LOCATION:

JOE'S SPORTS VIEW CAFE

CINCINNATI, OHIO
DATE:
1/12/00

TIME:
8:30 PM

I'm only telling it because it's so unbelievable. I need to get it the hell out of my head. I mean, I can't seem to think about anything else since it happened.

I've chosen a Pretender Fan Fiction page to relate this crazy-ass tale because, quite frankly, I feel that you readers are perhaps the only people who might understand, even a little. You all like the show, too, right? So you'll at least know what the hell I'm talking about, even if you don't believe me. I mean, I write horror fiction, and even I don't believe myself.

But it really happened. I swear it did. Anyone familiar with the city of Cincinnati will probably recognize where it all took place.

Have you ever heard of that bar off of Queen City Avenue? It's called Joe's Sports View Cafe. No? You haven't? I'm sorry. You might want to look it up sometime, if you're ever in town.

The place may have a weird name, but it's kind of become a hangout for those of us watching this year's Olympics. It really is a bar. You'd think they'd only serve coffee there because of the "Cafe" part, but their coffee really sucks. The brews and mixed drinks are great, though.

There's this huge wide-screen TV--well, there's actually two of them, but my crowd only favors the one in the back room. It's great to watch the Olympics on it--it's almost like you're really there. Remember that guy who wiped out skiing? It was like actually seeing that in person. You could almost feel the pain--not that we weren't all pretty well anesthetized by then, of course. It being a weekend and all.

The next night--Saturday--we made plans to watch Women's Figure Skating. That's always been a favorite of mine. Remember Katarina Witt? I do. I was in fourth grade back in 1984, when she made her first Olympic appearance, and she was an idol of mine for a good many years.

The Saturday in question was gonna be especially boring, because NBC wasn't going to be showing an episode of "The Pretender" that night. It'd been pre-empted in favor of the Olympics. I figured that they were at least decent for showing figure skating in its place. My best friend Angie and I usually get together to watch "The Pretender" Saturday nights, so we extended our tradition to include the Olympics.

And Joe's Sports View Cafe just seemed the logical place to go to--we figured, with that name, they'd have good TVs. And they do.

Originally, there was supposed to be about six of us going. But Mike had to study for the first of this quarter's exams (which I, at least, was happily neglecting) and Julie had the flu. Casey--well, she was mad at Julie and wouldn't come, just in case Julie did. (Casey, in case you ever read this--it's college, time to grow up.) So it ended up being just me and Angie.

Angie and I figured that we would have "our" whole huge table all to ourselves. When we got to Joe's, the place was crowded, as it always is on Saturday nights. It was hard to actually make out who everybody was because of the funky colored lights, and the way that one of those mirrored disco-light things was casting weird shadows over the whole scene. (I often wonder why Joe didn't just break down and call the place "Joe's Sports View Cafe and Disco.")

The TVs were on, but no one was really paying attention to them yet. We had a few minutes until the actual Olympics would be broadcast--just enough time to settle in and order our first drinks.

On our way to the back room, we stopped by the bar to order our beers. Joe was tending the bar that night--he usually does, or maybe his little brother, Mark. It's a family business, you know? That's why Joe can greet us by name and anticipate our orders. He already had our beers ready, and an ashtray that we could take to our table.

"But, Joe," Angie protested. "I was going to change my order tonight. Now you tell me I can't get my daiquiri?"

Joe leaned on the mangled wooden bar (the wood's so scratched up he didn't even cast a reflection) and looked skywards, seeming to assert to no one in particular, "Well, you'll just have to drink that beer anyway, Angie. I mean, I already opened it and all."

"Like there's no one else in this entire bar who won't take it," Angie interjected.

"Like me," I threw in.

Joe glanced back over at us, mixing what appeared to be a rum-and-Coke. "Like I don't know that joke already, guys."

"Uh-huh, business as usual, right, Joe?" I commented, grabbing my long-necked bottle of Miller Genuine Draft.

He looked vaguely regretful--which was probably all he could manage, considering how busy Joe's Cafe was that night. "Uh . . . there's a little problem with your table, ladies. See, this guy came in just five minutes ago, and there was no one sitting there, and nowhere for him to sit, so . . . "

"You co-opted our table over to him," Angie finished, trying to see into the dark back room, over the constantly moving sea of human life.

