes, I’m taking a short break. Mulling over a few ideas. Got some stuff on a WORD doc., but nowhere near what you’d call a beginning.”

        “You go with an outline or just wing it with the discovery method?”

        “You write?”

        “No, but you could say I know my way around books.”

        “Very cryptic,” thought Andrew.

        Sadie brought Frank his breakfast and more coffee for Andrew. She playfully punched Frank on the shoulder as she left.

        Frank had a few bites and then said, “You seem like an okay guy, so I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anybody else. And then I might have to kill ya.

        “My life began about thirty years ago. Note that I said “began.” I didn’t say I was “born” thirty years ago. I was never born. I was the main character in a book who was about forty years old at the beginning of the first chapter.

        “By the middle of the book, I was still forty years old. And then the author had a heart attack. Keeled over right on top of the manuscript and stayed there until they found him a week later.

        “Something weird happened. Two days after he died, dazed and confused, I found myself standing next to his desk, looking down at him.

         “I had no idea who he was or who I was. But I knew the manuscript he was resting on was important. I lifted him off of it, and then took it and some money from his wallet and split.

         “I read the book and found out who I was. But the book said nothing about the first forty years of my life. I started out at forty, and five chapters later I was still forty. No mention of friends or family. Just me and my job as a hitman. Killin’ people for money.

        “And now, thirty years after that, I’m still forty. And still a hit man. You can see why I never told anybody about this, right? Who’d believe it?”

        Andrew Wells swallowed past a lump in his throat. He looked around Chuck’s to see if anybody else was within earshot. Nobody was close by.

        His mind was working like his life depended on it. That was probably not an empty cliché.

        “Have you still got the manuscript?”

        “Kept it for all these years. Hell, it’s my life.”

        “You probably know we don’t use typewriters anymore. Everything’s done on a laptop. If you give me the manuscript, I could read it and then start writing the “Book of You” from where the other writer left off. I could devote a chapter or two to flashbacks and give you parents, brothers and sisters, favorite TV shows you watched as a kid, whatever.”

        “What about a future?” Frank asked.

        “You could have whatever future you wanted. I’d write it for you.”

        “What if I like me just the way I am?”

        “Do you?”

***

        “Is it finished?”

        “Just needs some proofing and it’ll be set to go. I’m thinking since nobody but you and me ever saw those first five chapters, I could publish it under my name.  It’s actually pretty good. Could make us a little money.”

        “How does it end?” asked Frank.

        “Like this,” said Frank pointing a Sig Sauer at Andrew.

        “I kinda thought it might,” Frank said, expertly letting a small Glock slide down his sleeve into his hand.

        “Sig Sauers shouldn’t bring a writer to a gunfight,” he said after shooting Andrew in the forehead. He opened up the WORD doc. to the last few pages and made some changes to the ending.

        Placing the laptop in front of Andrew on his desk, he arranged him over the top of it. He then went over to the couch to wait for the magic to happen.

        Frank figured he’d either still be a hitman, or maybe he’d be a successful crime story writer. Either way, now he’d have a history.

        And would still be forty forever.

THE END

 

      Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years.  At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer.  He has had flash fiction and poetry published in Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama, Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye Whiskey Review, Near To The Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, The Yard, and a number of other online and print journals.  Unweaving a Tangled Web, published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.

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      John Sowder is a freelance illustrator best known for his work in Drew Edward's long running comic book series HALLOWEEN MAN.  He also contributES to Daniel Blanchard's COMIC NASTIES series on globalcomix and creates art for the rock group ZOMBINA AND THE SKELETONES.