"These damn close-door buttons are just placebos," Layne thought. He stepped off the elevator and out the lobby doors, dreading work. "How am I suppose to suffer this – this monotonous tedium? Every single day?". Layne had recently been hired by a print and copy shop. It was the only job he could find in a receding economy and he didn't want to have to move back to his parent's in Mayerthorpe again.
It was no secret amongst his friends that his apartment was opulent considering he was only twenty two and meagerly employed. It was located right on Whyte, a towering 29th floor loft that didn't leave him much money to toy with after rent was paid. Layne needed the height though, the sublime balcony, the unnumbing awe of the twinkling lights below and afar. He needed to feel privileged to be at home or else he would spend his every hour out and about, pacing through hotel lobbies and pedways, trying to feel at home in the world.
He plodded out to the bus stop only a few long strides from the entrance to his building. A boy sitting on the bench examined him as he approached. Layne watched him eye the apartment up and down and return his glare again to Layne. It felt good. Layne's stern face was lit with dignity. The boy was thirteen or fourteen, dressed in trashy clothes that Layne couldn't discern – they were either dictated by the boy's style or his circumstances. Layne reached into his pocket for his clove cigarettes and leaned off the curb, looking down the ave for a bus to catch.
"Bum a smoke?" the kid said. Layne felt as if the whole world, the whole machine of society, was in every moment infringing on what little he felt was his.
"Smoking is bad for you," replied Layne. "And these aren't cheap," he thought.
The boy stared at him. Layne turned his shoulder and tried to break contact. He could feel the cold ruffled eyes on the left of his cheek. He glanced back nervously. There was an inquisition in the boys glare that mingled with an ancient sense of tragedy. Layne could see in his face Icarus and Hamlet and Jacob and Holden Caufield, wrestling with betrayal and destiny and all sorts of melodrama. It made Layne almost nauseous, the symposium of growing up spattered on this face.
Layne gave him a longer meaner stare as if to convey how audacious this kid was being.
"This isn't worth it," Layne thought. "Here, have your smoke," he conceded.
"Dad?"
"I'm sorry, did you just call me 'Dad'?" Layne said, incredulously.
"I've always known you."
Layne was alarmed. He knew he should have just given this kid a smoke. His heart was flooded with worry and fear. The bus pulled up and Layne scurried on. The boy followed close behind.
"Dad? It's you, isn't it?" he persisted.
"Look, I'll give you a smoke, just please, leave me alone. This is ridiculous."
"Keep your noisy fumes, I want my piggyback. I want an answer," the boy said, urgently. "Where have you been? Did you go to hell or to heaven? Aren't you glad to see me?"
Layne was scared. He took the whole pack out and forced them into the kid's hand. The boy dropped them on the ground and replied, "When the sun dives below the earth I wonder if you see it splash. I wonder if you see me seeing you see it splash and think affectionately of this inevitable encounter."
Layne grimaced and glanced around anxiously.
"It's finally here!" the boy continued, his eyes flashing, raising his voice, rejoicing.
People were watching them now. Layne leaned in and whispered harshly, "What makes you think I am your father!? I can't be much older than you are."
"Layne L'Heureux, I am Layne L'Heureux Jr. Your father is Francis and your mother is Anna. They are my grandparents, the ones I haven't embraced. I know your pulse count. I know your blood pressure. I know your thoughts when you stand emptied on your balcony in the Windsor Park Tower, 29th floor, deeply tucked in the sky. And, Layne, my Dad, I love you."
Layne was fixed and shook. He stared at him nervously, looking for some family resemblance or some betrayal of falsehood. The bus came to a stop and Layne jumped. He sprinted into traffic and across the street and into a bookstore he was familiar with, out the back door and into the alley, down the stretch and into the dark stairwell to the subway where he caught the train just as it was leaving. He saw the boy hop down half the flight of stairs and slam into the open-door button but too late. His face was gripped with remorse and distress. Layne watched the contrite grimace smudge against the train as it dragged away.
