halloween 2020 by zachary jackson

Screen. The brightness from the desktop computer in a small cubicle at a bustling office space cuts through the monotone colors, the humdrum mutter of office talk and the overall staticness and boredom of a 9 to 5 job. Types on the keyboard. He types, “his license plate number is “[3 letters, 4 numbers], take care!” 

Verdict. The conclusion gathered by this information is who stole a stranger’s bike. The office worker who gave this information allegedly saw another man steal a bike, saw through its bike lock and shove the bike in the back of his car while driving off with the number, [3 letters, 4 numbers]. He, behind a window in a convenience store, whipped out his phone and snapchatted it. “Woah.” He talks to the cashier about what they saw through the window, chuckling and engaging in small talk. “Yo, I’ve seen someone muck up a police car. This isn’t the first time stuff like this goes down.” He leaves to go back to work. At work, he received an email from a stranger. Stranger was the owner of the bike, saw the bike missing, looked to the nearby convenience store if he saw anything, and the cashier redirected the stranger to everyday customer Will Schultz. So, Will sent the info. 

Stranger. The stranger is sitting on a toilet. In a Wendy’s. He’s wearing a fursuit monkey costume. It's Halloween. They interject, “I got this off a thrift shop.” Pause. ”In Manhattan, not in one of em dirty thrift stores, an actually good one, ok!”The stranger wanted any author writing his life down to know he was economical, frugal and didn't waste his money on big costume distributors. Ding. It's a notification on his phone. Will Schultz responded back. [3 letters, 4 numbers]. Numbers! And letters! Their eyes widen with excitement. They go to an online forum and type the combination down. He waits. He poops. He leaves the stall. “Ding!”. Someone linked the bike thief’s address. “[4 numbers, BLVD name, NY, ZIP CODE]” “Damn.” Flush. They turn back. Was someone in the other stall? Or were they imagining things? They approach the two stalls. Shyly looks underneath. No shoes. They nudge the door slightly on both to see if there’s anyone. No-one. Just them. Alone. With their newfound address! They actually know that address. It was the official “party house.” in high school. Even though they graduated last year, nostalgia still exists. They nostalgically remember riding on their bike at night by that address hearing the trap music booming from that big upper class house never having the power to enter into that party and vibe with that music without being looked at as an outcast. Less do they think of, “why did the resident of that party house steal my bike.”, rather “I finally have a reason to enter the party.” There’s always a party on Halloween. Covid-19 means nothing, they’ll still party. And they’ll get the party they never had in high school, and get their bike back. They don’t understand why I'm infatuated with their story. They ask me, “is it because of the party,” in a desperate cadence, “is something going to happen at the party?” “Will I find love, meet a future lifelong friend, have the time of my life, is my life going to change forever, or will I,” they gasp, “is this a murder story, is this a slasher story, am I in a horror story; whatever in may be, I just hope you writing this means that SOMETHING is going to happen to me! I just hope this all means something.” Vroom! 

The hand dryer got triggered. They are puzzled. Lately, strange occurrences have happened, they think as exiting the Wendy’s. City breeze and people brush by him. Are the oddities occurring because of just simple explainable malfunctions in technology or is it directed at them? As they would like to note, the stranger has pride in their awareness and ability to

sense and understand concepts and their own existence. Right now, as they walk down through the streets of Manhattan sliding through crowds of other masked strangers, they are perceptive. And no-one else, they tell me, is as perceptive as them. They urge me right now to tell readers in the second person, as they walk lonesome on the streets, to detail their perspective. 

Street. Sidewalk. Tall building. Bushes on the patio. Masks. Blue masks on strangers walking towards you. Kids look at you for some reason. Why do children, the young so scary? Everyone brushes by you. That sums up most of the social interaction for you. Back to the objects, the non-living, the only thing you have connected to for the past few months and the only things that recognize your existence. Subway. Trains sound whir. Clopping down the steps. The turnstile. Swipe. Beep. Swipe Again. Beep. Clink. Rod on the turnstile flips alongside you as you walk through. The platform. These are your new friends. The gap. How many people have accidentally fallen there? Is it guaranteed death? 

They told me to write the prior in the 2nd person because they wanted any potential readers to know their perspective of walking into the train station. They don’t know if it’ll mean anything for the story, they think as they enter the train. They said that, “nonetheless, it demonstrates that I’m a real person, not just an imaginary character developed to push forward a narrative.” They pause, “but I don’t know, I guess I do like being a simple object used to push a narrative, or simply a narrative defining me rather than vice versa since I don’t have much assurance that me as an individual itself I can really do much or anything.” They stare into their reflection on the train’s door as the train rumbles. They hold a pole to stay still, “like all the seats are taken on this train.” That is true. “I unfortunately don’t have a seat. It's just the way it is - so what do I do, you know, how am I going to get stability or stay still. I need something, like this pole,” he grips the pole, “this pole holds me you know.” “I wouldn’t be still or really stand or EXIST if it wasn’t for this pole.” “Me calling for an abolition of these poles would, well, then how would I stand? So yeah, I would prefer if I was sitting, but sorry I’m not so the poles will do. It's just how things are.”, they tell me. “So, what if I’m just relegated to an imaginary character? At least I’m getting attention, finally some interactivity with another being, so fine do whatever you do to me - kill me off, use me as a device to tell you a moral - I don’t care what you do to my reality, just make it entertaining” 

