Disclaimer: What belongs to them is not mine, except Ellison Walker.
Warning: This story takes place ten years later after the TSbyBS. It's a third person's POV and is centered on Blair. Jim is no longer living, kind of, so be warned you might need a Kleenex or better leave immediately.
Note: Beta thanks to Kerensa Evans for correcting my poor grammar with great patience. If you find other mistakes, they remain mine. Any kind of fb will do no harm to my strong heart, you can write me in English, Chinese and Japanese.
Lost To The World
Shang
I know a traveler when I see one 'cause I'm always on the road, wandering around the world, running away from people I love, family I have. Well, that's not the point here why I run away, I'm an artist, to say the least.
On a train heading towards the western part of this eastern country, anyone could easily bump into a tourist. It's the peak of a traveling season in summer, after all.
I'm squeezed awkwardly behind other people's seats with a backpack and camera hanging on my neck and sketch book stuffed between my thighs. After passing through the last main station, there are only few tourists left with the locals on the train. I can finally take a seat and I move casually to sit opposite to the said traveler.
The man doesn't seem to notice me, since apparently he is lost deeply in his own thoughts. With his right elbow on the window frame, he grabs a handful of hair to keep it from falling into his eyes. Those pair of deep blue eyes are looking at a place that only exists in his mind.
It's a beautiful day, full of sunshine and breeze. The old train is running on its lazy rhythm swaying passengers towards their dreamlands. The occasional snips coming from my camera are covered by the sound of the regular metal bumping on the track so I don't have to worry breaking the quiet.
Nonchalantly, I focus on him and take a shot. Still, he sits there like a statue.
Carefully, I put the Canon down beside my left thigh and use my shirts to make a nest so it won't slip and fall to the floor. I fish out a pencil from my backpack and begin to draw.
He has a nice bone structure, but that is not the main reason I want to sketch him. There is an atmosphere about him that caught my eye when I first got on the train. He appears in his mid forties, slightly thin but has a good tan with sun flecks on his skin. The long curly hair is almost gray and is tied loosely with a handkerchief which is as washed-out as his blue shirts. The wrinkles appear deeper between his brows and lighter around the corners of his eyes. And I can tell the stubble on his face has at least grown a day or two. The small bag under his feet on the floor is bleached and you can't tell if it's gray or dusted from the constant moving. All in all, this scruffy man screams fatigued, lonely and travel-worn.
After ten minutes, I give up and put away my pencil. It's hard for me to draw out the vicissitudinary I feel on this man. If I hadn't been staring at him for so long, I'd think the man was going to cry at any second. Considering my finger is better at pulling the trigger, my camera of course, than killing a tree, I decide to snap more photos of him.
Through the lens, he looks cleaner and appears serene, he almost melts into the background of the old fashioned train seat. It'd make good pics for my next publishing photo album if I printed them in black and white.
Being greedy, I don't want to let the chance escape, because a good subject is hard to find and the glorious moments are rare to behold. My camera is snapped like a crazy and the muted snips sounds satisfying. I'm experiencing mixed feelings; excited about stealing the beauty and knowing I'm doing tidy work and going home. Suddenly, there was a big sway of the train, I hear my sketch book fall to the floor along with my backpack and other things. But there is no way I'm going to pick them up than putting down my camera. Then all the frenzy ends, in the wink of eye, I'm startled by the sudden darkness the second the train enters a tunnel.
A moment later, I'm as stunned as the man in front of me when the train comes out into the open.
He blinks, once, twice. And a single drop of tear finally falls down from one of his big, deep, blue eyes. It's so heart-wrenching seeing the stranger's intense expression. He's like a man feeling the joy of meeting a long lost friend, or even an ex-lover. One moment he's grinning and the next moment his lips are trembling, like he is trying hard to steel himself from losing his internal control.
"Ji..Jim?" It's all he can voice. His tears fall free, his right hand grabs the window frame so hard that his knuckles turn white. His left hand is shaking and reaching for me. The wind blows his hair into the crying eyes ruthlessly.
"No, I'm ... I'm not." Ouch, he is probably a nut, since he is looking at me like he is dreaming. I pry his hand off me as gently as possible, afraid of agitating him into taking more action; not that I can't defend myself, I definitely have more muscle than this man.
But I feel an instant sympathy for him upon seeing the confusion from being denied what is in his eyes.
