A loop of Cleaning Out My Closet by Eminem blasted through Alexander's apartment as he quite literally cleaned out his closet on a Friday night. Clothes and forgotten trinkets had piled nearly to his waist, and he knew he needed to tackle the chaos before it swallowed the room entirely. Besides, his mother was visiting over the weekend, and she'd have his head if she saw the mess. Some things never changed.
By the time the floor was visible again, Alexander was sweating and sore, but determined to finish. He dragged a stool over and climbed on, surveying the high shelves near the ceiling for any remaining clutter. That was when something glinted in the corner of his eye—a ring.
He reached for it, brushing off a thin film of dust before holding it up to the light.
"1990. Hinton High. Roscoe Pierce."
"That's me."
The voice was low, distinctly masculine, carrying the polished cadence of an English accent.
Alexander's breath caught. The ring slipped from his hand, clattering against the hardwood as a strangled cry tore from his throat. Looking around, he saw nothing. Heard nothing. Had he been imagining things?
Hours later, he sat hunched over his laptop, the room dark but for the glow of the screen. He had fallen down a dark pit of research, scouring archives, podcasts, and old newspaper clippings for any trace of the man behind that voice.
Roscoe Abraham Pierce had been born in 1972.
According to what Alexander found, Roscoe's parents had immigrated to the United States with him when he was thirteen. By every account, he'd been a social magnet. He was the sort of person who made everyone around him feel welcome. Teachers described him as ambitious and grounded, a young man who balanced athletics and academics with almost irritating ease.
He'd graduated Hinton High School in 1990, attended UNC Charlotte on a wrestling scholarship, majored in Kinesiology (whatever that was!) and Education. He'd graduated in 1994.
His career began as a high school P.E. teacher and wrestling coach in the Charlotte area. He'd planned to move into athletic administration or open a training gym in his thirties. Obviously that had never come to fruition.
After college, he had rented a small duplex with his friend Cody: cheap rent. He drove a battered pickup, listened to Pearl Jam, Garth Brooks, and early Foo Fighters.
To make ends meet, he worked part-time at a YMCA while teaching P.E. and coaching wrestling at a local high school. Though his parents, Hannah and Tom, were comfortably well off, they'd raised him to earn his own way and he seemed to prefer it that way.
Before long, he'd become a full-time P.E. teacher and head wrestling coach at Hinton High, his alma mater. His teams began winning regional titles, and his name started appearing in the local papers. He was experimenting with strength training programs and had plans to write a fitness column for the community paper; more dreams that ended before they could unfold.
By the time Alexander closed his laptop, he was chilled to the bone. Roscoe Pierce had been the kind of man who seemed untouchable, all charm and confidence.
Exactly the kind of man who would have terrified him—ghost or not.
Alexander's mother was a tiny woman, so much so that most people called her Tiny. Her real name was Alice, a small figure with mousy brown hair and clear, oversized glasses that dominated her face.
"You look like you haven't been sleeping well," she observed from the kitchen table.
"It's hard to want to sleep when you work so much," Alexander said. "I want to enjoy the little free time I have, not waste it on sleeping."
"Tough luck, kiddo." Alice shrugged. "That's the price of not going to college. You'd have more flexibility if you had."
The words hit him like a sudden dunk underwater. Her voice blurred into noise, his stomach turning.
"I wasn't complaining," he muttered, fixing her tea exactly how she liked it.
"I'm just saying."
"Yeah, you're always saying."
"There's no need for an attitude, son. I'm trying to talk to you."
"You're trying to remind me that I've failed."
"God, I never said that."
"You don't have to. You and Dad make sure I feel it every time."
"It's true you don't strive as much as we'd like—"
"I don't get it," Alexander snapped, pacing. "Why have kids if all you want is a reflection of yourself? Parents should understand their children might not turn out the way they expect and that's supposed to be okay."
"Blah, blah, blah." Alice rolled her eyes. "Get off Reddit. This is real life. People aren't perfect. Not even parents."
"That's what I'm saying!" He raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm not perfect either!"
He paid his bills, he survived! Wasn't that enough?
Alice exhaled, weary. "You said you wanted more free time. I just pointed out that freedom comes with effort."
"I know." He wanted the conversation to end.
"Clearly not," she said. "You're exhausted because you don't apply yourself in the right ways." She always had to have the last word.
"Mom, please. Can we change the subject?"
"Fine," she said, "but you need to get used to discomfort. Facing it opens doors."
I wish you'd open the door and leave, he thought.
That night, they ate tacos in silence, smoothing their argument into something tolerable. Alice talked about her garden, the new deck, the clean carpets. His father and brother had washed the car together. "Why don't you come over anymore, Alexander?"
He was too tired to answer. When he finally lay in bed, his thoughts refused to rest.
Is what I want enough? Why don't I want more out of life? Why can't I be more like Roscoe Pierce?