Enter the charming town of Neversink, where the sun shined bright, the faces shined brighter, and where fate seemed to have a peculiar hold on one man: a man with two first names whose life was woven with the threads of misfortune.
His only constant? The almighty screen.
His only desire? To escape.
But why?
Neversink was a delightful blemish along the banks of the Whistle River, its once-proud industrial past now draped in a tired, rusted veneer. A few trendy coffee shops and art galleries stood out like stubborn weeds, pushing through historic cracks in the pavement. But the man with two first names was blind to the scenery, and the weeds, and knew nothing of the culture he was embedded in; he only knew of escape.
The man with two first names lay unconscious in tattered clothing, keeled over in the fetal position, piss-drunk on the trash-riddled sidewalk. Residents passed his shell of a body, shuffling along.
A rather large resident of Neversink, clad in nothing but a bathrobe, stopped, recognizing the sad shell for who it was. “Hey, Caspar, old buddy.” He dipped into the man’s back pocket, stole his wallet, then continued along his merry way. The shell of a man was none the wiser.
This shell of a man was Roger Walter, whose luck seemed to run dry at the young age of thirteen. From missed buses to misplaced wallets, to four accidental explosions, five dead relatives, and eighteen car crashes… it seemed as though poor Roger Walter couldn’t catch a break.
You might ask yourself: why not leave? Well, Roger’s tried. He’s tried it ninety-eight times, to be exact. But something always stopped him. Something beyond his control. The last time he tried to escape, he was barreling down the road, the exit getting close. Roger drove with determination in his eyes. Police sirens blared. Flashing lights on his tail and a voice screaming, “He’s gonna go all the way this time!”
Roger choked the wheel when bright lights flooded his vision. A truck’s horn blared.
Then, fireworks. Darkness.
Roger cried out from the great beyond, trapped within the confines of a 4:3 television transmitting his image in monochrome—576 lines of interlaced bliss—staring out at a giant, fluorescent back-lit Grim Reaper.
When Roger opened his eyes, he was bandaged from head to toe. Everything was dark and wet. He didn’t know how long he’d been there or who had crashed into him. He only knew there was a spiritual force of some kind, keeping him here, in Neversink, in prison. A wild animal coded in a plasma screen.
He changed the channel.
***
The reality TV show flickered on the screen, casting a dull, lifeless glow across the misshapen room. Roger zoomed into the over-the-shoulder close-up shots of a tan, couple arguing about “strip club protocol,” and “some slut named Rachel,” but Roger had no idea who Rachel was, and everything went out of focus.
Are you still there, Roger?
Michelle sat on the other side of the couch. She wore glasses and comfy, after-work attire. Her professional concern barely masked the growing disgust simmering beneath her surface. “Roger…? Hello?”
Roger jolted out of his daze, flinching violently. “Huh?” he mumbled, disoriented, the camera back in focus.
“I said, how was your day?”
“…You did?” Roger blinked, trying to piece the fragments back together.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh… yeah. Yeah, I’m great. Sorry. My day?” Roger scratched his head. The arguing from the television was too much for him. He found the remote and changed the channel to a violent cartoon of animals in clothes beating each other to death with carnival music playing in the background.
Roger turned back to Michelle. “Sorry.”
Michelle looked queasy. “How was your day. That is what I asked.”
“Right. Uh… I saw a bald eagle fly across a full moon, and when I got home earlier, there was this targeted ad booklet from my health insurance that spelled out all my health issues. That was the only piece of mail I got all week.”
Michelle turned back to the TV, her expression unreadable as she tried to process his words.
“That’s pretty much it. And yours?”
“I’m really tired,” Michelle said, her voice flat but firm.
“What? What did I do?”
“Nothing. I’m tired.”
“No, I did something. I must have. What did I say?”
“Roger, calm down. You’re freaking me out.”
Roger leaned forward, awkwardly embracing her, his head rubbing up and down her arm in a clumsy attempt at affection. It was happening in painful slow motion. Michelle recoiled, pushing him away with force.
“What are you doing?” Michelle snapped her head back, her eyes blazing. She stood up and backed away. “Jesus.”
“I-uh… I apologize. I read the room wrong.”
“You did. You absolutely did. Leave.”
