Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus Page B

myself as well.
    ‘I’m fine,’ I shrug him off as he tries to help me up. My head thumps with pain. My figment, she’s still standing on the side of the street in front of a diner, a look of relief pasted all over her face. ‘I’m just going to go to that diner. Get some coffee.’
    ‘That was stupid,’ my figment says as I walk past her. ‘Every child knows to look both ways before crossing the street.’
    ‘I already have a mother,’ I say. ‘Hit her with a dildo right before I took these abortion pills.’
    My figment looks disgusted at my recap of tonight’s events, andthat’s before I wretch all over myself. The undigested 486s come out looking like the little red-and-white sugar sprinkles you put on cupcakes. Some sick dribbles down my front, but this doesn’t bother my figment because it just squeezes through her fingers when she grabs me by my coat. Her eyes flash a wicked green in the streetlight. And for the first time I wonder if it’s possible for my own figment to hurt me. ‘I don’t know what the matter is with you–’ it begins, but I break her grip.
    ‘Look you – me – whatever little neuron you are inside my head,’ I say, thumping my finger on my skull. ‘Please disappear, OK?’ My voice trembles. I look up to the sky and, like I’m another contestant on a television talent show, I say, ‘Please, please; just this once, give me a break.’
    A look of, not compassion, but something akin to empathy shows on my imaginary friend’s face. And I dare to hope the non-existent Big Guy in the sky is about to answer my prayers; that maybe this figment will dissolve in front of my eyes.
    But no. No one dissolves.
    No one is listening.
    So to my figment, I say, ‘Do me a favour. If you won’t disappear, at least stay outside while I go and get some coffee. I don’t need to look crazier than I already am.’
    Inside there are two police officers sitting at the counter, eating steak and eggs. One of the cops turns. I guess he can smell the vomit. For a second I consider turning around, but I’m so tired, so dizzy. I need to sit. I try to ignore the policeman as best I can, so I look out the window and that’s when I see the most curious thing. My figment, her lips are moving like she’s having a conversation. She talks, then pauses for some invisible person to answer, then she talks again.
    And I wonder, Can figments have figments?
    I sit in a booth covered in cheap red vinyl. In the reflection of the silver napkin dispenser, the cop has turned back to his steak and eggs.
    ‘What can I getcha?’ an older waitress asks.
    ‘Just give me a minute.’
    ‘Whatever,’ she says and plods away, her feet slapping the ground like pieces of meat.
    My figment, I guess she’s done talking to herself outside because she enters the diner. As she walks by the police officers she casts them a glance. The police officers, of course, don’t glance back.
    Then my figment, she slides into my booth without making a sound, as if she’s weightless, which, well, I guess she is.
    And I whisper, ‘Please just go.’ I feel like a little kid again, begging the bully to leave me alone. ‘Go on, scram. Get out.’
    Shoo.
    But I might as well be talking to thin air. Which, well, again, I guess I am.
    My figment, she says, ‘What are you going to do, Jerry? You’re the main suspect in a murder case now.’ As she says this a woman in the opposite booth turns. I smile nervously and she goes back to her food. Am I acting both of our voices out loud? Am I playing one part and then the other?
    I whisper to my figment, ‘Once you leave me alone, I’ll be able to figure out what I need to do.’
    More and more my figment looks at me like I’m crazy.
    ‘I’m going to drink my coffee, then I’m going to wait for my stomach to settle down and I’m going to take as many of my remaining pills as I can without throwing them up again,’ I whisper. ‘Then I’m going to go home – I’ll go home and return the