Mike Davies heard sirens, woke up, looked around. The place felt comfortable, if, in some way, unfamiliar. But Mike had been drinking a lot lately and had slept in a lot of places, so it wasn't disturbing. And he had a vague memory of moving into this apartment six months ago. July, perhaps.
He walked into the kitchen in tee shirt and boxers, and brewed a pot of French roast. He looked for a paper at the door, but it hadn't been delivered. Still early, he thought. He went back to bed and turned on the radio. Everything seemed old news, more suicide bombers, more street demonstrations, more hostages. I've heard all this before, he thought. He turned to a station playing Latin jazz, sipped coffee, and watched the sun rise.
At 5:45, he heard the thump of a newspaper at the door, and padded out to get it. When he opened the door and reached for the paper, he saw a woman leaving an apartment down the hall. She looked as though she recognized him, but Mike couldn't place her. Probably she'd seen him on TV. Then she seemed to vanish into the elevator. An optical illusion, he thought. Or too much gin last night.
Mike had breakfast--a Bloody Mary, some anchovy paste (the Gentleman's Relish) on toast--and then walked around the grounds, waiting for the pub to open. On the path, he met a man leading a dog, who, he realized, had been his high school Latin teacher. The man, not the dog. Wearing the same grey pin-stripe suit. The man, not the dog. "Mr. Allen," he said, "quo vadis?"
"Oh, I've lived here quite awhile, Mickey. But I guess no one calls you that any more. That's a good show you do."
Mike began to say something, pat the dog, perhaps, but they were gone. Misty morning, low visibility.
That evening, after mixing a shaker of martinis, he heard a sound in the hall. He turned down the music and opened the door. In the hall was the woman he'd seen that morning--weary, sore-footed--lugging bags of groceries into her apartment. Her eyes were clouded with drudge-work fatigue, but when they met his, they gleamed red, like eyes in a photograph when the flash has been too fast.
"Could I help you?" said Mike.
"No thanks," she said. "I don't need any help from you."
Mike, back in his apartment, listening to Paul Desmond, began to think the woman looked like someone with whom he had gone through a brief, fiery, ultimately dangerous romance, now twenty years older. Shelley, he thought. Or Sherry. One of those. Well, he thought, one often sees similarities; after all, as an artist friend once told him, there are only six basic facial types.
The next morning he called the television station where his afternoon talk show was produced. He had missed shows in the past, but Phil Bailey was always there to fill in, and you could get away with a few repeats. Still, he thought, I'd better check in, call my producer, see what's on for the week.
"CWL TV," said the woman who answered. Nancy, thought Mike, that's her name.
"Nancy," he said, "it's Mike. Is Chet in yet/"
There was a moment of silence, like ice fog hanging in the air. Then, "Who did you say this is?
"Come on, Nancy, it's Mike Davies."
"That's not funny," she said. And hung up.
Mike shrugged, drank his coffee, tried morning TV, gave up and went for a walk. In the elevator was a man reading The New York Times. When the man lowered the paper and looked up, Mike saw the long, pale face and realized it was Max Vogel. Mike swallowed hard, shook his head, and said, "Max, wonderful to see you. Somebody told me--well, there was a story going around--that you..uh..were no longer with us."
Max laughed. "Funny things happen, Mike."
"Listen, Max, we have to get together, have a drink."
"Sounds good. Call me. I'm in 1402." And Max left the elevator.
Did that door open? thought Mike. Must have.
Strolling through the grounds surrounding the apartment complex, Mike noted a few squirrels, black and grey, a gorgeous red-crested woodpecker, and a skeletal grey cat. Then, on a far path, he saw two people who looked exactly like his Uncle Frank and Aunt Ethel. They waved and kept walking. Whatever altered state I'm in, thought Mike, it's taking me longer than usual to get over it.
Mike had lunch at a neighborhood bistro--Bombay Sapphire martini, shrimp and papaya salad, bottle of 2002 Saturna Semillon. Jean-Luc himself brought the wine to the table. "So good to see you again, Monsieur Davies," he said.
"Yeah, great to see you, Jean-Luc. I thought--well, I didn't expect to see you again."
"So many things happen we don't expect," said Jean-Luc. He poured a taste of the wine, waited for Mike's nod of approval, filled the glass, and left the table.
Mike went to the liquor store next door, bought a bottle of Jack Daniel's, went back to his apartment and watched old movies on the Golden Classics channel. He sat through Cagney in "White Heat" and Rita Hayworth in "Gilda." Then Bogart and Bergman came on. And even though Mike could recite most of the dialogue, he thought, how many times can you watch "Casablanca" and not get bored? Then he fell asleep.
The next morning, Mike heard a newspaper hit the door. I can wait, he thought. He brewed his first two cups of coffee, showered and shaved, dressed in one of his favorite casual outfits--burgundy turtleneck, grey Chinos, Ferragamo loafers, and went to get the paper.
Has to be some mistake, he thought. This paper is six months old. It was dated July 13, 2012. Even so, he unfolded it, and began to read. Then, below the fold, he saw his picture, and a headline that read:
Talk Show Host Dies in Traffic Accident
And the story continued: Michael (Mike) Davies, host of CWL TV's top-rated talk show "Mike on Mike," died yesterday in a vehicle accident on the Port Mann Bridge. Police say Davies's car, traveling west at 2:15 a.m., was moving erratically, sideswiped a truck, and crashed into a concrete barrier. "Speed was certainly a factor," said RCMP Sgt. Vern Olynyk. "I don't want to ay anything about alcohol." Davies's silver 560SL Mercedes-Benz was sheared in half. The truck driver was not injured.
"Mike was a hell of a broadcaster," said Chet Dustan, his producer, "Always surprised you. But he lived his life right up to the top. You couldn't tell him there was anything he couldn't do."
Davies, 56, is survived by his children, Sandra and Matthew, his former wife, Jacqueline Parrish, and, said Dustan, "a lot of loyal viewers." Funeral arrangements have not been announced.
There was more, but Mike dropped the newspaper, walked to a mirror, and stared at himself. He looked the same as ever. He looked away, and turned back. Now his face was smashed and bloodied, there was a deep depression in his forehead, one eye seemed gone, and his nose was spread across his face. He closed his eyes, and looked again. There was no image.
I wonder, thought Mike, what I was doing on the Port Mann Bridge.
**********
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