Walter Ego

The first split took them both by surprise. Walter stepped out of the elevator into the Denver offices of McMichaels, Richmond, and Fluery. Also, he did not. 

It was a sensation like stepping through a spider web – a persistent, gravitational tugging on every atom of his body. When Walter turned around, he found himself staring back from the elevator, dumbfounded. 

This Walter – Elevator Walter – had not moved at all and stood clutching his briefcase to his chest, taking steadying breaths. For him, the split had felt like a Band-Aid unsticking and sliding off in the shower. Still, one cannot overstate the horror. 

After the initial shock, both Walters had the same thought and began to check themselves for signs of corporeal substance in case either was having an out of body experience. They pinched their arms, stamped their feet, put a hand to their faces. Each movement was almost perfectly in sync – a bizarre, mirrored game of Monkey See, Monkey Do – until Lobby Walter took the additional step of tugging on an earlobe while Elevator Walter squeezed his testicles. At this, their paths diverged, and the doors of the elevator slid shut. 

Walter waited a full minute for the doors to reopen and his twin to reappear. Briefly, he contemplated calling the elevator back and pursuing his double on the streets below. But before he could act, he was interrupted by a honey-sweet voice.

“Excuse me, sir?” she said, “Can I help you?” 

He turned to see a woman sitting behind a reception desk, concern painted across her face. Behind her, the law firm’s name was emblazoned in large black letters. A phone blinked persistently to her right. 

“I’m sorry. What?” he asked, returning his eyes to the blank brass doors in front of him. 

“I said ‘Can I help you,’” she replied, “You’ve been standing there a while…” 

“Oh. Right,” he stammered, “I’m here to see Mr. McMichaels. Walter Cambridge. He’s expecting me, I think… Did you see me on the elevator?” 

“On the elevator, sir?” 

“Yes, I…did I get off the elevator?” 

“You’re off the elevator now, sir.”

“Right, but was there anybody else on the elevator with me?” 

“Sir, are you feeling okay?” 

Perhaps he was not, but he bristled at her tone. 

“Sorry, forget about it. Mr. McMichaels, please.” 

The receptionist relaxed and reached for the phone while gesturing to the bank of plush chairs to her left. 

“He’ll be with you shortly.” 

While he waited, Walter worked backwards through the morning. Prior to arriving, he had not walked under any major power lines, nor any industrial waste. He hadn’t consumed any hallucinogenic agents, and he’d waited the prescribed eight hours between a nightcap at the hotel and his morning antidepressant. He’d read that stress can cause symptoms mimicking schizophrenia, but split personalities tended to occupy the same body if not the same mind. Barring all other possibilities, he chalked it up to altitude sickness. 

“Mr. McMichaels will see you now, sir,” chirped the receptionist, “Can I get you something to drink?” 

He decided against asking for a cocktail. 

***

The interview went as expected. Gerry McMichaels was loud, abrasive, and an unrepentant believer that half an hour of sports analysis and dirty jokes was paramount to the success of any serious business meeting. Any thought of doppelgangers or psychotic breaks was banished to the back of Walter’s mind, buried under layers of contempt for the man in front of him. 

After another hour, during which the two men actually talked turkey, McMichaels pressed Walter on his willingness to relocate to Colorado (willing), his availability (immediate), and his opinion of the Designated Hitter (agnostic, but he sensed it was important to take a heated stance on the issue). Satisfied with his responses, he offered Walter the job at exactly market rate and ushered him out the door. 

It wasn’t until after he’d completed a stack of paperwork with Marsha – who managed HR in addition to answering the phones and safeguarding the lobby – that Walter found himself in the elevator once more and remembered the strange encounter. He exited the building into the crisp spring air and mulled the situation, forgoing a ride-share and opting instead to walk the twenty-five blocks back to his hotel. 

At every corner, he scanned the length of each block in both directions, fully expecting to see himself peeking over the top of a newspaper or tucked surreptitiously behind a street vendor’s cart. Instead, he saw only the commotion of a large city that hadn’t quite figured out how to be a large city. Denver had all the noise of Philadelphia with none of the charm. He hadn’t made any meaningful progress with his situation by the time he reached the Hilton, disheveled and in need of a glass of water. His thirst evaporated when he opened the door to his junior suite to find Elevator Walter sprawled across the bed in his sock feet. 