It takes him seconds, but I think the intelligence returns to his more clear mind, "You're not..." slowly, he sits up tight against the seat, wiping off his face with both his hands and observes me from head to toes. "Yeah, you're younger, thirty, thirty-five?"
"Thirty-eight next month." I nod and wrap up my camera avoiding his suspicious eyes.
He murmurs, "I'm...I'm going home, Simon said Jim left something for me."
"Well...that's good." Embarrassed, I bent to collect my sketch book and the pencils, now I just want to change seats.
"He's dead."
"What?" The voice was so grave and seemed to float over my head, that I might have imagined he ever said it, I gathered the last pencil and sit back to my seat and close the window. "You say something?"
"Jim's dead." The way he murmurs it seems that he is reassuring himself, than telling me a fact, then he turns back to stare out the window. Motionlessly.
Looks like anything I say will not be heard, so it saves me from having to say anything. It'd be stupid to take more photos of him though I hate to lose a good subject, I'd better leave while I still have a chance. Stuffing things together, I zip up my backpack and get ready to move.
"What's your name?" Huffing, he seems in the mood for a long chat and looks at me as if he already has known me forever. I know he's not seeing me, he sees through me and is trying to pick pieces of me to fill what is gone with the Jim guy in his life.
"Ellison."
He frowns a little then glares at me seriously, his voice trembling from anger or fear I don't know, "Am I finally going crazy? Don't tell me Steven has another brother."
"What are you talking about? Look, you sure give me creeps right now, mister. I'm sorry that I disturbed you, I'll leave you alone. Okay?" I'm fully packed and ready to leave.
That's when he really loses it. No, no tears, no violence. I'm stunned. I see the storm of despair, frenzy and sadness which all I'm too familiar with in the people who I've hurt, flashing in his huge eyes.
I've hurt too many people in my life that I kept running away from. Maybe that's the reason I sit back - an impulse coming from my heart to give what little I have that is what this stranger needs.
"Hey," I say softly as best as I can without my voice being covered by the noise of the ancient train, "Ellison Walker. You can just call me Ellison."
Because he bows down and rocks to hide in his inner world, I have to bend a little to look into his face at an awkward angle. He scrubs his face then keeps rocking and rocking, like a monk praying silently. I don't know what to do next, leave him or help him? This man is a total stranger to me, I can simply leave him to whomever is in charge on this train or maybe he'll stop after I leave.
Leave?
I know, I think too much 'leave', the word has become my motto! Didn't I just feel the urge to help him?
"What's your name, Mister?" I reach out and put my hands on his shoulders to steady him. He jumps a little, maybe startled by my touch, then tilts his head to look at me intently.
He smiles, "Blair. But you prefer to call me Sandburg, don't you remember, Jim?"
I must be really look like his friend, Mr. Sandburg seems to keep jumping in and out of his memories.
"No. No, I'm not Jim, Blair. I'm Ellison Wal... Wait, your name is Blair Sandburg, as in b-l-a-i-r s-a-n-d-b-u-r-g?"
He nods, a little confusion, knitting his brows slightly. I think he tries to stay in the reality.
"The man that wrote a fiction book called The Sentinel and soon afterwards went missing a few years ago?"
"It's not a fic-"
"You know, in the past ten years, your book has hit the #1 Bestseller so many times that they just made it a movie last year. They even showed a clip of you in the end saying they were looking for you."
I remember reading so many reviews about the movie, aside from all the crew and cast, people were talking about the author and the story behind his book. I also bought one purely for my curiosity. There's the obituary at the back of the book cover, the archetypal of The Sentinel was a Detective who Mr. Sandburg worked and lived with and who died before the book's first publication. A typical explosion in the line of duty, a death in honor while protecting his partner.
"I know, Simon told me. But I didn't want to be found, no time to waste on those people, I had to find you, Jim. You promised we'll meet somewhere in the future." Mr. Sandburg grasps my arms firmly, and is getting agitated, "I knew, I just knew we'd meet in this lifetime again, Jim."
"I'm not..." Suddenly, the pieces click together - my face, my name, his Jim, the Sentinel, death, Blair Sandburg - how sad is that he traveled the world all these years looking for a dead man.
