Watcher in the Wings

Dec 3

Today marked the third year of being a sales associate and yet another year living a life of complete and total mediocrity.

I slammed my apartment door behind me, tossing my bag on the ground. With a quick sigh, I shed my Macy’s approved blazer, opting for the black tank top underneath, and made my way to the kitchen.

When I moved to New York, I was exceptionally excited. I was filled with childlike wonder in regards to the city that never sleeps and the possibilities I felt that lay in front of me. I wanted to be an actress on Broadway, my name in lights, but getting a break takes time. So I picked up a job at a Macy’s near by to make some extra cash while I paid my dues. But now they’re all paid and all I had to show for it was a dingy downtown apartment and a slightly fuller bank account.

I yanked open the yellowing pantry doors, desperate for something other than ramen. For dinner, I could have a container of red pepper flakes, a box of cereal (milk not included because the 25-year-old fridge that came with the apartment died on me yesterday), microwave popcorn, half a bottle of Vodka, or (of course) ramen. I grabbed the popcorn and threw it in the microwave. After a moment of thought, I poured about three shots worth of vodka in a plastic cup.

I could barely afford this place, what with my mountain of student loans and microscopic salary. And that’s if I decided to go food vegan. Meaning, I would not eat anything that was considered ‘food’. Lucky for me, right after I graduated and I was full of naïve optimism, my twin brother Jamie, who already found a job as a photographer for the New York Times, decided we could share an apartment, while I waited for my big break. He was supportive, but it was hard to feel the same when his photos were deemed ‘visionary’ and ‘life-altering’, while I couldn’t even manage to get a callback.

I cocooned myself in a blanket and plopped on the pea soup-colored armchair. I placed the popcorn in my lap and turned on the TV. The scent of artificial butter danced in my nostrils, making me slightly nauseous. I shoved a hand full in my mouth, some stray crumbs falling back in the bowl. The power flickered off and on, encasing me in total darkness for a few seconds. The TV blinked back to life.

As the Simpsons fumbled across the screen, I found my mind wandering. I wasn’t a bad actress, or a bad singer; I was damn good. But the problem with the world is there are too many people in it. When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me, “There’s always going to be someone out there who’s better than you.” And she must have been right because apparently every actress in the Big Apple is “more suited for the character.”

I kept going to auditions and kept getting rejected. At first, none of it fazed me. But soon enough, just as rushing water erodes boulders into pebbles, my ego was demolished. Everywhere I went, no one wanted me. I didn’t have enough money to try and migrate west, so I was stuck. Eventually, I stopped going to auditions all together. Told Jamie I was taking a break, biding my time. I took up more shifts at Macy’s, tried to help with the rent. It seemed like yesterday, but time has a way of keeping the deepest wounds fresh.

Before I knew it, hours passed. My cup was empty (as well as half the bottle), the popcorn gone. This was it. This was my life. Another late night up doing nothing, another day wasted. What was I doing? This isn’t what I planned on. Working a dead end job, catering to rude people on a daily basis for $8.50 an hour, then coming home to my dingy apartment just to sleep so the cycle can repeat again the next day.

Jamie got out of it. Mediocrity. His life was one big adventure. He received a grant from some big name company to travel the world and take pictures of “different and exciting new things”. He was living his dream while I got watch mine shrivel up and die. He still writes me, waiting to hear about how I’m “smashing into show business”. All the hope he still has for my future doesn’t help ease my cynicism though. Any hopes, dreams I ever had, they all seemed like distant memories compared to the dreariness of what had become. They don’t tell you that that’s what normally happens when you grow up.

Then I heard a knock at the door. I glanced at the time. It flashed midnight over and over. Damn my laziness. Someone pounded on the door again. “Coming!” I hollered as I uncoiled myself from my blanket. They knock for the third time. “I said I’m coming!” I scream again. I jogged lightly to the door. Swinging it open, I found myself face to face with a complete stranger.

He was taller than me by half a foot and slender as a light post. He was dressed in a black and white suit, making his narrow shoulders appear broad. He was slumped against my doorframe, clutching his side. Sweat fell off his face in droplets, causing his inky hair to cling to his forehead and glisten in the dim hall light. He tilted his head upwards, staring at me intently with chestnut eyes.

“Where is- Jameson Wake?” He asked, his heavy breathing acting as punctuation between each word.

“Uh, he doesn’t live here anymore.” I explained slowly.

He winced, his body contacting. As he straightened out, he asked again impatiently with the same halted breath. “Where is he now?”

“Backpacking somewhere through Europe, I don’t know.” I did know. He was in Norway, taking photos of the fjords in spring. “Who are you?” I replied, inching the door shut.

His hand slipped off the frame. “Damn it.” He murmured as he dropped, propping my door open with his body. His other hand fell to the floor in an attempt to catch himself, revealing a large patch of crimson soaking through his suit.

