The SF Sideshow, Episode 1: New Years Eve

(Content warning: This episode contains drug use.)

Two friends sat side-by-side at their usual haunt, The Emperor Norton. Devin Striker sat on the left, hunched over the bar as he sketched in the book on his lap. His friend, Casey Thorne— Or, Case, as she preferred— carefully sipped her drink, holding a pose as steady as she could. She relaxed and set the cup down when he gave a thumbs up.

It was New Year’s Eve.

Neon light bathed the bar interior, from old signs decorating the small space, among other vintage fare. It was muggy. The air smelled like beer and whatever happened to waft in from the street. Two old men, regulars of the dive, bickered with raising voices in a corner as the bartender took his time inventorying the liquor between glances at his phone. For Eleventh Street in San Francisco on New Year’s Eve, it was a calm in a storm. The other venues were abuzz with people, and by Striker’s count, two cops and an ambulance had already been across the road.

Case tipped her glass upward and set it on the bar. “You have the next round?”

He glanced at his cup, empty aside from ice and nodded before calling out to the bartender, “Hey, Ray?”

Ray glanced up from his phone and smiled as his eyes swept over their empty cups. “Refills?”

“Yeah, let’s—”

“—We should do a round for Zoey,” said Case, nudging him.

“I thought we were going to wait for midnight?”

“Zoey wouldn’t.”

“True. Let’s do that. Two shots of vodka?”

Ray nodded and filled two shot glasses to the brim with a spirit from the top shelf. “On me,” he said, pouring himself one as well. “Happy New Year, kids. Wish I could say that to all three of you.”

They rose their glasses.

“She was my best friend,” said Case. She opened her mouth to continue, but shook her head and smiled. She and Ray looked to Striker.

“We don’t know enough to talk about her in the past tense, yet,” he said.

He and Case stared at each other for a moment, before Ray broke the silence. “Cheers.”

They toasted and took their shots. Ray split the rest of the bottle between the pair’s empty glasses and tossed it over his shoulder. He rounded the bar and stepped outside. Case fiddled with her hair before letting it down from it’s tight bun. Curls streaked in purple and red tumbled over her shoulders. By reflection of her phone, she applied candy red lipstick and smiled. Striker busied himself with his sketchbook in the meantime, blocking in a scene that looked not-too-unlike the Norton.

Case finished her vodka and excused herself to check her eyeliner in the bathroom. Striker finished his as two young women entered the bar. One was short, wearing a floral dress and flats. Her hair was a dark mass of curls. The other woman was tall, wearing a simple white tee-shirt and skinny jeans with the ankles haphazardly tucked into her boots. Her hair was long and wild, with bangs that covered her eyes.

He flipped the page to capture the juxtaposition between them, but closed the book as they sat on the barstools flanking him.

“My friend is sitting there,” he mumbled to the short one sitting in Case’s seat.

She just smiled back at him, her head bouncing offbeat from the music playing through the bar’s speakers.

“She doesn’t speak,” said the tall woman sitting at his other side. “Her name is Elsie. I’m Ada.”

Ada spoke carefully, with precise enunciation and a meter that struck him as practiced.

“Uh... Striker,” he said. “My name’s Striker.”

“Striker?” She tilted her head just a bit, subtle enough to barely notice, if not for the shift in her hair. “You’re familiar. What do you do?”

“Art. Mostly painting and stuff like that.”

“North Beach Gallery?” she asked abruptly, not awaiting a response before continuing, “Your art was in an exhibit? I’m sure I’ve seen you there.”

“Yeah, I’m a resident there for a bit, so I’m there a lot. I try to have something in every show.”

She nodded. “It’s distinctive— your work, I mean. Kind of fucked up and weird. Like someone who’s missing something in their life.” Without skipping a beat, she laughed, though perhaps forced, as her face— what he could see of it— remained in an unamused expression. “It’s relatable.”

He was used to a certain type of people recognizing him for his art. Those types would oft be more at home in an upscale wine bar than a SoMa dive. They also tended to be more upfront about their intentions.

“Thanks,” he said, splitting his attention between the two women.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked Ada.

“Oh, uh,” Striker fumbled for words, but smiled, “Sure, but I have a girlfriend. I don’t want to lead you on or anything.”

“Oh?” Her head returned upright. “Your ‘friend’?”

Striker shook his head. “No, that’s actually my friend. We’re not together.”

“Why isn’t she out with you? Your girlfriend, I mean?”

Striker’s heart sank at the question, as his head lowered like a weight hung around his neck. A gentle hand on his arm turned his attention to Elsie, still in Case’s seat. She was smiling, silent, her eyes darting around his face as her head continued to bob offbeat.

“You look upset… Should I not have asked?” asked Ada. His attention returned to her.

“Zoey couldn’t come out tonight.” He shifted in his seat.

“Is she that girl with purple hair?”

“Yeah,” he responded, off guard from Ada’s apparent familiarity with Zoey.

“Didn’t...” Ada began, biting her lip gently as she tapped her chin with her finger, “Didn’t she disappear?” Her bangs covered her eyes, but Striker could feel her gaze piercing into him until she shook her head. “That was rude, I’m sorry. I don’t think before I open my mouth sometimes.”

Ada’s other hand brushed his, laid over his sketchbook, before resting atop it. Her hand was frigid and dry. He pulled his own back, gripping the book.

“You finish your shot?” Case called as she emerged from the bathroom. She slowed as she saw Striker flanked by the two strange women. “Can I get my seat back, hon?” she asked Elsie.