The television was looping the hotel’s welcome screen, with cutaway shots of a Japanese Steakhouse mingling with serene spa footage and emergency exit routes. He had undone his necktie and tossed his jacket over the chair in the corner, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had that morning. In other words, he looked identical to the man, standing in the doorway with his jaw on the floor. 

“You again!” they both exclaimed, and then, “Who are you?” 

“Stop that,” they said.

“No, you stop that,” they said. 

Finally, Walter raised a hand for silence and then pointed to himself slowly.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” he said. 

He was met with silence, as Elevator Walter sat staring from the bed. After another beat, Walter pointed a finger at him, indicating his turn. 

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” said Elevator Walter, “How did you get in here?”

“I have a key,” said Walter, producing the green and white card from his breast pocket.

“So do I,” said Elevator Walter, grabbing his from the nightstand, “But that doesn’t mean anything. They give you two when you check in.”

“I think you’re burying the lede.”

“What?”

“They don’t give you two bodies when you check in.”

“Fair point,” said Elevator Walter. 

“I need to sit down,” said Walter. 

“Be my guest,” said Elevator Walter, sprinkling a little something extra on the final word. 

Walter bristled at the insinuation but decided to let it slide. Even in times of existential crisis, his manners were unquestionable. He sank into the chair, knocking the sport coat to the floor in the process, and took several deep breaths. Elevator Walter rearranged himself on the bed, sitting up against the headboard and bringing his knees to his chest. Finally, he broke the silence.

“What was the name of my first-grade teacher?”

“What?” asked Walter. 

“Well, if you’re an imposter, I need to know. What was her name?”

“Mrs. Woods,” said Walter, “And if anybody’s an imposter, it’s you. I’m me.”

“Impossible,” said Elevator Walter, “I think I would know if I wasn’t me.”

But, of course, they were both correct. So, around and around they went, swapping Walter Trivia ad nauseum. Allergies? Tree nuts, olives, and amoxicillin. Location of birthmarks? Base of the spine, right calf, navel adjacent. First girlfriend? Rebecca Callis. Kinsey score? Two. Credit score? Not much higher. Favorite band? Nirvana. Actual favorite band? Coldplay. Neither flinched.

“Where was I born?’ Elevator Walter asked. 

“Our Lady of the Palms Memorial Hospital,” said Walter.

“Right, but in what city?”

“Tampa.” 

“Ha!” proclaimed Elevator Walter, “Our Lady of the Palms is in St. Pete!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“It’s an important distinction!” 

“Important how?”

“Culturally.”

Walter didn’t respond, knowing full well there was more culture in a single cup of yogurt than the entirety of West Central Florida. He was also exhausted – drained mentally and beyond the point at which he could be bothered with semantics. Elevator Walter, too, seemed at the end of his rope. Resigned, he took a new tack. 

“Did you take the job? With McMichaels?” 

The question surprised Walter. It was so practical, so matter of fact. He had the impression that Elevator Walter was adjusting to their reality much quicker than he was. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, “I took it.” 

He felt a pang of guilt when the words left his mouth – something that was confirmed by the grimace on Elevator Walter’s face. They had been conflicted about the opportunity for months, ever since firing off a resume in the middle of the night after another missed payment had triggered another argument with Liz. She’d left the previous afternoon, bound for her sister’s house in Winnetka and a fresh start after two middling years wearing Walter’s ring. 

On the surface, nothing about McMichaels, Richmond, and Fluery was especially appealing – corporate law, primarily representing scumbags suing other scumbags. It was a drastic departure from his head-in-the-clouds adventures in environmental litigation. The pay was an improvement, even if he’d be starting at the bottom rung, but that held little attraction for Walter as he packed up what remained of Liz’s belongings and sealed them away in unmarked brown boxes. Still, Denver got his attention. A thousand miles away from everyone he knew and loved; a haven in the mountains like some sort of fairy tale. Never mind the fact that Denver had more in common with Dallas than Vail. 