Layne collapsed into the bench and felt his own remorse. He felt like an old skin was melting in the molten wake of such an emotional mushroom cloud. He felt his chest, pounding and pounding and pounding, and he felt truly awakened. Questions teemed on the surface of his blood. "How did he know my name? My parents? My balcony?" The train pushed his eyes against the tunnel walls. "To be a father–" he ruminated, anxiously kneading his hands. He leaned his head on the glass and felt the motion rumble him. "I couldn't. I wouldn't be a father.” He had always felt that fatherhood was something occult, akin to to knowing the future itself and the unjaded face to whom it offers itself. Layne's plaster thick ennui was peeling away. He called into work sick and returned home.
When he arrived at the apartment he was let in by a neighbor leaving. He staggered onto the elevator and felt it lob him into the sky. When he reached into his empty pocket he discover his keylessness. A whole new set of worries overcame him. He could sense the whole force of his defensiveness rallied and operating. The fear of his privacy being mutilated was tantamount to death.
He tried the door and discovered it unlocked. With vigilant caution, he entered. Inside the curtain slats swayed calmly. All else was still. The apartment was empty but the balcony door was open. On the kitchen table sat a bottle of wine, a wheel of brie, and an unopened pack of clove cigarettes. A note was pinned by the wine. He unfolded it carefully.

"I'm sorry, Dad, if I was awkward this morning. I've seen the pale horse of the apocalypse and I've lain stretched out across the mouth of dark caves. I have been dragged by the ankle, up and down rotting highways, and I thought about the day I would meet you. It was hard to control myself. I'll see you later."

It was signed 'Layne L'Heureux Jr.' in a cursive very similar to his own. He put the note down and locked the front door, deadbolt and chain. He walked gingerly to the balcony window. He hugged up against the wall beside the opening and looked through at a slant. He couldn't see anyone out there. Layne tugged the door closed and locked it. He dropped in his arm chair, exhausted, and tried to sort it all out. The room felt smaller. An eerie stillness was punctuated by the hovering dust in the slits of daylight. "He couldn't have gotten here any faster than I did." Layne thought. "I don't understand."
His cell phone rang. It was a friend. He sent it to voice mail and turned it off. Layne sat there, swamped in misgivings. He looked around again. Nothing was missing. He didn't have money in the house or anything valuable that could be easily taken.
A long time passed before Layne got up from his chair. His joints crinkled like uncrumpling paper. He sauntered over to the wine and brie. He carefully examined the bottle, noting that the seal was indeed unbroken with no evidence of tampering. The cheese and cigarettes alike were innocent gifts. He opened the cigarettes and sat back down to smoke.
There was a soft knock on the door. Layne thought it was a different apartment but he sat still and listened, his heart accelerating. Again, a soft knock sounded. He put down his cigarette and crept over as quietly as possible. He peeped out in time to see a figure begin pacing and he recoiled. Layne was sure the figure, if it was the boy or otherwise, would be able to hear him breathing. A louder knock rang out and the chain sort of rattled this time. Layne curled into the corner of the doorway, too afraid to look out the peep hole. Whether it was the boy or anyone else, he just hoped they would go away. Then Layne heard the key slide into the dead bolt and turn. He froze. The door tried to open but was loudly constrained by the chain.
"Dad?" came the whisper.
Layne stood silent behind the door, eyes winced shut, a castled rigamortis. He could see Jr.'s face trying to squeeze through the small opening and peer around.
"Dad, please, if you're there, come out. I don't want to hurt you. I have missed you all my life. Don't you need someone to drink that wine with? Who is going to eat that cheese with you? Open the door, please!" the boy pleaded.
"No," Layne replied in a croak.
"Open the door," the boy repeated, with some authority this time. "Open the door, Dad."
Layne felt a spirit of courage and acceptance transcend him. It is a terrifying thing to be adored. "I have no reason to fear someone who loves me," Layne reasoned. “And I’m bigger than him!” Layne concluded. His fear dwindled out. He let the silence sit for a moment until he appeared to in front of the boy’s squished face. “Move your head.” He closed the door and unchained it. "Come in," he said, bitterly.
