The September Selected Story is by Glen Singer

Please feel free to email Glen at vaneyck28@yahoo.com

DOUBLE PLAY
by Glen Singer

I was hanging on the gatepost, gasping for breath, lungs on fire, the old heart fluttering like a strobe. I’d walked only a couple of blocks but felt myself slipping away: an old man getting ready to die.

I eyed the house in front of me. It looked dreary gray in the November gloom. There was a light in the front window. I thought, Death is waiting, patient Death. 

I got my wheezing under control and scanned the place. After carrying mail for so many years, I was still tuned in to the appearances of properties. At this one, there were no dog turds in the scraggly front yard, but it had all the signals and smell of dogs. I could take a single step off the sidewalk and know right away that there was probably a big beast lying in wait behind a bush or around the side of a house—waiting to lunge and take a snarling bite out my leg. 

I realized these things were no longer a problem now that I might be dying. I’d come to roll the dice with my long-lost “twin,” my evil flesh-and blood bogeyman, my doppelganger.

*****

Sometime when I was a much younger man, I was sitting on the bus on the way to class at a crappy junior college. Even though it was a long shot, I thought I might make something of myself. You know, eventually become an architect or an engineer, or something big. Well, dreams are dreams, and most of them are stupid and disappointing. Mine were, for sure.

I was looking out the bus window, staring at nothing; daydreaming, feeling the bus shake and shudder beneath my feet. A guy about my age got on at the McCready Avenue stop. He walked right up to my seat and plopped himself down. I’d never seen this guy before. But he turned to me and started right in, like in the middle of a conversation. 

He asked me if I was still making it with Monica. Well, I said no, even though I’d never known anybody named Monica, not during this lifetime. Going along with him seemed like the easiest way. He asked me if was still living up in Saint Anne. Saint Anne was way up north—practically in a different hemisphere. He said that he hadn’t seen me around recently. 

And he just kept on, jabbering away, non-stop.

This guy looked like any other guy. Nothing special. All I really noticed was that he was tall. He stuck one long leg out in the aisle. Pretty soon he’s shaking it, sort of like he was keeping time with his words, which came faster and faster. When he talked, little bubbles of spit started to form in the corner of his lips.

He asked me a bunch more questions. Stuff that meant nothing to me. I sat there playing dumb, just nodding and shrugging, trying to figure out if I knew him or if he was fucking crazy. I thought that maybe he was some character that I went to second grade with, but, you know, had blocked out. Finally, I decided to just up and ask him who the hell he was. 

Instead of answering, he looked at me like his eyes were going to fall out of his face and said, “Hey Axel, don’t you know your old pals anymore? What’s going on wit’ you, man?”

Well—damn!—that was some sucker punch. Axel was sure as shit my name, and in those days before Guns and Roses, nobody—I mean nobody—was named Axel. I guess there must’ve been a shitload of Axels in Norway, but not in the USA. 

I mean, I was knocked on my ass. I didn’t know this guy, yet here he was calling me by name. It took him just a minute to make it worse. “Hey, come on Axel,” he said. “You remember me. You’re Axel Johnson. You and me, we went to school together at Custer Elementary and Sherman Junior High, up there by the airport. You remember how the planes used to come roaring in, drowning out those teachers. You know…those old bitches like Miss Shapardson and Miss Botticher.”

By then I was barely listening. My name was and is Axel Jensen. Axel Johnson? Well that was too close for comfort. Much too close. I shifted into weird-out overdrive.

My new pal said his name was George Case. Something like that. Never heard of him. I told him so. He looked shocked, when I said that. He cussed me, saying, “Hey, I know it’s you. For Christ sake, you even talk the same. Why are you fucking with me, man?”

My stop finally came up—thank God. I had to struggle over George’s long legs to make my getaway. He yelled something, but by then I was almost running and made a point of not hearing him. I figured he cussed me some more.