So they stand holding their pole, and staring off into oblivion. Wearing their mask dying for some real social interaction, tired of the imaginary people in their head or the brief interactions with strangers’ eyes. “Are you real,”, they ask. “If you are real, why do you do the things you do, why can’t you just end the story and be gone; just make me happy forever or just end my life, I need resolution,” they beg. “I’m not begging, I just have questions. How much of my life did you write? Were you there from the start? Are you responsible for that one time I peed my pants in the middle of computer class in the 2nd grade?,” he pensively looks to the side, “wait, are you responsible for EVERYTHING about me? Are you the reason why I feel so alone, if so did you write me as alone and contemplative and desperate so that you can have someone to talk to.” They look up trying to distract themselves from their thoughts. “Are all my faults written the way they are just so that you can have someone pathetic enough to talk to?” It's inescapable. “Do I suffer everyday just so you can feel happiness or glee or SOME FEELING from the fact that someone is dependent on you?” The others briefly look up. Darting their eyes; the train stops. Its [INSERT TRAIN STOP HERE]. And they are looking at you. You onder, “do they want to talk to me, do they find me approachable, or on a good day is my

costume cool to them,”, till the intercom rings, “STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE.” Their eyes look away. The train whirs up and rumbles by again. It's all clockwork: the darting eyes, the rumbling of a train and all of its stops. All for what, just a glance. A moment. Your look has arrived. Your look is gone. Your stop is here. You get off now. 

“I’m real, and you can’t erase me.” It's night-time now. “Ok I do care, please don’t write me off I want to live”, they think depressively. “I don’t need no bike or party, I need to stop you, you’re going to kill me!” They climb the steps of the train station. They feel the air of rushing towards them as they get up. It's a suburban area. “Stop writing this story, I can’t live life anymore being controlled by you” Pumpkins, halloween decor, and all of the like surrounding stores. “Who cares about how the stores look.” Kids in costumes frolic around. Some adults are still doing daily shopping, weirdly. “WHO CARES, please stop I don’t want to be in this story anymore because YOU CONTROL ME” They walk endlessly, almost escaping the suburban aurora of stores, children and weird adults moseying around. “Stop controlling me, ok I know you rigged this, I KNOW IT ALL, the story the system is designed to make me suffer while you the writer just reek off my perspective, MY GREAT PERSPECTIVE, for what I don’t even know.” It's dark and they are under a highway. The roaring of cars bustles through the soundscape of the night. They walk by the towering highway, wind breezing through the night. “Some perverse sadistic pleasure you gain from this, oh yeah well look at THIS.” They run. “I’m defying you,” they scream in the empty night. “This night is not empty SHUT UP, I know you’re there and you’re watching me.” He stops and looks around. Trash bags. Pavement. Yellow-lines. Pavement. Roaring cars. Pavement. “Why is the pavement so noticeable, are you in the PAVEMENT”, he screams again in the quiet barren land. Beep. “What the hell was that.” No further noise. “Was that a siren?” Shuffling. “Who is that!” Dark. “Is this my death.” Nothing “Is this why I’m here?” “Freeze, police.” “Is this what you’ve been building up to? Death by police.” Guns click. “At least it was entertaining.” “You’ll remember me right?” 

Shot. The crack of the factory produced gunshot splits through the quiet rural cricket-sounding atmosphere. Drops to the pavement. He lies dead. 

Verdict. Man shot dead by police. The conclusion gathered by anonymous users on online forums to impersonable internet bloggers was that they were part of ANTIFA. “They” was a 27-year old man working as a cashier at Wendy’s. The costume he wore was worn by a suspect who cut police cars’ wires in Manhattan. The monkey suit is clearly “ANTIFA symbolism.”, according to police. Internet users on the Right state how, “he deserved it.” “Serves them right.”, “glad a cop killer is off the streets”, “liberal lunatic!”, “The more communists dead the better!” 

Will Schultz. He reads the Guardian article. On twitter, he looks at the stranger’s photos provided: his candid photos to his yearbook photos of him smiling. On his mind, all he sees is a terrorist. He’s glad he feels safe, but more importantly he’s glad he’s not a spooky radical because he’s a law-abiding good citizen and he really hopes the government sees him as a law-abiding good citizen. Will wonders if he should sell his current monkey suit. Maybe a thrift shop will accept it.