Identity Monster

By J.M. Loreline

Nick Roman discovers he has the ability to wake up as, to possess, anyone he wants. Unsure of just how this happened, he first uses it to stop a thief. When Lydia Tallow, a young drifter, stumbles onto his secret, he offers her a job not knowing that the past she is running from holds the answer to the source of his power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312291003

Book preview

Identity Monster

Identity Monster

Chapter 1 – The Monster and the Mail Thief

The bed felt like a used handkerchief. The sheets weren't dirty, not wet or sticky, nothing on the surface— but the fabric felt saturated, as though if pressed hard enough something would ooze out. The clock radio read 11:13 then blinked to 11:14 as if on cue.

As he shuffled to the bathroom, his tighty-whitey briefs freed themselves from his ass one hair at a time, like old velcro.

Okay this is weird. This isn’t me, but who is this guy? Let’s have a look at him.

He usually tried to sneak past the hallway mirror, not liking what it reflected. But this time he stopped and took a good long look: pudgy flesh wrapped around a slender frame; the thin curly hair on his chest and back matched the thin curly hair over his temples; and as he ran his fingers through his scalp, it felt like rubbing a fast food wrapper.

Scum and mold owned most of the shower. There was no shampoo and only a thin white sliver of soap, but the water was warm and cleansing.

The toothpaste tube lay shriveled and made a sticky ripping noise as he pried it from the counter. He had to roll up the tube and put his full weight on it to get any out, and half of what came out was dry crust. Unlike his teeth, his toothbrush was in near perfect condition. As he brushed, little red beads appeared on his gum line and mixed with the blue paste until he spit it out as a warm green.

You’re a real winner. I wonder if I made you floss, just how badly your gums would bleed. Doesn't matter anyway, it’s not like you own any floss.

He went back to the bedroom to get dressed. The dresser drawers were empty save for dust, but an empty hamper sat on the floor surrounded by a large pile of clothes. His nose hair curled when it caught the scent of jeans he picked off the floor, and he had to sniff three pairs before finding one he could stand the smell of.

The apartment itself was clean in a bland modern way, formed of blank, expressionless pasty white walls, with no decoration, and a drab brown carpet ideal for hiding stains.

The furniture was a jumble of secondhand pieces, many of which had once been sitting out on various curbs, most under signs that read free. In front of a threadbare pea-green couch sat a large plastic coffee table covered with envelopes and boxes, but in front of that sat something entirely out of place, something new and sleek: sixty-four inches of plasma glass encased in piano black plastic: the world's greatest television set. Piled in front of that, as if in tribute, were stack upon stack of movie discs. Mostly action movies, mostly sci-fi, but also an ample amount of porn— much of which was sci-fi as well.

He sat down behind the coffee table and started sorting through boxes and envelopes. A squarely stacked collection of other people's magazines sat on the edge of the table. These were the ones that interested him; like Mark Johnson's copy of Playboy, featuring blond triplets; or Janet Filmore's copy of Good Housekeeping featuring some blonde woman he didn't recognize. He planned on masturbating to both later on. Discarded on the floor below, sat an even larger pile of magazines. None of them had young blond women on their covers, and none of them were his.

Another neat pile sat on the other side of the table. This one made of pill boxes: Margret Stone's birth control, next to Doug Gorvich's Viagra, next to Nick Roman's sleeping pills, next to some two dozen others.

Those are not your pills… Those are my pills.

An odd thought popped into his head. He'd always looked at this as a game, the size of the piles his score— now it all seemed… pathetic.

You want pills? Fine, have some pills.

He grabbed a bottle at random and without looking at it, without reading the label, popped three into his mouth and felt them with his tongue. They tasted chalky.  He swallowed.

You don’t know I'm here, do you Jeff?

His name was Jeff Vance, and most days he worked for the post office. He was a mail sorter at the regional hub in Denver. Whenever a package came through untracked he would shake it. Dull thuds meant electronics, an iWhatever if he was lucky, but those were usually tracked, and people would come looking if they didn't show up. A baby rattle sound meant pills. This is what he was looking for. Those packages were never tracked.

