Eyes in Shadow

A short story by Timothy Freriks

3,000 words

Thinking back, I’m not sure I ever saw his face clearly. It was like no matter which way he moved, half of it was in deep shadow. Even after the sun went down. The question as to how that could be possible only hit me much later. But, looking back, it was only one of the mysteries that unfolded that day. I don’t know if ‘mysteries’ is the right word, really. That implies that unanswered questions pile up then get resolved. I’m not sure anything was truly resolved. If anything, the questions I had been fighting with had become clearer, and progress had been made. Maybe that’s some sort of resolution. I don’t know.

I’m a spoiled rich kid… or used to be. Big houses and fancy cars defined me. I thought it made me credible. It didn’t. It wasn’t my money; I sure didn’t earn it. I have a tendency to want to appear to be more successful and ‘with it’ than I really am. It was a struggle after the bankruptcy and the trust fund went away—and good old Dad’s conviction for embezzlement, of course. The Fabergé egg I lived in suddenly opened up, and it was empty. Worse than that: it wasn’t even Grade A Jumbo. I didn’t really understand how vacant my life was before I met the man with no eyes, but I do now. Trying to cover it up from myself and others before now is why I bought the stupid car.

A Ferrari will yell SUCCESS to the people I want to impress. I need clients, I would repeat to friends. Writers want to sign up with successful agents.

My friends, if I still had any, would have yelled: “hell, yes”. Bobby wouldn’t, though. Bobby said: That’s stupid. It’s freaking 15 years old. It will break.

Looking back, I know he was right about that. But it’s a classic. And it looks great, I had replied.

Remember your first wife, Jakey? Same thing. A shell. No substance.

That did put things in perspective. He was right. He was also right when he said ‘A broken fancy car won’t scream success. Only success screams success’.

I should have listened. I should have stayed home, but then if I had, I wouldn’t have met the stranger. The cowboy, I guess.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

***

My degree in 18th century French literature and philosophy didn’t prepare me for much in the way of self-reliance. I can’t write, so I decided to represent people who could. That seemed like an easy way to make a living. It isn’t; it’s been a hard nine years. Capping a recent string of disappointments recently was getting fired by a writer who a day later announced a deal with HBO to produce a TV version of a book he never showed me. He didn’t trust me. It was the last straw in a series of last straws. I had to get away.

“Bobby, I’m taking a trip to Vegas tomorrow. Want to come?” I asked after I calmed down.

“Why?”

“Why go to Vegas or why ask you?”

“Why go to Vegas.”

“There’s a little shit writer’s convention. Maybe I’ll meet some stupid dick who wants to be the next Rowling.”

“Great attitude, Jakey.”

“I’ll pump him up like a balloon, and he’ll sign. ‘Your stuff is terrific’ I’ll say. ‘I can sell you’, I’ll say. I’ll get him liquored up and ask him for fees up front.”

“Dude. Nobody asks for fees up front.”

“Bobby, listen. Newbies won’t know that. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll think I’m the coolest agent in the biz.”

“Successful, right? The Ferrari of agents.”

“Exactly. He’ll beg me to represent him.”

Bobby was quiet for a minute, hoping, I suppose, that I’d get the point on my own. I didn’t. “You’re like that Ferrari, Jakey. All show.”

Thankfully, I know that Bobby is really a dick at heart and I just keep him around because his sister works at Sony. Hopefully, I’ll place something with them some day.

“So,” Bobby continued. “Vegas. Are you driving? Put the top down and let the broads jump in? And a few writers, too?”

Did I mention that Bobby is a little sarcastic? He is, but I didn’t hear it at the time. However, that gave me the idea that leads to what this story is all about. It wasn’t a bad alternative to flying, which, truth be told, I couldn’t afford. So drive it is.

I know the story sounds a little light-hearted to this point, but the fact is—and I couldn’t have known this at the time—there’s nothing light-hearted about what happened next. Light-hearted was what I had gotten used to.

As I headed out from my house in West Covina—a downsize from a hillside diddy in ‘The Bev’—I started to think through what the hell I was going to do. This, I figured out right about the time I turned off of Interstate 10 onto Interstate 15 North, might be one of those ‘moments’ that I read about in every ‘personal growth’ novel I ever reviewed.

On the other side of Barstow, it gets pretty damn desolate, but then again Barstow is pretty damn desolate. Sorry. Elitism strikes again. Anyway, I’m analyzing almost everything I ever did and said since I graduated from Columbia. Work had recently shown up as an option since I started to realize that money doesn’t just magically appear in your account, you actually have to do something to put it there. A strange concept, indeed. And new to me.

Anyone who has ever driven Interstate 15 to Vegas wonders what the hell is in Zzyxx, California. As I was entering into the completely unexplored area of self-examination anyway, and finding some serious questions, I decided to find out. Maybe there were answers out there.