“Holy mother- you’re bleeding!” I threw the door open, kneeling to help him up. He resumes clutching his side.

“I need to go.” He panted, scooting backwards. I shoved my arm underneath his and hoisted him up.

“Um, no. What you need is to not bleed out on my doorstep. Come on.” I shouldered most of his weight as I reluctantly dragged him inside. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s complicated,” He replied, wincing.

“I’m guessing you got stabbed. Doesn’t seem that complicated to me.”

“Shot, actually.”

“How’d you get shot?”

“It’s an occupational hazard.” He murmured.

“Unless you’re currently in an Middle Eastern war zone, which you’re not, I don’t think getting shot should be considered an ‘occupational hazard’.” I retorted, not amused. I debated setting him on the floor in fear of him ruining my couch, but I decided against it. If he bled on it, I needed a new one anyways. I eased him into a sitting position as gently as I could. I dashed to the kitchen and brought him back a stained dishrag.

“This might hurt.” I warned as I soaked the rag in the remaining vodka. Before the stranger could object, I swiftly ripped open his suit and pressed the cloth against his wound. He let out a short yelp, followed by a loud wince. I could hear his teeth grinding as he reached to push it away. “No, we need to disinfect it and apply pressure to stop the bleeding.”

“What are you, some kind of doctor?” He groaned.

“No, just watch a lot of T.V.” I replied. This got him to smirk. I lifted his hand and noticed what looked like a faint henna design in the palm of his hand. Shaped like an eye, its border was faintly drawn line extending towards a pupil of sort. Instead of being monochromatic, inside the circle was a series of smaller circles, like rings in an old oak tree. Each ring however, looked like it housed a microscopic pattern. And over top of all of this was what looked like a faint ‘W’. Distracted at this slight anomaly, I had to remind myself of the present situation. Strange tattoos may be interesting, but having this man kick the bucket in my living room would ruin whatever appeal they ever held. I placed his hand on the rag, hiding his tattoo once more, to keep it in place. “What’s you’re name?”

“Mike.”

I stood. “Alright, Mike, I have a lot of questions for you, but first I’m going to go call 9–1–1. Please don’t die on my couch.”

As I turned to grab my phone, he grasped my wrist. “Don’t call anyone.”

“You know that’s a great suggestion and all, but I’m going to completely ignore it and still call you an ambulance.” I tried to slide my wrist out of him clammy grip, but he held on. I tried not to tug too hard in fear of yanking him off the couch.

“How do you know Jameson?” He asked intently.

“What? I- I’m his sister. Why?” I kept tugging, getting more and more frustrated, his slimy hand keeping me in place.

“I don’t know why it’d send me here, it’s only supposed to be men. But it might work with you. You look standard, make-up should be similar enough, and I don’t have enough time to find a replacement.”

“Standard?” I questioned, offended.

“Listen to me,” He yanked me back down to my knees, using a surprising amount of strength for someone who was bleeding out. He stared intently into my eyes. “I don’t know where you’ll end up, but when ever it is, find the building number 5374. They’ll explain more from there. If you get lost, rely on the eye.”

“You’re delusional. Let go of me so I can get you some actual help.” I ordered, attempting to stand again.

He pulled me back down. “What’s you’re name?”

“It’s Jane Wake, and if you don’t let go of me right now, I swear to God I will-”

“Then, I’m sorry, Jane Wake, that this is your life now.” He claimed, his eyes earnest and sad. Before I could even question him about what he meant, his other hand flew off of the rag and he intertwined it with mine. In an instant, my palm was on fire. I screamed instinctively, trying to pull away. I tried to slip my fingers out of his slimy grasp in a desperate attempt to escape the heat, but it was as if our hands were fused together. He was murmuring something, but I couldn’t listen close enough to understand his words. They were drowned out by my screams. The burning sensation continued to intensify until I felt nothing else. There was nothing but fire and then in a moment, the burning was replaced with freezing.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing outside a tall building on a snow-covered sidewalk. Confusion over swept me as I glanced at my new surroundings. Men in trench coats and fedoras hustled down the snowy sidewalks, woman clad in fashionable beanies and fur-lined coats followed close behind. Cars lined the streets, next to snow banks, but they weren’t cars. They were antique cars, the kind you find at a road show or on the cover of a period action film. They had metal frames with flat roofs and no windows. The hoods were narrow, not touching the headlights. The title of ‘a Rolls Royce’s Grandfather’ seemed suited for the designs.

The wind whipped around me, throwing my hair up in sporadic fashion. My goose bumps instantly emerged, dotting every part of my being. I curled my arms around my chest, trying to preserve my rapidly escaping body heat, but I caught a quick glimpse of my left hand. Now in my palm was a faint brown, henna-like burn in the shape of an ornate eye, a faint ‘W’ lying on top. Mike’s tattoo. I licked my thumb and rubbed it vigorously against the mark, disbelieving.