Joe handed the rum-and-Coke to some guy at the other end of the bar, and began to wipe down the bar at our end. He was pretending he was busy so that all those other people behind us would just have to continue waiting while he talked to us. He really did seem to be pointedly ignoring the lady behind us--she seemed halfway drunk already, and pissed off, too. "He asked me about the Olympics, so I figured you'd all get along if you had to sit together. Where's the rest of the gang?"

"Skipping out tonight," I told him. "As if this were Shakespeare I class or something."

Joe laughed--he should. He knows we're all a bunch of English majors. "Well," he continued. "That guy--I think he's new in town, and he's feeling a little out of place. I don't think he'll be any problem. He's been working on this weird-looking laptop computer. Say--he never did order a drink. Could you guys maybe--I'm swamped--"

"Yeah, we'll ask him if he wants anything," I assured Joe; meanwhile, the lady behind us sighed dramatically. I didn't even have to see her to know that she was in that one position where you cross your arms over your chest and tap your foot. "C'mon, Ange."

We picked up our beers and the ashtray. The bitch behind us gave an even more obnoxious sigh--this one probably signified relief the likes of which mere mortals like us would never understand. I saw poor overworked Joe roll his eyes heavenward as we turned to walk back to our table. As I passed the bitch, I whispered to her, "Sorry about your asthma, ma'am." I left her looking appropriately scandalized.

"I wonder if she'll hit on Joe or something," Angie joked as we wove our way through the undulating crowd.

"Yeah. Probably literally, right?" I asked, laughing. "She looks pretty mean."

The TV over our table was on, with the volume turned down. Joe always cranks it up for what he calls "showtime" (i. e., any major sporting event), though.

Angie stopped suddenly--so suddenly, in fact, that I damn near collided with her. "My beer!" I protested, watching a little of it slosh over the rim of the bottle. "What's your problem?"

"Ohmigod," Angie said, all as one word like that. "Do you see that guy?"

"No, not from this angle, I don't!" I had no hope of seeing around her, directly in front of me as she was, with the crowd penning us in on either side.

"It's . . . "

"It's what, Ange?"

"It's . . . Michael T. Weiss."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Angela. My, aren't you just the comedian tonight?" I pushed my way around her, trying to look tough enough so that no one would punch me for shoving him/her out of the way. It wasn't real hard, considering that the punk clothes I wear do a lot to further that image.

The thing is, it really was Michael T. Weiss, the guy who plays Jarod, of Pretender fame.

He was sitting there at "our" table, drinking nothing, intently studying that aluminum-case computer Jarod always carries around on the show. That was the "weird laptop" Joe had mentioned. And he was dressed like Jarod, too--the same all-black clothes and leather jacket--he hadn't even bothered to remove the coat yet, like he wasn't planning on staying long.

"Hol-eee shit," I whispered. "And he's at our table, Angie!"

"What's he doing in Cincinnati?"

"Let alone at our table. Come on." I had to drag her by the arm to get her moving again (losing a few more drops of my precious beer in the process). Not that I blame her--it's not every day you realize that you're going to share a table with one of your favorite TV actors.

I came to a stop just before the table. Angie was standing so close to me that we must have looked like a couple of scared kids or something. He still didn't look up, so I (rather loudly) set my beer on the table.

He glanced away from what I just couldn't help feeling were the DSAs. (Well, it happens all the time on the show.)

"I'm sorry if I--we--startled you," I stammered. "It's just that . . . well, we didn't expect to see you here."

He looked us over, and not unkindly, either. It was exactly the same appraising look we'd seen him give to people on the show, as Jarod. He just kept looking at us, evidently expecting us to begin the conversation.

"Uh, you are Michael T. Weiss, right?" Angie asked. "The guy who plays Jarod? From 'The Pretender'?"

He laughed, though there was more tension in it than anything else. "Actually, I'm not. Though I do get mistaken for him a lot."

"Oh," Angie said, obviously disappointed. I discreetly elbowed her in the side: that's rude.

"Well," I began, still somewhat hesitant--I've never really been too good with strangers. "Can we maybe sit here?" I glanced around the packed bar. "I mean, there's nowhere else to sit."

He relaxed a little as he closed the aluminum computer-case. "Sure," he said, cracking a little half-smile.

As I sat down, I noticed that he put the "weird laptop" directly on the seat next to him, where most guys would seat their dates. Either he wanted to keep it within easy reach, or he wanted an excuse to keep Angie and I across the table from him. Maybe both.

