This Man and His Shadow

I count the heads I talk to weekly like a prisoner marks days on a wall. Since I got the boot from the paper in Virginia City, that number has dropped from dozens.

This week–it’s been two—my daughter-in-law and the woman at the bank. It would’ve been three, but my wife went to Southern California for a vacation, so she doesn’t count.

I started keeping track after they cut me loose, but if I’m being honest, this has been the pattern all along. It began to sink in during Covid, that asshole quarantine life, and then later, even when I had the paper job.

Working from home, I cranked out stories nobody gave a shit about, then every Friday, I’d go out and deliver the same goddamn newspapers I wrote for. Real poetic.

At least then, I had the route—talked to the old timers who still give two shits about a printed page. Then I’d hit the saloons on C Street, throwing back drinks with strangers, laughing too loud, pretending I belonged somewhere.

But now? That’s over.

Too far, too expensive, and money’s a bitch again, so no more playing cowboy at the bar, no more chasing ghosts in a town built on them. And without that, I start looking back too much.

Fucking dangerous thing, looking back.

Turns out, I’ve been alone my whole fucking life. Swing shifts, graveyard shifts—me walking in when my wife walks out.

As a child, I wandered the redwoods and splashed in High Prairie Creek by myself, making up stories since there was no one else to talk to. So now I ask myself—was it always supposed to be this way?

Is this normal? Is this natural?

Or did I just get good at being my own fucking shadow?

I count the bastards and bitches I talk to weekly like a prisoner marks days on a wall. Since I got the boot from the paper in Virginia City, that number has dropped from dozens.

This week–it’s been two—my daughter-in-law and the woman at the bank. It would’ve been three, but my wife went to Southern California for a vacation, so she doesn’t count.

I started keeping track after they cut me loose, but if I’m being honest, this has been the pattern all along. It began to sink in during Covid, that asshole quarantine life, and then later, even when I had the paper job.

Working from home, I cranked out stories nobody gave a shit about, then every Friday, I’d go out and deliver the same goddamn newspapers I wrote for. Real poetic.

At least then, I had the route—talked to the old timers who still give two shits about a printed page. Then I’d hit the saloons on C Street, throwing back drinks with strangers, laughing too loud, pretending I belonged somewhere.

But now? That’s over.

Too far, too expensive, and money’s a bitch again, so no more playing cowboy at the bar, no more chasing ghosts in a town built on them. And without that, I start looking back too much.

Fucking dangerous thing, looking back.

Turns out, I’ve been alone my whole fucking life. Swing shifts, graveyard shifts—me walking in when my wife walks out.

As a child, I wandered the redwoods and splashed in High Prairie Creek by myself, making up stories since there was no one else to talk to. So now I ask myself—was it always supposed to be this way?

Is this normal? Is this natural?

Or did I just get good at being my own fucking shadow?