It didn’t disappear. It didn’t smudge.

“No way. Not possible. This is not possible.” I muttered to my self, rubbing my palm and scanning the city frantically. I received a few strange looks from passers by, either for my behavior or my attire. I obviously didn’t belong here, but I didn’t know where I was supposed to go. I spun around, looking for something recognizable. My panic caused me to slip and fall to the powdery ground. People passing me didn’t even bother to look down. Judging by their clothing, I either looked crazy or homeless. Rubbing my backside, I used the brick building behind me to hoist myself up. I felt my hand hit something metal. I brushed of the square, revealing a golden plaque that read The 5374.

I was slightly fearful of what lay ahead, but it was something. “They’ll explain from there.” I quoted, shuffling to the door. I pushed it open and warmth surrounded me. I entered the small doorway, containing stairs only leading upwards, and any snow remaining melted, falling to form a small puddle at my feet. I sighed in relief. Everything still might not make sense, but at least I wasn’t going to die of pneumonia. (By this point in my life, I learned to celebrate the little victories.) I brushed my hand over the dark wooden panels beside me, admiring their smooth texture. They weren’t plastic paneling, like most “wood” siding. This was honest to goodness wood, probably straight from an old redwood some lumberjacks found deep in the Canadian wilderness.

The soft sound of chatter from upstairs derailed my train of thought. People. They’ll explain more from there, I reminded myself. I ascended the staircase softly, attempting to erase the creaking that went hand in hand with wooden stairs. My delicate steps eventually got me to the top and I stood before a nearly black door with a frosted glass window. I could hear men raving at each other from behind the thin sheet of wood. I made up my mind to find out exactly what was going on before I even knocked. With that in mind, I pounded on the door twice, loud enough so anyone in the room could hear, and pushed open the door.

The walls were brick and the floor was the same dark wood as the stairs. It was a spacious loft with very few things taking up space. A small kitchen area in the corner contained several counters and a large retro-looking fridge, though it was so clean I doubted it had ever been used. Several armoires and drawers lined the wall across from me, each made of a red-tinted wood. I was unsure as to how one person could own enough clothes to fill them all. A full-sized murphy bed was set up opposite the unused kitchen. There were no homey touches, no flowers or paintings to brighten up the place. It was just an empty loft. I wouldn’t have thought anyone lived here if it wasn’t for the group of men collected in the center of the room.

There were nine total. I wouldn’t think anything of it, but the room looked like a melting pot. I had never seen so many nationalities in one place, excluding when I watch a U.N. conference on TV. It was like someone brought each country’s poster child to life. Each one was dressed exactly like the last: a neatly tailored black or navy blue suit, a white button down underneath and a standard width, solid colored tie. A few men completed the look with a fedora, tilted to a calculated 45-degree angle. They were circled around a corkboard that held different pictures and strings, connecting one image to another. Some of the men were seated on the sand-colored furniture, staring at the board (or now, rather, me), others stood with arms crossed. They all stared at me blankly, unconcerned and slightly annoyed with my presence.

“Hey, um, sorry to bother you. But I’m sort of lost and I think I’m supposed to come here.” I stammered, unsure of how to properly phrase A dying man gave me his tattoo then told me to find this building. Ring any bells?

All the suits’ eyes darted to a Hispanic man, probably late 30s, standing to the left of the group, awaiting a reaction. “Sorry, doll, we’re busy here.” They began chattering amongst themselves again, ignoring me.

I chuckled slightly. This man, probably the head honcho of the group, was not doing anything to minimize my annoyance. I stepped inside. “Alright, first off: not your doll.” I slammed the door shut, gaining the room’s attention. “Second off, I literally have no idea what’s going on right now so I would really appreciate some answers.”

“You’re off your rocker, doll. I got no clue what you’re talking about. There’s a police station two blocks over.” He waved me off.

I stormed over to the group. “Maybe I am crazy, but I sure as hell didn’t get a tattoo of a goddamn eye on my hand, but here it is.” I held up my left palm, showing my new, undesired ink and the room fell silent. A few jaws hung open. The leader took a few steps towards me to get a better look. “And still not your doll.”

“You’re a replacement?” An Indian man asked, disbelief echoing in his tone.

I sighed loudly. “I don’t even know what that is.”

The head honcho examined my palm intently while the others clamored amongst themselves. His scrutinizing gaze made me feel almost violated. I had the urge to hide my palm, but decided it was against my best interest. He straightened out, and I folded my arms, pressing my illustrated hand close to my chest. “Tell me exactly what happened before you came here.”

