by Jack Worr
Before him stood a man in a suit, an old suit, the kind with coattails. He had his hands up, as if to ease Mason, as if Mason were a wild animal. “Never know what you might let out.”
Mason was suddenly overcome with the strange sense of… Something.
Something was off about this situation. There were no other doors, but that didn’t bother him. But he knew, he knew, there was supposed to be another one, right there behind— “Who are you? Where— What’s going on?”
“I needed to find you first. To see if it would work. This was the only way we could think of. The only way to be sure. I was beginning to think I’d never find someone who…” He sighed. “Well, I needed to find you. As for this”—he gestured at the room—“this is a place you’ve been before.” The man wore a slight smile, a sad smile.
Mason took in the room again. Was that what it was, déjà vu?
No, that wasn’t it. That particular college psychology class, an indelible presence, his constant companion since that fall quarter, proved its usefulness once again by offering up a memory of an exercise they’d done: writing their names over and over and over, watching them become meaningless—jamais vu. That’s what he felt. “I don’t remember being here before. Why am I? How did I get here?”
The room seemed to shake.
“You were…” The man’s eyes drifted to the closed door behind Mason. Mason could tell the man yearned to go through it. Or come through it. “Brought here. This is where you need to go. That is the door you need to pass. Beyond is the thing you need to seek.”
“But I’m here, and the door is open.”
The man’s gaze was on Mason now, and his head, large and covered in dark hair and a hat, lilted to the side, a vaguely curious dog, an indifferent cat. And though his expression didn’t change, his face seemed sad. This change was not physical, yet Mason saw it just the same. The same way he saw the man’s clothes now shimmer from a fine suit of deepest blue, to something off-white with buckles and too-long sleeves fastened behind him, and then back again.
“Mason.”
Everything shifted. Mason was aware of two realities. And then of more. And then of two. This, this was—
The man was sad. The man was not there. No, Mason was not there, Mason was fading, shimmering, the man was remaining.
His arm was shaking. His arm was being shook. “Mason! Wake up.”
9
Mason peeled his head from the coffee table. He looked up into the woman’s face. Tried to remember her name. Sara.
No, S A R A, that was wrong. There was an H, for hell.
No, it was an E, for enigma.
He scanned the table for the woman’s script. He looked at her. “Where is it?”
“Mason, you okay?”
Mason scowled. “Pe— Emily.”
“You’re really out of it.” She laughed. “That’s ironic.” She gestured at the shop around them.
Mason shook his head. “I had tea.”
“That explains it.” She made her voice gruff, pumped her arm as if punching a gremlin off of her left bicep, “You come here for a real man’s drink?”
“I had tea here.”
“In your dreams.” She put her hands on her hips. “All American Independent Coffee; we don’t need no stinkin’ tea.”
“You don’t serve tea. You don’t have glasses.”
Emily touched her face. “Contacts.” She tilted her head at him, a concerned dog… An indifferent— “You okay? You’ve been asleep for hours. They almost kicked you out before I came in.”
“They didn’t recognize me.”
Emily pressed her lips together. “Okay, up! Come up. There you go. You’re going to wait while I finish closing up, then we’re going to your place and you can make us margaritas.”
“I’m not old enough to drink,” Mason said as she pulled him toward what, as much as anything, could be called the “kitchen”.
Emily just laughed, and Mason looked around the shop, wondering where they kept the pastries, where they kept the rugs. He saw they were the only two people here.
He watched Emily go back to work. He rubbed his eyes several times while waiting for her to close, and had to blink several times for his contacts to slide back into place over his dry eyeballs. He felt like he’d run a marathon.
He was going back to that doctor. He knew he should have waited it out for the hot doctor. You signed the waiver, a voice whispered.
It was that crumbly crap—had to be. Everything else he’d heard of. Hadn’t LSD once been legal? Been proscribed?
‘Desoxyn’ popped into his head. He’d known someone in high school, a blonde with translucent skin he used to stare at during PE, stare at the pale legs exposed by the short shorts she wore, who’d had ADHD. She’d taken that. A doctor had prescribed it to her, prescribed methamphetamine to a fifteen-year-old girl.
Mason frowned. He’d been prescribed other things, true. But had he taken anything else? He didn’t think so. Why was it so hard to remember? Because dreams have a way of displacing thought.
Emily finally finished almost an hour later.
Mason had stared outside and hadn’t moved the entire time. Had just stared through the window, and into the dark.
“Coffee?”
Mason shook his head. The night seemed too clear.
“Dickface.”
He looked at her. “What?”
“Talking to my reflection? And not even deign to talk!”
“Oh.” He shook his head. “Just tired.”
“Duh. That’s why I asked.”
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What were you planning on doing if I hadn’t been here to take you home?”
“Calling you.”
In his car, Emily messed with the radio, while the steaming, scaldingly hot cup of designer coffee sat between her thighs, waiting to be consumed once the proper atmosphere was set.
Mason was especially weary that it did not even have a lid, lest the mound of artistically dispensed whipped cream be disturbed. “That’s not safe.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
He nodded at her lap. “Soon we will be in motion. Hot liquid plus motion plus skin equals … ?”
“Okay Mom. Where should I put it?”
“Try the cup holder shitface.”
She stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth at him and scrunched her face in a snarl.