Roger hesitated at the threshold, his voice small and desperate. “…Can you still give me a ride home?”
***
Another program.
Roger sank into the worn-out couch next to his Uncle Dean, a heavyset man in his fifties with a gray mustache and an ill-fitting fishing cap perched atop his head.
Roger had no idea how he had gotten home. What day was it? His hands trembled. They were covered in dried blood.
The TV flickered with Barry Sanders’ highlights, the football legend weaving through defenders with effortless grace. Uncle Dean finished off his beer with a loud gulp, shaking his head in amazement.
“My God…” Uncle Dean said, zeroing in on his lord and savior.
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“Huh?” Uncle Dean’s attention was still elsewhere, not fully registering his nephew’s distress signal.
“Do you think I should donate a kidney? If I donate a kidney, I think I should be allowed to leave.”
On TV: Barry Sanders completed an impossible move, weaving through defenders, and scored a touchdown. The crowd erupted in wild celebration.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Uncle Dean shouted. “That’s how it’s done, baby!”
“Uncle Dean?”
Uncle Dean waved him off, his focus unbroken. “Enough of this shit. I’m watching Barry here.”
“Sorry…”
“Look, you can leave whenever you want to, kid. It’s not that hard.”
“Have you ever left?”
Uncle Dean sighed and fixed his sweatpants from riding up. “Lemme tell you something. If they had a decent offensive line, he would’ve broken every record book there is. The amazing thing about the son of a bitch is they were targetin’ him nonstop ‘cause they had nobody else. Just Barry. And Barry did it. By himself. Barry beat the odds, and Barry never complained about the shitstorm standing in his way. Barry had a purpose.”
Roger stared back, uncomprehending. “What does that have to do with me?”
Uncle Dean leaned in close, his voice intense, almost a growl. “Barry did it alone, son. Find your true purpose on the other side.”
Roger turned his gaze back to the TV, his eyes on Barry Sanders as he celebrated his victory. Uncle Dean ruffled Roger’s hair before letting out a burp and passing out.
So, Roger did what he hated most—he thought. And then he thought some more. He thought about why his uncle never left. Was failure in his DNA? Or was his uncle right? What was his purpose lying beyond the borders of Neversink?
The camera zoomed in on Roger as he sat in deep contemplation.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Customer service.”
“What in God’s name is on your hands?”
***
Roger sat at a computer in the public library. His fingers moved with ease across the keyboard, his focus unwavering. The guy sitting at the computer to Roger’s right watched an Italian slasher flick with the sound down. From across the library, someone with authority yelled, “Hey. You. Are you supposed to be here?”
Roger wasn’t paying attention. Customer service is a fine and respected profession. The thought of helping people with a smile on his face and love in his heart gave him a sense of purpose. This was his way to repent, to find his way out of Neversink.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.”
Roger changed the channel and found himself on the couch again, eyes glazed, linked up to the almighty screen.
Uncle Dean munched on a sandwich, his attention still fixed on the glowing TV. Had he even gotten up? Unlikely. More Barry Sanders highlights played.
Roger, however, was lost in his own world, staring into the void of never-ending screens appearing all around him. One was playing another slasher film; one was playing The Twilight Zone; one was playing a violent cartoon of a wolf in overalls attacking chickens with an axe; and another was playing a prison documentary, one in which he thought he saw himself in the background of one of the shots.
His shoulders slumped, and a deep sadness clouded his eyes, growing more apparent as the camera zoomed in on his face. He turned the television off, and Uncle Dean was gone.
So were the killers, the Twilight Zone narrator, and the prisoners.
So was Barry Sanders.
Roger examined his hands again: the blood was gone.
***
Weeks passed, and Roger waited, but no calls came. Not a single soul reached out to him, and he struggled to understand why.
He stood near the back of the rundown bar called The Purple Nose, watching his friend Eli Shukman, a disheveled man in his early thirties wearing a puffy red coat, and a tiny head, gaze into the oblivion of an arcade machine called Business Man 4.
“I don’t understand why.”
Eli gritted his teeth, squeezing down on the joystick with angry force.
The arcade machine’s voice blared, “YOU LOSE!”
“Piece of shit,” Eli muttered, punching the machine in frustration. He fished out another quarter, popped it into the slot, determined to win.