Elsie continued to smile silently, bobbing her head as she had been, now with her attention on Case.

“Ummm,” Striker glanced at Ada.

“Yes, she can hear you. Elsie, love? Move for Case, would you?” She didn’t move her head or body to get Elsie’s attention either— just spoke the command with Striker in the middle of them with the music blaring in the background. The cadence and accent in which Ada spoke seemed to change just for a moment, as well. She spoke rapidly, but his impression was Londoner.

Elsie moved to the stool on the other side of Ada. Case sat down as Ray returned, sliding a pack of cigarettes into his pocket. He adjusted his bandanna and took his place behind the bar. “Striker? Case? Drinks?”

“Gin and tonic,” said Case.

Striker sat silent for a moment, glancing toward the periphery of his vision, at the two strangers.

“I want to get moving,” he said. “I don’t want to get the club when it’s packed up.” He also didn’t want Ada to fire off another volley of questions, even though he had his own.

“We have time!” Case said before leaning in, nudging him with her shoulder. “I’ve got this round. I want another drink before we leave anyways. They’re so expensive at the GetUp. What do you want?” She looked over Striker’s shoulder to Ada, “I’ve got you, too.”

He consider protesting, but shrugged and muttered, “Whiskey. Just a double shot.”

Case shrugged. “What about you?” she asked, looking over him to Ada.

“Chardonnay.”

Ray nodded and poured Striker and Case’s drinks first. He stood in thought for a moment before pulling a bottle from the cooler under the bar. The label bore the name Zoey. It was, unironically, Zoey’s favorite drink because her name was on it.

Striker shifted in his seat and pounded the double shot as it hit the bar.

He slid off his stool and patted himself down for his things before turning to Case. “We might have to meet up at the next place,” he said. “I want to get going.”

Case furrowed her brow and looked between Striker and the pair of women. She gulped half of her drink and stood, checking herself in the reflection of her phone one last time before she donned her jacket. She put down bills on the bar and refused the change.

“Sure you won’t join us? We’d fancy it.” asked Ada. Her accent and apparent mannerisms switched completely in that moment, and only that moment as she continued in her valley accent and meter, “If you’re down. Case can come too.”

“Thanks, but we’ve got plans,” he said, grimacing as he turned his head from them.

They left the women at the bar, bidding Ray farewell. They lit cigarettes for their journey when they stepped outside. A frustrated Muni driver laid on his horn as people ignored basic traffic safety— like they often do near clubs on New Year’s Eve— en route to the venues at which they’d spend the remainder of the year. Striker and Case turned the corner at Harrison and walked further downtown.

“It’s really good to see you out of your apartment,” said Case. “You kinda shut yourself in for a while. I didn’t think you’d come out tonight.”

“I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Wow, that bad?”

He shook his head. “It’s been good hanging out with you. Whatever just happened at the bar was… I don’t know. It felt weird.”

“How so?”

He mulled over the thought for a moment before shrugging. “Weird vibes. I still don’t know what was up with that chick in your seat. Or the other one. I think she was— never mind.”

“Could be a lot of things. Does it matter that much? What did they do that made you uncomfortable?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

He shrugged and pulled a plastic flask of whiskey from his breast pocket along with a pill. He washed it down with the booze. He held out his arm to pass the bottle, and looked around when Case didn’t receive it. She was planted several feet back with her arms folded and an eyebrow arched high.

“You shouldn’t be drinking with that.”

“I can handle my liquor.”

“That’s not the point. And it doesn’t matter. Chemical interactions don’t care how you feel.”

“You’ve done ecstasy before.”

“No,” she said, taking the bottle, “MDMA. Which we were all supposed to do together. Without a drinking a bunch before,” She took a swig, “I’m looking out for you.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned, “Okay, mom.”

“When you puke and start feeling up a toilet, don’t blame me when you get pink eye or something. Don’t touch me, either. I should buy soap before we get there.”

They burst into laughter after a momentary silence. He hadn’t laughed much in the last couple of months. Or done much of anything. He tried to make progress on art that was accumulating dust. He made brief trips to the liquor store. Mainly for the liquor.

And attended police interviews. Or interrogations, depending on how you looked at it.

It was almost three months since Zoey left for a trivia night at a bar and was never seen again. Striker and Case, her boyfriend and best friend, were the last people to see her before she vanished.

“We might need to get home different ways tonight, just… F-Y-I” said Case, as she handed the flask back. “I’m going to try to make a friend.”

“Are you asking me to be your wingman?”

“I’m asking you not to fuck things up.”

“Noted,” said Striker, before he stopped and spun around, looking down the sidewalk behind them.

“What’s wrong?”

Striker shook his head. “I felt like somebody was behind us.” He shrugged and the two continued on their way.

 

They arrived at the GetUp just after ten-thirty with their lackadaisical pace. It was a black, unassuming building with white trim that sat on the corner of Harrison and 6th Street. The club occupied the bottom, and there were two floors of apartments above. It was one of those venues where security was more concerned with who was ‘starting shit’ than ‘doing shit’. Striker and Case waited behind a single person to do the security dance and get sent through the door.

The booth was cramped. There was a bulky counter that took up so much space, only a handful of people could stand in the room at a time. It was lit in deep blue, the corners of the room fading into darkness. Bass from the house music inside thumped through the heavy curtain that led into the club. A woman sat behind the counter. Her hair was tied in a bun at the top of her head. A pair of crutches sat behind her.

“That’s thirty-five dollars,” she said, adjusting her glasses as she opened a cash box before looking up, “Oh! Hey Case!”

