*
The man from the flea market waited in vain for George’s visit to his table on Saturday. He dialed George’s visit to his table on Saturday. He dialed George’s phone number from the registration card. The phone rang without answer. After several more phone attempts, Earnest figured it was time to pay a personal visit to the address on the registration card.
The landlord unlocked the door and waited impatiently as the little man looked around.
“Thanks so much,” he said to the landlord as he handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “It’s unlike him to leave town unexpectedly like that. He must be in some serious trouble. Let’s see, George only wanted me to get a few things.” Earnest tried to ignore the cat urine stench.
“Here they are,” he said as he gathered six wooden statues.
Midas purred and rubbed against his feet. He stooped to pet him. “And the cat, of course. He’s probably starving.”
“I don’t need no dead cats around here, that’s fo sho,” the landlord said as Earnest clumsily scooped the cat in one arm and held the statues tight in the other.
Earnest scurried out of the building to his car. He threw the cat in the backseat and carefully placed the Egyptian figurines on the passenger seat. As he drove away, he caressed his new statue and said, “I used to be just like you, George. You start a collection and when it’s complete, you feel complete. But only for a short while. Then you need another quest, another collection to complete, to feel whole again until you spend all of your time caring for your things and shut everyone out of your life. All you ever really needed was people. That’s why I only collect people now.”
He picked up one figurine. “This is Chloe, I found her at the supermarket. Fred, well, I’ve had him since high school. I was an only child, you see. Now I have friends that will never hurt me or abandon me. It’s all just so perfect, don’t you agree?”
George heard all of the crazy little man’s words, but he could not move his mouth in reply.
After a few moments of silence the little man said, “I thought so.”
Death’s Countdown
When my wife died, I realized every tick of the clock brings us nearer to death. So I began thinking more and more about my death. I thought about my funeral. It would be something simple—something with music. My brother Mike and his family would come, but Mike would be the only one to cry. Some of my old coworkers would make an appearance—mostly because they are retired and have nothing better to do. A drab man would recount my life in twenty minutes. Then I would be underground.
I envisioned myself laying there inside a powder blue casket with folded arms, unable to move. Even with closed eyes inside a casket, I would sense the ground encircling me. Six feet of dirt would separate me from the living world and my gravestone, which would read: James “Jim” Hennex, Beloved Husband. My only comfort would come from knowing my wife would slumber so near to me. That is what I saw in my mind’s eye as I listened to the ticking of the clock—death’s countdown.
Therefore, I grew determined not to waste any time. Time is valuable and should not be taken for granted. Money—you can always earn more of that. When you have no more time, that is it! Make the most of your time. Get things done, practical things that will last and benefit you in the future. Be a busy ant that works all summer to stock up loads and loads of time.
Hobbies were disposed of first. Every plastic model ship and superglue tube became rubbish. I stopped waiting hours to photograph the perfect angle of a magnificent bird. Goodbye, camera. I stopped paying my gym member dues. Adios, racket balls and rackets. I sold off the cabin and the land it was on. Sayonara to you, tents and fishing poles and canoes.
With no hobbies, I found myself watching more and more television. Waste! When I did not watch television, I listened to the radio. Waste! Those electronics—well, I loaded them in my car to donate to charities that collect time-wasters.
It was as I was loading my car that my brother called. Mike wanted to chat about this and that, trivial matters and frivolous things. I told him I had to go and loaded that phone right on top of the heap I somehow managed to squeeze into the trunk of the black Volvo.
When I returned from the charity, I looked upon my furniture—the dusty, dusty furniture that I wasted time polishing. I knew it would not fit in the Volvo, so I dragged the wood furniture to my front lawn. I wrote “FREE” in black marker on three pieces of paper and taped each paper to a full bookshelf of books, a dining room table, and a full bureau of clothes.
It then occurred to me how much time I wasted changing the oil on my Volvo and pumping its hungry belly with gas. In broad, thick strokes I wrote “FREE” on one more piece of paper and taped it to its window.
After that, I returned to the couch and stared at the pendulum swinging on the tall grandfather clock. I listened to the tick, tick, ticking of the clock. For three hours, I sat and watched and listened without a single second of wasted time.
