His footsteps rang in the faded night like the haunted wails of a ghost. Indeed, the air possessed an eerie quality to it, as though a specter might appear before one's own eyes. His measured pace came slowly in the deepening gloom, in the mist that shrouded the San Francisco street. All around him, the sidewalk extended no more than three or four yards before all obscured in the shroud. Only the overhead glow of the streetlamps carved out his path through the treacherous fog.
Eric was tall, but not abnormally so. He had a lean and fit figure upon which was perched, like a hungry bird, an oval face swathed with rich, hazelnut hair. His eyes were deep wells, stretching off into infinity. If one looked hard enough, he might find the secret of the universe hidden within them.
Yet, for all that, that same man would be able to say nothing of Eric's character. He was an entirely unreadable person, an enigma worthy of the finest German code masters. Eric was withdrawn to the point where some amusedly questioned whether he really knew himself. There was one thing that those who knew him would say, however, and that was this: he loved humanity.
Eric kept himself well. His collared shirt was tucked behind the belted waist of a smooth pair of trousers. Over that, he sported a refined-looking leather coat of black that one might ordinarily wear to a semi-formal event. It had large pockets into which he had jammed his hands. His dress seemed out of place given the setting, but he managed to blend with other people well enough. He was remarkably good at that.
The air from his lips sublimated before his eyes in the frosty air that stung the inside of his nostrils. He watched his mist blend in harmony with the mist around him, lightly fascinated with it. He turned his attention away from this to regard his feet in their even march over the concrete within his three-yard bubble. He loved his private little world, reveled in its existence. Sporadic people were the only ones to penetrate the silence of his solitude, each of them scurrying on the way back to their homes. Eric amiably greeted them with a smile and a wave, which they jovially returned with their own salutation. Eric's disarming quality opened their often closed hearts to the world. They all found him a charming young man, every one of them.
His zeal for the human cause grew in part out of these random meetings on the street: he loved making up stories for them, inventing pasts. For example, tonight he'd seen Frank, the bank teller with more money than he could count and yet was still miserable, George, a college man who enjoyed tea on the weekends, Amy and Tsao, the forbidden lovers who met in secret whenever the moon was full, and Andreyiev, the jolly old Russian gentleman who had once been the cleverest of the communist spies. It became his relaxing diversion. He formed their lives as would a master storyteller, often with pleasing results.
'Eric!'
His musings shattered against the onslaught of an outside force and he was instantly jarred to reality by a face he did know. He often volunteered out of his love for humankind and Clarissa was just one of the many people he saw on a regular basis as a result. She was a perky young woman who rarely seemed to stop for a breath, which captivated him. Her nervous energy appeared boundless.
Tonight, she had, tethered at the end of a long leather leash, her dog Elmo. The large animal jumped up on Eric, who smiled affectionately and patted the dog with his left hand. Elmo smiled back at him; at least, as much as any dog can smile.
'What're you doing out this late? It's nearly nine thirty! I would've thought you would be home right now,' she said, bright eyes beaming.
Eric shrugged. 'Just taking a walk; the cool air calms me down.'
'Oh, I know, doesn't it? It's just so peaceful, you know?' What Eric had come to learn about Clarissa from her speech was that she was quite an insecure person who always needed validation of her thoughts and beliefs, no matter how trivial.
'How about you?' he inquired. 'What are you doing out so late?'
She sighed in feigned exasperation. 'It's Elmo; I forgot to walk him earlier and he wouldn't let up scratching at the door until I caved.' She laughed. 'Dogs, you know? And me with a cold'¦' she added with a roll of her eyes.
Eric nodded agreeably. 'That sounds like the Elmo I know,' he said.
'Oh, doesn't it, though?' She laughed again. 'Sometimes I just don't know about him. Hey, wait a sec, I just remembered: John called. He says you borrowed some books or something of his and he needs them back. He said he tried calling your place, but didn't get an answering machine. He asked me to tell you to get that stuff to him as soon as possible.'
