I wouldn’t make this kind of shit up, man. Are you going to listen or what? No, the same guy. Of course I’m sure, he looks the same, just a different face… no, a different age. I’m not being clear, I’m not making sense, excuse me, let me start over. Okay, the first time I meet him, I don’t know the time, because I don’t know to check yet. It was sometime in the late evening, and I bump into this stooped over old guy on the stairs down to Mackenzie Station. He’s carrying all these bags, a bunch in each hand, like a half dozen of them in total, and I hit him and he goes down, and his bags open up all over the way. Clothes, that’s what they are. Shoes and hats and jeans and trousers and shirts all over, even this little blue baby onesie with a cute little bonnet. I don’t think much of this — I don’t know, maybe he’s donating the shit or something — I’m too busy spitting these apologies, scrambling to get this poor guy’s stuff, and he’s sitting there like he’s so fragile he can’t get up, like oh hell I’ve knocked this guy down for the last time, y’know? And I’m running up and down stairs and getting a fantastic workout and I get his stuff all gathered up and I go back to him, and he just looks at me. (He has amber eyes.) I’m like, Hey guy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take a dump on your day, and are you alright? And he tells me, I want to die. The hell do I say to that, man? I mean, I feel bad for the guy, he’s all wrinkled and tired like there’s dust collecting around him as he sits there, but I’m not getting my nose in some stranger’s end of life crisis. I laugh like I didn’t hear and I put his bags down and I say Good day and I get out of there. Take the train back into the land of the young, shake it off, right? I think of telling my shift manager about this guy like ha ha, can you believe what this old guy just said? but I start and it just doesn’t seem all that funny so I let it go. So, like, two months later on the street I run right into another guy, and I’m already apologizing and flushing a bit red because who wants to be the guy who knocks everyone over? What? Oh, noon this time, whatever, mid-afternoon. So I’m like, sorry, sorry — at least I didn’t knock anything out of his hands this time — and then I look at his face and I pause for a second. (The man has amber eyes.) What are the chances, I’ve run into Old Man Clothes Bags’ son or something. Same exact face, and I’m good with faces. But his hair is darker, he stands taller, his skin is smoother. Still older than me, but far from the brink of death, unlike the other guy. I start to say, Hey, weird coincidence, man… And he smiles at me, this bland thing, mouth corners up like a news man or a politician and he says have a nice day and he walks away. He’s carrying bags. And I shrug it off, like, weird, okay, small world, whatever, I’ve got places to go, but two days later, there’s the same guy in a shopping mall and he’s aged at least a decade in a couple of days. Now right on the edge of Shiny New Red Ferrari and Motorized Wheelchair. And he’s sipping coffee and he looks right at me over the cup (with those amber eyes) and I notice frown lines and dark circles and the moment the gaze gets uncomfortable, he looks down. It’s 2 in the afternoon, I looked at the clock this time, but I’m not paying attention, not yet, I’m just walking over, being pulled over, and he looks up and (amber) eyes narrow as he realizes I’m coming straight his way. He immediately gets up, and he gathers those half dozen bags, and covers those eyes with dark shades. Give me a break, man, I try to get to him. But the straight cut across to the cafe becomes this nightmare of screaming strollers and mobs of teenagers and stampedes of chicken-wing-munching bargain hunters all intent on getting to clothing sales and getting right in my way, and goddamnit, I lose the guy. Without really knowing why I wanted to catch him, but no sweat, I have regular boring things to do. Bag man’s bizarre extended family is just a blip on my radar. Come on, why would I..? Weirder things happen. Come on, it’s ridiculous. Don’t act like you would figure it out like a smartass. Anyway, my story. Three months later and it’s easy enough to forget whatever the hell happened and preoccupy myself with blue eyes (and not amber) — Elissa’s. Pretty girl but won’t hear anything about any nonlinear man. At least things are normal in the house. Relax, I’m getting there. So. It’s gotta be five in the morning, won’t bore you with the details but a buddy of mine has no sense of, y’know, responsibility or foresight but he has my number and I end up at a bar off the freeway waiting for him to empty his goddamn wallet already and get his drunken ass into my car so I can salvage a night’s sleep. And what do you know. Only other patron in the dust bin turns (amber) eyes on me and this time he comes my way. Young guy now, a kid, really. Yup. Not a wrinkle. Maybe even some spots. He smiles at me in that flippant, young guy kind of a way. “Hey, man,” he says, drawls. “Sorry about earlier. I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to talk to you. Grab a seat.” And of course I sit, but I’m like waiting around for him to suddenly gain a couple decades or just plain disappear. But he’s just looking at me with heavy lidded eyes and he leans back. “I see you a lot,” he says. I sort of cough. “Yes, they’re all me, in case you were wondering. The eyes-” he blinks a couple of times “gives it away, I suppose. And the bags, though those are more common. But I’m very careful about who I run into, and you’re not on the list. Yet there you are. Repeatedly.” He cocks his head at me. “Want to tell me why that is?” And he’s looking at me like he expects an answer to a question I didn’t study for and I’m just gaping because I understand very little of what was said. The guy speaks quickly, it doesn’t help me keep up. But it’s all good because he just laughs like the question was a joke, and says, “Hey, listen, I’ve got it figured. Could I leave my stuff with you? I’d pay you, of course. Just take what you need from the bags.” He seems to misinterpret my silence for concern instead of outright bafflement. “You don’t have to babysit. Don’t worry. I’ve got that taken care of. You’ll only see me in my double digits.” And a finger snap later, I’ve got bags full of clothes, and he has my number, and he’s gone, and my drunk friend finally wants to go home. So then this guy’s calling me at 3 in the morning, and he wants his adult clothes so I’m like, cool man whatever, and he’s like, take ten dollars from the blue bag. Then the next day he’s parking a wheelchair and a pram on my lawn, and he tells me, I’ll need these tomorrow night, take fifteen dollars. All this time I’m checking my watch, and the consistency makes me feel I have at least one shred of sanity. Okay, here’s what it is. I’m just going to say it outright, because this isn’t going to sound any better said any other way. This guy’s aging with the hours of the day. He’s young in the morning, and toeing his deathbed at night. I’ve never seen him as an infant — I’ve never had to babysit, as he promised — and I’ve also never seen him past 11pm or before 3am. God knows what happens in between. He has all the clothes because he, because he’s just outgrowing them daily, and he’s given them to me so he doesn’t have to lug them around. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered about what I know, or suspect, or could do about it — not that I do anything at all. When I ask questions, he’ll just smile and shrug it off according to his age at the moment. “Dude, whatever.” “Don’t worry about it.” “I wouldn’t concern yourself.” “Isn’t a matter, boy.” So that’s the way it’s done. Well… no. No, why would I? No, that would be a shitty thing to do, and he’d probably disappear anyway, and, like… I mean, he trusts me. We’re almost, like, friends — despite the fact that he’s a stark raving lunatic. But still. Of course I do. Jack. His name is Jack. And I’m not an asshole.