Where is Johnathan Xavior

"Get out of there."
He thought about it for a second, looking for the first time like he was fully aware of what he was doing and seriously weighing the pros and cons of his few options.
Eric looked back at Tom who was sipping a beer in the living room, staring purposefully out the window. When he turned back to Frank, it seemed like he'd lost an important opportunity.
In the time it took him to quietly fish for support, Frank's expression turned from distantly pensive to darkly resolute, as if Eric's turn of the head had somehow validated all of Frank's actions so far.
"Say please, asshole."
"God damnit, Eric, just let him sit in the god damned cupboard," Tom shouted, his voice betraying an exhaustion that annoyed Eric.
"Yeah, Tom doesn't have a problem with it, why don't you just go to hell?"
"For fuck's sake, Frank-" he began, but halfway through the sentence he realized he had no idea how to finish it. Did it really matter if he displaced the pots and pans? Did he really want to take part in this sick and overly obvious cry for help?
"Frank, if you don't get out now, I'll beat the shit out of you."
"Eric, shut the hell up-- dude, check it out, someone's totally breaking into the neighbor's house!"
"Frank, I'm serious. You're putting me in a situation that is pissing me off. It's too early and I'm too hung over to be rational."
"Yeah, why don't you go fuck someone else's girlfriend!"
"Ok, man, now you know you're crazy. I only kissed the girl, I didn't know you 'claimed' her, and you only went on one date with her."
Tom shouted, "And it wasn't even a date, y'all had just met. But seriously, I think we should call the cops."
Frank leaned forward a little, his shoulders pushing against the sides of the cupboard, his knees rocking forward, the wood creaking from it's unusual load, and Eric took a step back in case he decided to jump down.
"I know your secret," he whispered, hate and stale beer making his breath as spiteful as his words.
Eric reacted.

***

"What?"
"Do you know where Johnathan Xavior is?"
"I'm sorry friend, I don't know anyone by that name."
"Your sure?" Eric considered handing the elderly gentleman some money, like they do in the movies, but wasn't confident enough to feel he could pull it off.
"Very sure, I think I would remember meeting a real person with a name like Xavior. Now, if you'll excuse me friend, I have some food that's getting cold."
"I'm sorry... thanks for your time."
"Good luck finding him."
The door softly clicked shut, and Eric began to walk around the block. The skies were the color of iridescent orange sherbet as seen through a thick veil of smoke, the product of countless streetlights reflecting off the cloud that hung over Portland like a dirty wet blanket. He tried to remember the last time he saw the stars. He tried to remember the last time he smoked a cigarette.
He turned a corner, and stopped to admire a grove of bamboo growing in someone's front yard. He recognized it from a botany course as timber bamboo: when properly dried, it can be as strong as stone. There was something beautiful about the way this bamboo grew like a weed here, the way shoots seemed to be sprouting up even as far as the neighbor's yard, and the short stone wall behind it all slowly being gnawed away by thick moss growing in the cracks which, he imagined, got deeper every year. With the weather the way it had been lately, these rocks could be dust in a decade, and the only thing around for miles will be bamboo and cherry trees.
While walking, he thought about calling up detective Craig Nasd again, but knew there would be no point. The detective knew Eric was holding out, he was sure, and there was no doubt that the detective had no intention of letting Eric in on anything.
"Excuse me."
Eric turned around. It appeared that he'd slowly walked completely around the block and ended up directly in front of the elderly man's house again, where the detective was standing. His expression was grim.
"What are you doing here?" Eric asked dumbly.
"I love that question, you know?" the detective asked rhetorically, his expression not changing in any way, "Sometimes I feel like asking you that question. There was the time you were at the site of the explosion, and now, for example."
"What do you mean?"
"Eric, tell me, what in God's name brings you to this house?" He pointed.
"I was just asking a question," he began, the nervousness welling in his steaming hot face, holding back the panic at the idea that he might be some kind of suspect, judging by the detective's slightly accusatory tone. He continued, "I was talking to some mutual friends and they said he visited here sometimes, so I thought I'd ask if he'd seen him. He said no, so I just started wandering around."
"Mutual fr-" he stopped and sighed in frustration. He looked at his shoes for a moment and pulled out some handcuffs. "That's very interesting. Eric, can you come over here and turn around so I can put you under arrest?"
"What?"
"You're just so god-damned suspicious to not be a suspect."
"A suspect of what? I'm just trying to find out what happened to my friend!"
"Ok, sure, but I need to detain you for questioning. The man who lives in this house is dead, and from the looks of it he's been dead at least a week." There were sirens in the distance, a voice in the detective's trench coat said something about an ambulance arriving shortly and that they had sent for a forensics team. Eric looked passed the detective's shoulder at a thin spot in the sky where he could just make out a crescent moon, and wondered what he should do.
It wasn't time yet for his secret to get out, there was still more he had to do.
He ran.