John was another regular volunteer: a crotchety old man with whom Eric never really got on with, which was unusual. Eric had borrowed a number of books from the old man, amazed that even that loan was acceptable. John, like Eric, cared deeply for humanity in general, but, unlike Eric, he was quite capable of disliking individuals. Eric was one of the souls John would rather never have met. Eric couldn't say he ever disliked John in return ' as a rule of thumb, he never disliked anybody ' but he would admit that he had a harder time of being kind to him.
'Actually,' he began, 'that's half the reason I'm out. I just swung by John's apartment. I'm only taking the long way home.'
'So, how is the old rascal?'
'Oh, well enough. Pleased to see me, I can tell you that,' he added with a derisive snort.
'You never really liked him,' she said absently.
'I like everybody, Clarissa.'
A smile parted her lips. 'I suppose you do; nothing helps quite like a good image, does it?'
He shifted uncomfortably, partly because he hated what she'd said and partly because she was right. 'That's not fair,' he said.
'I was only joking,' she assured. 'But it's true, you know. You never have'¦been as fond of John as much as you appear to be of anybody else; even strangers,' she said.
Eric sighed. 'I suppose it's true; he just throws me off and I get so frustrated with him sometimes'¦ I really don't know how to say it, but there's something different about him. I feel differently around him, like I've got an unpleasant taste in my mouth that won't go away, and I'm sure he's at the root of it'¦'
She shrugged. 'I suppose everyone feels that way once in a while about somebody; I know I have.'
He shook his head. 'No, you really haven't. Not like this; John's just not a very nice person all around,' he insisted, the old frustration welling up in him.
'Come on, he's got a good heart, you know,' Clarissa coaxed. One belief she held to, clung to even, and never sought justification for, was in the basic goodness of the human spirit. Still, it was obvious she couldn't guess at what was really on his mind. It wasn't all quite so bad as she thought it was.
Eric scoffed. 'Yeah, but it's not in the right place. I tried to talk it out. I think I may have made an impression tonight; let's just say that, from now on, we may see a different John altogether.'
She smiled wider. 'So you got him to warm up a little?'
'Er, actually, I think he'll probably be a little colder, if you know what I mean.' Of course, he knew that she really didn't know what he meant.
Obviously thinking she did understand, however, Clarissa laughed. 'Uh-oh; well, I won't keep you out any longer than you have to. Good night, Eric. See you Thursday?'
'Sure,' Eric agreed. 'See you Thursday.'
'Come along, Elmo,' she said to her dog, which was eagerly sniffing at Eric's coat pocket.
The pair parted company and Eric continued his walk home. The shroud seemed to close in around him as he went on, shrinking his little world until its radius was only a few feet. He pulled his jacket around him to cut out the cold air as it bit him. The frost still assaulted his nose, which he could feel going numb. It seemed unusually cold out, even for the city on the Bay in winter.
He finally found his apartment; he almost doubted that he could with the air as murky as it was. Climbing the stairs eagerly, he could almost taste the coffee and toast he was about to prepare for himself before bed. A little bug caught his attention; a tiny, insignificant fleck on the threshold. His gaze held it in contempt for a moment before erasing its existence with a definite stomp. The minor annoyance cured, he fumbled with his keys until he found the right one and then he opened the door and went inside to warm up.
As he prepared his light snack, his thoughts drifted through the day's events:
===
I push the little button and hear the gratifying ring. Gruffly, a voice filters through the little box. 'Who is it?' it demands. 'I don't want no damn solicitors around here.'
'It's Eric, John. I've got your books.' And indeed I do: a small stack of them tucked neatly under my arm.
'Oh, do you? If that's why you're here, then I suppose you can come up. Be quick about it, I haven't got all evening.'
Within a few moments, I am in the old man's apartment. The kitchen is in full use, with a cutting board, knife, and various ingredients spread around the counter. John is sulking over the oven, stirring a pot of something rather bland looking, muttering to himself about its consistency: 'Too damn thick; I tell ya, can't get nothing done right the first time.'
