Gone To Find C~~~

There were many times in my life when I was more than glad to wake up after a crazy late night and discover that the stranger who’d slept beside me was long gone.

I was less than glad, however, to wake up this morning and discover that the person who usually slept beside me in our pathetic one-room, one-bed hovel had taken half of our clothes and left little more notice than illegible scrawls on the back of a crumpled napkin.

I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and squinted at the note while I tried to pull on my jeans. Where the hell was Bob? We had to be at the school in half an hour, and my bleeding-heart twin had promised the wide-eyed kiddies fun and games today. According to his middle-of-the-night missive, however, he was gone to find C-squiggle. Really helpful.

I was halfway into my shirt when I remembered Dan’s ill-timed call. What had he told Bob that would make him just take off like that? I glanced at the phone, but hell if Bob hadn’t take it. He must’ve forgotten it was the only connection we had to the civilized world. I sighed and finished the rest of my coffee, snagged a slice of bread from the icebox, and toed on my shoes at the door.

I was assaulted on all sides by the little old ladies who lived on my street, so bowing and saying good morning made my haul to the bus stop twice as long as usual. The hunchbacked old man who ran the corner market at the bus stop peered at me.

“Teacher Clay. Where is Same Same?”

I really didn’t look that much like Bob. I mean, technically we were the twins, but honestly - we hadn’t looked the same since we were fourteen and Bob grew a few inches taller than he deserved, being the younger twin. “Same Same didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb and took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. Can I use your phone?”

The man blinked at me, uncomprehending of my English-speaking rant. I made a phone call motion with one hand. He nodded, grinned toothlessly, and waved me behind the counter. There was only one number I’d memorized, so I shoved a few coins into the rickety machine and dialed.

“Y’ello.” Scott sounded drowsy. I heard a woman murmur in the background. I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what time it was in Canada.

“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with the lady du jour. Boot her.” I flashed a smile at the old man.

“I’m at work, brat. Suicide watch. Get to the point quickly, before she tries to -- hey! Knock it off. Don’t make me tie you down again.”

I waited a beat. Sometimes I forgot that Scott was no longer a drunken philanderer, that he’d wandered back to White Horse and was now a semi-respectable EMT.

“What’s your point, Clay?”


“My point is that Bob took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. I need you to send me a new phone and find out where he went.”

“Did he leave a note?”

“His handwriting sucks. It said ‘Gone to find C-squiggle.’ I don’t know anyone whose name begins with C, let alone who’d make Bob pull a Houdini.”

“...Carolyn.”

I swore under my breath. “I thought she was dead.”

“So did I.” Scott sighed. “Hang tight, all right?”

“Right. Slán.”

“Slán.”

(597 words)