I blew through a condensed version of what happened, beginning with shot/stabbed Mike on my doorstep and ending with getting a strange eye tattoo, no needles required. The room grew more and more focused on my words as the story progressed. I noticed a few dropped there heads, as I mentioned the stranger’s name, but by the time I finished, the silence was deafening. The only sound was the wind whooshing past the exterior of the building. They all exchanged looks with one another that told me there was a layer of seriousness I didn’t understand. I let the silence last for about three seconds before I spoke, “That mean anything to you guys?”

Immediately the room broke out in a clamor. Men were arguing fiercely, debating loudly over one another. I picked out bits and pieces of conversations: “It’s wrong!” “It’s never been a woman.” “What’s it mean?” “But she’s marked!”

I raised my voice to a near scream. “Anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”

A man on the couch with blond hair spoke first. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, most likely trying to prevent a headache judging by his irritated expression. “Mike is dead. And you’re his replacement.”

“How do we know he’s dead?” I combatted, “There’s still time, I can call the police and-”

“No, he’s dead. We know because you have that.” The Aryan pointed to my illustrated hand.

“I-I don’t understand,” I stammered, glancing at it again.

“We all do.” A black man stated, rolling up his right sleeve, revealing the same design on his forearm. My eyes widened as I stared at the mirrored image.

The main man walked towards one of the dressers and pulled out a large text bound in royal blue leather. On the cover was a pressed image of an ornate eye, mirroring mine, the black man’s, and, apparently, everyone else’s. “What’s that?” I asked.

“This is a list of the Overseen, the guide that we use to make sure everything stays as it should be.”

I stared at him blankly. “Still not following…”

“Where are you from?” He asked patiently.

“New York City.”

“What day is it today?”

“July 26th.”

“What year?” He prompted further.

“2013.”

“For you, today was July 24th, 2013. Now, it is January 14th, 1929. And you’re in Chicago.” He explained.

There was no way. “You’re joking.”

“No.” He threw me the newspaper from the coffee table. The paper was fresh, uncreased and smooth. The date read 14 Jan. 1929. All the articles were about what was happening in and around Chicago. “We are known as Watchers. We travel through out time and ensure that history runs it proper course.” I threw open the paper frantically, scanning the articles.

And after a moment of thought, I was somehow able to comprehend the concept of time travel. Probably out of desperation for answers. “Alright time travel. I can buy that. Only way snow in July makes sense. But, I mean, I thought history was a fixed thing, like one small difference can totally change the future.” I thought aloud.

“Yes and no.” He elaborated. “Certain people affect the future more than others. For example, Abraham Lincoln shaped history more than your next-door neighbor. Nelson Mandela was more important than your third grade teacher. But history is always changing. Nothing is static. People posses an infinite amount of free will, so their decisions can affect how a scene plays out. So, Hitler in one timeline might decide against invading Russia. Our job is to make sure that he changes his mind, while making sure it’s still his choice. Make sure these important people do what history dictates, what is in this book. We make sure they carry out important events, without them feeling like it was someone else’s idea.”

“So,” I attempted, “it’s like you guys would make sure Martin Luther King Jr. would speak at the March on Washington.”

“Exactly. This book is a recollection of every important person that’s every existed in the Earth’s history, and it’s out job to make sure they carry out these events.”

“But why is it so important that everything happens exactly as this book says, can’t there just be like alternate time lines or something?” I asked again, confused.

“In the future, Earth doesn’t last. In the year 5374, the earth is encompassed by the suns expansion. But it’s okay, because by this point mankind had spread out amongst the stars. They realized they weren’t alone and intermingled with other species, leaving their own history behind. But in order for them to make it there, certain things need to happen. Which is where we come in.” The leader elaborated, passing me the book. “These are the people who are essential for our survival, the people who matter.”

I held the book, a weight settling in my stomach. It was unsettling to realize that a lot of people inevitably didn’t matter. I mean I realize you think that when you’re younger, like saying someone who bullied you in the sixth grade didn’t matter. But they probably didn’t. That book, the list of the Overseen, wasn’t too terribly thick, about the width of a dictionary. To think someone’s life could be summarized in a few short paragraphs made me shudder. Even worse, thinking of the paragraphs that got cut. Millions of lives wasted, all forgotten. Any recollection of who they were eventually faded into oblivion, leaving any dreams they had or contributions they made to collect dust until they were thrown away. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

While I struggled with this terrifying, newfound fact, the men discussed amongst themselves. I believe they were clamoring about the death of their former associate. I wasn’t paying attention until I heard the Aryan state, “But she’s still a woman.”

I snapped my head up, a glare making it’s way to my face. “What the hell does that have to do with anything.”

“A shit ton!” He replied, shouting. “Look, it’s nothing personal- what’s your name?”

“Jane.” I said flatly.

