Sunken Men

The man, who emerged from the Corner Lounge, was composed in irony. His attire, the mirror image of the profile picture on Esmond's phone. A suit, with matching tie and pocket square. The Corner Lounge, unlike the upscale name suggested, was no place for a man of such stature. This was a place for minors and pool sharks to get drunk and smoke inside, as if it were still the 1970s. Through his side mirror, Esmond saw the man turn toward the silver Prius. Although from surface appearance, the man did not seem to match his environment, Esmond saw in his new rider's eyes, the overdressed man was in no way a fish out of water.

Eyes like these, he had learned to recognize as a driver. First seeing them, when he picked up a man slated in gang tattoos. The tattooed man sprawled across the back seats with two objects. The first was a mediocre-sized bottle of tequila, the second, Esmond later learned, was a nine millimeter Smith & Wesson. After pointing the gun, the gang member asked Esmond, not for his money, but to call the police, begging to return to the prison, where he felt most at home. Esmond complied.

Now, a man with the very same pale eyes was opening Esmond’s car door. Frigid night air swarmed inside. The man confirmed the ride was his and entered the back seat.

Smoke that had clung to his blazer jumped off and filled the car with the scent of cheap tobacco. The man did not buckle his seatbelt, instead, he fired a glance into the rearview mirror, confirming Esmond's suspicions with his dullen gaze. Esmond was in luck, the rider was – as he called it – a sunken man.

Esmond had started working the ride-share apps after quitting his position as the esteemed manager of both a KFC and a Taco Bell. They were in the same building. That job was never going to lead to anything. This job would. Not because he could get a promotion or earn enough to make decent savings. In this job, Esmond had learned to make friends. But better, he learned how to make friends with men who only knew acquaintances: sunken men. And they could be very useful.

Rich or poor, it didn’t matter. They could be found anywhere. Men who lived on the surface, or too deep under to find the waterline. It took experimentation, different levels of himself, different roles, different clothes. Glasses or no glasses. Smiling or Stoic. Real stories or fake. He found that none of it really mattered. The true underlying thing that brought these aloof men to fresh air was an absurd truth. Not an honesty in the stories or even personality. What reflected the inner essence of a sunken man was the ridiculous realization, in combination with the predetermined desecration.

Esmond could find no better way to explain it.

“If I never go back there, it will be too soon”, the rider said.

This surprised Esmond, both in presence and in context. The mere act of speaking first was an uncommon occurrence for any rider, but particularly sunken men. Furthermore, the statement itself seemed uncharacteristic of his typical targets. This did not deter Esmond from his original notion. The eyes were a dead giveaway.

“Can’t say you struck me as a billiards man. Night not go as you hoped?” Esmond always started by getting them to answer – simple – yet vaguely personal questions. Hope was always a hard word for a sunken man to hear.

“I never hope for anything, no reason to. Makes no difference”.

“Really? I hear a lot on my drives, never heard that one. So you don’t hope”, Esmond pretended to think for a moment, “Then tell me, do you plan? Or make plans, I mean”.

“Plan”, the man seemed to process the question, his eyes drifting to the passing streetlights, out of focus. “You think to plan that one must hope, so no, I only prepare”.

Esmond laughed at the man's response.

This one was a player for sure. Often, sunken men approached conversation as a battle of chess, predicting the moves to come. Esmond had played this game many times. Plenty of salesmen found him to be a great canvas for practicing a pitch. None of them expected to be outsmarted by their driver. From free concert tickets, wedding invitations, and even freely given blackmail, salesmen had become Esmond's favorite victims.

The ride carried them onto the interstate. For a Friday evening, the road was surprisingly deserted. The two men were completely alone.

They traveled nearly a mile before Esmond had a response. This was fine for his purposes. Salesmen in particular liked a moment to soak in victory. “So - ”

“As a man with hope, how can you handle disappointment? I never could”. Again, the rider got his question out first.

“I suppose I have always found something else to hope for, and then I move onto the next thing”, Esmond replied. He was on the defensive now. He had to feint vulnerability, let the rider bore deep into his vanguard, then out-maneuver him with a flank. “Is that what happened? Did you run out of things to hope for?”

“No, I hoped for the wrong things, and I stopped”.

“I always have satisfaction to fall back on. That's something to hope for”.

The prisoner eyes snapped back at Esmond in the rear-view mirror – the gambit was set.

The man went silent for a while. When he spoke, he changed the topic. “How long have you been driving?”

“Four years”.

“Huh. I have never done the same thing for more than a year myself. Have you not gotten bored of it?”

“Well, it's always different”.

“What could be different, the routes? Yes, I suppose there would be an unlimited number of those”. The man's eyes drifted back to the passing landscape there were only shadows to see. No headlights drew his gaze.

