“Not anymore.”
“You’re a good man!” Eddie says, hoisting his drink. “Now, how about you shove a fork in each eye and go drown yourself in the pool.”
The motel employee nods, walking over to a nearby table and snagging a roll of napkin-wrapped cutlery from a large stack. He unfurls it and extracts a fork, then grips the silver utensil in his tight fist. The clerk doesn’t hesitate, slamming the fork into his own face with as much gusto as he can manage.
“Oh my fucking God,” I gasp, not entirely prepared for the show of extreme violence.
Eddie glances over. “Sorry about that,” he says, genuinely apologetic. “You don’t care about this and you won’t try to escape.”
He’s reupping the command, but this time his words have no effect. I’m still staring at a poor kid with a fork shoved so deep into his eye socket that I can barely see the handle poking out. I can only hope the clerk wounded the part of his brain that feels pain and fear, dulling his awareness of what’s actually happening.
Unlike me, Eddie hasn’t given this man any instructions on how he should feel, just what he should do. Whileit might look like he’s having the time of his life, I know the brutal truth. The clerk is a passenger in his own body, unable to cry out or beg or plead, but feeling that terrible desperation just the same.
He’s sensing every moment of this.
I so desperately want to jump up and stop him, to wrestle him to the ground and hold him there until this terrible compulsion wears off, but I can’t do that right now. I can’t blow my cover, and even if I could, what’s the plan? Eddie is so much stronger and faster than me, even without his uncanny persuasion.
The front desk worker takes another cutlery set from the pile and unrolls it. He extracts the fork and then, without a shred of reluctance, slams it deep into his other eye socket. He staggers a bit before gathering his bearings, then extends his arms out in front of him, awkwardly groping the air as he begins a meandering, zigzag path toward the pool.
“That’s the dichotomy, right?” Eddie opines. “All the world’s a stage, and Iwantto create something memorable, but there’s a limit. The best way for this show to keep rolling on is for me to keep a low profile, but … it’s just not in my nature. It’s not inournature.”
The second that Eddie says this I’m struck with a realization, an idea so absurd that I force myself to speak it aloud. I have to get this thought out of me before it festers and infects the rest of my brain.
“We’re not like … the same person, are we?” I ask.
Eddie turns slowly, lowering his glasses and staring atme with one eyeball and one empty socket. “Is that what you think I am?” he asks. “A figment of your imagination?”
“You’re not answering the question,” I reply.
Eddie hesitates, a knowing grin creeping its way across his face. “The ol’ split-personality trope? An unreliable narrator doing battle against the manifestation of her own subconscious?”
“You’re still not answering.”
Eddie pauses. His silence stretches on, the tension building until, finally, he erupts in a fit of laughter, shaking his head.
“No, no,” Eddie assures me. “That’s very creative, though.”
There’s a loud clatter as the front desk worker stumbles into one of the patio chairs.
“Good God!” Eddie yells, frustrated. “The pool’sright fucking there! Walk forward!” He pauses, watching as the man with forks in his eyes stumbles around a bit more. “Forward!Forward!”
Finally, the front desk worker drops into the pool with a splash.
Eddie lets out a long sigh, settling back into his chair. He takes another sip from his drink, this time the straw producing a distinct gurgle as he reaches the bottom.
“Wearevery similar, though,” Eddie says.
He adjusts in his chair, seemingly uncomfortable with what he just said, and in this moment I notice something wholly unexpected: the corpse of Eddie Michaels might actually be a little drunk.
“I mean … itseemslike we’ve got a few things in common,” Eddie says, starting over again. “I wouldn’t compare whatIdo to being a … you know …influencer, but … yeah. You’ve got something to be proud of.”
Fame is a funny thing. We all have these people we look up to, larger-than-life celebrities who guide us along like lighthouses in the raging storm of life. Their art is there for us when nobody else is. Sometimes, it raises us. Then, one day, we learn something terrible. We learn these people we admire are not at all who they seemed to be, and suddenly we’re left with this strange hollowness. Their artwork changes, mutating into some brand-new experience whether we want it to or not.
I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve seen Eddie murder tonight, but when he says “You’ve got a lot to be proud of,” it hits me right in the fucking chest. I shouldn’t care that Eddie Michaels gave me a compliment—I’mdesperatenot to care, in fact—but I do.
It takes everything I can muster to keep my voice steady, to not let any joy or appreciation seep into my tone. “Thank you,” I reply.
For the briefest moment, I get the utterly bizarre feeling that Eddie is about to reach out and place his hand over mine. This doesn’t happen, though. Instead, he extracts two car keys from his pocket and sets them on the table between us.
