Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus Page A

your finger on the steering wheel, chewing gum, concentrating on an itch in your side and feeling your foot on the pedal, it would be impossible to realise that the impacted wisdom tooth you have is bugging you.
    ‘I know what’s in your apartment,’ it says.
    I think of jerking off to Scarlet Johansson.
    Halle Berry.
    The Pussy Cat Dolls. All five of them.
    ‘I know what’s in your apartment,’ it says again, ‘and soon the police will too.’
    I think of sperm. Conception. The womb. Birth. Childhood. Death. I think of Emma.
    ‘You have no choice, Jerry,’ it says. ‘I know–’
    ‘Of course you do,’ I hiss, alarming an old couple that passes me. ‘You know because you’re me; I’m you.’ I’m making a scene. I’m attracting glances. People see me screaming at someone who isn’t there.
    ‘You can’t go home, Jerry,’ it says. ‘The police will be waiting for you.’
    I turn and march up to myself (that’s a little psychotic depression humour for you). ‘Roland is dead,’ I say, shaking. ‘He’s dead.’ I muster a little laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like the guy. He was fucking my mom and all, but we didn’t have to kill him.’
    ‘I didn’t intend to kill him,’ it says.
    ‘What’s intended is irrelevant when there’s a tripod in the eye. And “didn’t intend to” really probably doesn’t matter when murder is involved.’
    ‘I needed to know where you lived,’ it says.
    ‘You knew,’ I yell. ‘You are me! I’m arguing with myself. This is insane.’ I reach into my pocket and pull out the opaque bottle of 486s.
    ‘What are those?’
    ‘These,’ I say, uncapping the bottle, ‘are what make you go bye-bye.’ The two I took at Mom’s house weren’t enough to stop her from appearing so I spill half the pills into my mouth. I chew them around and the gelatine capsules burst like bubble wrap. The tiny beads taste bitter as I suck them down my throat.
    Several yellow cabs drive past the intersection ahead. As I walk in their direction my legs get heavier. The new-dosage pills are potent and it soon feels like my head is a balloon trying to float away, but it’s kept tied down to my concrete-block feet.
    ‘So, why aren’t you American?’ I say. ‘I mean, what’s with your voice? And what’s with the clothing?’ The trousers she’s wearing are men’s trousers. Her shoes look like male hiking boots. A green hoodiecompletes her outfit. ‘You’re dressed like a dude,’ I snicker. Over-dosing makes you slaphappy.
    My figment, she doesn’t answer. She’s kind of fuzzy – everything is.
    ‘You know, my last one was much better-looking than you,’ I say. ‘I mean she dressed better. Showed off her body. Great ass, you know? Don’t get me wrong, your face is nice, but why’d I have to get one that looks like a tomboy who hasn’t showered in a week?’ She squints. I stumble and try to put my hand on her chest, but she quickly steps away. My head spins. ‘My last one liked to fuck.’
    As I reach the intersection my figment says something I can’t make out. No matter.
    ‘It’s time for me to say goodbye to you now,’ I say, flagging a cab. ‘In thirty minutes you won’t exist.’ My brain throbs against my skull. ‘Maybe less than thirty minutes.’
    ‘You’re insane,’ my imaginary friend tells me.
    ‘No, we’re insane.’
    A cab has slowed to a stop in the suicide lane. And as I step into the street I hear my figment’s voice, or a voice inside my head – or both – yell ‘lookout!’ Then a truck whizzes by me. The mirror clips my shoulder and I whirl to the ground like a top. The cabbie rushes from his taxi and asks if I’m OK. ‘Fool didn’t even slow down,’ he says but everything else that comes from his mouth sounds like the Wa . Wa-wa-wa. Wa that the adults speak in those Charlie Brown Holiday Specials.
    I now realise it’s possible that I might have taken a few too many pills; that I might not only kill my figment, but