“It’s nothing personal, Jane. It’s just supposed to be a man. Men have never had a problem being listened to. Women weren’t really taken seriously until much later on. I just don’t see how you can help.”

I could feel the rage bubbling in my chest, even though logically I knew his words held merit. I know women weren’t really respected- at least in America- until the suffrage movement. And even after that all of the issues regarding being woman didn’t just disappear. Feminism was making resurgence during my time so I was hoping that soon after, everything was resolved. But what gave this kid the right to think that my gender could hinder me from doing this job? “Why don’t you worry about yourself for a while, alright?” I spat, crossing my arms.

The room emitted a short chuckle and I noticed the Hispanic man smirked. “He means, whoever is chosen is always someone who can blend into society, regardless of what time period it is.”

“That’s what he meant by ‘standard’.” I muttered aloud to myself. I felt slightly moronic that I didn’t figure it out before. None of these men were note worthy, not extremely hideous or handsome. They could walk passed me on the street and I wouldn’t have noticed. I supposed I could be considered standard too: a slender, average sized American with chocolate brown hair grazing my collarbone and basic brown eyes. We were as close to invisible as it gets.

“Let me make sure I’ve got all this,” I began. I felt I needed to clarify, making sure I grasped the situation I was in, the basics of ‘watching’. “Basically, an omnipotent force decides to send us through time and space to basically be a futuristic secret service to a couple of unknowing bastards. Then if one of us dies, which apparently happens way too damn much, God or whoever picks a replacement which is always an average looking young dude. And it can only do this by branding us first with this,” I point at my palm. “Through which it guides us to the unlucky soul it wants us to shadow for an unspecified amount of time.”

“Roughly, yes.” The leader replied

“Okay, then why’d it choose me?” The room fell again in to silence, this time not because of the question’s audacity or lunacy, but because no one had an answer.

“Same reason it chose the rest of us,” The black man claimed. “Because, somehow, you can help more here than you did back in your time.”

I nodded slowly, only slightly agreeing with his statement. I wasn’t good for anything back home: I had nothing to offer. I had no friends, no talent (apparently), a steaming pile of student loans. I was basically useless. Why would they… it choose me?

I shook the thoughts from my head, realizing the dark direction I was descending to. The Hispanic man, who revealed himself to be David, offered to go get me a more appropriate outfit so I wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb. He quickly took my measurements and left.

The room was filled with an uncomfortable silence. It may have been because I didn’t know any of them, or because I was unwanted, but regardless, the silence made me feel hot, like the air around me was congealing and sticking to my skin. I strangely felt very similar to a Jell-O mold, which was a comparison I never anticipated to make. “So, uh, who’s the poor guy who you’re watching today?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood, genuinely curious.

The Aryan had turned back to the corkboard, examining the photos intently. “Alphonse Capone.” He called over his shoulder.

I froze. “You’re joking.” No one responded. “Al Capone? The Al Capone? Like, Scarface Al Capone?” I mused, excited and terrified at the same time.

“Yeah,” The blonde murmured, rubbing his hand over his face. “But it’s a lot harder than we expected.”

“We need to infiltrate his inner circle, get close enough to him so we can talk to him, but he’s comfortable with his mob as is.” An Asian man explained. “He doesn’t want anyone else.”

“We’ve got to figure how to get one of our guys in there.” The Aryan murmured again. With that, they all descended into mindless chatter over what strategies to try next. Growing undeniably bored with being excluded, I took the list of the Overseen and flopped on to the bed. There was nothing like passing the time with a little bit of light reading about the fate of the human race.

After thumbing through the first few pages (The book was organized by year), I decided to skip ahead. I had learned about the past in high school, I was eager to see what the future held. I thumbed all the way up to the year 2014, my next year, and went from there.

The book itself was one big spoiler, making it that much more exciting. I adored spoilers, knowing what was going to happen before it happened. It made me feel smart, like I was three steps ahead of everyone. So, this was just my shot of whiskey. I read about the feminists, surprised to find the one and only Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) on the list. Apparently, she gives some amazing speech at a U.N. commission on gender equality, which helps jump-start the next feminist movement. I read about musicians, and politicians. I read about criminals, realizing that the negative events in history had impacts that were just as important as the positive ones. I kept reading, even as David approached me with a large paper bag, surprised at the next name on the list in the 2016 section. “Hey, my brothers in here!” I exclaimed, eager to find out what he did:

Jameson Anthony Wake: Dec. 1, 1989- May 23, 2078; Photographer; Marries Wynonna Drels, 3 kids; Dies from natural causes; Creates the critically acclaimed photo series Lost after the disappearance of his sister in 2015, prompting an nationwide movement to end runaways/kidnappings, leading to more social awareness and a closer sense of community in the United States within the next ten years.