"Hey Eric, check it out!" He held up a newspaper, "I was in the news!"
"Really?" Eric while he walked quickly to the kitchen to catch his breath with his back to his friend. He checked the fridge on instinct, just to make sure there was still a large bottle of mustard, a pile of taco-sauce, and a big bowl of leftovers from last Christmas turning into an impressive multi-colored mush. A half-drank can of beer had been added to the work of art.
"Yeah, dude, I got interviewed about the house next door. Remember when I said it looked like people broke into the house across the street? They fucking killed the neighbors and lived in there for a month!"
Eric stopped. "That's crazy. I thought you called the police?"
"Yeah, I did, and I told that to the newspaper guy. Says here in the article that they never received the call. They're blaming it on a failure of the dispatching system and using it as an excuse to demand more funding. Go figure. But anyway, check it out! I have like, 3 lines on the front fucking page!"
"Weird. Hey man, um, I have to go away for awhile. You'll probably be in the paper again pretty soon."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think I have time to tell you right now. I'll email you, though. Can I borrow your car? It's insured and everything, you can just say I stole it."
"Uh, sure. I'm pretty much out of gas, so fill it up before you come back. And bring back some Chinese food."
"Yeah, um..." He thought about clarifying, but Tom either wouldn't buy it or wouldn't understand. Eric grabbed the clothes he'd set out for the next day, wrapped it up in a blanket, pocketed his stash of tip money, and was gone.

***

What if the answer was right under his nose? What if he'd already figured everything out, an answer only to be disregarded because it was too easy, because the conclusion was arrived at without effort? Oh, sure, he thought I'm probably just looking for an easy way out, hoping the simplest answer will be the best so I can just crawl back into the cave and just say 'aha, cause and effect, there we go. Black and white. What I learned were merely shadows was actually the real thing all along.'
He choked back a sob and was surprised by the squeaking sound he made. Stress can make you emotional, and as the water ran he acknowledged that knowing it helped him keep himself in check.
There were too many questions to answer before he could let his guard down and let his body take over, even for a few minutes. There were the obvious ones that were mostly just a distraction, like where the hell am I? and the second part to that question, how the hell did I get here? which led him in a madcap recap of retracing steps made with unsure footing in a dash to get some fucking answers and avoid capture from forces real, like the police, and imagined, like... Them.
The months were threatening to stretch into a year, and his new lifestyle of grabbing at questions and lead was leading him to question who he was. He looked in the mirror some mornings--like this one--and saw a man very similar to the man he saw in pictures and memories, but was he the same person? Was he his quest for answers, his search for Johnathan Xavier? Was he the actions which he justified as a means to an end, optimistically hoping history would absolve him? Or was he just a regular guy with a regular apartment that he was just taking a little vacation from?

"Well, right now I'm a guy who's standing in front of a mirror and putting off shaving."

Shaving, trying to cut himself as little as possible, he decided that he'd gleaned a moral from this morning's existential drama which could shore up his sanity and keep him going through the day and maybe the week; the task at hand takes precedence, and the big questions as little details in disguise, distractions the answers to which are either unattainable... or useless, because either way he had to shave, try not to cut himself, and do what he's got to do. Laughing as he tried to wash off the shaving lotion and blood, he wondered if that was just the easy answer.