She reached for her crutches, but Case rounded the counter, “Hi, Leah,” she said, hugging her.

“Are you on the list?”

Case shook her head.

“Hmm, let me take a look,” she flipped through the clipboard on the table and wrote Case’s name on the back page with two check marks, “You are now my plus one… plus one,” she said. She gave Striker a smile and a wave. He forced a smile and waved back.

Wrists stamped, they pushed their way through the curtain into the club proper. The sound hit them first, followed by the intense draft from the fans on the ceiling. The booths were cordoned off for New Year’s Eve bottle service, and the dance floor had a single participant. A couple of young men stood at the bar talking and watching her over bottles of cheap domestic beer.

“Casey!” yelled the man behind the bar. He was portly with a broad smile and a bald head that reflected the light above him. He wiped his brow with a towel from his back pocket.

“Call me Case, Julian.”

“Oh, right! Sorry, I’m having one of those nights.”

“One of those nights where you’re drunk already?”

“I wouldn’t say it like that.”

“You wouldn’t,” she laughed, “Can I get a gin and tonic and…” she looked back to Striker, who’d begun to sway despite leaning on the bar.

“Water.”

Julian nodded and produced their drinks before he was beckoned away by one of the young men down the bar. Case grimaced at the bachelors, dancing as soon as she could pay for her drink.

Striker continued past the dance floor, to one of the two doors on the far wall that led to the patio. The outside was warmly lit, with a planter that ran along the southern back wall. The very back of the patio was tucked under the freeway, though the noise of traffic was drowned out by the sound system that extended outside. Off to the right by the emergency exit was a small raised room that served as a tiny art studio or DJ booth, depending on the night. He lit a cigarette and sat on the planter.

He pulled out his sketchbook and drew the patio, abbreviating the murals on the high surrounding walls. He glanced at a couple of people chatting near the emergency door and added them to the composition. He flipped the page when he lit another cigarette and began something new.

It was Zoey, smiling at something outside of a window. The window was a liberty. The mental reference was from that last morning, months ago. She and Striker were eating breakfast on their balcony while they looked toward the downtown skyline. He shaded her hair, regretting not having any colored pencils or other media to capture the deep purple-to-black gradient she dyed herself.

DIY was Zoey. Striker saw her as an artist. She preferred the term ‘maker’. Handy was an understatement for her. She fixed anything she could get her hands on. If she found something she liked and couldn’t obtain, she made it. Or modified something that would end up close enough to her desires. She made her own jewelry and often wore a necklace with spinning gears on a pendant, that took her the better part of a year source the exact parts she wanted. She was also rarely seen without the purple and black hair clip she loved telling the story about: The first time she made something. Her delivery was always fresh and childlike— fitting for something she’d made when she was nine years old. Her excitement drew people to her and into her craft.

There wasn’t a piece of art he’d made of Zoey that didn’t include those accessories, nor a picture that he remembered of her without them. They were dutifully included in his sketch as well. About ten minutes had passed since he put pencil to paper, according to his phone. He tossed the long-dead cigarette at the bucket next to him as he stretched. It bounced off the side and he groaned as he leaned over to pick it up, nearly falling off of the planter as he did.

Elsie was the first onto the patio when he looked up, followed by Ada. They fanned out as they had at the Norton, walking side by side along the benches of the opposite wall before sitting down. There was a precision to their movement that humored Striker— like something from a movie or video game.

He flipped the page and started drawing. The pair sat feet apart from one another, silent. They had the appearance of strangers next to each other rather than people with any association. Ada stared straight ahead, Striker presumed taking in a mural. Elsie smiled as she did at the Norton, watching the people around her. Her smile was unwavering. Her head still bounced offbeat.

Her gaze settled on Striker.

With no word or signal from Elsie, Ada turned her head toward him as well.

He looked down. He wasn’t a stranger to subjects of his art becoming aware they were just that. Normally after a few moments of pretending to read intently from his book, people stop caring and go about their business. When he looked up, their gazes were still locked on him, and Ada was on the approach.

He pulled out his phone, pretending to be surprised at something on it, as she sat next to him.

He froze.

“Waiting for someone?” she asked.

He looked down at his phone screen, which showed only the time. He swore inwardly, mumbling, “I’ve been outside since I got here. I should go back in.”

He stood, unsteady and half-waved to her, turning to the patio door. He felt ice on his wrist as his body stopped, tethered by Ada’s grip on his arm.

“I think I was rude,” she said. “I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I was nervous. I haven’t met anyone with the talent to get featured in San Francisco art exhibits as often as you,” She let go.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’m really not a big deal or anything.”

“You’re an intriguing individual.”

Striker chuckled. “That’s a weird way to say it— no offense.”

“None taken.”

They remained in silence for a moment.

“Uhh.. Where are you from?” asked Striker.

“Marin,” she said, hesitating. “You?”

“Potrero,” he said.

“Twin peaks?”

He shook his head. “Over here.”

“Where’bout?”

“Not far from the hospital,” he said.

Ada’s head tilted just a bit, as it had in bar, just as she had when began asking her barrage of questions when they first met at the Norton. “East of Arkansas? I have friends over there.”

Striker shook his head. “No, it’s just,” he stopped himself mid-sentence. Her demeanor, he realized, had completely changed from what he experienced at the Norton. “Why are you asking so much— so specifically— about where I live?”

Her head tilted a bit further. “You asked me. I was making conversation.”

