The Curious Case of Michael Little

Streets named after people were never to be trusted, at least in his estimation. The last time he had been accosted by a protestor to join their cause or been involved in a car accident had been suspiciously on a street named after a person. The more well-known, the worse the incident. He recalled a particularly horrible event where a building scaffolding fell onto Martin Luther King Boulevard and caused massive panic that there had been a terror attack. It was not, in fact, a terror attack, only criminal negligence. The trial lasted for weeks, and everyone in town talked of nothing else.

He wished he needed to go elsewhere, like Third Street or even Broadway, but he could not. His phone told him the doctor’s office was in the building two blocks down. The people around him went about their business as if nothing was wrong about the street. Mustering up his courage, he took a step down the sidewalk of Chester A. Arthur Street. Nothing immediately horrible happened, though perhaps that had more to do with the fact many people did not know who Chester A. Arthur was. He took some solace in that and began walking in earnest to his appointment.

Every step had looking over his shoulder for a potential mugger or road-raging driver, maybe a dog walker with too many dogs and one got loose to bite him. It was for that very reason he was visiting the doctor that afternoon. His primary doctor, family, friends, and coworkers all agreed that he had paranoid delusions of a kind. It only applied to named streets, nothing else. His doctor recommended a psychiatrist who specialized in paranoid schizophrenia. Dr. Gomez told him she was not completely positive he had schizophrenia but that Dr. Fredrick Jacobsen would be able to help him if he did, or at the very least figure out what was actually wrong.

As he stepped up to the door, he saw himself in the reflection of the glass door. He looked tired. His once shaved head had a few weeks’ worth of growth. His dark skin looked almost grey, though maybe that was the glass and the color of the sidewalk. He hoped so at least. His back slouched as if he had been worn down, and he felt it.

He opened the door, making his reflection disappear, and approached the front desk. The young woman smiled up at him. “Can I help you?”

He pulled out his phone and referenced the email. “Yes, I’m here to see Dr. Jacobsen?”

She nodded and asked, “Name?”

“Michael Little.”

That seemed to amuse her. He knew he was tall compared to most everyone else, but his attention kept mostly to the street. She drew his attention back to get his insurance information. After he completed the paperwork, he sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting area. His knee bounced nervously as he consciously counted the ticks of the clock on the wall.

“Mr. Little,” said a voice like old dry paper. He looked away from the street and acknowledged an older man waving him through a heavy door to the offices. The older man greeted him with a genuine smile and pat on the shoulder as they made their way.

“So, Dr. Gomez sent you to me? Ah yes, I remember her from a conference not too long ago. Bright young lady…” he continued to tell Michael how much he admired Dr. Gomez’s work as they entered the room. As soon as Michael sat down in the chair across from the desk, Dr. Jacobsen’s demeanor changed. Gone was the friendly old man telling fond stories of a colleague, and its place was a doctor whose only thought focused on the patient in front of him.

He opened a note pad and asked, “Can you tell me exactly what is happening?” Michael cautiously went over the details. He told Dr. Jacobsen about the paranoia around streets and how it paralyzed him from enjoying certain events or even going to the doctor. “Yes, yes,” the doctor nodded, “I saw you hesitate at the corner.” Michael’s head shot up at this.

“You what?”

“Now when did this all begin?”

Michael was caught off guard by the doctor’s question and dug through his memories. “Probably when I was about five or six years old? Why?” The doctor nodded again and gently set the note pad down. With his hands together, he looked pensive and said, “Typical cases of schizophrenia do not occur until the patient is an adult, Mr. Little. You are telling me this has been happening since you were a child, yes?” Nods were exchanged.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Little, but you are not schizophrenic. As much as that answer might have comforted you.”

Michael leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “I just don’t understand. Is it just paranoia that gets reinforced by coincidence?” Dr. Jacobsen began to laugh at this. Michael glared at him, but he waved the look away. “Oh, Mr. Little. I needed that. I am not laughing at you, my boy. I am laughing at the idea that it is all coincidence.”