“No, it's the people”.

“Ha, that’s a good one, but we both know you don’t believe that”.

They were back on track. Detours were always to be expected on a drive. “And why not? All I do is talk to people. Wouldn’t I know what I think about them?” Esmond tried to sound offended.

“That does not change the fact that you are lying. Possibly to yourself, but I find that hard to believe”.

“Since when do you believe in things?”.

“No, I said that I do not hope. Believing is an entirely separate function”.

“How could you believe with no hope?”

“The devout killer does not hope that he will go to heaven when he dies, but he believes wholeheartedly that he will burn, does he not?”

A salesman with a sense for poetry, this one continued to surprise.

“He could hope for forgiveness, I would. A priest would tell him there could be forgiveness if he repents”.

“But if he knows he will kill again, he must surely know that there is no absolution for him. Or do you think that everyone is as dumb as priests?” The man in the suit burst out with laughter. Esmond smiled too, not because he thought the joke was funny, he smiled because the killer was pre-ordained to damnation. Halfway there.

“Well if the man could not change, then why would god create him?” Esmond asked

“How should I know, I’m not religious”.

They both laughed this time.

Finally, Esmond saw taillights ahead. The Prius, with its two occupants, was no longer the only car on the four-lane highway. But something wasn’t right. The brake lights weren’t moving. The silver Prius was plummeting toward two large trucks, flipped on their sides. There was no time left for Esmond to stomp on his left pedal.

***

The day Esmond had first discovered the true opportunity of his new form of employment, he had nearly been killed. This occurred six months into his now permanent career, when it was still just a way to pay the bills.

Esmond was driving a sunken man, though he did not yet know it, nor even of their existence. At the time, he owned a gas-guzzling Jeep and was noticing how much the poor mileage was eating into his earnings. His next vehicle was already picked out, the Prius, which he now owned. Unfortunately, not a soul was willing to purchase the beat-up, manual Wrangler.

Early in his process of experimentation, before he was even consciously doing it, Esmond had become more and more candid with each rider that he picked up. So it happens that he was describing this very predicament to the sunken man in his back seat. This particular sunken man daylighted as an extremely successful lawyer and moonlighted as an expert blackmailer.

Though Esmond would not admit it, his forthright honesty could most be attributed to the increasing frequency in which he considered bridges, handguns, and nooses. Back then, he often weighed the pros and cons of each option. Earlier that day, he settled on bridge.

While many would expect a sophisticated lawyer to loathe any mention of struggle or depression from those serving them, this one was a sunken man. From his own experience, he had learned just how near the common man was to great influence and power, and was surprisingly open to hearing the complaints of his driver.

The Lawyer was also quite the fan of sharing advice freely and later finding a way to receive retribution for his services. This skill, Esmond had utilized many times since that drive.

After the lawyer heard Esmond's long list of complaints about vehicles, bills, and disrespect, and long after he had inferred Esmond’s suicidal tendencies, he took it upon himself to share a very unique piece of advice. “My friend”, the lawyer often referred to those he was not acquainted with, in this way, “Your issue is in no way unique to yourself. If you do not mind me saying, it is the most common thing in the world. Men of our kind experience it every day, and it is painful when you do not understand it. When you cannot accept it.

“The truth is, friend. You are evil, or at the very least amoral, and for some reason, you try to find joy from those things, from which saints draw elation. But I can teach you how to take the soul of a man and make it yours, and with that power, you can have everything you have dreamed of. Money, influence, and ecstasy.

“First, I need to let you in on a secret. There are two things you need to accept in order to find satisfaction in this life.

“You will never be happy, and there is nothing you can do about it”.

***

In the short time before braking and impacting the crashed trucks, Esmond spotted an exit ramp two lanes over. He cranked the steering wheel, foot pressed hard on the brake. A screech erupted between rubber tires and asphalt road. Weight shifted heavily toward the driver’s side. Wheels lifted off the ground. They were moments from flipping over the guardrail.

The wheels touched back down, and the unimpressive vehicle smoothed along the looping exit. Although they had survived, fear struck Esmond. A deep anxiety lay in his gut. Like an old elevator that drops too quickly, the hard turn had shaken his intestines, leaving Esmond with a deep, uncomfortable feeling.

The rear-view mirror showed that the man in the suit was still looking out the window. His dark eyes were motionless, passively observing the blurry city. It began to sprinkle. Raindrops were running down the side of the Prius, reflecting the dim streetlights.

“So a detour then?” The man in the suit said.

The map on Esmond's phone rerouted and showed a path straight through the city towards a downtown apartment, their destination.