Well, Zzyxx, California, like me, is empty. There are only a few buildings associated with the University of California that does ‘desert research’. You may think it odd for an expert in 18th-century French literature to say that ‘desert research’ sounds boring. But, I’m sorry. There’s only so much you can learn about sun-baked dirt and sand. "Wow, there's another scorpion!"

Needless to say, I didn’t find answers. And, I didn’t find my way back onto Interstate 15, either. Somehow, my Ferrari took a wrong turn and I, while daydreaming, let it just keep going. The next sign I saw was one that said ‘Las Vegas 158 miles’. Of course, that was right next to a sign that read ‘See the World’s Tallest Thermometer’. That should have been a clue. But, I filled up, ate a late lunch and decided to follow the Death Valley Road.

I was 30 minutes into the drive when I decided a few things. First, it was time for me to accept reality and figure out what I should do with my life. The mechanics of achieving that lofty goal was in the process of being sorted out when the mechanics of a tired Ferrari with 120,000 miles on it decided it was in the process of giving out.

There’s no worse feeling than hearing your engine go bang and having the power go down to the lowest possible level. With smoke starting to pour out through the cracks in the hood, and confidence pouring out through the cracks in my emotional stability, I had to slow down to about 20 miles an hour. It wasn’t a traffic hazard: I hadn’t seen a car in 25 minutes. Up ahead, however, I saw hope, a sign. Hollow Hills Settlement. There was an arrow pointing east toward a lump of low stone hills. I, of course, envisioned a community of happy mechanics relaxing by a shimmering pool with margaritas and tacos. I do love a good party.

I pulled off, lugging and chunking at now about 15 miles per hour toward the opening between two hills. Once I passed through that split, and then curving hard to the right, my Ferrari decided that it had had enough.

I’ve used the word ‘barren’ many times in my life—usually in describing the relationship with my ex-wife—but there is no word to describe the scene before me. Death Valley is the epitome of barren. There is nothing out there. Seriously. No grass. No convenience store. No gas station. No mechanics. And, as it turns out, no cell service.

I had figured it would be a 5-hour trip, so I left at noon. It was almost 5 o’clock already, and the sun was heading off to bed. If I recalled my research correctly, in early March, it would go from really hot to really cold. Soon, I would have a bigger problem than I had now.

So, I did what any pampered rich kid would do when faced with a desperate situation, I sat on the ground and cried.

I don’t know if I dozed off or what, but I seemed to come out of, or enter into, a different atmosphere when I first heard the voice. It was strong—I remember that. Not deep, but confident. It said only one word, though. “Problem?”

As I started to slip out of my dream-state, I scooted back against the bumper of the Ferrari and looked up. Still groggy, my first impression was that the voice belonged to a porcupine, but then I realized that was his hair I was looking at. No real porcupine would sit on top of long legs and be covered by a beat-up straw hat. I finally flowed far enough back into reality to decide that it was, in fact, a man. He had a dirty blue cotton shirt which was open over a dirty gray round-neck T-shirt. A cowboy? I looked around, thinking it was unlikely there were any cows to tend to. And he was walking toward me. He stopped as I stiffened, maybe sensing my fear.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Well… no, not really.”

He said nothing more.

“I’m a literary agent,” I added, not sure how that would add to the solution-finding stage of the early evening' activities.

He stood about ten feet away now. “That’s a problem?” he asked again.

I tried to smile. “Yeah. It’s a tough business.” I didn’t realize he had been pointing at the car. “Oh, that. Yes. Even damn fine cars break.”

“Doant look like no damn fine car to me right now.”

I had to admit: he had a point.

I was starting to notice for the first time that I couldn’t see his eyes. I felt them, somehow, but I couldn’t see them for the shadows cast by his hat. I could see his long red beard clearly, though. It came to a point, almost… maybe a square point… just below the bottom of his neck. Tall and thin, I had noticed an almost regal bearing as he had walked to me a few minutes before. Much of that was gone now that he was folding himself into a squat, but still, there was an odd nobility about him.

“You’re not a mechanic, by any chance, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know anywhere nearby where I could find a mechanic?”

“Nope.”

He stared deep into my head with the eyes I couldn’t see. It started to unnerve me.

“Okay. Then where are we?”

The man looked around then back at me. “Right here. We’re always where we are.”

I didn’t know if he was pumping me or what, but I was getting a little uncomfortable. “Look. I need a little help, obviously. Is there somebody with a tow truck around here?”

“Imagine so.”

The following silence was killing me. “Do you know where?”

“Nope.”

I, of course, had expected more, but I’m accustomed to reading stories to which someone tacked on an ending. This was Chapter One. There weren’t any more. The storyline was a bit cloudy at this point.