He’d gotten good at hiding his pilfering from his supervisor. He'd stop for a month or so after any of the other sorters left or were fired, and he'd start up again a few days after a new sorter was hired. Though it had to be the right kind of sorter: an ex-con, anyone who gave the supervisor trouble, black, tattooed, whatever— it didn't matter so long as it was someone obvious to take the blame.

I'm not the only one with a reason to hate you. Let’s have some fun.

Another odd thought popped into his head. He didn't have to go into work that day, it was Saturday, his day off, but he thought about taking everything on the table, stuffing it all into a giant bag, leaving it in his locker, and slipping a note that said, "I am a thief, please check my locker," under his supervisor's door.

He felt an uneasy thrill at the possibility of having the cops called on him. They'd probably come down, arrest him, rough him up a bit, and throw him into a cell.  Or he could always be waiting in his car when they got there and make a run for it. He'd seen police chases on TV and he'd like to give that a try, though it's something you probably only get to do once, and the police beatings he'd seen on TV did not look so appealing.

It's okay buddy, Jeff, I don’t want to go through that either. Let's just get you ready for tomorrow.

He pointed his camera at the coffee table, piled high with other people's pills and other people's magazines, set the timer; and got a picture of himself, stupid grin and all; then printed it out, wrote, I am a thief, -Jeff Vance, and addressed it to the post office, care of Susan Wilkinson.

Susan was a co-worker, a black woman just over twenty, and an ex-meth addict three months out of rehab, in other words… obvious. Jeff had started his latest round of pilfering three days after she was hired. She'd only worked at the post office six weeks and had already been called into the supervisor's office twice. Last week she'd been placed on probation until the supervisor could get to the bottom of this. Jeff gave her crap every day. She'd made the mistake of being proud of graduating rehab and then mentioning it to him.  Jeff had used that information much the same way an unruly child might use a stick to poke a dead animal.

On the way to his usual coffee shop, Jeff slipped his confession into a public mailbox.

While Jeff might have worked in Denver, he lived in Boulder Colorado, a small city about half an hour to the northwest. There are three groups of people in Boulder: university people, rich people, and hippies. University people are there for school. Rich people are there because living in Boulder is a lot like being on vacation; it feels like a tourist town with walking malls, quaint old shops, and street performers. Hippies are there because… well for whatever reason hippies do anything.

Jeff frequented a local coffeehouse far enough away from the main drag so as to not throw out the homeless, the druggies, and the crazies. He liked playing chess with them.

He'd tried honing his skills online at a site called chessnut.org, but ended up getting the pants beat off him by Bishop234, or KnightGrrl12, or whomever else happened to be on. The first time he'd lost he typed back in all caps, CHEATR! The second time he wrote, UR USING A BOT! And the third time, FUCK U CUNT. After being banned from the site, he solicited games at the coffeehouse with anyone he could find: old street beggars that wandered in with cups of change or junkies waiting for their dealer, he could usually beat those sorts of people.

The other reason he came to the coffeehouse was to meet his dealer. Jeff didn't buy anything but pot and to Jeff pot didn't count as a drug, it certainly didn’t make him a druggie, not really, he’d tell himself, but the dealer was how he’d unload his pills. Once he'd tried selling directly, but none of the people in the coffeehouse were looking for Viagra or heart medication.

That day he didn't know what to do with himself. He hadn't thought to bring a chessboard, and he was still a bit sleepy, so he ordered an extra-large iced latte and sat sideways on a bench outside to watch people go by. Sipping the iced coffee in the cool fall weather brought about a dull pain in the roots of his front teeth. He was accustomed to letting his drinks slide to the back of his mouth, away from those sensitive nerves.

No chess today? A relaxed confident voice inquired from behind. It was the drug dealer.

I left my board at home. Forgot the stuff too.

No worries, nice day today isn't it? A sky like that just makes you happy to be alive. The dealer inhaled the scenery. A svelte man with light hair and a sharply chiseled nose, he dressed casually trendy and wore a brimless hat that covered his balding head.

I suppose. I hadn't noticed.

The dealer sat down and asked, How long have you been out here?  And you haven't noticed. It's a great day today. I've been walking since this morning.

I've been watching people.