“Disappearance?” I questioned loudly. “He thinks I’ve been kidnapped?!”

David takes the book from me and scans the passage quickly. “There’s one reason why you’re the replacement and not your brother.” He acknowledged.

“This is serious, you prick! I have to go back home! I need to tell him I’m okay!” I panicked.

“You can’t go home, none of us can.” David revealed bluntly.

“Excuse me?”

“Being a Watcher isn’t something that can be done on a part time basis. When we get the eye, we are no longer a part of history. We are its protectors. We are required to make sure this book stays truthful until we die. And that’s it.”

“So I’m here forever? I can never see him again?” The words escaped my throat barely above a whisper. I felt my eyes water as tears threatened to brim over. I dropped my head, unwilling to look at him when he answered.

“No. I’m sorry.” He lamented, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I’m sorry this is your life now. The words echoed in my brain, finally reaching their intended weight. This was my life now, whether I wanted it to be or not. And at this point, I wasn’t really sure.

I quickly grasped the bag and hurried towards the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and allowed a few tears to fall. I didn’t know if they were for my brother or me. Maybe both. After a minute of silent sobbing, I rinsed off my face and dove into the bag. It contained tan stockings, a new bra, brown leather gloves, brown pumps, a long, brown trench coat with fur lining, and finally, a dark green, skintight dress. There was also a pocket watch, which I shoved in the coat angrily. Who ever thought these thing were a good idea? Just use a regular watch. I didn’t understand the appeal of having access to the time, any time, but having to dig around in your pocket for it. It was plain stupid.

I slipped on the items one by one until the bag was empty. I looked at the final product in the mirror and I was floored at how… standard I looked. I looked good, but I was mainly distracted at how much I matched the women on the street. I wouldn’t stand out at all. My wavy hair even passed for curly, framing my face delicately.

I stepped out of the bathroom and the room was near empty. It had only been a few minutes, where had everyone gone? The Indian man lay sprawled out on the bed, loud snorts coming from his open mouth while the black man was curled up on a chair in the corner, snoozing as well. I looked on the coffee table in front of the corkboard to find the Overseen and a note on top.

Got a tip that Al was in Cicero, be back later. Look up Alphonse Capone and research all you can.

I sighed quietly, not wanting to wake up my sleeping new co-workers. I needed a distraction to stop myself from thinking about Jamie’s entry, and just Jamie in general. I grabbed the royal blue book and flipped until I found Al Capone.

Strangely enough, he had a very long entry. Everything he did that was remotely noteworthy was documented in there, including the list of some of his top gunmen, specifically Jack McGurn. His nickname was apparently “Machine Gun” because he had killed so many people already, specifically with a machine gun. Real creative. I tried seeing if he had an article in the book so I could learn more about him, but no such luck.

Suddenly, my palm began to tingle. I glance at my illustrated hand, looking directly at the eye and a series of thoughts rushed through my head. In an instant, I knew everything I could imagine about Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn. He was a short-tempered brute who owned a nightclub called The Green Mill on North Broadway. Even though prohibition was still in effect, he served liquor to a select few customers, including his boss Al Capone. The other people he chose to let in were allowed to bring their own liquor and drink it at their leisure, just not at his expense. The eye told me so, which was extremely terrifying when I thought about it further. The tattoo was sort of an all-seeing-eye, psychically giving me missing information. Which made me seem crazy, but after the day I’d had, nothing seemed that far-fetched anymore.

Something told me (I realize it was the eye telling me to go, but that was too creepy to think) that I should go find The Green Mill, that it was really important I leave right this second. I slipped on my coat and gloves and headed out the door to walk the streets of Chicago.

I’d never been to Chicago before, so I was excited. Even if t wasn’t the Chicago I necessarily anticipated, it was still the windy city, so it still counted. And it lived up to its name. I stepped outside and the wind whipped around me, sending my hair flying. I took a step back, not anticipating the strength of the wind.

I trounced through the Chicago streets, looking at every street sign. I admired to old-timey feel of the city. Cars putted down the icy streets, blaring their horns as a turn proved to be sharper than expected. The fresh layer of white powder, however, did little to deter me from noticing the menacing layer underneath. Chicago was a ruthless city right around this time. It was no place for someone who was timid, man or woman. There was no patient, no respect for old money. Everything revolved around reputations and rule breaking. I could feel the danger lying underneath in my bones. It was intoxicating, exhilarating. I followed my instinct on where I should turn and when I should keep walking and by the grace of God, I made it to North Broadway.

