Chasing Phantoms
Part I: Mad World
Chapter Three: Can You Bear the Cost?
Casey Whitman sat in the driver's seat of an old blue Dodge sedan, the hum of the engine radiating through his bones. The highway before him was graying and well worn, dark skid marks marring the pavement every so often. Green signs denoting exits and mile markers flew by: mile one, four, fifteen, eighty-three, a hundred and forty, and back to one again. The landscape was low, barren and colorless. Everything looked the same. Everything was the same. The factory on the left of the highway: how was it any different from the one on the right? The quarry? There was another one just two miles ahead. In a black escalade next to him, a middle aged man in a trucker hat snacked on a juicy hamburger, the contents occasionally falling into his lap, miraculously missing his wool-clad beer-belly. About three hundred yards ahead, a teenager in a red Toyota swerved dangerously to avoid a rickety old white car. Yes, everything was the same. Only the dull green of the trees in the dead of winter and the lack of self-service gas stations revealed anything about the stretch of road that heated the wheels of the Dodge.
The monotony of the road had begun to get to Casey. He turned off the heater of the car and opened the window a crack, trying to keep himself awake despite it being almost noon. The wind blew into the car with force, causing his eyes to tear from the bitterly cold November air. The open window filled his ears with a rushing sound. He shifted in the seat, trying to wake up part of his lower back that had decided to fall asleep. God, he wished that the drive didn't have to be so long. He closed the window and switched gears easily as the highway gently sloped down, changing the hum of the engine echoing in his bones. He could feel the energy of the car; he could feel the road he drove on. This was a small comfort on the open, aging interstate.
The low barren landscape ahead faded as Casey turned off of the interstate, revealing the dramatic skyline of New York City. The skyscrapers rose dramatically out of the ground, visible despite the gray haze that had shielded the sun from view all week. He drove down the winding road to the Holland Tunnel, which was, naturally, backed up with cars a half mile back. He reached the end of the traffic jam, waiting for the cars in front of him to inch ahead. He turned on the radio, jumping at the loud static on his usual station. Remembering he was now in New York, Casey turned on the scanner in his car, finally stopping at a station that was playing a familiar song. The car inched along the road through the tunnel. Casey cursed to himself. Damn New Yorkers couldn't even keep people out of their city when the temperature was about thirty degrees out.
Casey stood outside an old brick apartment housing complex in the Upper West Side. His car was parked around the corner in an underground garage. He pulled his keys out of his pants' pocket and climbed the concrete stairs up to the iron-gated front door. He fumbled with the keys until he got the right one and unlocked the gate. The front door opened with more ease, and he walked through with his black duffel bag slung over his shoulder, locking the gate and door behind him. Three flights up, he unlocked the door to his apartment, laying the duffel bag on the bed and heading straight to the bathroom. He was stiff from his drive, and shed his coat and sweater with a bit if difficulty. In the bathroom, he turned the water on the hottest setting and waited for it to warm; he caught his reflection in the aging mirror. His raven hair was matted where the headrest came in contact and his cerulean eyes were bloodshot.
The bell on the door of the shop tinkled gently, followed by the whoosh of the opening door and the soft padding of feet on the thin carpet. In the back corner of the store Casey stood up from organizing a new shipment of books to greet the visitor. The customer was an older man, his head shiny and bald, a graying goatee on his chin.
"Anything I can help you with sir? We carry all kinds of used books here, and we have a whole collection of classics in foreign languages," greeted the young man with a smile.
"I am looking for a very rare edition of this book," the older man said, pointing to a title hastily scribbled on a purple post-it note. The younger man stared at the little slip of paper, deciphering the delicate, quickly written, script. Casey smiled broadly at the older man, and beckoned him to follow. Casey led the man to an odd part of the shop behind a black curtain. The books were unbelievably dusty, but a particular shelf housed a similar group of books that were just as old as the others. All of them had a distinct black spine with silver lettering. The older man grumbled to himself. He should have known not to have taken this student's recommendation for reading, but she was a talented student of his. The young shopkeeper pulled out the title he was looking for, and the older man's eyes widened in pleasant surprise.
"Great Gatsby! You have it! I've looked all over this city for this book. One of my students recommended I read it."
Casey smiled again, and graciously cleaned the outside of the book on the way to the register. The old title was safely packed into a thin box and then into a paper bag with the letters 'Casper's Used Bookshop' emblazoned on it in an eerie green color. The bell on the door tinkled again as the man left.
Casey came out from behind the register and sat in the old leather armchair by the window of the store, pulling out the New York Times and opening it to the second page.
To any passerby, he was just the young man now working at the odd shop on the corner. He was just a young man, his blue eyes scanning second page of the New York Times through a pair of glasses, his jet black hair combed back neatly, sipping a coffee every so often out of a permanent. But Casey never read a word of that day's paper; December's news was useless to him. His eyes expertly peered just above the paper. He was watching the street. He saw and made note of every passerby, every car, and every animal. The quiet and dead Upper West Side block of apartments and odd shops was alive and intriguing to him; every person he saw he could catalogue. He put the coffee to lips, his Adam's apple moving up and down with the motion of swallowing. The cup was put back on the table next to the armchair, not a drop missing.
In Casey's apartment, the walls were tacked up with building plans, charts, maps, and various scribbles on notepaper. The wardrobe held a winter coat, two dress shirts, three sweaters, a pair of pants and a tie. Casey himself sat on the colorless quilt on his bed. He shuffled through little black notebooks and made more notes in a binder. It was well past midnight, and the second snow of the year was gently falling, though from the inside of the apartment, it was not easy to tell. The only two windows were covered by blinds. He sighed, tossing the papers down and stretching out on the bed.
He no longer wore a librarian-like sweater, but a simple white shirt with red cuffs; his hair was mussed up like usual; his fake glasses lay on the bedside. He unconsciously reached into his pocket to play with his badge, but stopped himself when he remembered that it would not be there. None of the things he was used to were here; he couldn't afford to forget it.
This is the first fanfiction that I am actually posting here, so please be kind and review if you've read it, even just to comment on gramatical mistakes or tell me that you liked it. I will try my best to upload regularly, but this chapter-a-day thing will probably not last very long. I have AP exams coming up, so the uploads will probably drop to once per week if it gets really bad. However, i will do my best to not complain and write as much as i can, especially for the people who have favorited this story so far. Visit my page or write me personally if you want more information about me or this story. And once again, thank you so much.
For the rest of the story, note that none of the characters you recognize belong to me.
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, take the time to REVIEW!
Are the characters making sense? or are they too OOC?
Are the setting and plot elements as they are presented in the story clear enough?
What doesnt seem to make sense when you read it?
This is the first story i posted, and ive been getting good readership, but a measly number of reviews. I really, really, just want to know what you think. I you liked it, all I need is a few encouraging words and maybe some questions. I will ask kindly, if you have favorited or put this story on alert, please make a point to review at least once.