I thought about it for a couple of weeks; even looked up Axel Johnson in the phone book. Found nothing. I figured that I’d met up with some crazy that knew me long ago; that he’d screwed up my name; mixed me up with some other guy up in North County.

I left junior college after the first semester and went to work in a factory, laminating plastic, inhaling all kinds of contact glue fumes and getting my arms and face covered with toxic crud. My weekends were about following around after a band (where a friend of mine played bass), trying to pick up women, and doing as much underage drinking as possible. It wasn’t much of a life, but it seemed cool back then: the old-time version of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

Anyway, I was sitting in this bar with my friends a couple of years after that deal on the bus. Can’t remember the name of the place—maybe the Clayton Club; could have been the Pago-Pago. 

Bill, the band’s lead guitarist, was playing the solo part of Johnny B. Goode with his Fender behind his head. My buddy Cecil was up there in his shades, swaying back and forth and looking like he was on another planet. Right then a waitress, one that I’d never seen before, breezed by, and did a stage-door double take. She looked around to make sure that the bartender wasn’t watching and came over and planted this big, smoochy kiss on my forehead. Left a plum-colored lip smear right there, dead center.

I don’t have to tell you what she said. You got it: “Hey, Axel, why don’t you call no more?” 

Well, this chick was definitely someone I didn’t know. I would’ve remembered her and given her a call in five minutes time. She had her blonde hair all puffed up in one of those beehives that seemed sexy in those days. I checked out her long legs and spiky high heels. For some reason, I knew the score right away.

Dammit!  It was that Axel Johnson again. Before I had a chance to hustle her or pretend to be my twin, she took off to wait another table since the barman was looking darts at her. The temperature went up, she got busier and busier, and I got smashed. Never did talk to her that night. When I went back the next Friday, she wasn’t there.  Never saw her again.

Well, you can bet I hit the white pages again. And that time I hit pay dirt. There was Axel Johnson, right there in the listings—living up north in Balfour Terrace. 

I dialed up his number, but nobody answered. I was relieved. Didn’t know why. Never called again. Never took a cruise up to north to the street where he lived. I had other things to think about— like what I was going to do with my life.

Finally, I decided to go to a real college. Signed up for Northeast Missouri State. College didn’t cost much in those days, and I’d saved a little from my factory job. Well, I only lasted a semester before I knocked up foxy Gloria Perlman. We took off for California so that her old man wouldn’t kill us. 

But that’s really neither here nor there. While I was at Northeast, I had this prick of an English teacher: George G. Gleason.  Every time he graded a paper, he signed his whole name on the bottom, like he was the President autographing some big-deal law.  He made us call him Dr. George. When we said it, it sounded like we were supposed to call him Sir Charles, the Duke of Earl. 

Anyway, he made us read this story called “The Jolly Corner” by Henry James. It was the most boring thing I’d ever read. I kept falling asleep before I ever got through page one. I mean, I tried about twenty times. Never did finish it and had no idea what it was about. And I really didn’t care. 

The next day, Sir George rambled on about how great a story it was, like it was a rip-snorting adventure yarn. He called it a great classic. That’s when I first heard about a doppelganger because there was one in this story that put me to sleep. George the Mighty did explain it. 

I guess the idea is that somewhere in the world you’ve got this evil double lurking around, waiting to kill you by just looking at you. At the time, I right away thought about my pal Axel Johnson. It was kind of creepy and weird feeling, but sort of cool, too.

Life went on. I spent the next thirty-five years trudging around Sunnyvale, California, delivering junk mail and bills. My marriage to Gloria turned out fine. (Surprise, surprise!) We had one boy who I did not name Axel. About fifteen years ago, our son moved off to Edmonton, Alberta, for reasons that escape me. Gloria passed on three years ago.

Even though I was retired, walking my old mail route had become a habit. One day I was strolling around my neighborhood in San Jose and got hit by what felt like a nine-pound hammer. All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe or walk a block without stopping every few steps. I was gasping like a fish, flopping around on the bottom of a boat. 