The dealer dramatically ogled a passing girl. Yeah, nice scenery today. That makes me happy to be alive too.

Jeff snorted a chuckle out of his nose. Well that's been nice, but that's not what I've been watching. See those two kids with the bags over there by the parking garage? Jeff gestured towards a young couple; they wore coats too warm for the day and had several knapsacks with them.

Yeah, that's Devon and Lydia.

This answer startled Jeff, who replied, You know them? They drifters?

They're on their way out to L.A., nice folks. We hung out last night. Devon's hilarious.

They have a car or anything? Jeff watched as Devon accepted cash from a tourist.

No, they're hitchhiking.

So they're homeless?

If that's want you want to call it. The dealer paused to think about the situation before asking, So you've just been watching them?

That and drinking my latte.

What are you watching them for?

I dunno, they up to something?

Sometimes, man, the dealer said warmly, The best way to see things is up close. Ain't gonna bite you if you go up and say 'hi.' Give it a try sometime.

Yeah I suppose, but I'm not used to it. Not like you. I haven't got a reason to talk to everyone.

Reason? I'm just friendly. The dealer patted him on the shoulder. Just be friendly.

Jeff sipped his latte through the stirring straws and struck bottom, the drink churtled. Yeah, but did you sell them any?

Just a few joints… I threw some in for free, they're nice kids. The dealer raised an eyebrow near the edge of being offended.

I didn't mean it like that, Jeff started to explain, See that's a reason, with your job you can talk to everyone. It's an in, an angle. It's nice, like you're everyone's friend. Everyone you sell to likes you. Me, I'm just some asshole with a latte.

The dealer relaxed and smiled. I'm just some asshole with a shit load of pot. I get what you mean, but everyone's just some asshole to somebody.

They talked a while longer, about the news, about mutual friends, and about the coffee. Then the dealer drifted away and started talking to another friend. Jeff left.

The dealer's right. Can't you even try?

He walked by the drifters and thought about saying, So you headed to L.A.? He thought about offering them a ride, but it was too much bother, and they didn't seem as friendly as the dealer had described.

Sprawled out under the parking structure's shade, the guy, Devon, sat with his arms resting on one knee, a duffel bag at his back, and his eyes staring down at the nothing on the ground in front of him.  He wore dusty jeans and a worn military jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

The girl, Lydia, was leaning against a wall. She looked at people's feet as they walked by, not making eye contact but making sure to be seen. Her ash brown hair was dull from the wind and sun; her bony shoulders stretched against a checkered hoodie that was two sizes too small. And in an uncomfortable motion, she held out an open palm.

Come on, do something. You can’t be that big of an asshole.

Jeff stood there looking dumbstruck. She shivered and dropped her head. He rummaged through his pockets. In his jacket he found the bottle, the someone else's bottle, the one he had taken the pills from without looking, without knowing what it was or who's it was. Then he placed it into the girl's hand and walked away.

The rest of the afternoon, Jeff moped around town browsing the shops and taking in an old Three Stooges movie at the historical cinema. He developed another odd notion, one of trying to piss-off the drug dealer: Either turning him into the police, keying his car, or just up and punching him in the face.

But I actually like the dealer… Better than you anyway, Jeff.

His crappy apartment was waiting for him when he got home. Jeff rummaged through his belongings. Most of his CDs were some form of metal: death, speed, or heavy. He grabbed a handful of discs and shuttled them to the kitchen.

Iron Maiden's album Seventh Son of a Seventh Son features a cover with a dismembered demonic torso holding an in utero child. Many of its tracks are based on the band's interest in books. Blue sparks crackled and danced across the surface of the disc while it was in the microwave. Afterward, its once shiny surface looked like the broken floor of a desert.

Metallica's black album features a barely visible coiled snake on an otherwise black cover. It was a breakthrough album for the band, when they first started touching the mainstream. True fans saw it for what it really was— a sellout. Blue sparks crackled and danced across the surface of the disc while it was in the microwave. Afterward, its once shiny surface looked like the broken floor of a desert.

Jeff microwaved his collection with a dull, blank expression on his face. Megadeath, System of the Down, L.A. Guns, etc… all danced with blue sparks before being put back in their cases and carefully placed back on the shelf. Halfway through, he grabbed Ride the Lightning and stopped— he was bored. Burnt plastic stagnated in the air.