“I just couldn’t go through with it,” said Elevator Walter, “I thought I could do it – kiss some ass, shake some hands, and start over. I really thought I could do it. Until I got on the elevator. The numbers started going up and I knew I’d rather go crawling back to Chicago than work for those assholes. I mean, my God, they represented that company in China – the one with the suicide nets.”

“Stop,” said Walter, “What did you just say?”

“Suicide nets. They hung them off the side of the building because the people working there kept chucking themselves off.”

“No, the part about the elevator,” said Walter, “You decided in the elevator?”

“Yeah, I just snapped. Like I knew I needed to take my ass home – beg on bended knee and make things right with Liz. That’s when I saw you. I thought I was hallucinating; you know?” 

Walter leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, rubbing the back of his neck in contemplation. 

“Well, that’s it then.”

“What’s it?”

“I decided in the elevator, too. Sometime around the fifteenth floor, it just occurred to me that this was the turning point. No going back. I’d been waffling back and forth, and then the doors opened, and I just knew I had to walk out – no hesitation, or I’d bungle it. That’s what’s different.”

Silence took them again, as they chewed this new development. It was the first meaningful progress they’d made, but neither knew what to do with this information. 

“So, what? You’re saying it’s a magic elevator?” said Elevator Walter.

“I don’t know!” shouted Walter. “All I know is that’s when we split.”

“Call room service,” Walter said.

“What? Why?”

Taking it upon himself, Walter walked over to the phone on the nightstand. 

“We need to learn the rules,” he muttered. 

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door and two cheeseburgers were rolled into the suite by a pimple-faced girl in a maroon uniform. She removed the silver lids from their trays and looked expectantly at the Walters. 

“Will that be all, Mr. Cambridge?” she asked, rubbing her fingers together, subtly indicating a tip. 

“Ah, no. One more thing,” said Walter, “How many of us are in this room?”

She looked puzzled at first, then concerned, as she scanned the drapes and closet for unknown assailants.

“Um…two?” she said, unsure. 

“So, you don’t see both of us?” asked Elevator Walter.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said the girl, “Do you need any condiments?” 

“Forget the condiments, do you see both of us? Do we look the same to you?” 

She scanned both their faces.

“Are you having an episode, Mr. Cambridge?”

She left without a tip, which felt cruel, but neither Walter carried cash. They picked at the burgers, both taking extra care to toss the red onion. He’d skipped the continental breakfast that morning, and both seemed better for the sustenance. 

“I don’t understand. She heard both of us, responded to both of us, but couldn’t see both of us,” said Walter through a mouthful. 

Elevator Walter nodded, “Yeah, that’s weird. But maybe it’s like a stereoscope, you know? Like she saw both of us, but then just sort of merged us in her head into one image.”

It was a good thought, and Walter couldn’t fault the logic. Brains do funny things to protect their owners from troubling information. He’d visited the Museum of Illusions when it came through Chicago a few years back, and it had left him unsettled rather than amused. Liz had particularly liked the photo of them together in the same room – the one in which she loomed toward the ceiling, while he was miniscule, under a table. 

“What if she doesn’t take you back?” he asked.

“She will. I know it,” said Elevator Walter.

“So that’s the plan, then, huh? You’re going back to Chicago?”

“Yep. I booked a flight on my phone as soon as the elevator started going down. I called her from the lobby. What about you?”

“I told McMichaels I could start on Monday. His assistant is setting me up with a furnished apartment tomorrow.” 

“Wow, big time.”

“It’s a studio.” 

“Well,” said Elevator Walter, “Look at the bright side. Breakfast in bed, every day of the week.” 

They laughed. Walter had always laughed at his own jokes, and, knowing that, they laughed even harder. 

The following morning, they argued briefly about their belongings. Like the keycards, their phones, briefcases, and wallets had been duplicated, but the luggage in the room had remained singular. Elevator Walter had bristled about leaving behind a hoodie he’d owned since college and a pair of slacks that actually fit well and gave him the illusion of an ass. But given that he’d be returning to their life in Chicago, with a full closet of clothes, furniture, and (potentially) a wife, the trade seemed fair.

