One Sunday morning at the local the flea market, I saw a man I knew when we were both young. He looked almost the same, except that his face had wrinkled slightly. He was still thin, boyish. His hair was fairly long and curly and only slightly gray, hanging over the collar of his shirt.

I didn't speak to him, since it's my habit to avoid conversation with the past. I followed him around at a distance and watched him move from table to table, occasionally picking up a cheap artifact, a cracked vase or a curio, and putting it down without much serious thought.

It was difficult for me to put the image of this man, who seemed at home among the vendors in this place, with the image of the younger man whom I had envied for his good looks. I pictured him as an androgynous god, walking confidently through a room of admiring young men and women on his way to the bathroom to snort some coke. He was the physical ideal of the mid-seventies, and I wondered what his life had been like to lead him here, what failures of imagination, what lack of strategies.

A few days later, I read in the paper that he'd been murdered, his body found under a bridge. He had been stabbed several times. There were no suspects, and I couldn't stop thinking about him. How did he end up the victim in this newspaper story? What were the circumstances that led him to his fate?

I kept remembering him at the flea market. There was something about his behavior that disturbed me then that foreshadowed an unhappy ending. It may have been the blank stare when he pretended to look at the objects he held. He seemed to be going through the motions, as if he had a different purpose for being there and felt obliged to touch things to give the impression of interest. At one point he picked up a pink lamp with an absurdly decorated shade, gold fringe and embroidered orange cats, and held it at arm's length without actually appraising it. Later, he ordered a hot dog and a soft drink from one the vendors. He took a few bites of the hot dog and washed it down with a sip of his drink before throwing the rest of it and the Styrofoam cup in the garbage.

Was it someone at the flea market who killed him? There was any number of questionable characters present that day. This venue, in particular, the only one in the area open on Sunday mornings, tended to attract a rough, transient crowd. The vendors and patrons alike were the type of people one usually sees working the midway at a state fair. Their skin all had an unhealthy pall, many of them were missing teeth, and their arms and shoulders were dappled with badly inked tattoos. I do, however, bear a sense of guilt in relation to this man. My desire to avoid a slight discomfort, the awkwardness of a conversation with someone I hadn't seen in years but should have acknowledged, may have caused his death. Why I believe this, I don't know. Some remnant of Catholic guilt, no doubt. But I still feel certain had I spoken to him, he'd be alive, and I would have forgotten long ago whatever shame I might have felt in conversation with him.

In fact, there are times when I believe I may have been the one who killed him. It occurs to me that I may have blacked out as I used to do when I was younger and that I followed him around for a few days until the day of the murder. I imagine I approached him and had the conversation I should have had at the flea market. Only instead of preventing his death it triggered something in me, some old resentment I had toward him, and I pulled out a knife and forced him to accompany me to the bridge where I stabbed him repeatedly.

I have no evidence to support my fear. No blood-stained clothing, no knife. I'm fairly sure I can account for the days between the day I saw him at the flea market and the day of his murder. I have no dreams in which I am accused of such a crime. But logic will not undo the feeling I have whenever I think of him. And the truth is he's dead no matter what I may or may not have done.

Every Sunday, I think I should go back to the flea market and walk around. I picture myself doing it, picking up the cheap objects from a card table and putting them back down indifferently. I imagine talking to the vendors and laughing, maybe buying something I don't need or want just to make a vendor happy. But whenever I picture myself doing these things, I look like the man who was murdered. I'm wearing his leather bomber jacket and faded jeans.

I have his hair and his small features. I try to change the image, but I can't seem to do it. I know it's me, but it looks like him.

I have to stop thinking and get up from my chair and walk to the kitchen. I have to open the refrigerator and take out something to eat or drink. I do whatever I can to distract myself from imagining. My thoughts drift back to the flea market, and I start to panic. I don't want to see myself when I should be seeing the man, and I'm afraid if I keep imagining, somehow, I'll leave the flea market and end up under the bridge. The man will be standing across from me, holding a knife, threatening me, and I will know exactly what was said and done, and there will be nothing I can do to stop him.

Christopher Kennedy's most recent book of poems is CLUES FROM THE ANIMAL KINGDOM.

Read more of his work in the archive.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Lapichon.





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