That Other Guy

by Brian Clark

That Other Guy: synopsis

In a switch on the Jekyll and Hyde story, journalist Richard Callaghan transforms from an arrogant, insensitive and stingy man into an easygoing, kind and generous guy who likes to be called Ricky (a nickname that Richard detests). The answer to the mystery of the alternate personality will be found deep inside Richard’s brain, but not before Ricky turns his life upside down.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents, chapters:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Chapter 5

Richard did his best thinking during his morning walks. The daily headaches had left him a little muddle-brained at times, but he was confident he could still reason his way out of a problem.

It was a bright day, but dark sunglasses and a ball-cap visor pulled low made the glare and his head pain tolerable. A light breeze rustled the pines, oaks and maples lining Hogan Street as Richard set off down the sidewalk.

So, he thought, now two people he had never met — so far as he knew — had greeted him like a long-lost friend and called him Ricky. How to explain that?

He had, at least initially, felt confident in dismissing the first incident as being the product of a senile mind, even if the fat old lady had somehow managed to get his name sort of right. But Ryan Doyle was harder to explain. He might be scruffy and maybe even eccentric, but he certainly wasn’t senile.

Was it possible, Richard wondered as he skirted a tricycle left in the middle of the sidewalk, that his double really was wandering around Dalesford doing good deeds? Richard once met a man who looked eerily like him. It had happened at a wedding reception, and he had found the experience profoundly unsettling.

But what were the odds that this “twin” would share his first name, although preferring the despicable sobriquet Ricky?

Well, I guess it’s possible, he thought. Richard is a common name.

But was that the most likely answer? What was the Occam’s-razor explanation for all this?

Richard occasionally had to explain the term to a reporter. At its core, he would tell them, it meant that for any unknown phenomenon, the simplest theory was the preferred one. To Mark Reynolds, he added that the Occam’s-razor explanation for someone not knowing the term was likely stupidity. He remembered thinking that it was a clever jibe, but now he felt a twinge of remorse.

He walked on and continued to ponder the mystery. OK, what makes the most sense? Two people I don’t know each having a psychotic episode? The doppelgänger theory? Am I just dreaming the whole thing?

Or...

Could it all somehow be related to these damn headaches and dizzy spells and—

He stopped in his tracks at the Buchanan Street intersection. “How long’s that been there?” he mumbled.

Across the street was a sign that read, Coming Soon: The West Dalesford Recreation Center. The billboard featured a drawing of two pigtailed girls splashing around in a pool.

He stood staring at the sign, trying to remember the last time he had walked this route. Was it yesterday? The day before? The day before that?

He didn’t know. His morning constitutional frequently took him this way: Hogan Street to Buchanan to Ballantyne — often stopping in the park — to Maple and back to Hogan.

But sometimes he set off the other way along Hogan, crossing Maple and ending up on Townline Road, where he hiked the trails adjacent to the quarry. Other times, he went the other way on Maple for a jaunt to the village of Blairford where he did a little window-shopping.

But for the life of him, Richard couldn’t recall where he had walked the past few mornings, although he was pretty sure he had gone somewhere. The last excursion he could remember clearly was the one when he had met the old farmhouse lady, and he wasn’t sure how long ago that had been. It felt like a dense fog had seeped into his memory bank, leaving nothing but faint, misty traces.

A babble of little voices stirred Richard from his contemplation, and he turned to see a procession of hand-holding toddlers making their way towards him along the Buchanan Street sidewalk. They were accompanied by a couple of young women — a blonde and a redhead — wearing blue jeans and red Tiny Tots Daycare T-shirts.

Richard set off down Buchanan and, as he passed the parade of little ones, a couple of them said hi. Soon it became a chorus.

“Hi!”

“Hi, mister!”

“Hi there!”

Richard managed a weak smile. “Hi, kids. Hi, kids.”

One tyke pulled a hand free to wave at Richard. The sudden decoupling of the kid train somehow tripped up three of the trailing children, who went down in a heap. They started crying, and the blonde ran to help.

“They OK?” Richard asked the other woman as he passed her.

She flashed a crooked grin. “Yeah, sure. Happens at least a couple times a week. The tears never last long.”

As Richard passed the last of the children, he heard the redhead say: “OK, guys, time to get the choo-choo going again. Woo-Woo!”

Sure enough, the waterworks were already over. Thirty seconds later, Richard looked back and saw the happy kid caravan turn the corner onto Hogan.

He turned back around, and the old farmhouse came into view. He noticed two things right away. The first was that the owner was nowhere to be seen. And he was grateful for that. The second was that the porch was gleaming under a fresh coat of paint. It was this second observation that brought him to a halt.

“OK,” he murmured, “what does this mean?”

He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He almost did it without thinking these days.

All right, it’s simple. She decided to hire a painting contractor after all. Of course she did. That’s the logical explanation. No mystery here at all.

“Right then,” he said to himself and started walking again. “So that’s what hunter green looks like.”

Ten minutes later Richard reached the park and decided to rest for a while on the bench in the stand of red maples.

A pair of blue jays started to jeer at each other. A fat bumblebee droned past. The breeze whispered through the tree canopy.

Relaxed, Richard stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. He noticed a spot on his right running shoe. He lifted his right leg and crossed it over his left to get a closer look. It appeared to be a tiny paint stain.

Hunter green.

Proceed to Chapter 6...