They exchanged an awkward goodbye on the street, shaking hands and wishing each other luck. It was the last they would see of one another for many years. 

***

The next split was easier. The one after that, almost an afterthought.

Walter stood to leave a restaurant, and he did not. 

He made an offer on a two-bedroom ranch in the suburbs, and he did not. 

He went to bed with a stranger, and he went home alone to microwave dinner and watch the game. 

Initially, he spoke to each split – asking about their plans and making a mental note of the branching event. But after a couple dozen generations, his interest waned, and the Walters adopted an aloof opinion of one another. He greeted each new iteration with a nod, before carrying on with whatever choice he’d made to cause the split. The shock and novelty were gone.

Five years after he arrived in Denver, Walter was made partner at McMichaels, Richmond, and Fluery. He’d kept his head down and his mouth shut, representing oil and gas conglomerates, union busters, and at least one member of the Mexican Cartels. In every case, he’d successfully bent the law to his will, finding loopholes where others saw jail time and spinning off countless morally conflicted Walters in the process. The firm threw a party for him, complete with an open bar, live band, and photobooth. Three other Walters showed up for the occasion – two in celebration, one in protest. On a lark, the happy Walters took a picture together in the booth, each holding a silly prop and draping their arms across each other’s shoulders as the shutter clicked. The photographer apologized profusely for the overexposed result that showed only a dark blob of arms with a top hat peeking out above. 

The firm expanded, sending him around the country to branch offices in Atlanta, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, and Albany. Occasionally, he’d bump into a Walter in the airport or on the street. In LA, he came across a billboard with his face on it, advertising a new crime procedural called “Law Houndz.” It got three seasons and a Made-for-Television movie, but the reviews were mostly negative. Variety called it, “The least memorable hour of your week.” It was canceled and dropped from streaming before he could watch an episode. 

Walter spent the eve of his fortieth birthday in a hotel in Austin. 

He sat perched at the lobby bar for hours, alternating singles and doubles and wondering when bars stopped offering to leave the bottle. He decided it was likely around the same time they removed the swinging double doors and quit calling them saloons. Occasionally, a bank of elevators would chime at his back, and a new carload of travelers would spill into the lobby. Walter stopped looking over his shoulder after the fifth or sixth bell. Sometime around ten o’clock, he was interrupted. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” a familiar voice said. 

It was another Walter – this one clad head to foot in starched denim like a business casual Marlboro Man. His salesman’s smile sparkled with veneers, and his mouth, eyes, and forehead were pulled tight against his skull. 

“Walter,” said Walter. 

“Walter,” said Marlboro Walter, in return, “Happy birthday, old man.”

Walter raised his glass in return. 

“Likewise,” he slurred. “Many happy returns.” 

Marlboro Walter mounted the next stool over and waved two fingers at the bartender. 

“We’re only allowed to serve you one drink at a time, sir,” she said in return. 

Walter slid his glass across the bar to his counterpart. 

“Help yourself. I’m pickled.”

Marlboro Walter drank deeply and let forth a deep sigh of contentment. 

“So,” said Walter, “Which one are you?” 

They compared notes for the better part of an hour. Best they could tell, Marlboro Walter was seven splits removed. A product of Elevator Walter’s lineage, he had returned dutifully to Chicago and won Liz’s heart with promises of change and sacrifice. She found it in herself to give him one more chance and he had made the best of it. Things were great – hell, better than great. He didn’t split again for a full year and there was a baby on the way. She was six months along when stress got the better of him. 

They had just returned from a weekend in the Wisconsin Dells – Liz called it a babymoon. He was working late, poring over a class action piece against Exxon. His paralegal offered him half a joint to keep the midnight oil burning. She lit it and waved the burning end in front of his face like she was smudging the room with sage. The smoke hypnotized him, and he noticed she’d undone the top two buttons of her blouse. Elevator Walter stood immediately and took the first train home to his pregnant wife. Marlboro Walter had not. 

