The Passenger Read Online Free PDF Page B

shaming Rufus and Tom, my hall-mates, for their slovenly ways. But at night, I couldn’t join in their card games and group television consumption. It was heartbreaking to see three impoverished middle-aged men, living on the fringe, seeking out the only company that would have them.
    There was just one other woman in the house, besides Ruth. She had a basement room with her own bathroom. If you ever caught her eye, you’d know what a person who was irretrievably gone looked like. If I believed in spirits and souls, I would say she was an empty vessel.
    At night I’d eat alone in a diner or a vegetarian restaurant, which Austin seemed to have in shocking numbers. I learned that seitan wasn’t my thing. Actually, I learned that not eating meat wasn’t my thing. After dinner I’d try to find a bar where I felt invisible. For a few nights I frequented a dive by the University of Texas campus called the Hole in the Wall. I liked watching the students try to meld with the regulars, ordering whiskey that was too strong for their new taste buds. And yet they’d always order shots, like they were taking their medicine. I liked that funny grimace they’d make when the elixir cleared their throat. I don’t remember ever making that face. It always felt nice and warm to me. As the evening wore on, their voices would rise as if an outside source were controlling the volume on a stereo. The more foolish they looked, the more envious I became. What a luxury it seemed to have four years to try to figure out who you are.
    On the third night I was at the Hole, a regular who resembled a young Roy Orbison, with that same mop of black hair and tinted glasses—an accessory that I find decidedly untrustworthy—tried to strike up a conversation after he’d lost a game of pool.
    â€œHaven’t I seen you here before?” Young Roy asked. He said it like it was a normal question, not an old line, but still. He should have known better.
    â€œI don’t know what you’ve seen or not seen.”
    â€œYou’re a smart one, aren’t you?”
    â€œNot particularly.”
    â€œYou new around here?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œI’m from a lot of places,” I said. Tell the truth when possible. The lies add up and you’ll never keep track.
    â€œMaybe I know one of them.”
    â€œMaybe you do.”
    â€œI’m just being friendly.”
    â€œMaybe someone else here would be more receptive to your friendliness.”
    â€œI can take a hint,” Young Roy said, sweeping up his pint and strolling back to the pool table.
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man watching our exchange. He didn’t even bother to avert his gaze when he saw me notice him. To the naked eye, he looked far more normal than Young Roy. He was maybe in his early thirties, wearing a starched white shirt and black trousers and steel-rimmed glasses, his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. His shirt was so crisp it looked like he had just picked it up from the cleaners and slipped it on before he walked through the doors of the Hole. The day was almost done. Everyone in the bar had a pattern of creases drawn on their clothes, but this man was like an Etch A Sketch shook clean. There was even something blank and unreadable about his face. He looked like a cruel accountant.
    I forgot to be invisible for a moment and just stared at him, mouth agape. He didn’t look away; he didn’t smile; he simply regarded me for a moment and then returned his gaze to the newspaper sitting in front of him. Maybe he was just a guy who liked to watch people. It’s a harmless enough pastime, but not one that sits well with me.
    I left a few bills on the bar and returned to my one-hundred-square-foot bedroom and slept in dream-filled fits for the next eight hours. Asleep, I was once again Tanya Pitts-Dubois. Frank was snoring next to me. In my dream I