The Way Fayer

A hopped up, halfway sober, slick-haired man dished out cards to everyone around the table. He looked more hungover than a bell knocked sideways. Strong brow, a bathrobe, and a gold chain resting on a thick chest full of hair. Smoke exiting parted lips for half a second before disappearing back into them: a ghost retreating into the phantom realm as quickly as you had seen it.

“ … and that’s when I said enough. Otherwise I had a terrific time,” he said as the last card slid across the table. He placed a cigarette in Virgil’s mouth and just as swiftly held a flaming match to its end. Virgil inhaled as one does to catch their breath, and watched with wide eyes as the end lit up in an amber glow. Coughed. Smoke going up in a formless cloud.

“I saw Goldfinger there too,” the man carried on. “Couldn’t believe it. Came all the way down just to ask me about his ears. The man simply cannot help but spoil a good party.”

A strawberry-haired young woman in a cocktail dress raised an eyebrow. “Can’t help but touch anything he pleases too. Did he touch that necklace of yours?”

The man glanced at his chain then back at the girl. “Don’t be ridiculous. He can’t actually turn things into gold.”

“‘S not what I’ve heard,” said a teenage boy, clumsily trying to strike a match.

The young woman snatched a cigarette from his lips just as he succeeded. “You’re far too young to smoke. This is the third time I’ve had to remind you.”

“There’s never a good age to start smoking, Ginger,” said the man as he took a drag.

The girl sighed. “You’re really a bad influence, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows knowingly. “That’s what they tell me. Are we gonna play or what?”

“Let’s get on with it,” groaned a boy sitting on the other side of the couch. His eyes were bloodshot and watery as they turned in slow motion toward Virgil. A strand of blonde hair fell over his left eye when they found him. “You buyin’ in?”

Sitting there with the cigarette resting awkwardly between his lips, Virgil managed, “No, no. Thank you.” He stood up a little off balance. “You all enjoy yourselves … I just really … really must get on … I’m trying to sort some things out at the moment. I’m Virgil, by the way.”

The man tilted his head, elbows resting on his knees. “Virgil. I had a dog named Virgil once. It’s really a shame you don’t wanna play, but I understand. You come back anytime now, ya hear?”

“Yes, yes. I will.”

“We play lots of poker,” the man flashed his teeth.

“I’ll remember that.”

As Virgil stepped over a couple pairs feet and knocked into a few knees he remembered the cigarette. “Ah,” turning around. “Here’s that cigarette, Mr … ?”

The man scrunched his eyebrows. “You sure you don’t wanna keep it?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure.”

“Hmm,” he shrugged and took it. “Bill. That’s my name.” He placed the cigarette between his teeth alongside the other, flashing that smile again. “You be careful out there, Virgil.” A wink, a double drag, and he returned his attention to the table.

Virgil trudged away, relief washing over him. 

It wasn’t, however, until the end of another series of strange interactions that he finally made it to the bathroom. First a group of pamphleteers insisting that he judge their cartoons without telling him who made which one. He only managed to escape when they lost themselves in an argument about cross-hatching versus stippling, something or other. Afterwards, a haranguing old man dragged him down for a talk of crude politics over a cup of earthy tea. Eventually, the old man got lost in his own circular reasoning and couldn’t find a way out. Wracking his brain with closed eyes. Virgil slipped away.

At long last he tumbled through the bathroom door with a yelping sigh of relief. Flinging himself onto the sink. The tips of his shoes dragging limply on the tile beneath him. Gravity gently pulling him down. Tugging and tugging. Ever so softly. Hands holding the counter to keep from collapsing as he slowly slid onto the floor next to his feet. Staring at the shiny pipes below the sink. Not a spot. Not a scratch. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine anything else, anything but his most recent recollections. To recall another reality in the theater of his mind. A past life. But all he could see was just moments old. Nothing more. The mansion and its ornamental lunacy. It’s absurdity. People, rooms, and pipes. The theater, it seemed, was empty of explanation. A dark house. Silence so loud it was like a standing ovation from the void. Curtains closed: nothing to see here folks.

Standing with a bit of a struggle, he saw himself for only the second time ever. This time, clearly. Leaning on the sink before the mirror, sweaty hair spilling over stinging eyes. Shoulders rising and falling with each shaky breath. Eyes: almost perfectly gray. Face: boyish with a perky nose. He looked charming enough. Having heard his voice plenty by now, he knew well it didn’t match his appearance. Sounding like a smoker without smoking, looking like a man without manhood. Lanky, listless, and lonely with only a longing to tell for his sorrows.

The bathroom door slammed open. Virgil jumped. Pointing his eyes downward and thoughtlessly washing his hands. Icy cold water that made him brace against it. Behind him, coughing and incoherent words making their way to a urinal. With enough courage, he glanced in the mirror to discover who had barged in. Leaning against the wall with his head staring up at the ceiling was the unmistakable appearance of the monocled young man. Hair falling back against his shoulders. White dress shirt stained in sweat. The young man hummed an unrecognizable tune as his pee splashed against the bowl. A belch. He flushed and zipped his pants in a stumbling fashion before turning and making his way in zig-zags to the sink over. Virgil turned his attention back to his hands. Cold water rushing from the faucet.

“Hey!”

Virgil jumped again. Looked over.

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” the young man said, purple lips twisted drunkenly.

“What?”

Another belch. “A quote. I know it from somewhere.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Virgil,” he replied, drying his hands.

“Ah! ‘Perhaps even these things will one day be a pleasure to remember.’”

Virgil stared at him blankly. “I’m not sure I understand.”

The boy laughed, wheezing. “Is that not right? You must be new here. I’m Pyg.” Holding out a dripping hand.

Virgil hesitated. Took it. “Nice to meet you.”

Pyg looked at him curiously. “I saw you earlier. You let her get away, you fool!” He hit him playfully on the shoulder.

“She seemed in a hurry,” Virgil said.

“They always are.” Pyg’s lips curled mischievously. “You must be wondering where you are.”

Virgil’s heart nearly stopped. “Y-yes.”

“Allow me to show you.”