After pushing aside the cardboard mailing boxes that were stacked up against the glass patio door, he forced the sliding door open, grinding it against its track; and stepped out into the evening air. Below the setting sun, Boulder was truly beautiful. The short wall of mountains that cradle it on the west were dwarfed by huge clouds hanging high in an orange sky, and the streets below were speckled with people heading toward the nightlife district. The apartment was small, and cold, and empty. At the back of his closet hung an old dress shirt and slacks with a bitter dusty odor. He shook them out, put them on, and headed into town.

There was a familiar loneliness in walking the busy streets. All around him groups of people crowded in and out of shops and restaurants, and gathered around street performers.  There weren't many by themselves. Almost everyone had somebody, and those without looked like they were on their way to meet someone.

Jeff faked checking his cell phone and darted his eyes around the crowd as if he were looking for some friends, but he was just trying to fit in. The only other people there by themselves were the street performers: A magician doing tricks atop a ladder, and an old man blowing enormous bubbles. Maybe they only did those things to have a reason to be out. Maybe they were just looking for attention, not money, and every moment a passerby watched was one less moment they had to spend alone.

You are alone, aren’t you, Jeff. You don’t have an angle; you're not performing.

Again he glanced at his cell phone, repeating the futile gesture in case anyone was watching.

And then he spotted the drug dealer standing at the end of the strip having a cigarette with the two drifters from before. The dealer was animated as he smoked, moving his hands to make a point that Jeff couldn't quite hear. The drifters didn't look like drifters anymore— they looked too relaxed, at ease. The girl hung off the boy's arm, and the boy hung off the words of the dealer.

Jeff walked up close behind. They didn't notice. He moved into view of the dealer, turned and said, Hey man what's up?

Hey hey, Jeff, almost didn't recognize you. You're all dressed up, headed somewhere?

Well, I was gonna meet someone for dinner, but it got canceled. Jeff punctuated the lie by shrugging his shoulders and looking annoyed.

Oh man, that's too bad. You remember Devon and Lydia? We were just talking about consciousness.

Jeff thought to himself, What the fuck does that mean? but said, Cool man, seen anything good tonight?

Naw, just hanging out shooting the shit, good times. What are you up to?

I still need to eat, gonna go find something.

Man! I'm hungry as balls. The dealer looked over to the drifters. You guys wanna go get some food?

The girl pulled at the boy. He bit his tongue. Trying not to make eye contact, he responded, No… that's okay. We're alright.

Jeff looked over at the dealer. It would be a little awkward having dinner with just the two of them; he didn't know if he could keep a conversation going.

You're not usually the generous sort are you, but why not?

Jeff spoke, Ah that's too bad, good for me though. It was my turn to buy.

The dealer's eyes looked surprised at Jeff's offer, but his mouth didn't miss a beat. Trying to rip me off? he jested and turned to the drifters. Last time it was my turn to buy, and Jeff brought his whole damn posse!

The drifters nervously agreed, and the dealer headed the four toward a sushi bar. The drifters weren't so out of place on the patio; their worn clothes gave off a hippie vibe, and the pungent smell of cigarette smoke covered the telltale odors of vagrancy. The place had a drink on the menu called the Pink Godzilla. It was a huge tropical girlie looking drink that came with a straw for everyone. After a few of those, Devon and Lydia started to loosen up, and after a few more everyone was quite drunk.

Devon came back from the bathroom with a giant smile on his face. Aww man I tell you what, that was great!

Yeah? What was great? Jeff inquired.

Don’t you just love how you feel after a good dump? It's the best I ever felt.

Yeah I guess, though it’s not something I look forward to.

Really? How can you not look forward to it? Man, I just love how I feel afterwards.

Isn't that just the absence of having to go? I mean what if you never had to go, wouldn't that be better?

Not for me, it just makes it that much sweeter when I do.

In the back of his mind, Jeff knew the point wasn't worth arguing, but he did anyway. So you're saying that maybe a half-hour's worth of having to shit really bad is totally worth it because of the relief you feel that one moment after you go?

Sure, totally.