“Yes, sorry about that, it looks like it's going to be a long trip home”. The sudden normal conversation seemed out of place, but Esmond knew to go with it.

“I never said that I was going home”.

“Oh, I just assumed. What is it then? Friend’s place?”

The man in the back grunted, a deep guttural sound. He seemed more interested in what lay beyond the window than superficial small talk from his driver.

Esmond continued along the new route, turned onto Broadway, and once again headed north. The city was vacant. Bars and liquor stores showed bright lights for open, yet no one was outside. There were no lines, no audible music, and – even stranger – no blanket-covered lumps of drug addicts lying against brick walls. The lack of traffic was nice, they hit every green light.

“Do you live in the city?”

“Yes, I live in the city”.

“Well… is something going on? Where’s everybody?”

“Just a boring night. It happens”.

“Yeah, I suppose, but you haven’t heard anything?” Esmond pushed.

“What’s there to hear about nothing?”

Of course, the man hadn’t heard anything. Who would tell him? Besides, in his growing anxiety, Esmond was losing sight of his goal. He had achieved half of the formula, yet the ridiculous realization still needed realizing.

“It’s strange, I hate driving in the city, but my rides always seem to bring me back here. But I’m sure you can relate”.

“How do you mean?”

“Well the pool hall. The Corner Lounge, you say that you never want to go back there, but I assume that wasn’t your first time, was it?”

“No, it was not my first time”.

“You used to go there a lot?”

The Sunken man finally looked away from the window and found Esmond’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. For a moment, he looked helpless. “Yes, there is something that has drawn me back, I can’t help myself sometimes”.

Esmond had a lightness in his chest, he had a sunken man right where he wanted him, and this one, though he wasn’t sure why, would be his biggest catch yet. It could be money, influence, or just a useful cunning. Whatever this man had would be enough to change Esmond's life. But all the more invigorating, the satisfaction of bringing the man out from the depths and revealing what he truly was.

Time for some context, get a look at what he would gain from this hunt. “So tell me. What was this hope that was so wrong it made you swear off the entire concept?”

“A man”.

“Huh? Once again you surprise me, what could this man have to offer you?”

“Charisma, wisdom, power, philosophy. Whatever I wanted, I went to him for it. And he led me deeper and deeper into his cult of personality. But I realized the carrot he dangled in front of me, riches, and brief delights, they all went stale”.

A big fish indeed, once Esmond had brought this man under his thumb, like he had so many others, he would unlock a vast network of sunken men. All with the ability to provide unknown satisfactions.

Esmond stopped revelling when he recognized their surroundings. They were nearing the wide river that bordered the southern side of downtown, once over, there wouldn't be much time left to reel in his hull.

“Why then, clearly you can never be at peace. The bar nor the man could bring you satisfaction. What keeps you going?”

“You see, friend, I do not need satisfaction. I have something far greater, purpose”.

The rider reminded Esmond more and more of the first sunken man he had met. Both spoke with a sense of poetry and a level of honesty beyond what was typical for their breed. That strange deja vu was more unsettling than the city that had morphed into a ghost town, or the near-deadly highway escape.

It didn’t matter. Esmond just had to push past one last facade to reveal his rider's truth. The rider had to be like him. He had to be a sunken man.

“What good is-”

“You will never be happy without a soul, but there is something I can do about it”.

Had the lawyer finally come back to collect on his debt. Esmond chuckled at the thought, but he looked again in the rear-view mirror to confirm that he did not recognize his rider. They were certainly different men, though some features were familiar, particularly those soulless dark eyes.

“The light’s green, are you going to go?”.

Esmond mumbled a reply. How long had he stared? He tried to watch the road as he drove, but something kept pulling him back to those eyes.

They crossed several blocks without speaking, and then onto the bridge. Despite the detour, they were finally closing in on their destination. Esmond, forgetting his goal, let out a sigh, relieved to be rid of the stranger.

“You don’t like surprises, do you?”

“Surprises? only good ones, I guess”.

“But you're uncomfortable with the unexpected. You expect there to be people in the city and there are not. That scares you. You expect something of me too, but I am not, and that makes you feel powerless”.

Esmond gripped his wheel tighter.

“Don’t feel too bad. Experimentation can only get you so far. The only problem is where it leaves you when something breaks the pattern. I don’t fit into your rules because I have sunk into the depths, and found a light at the bottom. Purpose. I will rid the world of men like us”.

His eyes were bulging now, erupting out of the flat, plain face of the mysterious rider. They filled the skinny rear-view mirror, blocking all view of anything but their protruding depth.

Esmond could not pry his gaze from those eyes.

He could not see the road.

He could not stop the car from flying off the edge of the bridge.