Striker stared down, squinting at her face— what would have been her eyes if her hair wasn’t covering them— before turning with a stumble. He caught himself and walked toward the patio door, slurring, “It was nice talking.”

The club had become busier while he was on the patio. He found Case at the bar when a group of tourists left with their drinks. Her arm was low on the waist of the woman who remained. He went for the other end of the bar and tucked himself between two cliques of people who bumped and jostled him in their drunken revelry.

He felt like he was hiding, but he didn’t know what he was hiding from. Contrary to what he’d told Case— or perhaps, even what he thought at the time— there was a lot about Ada and Elsie that made him uncomfortable.

Ada seemed friendly enough, but her questions felt pointed, especially in regard to him. Her intentions were a black a box, hidden away behind dirty blond bangs. Her expression remained fixed, always, with her interest betrayed by the tilt in her head. He didn’t remember her smile or frown, only bite her lip when she asked about Zoey’s disappearance, as though to coax the answer she knew from him. On top of all of that, her changing behavior and accent.

Then, there was Elsie.

Where Ada showed zero emotion, Elsie’s seemed ever-present and artificial. Not forced, but not real, as though her smile was plastered on her face by some external force. She was aware of her surroundings, as far as Striker could gather, but responded only selectively to them. She seemed to interact with the world only she desired— unless Ada told her otherwise. Even at the GetUp, she continued to bounce her head offbeat as she had been at the Norton.

He felt a hand on his back and spun around. Case stared back at him. “What’s up? You ran away.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, looking at the floor. “Tonight’s getting weird.”

“We just got here, what happened?” she asked. “Are you rolling yet?”

“No, I just... Do you remember those chicks from the Norton?”

She nodded, but her expression was puzzled.

“They’re here,” he said, glancing toward the door.

“Yeah, I saw one of them. So?”

“I think they’re following me. Or us. Or something.”

She scoffed, “Really?”

“You don’t think that whole dynamic from the Norton was weird?”

“I think a couple of girls I wouldn’t mind spending time with are barking up your tree. And I don’t think they’re following you.”

He shook his head. “Something feels off. Like that girl, Elsa—”

“Isn’t her name Elsie?” asked Case. “Elsie, love?” she continued, with an exaggerated British accent.

“Those probably aren’t even their names.”

Case shrugged, but nodded in agreement, “It’s New Year’s Eve dude, a lot of people want a lot of things. Have fun.”

“I’m not trying to laid,” said Striker.

Case shrugged. “I wasn’t saying you were. I just... I want you to be realistic. Even you’re not interested.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve been paranoid since Zoey died.” She paused. “I can’t pretend she’s still alive. I was going crazy when I did. You should really just... think about it.”

He shrugged. “You should go find your friend. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She pursed her lips, but gave him his space.

 

When Case found her ‘friend’, she was dancing with someone else, so Case danced on her own. Striker joined her for a while. He did his best, while Case made the act seem effortless. That was true in most things athletic. Striker’s art was pencil, paper, and sometimes brushes and paint. Her’s was any athletic activity she could find an excuse to take part in. Striker’s legs were cramping by the time a man in silver tights became her next dance partner.

He took a seat on a couch near the back of the dance floor. He caught his breath as he watched the people packed around him. They were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder and the space was getting hot. He was nearing that point at most clubs where he wanted to leave. Sweat was starting to drip down uncomfortable places. He pulled out his phone to check his texts— there were none— and ended up staring, with a goofy smile at a picture he’d taken of Zoey. He felt an inner warmth and his skin began to tingle. He was on his way up.

He took a deep breath and looked over the crowd as he mused about how long it took to kick in.

He swore he saw Zoey, just beyond two people dancing as strobe lights flashed.

He jumped to his feet, bumping into someone as he did, but she was nowhere in sight when he pushed through them. He was lightheaded from his quick rise. His stomach flipped. His face flushed red. He became acutely aware of the scent of old beer and sweat. Stimuli competed for his attention. The feeling in his gut lurched upward into his throat. He stumbled toward the bathroom hallway. There were two doors. A couple, hand-in-hand, slipped into the first and it was locked when he tried handle. Striker staggered into the one beyond it. It was empty, and he stepped into the stall, puking after several hard wretches.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he steadied himself with the toilet seat, gasping in heaves. He cracked his neck as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders back, smiling at his reflection in the mirror as he emerged from the stall.

His pupils were black saucer voids tipped with brown rings. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as his body shuddered.

He looked into the mirror. For just an instant, Zoey stood behind him in its reflection. It looked like she was whispering something into his ear, but all he could hear was the bass of the music thumping through the door. He spun around to an empty bathroom.

He stood there for a moment, before slowly turning his head back toward the mirror. He was still alone.

He sighed and looked at his phone.

There were two messages from Case: at eleven fourteen, ‘meet @ bar?’ and, ‘where are you?’ at eleven twenty-five. He’d zoned out on the couch longer than he’d thought.

He looked himself over once more in the mirror, and combed through his hair with his fingers. He stepped through the door when he was satisfied, just barely missing someone coming in.

“Happy New Year,” he said, spinning around. In the doorway stood Elsie. The scent of earth was thick around her. Up close in the light— or his chemical driven attention to detail— he noticed her curls were disarranged tangles. Ensnared within was a hair clip with a clay skull in the center, evocative of a Tim Burton creation, in purple and black.

When he looked into her eyes, his vision blurred and vibrated. His sense of where ‘up’ was slowly shifted this way and that, until his gaze settled on her lips, still curled into that uncanny smile.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, as a hand brushed his back.

