T Guzman

Epilogue of a Former Boy Detective



It had been a few years since college and the case of the dead kid on campus, so the Former Boy Detective got a job in an office. He emailed. Collated and filed. Cc’ed and bcc’ed when he wanted to keep records of things but didn’t want management to be obviously aware that he was keeping records of things. He went to the Friday meetings and ate two donuts, one custard and one glazed. Clapped when someone was acknowledged as having gone above and beyond. He 401ked at 3% cause he really didn’t make all that much. Got health insurance, but not very good health insurance, ‘cause he really didn’t make all that much. He attended quarterly HR meetings about appropriate and inappropriate office conduct and what to do in the event of an active shooter. Went to the end of the year holiday party in a posh bowling alley that was posh by way of contemporary design and neon and waiters in white dress shirts and black vests and slacks and too dim mood lighting. He got bonded. Became a notary of the public. Quota’ed like hell at his bi-annual review. Ate his lunch next to the vending machine no one ever used in the basement. Worked late into the hours on Fridays ‘cause he refused to come in on Saturdays, even if it was only for a couple of hours.

The dead kid stuck with him.

Some cases did, even the ones with all the loose ends sniped and crimped so they never frayed. It had been years. No one remembered anymore. So many things terrible and unbelievable, but real, had happened in the in-between years, as they always did, so that it’d slipped from their minds, which was understandable, but meant that no one looked at the Former Boy Detective or thought of the Former Boy Detective.

This appealed to the Former Boy Detective.

He was lucky to have a job, afford his solitude and nondescript life. He lived alone ‘cause he made just enough so that he could live alone. Ate out too much. Groceried too little. Drove when he should have walked. Purchased paper plates and plastic silverware instead of dishes and slept on an air mattress. He bought cable. Drank in crowded bars where all the voices jumbled together so that if he wanted to hear another person, he couldn’t. He pretended to be on his phone. Watched the facial expressions of the other patrons and looked for subtle movements, tells and ticks, and considered their implications before he realized that this was nothing more than instinct and impotency. He walked into dark alleys. Listened for the sounds of trouble. Looked for the creep of shadows then regretted his actions and walked back. He rode the trains from one end of the line to the other and back again. Told himself he was going to buy a membership to the gym. Convinced himself that he’d pick up rock climbing, maybe learn ultimate frisbee. He wandered into the night. The streetlights made him weary. He laid down in the grass just as everything turned dewy and the air smelled like earth and something he couldn’t define. Grew cold. Tired. His eyes wouldn’t close. His arms felt heavy and clumsy.

He wanted to call the Clairvoyant.

Tell her again about the dead kid.

That he was certain the dead kid was in his apartment, waiting. That the dead kid moved things around in his fridge, placed the bottle of ranch on the bottle shelf when he knew goddamn well that the ranch bottle belonged in a door compartment. That there was a jar of mayonnaise in his dresser that he knew he hadn’t put there. That he knew he should be happy with his job and his life among the living. That he knew all about moving on. That he didn’t need a lecture on closure. That he knew he needed to get out more and that he understood that this didn’t count as getting out more. That he knew he needed to make friends. That things were hard when you got older.

But the Clairvoyant wouldn’t pick up even if he called.

It was understandable given everything.

He went to work

and went to work

and went to work.

Moved laterally from one position to another with better upward mobility. Wore gray slacks and walked to the fax machine but forgot why and walked back. Xeroxed too many copies of the same thing he just Xeroxed.  Water coolered in the break room. Couldn’t carry the thread. Apologized for having to ask people to repeat themselves. Figured it was best to simply nod till it was over. He pretended to eat lunch, but didn’t ever eat lunch. Said he was fine when asked. Knew no one would get HR involved cause after all his turnaround time was phenomenal. He wasn’t client facing anyways.

He was moved to the annex.

Got so much work done.

His turnaround time was truly something to behold. 

The Former Boy Detective returned home to find a ketchup bottle on the coffee table. Mustard where his shampoo should have been. A thing of Horseradish behind his television. A small jar of sweet picks in his loafers. He wanted to call the Clairvoyant to sort this all out. He couldn’t call the Clairvoyant to sort this all out. Considered making dinner, but got distracted looking for something on the television that he didn’t want to watch but didn’t hate enough that it distracted him.

He adjusted the thermostat.

Breathed in and out in long deep breaths.

Gathered all the misplaced condiments in one place and looked for a pattern.

Adjusted the thermostat again.

Was certain that it meant something, all these condiments.