“You think it’s because of the resume gaps?”
Eli’s eyes remained locked on the game, his face a mask of concentration. “Michelle won’t call you back because she realized she made a terrible mistake. She pitied you when you were all bandaged up and vulnerable. Then you healed, and reality set in.”
“Oh,” Roger murmured, feeling the sting of Eli’s blunt assessment.
Eli didn’t miss a beat, his hands maneuvering the joystick with precision. “Guys like us are desperation moves. Decoys. Learn to accept your hand, and you’ll enjoy this more, Caspar.”
Roger’s voice grew quieter, almost a whisper. “I haven’t made a dollar in four and a half years.”
The arcade machine taunted again, “THAT TRICK IS LIKE A BAAAAD HABIT!”
“COME ON, YOU FUCKER!” Eli yelled, his frustration boiling over. “God, this thing is so rigged.”
“Why do people act like I’m a walking virus?”
Eli grabbed his beer, taking a long swig without taking his eyes off the game. “Seriously? You know.”
“I have no idea.”
Eli tore his gaze from the machine and looked directly at Roger, his eyes cutting deep. “Roger, you lied about having cancer.”
Roger froze, his blood running cold. “No, I didn’t.”
Eli shook his head, returning to his game. “Are you brain damaged? You know you did. Why do you think people called you the Ghost of Roger Walter? Or Caspar the Asshole?”
“…That was in the seventh grade.”
“And?” Eli didn’t even look up, his attention back on the screen.
Roger’s face was pale. The arcade machine taunted Eli once more. “YOU LOSE!”
“FUCK YOU,” Eli screamed at the machine.
Roger’s cell phone rang, cutting through the noise. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He checked the caller ID, and his face lit up. Promise glittering in his dull eyes.
Outside the bar, Roger paced back and forth, the phone pressed to his ear. “Hello? …Yes, this is Roger. …Really? …Yes. Yes, I will be there, sir. …I-I am very excited for this opportunity. Thank you so much for your consideration, sir. …Yes. Yes, me as well. …See you then.”
Roger hung up and jumped up and down, excitement flooding his veins.
Back inside the bar, Roger rushed over to Eli, who was nursing a fresh beer. Without warning, Roger threw his arms around him in a bear hug, nearly spilling Eli’s drink.
“I got it! I got the interview! I paid my dues!” Roger said, his voice brimming with joy.
Eli smirked. “Yeah, you wish.”
“Assistant customer experience representative for the Baseball Hall of Fame in Onteora, baby! Pretty cool, right?” Roger’s excitement was palpable.
Eli looked confused. “No. That’s like an hour away.”
“I know! It’s great. Roger’s elation faltered, dissolving to despair. Can you drive me there?”
“What the fuck was that?”
“What?”
“What you just said…was that narration?”
“I said can you drive me there?”
“When?” Eli asked, wiping his face.
“Tomorrow morning. If we leave by seven, we’ll be there with time to spare.”
“No way. It’s too short notice.”
Roger grabbed Eli’s arms, shaking them in a panic. “I need this. I can’t be here anymore. Please. I’ll do anything. Please. Please. Please.”
Eli sighed, rubbing his hands through his hair. “Alright! Alright! Just get off of me. Have some self-respect.”
Roger’s eyes lit up with hope. “So you’ll do it? For real?”
“Fine. But you’re paying for gas. Plus meals. And weed. And I’m not listening to Brian Eno again.”
Roger hugged Eli again, pulling him in tight. “Thank you, Eli. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you.”
Eli rolled his eyes, but added, “And like fifty bucks on top, at least.”
***
Roger laid his suit on the floor next to a brand-new pair of shoes. He set his alarm on his phone, then turned off the lights and climbed into bed. Thatta boy, Roger. Thatta boy.
***
His cell phone rang like a military-grade alarm clock. Eli’s groggy voice came through the darkness, barely awake. “Hello?”
***
Roger paced back and forth outside the apartment complex, pouring sweat. He clutched his cell phone, his voice trembling with anxiety as he spoke.
“Where are you? You said you could give me a lift this morning,” Roger said, desperation creeping into his tone. “For the interview?”