Ada stood behind him, her face in the same expression it always had been. Blank. Like Elsie’s smile it didn’t change. He sidestepped her and bumped into a gangly man in a sequined blazer. Striker stepped past him without a word and pushed through people toward the swamped bar. Bartenders were putting out champagne for the new year as people vied for their attention. He spotted Case with her ‘friend’ from earlier and waded toward them.

“She’s wearing Zoey’s hair clip,” he said, once he’d reached them.

“That’s— What? I’m a little busy right now.”

“That creepy fucking chick who was in your seat! Elsie? If that’s her name? She’s wearing Zoey’s hair clip!”

“Striker, what the fuck?”

“Do I have to say it three times?”

Case threw back her drink, and didn’t make a sound, but the slight drop of her shoulders and subtle tilt of her head reiterated her statement.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” said the other woman. She walked off, but instead into the throng of people on the dance floor.

Case huffed. She didn’t speak until he finally looked her in the eyes. “I know you’re hurting. I am too. She was my best friend, too, Striker. I really get it. After my dad, I saw a lot of things that reminded me of him. Loss really hurts. It fucks with your head.”

“I’m telling you Case, you can look at them for yourself.”

“Are you sure it’s not because you’re rolling right now?”

“Yes, Case. Does rolling make you trip?”

She crossed her arms. “Yes, MDMA can make you hallucinate. So can major alcohol abuse. And enough traumatic stress. I’m trying to get laid here and I’m really just… I’m worried about you right now. You’re really paranoid about two people that haven’t done anything to you.”

“They followed us from the Norton.”

“The Norton’s always dead on New Year’s Eve. They said they were going going to leave anyways, didn’t they? Do you realize this sounds really,” she sighed, “I’m trying to say this in the nicest way, Striker— you’re on drugs, you’ve been drinking. You haven’t been out in months. A lot of shit happened in the last few months, too. It’s New Years Eve, and there’s a lot going on.”

Her voice was firm, but she was quick to wipe away tears as they came.

“How do you explain the hair clip? How does she have Zoey’s hair clip?”

“Are you even sure it’s Zoey’s? Remember how you thought you’d figured out a bunch of clues about where she went? What happened with that?”

Striker ground his teeth and sighed. “I was wrong. But this is different— Something is wrong with Elsie’s eyes, how do you explain that?”

“Drugs? You were fine earlier.”

“I’m looking at your eyes right now,” he said.

“That’s not how it works, but I’ll humor you: You don’t think I’m out to get you. Do you think they are? Just because they’re ‘acting weird’?”

“They’re connected somehow.”

“And now they’re here making a big point of being really obvious in front of a person who could call the cops on them... for what?”

“You’re right,” he said, reaching for his phone.

She snatched it as he fumbled it out of his pocket. “You really want to call the cops about a paranoid hunch while you’re high? Here,” she ran a chunk of ice over his forehead. The chill cascaded through his limbs and out of his fingertips as he breathed deeply. He rubbed his face and shut his eyes tight, shaking himself out.

“Zoey would have thrown a party tonight,” he said, taking the ice from her. He fidgeted with it in his hands.

She shrugged and smiled. “Cigarette break?”

“Just for you. I want air.”

“And water?”

Striker clicked his tongue and turned, waiting for the bartender’s attention. Case touched up her lipstick in the reflection of her phone. As she brought it down, she spotted Ada across the bar, though she couldn’t tell whether the strange woman was staring at her or Striker before she walked off.

 

They were on the patio when the countdown began. Case was chain smoking, unusual if not for babysitting Striker on New Year’s Eve. Striker was dancing outside, unusual if not for his pill hitting him hard enough to not care about how people might judge the scene. When the DJ shouted, “thirty seconds,” Striker fumbled for his book and pencil, to capture the moment as best he could. When some people in the crowd shouted, “fifteen,” he gulped his water and prepared to sketch. He sat on the edge of the planter.

It was something he started the year after he and Zoey met. Capturing the moment in graphite and turning around a piece by February that usually sold a few copies to the same buyers. Enough to pay rent for a month. It would be weird without Zoey this year.

When the crowd shouted, “ten,” he made a few quick swirls over his page in preparation. When they shouted, “five,” his fingers went numb.

At three, he smelled Zoey's scented lotion.

At two his body seized.

When they shouted, “Happy New Year,” the club, along with SoMa, went dark.

People were remarkably calm for the coincidental timing, and hushed when thunder ripped through the cloudless night, shaking the ground in a long groan. A meteoric boom frenzied them. Striker slumped to the floor.

People were running in the dark in whatever direction they thought would take them away from the building. Case wheeled around, almost tripping over him as she did. She relented from picking him up to his feet when she realized he was unconscious. She stood in the dark, hearing the clamor around her, shouldering a patron away from trampling him.

Her eyes were still adjusting as she took notice of a figure she could barely make out, moving toward him with calculated steps. Case stepped between them and found herself eye to eye with Ada. She breathed a sigh of a relief.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him, I know what I’m doing— can you keep people out of the way?”

Ada tilted her head, and laid a hand on Case's hip. The icy hand on the sliver of her exposed flesh made her shudder. Ada casually brushed her aside, yet she was then airborne. She hit the wall over the planter, and toppled an old concrete lantern as she landed in the dirt below. She winced and hissed, grabbing her side as she staggered to her feet. Ada hadn’t moved except to turn her head and watch her.