“After that, I bounced around for a while,” Marlboro Walter said, “Took the first flight I could find to Cancun and spent a while hopping between beds. I missed Liz for a bit, but I was never sure about the kid thing, you know? Ha! Of course you know.”

But Walter did not know. 

Marlboro Walter drained his glass and ordered a double, splitting it between two glasses and offering Walter another round. 

“Something about the freedom down there in Mexico really lit my fire. Split two or three times in the first month; I just couldn’t say no to a good time. One night, I ended up in the sack with this married couple from Houston – bigwig finance guy who liked to watch, among other things. His wife was a looker. Real sweet, but you could tell she was in it for the money. It didn’t seem to bother him any, though; he had such a ball, he offered me a job right then and there as we were all showering off together. Haven’t looked back since.” 

Part of Walter was disgusted to see this baser model of himself prattle on about his exploits. But if he was honest, he wasn’t shocked. Nothing about the Walters ever shocked him, not really. Each version he’d met had been just another expression of everything he’d known to be true about himself. The meek ones, the nasty ones, the sad sacks, the gurus, the criminals, and the saints – each offered him a glimpse into a life he could have led. Deep down, he knew he was perhaps the only boring Walter. He was the trend line of the bunch – only included in the data to show how far the others had strayed from the mean. 

“Say, why don’t we get out of here?” said Marlboro Walter, with a wink “It’s our birthday, after all. We might as well celebrate!” 

He gave Walter’s leg a squeeze under the bar top, making him jump in his seat. 

“You can’t be serious,” Walter said, coughing on a silver of ice he’d swallowed in surprise.

“Why not? You’ve never partied with one of us?” 

“I…no,” he admitted, “The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.” 

“You’re full of shit and we both know it, amigo,” said Marlboro Walter,” but in case you change your mind…”

He pulled a piece of green plastic from his jacket pocket and left it on the bar with the room number facing up. He drained his drink and stood to leave, slapping Walter on the back. 

“You know what I remember most about that morning in Denver?,” he asked, not waiting for a reply, “What a tight-ass I used to be.” 

He winked to punctuate the pun and headed for the door, leaving Walter to contemplate the dredges of his drink and the keycard in front of him. He couldn’t decide if using it would be incestuous or purely masturbatory. In the end, it didn’t matter. 

Walter tuned forty alone in his room. 

***

The Walters grew old. Many died. 

A Walter in Minnesota had frozen to death after falling through the ice on the pond behind his house. Another in California perished of heat exhaustion during the warmest summer on record. Three Walters had succumbed to a rare form of cancer that had been lurking in their DNA, waiting to be activated by some fluke of environment or circumstance. There were car accidents and suicides and at least one homicide (second degree). Only one Walter had died of a broken heart. 

A version of Walter Cambridge had been elected to the state senate in Tennessee; another earned the Key to the City of St. James Parish, Louisiana. He’d written seventeen novels, three histories, and a memoir. He had never been nominated for any major awards in literature. In total, the Walters had produced 4,756 children and 8,913 grandchildren – none of whom looked remarkably like any of the rest. 

Over the years, many of the Walters had tried to connect the group, online and in-person. 

The Society of Walter maintained an office in Dover, Delaware, complete with four full-time employees who were paid a premium to entertain the fantasies of their eccentric employer. They divided their days taking messages from Walter to Walter, and occasionally they booked out large event spaces for no obvious reason. 

At least fourteen Facebook groups were dedicated to uniting the Walters. Strangely, each group only ever sported one member, no matter how many Walters logged in to join. They never did quite figure out the rules. 

Walter – our Walter – had never partaken in any of this madness, preferring instead to plow steadily ahead. When McMichaels died in his sleep, he had inherited the lion’s share of the firm. With his newfound influence, he’d promptly severed ties with nearly all their blue-chip clients and redirected their efforts toward special causes. It was the first bold action he’d taken since that morning years before when he’d stepped off the elevator; he regretted it almost immediately. The company floundered and he was removed as partner within six months. 