I stopped in front of The Green Mill. The sign was just the name of the nightclub in neon green cursive, surrounded by little bright white bulbs. It emitted a low hum, the harsh light flickering causing my shadow to appear and disappear at a rapid pace. Plastered over the window hung a hugs sign that claimed Auditions for Main Act! I realized this was my in. Maybe I couldn’t weasel my way into Al Capone’s inner circle due to my lack of dick, but if I could land this gig, he was bound to show up sooner or later. What kind of respectable mobster would he be if he didn’t visit his right hand man’s club every once and a while? I scanned down to find the audition dates. Today at 5–6. I yanked out my pocket watch (still a stupid idea) to see if I could still make it. It was 5:47. I shoved it back, took a deep breath and entered the lion’s den.

The Mill was nice, even for my time’s standards. There was a bar (for soda if the feds asked I’m sure), small booths lined up against the wall big enough for two, and large cloth covered tables spread out in the center. And up front was a decent sized stage completely empty (I’m assuming the band came later). It was the only decently lit part of the joint as a large spotlight was positioned on a metal microphone down stage. The décor was a little tacky for my taste, what with the padded red leather walls (at least I think it was red leather, the lighting was too poor for me to get a good look) and suede covered barstools. But the floors were clean, tablecloths pristine and even the lingering scent of cigarette smoke wasn’t overwhelming.

I walked further in, catching a glimpse of three men in pinstriped suits, one drinking amber liquid, one in a fedora, and the last smoking a cigar. I strut to the stage, hoping old timey gangsters would respond to a woman with confidence. I grasped the microphone as I’d seen women do in gangster films; caressing the rectangular top with my left and trailing the post with my right. It was a little low for me, but it would do.

“Hey there. My name’s Jane Wake, and I’m going to be you’re new act.” I stated bluntly.

The man drinking in the center chuckled. He set down his glass. “Is that so?” I gave him a nod. “Well then, Jane Wake, you better be damn good.” I assumed this was McGurn.

“Oh, I am.” I responded with a smirk. I quickly tried to recall all of the jazz, or jazz-sounding songs I’d ever learned. The list wasn’t very long. I settled on ‘Maybe This Time’ from Cabaret. It had a jazz vibe and hadn’t been released yet, making me sound better and more creative by default.

I began singing and I thought of all my failed auditions in the past. How the directors threw me aside like garbage. I channeled all of that anger, all of the frustration, in to my voice. I instantly had the men’s attention, even without accompaniment. Though I may not be happy about not seeing Jamie again, I realized this was a fresh start and right now? I was the most talented woman in all of Chicago, and I was damn well going to prove it.

When I finished, the men sandwiching McGurn were smiling widely, obviously impressed. Who wouldn’t be? Machine Gun on the other hand just had wide eyes. Whether he was unwilling or unable to speak, it didn’t matter. I spoke for him. “So when do I start?” I grinned widely, placing one hand on my hip.

Jack smirked. “I have a very important friend coming tonight. Do you think you can do that again in about say,” He glanced at his pocket watch (stupid), “four hours?”

It was Al Capone. It had to be. “I’ll be there.”

I stepped out of the Mill feeling sort of high. This is what it felt like to be wanted. The whooshing wind whapping my hair in my face didn’t even faze me. I won. I beat all of the other girls who auditioned and, if I did well again tonight (I was planning on kicking ass), that I would meet Al Capone and piss off the Watchers. I’d heard victory tasted sweet, and I felt like I had eaten an entire bag of candy, but still hungry for more. I wasn’t going to let go of this feeling easily.

I opened the envelope the cigar-wielding bodyguard gave me to as I left. Inside lay twenty crinkled one-dollar bills. That didn’t mean much to me, considering I couldn’t even buy a decent pair of sunglasses with that back home, but here and now, it was a ton of cash. Instead of walking, I waved down a taxi, hailing one almost instantly. I had him take me back to the 5374, giving him a generous tip. His face beamed as I handed him the entire envelope, warming up my insides even against the brisk air.

I waltzed up the stairs and swung open the door. “I’m back!” I announced confidently.

“Where the hell’d you go?” The blonde boy demanded.

I shrugged, deciding to play coy, to relishing the moment. “I had an audition.”

“What do you mean?” David asked, concerned I messed up the fabric of space and time I’m sure.

“There’s this swingin’ little joint uptown called The Green Mill that needed a singer, so I auditioned and got the part.” I elaborated theatrically, shedding my coat and gloves, waiting for their response anxiously.

“I didn’t know you could sing.” The blonde boy stated.

“You don’t even know my last name.” I quipped, rolling my eyes.

“The Green Mill? The club owned by Jack McGurn?” David asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yep. And Al Capone is going to be there tonight.” I glanced around the room. “Geez, guys. You’re going to catch flies with your mouths hanging open like that.”

“This is perfect!” The Aryan squealed, taking me off guard. “Now you can tell him, it’s going to be our only shot.”

“Tell him what?” I asked.

“Why we’re here.” He exclaimed. “Then we can finally go somewhere else. I’m so sick of winter.”