The moon briefly illuminated the patio as she she stumbled off of the planter. Her legs trembled and ribs throbbed as she raised her fists. She lunged and recoiled as she swung at Ada, who grabbed her by her jacket’s collar.

As she struggled to force herself free, a pendant on a chain fell out from Ada’s shirt. It looked like Zoey’s, but it was broken and scratched to hell. The necklace it hung on, one of Case’s old necklaces— gold and chunky, with a silver patch— was something she recognized instantly. She relented in her struggle as she stammered, “Wait.”

Stars lit her vision as Ada drove her forehead into Case's. Her vision blurred as her legs stopped working. She expected to hit the ground, but instead fell back into someone’s arms. At their touch, she jolted straight up as she felt a charge rip through her body. The pain in her ribs, what she was certain was a break, was gone. She spun around and the woman behind her put a hand on her shoulder. She was almost a head shorter than Case. Her hair was tied in a bun at the top of her head with a long tuft that framed the right side of her face.

 She muttered something in Spanish as she flicked a pocket knife open. "There's two of them."

Case remembered Elsie but didn’t see her. She cracked her knuckles when she spotted Ada crouched over Striker, apparently rifling through his pockets. Case sprinted toward her shouting, “HEY,” as she drew her fist. Motion drew her eyes into the air. She tracked Elsie on a high arc toward her, bearing down.

Case flinched and covered her head.

She felt Knifegirl leapfrog off of her shoulders, driven to her knees by the force.

She heard a fleshy thud as the two hit the ground just in front of her. She staggered backward as a fist hit her jaw, and threw a jab in response that stunned Ada.

Not stunned, as in ‘hurt her so much that she stopped,’ but stunned as in, ‘surprised this woman would actually hit back.’ Case hurled a flurry of punches, knocking Ada's head in all directions. Case stopped for a moment and the stoic woman half-stepped backward. She tilted her head, perhaps amused, though her expression remained unchanged.

Case threw her weight behind a blow she hoped would be a knockout.

She was too slow, and off balance when she tried to correct herself.

Ada swept her legs and hit her in the chest.

It seared, like all of the bones connecting her sternum were on fire.

She sailed backward, off her feet. She could hear the bones in her chest snapping, but she wasn’t sure if it was together or apart.

It struck her as odd that she had so much time to reminisce on her surroundings and personal state, as she was careening through the air. The moon above her was especially large and bright. She hadn’t bothered to look at it much with the fog that aggressively covered the bay that night. As she looked further ‘upward’, she saw the freeway and then the wall. She reflexively curled into a ball as she collided with it and landed in the planter again.

Just as Case cleared the dirt from her eyes and gained her footing, Knifegirl collided with her, sending both to the ground another time.

Case struggled as Knifegirl scrambled to get off of her, kicking more dirt into her face in the process. She thought she saw one shadow above her, followed by another, as she more frantically rubbed her eyes in effort to get the dirt out, making everything worse in the process.

She trashed in the dirt, until she felt hands on her shoulder, placed gently, along with Knifegirl’s voice, telling her, “They’re gone. Hold on.”

“Where the fuck did they go?” yelled Case as she felt the hands leave her shoulder and heard Knifegirl’s footsteps— at least she presumed— running toward the patio doors. Her eyes were on fire and every attempt to stop moving them made her involuntarily jerk them in some direction and scream.

She didn’t know how long she laid in the planter before water splashed her face.

“It’s me again,” said Knifegirl. “I’ve got—”

Case clawed at the air for the bottle, “I can do it myself,” she said. The woman put the bottle in her hand, and Case turned her head over, flushing dirt from her eyes. After a few careful blinks, the entire world was still blurry. She shut her eyes.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Where is my friend?”

“Over here,” she heard.

Case reached out her hand. “Can you…?” She started snapping, the words she meant to say eluding her in the moment. A hand grabbed hers and hoisted her up. She blinked a few times and the world became ever-so-slightly more clear. She tilted her head when she gained her balance and flushed her eyes with more water.

After a few more blinks she was sure the bulk of the dirt was out of her eyes, but she still couldn’t make out anything. She reached down and felt Striker’s chest. She knelt down beside him, finding his wrist to check his pulse, then lowered her head by his— slowly, despite how much adrenaline stilled coursed through her. Like a really bad night at work.

Unlike a really bad night at work, Striker was breathing fine.

She let herself fall onto the ground.

“Is he okay?” asked Knifegirl.

“He’s breathing and his pulse seems fine. I don’t have all the tools from the truck so I’m limited here. Can you call it? Err— 911 I mean.”  

“I didn’t bring my cell phone,” said Knifegirl.

“But you brought a knife the club?” Case fished her bra for her phone, but it was gone— she figured it was flung somewhere during the scuffle. She flushed her eyes with the last of the water, as the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off and the gravity of the situation set in. “What the fuck just happened?”

Knifegirl shrugged. Case’s glance settled on her ripped shirt. Her vision was still blurry, but she could make out the blood on the woman’s white top.

And, her flesh.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” said Knifegirl, wiping the blood away or moreso smearing it— with no wound underneath. “I’ll get security,” she said, running off again.

The power returned a few moments later, and with it came lights, music, and cheers from an oblivious crowd.

As did Striker’s consciousness.

He stretched, like one would after waking up from a deep slumber before realization of his surroundings startled him to his feet. Case sat him down on the planter.

“Not too fast… Are you okay?”

“Yeah I just,” he rubbed his left hand, “I feel I got burned?”

“Let me take a look,” she said, inspecting his hand inches from her face. She shook her head. “What does it feel like?”

