Ismiled, nodded, and spoke my first words to him. “Hello!” I said. “Heading outfor a walk?”
TheWalking Man started screaming.
Istepped back and started apologizing profusely. “It’s okay!” I insisted, tryingto calm him and to keep myself from freaking out in kind. “It’s okay! I’msorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you!”
Buthe wouldn’t stop shouting. Over and over again, unintelligible and violentsounds burst from his mouth as he wildly swung his hands at everything aroundhim except me. Pedestrians across the street stopped and stared, and carsdriving by slowed to a crawl.
“Please!”I tried again. “Please, I’m sorry! It’s okay! We’re both okay! No one gothurt!”
Mercifully,reinforcements arrived when the nurse whom I’d seen at the bus stop chargeddown the front walk with two other nurses in tow. “Martin!” she called as sheapproached him. “Martin! What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I’m so sorry!” I tried to explain to her, “I almost ran into him, but Istopped! I didn’t touch him! I promise, he’s not hurt!”
Sheignored me and put her hands on The Walking Man’s shoulders. At first he triedto wriggle away, but she was insistent (clearly, unlike me, she knew what shewas doing and how to handle him when he got like this). “Martin!” she demanded.“Look at me! Look at me!” When he finally did, her voice became soothing. “Tellme what’s wrong, Martin.”
Thatwas when I heard The Walking Man speak for the first time. “I …” he stammered,with a tongue that sounded four sizes too big for his mouth, “I saw ‘im ‘gain.”
“Sawhim?” the nurse asked. “Saw who? Saw who again?”
“I’msorry,” I repeated, “I almost ran into him! I think he’s talking about …”
“Me,”The Walking Man interrupted me. “I saw me ‘gain. Me be-fore.”
“Um,hi!” I tried to interject, this time with half a chuckle. “I’m not sure what hethinks he saw, but I’m pretty sure this is all my fault!”
“Martin,we’ve been over this,” the nurse explained in voice that was somehow tired,comforting, and yet stern all at the same time. “You did not see yourself.There’s no young version of you running around the neighborhood.”
“Excuseme!” I tried to get her attention more forcefully, but to no avail.
Thenurse slid her hands down to hold The Walking Man’s to keep them from flailing,and another stepped forward and gently rubbed his back and shoulders. Slowlybut surely, his rage and fear melted, but he wouldn’t stop shaking his head.When he finally looked up again, I caught a twinge of honest pain in hisusually vacant, dark eyes.
“Wasme,” The Walking Man insisted. “Wear … my old … Clash tee.”
Itook two steps back from the group gathered around him and stared down at mychest, right at a faded silkscreen image of the album artwork of LondonCalling. I’d bought this shirt at the first concert I’d ever seen, backwhen they played The Pavilion across town the summer when I was fifteen.
Ididn’t know what to do, so I just started running again, sprinting off in theother direction as fast as my legs could churn. That was when I realized that Icouldn’t remember the last time I wasn’t out running. I couldn’tremember the last time I’d eaten, or slept, or showered, or went to work, oreven went home. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken with anyone.I’d just been running, for as long as I could remember.
Whichwas when I remembered that my name is Martin.
Iwas right about one thing — not all ghosts are dead. Sometimes, whatever it isthat makes us, us, gets separated from our bodies by other means. Ittook getting dragged through the rain for a block and a half by a drunk toknock me out of mine.
ButI was very, very wrong about another thing when it came to The Walking Man.There, without the grace of God, I went.
I’llbe lying if I tell you I have any clue what’s going to happen to me or how longI’ll spend running these streets, but I know one thing for certain — I’llavoid The Walking Man’s block from now on. There’s no need for me to haunt him;he’s suffered enough, and he deserves to enjoy his walks in peace.
My Workis Not Yet Completed
NickManzolillo
“Ido not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before Iwas born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.”- Mark Twain
Bythe time Samuel Clemens stopped being entirely dead, the world had moved on. Hewasn’t surprised to find himself back in New York, within the West Villageapartment he had inhabited for several years at the dawn of the twentiethcentury. He was born on the eve of Halley’s comet soaring across the night skyand as he predicted throughout his whole life, he died the day after itreturned, on his seventy-fourth birthday.
Hedied a rich man, whose every artistic whim had been met. He died with morefriends than names he could ever remember, from celebrities to politicians toall the obscure and brilliant men in between. In his last years, he was toldthat he would be remembered. That America would remember him.
SamuelClemens died alone, leaving behind a vast body of work and not a single livingrelative. He was not surprised that he awoke, a thin specter still clad in thewhite suit he requested to be buried in. He was not surprised, for there wasone puzzle in his life that he never had the chance, nor found the courage, tosolve, and it was that of his former apartment building in the West Village, acentury old brownstone known only to the locals as The House of Death.
Asa specter with his feet not quite planted on the floor and his hands incapableof touching the walls and stroking the cool glass of the window panes, Samuelwas aware of the bitter irony of the place he haunted. How fitting,