The doc said I had emphysema and a fluttery heart. I thought about this a bit, then decided, What the Hell, I want to go home to die.  I sold everything, packed up, and headed straight to the Midwest.

Anyways, I rented a flat on the Southside, got myself a computer, and spent my days sitting around surfing the net. And I started reading up on doppelgangers. 

Yeah, it got to be a morbid fixation. I found out that sometimes a doppelganger is like a ghost, sometimes it’s another person, and sometimes it’s nothing more than a shadow you see out of the corner of your eye. No matter what it is, when you see it, you are probably going to die because this thing is super-bad; an evil genie.

Of course, all this had to do with Axel Johnson. Through the years, every once in a while, when I’d downed a few of beers, I’d thought about him. I sometimes wondered if he was real or if I’d just made up the whole thing. I thought he might even be dead.        

Even though I was reading all this junk, I stayed away from the telephone book and the on-line people-finders. But of course my curiosity won out. Finally, I did look in the phone book, but he wasn’t there.

Then I went to my new friend, the Internet. It showed only one Axel Johnson, and—Jesus H. Christ!—he lived only about four blocks away. It was then that I knew that this was all meant to be. I knew that I had to walk up to him, look him straight in the eye, and see if I would live through it. I mean, Hell, I really didn’t care if I croaked right on the spot. At least, I didn’t think I cared since my health was getting worse and worse.

*****

So, that’s how I ended up here, hanging on his gate on a November evening. I got myself together, squared up my shoulders, and did my death march toward the castle of Axel Johnson.

Halfway down the walk, I heard the dog’s nails clicking on a fence out back, then it snarled and lunged straight into the boards. I kept walking and when I got to the big red door, I didn’t just knock; I pounded—boomed away.

There was noise on the other side, then a woman opened up. She was about forty, a pretty good-looking brunette. But I didn’t pay any attention, really.

Over her shoulder, I saw myself staring back. That look lasted only a second before I realized I was looking at a mirror over the mantle. I was shook up. My legs quivered. My stomach felt airy and empty. 

I managed to get out Axel’s name, saying that I’d come to see him. As if on cue, a man stood up from the couch with his back was toward me. When he turned to face me, I was stunned. He looked like me okay, but a “me” that was maybe forty-five years old. He looked at me with a question since he couldn’t figure out that he was staring at the wreckage of himself.

What could I say? I told him my name, but when I said Axel Jensen, it came out all deep and croaky, old-sounding and spooky, like I was the leader of the living dead.

Well, Johnson actually smiled and said, real cordial-like, “Come on in let’s talk. Sit down. I’ve wondered about you for a long time. Obviously you’ve heard about me. This is…interesting.”

The inside of the house was a lot nicer than it looked outside. The furniture was big and comfortable, big enough to sink into and feel warm against the November chill, especially with a fire burning in the grate. There was a tang of smoke in the house. Phoebe, Axel’s girlfriend, after introductions, disappeared into another room.

And we talked and talked. I told him all about myself, and he told me about his life. He’d been married twice and had three grown kids (none of them named Axel). He’d retired as an office manager from UPS, after working for years as a delivery man. He waved around his living room, pointing to the books which were piled up here and there, saying, “Even though my health is A-one, I’ve become a super couch potato. I sit here and read, watch TV, and fiddle with Phoebe.” 

He winked and continued, “She doesn’t demand much in the way of going out or anything.” He stopped for a minute. A big grin spread over his face, and he said, “Welcome to the Jolly Corner.” 

I guess it was a test. I said that we must’ve read the same thing by Henry James, a story that caused me to do nothing but snore. Then I admitted that I’d never finished it. He laughed, and said, “Same here.”

He wagged his head, then asked the question that we’d been skirting all night as we gazed at each other, two non-lookalikes, former twins. He asked me, “Then, of course you know about doppelgangers. That’s why you’re here. What did you think was going to happen? Did you expect me to be some kind of boogeyman ghost who’d turn you to stone with a single look?” His mood became mocking, and I felt uneasy for the first time.