“Like I put the back of my hand on a stove or something.”

She winced and hissed at the thought. “I don’t see any inflammation, but it’s… Can you move it?”

“Yeah, it just... burns.”

"How is your head, though? You just kinda—”

A light swept across them. Case’s vision, still blurry, could make out the figure of the security guard approaching them.

“‘The fuck happened here?” he asked, as his light settled on the crumbled lantern Case had fallen onto after she was thrown into the wall.

“Some chick attacked me after the power went out. She had a friend. I thought someone else went to get you? Short Latina?"

He shook his head. He hadn’t seen anyone by her description. She looked at Striker, but didn't say anything about his ‘nap’. With the women nowhere in sight, the best she could do was inform the staff if they came back. After another couple bottles of water, the world had some definition again. Striker was searching the area when she rejoined him.

“Have you seen my sketchbook?”

“Uh-uh… oh… OH!” She said. “One of those girls was digging through your coat? Or something? I tackled the tall chick when she had her hands on you.”

She felt her forehead, wincing in anticipation, but felt no pain. It was the same with her ribs and sternum, which she thought were broken at one point.

Or maybe it just felt that way.

“Are you okay?” asked Striker.

“I got hit really hard and there’s still dirt my eyes,” She shrugged. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah. Let’s get a cab.”

Case filed an incident report with the bouncer, but the security cameras that would have confirmed the scuffle were off when the power went out.

 

Striker woke the next morning around ten. He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to start coffee, throwing the covers back over himself when he returned.

As he peeked through the crack in the fabric, he noticed the thing on his desk.

He sat up, reaching out for it, swatting it away at first in excitement. It was a dark brown box, wooden and lightly charred. He rubbed it, expecting ash or soot to be on his fingers, but his hands remained clean. The box was about seven inches by ten, and a bit more than an inch thick. His name was etched on the top of it. The writing was Zoey’s.

As he tilted and moved it around, it felt as though something was inside. The box appeared seamless, despite what looked like a realistic wooden grain on all sides. There were no hinges or impressions that might suggest any opening or sliding mechanism. He figured it man-made, or fabricated in some way.

He first tried scratching it with his fingernails. He tried the same with a pocket knife and x-acto blade to no success. Even dragging a razor across the face of the box left no mark except for the flecks of metal from the blade itself. He unearthed the hammer he hadn’t bothered to earnestly look for from his closet, sure he could hack a chunk away with the clawed end. It was one of the claws that ended up breaking first, barely missing his face. He retrieved Zoey’s meat cleaver from the kitchen. He’d seen her use it to cut through thick bone with ease. He had a good feeling when the blade sank in an inch.

Until he realized the blade was ruined.

He put the box on his desk and stepped outside, picking up the rest of a handle of whiskey from the floor by his doorway. It was foggy, but the sun peeked through for moments at a time. On the adjoining balcony, he heard Case’s door open and turned to see her emerge. She was clad in her pajamas, robe, and dark sunglasses. Tears streaked down her face. She lit a cigarette.

“You alright?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve been flushing my eyes all night and I still feel dirt when I close them.”

Striker winced as he lit a cigarette of his own. “Do you need to go to the hospital or anything?”

She shook her head. “I’d be there if I did. I just have to keep flushing and wait.”

Striker pursed his lips and nodded. “What actually happened after I passed out? I just remember snapping my book shut before ‘one’ and,” he blew raspberry. “At least until I woke up.”

“The power went out and I got my ass kicked. That’s about it, aside from whatever happened with you.”

Striker shrugged took a swig and passed the bottle to Case. She took a slug and passed it back.

“You really have no idea what happened? Were you lightheaded before you went out or anything?”

“I felt a little weird right before I blacked out.”

“Maybe that’s it,” said Case. “You were kinda on a bender.”

“Ehh,” Striker paused. “I stopped drinking after I took that pill. I shouldn’t have blacked out— not like that, you know?”

Case sighed. She remained poised to respond, but ultimately shrugged with another drag from her cigarette. The two remained in silence for another moment.

“What if Zoey’s out there?” he asked.

Her expression soured. “What? Where’s that coming from?”

“Hold on.” He went back to his desk and looked around it. There was no box. The desk had no drawers or places to hide things in. It also wasn’t under his bed or in any of the room’s corners. His room was dirty, but no much that something of that size would just disappear. He came back out empty-handed. “I think I’ll have to show you later.”

Case stared at him for a moment and shrugged. “Are you going to the memorial today?”

“Yeah, I should. I missed last year’s.”

“Let’s leave at one?”

“Sounds good.”

Striker was at Case’s door, late, at one fifteen. They barely made the bus to Civic Center. It was a weird scene for a memorial event, but weird was San Francisco. Techno blared on loudspeakers as people packed into the plaza in front of City Hall, like it was Pride on New Year’s Day. Looking at the lines of people awaiting entry at the barricades, which sported corporate banners of hollow uplifting messages and sponsorship, one might assume it was a party.

They would be half correct at worst. Half wrong at best.

While music, drinking, and dancing overtook solemn grieving at the annual event, this year’s was the first it was simply called ‘MEMORIAL’, branded in bold capitals.

Case scoffed when the pair walked past a group of young men, drunk and shirtless.

Striker pulled his flask from his coat, took a sip and passed it to her. “I wonder what tech company funded this shitshow. I should have come last year.”

“I’m shocked you held that in until now.”

“It’s a real question. They love putting their brand all over whatever they ‘invest in’.”

