The Last Word

You walk up to me in the hotel lobby.

“Excuse me,” you say. “Are you Jimmy Deveraux?”

That’s not my name, but I tell you it is. It’s as if I’ve heard someone else reply—distant and dreamlike. But it’s me. I’ve said the words: “Yes, I’m Jimmy Deveraux.”

And you say, “Let’s go.”

We hurry past the concierge’s station and rush through the revolving doors. My head starts to spin as soon as we step outside.

The hotel dissolves in the rearview as we pull away in your Crimson Ford Capri. Suddenly, I can’t remember where we’ve just been.

We drive around for 30 minutes before you ask, “Where are we going?”

I say, “You don’t know?”

You brake a little too hard at the light. “If I knew, why would I need you to show me?”

I start to panic, nearly give up the game. I’m not Jimmy Deveraux; I have no idea where we’re going.

I hear myself say, “McDonald’s.”

You smile, tap an index finger against your forehead. “Smart. A public place.”

We drive some more. “Which McDonald’s?”

Again, I nearly break down and tell you I’m not Jimmy What’s-His-Name; I don’t know why I’ve indulged in this deception.

Instead, I say, “The next one we come to.”

Golden Arches loom large in the grimy windshield.

A few minutes later, I watch you leave the car and walk toward the restaurant. There’s something both familiar and alien about the way you move, though I’m sure we’ve never met.

Suddenly, I can’t remember what you look like—if you’re male or female.

I open the door and start to run back in the direction we came, but you’re there beside me. You say, “We’ll talk inside.”

By the time we’ve finished our vanilla shakes, you’ve grown impatient, tap-tapping your fingers in a ragged beat.

You shrug. “So—where is it?”

Apart from the counter crew, we’re the only people in the place. The overhead fixtures flicker, like signal lamps, speaking in a code I can’t decipher.

A uniformed teen mops the floor; foamy water sloshes in a red plastic pail.

You lean forward, whisper, “OK, I understand. You want to talk about the money. How about five?”

Do you mean five hundred, five thousand, five million?

“We agreed on four. But what the hell? Why shouldn’t you make a little extra?”

And you’re tapping your fingers again. It sounds unnaturally loud: like a hammer inside my head.

Images rush past: Workdays in whitewashed cubicles and vacations at sun-soaked resorts.

All the conversations are one-sided. I’m speaking but no one replies. The stucco office parks and tropical hotels are deserted; I’m the lone employee pecking away at my keyboard, the sole vacationer, hauling my luggage up an endless staircase.

I look into a mirror (at a tourist spot, after dropping my bags at the foot of the bed). The details of the room (bed, bags, night tables, closets, entrance to the bathroom, balcony windows looking out on the sea) are vividly displayed. Reversed, of course, since it’s a mirror image; still, nothing’s out of place. Except for me. I’m out place, literally. I cast no reflection.

“Hey!” You’re shouting into my ear, even though we’re standing very close, almost toe-to-toe.

There’s an overflowing Dumpster with green slime at its base, a sickening mixture of food remnants and motor oil. Rainbows ripple on the surface of a greasy pool.

“Snap out of it, man!”

We’re behind the McDonald’s—a golden arch rises on the left above the restaurant’s roof.

You smile. “That’s OK. In your line of work, things must get weird sometimes.”

Your mood changes, eyes harden. “Where is it, Jim?”

I finally make up mind to tell you I lied.

Then you smile. “I get it. You want to make sure I can pay. I bet the thing’s not even here, is it?”

Once we’re back inside the Capri, you flip a slim manila envelope onto my lap. “That’s half. You’ll get the rest later, plus that little bit extra.”

You gun the engine and we skid out onto the street. I’m facing the rearview, but my eyes are shut tight.

It feels like we’ve been driving for hundreds of miles by the time I say, “Stop!” completely at random, with no idea where we are.

An urban wasteland sprawls in every direction: Dark streets dissect a plain of trash-strewn lots. They lead to the waterfront with its dilapidated warehouses. A tanker lolls beside a rusted dock.

“I used to play here as a kid,” I say. But I’m speaking to fill the void—I don’t remember my childhood or any of the events leading up to this moment.

And I finally scream out, “I’m not Jackie, or Joey... or whoever you think I am! Look...”

Digging in my pocket, I pull out a wallet and fumble for my license. “Here...“

I stop before handing it over. The face is difficult to discern; the image is over-bright, like an X-Ray, with the lights and darks transposed. There’s a smudge where the name should be.

“Relax,” you say. “I’ve been playing with you. I knew it wasn’t at McDonald’s. That would be impossible. You’re confused and upset. But... look, can you do one thing for me? Then we’ll be finished. Open your eyes. Look at me. Come on. That’s right...“

(So, how will it end? Are we one and the same, fragments of some splintered psyche? Maybe it’s a dream or some surreal Twilight Zone vision?

Nah, that’s all window dressing: imagined insights, false revelations, easy answers.

There can only be one ending—decisive and clear. Open to no possible misinterpretation.

It’s as real as any car, hotel, restaurant or ship; as cold and dark as the night; crystallized in that final image, the last word.)

I pocket the I.D. Then I drive off. Alone.