From the other end of the line, Eli’s voice crackled with nonchalance. “Oh, man. I forgot.”
Roger’s face twisted in frustration. “We confirmed this so many times. I need this job.”
“Relax. I’m on my way right now. I’ll be there.”
“Hurry. Just get in the car and go.”
“You know what—no. Meet me here.”
“What? No way. Why?”
“I gotta take a shit. Just uh…meet me at the Stewart’s on Vandenburgh. I shouldn’t even be doing this.”
“I’m in a suit, asshole!”
“Do you want a ride or not?”
***
Roger power-walked past rows of identical apartments. He cut through a backyard, where he hopped a fence, only to stumble and almost prick his hand on a syringe half-buried in the ground.
Breathing heavily, Roger found himself in a wooded area, forcing himself to keep moving. He hurried down a sloped hill and into the back lot of a building, where the sight of supply trucks and scattered trash greeted him.
Then he saw it—
A body, face down, motionless. A man.
The man was dressed in a white collared shirt and dress pants. A pool of blood expanded around him.
Roger froze, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Hello…?”
The body remained still.
Roger’s steps were tentative as he approached, trembling with fear. “Hello? Please say something.” He bent down, tapping the man on the back. “Can you hear me?”
He did not. The man was unmistakably dead.
Roger’s stomach churned with horror and a voice cried out from beyond: “This isn’t happening.”
Panic set in as Roger stood up, hands on his head, overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation.
“HEY!” A voice cut through the air, and Roger turned to see a woman in jogging gear staring at him in shock, fifty feet away. She was still running in place, decked out in neon spandex.
“What happened? Is he dead?” the jogger yelled.
“I didn’t do this! I found him,” Roger stammered, his mind racing. But the jogger’s expression turned suspicious as Roger glanced down at his hands—covered in blood.
“What’d you do to him!?”
“No! I said I did not do this! This was not me. I swear to God.”
“What’s on your hands?”
Roger’s fear turned into full-blown panic. Without thinking, he turned and sprinted away, back into the woods, the jogger’s shouts fading behind him.
“Stay there! Stay right there! Citizen’s arrest!” the jogger shouted, pulling out a phone and snapping a photo of Roger before dialing 911.
Roger didn’t stop running until he reached a swampy, marsh-like area, where he crouched down, trying to calm his ragged breathing. The distant sound of police sirens sent a wave of terror through him.
He checked his hands—no blood.
He pulled out his phone and called Eli, whispering: “Mayday mayday. Man down.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m pulling into the parking lot as we speak.”
“No. Meet me back at my Uncle’s apartment,” Roger whispered.
“What? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
“Meet me back at my Uncle’s place,” Roger said a bit louder.
“Oh damn.”
“What?” Roger asked.
“Cops just flew by. What’d you do?”
Fear gripped Roger’s heart. “Meet me at my Uncle’s. Abort.”
“No. I’m here, so get here in five minutes or I’m out.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“Clock’s a tickin’, Casp,” Eli said before hanging up.
Roger heard footsteps in the distance. He ducked down lower, trying to stay hidden.
“I think I heard something over here!” a voice called out, sending Roger into a silent panic.
Roger lay down in the marsh. The voices grew closer, and Roger shut his eyes, trying to concentrate. Trying to be invisible.
“Roger had to think. He had to escape. But the pressure was unbearable. His mind raced, grasping for any semblance of a plan,” Roger narrated out loud.
What would Barry Sanders do? The thought crossed his mind—a strange intrusion of logic.
Roger’s eyes shot open as the realization struck him—this wasn’t just fear. This was his worsening psychosis talking. This. Every word.
“He pushed the thought down, focusing instead on his uncle’s hero. Focus, Roger.”
With renewed determination, the frame went wide—letterbox and all—shot through an anamorphic lens.
Roger peeled off his blazer and tie. Then, in one swift motion, he bolted from his hiding spot.
Roger sped through the parking lot, scanning for Eli’s car within the barrage of police vehicles closing in.
He spotted it and rushed over, sprinting down the yard line, numb to the cheers. He yanked the door open and collapsed into the passenger seat.
Eli turned the radio down and glanced over. “You look like shit. Why are you covered in mud?”
“Doesn’t matter. Drive.”