“The City was going to stop paying for the memorial anyways. At least there’s still an event. It’s not like there would be much San Francisco without them now, anyways.”

“Yeah, and now no one can afford to live here.”

“We both live here just fine. And we live in Potrero Hill. And you still somehow make more than I do. On paintings.”

“It’s mostly graphite— and I work on commission—”

“—You know what— let’s not. I get that this is… really gaudy… but you kind of sound like an old man telling kids to get off your lawn. Mickey and the Norton guys should be here, so let’s see if we can find them and you can hate tech together or something.”

“Mickey’s boyfriend’s a techie,” he said as she grabbed him by the hand and led him through the crowd.

“I think he’s this way.”

“Can we get a hot dog on the way, mom?” teased Striker. She responded by flipping him off with her free hand.

The two stopped for her to call Mickey on Striker’s phone when she was ready to admit she didn’t have any clue where he was. After a minute of yelling over the phone, Case jumping up and down, and Striker giving her a boost, she pointed, grabbed his hand, and marched through the crowd.

“Hey!” called Case, in singsong as she reached Mickey with two other bartenders from the Norton, Ray and Dino, sitting on lawn chairs.

“Case. Striker,” regarded Mickey as they approached. “What’s this SalesApp party rave wannabe bullshit? I thought we were coming to a fuckin’ memorial.”

Case shot a glare at Striker before he dared join Mickey in his diatribe.

“Got that gin you were asking about, Case,” said Mickey, “tastes like shit but I’ll keep it on the shelf for you.”

“I’ve had it before,” she protested, “It’s really good!”

“Says the woman who calls Fireball sipping whiskey.”

Ray and Dino laughed as Case turned red before giving them hugs in turn.

The party went on around them as they all caught up, barely able to hear one another over the music. People continued to pour in by the minute, the plaza soon so full that the group were pushed outward as the day went on.

Striker took to people-watching as they mulled about on the edge of the crowd. Case was bored, half-heartedly dancing, or perhaps like the rest of them, unable to reconcile the jubilation of the event with the solemn reality it was supposed to represent. Dino and Ray pulled their chairs a bit further away from the crowd to drink beer and converse— from what Striker could catch moments of, it sounded like they were talking about that particular New Year’s Eve.

He felt on edge, or as though something about what he was seeing was wrong, but nothing in particular caught his eye— That is to say, between the ‘nun’ in drag, the person on stilts in shiny pants that went all the way to the ground, and the scores of sloppy, drunken dancers, nothing was out of place for ‘San Francisco weird’.

“Weird that it’s been eight whole years,” said Mickey.

“I was still in college,” said Striker, taking a sip from his flask after a glance over his shoulder. He passed it to Mickey. “I lived in Daly City, though. We didn’t even feel it. Just… parties until people started getting calls.” He paused. “We were lucky.”

Mickey lit a cigarette. “Yeah.”

“You uh… See your sister today?”

Mickey nodded over a long drag. “Yep, pulled weeds on her plot, too. Whole place is going to hell. Can’t keep groundskeepers. It’s worse every year.”

Striker fumbled over words and found himself looking at the crowd again. His hair stood on end and he whipped around expecting someone to be right behind him, breathing down his neck. There was no one.

“You good, mate?”

Striker nodded, but that discomfort remained as the back of his left hand itched furiously. He expected it to burst out in fur or blisters until it subsided.

The latent discomfort remained until he and Case boarded a packed bus back home to Potrero Hill. They retired to their respective units. Striker cast his coat onto the coach and picked up the unfinished handle of whiskey from the floor. When he found a sketchbook with empty pages, he went outside to draw.

He emptied the handle with a final swig as he looked out over the skyline.

It was almost as though the destruction had never happened now. Downtown was glossier than ever, almost in defiance of the event. The influx of money was unprecedented, with SalesApp having broken ground on the largest skyscraper in San Francisco, to be completed somewhere in the next two years.

At first, he drew the skyline with what he imagined it might look like, but an accidental curve turned it into a phallic spire that caused him to flip the page. He paused, thinking about the night before.

His blackout wasn’t a void. It wasn’t just lost time. He remembered experiencing something, but it was something unaligned with where he was and what he was doing. He took a breath and let it out over a long sigh. He let his hands think for him, as he marked up a new page with vignettes of what came to his mind.

He remembered jumping from a great height and landing on his feet, but spilling everything from the bag that hung from his shoulder.

And purple nail polish, reaching for a book that slid along the ground.

Zoey’s purple nail polish.

As he tried to recall that moment, he experienced a rapidfire stream of memories that were foreign to him. They would leave his mind as quickly as they’d show themselves, almost as though literally going in one ear and out of the other, leaving only the emotion of how he felt about them.

Striker went inside when the fog rolled in, thick and damp, causing his pencil to tear the page. He plopped himself on his bed and rolled over toward the wall. His lights went out, but his desk remained illuminated from the ambient light outside, and on it he could see the distinct silhouette of the box.

The light returned as he stood. He approached the desk and the box on top of it.

It held answers.

It had to.

He clawed at it with his fingers, frantically, sweating and heaving; angry; frenzied.

The first bits of it flecked away just as he thought his nails were going to tear off. He ripped through what felt like stiff cardboard into a layer of thick ash, dense enough that he had to plunge his fingers into it in order to reach the center.

What was left at the core of the mess was a book.

A journal.

It was purple, hardbound, with stickers plastering the cover. The pages were mostly empty, except for a scattered few, covered in gibberish, nonsense doodles, and a code Striker could not decipher that he knew was written by Zoey’s hand.