Unknown to Himself

A young man 25 to 30 years old, walks into the Attic. Nearly six feet tall, skinny, not more than 150 pounds. Smudged spectacles, brown hair average length. He sits at the bar.

“What do you want?” snaps Joe T.

“Excuse me.”

“He wants to know what you’re drinking,” Frank Weathers interprets.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Captain and Coke. With a lime.”

A moment passes.

“I can only find Bicardi.”

“That’s all right,” the man says and takes the drink.

“What brings you here?” asks McNulty.

“I’m not quite sure. I asked myself the same question when I entered.”

“Looking for someone?”

“Maybe he’s a friend of the Sardine,” says Joe.

“Who’s the Sardine?”

“One of our regulars,” says Frank.

“That’s it,” the man says and sips his rum and coke. “Someone I have kinship with.”

“Your somebody’s cousin?” asks Frank.

“This is his Sardine column,” says McNulty. “The Attic bar is the one place we gather.”

“You don’t exist outside this place?” the man responds.

“As far as we can tell. We have people we’re based on. Someone tracked them down a few years ago.”

“I exist outside this place.”

“I’m sure you think so.”

“I do. I work a few blocks away. At Berthcut & Sons.”

“What’s your name?

“Dexter Clatterbaugh.”

Joe laughs.

“What’s Berthcut & Sons?” McNulty continues.

“We sell religious goods.”

“Like rosaries and scapulars,” says Joe.

“We don’t sell stuff like that. More like vestments, clergy suits, altar linens, chalices.”

God-Fearing Public: We’re surprised such an enterprise exists anymore. You must do most of your business online.

“What’s being ‘online’?”

Logged-In Public: That’s impossible. It’s the internet. A worldwide system you can reach through computers.

“This column is on the friggin’ Internet,” Frank shakes his head.

“The business doesn’t have computers.” He pauses. “Who are these people?”

The Sardine appears from nowhere.

It doesn’t matter, Dexter.

“Who are you? Where’d you come from?”

Where we all come from.

“How’d you know my name?”

I’d recognize you anywhere. You’re from Berthcut & Sons.

“I’ve never seen you in the shop.”

I meant the book, Berthcut & Sons.

“The Sardine’s favorite novel,” says McNulty. “I’ve been meaning to read it.”

“I’ve managed the shop and have for the past five years.”

“You came in looking for someone,” says McNulty.

“I don’t know why I did.”

Maybe to complain about your job. That’s your specialty. You had to get away from Sylvia because she thinks you two are an item, possibly even engaged, and you can’t tell her different. And from Enoch, your shipper. He hardly allows you to be in the shipping room because he doesn’t want you touching anything and messing up his system. It certainly wasn’t to get away from Ben, the other salesman. He’s never around. In fact, you’re not even sure he exists. Except that he keeps sending orders in from around the country.

“Dexter thinks he’s an actual person, like the rest of us,” McNulty says.

Convinced now.

“I’m not a character. I still live with my parents. Went to college and got a Bachelor’s degree.”

“What are you talking about, McNulty?” Joe asks nervously.

Do we ever truly know ourselves? Who we are? We just make up our lives or let someone else do it for us.

“What about you, Mr Sardine?”

There’s someone out there we’re based on. We learned that from the first Sardine book. Just like Dexter’s based on someone who probably worked at an Ecclesiastical Vestment shop.

“I have to get out of here.”

Only because I’m ending this Episode of the column. Go in peace.