"Thanks," Angie murmured, her eyes still wide--he did look a hell of a lot like Weiss (down to that little mole under his eye) even if he wasn't. He even had the little facial expressions and mannerisms down, too--well, Jarod's, anyway. I really don't know how many of Jarod's mannerisms are actually characteristic of Weiss, or if he's just acting.

I took a sip of my beer while he looked on expectantly. What--couldn't this guy actually start a conversation on his own? Well, I reasoned. Neither can I, usually. "Uh . . . so, how's it going?"

"Fine."

"Oh, yeah," I remembered. "Joe--that's the bartender--wants to know if you want anything to drink."

"What would you recommend?"

"I'm having a Miller Genuine Draft--it's my favorite beer."

"I'll get you one," Angie added. She was the closest to the aisle, so she had to go tell Joe. She looked like she needed a minute to collect her thoughts, anyway. I mean, how fast she took off . . .

"Uh, hi, I guess. My name's Jane." I extended a hand across the table.

He hesitated, but then shook my hand. "I'm--well, you're not even going to believe this. My name really is Jarod. Jarod Kerrigan."

"Really?" I inquired. "Pretty weird, man." I drained a full third of the beer in a few delightful gulps--God, but I was uncomfortable around this guy for some reason. It's not that I thought he'd try to kill me or something like that, but there was just something kind of off about him.

"Do you watch that show a lot--'The Pretender'?" Jarod--I mean Michael--I mean, well, whoever the hell the guy was, asked.

"Yeah, I do. Angie--that's the woman I'm with--and I are big fans." I pulled out my Marlboro Lights. "I even surf the Net and read the fanfic and visit the web sites," I continued, lighting a cigarette. "Say--you don't mind, do you? No? Good. I've been wanting to make up a story of my own, but I just haven't had any free time. Damn exams this week and all." I put the lighter down on top of the cigarette pack.

"Oh? I've never really been to college."

"School's OK. Jarod Kerrigan, huh? That sounds like a name Jarod would use on the show, you know that? It has a decidedly Olympic theme. Like if he decided to go to this bar and just watch the Olympics . . . "

And that, Gentle Reader, is when I really began to wonder. Like I said before, I write horror fiction, and so I'm not totally against entertaining impossible ideas, even if only for the sake of argument. Most of my stories come about when I ask, "What if . . . " So, really, what if Jarod was at a bar, watching the Olympics? It'd make a good story, if nothing else, right?

The guy's dark eyes narrowed, almost as if he knew exactly what I was thinking somehow. "A lot of people do mistake me for Jarod--Michael, I mean--and my first name just doesn't help."

"So, uh, Jarod . . . do you think that Jarod--the other one, I mean--would like the Olympics?"

Jarod glanced down at his hands. "I think he would. He hasn't ever seen them before, after all."

"Where the hell is that girl?" I muttered. Angie was nowhere in sight. No--wait--there she was, attempting to forge her way back through the jungle-like thickness of crowd. All she needed was a machete to complete the part--that, and maybe a pair of binoculars, so she could see us from all the way over there. "Angie's coming back with your drink."

Just then, the TV sound came on, and the Olympic theme song (whatever it's called--I forget) began to play. The wide screen gave the illusion that one was actually flying over the snowy tundra surrounding Moscow.

I noted that Jarod was observing the TV with that sort of awe you just shouldn't see on the face of anyone who's grown up in the latter half of the Twentieth century. Once again, the resemblance to the TV Jarod was uncanny. I mean, does anyone remember the look on his face when he got that fruitcake during the first season's Christmas episode? This look was kind of like that. Weird. I was beginning to wonder if it was perhaps the beer--I didn't drink that much of it, but still . . . Deja-vu, you know?

If any of our crowd was gonna show up, they would've by now. So I figured that it would be just me, Angie, and . . . Jarod?

The announcer on TV said something about the beauty and grace of figure skating--I didn't catch it all because Jarod interrupted with, "Where is that?" He sounded desperate somehow--he was so intent on finding out that he'd actually lost track of how he sounded.

"That's Moscow. Post-U.S.S.R., of course."

He glanced over at me as the TV camera panned over the stadium where the figure skating was to be held. "It's so beautiful. I've never seen so much snow."