And I never felt deader in my life.
So I wrote my own death certificate on a piece of paper in black marker. I wrote my own name: James “Jim” Hennex. I wrote the cause of death: Insanity. I wrote the time: 7:47. And I decided it could not end this way.
So I immediately created a birth certificate on a new piece of paper. I gave myself a new name: Peter Barello. I wrote the time: 7:48. And I decided this would be my new beginning, one in which I allowed myself to waste a little time. But not too much.
Petition
A girl in her late teens shuffled up the footpath as I maneuvered through the early morning fog in my Mini Coupe. She bore resemblance to someone from 1972 in her chocolate-colored suede skirt with swaying fringe punctuated by round wooden beads. Her stringy ash blond hair had not been straightened by an iron nor had it been enhanced by gel and shine. No, the hair appeared natural—a genuine detail modern day hippies tend to forget. A wooden guitar was slung over one shoulder with a wide embroidered strap.
Moments later, a boy walked in the same direction as the hippie holding a black guitar case in his whitened knuckles. His dark hair clashed with his gray eyes—which screamed for relief from some secret emotional turmoil. The boy’s ragged clothes echoed his inaptitude to pierce whatever monstrosity mesmerized his mind. He looked as if he were off to play the blues with aged black men who strum with thick strokes impregnated by some inherited soul burden from slavery times.
More guitars approached. Some with slicked black hair; others wore bouffant hairdos. There were middle-aged women with orchid tattoos inked into elegant skin that poked out unapologetically from cotton sundresses. Asians wearing silver suits with purple cummerbunds sauntered past without taking notice of me. I gazed at tweens, who strolled by in striped knee highs with feather boas dangling from their necks. All carried guitars: classic, electric, and steel guitars of every shape and color. In mobs, they crowded the streets and made it impossible to accelerate a single inch without striking ninety-five pedestrians.
At first, I suspected they were headed to guitar lessons. As more came, I concluded a competition was set to commence. Next, I assumed the guitarists were elements of an extravagant flash mob. As the droves continued steadily, the situation grew more eerie. I punched the dial on the car radio hoping the disc jockey might mention the event as a side note to the morning traffic report.
Instead, he reported the horrific news with a tremor in his voice. In the night hours, the world’s end had become evident with unequivocal signs. Cows had stopped giving milk, and hens refused to lay eggs. People near Mount Vesuvius had been buried in ash while Hong Kong’s citizens were covered in snow. World leaders urged mankind to gather together in cities across the globe to petition God for his compassion with dulcet notes offered up via human fingertips plucked harmoniously on guitar strings.
I did not abandon my vehicle to join them as you might think. More logical matters entered my mind like stocking up f
ood and locating a fallout shelter. After the crowd thinned, I continued down the back street. I stopped at a grocery store. Aside from the lobsters that swam in the tank, the store showed no other signs of life. I estimated the cost of groceries I had swiped from the shelves and left that amount of cash—not a cent less—on the counter. From the parking lot, I phoned my sister and urged her to take refuge with me.
She replied, “If knowledge, logic, and intelligence are spawns of wisdom, they should cower in the face of expression.” She said it as though she were reading the Gettysburg Address. I waited for her to expound on the subject, but after a few silent moments she simply said, “Huey, I can’t play the guitar and talk to you simultaneously. I have to go. Goodbye and….good luck.”
I tossed the cell phone on my passenger seat and stared into the distance. I scratched my forehead under the front of my ball cap and tried to remember the way to Aunt Jane’s farmhouse.
An hour and several wrong turns later, I finally arrived. Aunt Jane was nowhere to be found, but the storm cellar was just as I remembered. I had scarcely unloaded the food and closed the doors when a massive blast shook the ground. Intense heat gusted on my flesh.
It was several hours later when I awoke. Chili from an exploded can dripped from the shelter’s ceiling. Burned flesh odor filled my nostrils. My muscles were tight. My swollen eye throbbed.
Then I reached up and touched my face. I patted my lips. I realized my mouth had been burned into a permanent sneer. Broken bones prevented me from standing on my feet. So I laid there and wished for a guitar or a banjo or lyre. After awhile, I began to hum.