"Oh, father!" The boy enveloped him and nuzzled his head in his chest.
"I want my key back."
"Here, have it." The boy put the key in his hand and hugged him again. "My heart feels like a room that hasn't been opened–" the boy paused and stared at him, holding Layne at arm's length, "and now,” he choked a little, “someone has turned on the light."
"Let go of me. You have to stop talking like that. I hardly understand you. I'm not a poet."
"I'm not an orphan," he retorted, exultant.
Layne ran his hand through his hair. He was frustrated and disoriented. He didn't understand how to behave now that his fear had left him. He was still wary of the boy but no longer afraid, just confused. "Well, come in and sit down."
Layne fetched some crackers from the cupboard. "You are too young for wine – or cigarettes for that matter," his tone was pedantic and patronizing, "and I have no idea how you managed to procure these things. But have some cheese."
Layne Jr. chuckled shyly. Layne could actually see similarities in their faces now, and he could especially hear them in the boy's laughter. Layne sat down across from him and crossed his legs. The boy furrowed his brow like Layne and crossed his legs as well.
"Where are you from?" Layne asked him, quite suddenly. The boy could sense the accusation in his tone. He knew he was being examined and he was offended.
"I'm from Mayerthorpe, like you," the boy replied.
"Who is your Mother?"
"God is my Mother."
"Who is your actual Mother?"
"God."
"Enough. How did you know all those things about me?"
"My Mom told me."
"Kid–"
"Layne Jr. is the name," he corrected.
"Jr," Layne went on, "to be perfectly honest, you scare me. Who are you, actually?"
"Look at me, I'm a Tesla coil." Jr. responded.
Layne frowned. "Look at me. I’m too young to be your father. What are you trying to get from me?" he pleaded, at his wit's end. He rubbed his temples. Jr. did the same and made his face like Layne's, aggravated and exhausted. Layne began again, "Where do you live, Jr.?"
The boy stared blankly at Layne and then gazed off, concentrating. "Well, hmm. I haven't considered where I live, per se. I have other questions that presuppose that one. I don't know if I am dead or alive, to begin with. And I am not sure if this Heaven or Hell."
"Stop being so vague, and stop talking about God. I don't believe in God and any son of mine would not believe in God either. Even the blatant ambiguity of the word 'God' frustrates me to no end. Where does your brain even begin to incorporate such a vague concept?" Layne raved.
"Well, Dad," The boy looked at the ground, disturbed and concentrated, "I am stumped. I have always just known that God is there, or rather 'is'. To believe in God would mean it was a decision that I could make. Since I can't decide whether I exist or not, I couldn't..." Jr. paused and thought. You could see it on his brow.
"Of course you can decide whether you exist or not," Layne interjected. "Even the way you worded your position is so foolish to me that I just want to hit you."
Jr. glanced up to measure Layne's body language. "Well, thinking about it now," he conceded, "it changes everything to perceive that the God’s existence could be dictated by the person. But if God isn't an absolute, where did the idea come from? And why would I be here? I suppose if I had to 'believe' in God, and thus determine who God is–" he paused. Layne waited. "hmm, than I would only believe in a God who dances."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't turn this into a poem," Layne barked. "I don't care about any of that. I am not your father and God is not your mother and I am sure you have some ulterior motive for all of this. What do you want? I don't have very much. It looks like I am well-off but it just looks that way."
"If this isn't heaven or hell and there is only a God if I believe there is, what is the purpose in persisting? Why do I struggle to eat and gather and stay alive?" Jr.'s tone was wrought with urgency and confusion.
Layne was starting to feel guilty. "I should let him have his illusions," Layne thought, "to cope with being alive. That's the way all these religious fanatics are. They need their coping mechanism." Layne could see loss and remorse replacing the boy's optimism, it was transforming his posture, the composition of his mouth and the lines beside his eyes. The boy looked truly discouraged. "There isn't a point to being alive," Layne began, "we just do it because we are scared of the alternative."
