Terry Sanville

Terry Sanville

Alan Luckton

The beautiful woman takes strident steps next to me. We approach the traffic signal. It turns red before we can cross. But she doesn’t stop and is nearly sideswiped by a U-Haul truck. She yells into an old-style flip phone pressed to her ear. Her shouts echo down the busy downtown corridor, “ALAN LUCKTON, ALAN LUCKTON. FUCK ALAN LUCKTON.”

The woman flings the phone into the street and hustles across the intersection on the red. Horns blare and brakes squeal. A UPS van noses into the curb. Some of the pedestrians laugh.

When the light turns green, I follow her down the boulevard. Her hands and arms pantomime an angry air drama. She soon outdistances me.

A homeless man passes, pushing his life’s belongings in a rusted shopping cart at breakneck speed. He mutters, “Alan Luckton, Alan Luckton, Fuck Alan Luckton.”

Like an earworm, Alan Luckton won’t leave me. Who the hell is this idiot? Why should I care? Maybe I should Google him? Watch the evening news for hints? Smoke some pot and let him fade from my mind? I try thinking about today’s work, about meeting Marjorie at home, the kids yelling their welcomes along with the eternal question: “What did you bring me?” But Alan Luckton prefaces all my thoughts.

It takes me a half hour to walk home from my downtown office job. As I pass the Marsh Street Bridge that crosses the river, I hear a strange low rumble over the traffic noise. It sounds like voices in church, sleepily reciting a prayer at a dawn service.

I step off the sidewalk and inch my way down the bank next to the bridge abutments, my leather shoes slipping in the wet grass. The river flows full but quiet, the late afternoon sun turning it golden chrome. Near the base of the bridge, I peer around the corner. The flickering sunlight off the water reflects onto the concrete ceiling, wavering, ghostly. A group of drifters, some with families, sit at water’s edge. They chant, “Alan Luckton, Alan Luckton, Fuck Alan Luckton,” like the response to a Catholic litany.

One of them sees me and waves me forward. But I flee up the bank and down the street, arriving home in time to see my wife pull into the driveway with the kids and that night’s takeout.

She climbs from our SUV and kisses me on the lips. My daughters giggle, my son makes a face. We move inside our split-level ranch.

“How was your day?” she asks.

I lay out the plates for dinner. “Like any other . . . boring, except for this thing that happened on the way home.”

“Boring? Really? No cake? No good luck card signed by everyone?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say and mean it.

Marjorie stares at me for a moment. “Did you stop at Sully’s on the way home for a couple shots? I know you like their barmaid. I can smell her on you every time you pop in for a quick one.” She grins and inhales a deep whiff.

“No . . . no. But there was this woman . . . “

“Ah ha, I knew it.”

“Relax, will ya. She was walking down Higuera Street yelling, “Alan Luckton, Alan Luckton, Fuck Alan Luckton.”

My kids laugh.

“Watch your language,” Marjorie scolds. “So who’s Alan Luckton? Should I know him?”

“Beats me. But his name’s stuck in my head and I can’t get it out.”

My wife moves in back of me and massages my shoulders. “Just relax, hon. Later, after I put the kids down, I know a way to fix your problem.” She kisses me behind the ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Can’t wait,” I murmur.

In the morning, I wake fresh and enjoy every step of my walk to work. But when I arrive at the office it feels abandoned, as if I’ve mistakenly come in on the weekend. The phones stay quiet and there’s no activity in the cubicles. I hang my coat over the back of a chair and sit at my desk, turn on my computer, check emails, watch the latest YouTube cat videos, then open a file.

I lean back in my chair and study the screen. But instead of the monotonous sea of black words on white, the monitor stays dark with a red crawler slowly moving from right to left, “Alan Luckton, Alan Luckton, Fuck Alan Luckton.”

“Shit,” I mutter and close the file. Didn’t really want to edit that contract anyway.

Two men appear as eerie reflections in my screen. I turn to find my boss, Ethan, standing next to a man I’ve never seen before.

“I’m glad you came in today, Jim,” Ethan says. “I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. The stranger shuffles his feet, a smarmy little smile creasing his face.

Ethan clears his throat. “I thought that since this is your last day, you could show your replacement your working files, brief him on what needs to be completed.”

I rise slowly from my chair, the back of my neck numb. I stare at the replacement decked out in a narrow-lapelled suit and tie. “And who the fuck is this guy?”

Still smiling, the man sticks out his hand. “My name’s Alan Luckton.”

“ALAN LUCKTON, ALAN LUCKTON, FUCK ALAN LUCKTON,” I scream, grab my coat and escape.

From the sea of cubicles, a low rumble of voices begins to chant, “Alan Luckton, Alan Luckton, Fuck Alan Luckton.” It grows louder as I make my way through the maze and push outside. The heavy door closes behind me, cutting off the clamor. My mind clears. The pain in my chest subsides. I stare in wonder at the beautiful city in the morning light, grateful for this well-deserved freedom.