"You're definitely not from around here, then. Why, we got 17.7 inches of the white stuff just last week--" I cut myself short, because I was beginning to sound like my grandmother, like when she sits on the porch and reminisces about the Great Blizzard of '23 or something.

Jarod's attention was focused back on the TV as the stadium (seemingly) drew closer to the viewer. "Oh, I've lived all over. I haven't had time to follow the Olympics, though. I've been very busy lately."

Man, the way he was fixating on that TV . . . I figured I might just be able to slip one past him and prove my little theory once and for all. It didn't make any sense, but there seemed to be no other explanation for how...well, how Jarod-esque he seemed--and I still believe it, even now, after all the shit that happened . . . well, happened. "So, Jarod. Who were you helping out this time?"

He didn't even seem to realize what he was saying as he answered, "There was this woman down in Tennessee. Her little boy was missing. I--" His eyes widened as he finally caught on to his own words. "That is--I mean--"

"C'mon, man. I'm in college. Despite that, I'm not totally stupid. You're it, aren't you? That silver case--your expressions--the way you've never even seen the goddamn Olympics before? You're the real thing. It's impossible . . . but you are."

"It is impossible," Jarod said, almost as if he believed it, too.

Right then, Angie showed up again. She unceremoniously deposited Jarod's beer, not even noticing that she spilled a little of it as she sat down.

"Uh, Ange, conference time here." I motioned for her to lean closer to me. We needn't have worried about Jarod overhearing us--he was so into the TV it wasn't even funny. "Let me remind you that I'm an honest, upstanding, sane person before I tell you this," I cautioned her; she nodded. "But this really is Jarod."

"What was that part about 'sane' again?" Angie asked, rolling her eyes heavenward--or TV-ward, whatever the case may be.

Jarod glanced in our direction, obviously wondering what all the whispering was about.

"Never mind," I told Angie. "We'll talk about it later. Trust me."

I wasn't sure if I could convince her. Or myself, for that matter. Despite what I write, I'm essentially a very rational person. I read somewhere that horror writers have a harder time believing in the impossible than most people--they write it, and they're naturally a little more skeptical than most people. That's certainly true of me.

I was having one hell of a time believing all this. As I took another good, long swig of beer, I wondered if this really was Jarod, somehow, or was this a crazy guy who only thought he was Jarod? But, even so, how could he look exactly like the real--well, sort of, anyway--Jarod? They could have been identical twins.

The only explanation for the impossible seemed to be the impossible, and that just wasn't right. I mean, I sure in hell wouldn't write it that way. Readers need logic--which is why I don't expect any of you reading this to believe me.

Anyway, Jarod's eyes kept shifting back and forth, between me and the TV. It was kind of like observing a kid who's been told by a parent, "Listen to me!" while his favorite cartoon was on. He reached over and touched the aluminum computer-case beside him, as if reassuring himself that it was still there. He obviously wanted to cut and run, but, for whatever the reason, just wouldn't. Maybe he thought that his back was safer against the wall that it was currently against or something. Or maybe it was just me.

I didn't flatter myself--he wasn't staying for me. Or for Angie. He was staying for the TV.

"Look, Jarod . . . " I began. Finally, his eyes settled once and for all on me. "I don't really know how the hell all this is happening, but I just want you to know, I'm not going to hurt you or anything."

I glanced over at Angie, who was watching me, her eyes betraying a certain amount of shock that I was addressing a total stranger like he was . . . was . . . well, you know. Jarod, or something.

Jarod, meanwhile, just stared at me until his nervousness became catching. I fidgeted in my wooden chair as I decided to fill in the uncomfortable silence with, "I'm not going to turn you in or try to sell you to . . . to . . . but this is real life. Is there anyone to sell you to?"

"Real life," he repeated. "Whose real life?"

Angie's mouth was open, but she was making no sounds within the humanly audible range.

"Uh, my real life," I answered Jarod. "And yours. You seem real enough."

"Then so are they."

"They?"

"The people from TV."

Jarod's voice was barely audible (especially over the announcer's on TV) and I had to lean in to hear him.

Angie finally found her voice again with, "The people from TV. You mean--but that's impossible."

"The people from the Centre. They're real, too. Sydney is, anyway." He had the look of a child talking about a nightmare--his eyes were wide and frightened, and he leaned back into the corner behind him, as if for protection. "And Sydney's coming here. Tonight."