I looked at his youngish face, wondering how that could be. Couldn’t figure it out. But he was the "me" of twenty-five years ago: same straight brown hair, same grey eyes, same dent in the chin. What he saw was a balding, bearded, paunchy old man. This discrepancy caused another smirk to curl his lips.

“Hey pops, we don’t even look alike. Not like I always imagined. Oh yeah, I heard about you too. But it looks like all we got in common is near-alike names. Nothing more. Let’s just say fuck it and have a beer.” He was enjoying himself.

He jumped up and headed for the kitchen. When he turned to go, he looked all wavy, like there was a mist between him and me. For just a second, when I looked at him I saw my twin self, my now-a-days self: the cranky, dying old man. My breath shortened to gasps, and my heart began to jig.

The dog in the back clattered on the fence again and barked like a coon hound. The first drops of rain started to patter on the window.

Then came the thump and crash. The house felt like it’d been hit by an earthquake. The hanging lamp in the corner of the room swayed.  I felt dizzy.

Phoebe, who must’ve been hiding out, listening to everything, came streaking past me into the kitchen. I staggered to my feet and followed like a blind man. Axel Johnson was lying on the floor with two bottles of brew foaming all over him. 

Phoebe shrieked at me to do something. I told her to call 911, while I kneeled in a puddle of suds and pumped his chest with my open hands, like I’d seen on the medical shows. He didn’t seem to be breathing. His eyes were rolled back, showing only white. 

I kept at it: me, panting like a dog. Him, well, he was nothing but dead meat. Then, I got a gasp. His eyes rolled back down, big as marbles. Axel Johnson stared straight at me. For just a second, I heard him sigh. His eyes closed tight, squinting like there was sunlight on his face. 

Suddenly blood came gushing from his mouth in a geyser. It splattered my face and drenched my shirt. He coughed once, sent another spray of blood at me, then shut down. I kept at it: pushing, pushing, pushing. And Phoebe kept shrieking.

The EMS guys showed up and took over. No dice. Axel Johnson was dead—stone-cold, bone-dead and gone. One of the medics shot Phoebe full of sedatives and strapped her down on a gurney. Before she zonked out, she called me a bastard and a son of a bitch, and screamed, It’s your fucking fault.

Of course, she was right. I was the Doppelganger. The Angel With Black Wings. Satan. The Killer Twin. 

But, you know what? As I huffed and puffed back to my car, with Axel Johnson’s hound howling in the background and the big drops of rain washing the blood all over me, I realized that I wanted to live, no matter how hard it might be. I was glad that I was old Axel Jensen! I didn’t feel guilty. Nah, I felt powerful.

*****

Less than two months later, the docs told me to forget about my lungs. Not to worry. No, don’t worry since the Big C is going to kill you instead. Cancer of the liver.  So, I lay here, looking like an octopus, with tubes sticking out all over me. When the pain gets too bad, they pump in the morphine, and I go floating off—lost in space. 

When I’m out there, I see Axel Johnson. Sometimes he looks like me; sometimes he looks like the forty-year old guy on the floor of the little house on the Southside. Sometimes he’s far away, down a long tunnel; sometimes he’s close up, almost bumping heads with me.

And then suddenly there is a new twin. Both of those guys give me that nasty smirk. They reach out to me, never quite touching. They always say the same thing, kind of hissing out a whisper.

You know what they say? Just a couple of words.

They just say, Gotcha, pardner.          

Glen Singer was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. He has spent the majority of his adult life in Wisconsin. He is retired after having spent thirty years with the Wisconsin Department of Corrections, including his final twenty-two years as the librarian at a maximum-security prison. After publishing in several diverse genres over the years, he has concentrated on short fiction during the past decade. As well as horror fiction, his work has ranged from baseball to Civil War tales. His stories have appeared in Dark Discoveries, Necrology, Elysian Fields Quarterly, Cottonwood, Aethlon, Hardboiled, Another Wild West and others.