I studied the man. He wasn’t gruff or wasted or even a ‘lost soul’, whatever that means. His denim-covered knees were bent upward, and his butt almost touched the ground. It was an odd, but effortless, balancing act. It crossed my mind that he never really struggled with very much of anything. I had no idea why I thought that.

“So,” I asked, “what do you know about cars?”

“A little. Like people, they ain’t much good if they’re empty.”

Okay. A little weird, but… “I just filled up.”

“Not gas.”

“Then?”

“Substance. Jake. Substance.”

I have to admit, that threw me. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then it hit me. I hadn’t told him my name. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

I’m sure my mouth dropped to my chest. “What?”

“You’re a broken vessel, Jake. Empty shell. Right?”

So many questions scrambled feverously through my head. Who is this crazy man? Did my car crash and I’m dead? Is this one of the million or so fantasy books I’ve reviewed come alive? Was this a real damn hallucination? The final question popped out of my mouth. “Did Bobby send you?”

“Nope.”

Of course not. Nobody could have known I was going to get lost.

Then he stood, slowly, gracefully, like a Spector rising from the ashes until he reached full height. He seemed taller than before.

“You understand why the Ferrari broke?” he asked in a voice that seemed to penetrate me.

“Yes,” I started, cautiously. “No substance?”

“Listen to me, Jake.” He bent down slightly toward me. “Empty ain’t good. Empty shells doan do nobody no good.”

There was a question I had to ask. “And how do I fill up?”

“Be honest.”

I must have scrunched up my face into some sort of tortured expression because he said: “New concept for you?”

It had been until today. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, to be… honest.”

“Good start.”

There was a long minute while I assimilated everything he had said, and mostly what he hadn’t said.

“So, Jake. What do you want?”

The emotional struggles of three hours on the road and ten minutes with this… vision, I suppose… came together like a climax. In front of the personality shifts I was contemplating, there forced a practical issue. “To fix the car and get to Vegas?”

“Then?”

So many things were still swirling in my head but naked honesty—that new word—forced one out. “I want to be successful.”

“By being…?”

“Truthful? Sincere?” I was testing what I thought he wanted to hear. But, strangely, it sounded right.

He said nothing but walked to the hood of the car and popped the latch. I turned, stood next to him and looked in. It was obvious that the radiator hose had come loose.

“If you make an effort to really look at what’s wrong inside, you can fix anything.”

The strange man reached in and reconnected the hose, snapping the clamp back into place.

“It’s fixed, but she still needs something to be successful as a car.”

This was some very heady shit, but I had to make sure I knew where he was coming from. “Substance?”

He closed the hood and walked around to the trunk, popping it open in a single smooth move. Inside was a case of water bottles I didn’t remember putting there. “Water,” he said.

After the radiator was full enough—it only took eight bottles—he replaced the cap and turned to me. “Start it up.”

The full-throated roar seemed to split the dusk-drenched landscape of gray and shades of brown-gray.

“Thank God,” I said as the pent-up tension and fear released.

“That’s all you want?” the strange man asked.

That was probably the best question I had ever heard. The day before I would have said ‘yes’. But now? “No.”

“Do you think it’s too late to change?” he asked.

“’A lost battle is a battle one thinks he has lost,’” I said.

I finally saw his mouth turn upward slightly. “Jean-Paul Sartre,” he said.

I could have collapsed to the ground and sank into it. “What?” How could this cowboy, or whatever he was, know a French philosopher?

His mouth fell back to flat and grim. “You don’t think you’ve lost?”

“’I’ve only begun to fight’.” I’m full of quotes.

“And you’re willing to find substance?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you want?”

I seemed to fill up with the answer. “Yes.”

“Be careful, Jake. ‘You cain’t always get what you want’.” He paused then pushed the corners of his lips up again. “Famous English philosopher.”

I watched him get smaller in the rear view mirror, lit dully by the fading light. I glanced forward to make sure I was still on the road then back at the mirror. He was gone.

The rest of the drive to Las Vegas was quiet, which gave me a chance to think about everything that I went through that day. Whatever happened that evening, whoever that man really was, what he said had truly changed me. I was determined to try to, well, grow up.

***

I signed two promising writers that weekend. How? I told them I would be the hardest working agent they would ever talk to, that I had something to prove to myself, and they would benefit from that. I was totally honest, and they bought into my sincerity. Sincerity, as it turns out, is in short supply at these conferences. They weren’t the most promising writers I could hope for, but it was a start. It’s what I needed.

When I was cleaning out my Ferrari, getting it ready to trade in on a more sensible car, I remembered the water in the trunk. I looked. It was still there, but then I noticed a receipt.

Glazier’s Food Marketplace.

Glazier’s is only in Las Vegas, not in LA.

On the back of the receipt was a hand-written note.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. L.

I’ll probably wonder about the meaning of the letter ‘L’ forever.