Going by his appearance and mental condition, I wonder what kind of life he suffered through. Where and how did he get money to spend on all the traveling, he doesn't look in a good health to me. The reason I even remember the sentinel movie and this man being credited, was that the producing company attached a 10 seconds soundless clip at the end of the film. It showed a rather good-looking young man in a brown T-shirt with his curly long hair slightly flying in the wind. The background looked like an indoor garden or a balcony, and a man with a buzz cut was seen, vaguely, standing behind with others. They tossed beers towards each other at the same time. Then the film zoomed in on Mr. Sandburg, he smiled broadly showing some paper in his hand. The clip stopped and a short note told the audience that it was recorded in 4th, July, 1999, when the copyright of the story was sold. The film company put a notice at the very end to thank him and an obituary for his friend - they called him the model of The Sentinel. The audience, including myself, was wiping tears at the moment realizing the tragedy in RL behind the scene.
Now that we have crossed path on this train, in this country, I believe it is a fateful encounter.
I opt to give up correcting him calling me Jim, I'll get whoever can help him. The next station is coming in sight and it's not too far away to the international airport from there, which means there's a chance I can bring him back to the US.
"Jim? Jim? You alright? Don't zone on me, man." He is worried.
I smile at hearing the word 'zone'. Hey, I've read his book! I actually know what he's talking about now.
"Well, I'm not. Mr...um, Blair, I think it's time we going home. What do you think?"
"Great. Of course. I'm tired, I'd like to go home." He looks up to me, a broad smile on his face, the same one I saw in the film. He is truly happy.
As planned, I lead him off the train, leave the station and take off like I knew where we're heading to. Before we board the plane, I ask for the phone number of this friend Simon he mentioned a few times. I'm a little startled when a strong voice, 'Banks' barks on the other end of the line, maybe the time zone differences have made him annoyed with me. But after some explanations and introductions have been exchanged, Mr. Banks agree to meet us at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. He seemed equally startled when heard I was going to bring his friend back to his city Cascade, and thanked me more than once.
Now we sit on this flight, at ten fifteen PM, we'll be landing in about twenty minutes, I'm surprised how Mr. Sandburg followed me all the way undoubtedly within the several hours we met. Or should I know better it's Jim he followed?
I shake him awake as the passengers walk past us, soon we're off the flight with the others. Since we both travel light, we don't have to wait for any luggage, so we are able to check out fast. Mr. Sandburg appears to be disoriented in the parking garage, and that makes me nervous, being afraid he might come to his senses and realize that he was kind of being tricked back to the US by a stranger.
Would he even recognize his friend Simon Banks? According to Mr. Banks, the last time they met, he found out Mr. Sandburg sleeping on the grass in front of Jim's grave. He took him back home and took care of him for a week because that's when he was aware of Blair's memory problem. Though Mr. Sandburg seldom had any down time, he knew his friend was losing it, day by day, year by year. Therefore, Blair never stopped searching for his dead friend.
A hand is put on my arm gently, "Jim? You okay? Do you hear Simon?"
I pat him on the shoulder to assure him, smiling, "No, but he'll 'find' me!" If I really am so much like his friend Jim.
He grins weakly, "Yeah, it's late, not too many people here, he'll see us as soon as he arrives."
"Holy shit! Ellison!" A car drives pass us and pulls over in a hurry. We both turn towards the sound and watch as a tall black old man pokes his head out of the window, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. Slowly, he climbs out of the car, but stands where he is. Mr. Banks doesn't seem have the strength to walk, not that he's that old.
Now I know I'm really really a twin of their friend Jim.
Mr. Sandburg smiles smugly, urging me towards his friend, "Come on, Jim, Simon's waiting."
"Ellison Walker, if my memory serves me right," he mutters, and extends his hand to shake mine while he still scans me from head to toe like I've had some cosmetic surgery recently. "You didn't mention..."
"No. I'd like to see just how much..." Glancing back at Mr. Sandburg, I swallow what I'm about to explain. Instead, I look at Mr. Banks meaningfully hoping he'll understand, "Well, Simon, it's late, I think Blair needs some sleep."
As soon as he turns to Blair, Mr. Banks barks in the same strong voice I heard in the phone, "You look like shit, Sandburg." then his expression softened, full of sympathy, and he speak gently, "Come on, kid, I'll get you to bed."
Ignoring Blair's protest, Simon just pulls him into his right arm, squeezes him tightly for a few seconds and lets him get in to the passenger's seat.
For some reason, my throat hurts. Through the eye of a bystander, I think I know just how much sorrow was in that one big hug.
I'm left a foot behind them to gather our things into the trunk, we exchange our understanding above the car roof and I climb into the back seat.
