Stan stares into his gin and tonic, fascinated by the play of light in the bubbles, offset by the brilliant green of the lime skin. He looks up, still not used to the green that stares back at him from the bar mirror.
It’s like I’m watching myself from the outside, Stan thinks. Earlier, he had stared at himself in the men’s room in Silva and Son’s building. He can still hear the running water in the sink, feel the cold water washing over his face as he splashed it again and again, desperate to wash off the thick insulation that is numbing his expressions, taking over his face, making it not his own.
It wasn’t until he was walking away from Ally that he realized the detective had reverted to “Mr. Greene”. Fear knotted his stomach then as he ducked into the men’s room stall, giggling hysterically between dry heaves. That was when he noticed the numbness in his face.
As he stood dripping over the sink, his now emerald-green eyes stared back, then looked down as he saw the twenty-year pin, and the nausea threatened yet again. His shaking hand reached for it to take it out, then…
His drink is empty. Draining the dregs from the ice cubes, he holds it up, catching Kris’ eye. It’s meant to be, he thinks as he watches her put together his drink without even looking at what she’s doing, I’m going to ask her out.
He feels a twinge of guilt – when he had staggered out of the men’s room, desperate to make his escape to the bar, he’d nearly run into Barbara as she came back from talking to the police.
“Stan! I’m so glad I caught up to you!” Barbara smiled at him. “How are you holding up? Can you believe this? Awful, isn’t it?” her pretty brown eyes looked up at him.
Stan smiled back, “Yeah, although we all knew it was only a matter of time for Edward, it’s shocking about Ted.”
Barbara looked around, sidled up to Stan and took his arm as they strolled down the hallway. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, if you ask me.” came her conspiratorial whisper.
They shared a smirk and a stifled giggle. With another guilty look around, Barbara asked, “So… what are you doing tonight? Need any company? I don’t think it’s good for any of us to be alone after a shock like this…”
Stan swallowed. “Uh, well, I have something planned, um, raincheck?” he asked.
Barbara did her best to hide her disappointment, “Oh sure, I get it. Well, here,” she grabbed a business card and pen from her purse and scribbled her number on the back. “Um, give me a call, if you want to – you know- hang out?”
Stan nodded, “Sure! Hey, since I’m not on the email list anymore, could you sort of, you know, keep me posted? I planned to get my job back today, but…” he motions to the air.
“Sure thing, Stan, I’d love to!”, Barbara’s eyes and smile lit up. “Cross my heart, daily updates!”
Kris sets down a fresh G&T. “This is your last one for an hour, Stan,” she says, “no repeats of last night, right?” she looks into his eyes. “Hey, did you get contacts?”
Stan nods, “Um, yeah,” he smiles. “What do you think?”
“Really different – quite a statement, Stan. Nice!”, she smiles back.
Her smile layers over Barbara’s in his mind. Shaking the image, Stan says, “Hey, so, I suddenly find myself with a bit of free time – did you hear what happened today at work?” he asks.
Kris leans on the bar, “The murder at Silva and Son’s? Yeah! So, come on Stan, what’s the dirt?”
“Well, the police don’t know that it was murder, I mean, not definitely,” he begins. “I’d love to tell the whole story – maybe over dinner?”
Kris stands up, surprised. “Oh, uh, sorry, Stan, ah, I work late tonight, and, well, I’m kinda seeing someone,” she says with an apologetic face.
“Hey no problem,” Stan brushes it off, “can’t blame a guy for trying, huh? So as far as I know-”
Kris looks over Stan’s shoulder, “HARRY you sonofabich! Where have ya been?”, and runs around the end of the bar into the arms of a tall dark-haired man. His biceps bulge in his short sleeves as he picks her up and swings her around to delighted giggles. Kris wraps her arms around his neck and lays a big kiss on him.
“I’ve missed you!” she says.
“I’ve missed you…”, Stan mocks, as he staggers home. He had slammed that last G&T, hoping to numb the humiliation, thrown cash on the bar and dashed out.
As he watches his feet weave down the sidewalk, Stan notices a familiar crack. Tonight, it’s not making a face at him, but the pile of gum is still there, now smeared by some unwitting victim of a shoe gooping. He looks up at the shop; dark. Curious, he wanders over and presses his face to a blank window. In the streetlight, he can just make out dusty boxes and a counter. Not a single sign is visible, not even the cheerful rainbow “Open” sign from last night.
His skips. Suddenly sober, Stan spins around, taking in the street; this is definitely Holly, and at the light, he can see the “5th Street” sign. Whipping back to the storefront, it’s obvious that this spot has been closed for years. The choppiness of the last few days plays out in his mind, and he starts shaking. I’m losing my mind, Stan thinks.
He hears a chuckle and spins another circle on the walk. No one near, except the usual panhandler settled into a doorway near the light. As he walks again, Stan draws even with her. Usually, he avoids eye-contact, but this time he stops, takes a five from his wallet, and deposits it in her cup. She nods a thank-you, then her head snaps up to him, and brilliant green eyes swirl. “You’re not losing your mind, Stan,” she says tapping the side of her head, “I’m keeping it right here, safe for you.”
Laughter follows him as he sprints the rest of the way home, fading as he comes to his door. Unsteady fingers botch the entry code; on the third try, he is through and breathes a sigh of relief as the solid ‘thunk’ locks him safely in the lobby. He takes the stairs to burn off the adrenaline, breathing hard when he unlocks his apartment then bolts the door behind him.
Flicking on the lights, Stan feels his pulse slow as his serene, simple apartment greets him. The palm tree by the one window that gets light, and Roy, his red betta, bobs serenely in the tank, building a bubble nest.
Stan shakes his head then listens for extra voices; silence except for the hum of the overhead light and the fridge. Taking a deep, calming breath, he heads to the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of gin from above the fridge. His hands still shake as he pours himself a shot, looks at it, then pours it down the drain.
Walking into his bedroom, Stan pulls out fresh pajamas and changes, brushes his teeth, and heads to bed. As he flips back the covers, his eyes go to the dresser, where the green-eyed statute stares back at him. Covers forgotten, he walks to the statue and picks it up, looking more closely at it. What seemed to be a blocky chunky face is now smooth and weirdly familiar… looking in the dresser mirror, he figures out why; the statue stares back at him with a carved version of his own face.
Shuddering, he runs to the kitchen and tosses it in the garbage. Feeling more peaceful immediately, he uses the toilet, comes back to his bed, glancing at the dresser.
Covers forgotten, he walks to the dresser and picks up the statue. This time, he puts on his robe and slippers, drops the thing in a bag, and takes it outside to the communal dumpster.
As he walks back, Stan looks over his shoulder, thinking he hears laughter. Suddenly headachy and exhausted, Stan scuffs back into his apartment and crawls into bed, letting sleep overtake him.