Fickle Humans
Joe’s fresh corpse lay still beside the creek. An angel promptly appeared to lead Joe’s soul to places beyond.
Joe’s soul protested, “I will remain with my body until it’s found.”
“Very well,” she said and floated away.
Flies buzzed around his head and laid eggs in his open wounds. His muscles stiffened. His skin grew waxy, shrank, and decomposed until no skin was left. Heavy rains fell; the creek swelled. His bones washed away, disjoined by the current.
“Angel! Angel!” Joe’s soul shouted. “Come back.” But she did not return.
The Sinner’s Prayer
Abi, Mrs. Walker, and Reverend Walker finished the Sinner’s Prayer with a simultaneous “Amen.” Uncomfortable silence followed the solemn moment. Mrs. Walker, as hostess, felt obligated to fill this silence with the clatter of gold-trimmed teacups.
Rev. Walker smiled widely at his new protégé. He exclaimed in his southern accent, “Wot a pleasure it will be to baptize ma neighba b’fore th’ congregation on Sunday!”
Abi asked, “Isn’t baptism for children? I don’t think it’s right for me. I do appreciate the tea and your time, Reverend.”
Abi wanted to get acclimated to her new status as a Christian before she practiced rites and rituals. She’d simply accepted a casual invitation for tea, but the reverend proved to be rather persuasive about the religion.
“I’ll think about it,” Abi conceded. They bid their goodbyes, and Abi walked home.
The art deco skunk print greeted Abi with his usual bouquet as she entered her foyer and dropped her keys on a desk that overflowed with a collection of skunks, stuffed and sculpted. She climbed the stairs and readied herself for bed. Painted in lotions and adorned in her pink chenille bathrobe, she crawled onto her wicker bed and curled up with a romance paperback.
She barely read a word when an evil voice shouted, “You are…”
Abi clasped her ears, but the voice continued, “…not allowed to…”
She closed her eyes tightly, froze her thoughts, and wished the voice away. It was silent. Abi opened her eyes once more.
Two yellow eyes framed in green-black scales glared right back into Abi’s. The figure stood upright. The female form appeared to be naked except for the scales which served as her skin.
The voice seemed deceptively sweet, “I don’t think you know what trouble you started, sweetheart. Why don’t you just recant the little prayer? If you do, we promise to leave you alone with your kissy book.” The lizard-like creature snatched the book and analyzed the cover. Abi said nothing but simply stared.
Perturbed by her silence, the creature fanned out her neck, opened her mouth, and hissed in Abi’s face. Abi’s shrill scream distressed the creature. It climbed the wall and onto the ceiling where it looked down on Abi before it scurried out of the bedroom door.
When the scampering sound grew distant, Abi forced herself to breathe again. She was suddenly aware she’d curled into the fetal position and rolled onto her back to regain composure. She, then, noticed her back never touched the covers.
She looked down and saw her bed six inches below her. As her fear increased, Abi hovered higher and higher. She grabbed the wicker headboard in an attempt to cease the levitation. Abi was not strong enough to pull her body down. She needed to find a calm state of mind.
Contrived images of beloved objects flooded her mind’s eye. Quilts and skunks pacified her terrified mind. Abi fell to the bed like a concrete block dropped into a muddy river. She felt so alone. For a brief second, she wished the lizard would return.
Abi was wrong though; she was not alone. The corner of her eye caught a flash of light. She twisted her head and saw an evil silhouette. This figure appeared to have been dead sometime. Streams of light outlined rotting features. It lulled Abi into a feeling of powerlessness. The demon of light beckoned, “Come.” Abi complied.Hand in hand, the demon led Abi to the kitchen where she suggested, “Take some medicine for your head.” Abi’s head began to ache so horribly, it felt as though it had been struck with an ax.
Abi took one pill. The pain subsided. Moments later, the pain returned worse than before. She took more and more pills until vomit spewed from her mouth. She vomited time and again, until the thrust caused fluids to ooze from her other bodily orifices. Abi’s body was at its weakest when her mind defiantly concluded she would not allow herself to die like this.
Abi pulled her body to the door. She propped herself up on the doorknob and managed to leave the house. Abi struggled to her neighbor’s doorstep. The weakness overcame her and she passed out.