New Identity

Weird fiction piece by Clark Humphrey

7/19/93

I’m under some sort of house arrest, for some sort of crime against the official culture, in a city that is a recursive maze, in a house whose main entrance is a sort of basement garage ramp. At first, I accept it, and am allowed to stay in the house unguarded. Then one day I rebel against my fate, try for the ramp/door, and am stopped by an invisible barrier/force field kind of device. “You should have gotten out while you could,” a disembodied voice sneers.

Then, one day a careless food supplier leaves a side door unlocked. I run out easily. I run down streets and climb on top of buses, looking for a way out of town. Only there isn’t any, at least not any that I can use without getting caught. Every road I run toward what I think is the countryside really lands at just some park with tall buildings clearly visible from behind.

Finally, I get to a relatively safe spot and desperately try to think. I’ve got to live here, so I’ll have to have a fake identity. I practice voices, stances, walks, postures, names, past histories, until I come up with one I think will work. I rehearse it to death, then discreetly acquire a new wardrobe. As a would-be musician just arrived in town, I will live in a subculture where no one will expect me to have a job or a family, where I can live anonymously.

It doesn’t work out that way. I’m somehow cajoled into a performance somewhere. I accept the gig, needing the money for a fake Social Security number. I try to stumble through it, claiming my real guitar was back home or something. The club owner says he wants me back. I feel I have to accept.

Six months later, I’m being toasted at a party honoring my new record contract and my new engagement. I feel sick and wary. I’ve lived this new identity on a full-time basis, even while alone. Sure enough, in the corner of the room is a woman from my previous identity, either a wife, an ex-wife or a fiancée. I run out the building and down the streets. But I can’t run like I used to. I’m out of training for it. My tight clothes don’t let me jump. I’m out of wind, and I’m about to be cornered in an alley. They’re two autograph hounds, chanting that I can’t get away from them that easily. I sign my new name, with my right hand (my previous self was a leftie). As soon as I smile at them and they leave, I try to remember why I was running. My new self can’t imagine why. I walk back to the party, walking like my new persona thinks he’s always walked.

Back at the party, I’m met by my new fiancée, who smiles, apologizes for being late, and asks motherly about why I look like I’ve been sweating. I can’t remember; all I can say is that I love her. We tell the press about our honeymoon plans.

In a small powerboat, my new wife and I land in a secluded country getaway. I remark that it’s the kind of place one could just live in forever. At the cabin, there’s a spread of old newspaper pages, including one with my old picture. I don’t recognize the guy; my wife says he looks like me sort of, but obviously shorter.