The End of the Tracks

It was harmless enough, pulling my mail out of the box after a late night. I forgot to hit the porch light when I left, so my shadow covered what I flipped through with my thumb, so it's no wonder I didn't see it at first. Finally, after kicking off my shoes, setting down a rock glass of scotch, plopping down on my couch, and sorting out the legitimate from the junk came this enigma in a business envelope, my name finely printed by a machine on the front, off-centered to the right.

I talked with former roommates, since I thought that this type of note would go there, my last permanent address, so permanent it's still on my license. I warned them to look out for this type of thing at the house, to let me know if anyone was snooping. I left there ten months ago. After moving, I was careful, taking precautions in notifying those of my new address, only telling people that were close to me. Could I afford to still keep those people close?

I asked a former roommate, "Were there any calls for me? People asking for my information?"

She shook her head, her hair untucking itself from behind her ear, falling over the side of her face. "Nothin'. The only random calls we get are for that Adam Santiago fella." That certainly wasn't me. But could it be the same people?

I spoke with my mother. She told me, "No. I haven't received any calls like that." Her worried brow tightened more. "Besides, if that did happen, I'd ask who it was that was looking for you." Which she would. With an inherent intuition, she's always keeping a watchful eye out for her son.

I pondered calling other friends. But realized that my asking of questions could only make me a blip on their screen, and I've been under the radar for so long. I changed my e-mail address years ago. Online I've been operating under an alias, under which this could be written, though, you'll never know. The last time my name appeared in a phone listing was back in that old beach town up north. I made sure I didn't exist in the white pages when I came back down here. I have no landline, only a mobile, keeping me guarded from any random, searching calls. Sometimes on late nights when it's quiet out, I don't even park my car in front of my place. I refused to update my whereabouts with the Motor Vehicle people. I pulled up shop, taken the signs down, gone. I did a clean job I thought, but I must have left something behind.

But that envelope, its contents, say otherwise. I pulled out the papers to face a harsh reality. I scanned them and had to put them aside. I can't go back. They won't make me go back. I thought.

I tried to simply throw it out, tried ignoring the fact that I've been tracked down. I held it over my trash can, the black lid pulled back, waiting to seal this away from my mind. But I realized my conscience knew and that could not be disposed of. They are there, waiting in my mind, so tossing this evidence would be an act of futility.

I went over it in my head. Years ago I pulled away like a drag on a cigarette. My burning existence, dying away. I burned off the edges, leaving small glowing embers before fading into thin lines of smoke, weaving up into nothingness. Nobody was to hear of me again. That's the way it was supposed to be.

But they're here. It's coming. So I ponder my next step as I glare at the envelope and the papers resting on it, lying perfectly balanced on the arm of my couch. Does the Class of '96 need me anymore?

I'm done. I'm never going back. Now, if I could just get those damned papers out of my sight.