But it's a half-hour of having to shit versus maybe thirty seconds of feeling good. Wouldn't you rather just feel good all the time?

Ahh yes, but without that half-hour how would I know what feeling good was really like?

The dealer patted Devon on the shoulder. You know you are so right! It doesn't matter how long the pain is. It's that one awesome moment of relief that really matters.

Jeff glanced at the girl. She had been trying very hard to be too busy eating to enter into the conversation. She wore a serious expression on her face and was keeping one hand in her coat pocket. That hand was fidgeting with something, and as Jeff looked more closely, he saw the outline of the pill bottle he had given her stretched against the fabric of her hoodie. So you're defining the best moments of your life as being after you take a dump?

The girl looked up, thinking for a moment that Jeff was addressing her.

Devon answered, smiling widely and proudly, Totally!

Alright Jeff, this has been fun. But it's time to go, and you don’t really deserve any new friends anyway.

Great, now you got me thinking about it, and I have to go. Jeff said excusing himself, and walked toward the restroom. As soon as he got out of view, he exited through the front door, and left the dealer and the drifters with a bill for two hundred dollars. When he got home, he dead-bolted the front door, turned off his phone, and went to sleep.

Chapter 2 – In Person

I awoke to find my body cold and still. Lying on my back, I flexed my fingers to coax blood through my numb limbs. A lawn mower hummed in the distance, like a recording with the volume on low. And as the morning light glided over the vintage band posters that adorned my walls, something occurred to me. This was not Boulder. This was not Jeff Vance’s apartment. I am not Jeff Vance.

I was back at home again, in North Hollywood.

There’s something I need to explain about myself.  I’m a chronic insomniac. At night, I'll lie in bed with my mind racing on anything and everything: things I need to do, could have done better, or how my life isn't what I wanted. My head will throb against the pillow as thoughts force themselves through my mind. I’ll try to think of nothing, try to force the thoughts below the surface, push them down into murmurs, and wait for my mind to exhaust itself only to wake a few hours later covered in sweat, my muscles sore and twitching.

Last night, however, I slept like a stone.

I remembered having a dream about Jeff Vance, from his perspective, almost like I was him. His stench was still in my memory.  My gums even bled a little when I flossed; that made me shudder. The man was a waste of space with a government job, a giant television… and my pills, I remember he had my pills.

But what was he? Just a figment of my imagination, a devil I'd conjured up to explain something unfair in my life? The pills probably fell off a truck or got lost at the pharmacy, or someone who really needed them stole them, or something. Still, he seemed familiar like I knew him, but I didn't.

Usually if I want to remember a dream, I need to think about it right after I wake up, and what I really remember is me thinking about it, not the dream itself. But here it was rattling away in my head: the drug dealer, the drifters, Devon, Lydia, and the taste of sushi.

I went out and took a walk around the neighborhood. North Hollywood is low key. It's north across the hills and not part of Hollywood proper, but has more to do with the movie industry. It's where all the key grips, the gaffers, and the best boys live.

I've never been able to grasp the reason that most of the shops you see here are either liquor stores, nail salons, or gun stores. The larger unmarked buildings are studios or sounds stages, and there's also a lot of very specific stores like the new age bookstore or the year-round Christmas store. I'll walk by them on the way to lunch and never see a single customer or an employee, and often times they'll have chairs stuck up against the door, blocking them. I suspect a few of these are mob fronts. The only way to tell is to wait; the one's that go out of business aren't.

During the walk, my joints ached less and less with each step, though the glare of the sun against the concrete stayed the same; if I'd look too long in one place I'd see it's negative when I looked away.  I passed three nail salons, two liquor stores, a gun store, a costume shop, a psychic, and a cat spa on the way to the closest pharmacy.

I hate shopping in person at pharmacies. In person you find what's wrong with you on a shelf: bad breath, constipation, nicotine addiction, insomnia, hair loss, foot fungus; you pick it up and hand it to the clerk who scans your problem into a computer, charges you for it, and puts it in a bag.

Prescription drugs are worse. With a prescription they've written down what’s wrong with you on paper and entered it into a nation-wide computer system, classifying you by your problem as if it were your social security number or your name.