A reclusive man begins noticing unsettling coincidences during casual encounters. Their increasing frequency spurs paranoia.
Off the Radar
IN a remote area with barely a brand-name store, Orson James Smith has a cabin in the wooded hills that he paid cash for a half dozen years ago. Tragic events in his life required him to step back from the fast pace and absorb nature’s beauty.
This is not the place people stream to find love, but a woman named Betsy strikes his fancy. They are not lovers, by any stretch of the imagination, but the flirtation suggests a chemistry.
Each chop of wood for Orson’s fireplace releases the sharp, resinous scent of pine mingling with the cold mountain air. His thoughts race with images of Betsy warming herself by the fire beside him. Could he trust her into his life with gaps in his past?
After his chores, he drives his truck into town. The gravel crunches beneath his tires as he comes to a stop at a new greeting card store. It’s rare to find anything new in such a slow-paced town. So he steps out to select a card for his gal.
Terms of Endearment
There’s a warm greeting from a fella in the rear of the store. The sections are well organized. It’s not a holiday, so he must choose between the “Love” and “Friendship” categories. The sentiments of “Love” are most appropriate, but too early in his budding relationship. So he settles on a friendship card.
He prefers to pay for everything with cash, but his local bank gave him a debit card without a credit check. ‘It’s the cash of the future,’ the welcome letter said. At the counter, the cashier upsells him a fancy-scented envelope, which should compensate for the lack of heartfelt emotion in the friendship card.
“What’s the damage for today?”
“Your total is on the screen. You can tip or decline.”
He looks up at the cashier to decide how helpful he is and notices the name badge says “Orson.” This sidetracks him into a conversation.
“Orson is one of the least common names. How is it that we both have it?”
The cashier smiles and grasps his badge, responding, “It resonates with mystery.”
Orson completes the transaction, leaves the store, and, in his truck, notices he is low on gasoline. It’s peculiar because he recalls filling up earlier in the week, and he hasn’t driven any long distances. To make certain he doesn’t run out, he drives to the local station, where his debit card isn’t working. The gas pump message instructs him to pay the cashier inside.
His is the only truck at the station, but the new woman behind the counter seems to want to justify her position.
“Which pump number?”
In response, he shrugs while rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t look. Can’t you tell?”
She stretches her neck to peek through the window, saying, “Oh, the truck with the dent on the front fender. That’s pump number 2. How much do you need?”
While scratching his red beard, Orson says, “Thirty dollars should do it.”
When she looks up to take his card, he notices that she also has a badge with his name on it. That doesn’t make any sense.
“How could your name be ‘Orson’?” he asks.
“My father always wanted a son. It was a cruel compromise.”
A Phone Prank
For six years, he’s been the only Orson. Now, everywhere he looks, someone shares his name. To top things off, his phone begins malfunctioning. When he tries to send a text message to Betsy, a photo image of himself keeps popping up on the screen.
Not wanting to stop by unannounced, Orson drives home to call the phone company. After enduring insufferable wait times, a technician responds.
“Hello. This is Orson. How may I assist you?”
Orson’s heart begins beating so loudly that he can’t hear the technician repeat his greeting. How can this be happening? Am I in the midst of a nightmare? Now he believes it’s a phone company prank, so he asks to speak with a manager. After five minutes, the manager responds in his voice.
“Hello. My name is Orson, the manager. How may I assist you today?”
When Orson smashes his phone, the shattered glass brings back memories he’s worked hard to repress. Burying his head beneath pillows can’t suppress the condemning, accusatory whispers.
Repressed Memories Return
Years ago, he became distracted by his phone while driving near sunset. There was a glare on the windshield. Before he knew it, his fender hit a small girl on her bicycle. His heart raced as fast as it does now. She was motionless on the ground, not even a scream of agony.
He began hearing the condemning voices of distraught neighbors. The choice of fleeing outweighed the option of finding the grieving parents and accepting the consequences. So he packed up his things and assumed a new name as a recluse. These repressed memories are coming back to haunt him.
The only solution is to get rid of his alias. So he heads to the DMV. A man named Orson calls him to the counter.
“It looks like your driver’s license for Brian Cameron Davidson has expired.”
“That’s right. I just want to renew it, please,” he replies with sweaty palms and a shiny forehead.
“Have you ever been in a vehicle accident?”
“Why would you think that?” he reacts with suspicion.
“It’s just a formality. You didn’t check the box.”
“Oh. Let me check it now.”
“Pose for the photo….” After the flash, the clerk says, “Mr. Davidson, your new card should arrive in the mail soon.”
Brian leaves the DMV wondering how long is soon. How long does he have to endure the torment of Orsons wherever he goes? How does he explain his name change to Betsy? In the weeks ahead, condemning whispers draw him into an agoraphobic state. He huddles in a comforter in front of the fireplace, reliving the moment of impact with each crackle of burning wood.
After six torturous weeks, the mailman drops an envelope through the door. Brian rushes over to rip it open and view his birth name on a valid driver’s license. Then he sees ominous shadows dart past the windows. His short-lived comfort explodes with anxiety. There’s a bang on the front door.
“Brian Cameron Davidson, this is the police. Your place is surrounded. Step out slowly with your hands up.”
Brian smiles, signing the card to Betsy on his dining table: “Farewell, my love.” The large front door squeaks as he opens it with his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes squint in the bright sunset light illuminating his face. Dropping to his knees, he says, “What a relief. Thank you, Gentlemen, for coming.”
The End
Scope: These terms apply across the platform, not per-story. Viewing and evaluation are allowed. Express agreement required for downloading, redistribution, adaptation, or production. Use of this material for generative training or republication in any format without authorization is prohibited. Any relation to actual persons or events is coincidental. About 1100 total words.
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