I plop the books down and heave a sigh. John's apartment is terribly small and uncomfortable. I begin to take off my jacket when John turns around.
'Well, make yourself at home, why don't ya?' he says indignantly. 'What is this, some kind of circus sideshow, ya think you can just come and go as you please?'
I'd certainly like to go, I think, but only say, 'I just need to use your bathroom.'
'Ain't got one for ya.'
'You don't have a bathroom?'
'No, I got one; just not for you!'
I sigh. 'If you're going to be like that, then I will leave.'
'Fine; see ya.'
Annoyed, I pull the jacket back over my shoulders. I move to the door, but just as my hand touches the knob, I falter as a new sensation enters my bloodstream, one I can't quite explain. I've never felt anything like this before. I turn. 'John, I need to apologize,' I say. Even I don't expect that; I feel like my brain is taking control.
'Ya sure do, kid,' the old man replies, though his eyes narrow in suspicion.
'No, John, really apologize. I'm afraid I've never been so nice to you, which you don't deserve. No one does. I'm sorry.'
John hesitates, unsure of what to say. 'Er, alrighty'¦'
'But you, too, need to apologize,' I continue, my voice dropping low. 'Because you've not been very nice to me.' The animosity in my own words is startling. The man I think I've known, the one I must have been my whole life, is transforming against my will. The old Eric is dying and a new one is replacing him.
John scoffs. 'I ain't apologizing to you; I ain't done nothing wrong. Get out of my home, right now.'
I shake my head, sad that he doesn't see the truth of the matter. 'Oh, John; you're really a good person. You've got a good heart. It's just; sometimes I feel it's not in the right place.'
John seems frightened now. 'Hey, you back off. Get out of here, right now! I'll call the police!'
But I just keep coming in closer and closer, my body moving of its own accord. In a flash of understanding, I suddenly realize what this new emotion I feel is:
Hate.
===
Eric sipped the coffee, the mug clenched tightly in his left fist. His right hand was still nestled deep within his pocket. The last dregs emptied from the bottom of the cup, the deep flavor seeping down his throat. With a satisfied smiled, he placed the mug in the sink.
He went to his bathroom, but stopped just short of it. For the first time since leaving John's apartment, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket. It was coated in red and carried a blood-stained handkerchief. He grinned; humanity could never use such a negative old curmudgeon, so he'd taken matters into his own hands. Not only was he serving the greater good, he was making sure John's heart found the right place.
He realized that he must have felt hate before that night; it didn't seem likely that this was entirely new to him. No, more likely he had been confused. Hate, after all, was nothing more than an absence of love. That had to be why it felt new, even if it wasn't. Regardless, it made for an interesting hypothesis that he would have to look into one day.
A small wave of remorse washed over him; that was to be expected. John had been a fellow human being, after all. Soon, though, he was able to repress it until the death of his enemy was no more to him than the death of the bug in his doorway. Both had been a burden; both had needed removal. Eric had simply done what was necessary to improve the human condition, as far as his own views were concerned; and in such a case, what other view really mattered? Let others decide their own morality, their own path in life. Let them chase after their own farcical ideals of purity and goodness. Eric understood the intricacies of life. Do unto others what you would have them do unto you; what goes around comes around: John had failed to grasp the magnitude of these simple precepts and had paid the price, as was right and good. All was right and good.
'So sorry, John,' Eric said to the handkerchief. 'So sorry; but you really brought upon yourself. I only wish it could have been different between you and me.'
The stains came away easily, the cool water effacing the traces of the deed from his fingers. Deep within, he almost felt a sense of absolution come with the running water, washing over his dirty hands. His heart still ached for the gravity of the deed he had been forced to do, but not for the deed itself. It was his, and no one else's, and it was well done. A price had been paid this night, paid in blood. And humanity had been made a little better for it.
If there's one thing to be said about Eric, it's that he loves humanity.