After thirty-five years with the firm, Walter retired as a Senior Associate – the same level at which he’d been hired. He packed a banker’s box full of the accoutrements of a respectable career. Plaques, certificates, framed photos of various parties and vacations. Piece by piece, he disassembled his career and stacked it haphazardly. Then, on his way out of the building, he shoved the box into the trash chute. He listened carefully for the impact far below but heard only the dwindling scrape of cardboard against aluminum. Then, there was nothing. 

Walter drove himself home to a modest brownstone in Five Points that he had never outgrown. Its weathered brick façade had served him well, always giving him a feeling of permanence – of continuity.

As he backed into a parking spot on the street, he noticed a man standing on his porch, patiently waiting as Walter angled against the curb. 

“So,” he said as he approached the porch, “Which one are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?” the man replied.

Walter scanned the man carefully, surprised as always at how elderly he’d become. This Walter shared his snow-white hair and thick, spotted forearms. He leaned imperceptibly to his right, doubtless due to the trick hip Walter himself had developed over the years. On his left hand, he wore a dull gold wedding band. 

Walter tugged his earlobe. The man on the porch squeezed his testicles.

“It’s you,” he said, dumbfounded.

Elevator Walter smiled and nodded.

Walter’s heart leapt, as if seeing an old friend for the first time in many years. In fact, he supposed, this was his oldest friend. He unlocked the door and hurried Elevator Walter inside. The questions began before they even sat down.

“How did you find me?” 

“You never left,” said Elevator Walter.

“Why did you wait this long?”

“I was living.” 

“Is Liz with you?”

Elevator Walter offered him a sad smile. 

“She passed last year. Breast cancer.”

“Same as…”

“Her mother. Yes.”

Walter felt the loss as if it were his own. He offered a hand, which Elevator Walter took. They sat in silence for a while. 

“Why are you here?” Walter asked finally, wiping small tears away from the corners of his eyes. 

Elevator Walter hesitated, then spoke. 

“It’s time to end this.”

Walter shuddered at the finality in his voice. 

“It’s time, Walter.”

“But,” he whispered, “I’m the original. I’m me.” 

Elevator Walter shook his head. 

“We all think we’re the original. And we’re all right.”

Walter began to tremble. He’d often wondered how it all would end – whether he would continue to split indefinitely until every inch of the world was populated by a Walter, or if they would continue to wither and die one-by-one until only he was left.

“What about the others?” he asked.

“Gone,” said Elevator Walter, “It’s just us.” 

Walter asked how this was possible. There were times in his life when he couldn’t go out to lunch without bumping into another version of himself. Surely, they couldn’t all be gone. One look into Elevator Walter’s eyes was all it took to convince him otherwise. 

They were the same hazel he’d seen in the mirror for nearly seventy years. But unlike his own, Elevator Walter’s eyes swam with infinite lifetimes. These eyes had seen the sunrise in Waikiki, burning red against an inky horizon. They had stung with fatigue after driving a thousand miles in a day to make it to the birth of their second daughter. They had witnessed crimes and read love letters and winked at strangers in countless bars. These eyes were patient, kind, cruel, scheming, wise, clever, dull, dumb, glazed, and eagle sharp. 

These eyes were his own, and they weren’t. They were waiting for Walter to decide. 

“I’m scared,” said Walter. 

“Don’t be,” said Elevator Walter, “It’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s like going home.” 

At this, he stood and pulled Walter to his feet. They stood at arm’s length, facing each other as they had so many years ago. Without a word, they fell into an embrace. Their atoms tingled with recognition as they sought their pairs. Walter let loose a breath. And then another. 

In the silence of his home, he could hear his heart racing. And then he was alone. 

by James P. Stuart

James P. Stuart

James P. Stuart is an American fiction writer, specializing in short, impactful stories that defy genre. He lives and works in Denver, Colorado with his wife, Maggie, and their pets, Phoebe and Fred. He is the founding editor of Twenty Bellows—a literary magazine for the Modern West. You can find more from James at storiesfromtheforge.com.

Also by the Author:

This author does not have any more posts.