“Tell him that we’re interstellar bodyguards? I thought we were supposed to be subtle.” I replied dryly.

David sighed loudly, preparing obviously to fill me in on more backstory. Why did this guy only speak in exposition? “No, the reason we’re here isn’t to protect him. He doesn’t need our protection. We need to make sure he commits the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

I froze.

“Excuse me?” Did he just say massacre? My mind was quickly flooded with information about the destined murders thanks to the eye. Al Capone and Jack McGurn decided to get rid of one of their competitors, Bugs Moran. They planned an elaborate homicide, which was executed flawlessly, but ultimately missed their mark. They killed seven men, none of whom were Moran. They were all bootleggers as well, criminals, but I could see their blood seeping out of their bodies and on to the concrete floor.

“The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre has to happen for Chicago to evolve. Right now, Capone doesn’t see Moran as a threat to his operation. You have to make sure he organizes the hit.”

A knot formed in my throat that did not disappear for the rest of the night. My stomach was in shambles, my mind a wreck. Before I knew it, 10 PM rolled around and I was backstage at the Mill. I didn’t really know how I got there, but it didn’t matter. The thought of the blood of seven men weighed on my mind like a two-ton cinderblock.

I managed to make it up on stage and sing, this time with a piano accompanying me, which helped elevate my performance, even though my mind wandered elsewhere. I finished my song and received a standing ovation from the entire room. I smiled weakly and took a bow. Machine Gun ushered me off-stage and brought me to the back of the club, presumably to meet Scarface himself. He whispered something in my ear, but I was too distracted to listen. The crimson of the massacre seeped into my thoughts.

We finally approached a dark corner of the club where, who else, Al Capone sat with a bottle of whiskey at the table. Even in the dim lighting, I could see his scars. Three long gashes punctured his face, and even though the skin had healed, the scars left a permanent impression.

“You must be the knew act.” He said, his voice gravelly and deep. He sounded genuinely pleased to meet me. “I’m Alphonse Capone.”

“I know who you are, sir.” Sir seemed like a good thing to call him. “I’m Jane Wake. And it’s a pleasure.”

He gestured for me to sit down. I complied, tucking my dress underneath me.

“You’re a pretty talented dame,” He informed me.

“Yes, I am.” I replied, not really wanting to be a part of the conversation.

He chuckled, not anticipating my response. “You must be one helluva fighter if you know who I am and talk to me like that.”

“Sir, my mama taught me there are three things a woman needs in this world: smarts, sex appeal, and a good left hook.” I stated bluntly.

Suddenly, Al Capone, “Public Enemy #1” broke out into a booming laugh. His voice was deep and bellowing, normally very intimidating by all standards, but the laughter lightened it, warming his face. He reminded me vaguely of an Italian Santa, his body shaking up and down as he roared. It was strange to see this man and think of how many people he’d killed, how many laws he had broken. This must have been the Al his family saw, the Al they loved. He had a wife and kid, after all. He wasn’t just a gangster, he was a person. “I like you, Jane. You got guts.”

And with that, the floodgates were open. He told Jack to bring him another glass and poured me some whiskey. He started yammering away about everything; family, friends and business. Though initially wanting to disappear, I quickly reciprocated his enthusiasm. His excitement was infectious and it’s not everyday you get to pick the brain of a notorious gangster. I talked to him about singing, city life, and even brought up Jamie. “He sounds like a good kid.” Al told me. I replied that he is, in fact, a great kid.

He told me about his family and his home in Florida, and how he couldn’t wait to return there to be with his wife and kid. “They sound like good people,” I told him. He chuckled, a blush creeping up his face and responded that they were alright. I was so engaged in the conversation, that half a bottle of hooch later, I almost forgot why I was there. Almost.

He kept chattering and I thought about the massacre. I could stop it, if I wanted. If I didn’t, I would be the reason these people were dead. I may not have killed them, but the way Al was talking, Bugs Moran wasn’t even a blip on his radar. They might be bad people, but they were still people, just like him. But were those seven lives worth sparing if it meant thousands would die later on? I had only seconds to decide, as my opportunity was passing. I wanted to let it go, but my palm started to burn, fighting against my better judgment. With a deep breath, I brought up Bugs Moran. I told him he should think about taking care of the problem before it started.

He nodded. I knew he took it to heart.

Now, the club was empty, the bottle on the table was empty, and I was empty. Everyone had left including Al awhile back, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I chugged the remainder of the whiskey from my glass, watching the world tilt to a 45-degree angle. I stared at my illustrated palm, all of the intricate lines now blurring together into one big mess. Then I realized consequences were like hangovers: you never expect them, but both emit so much regret the next morning.

I was going to have both.Today marked the third year of being a sales associate and yet another year living a life of complete and total mediocrity.