Mr. Sandburg sleeps like there is no worry in the world. We have difficulty waking him up, all things considered, I lift him up and carry him into the building where Mr. Banks has a key to a neatly kept loft.
"I did some cleaning, the beds are good at least."
Putting our bags beside the covered couch, Simon shows where to put Blair to bed. After that, it's a long and slow several hours, with a lot information exchanging. We're both tired but we don't want to waste a minute for Blair's sake.
I don't have a tight time table to return home to N.Y., so I agree to stay. Simon wants to see how things go with Blair from now on then decide how to best care for him.
"I'm retiring this year. I'll see what I can do by then." At dawn, he leaves for work.
Now, hungry and tired, I want to lie down as soon as I finish making a quick trip to the bathroom. Eyeing the railing upstairs with respect to the deceased, I choose to sleep on the couch. I look around a bit while pulling off the white cover. The loft is bare, but the blanket on the couch is colorful.
I'm fast asleep the moment I close my eyes, with the smell of long lived dust permeated through the blanket.
It turns out to be just a brief nap, I didn't sleep well since in dream after dream I struggled with my own problems. Then I'm easily awakened, sensing someone sitting on the floor by the couch, watching me.
We're at the same eye-level now. For seconds, it's just me lying there watching him studying me. Then we both turn our eyes to those dust motes stirring up in the light streams while I sit up, scratching my hair and the blanket falls to the floor.
Slowly, we look at each other. I hear the soft traffic sounds in the early morning, and see the understanding dawning on Blair.
Tentatively, I open my palm waiting for his handshake. "Hi, I'm Ellison Walker."
"Yeah, we met on the train." There're tears in his eyes but he doesn't let them fall, Blair blinks hard keeping them at bay. He smiles broadly just like the times in the film, in the foreign country, and here and now, "Blair Sandburg. I'll show you around town when we go for breakfast then I'm going to Jim's grave. You want to come along, kid?"
I nod and blink back my own tears, "I'm not that young, 38, exactly."
"I'm still two years older than you then, indulge me for a second, will you?" He gives my palm a clasp and squeezes my hand for a second.
I chuckle and roll my eyes, "Of course, big brother." Blair punches me lightly on my upper arm for it.
I hope this is what Simon said about Blair's memory problem, now is his up time, he stays in the reality, his mind is clear. Whatever. He goes to use the bathroom, washing up I guess.
It feels so easy and comfortable between us, it could have been the pattern between Blair and Jim and I just click to their routine. I always been told that I'm not an easy man to get along, I couldn't keep any kind of relationship, I knew it well enough. I envy their friendship immediately. Now Blair Sandburg is a big name, contrary to him, I'm just a little successful photographer at my hometown N.Y. City. It sounds weird that the two totally divorced parallel lines would cross at some point, but we did. I still want to have Mr. Sandburg's permission to publish the photos I took yesterday, but more than that, a friendship sounds better.
"Hey, you zoned?" Blair walks out of the shower, standing fresh in clean clothes and shaved. He sees my startled face and hurries to apologize, "I'm just kidding. Don't worry, I know you're not him."
"You had me there for a second. So, are you ready to go? I have a craving for fried chicken, potato chips and coke..."
Blair points a finger at me on our way out. "No, we're going to this health food restaurant, you'll love it."
"No! I'm back in the city and I want junk food, as much as I can get."
Crossing the street, we walk down three blocks to where Blair's favorite restaurant is. The waitress hugs him in tears and drops her plate at seeing me. She turns her confused eyes towards Blair, but before the explanation can be told, I take my chance.
"Ellison Walker, I'm publishing a photo album about Mr. Sandburg," Behind the waitress, Blair raises an eyebrow at me. But she is asking if I'd sign and send her a copy when the album comes out, I smile at her, receiving a note which has her address on it.
"Hey, you got her number in one minute." Blair whispers playfully when we follow behind her to our table.
I say hopefully, "No, I'm honestly hoping you'd let me stay for awhile, and take photos of you. You know, to get a grip about what is your typical day?"
Bowing his head, Blair chuckles, "Typical day?" When we sit, face to face, he crosses his arms and looks at me thoughtfully, "If you're going to stay, there're house rules. You don't flush the toilet after 10:00PM, you don't leave wet towels on the bathroom floor, you don't..."
Blair goes on and on, telling me the rules. He smiles evilly at each of my reactions to their weird house rules.
Then I begin to laugh.
Yeah.
I see a wonderful relationship out there.
The End