"What's the alternative, Dad? Heaven?" he asked. "Hell?" he asked in a more cautious tone.
"Um." Layne knew he was being a monster. He lightened his tone, "When you die," Layne began, pacing himself, "you go into a very deep sleep. And what happens is – is you are sharing the same bed and the same pillow as all the people you've ever loved. Death is a good long rest. Don't worry."
The boy smiled slowly. A certain serenity undid his grimace and left an ascetic quietude in the room. "Alright. I trust you."
Layne felt the serenity settle on himself as well. Really, this was all too much for Layne. He hadn't discussed these things in ages, except to assail them with his sardonic friends. His nihilistic outlook felt for once gilded and reconciled to emotion. "It was a good way to explain death." He thought. He poured himself and Jr. a drink and they sipped it quietly for a long while, giving the silence permission to roam. The two of them smoked all the cigarettes and ate all the brie and drank all the wine, not speaking at all. The sun set and they stayed sitting at the table, peering through the dark, examining one another and mulling over all of the day's turbulence. They were enveloped in that dumb hush that just such moments will purchase, moments in one's life when the very act of being alive is a pious ceremony.
Jr.'s face truly did resemble Layne's as the night passed. The furtive brow and the pensive expression, plaintive and jaded, became thickly inscribed around Jr.'s eyes and the corners of the mouth. Layne felt at ease with Jr. and Jr. appeared at ease with him. They were like two ferns who brushed leaves and caught together and, though at first startled, became quite content in their tangled kinship.
Layne felt as though he were at a junction in life. He felt as if his capacity for sentiment had been revealed and in the gravity of these quiet moments he was investing that sentiment in Layne Jr. "So enigmatic and mysterious and kindhearted," Layne thought, furnishing the young Jr. with his highly guarded esteems. "Innocent and unassuming and precocious." He continued.
"May I use the bathroom?" Jr. asked softly, embarrassed to break the silence.
"It's over by the front door." Layne replied cordially.
Layne heard the door click shut and the humming fan go on. He stayed seated and wondered "What now?". "Would the boy go home? He could stay here if he needed a couch to crash on." Layne stood up to get some sheets for the couch. He was still a little bit tipsy. He grabbed some linens from the couch and spread them out over the sofa.
He went over to the balcony and slid the heavy door open. He pushed through the curtain slats and into the clear and star lit night. The summer air was crisp and welcoming. He peered out over the wild world of lights so far away from him, so far below him, a mirror image of the cosmos. He wondered why all these folks fought so ceaselessly to just eat more food and live more days and see more calendars flake away. He turned his attention to the stars, complacent and static. "And these glow so that we can look at them and feel insubstantial? I guess we are." The sky didn't say anything back to Layne. "I would like to believe in God," he thought. But that was the end of it. He saw a new watermark that he didn't like. "Those thoughts may have come this far, but no further." He promised himself.
Layne’s thoughts returned yet again to his conversation with Jr. He was still rather content with his improvised explanation of the afterlife – death: the gentle ceaseless breath of one's loved ones mingling with your own on a soft and endless pillow of darkness. He stood out there for a very long time, forgetting he was alive, forgetting he was not alone. He suddenly remembered his guest and felt rude.
Layne passed back through the curtain slats expecting to see Jr. on the chair or lying on the inviting couch. There was no one in the room, only still the slit of light under the bathroom door and the humming fan inside. Layne frowned. He turned on the lamp and crept over to the bathroom door. He listened for a moment. Nothing. He knocked lightly but heard no reply. "Jr.?" He opened the door and hit on something soft. There was blood pooled on the floor. The boy was dead.
Layne's head began to pound. The muscles in his back constricted and he took a step back. His stomach was in his throat and his heart felt a genuine absence, a loss of love, a spirit going out, a memory taking form.
He noticed inside the bathroom a note on the counter. He leaned from outside the bathroom and plucked it up, still gripped with horror.

"Dad, I am going to sleep. I hadn't known it was so simple. You should go to sleep too. I will see you when you get here. With All My Love, Layne Jr."

Layne wept.



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