The Road of a Thousand Eyes, Version 1
David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving
James left Baltimore carrying his old pocket watch, a suitcase stuffed with cash, and a Colt .45 tucked under his jacket. He caught the last train that night, rushing through Penn Station as cigarette smoke trailed behind him like car exhaust. Within a few minutes, the city and his old life disappeared behind him. He had enough money on him to start over, he thought, shedding his past as easily as someone changes their clothes. Out West, James told himself, it would all be different. He just had to get there and outrun the men looking for him.
The whole ride he couldn’t sleep. Instead, James relentlessly followed the moving hands on his timepiece. He had planned a hurried and convoluted route to evade anyone on his trail. He boarded trains South to DC, West out passed Shenandoah coal country, North to Cincinnati. Would they be waiting for him in Chicago, he wondered. His eyes were wide and bloodshot by the time he ate breakfast in Indianapolis: eggs and toast washed down by a dozen cups of coffee. From there, he hopped a bus to St. Louis, crammed between a pair of grandmothers. Along the way, his only real companions were that goddamn pocket watch and the suitcase he never let out of his sight.
Long before St. Louis, James got off at some no-name downtown. He found the nearest hotel and slept for what felt like a week. He shaved and put on a new suit and wore glasses he didn’t need, but that was just the beginning. By the time he was standing on the train platform in St. Louis, he’d become an entirely new man. Over the years, “James Robert Armstrong” performed this feat many times: in Boston and across the boroughs of New York, in Philadelphia and Trenton, Richmond and Baltimore. There was always a new identity to conjure up out of paperwork. He excelled at that! Then, his appearance changed accordingly. And a new mark and nefarious scheme weren’t far behind as the cycle repeated itself over and again.
But the sins from a thousand crimes and various misdeeds had started to accumulate, following him around like a bad smell. He had stolen the money in the suitcase like all the other money before it. Guilt wasn’t exactly the right word for what he was feeling, but whenever he caught his reflection from a certain angle or sat up unable to sleep, James recognized the cost of his falsehoods and the lives he’d ruined. He could still picture each of them… The deaths were regrettable, no doubt. Then again, those things had really been the wrongdoing of another man, some discarded version of himself he detached from whenever necessary. That was his mindset at least. He repeated it in his head on each segment of his journey like saying more often made it closer to the truth. He changed trains again in Kansas City, switched personas again with ease. Except his peace of mind could never quite withstand the constant ticks emanating from the pocket watch. It was the only relic left from his younger days. The engraved initials on the back were the very last hint to an identity he abandoned long ago.
L.L.G., it read.
He ran his fingers over the letters out of habit, almost remembering, but being sure to stop himself. There was no point to it. The past was always behind him, the future ahead, and he’d decided either California or Colorado would be his destination. It was fertile ground for new endeavors, he smiled to himself.
Barreling down the tracks, his train snaked across the countryside. It cut through mountains, over rivers, and into forests and when he finally crossed over into Colorado, James Armstrong was relieved. The tension in his shoulders finally loosened. At the next stop, he would get out, determined to eat an enormous steak dinner. He wanted to celebrate his next chapter and the fortune he stole to make it a reality.
“30 minutes to Denver,” the conductor repeated to everyone onboard.
James put his pocket watch away, muffling its rhythmic sounds. He spent that time envisioning his meal. With each passing second, the food and drinks became more elaborate and expensive in his imagination. He relished all the ways he could begin again. With that money, he could atone as much as he needed to, while living a leisurely existence beyond the reach of his origins.
L.L.G. was long dead, he told himself. The life of “James Robert Armstrong” would soon be a distant memory too.
As he went to disembark, suitcase in hand, that was the first time James noticed the figure. In the crowded train aisle, one silhouette stood out among the other exiting passengers. For an instant, his dark eyes cut into James with a glance. The man was simultaneously cold and angry, then he simply evaporated into the smoky haze of the train platform. The others walked away going about their business, while James stood there and fearfully clawed at the handgun in his jacket.
His meal that night was as good as spoiled from the paranoia. Afterwards, he transformed his hotel suite into a barricade with that same pistol ready at his side. All night, James ran through countless scenarios, replaying his long trip from start to finish. A thief was one thing, but if he’d been followed since Baltimore or even Kansas City, his life was in real danger. He contemplated going back, pivoting South to Florida or North to Canada. He could take a boat to the Caribbean or just drive a Model T off into the desert to Mexico or to parts unknown. James tried to recall who among his fellow travelers might have ratted him out along the way. Then, of course, there had been all the train porters, conductors, taxi drivers, hotel clerks, waiters, maids, fry cooks… Every man in a booth he bought a ticket from was now suspect, every chatty bartender a potential informant. Had he escaped or simply delayed his own execution? He spent the night carefully taking stock of his ammunition and formulating a plan.
The next morning, James jumped into action. The California coast was now his goal. He bought a battered old suitcase, wore workman’s clothes, and buried himself beneath an unremarkable façade designed to blend into any crowd. He mapped out a dozen routes and ten different opportunities to alter where exactly he was headed. A midnight train out of Denver would take him through the Southwest and onto the Pacific. From there, anything seemed possible, he thought.
James boarded the train that evening with his head down, his eyes focused on a copy of the Bible he’d taken from his last hotel room. In the rumbling darkness of a mostly empty train car, somehow James had fallen asleep. When he woke up again, it was still pitch black outside. He’d lost track of the time and where they were. Anonymous mountains and trees rushed by his window as the locomotive pressed onward through the night. Disoriented, James shuffled into the aisle, hoping to throw some water on his face and smoke a cigarette. Then. There. With a half-lit cigarette jutting from his mouth and his hands fumbling around with matches, he saw the man’s silhouette again. It was like a shadow following his every movement. He just hadn’t been aware of it when he first got up. In the dim light, he couldn’t get a clear view at the man’s face. James strained his eyes to decipher who was in front of him, but it was no use. Panicked and alert now, he dropped the matches and reached for his gun. In response, the silhouette didn’t move a muscle.
In that instant, James felt the blade carve into his back as a hand covered his mouth. The silhouette before him looked on at his victim struggling against his unseen accomplice. This fit only lasted a moment before James fell to his knees, his muffled cries going unheard. He was still conscious when they dragged him to the door and rifled through his belongings. The watch, the gun, his wallet – all pilfered off him. Weakened, he tried to stretch his right hand out to block them or fight them. That’s when the final wound came. The silhouette firmly grabbed his shirt and dug a knife deep into his abdomen. The door opened. In the moonlight, James thought he saw a sliver of a familiar face. He groaned at them, then the pair threw him from the moving train.
As the murderers shut the door, the rest of the passengers continued to slumber. The culprits traded an emotionless stare before fading away back to their seats. Lingering, that towering shadow of a man traced the sides of the pocket watch between his thumb and forefinger, eventually putting it in his coat for safekeeping.
“Goodbye, Lawrence…” he sneered.