Eli rolled his eyes. He revved the engine. “Put the hundred bucks in my glove box first.”
“I thought you said fifty.
Eli shot him a look. “The price went up, Caspar. Your weirdness is extra potent today.”
The last straw fell. Roger exploded. “THAT’S ENOUGH! NO MORE CASPAR THE ASSHOLE! MY NAME IS ROGER AND I SCREWED UP ONCE IN THE SEVENTH GRADE! I MADE A MISTAKE AND I’M TRYING TO MAKE UP FOR IT! I’M SORRY AND ALL I WANT IS TO LEAVE THIS HELLHOLE AND TRY TO HELP PEOPLE WITH THEIR QUESTIONS AND COMPLAINTS REGARDING THE BASEBALL HALL OF FAME! IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?”
Eli blinked in shock. “No. No, it’s not. Let’s go.”
Roger was surprised by the response, but nodded back, trying to play it cool. “That’s right.”
Eli barreled down the road. Hüsker Du blared from the speakers. Roger stripped off his muddy blazer, reached over, and cranked the volume down.
“Don’t mess with my Du.”
“One second,” Roger said, pulling out his phone. He dialed a number, his heart pounding as it rang. “Hi. It’s Roger Walter, sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yes, I’m on my way but unfortunately, I hit some traffic. …I’m extremely sorry. …Wow. Thank you. Thank you, sir. I will be there as soon as possible. Alright. See you soon.” He hung up, a smile spreading across his face. “He’s cool with it. He understood. Holy cow. I’m gonna do it…”
“Sick,” Eli muttered.
“Wow. Okay. Here we go,” Roger said, taking a deep breath. “Here we go…”
But before he could settle, red and blue lights flashed behind them, and a police siren wailed.
“Shit.”
Roger’s heart dropped. “Don’t pull over.”
“I have to!”
“Don’t. Keep driving until we leave Neversink.”
“I can’t! It’s a cop.”
“Who gives a shit? This is bigger than that!”
Eli hesitated but finally slowed down and pulled over. Roger’s panic flared.
“We can lose him! What are you doing?”
“Relax. I was going two miles over the speed limit. This could be nothing.”
A police officer approached the window and knocked twice. Eli rolled it down, trying to appear calm.
“Hello, officer,” Eli greeted.
The officer’s eyes locked onto Roger. “Please step out of the car.”
Roger’s pulse quickened. “Me?”
“Yes. Step out of the car.”
Roger hesitated.
“NOW, SIR.”
“But what did I do? You need to tell me, it’s my right.”
“OUT OF THE CAR! NOW!”
Roger took a deep breath, looking at Eli. “I’m Barry fucking Sanders, bitch.”
Eli’s eyes widened. “What??”
Without another word, Roger flung open the door and sprinted away.
He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, the officer’s shouts echoing behind him. He kept running, his eyes fixed on the sign ahead: YOU ARE NOW LEAVING NEVERSINK.
The police sirens grew louder, but Roger was close—so close.
Police sirens wailed, growing louder, and closer with every passing second.
BARRY SANDERS RUNNING DOWN THE TEN-YARD LINE
HE’S GOING ALL THE WAY
Roger was only ten feet from the city limits, panting like a dog. Eyes wide as can be.
Five feet.
A grin spread across his face as he surged forward, crossing the sign and—
Roger vanished into thin air.
Gone. Not a trace was left behind, and somewhere, an invisible crowd erupted into wild cheers and roars, their thunderous applause echoing in the air as the scene faded to black.
Roger was never seen again. But… then again… nobody looked that hard. Some say he got out of Neversink, hitchhiked his way to Onteora, and became the finest damn customer service representative there ever was. Others say he really did vanish into thin air on that fateful day, and his ghost haunts the town, trapped for eternity. For his sake, for everyone’s, I hope it’s the former.
***
Uncle Dean lay sprawled on the couch and wore a neck brace, passed out in a sea of empty beer cans. The TV blared. The eruptions of cheers continued.
On TV: Roger Walter caught a touchdown pass and celebrated, grinning as he turned to smile into the camera. But his grin looked forced, and his eyes were tearing up. He looked trapped.
Uncle Dean woke up and turned off the TV.