The old man got up from his chair and walked over to a bookshelf. Turning back, he looked back over Michael with a very calculating stare. Michael began to squirm under the scrutiny. After a few moments, he could not take it anymore and stood.

“I think I’ll be go- “

“Have you heard of shaping reality to your will, Mr. Little?”

“What,” Michael said. He stared at the old man incredulously. “That’s impossible.”

The doctor shook his head. “No, my boy, it very much is not. My specialty is for no purpose. I am to weed out the ones who genuinely have the disorder and find those who do not. You, in fact, do not.” He said it simply as if the world knew it.

Michael pointed at him, “You are crazy.” He turned to the door, but another man had entered and blocked his path. This man wore a simple black suit and had an ID tag clipped to his lapel. Michael did not recognize the name of the organization, or more the collection of letters meant to represent it. He turned back to Dr. Jacobsen.

“What the hell is going on?”

The doctor had pulled a book from the shelf, the author’s name plainly displayed on the spine. Michael did not recognize the name and did not care to. Before he could do much more than take a step towards the man in the suit, Dr. Jacobsen began talking.

“My dear boy, I have been in this business a very long time. I was your age when I discovered what I am about to tell you, and like me, it will change you forever.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “I’d rather not join your ‘business.’”

“Oh, I am sure you could. Very sure you could, but that will not be possible, Mr. Little. You see before my dear friend’s disappearance,” he lifted the book as he said this. “He entrusted me with a handy device to ensure that you or anyone like you could not tear a whole through my office. It seems to be working better than usual as you have proven to be quite adept at warping reality around you. Every time you have stepped on a street named after a person, you have made something bad happen, but not this street. Not this day.”

Michael felt his resolve flounder. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Dr. Jacobsen only shook his head.

“When you were a child, yes, you witnessed something horrible. That event shaped how you see the world, how you manipulate it. You learned so much history about the people whose names dot this country, that you convinced yourself it was only that. Coincidence.

“Did you notice anything strange happen when you stepped on this street in particular? Named after a president. Not a very famous one, but one nonetheless. Many schoolchildren know and repeat his name. A select number of historians specialize in researching his life, but when you stepped on his street, nothing happened did it? You thought it would. No car accidents. No robberies or muggings. Absolutely, blissfully nothing. So, why do you think that it?”

Michael stood, mouth agape, trying to reconcile what the man was saying. “Obviously, he’s not famous enough for something big to happen. Something small happened, like maybe someone tripped, and I didn’t notice it.” He floundered to find an answer, but nothing came to mind. Dr. Jacobsen was right. Nothing horrible happened, and the old man seemed somewhat apologetic about it.

“I am truly sorry to bring you here under false pretenses, dear boy, but we had to intervene. Your last episode caused enough damage to warrant a federal investigation,” the doctor said while placing the book back on the shelf. The man in the suit stepped forward and placed Michael in handcuffs. He allowed it to happen, defeated by what the doctor kept saying.

“You are not paranoid, schizophrenic, or any other mental disorder, though possibly anxious or depressed. That might be a given due to your circumstances, however. You have something far more terrible and awesome, not in the way you young folks use it, but in the more literal sense,” he placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder as the suited man nodded to him.

“You mold the world to your will, Mr. Little. You are akin to a god. You bring forth and take away. If you so desired, you could crush all life around you in an instant, and that is why we cannot allow you to remain without securing you from others.”

Michael felt panic rise in his throat. “No please,” he pleaded to no avail. The suited man began to lead him out of the room. Dr. Jacobsen only hung his head and murmured, “If only we could.”

Michael Darius Little disappeared on Thursday, March 16th. His family reported him missing to authorities the following day. After six months, police gave up on the investigation. His mother and father continued to search for him spending most of their savings to do so. Two years after Michael Little’s disappearance, a letter arrived at his family home. Inside, a sizeable check that not only recouped the finances spent on the search but also enough for them to retire on and small tear-stained note that simply said:

I can’t tell you where I am or why. The Foundation only just now approved this to be sent out. One of the doctors helped me get them agree to send you some money. I hope you both are doing ok. They told me I can never go home again. I miss you so much. I love you, Mom and Dad. – Michael.