He laughed. “What was that?”
She ignored him, finished choosing her station, then stowed her cup. She put a finger up as if to stop him from saying anything—he hadn’t been about to—then put on her seatbelt. “I’m ready Mommy!”
The streets were empty at this time of night. Two AM, and I’m feeling lonely.
“Why didn’t you drive?” Mason asked after he could allow his fuzzy attention to be split between conversation and the two AM streets.
“Your radio sucks.” She was messing with the radio again, her previously chosen station having gone to a commercial.
“Thanks.”
“Ooh,” she said, stopping on a song he had heard before. Or maybe it was a new song, sampling the old one: something about it seemed off.
Emily turned it up. “I love this!”
I had a dream
You held my hand
At Stensue avenue
We crossed the moat
Wished we’d wrote
To each other as we grew
We left for Yon
We left our bags
Laughing—
“I’ve heard this before.”
“Well aren’t you special.” She rolled down her window, turned the music up, and leaned her head so the wind blew her hair wildly.
Mason glanced at her and got an image of himself when he was sixteen, when his hair was long, and he used to ride home from high school in Ryan’s convertible. He realized he could now afford a convertible if he wanted one.
He could afford th
e monthly payments, anyway.
“No, I meant…” But Mason wasn’t sure what he meant. They drove on in the silence allowed by loud music and the late hour.
Minutes later Mason pulled into Emily’s driveway. He leaned down in his seat so he could look at the house through the windshield. “Parents home?”
She smiled at him. “Why?” she asked mockingly. “Want to come in?”
“Goodnight Emily.”
She punched him. “Seriously though, do you? We can watch movies or something. I’m wired.”
He pointed to the empty coffee cup in her right hand, the sugar and caffeine spilled not into his car’s interior, but past her lips. “Weird, I don’t know why.”
“What? It’s just one.”
Mason shook his head. “I’m tired.”
“You’re lazy! You slept all day. I saw!” She put her head on his shoulder. “Come on.”
He twisted his head to look at her. “Are you scared or something?” he asked with a chuckle. But then he saw that she was. “You are. What’s wrong?”
“Big, dark, scary house at the end of an abandoned road? Me all alone?” She gestured around at the darkness, as if this proved everything.
“Hardly abandoned.” He frowned at her. “Is Dalton bothering you again?”
“No!” she said too quickly.
Mason sighed and turned off the car.
“Yay!” Emily clapped, then gathered her things.
It was only as he pulled the key from the ignition that he realized the same song was on the radio again.
You left for Yon
You left me there
Laughing at the lust
A bitter lust
The blunder turned
Dreaming Blunderbuss
A bitter lust—
The blunder turned—
Screaming Blunderbuss
Emily opened her door and the radio died, taking the song with it.
“They play that a lot.”
But the door shut on his words, and Emily was already out and walking to the front entrance. She stopped and turned, waved at him to come in.
He sighed again and got out. He didn’t know what he’d do if Dalton came by.
Inside, he immediately fell onto the couch in front of the Doyle’s huge projection TV. The couch… was very comfortable.
Emily crouched and began untying his shoes.
“Hey.” He kicked. It was ineffectual. “I’m not staying the night.”
His shoes were placed by the door, a pillow on his shoulder, and soon Emily was leaning against him as they watched a movie.
But Mason really was tired, and his eyes began to close for longer and longer of periods of time, until they closed finally, and he fell into sleep. The image on the screen this event coincided with was one of a great airship flying over a town powered by steam, and the gunshot that accompanied this vision, Mason knew, was from a blunderbuss.
10
Then - 16 Years old
After their day at the beach, they spend their night stopping at several college parties and getting as much free alcohol as they can handle—which turns out to be not very much.
Now, they’ll vomit if they see another person doing a keg stand, and so Mason and his friends walk to a Mexican restaurant they heard of, that is only a few blocks from here.
The place is open twenty-four hours, which is good, given the current late hour. They are supposed to be checking out the college, and already be back with their chaperone by now. Luckily for them, their chaperone is Ryan’s older brother, and Ryan’s older brother is no chaperone.
The restaurant is lit brightly, and Mason squints his drunk eyes. Then he smells the food, and he forgets all about the light.
He and his friends have a brief moment of confusion at the almost invisible cable that forms the line. But they soon figure this out, and line up at the Panda Express-style bar to order and watch their late dinners get constructed.
He orders something called a Quesarrito. He isn’t entirely sure what it is, but he watched the person before him order it, and liked how much cheese they were putting on it.
He fumbles his money at the counter, bends to pick it up. The bell of the door opening jingles behind him.
He stands and reflexively glances that way.
The first thing he sees are the shoes.
It’s her. The girl in the boots.
“Hi.” Mason only realizes he’s spoken after she stops and looks at him.
Which she does oddly. “Hi.” Then she and her friends continue around the line, winding so they are at the beginning of the bar, farthest away from Mason, standing at the cash register.
“Nine ninety five!” the woman shouts in English that may as well be Spanish for all Mason has been able to understand of it.
He looks at her. “Sorry.” He hands her the money, now crumpled.
But before she can take it, she shouts again, and Mason is rocked by what feels like an earthquake with an epicenter at his shoulder. “No! Get out! Dalton—”
“Who is Blunderbuss? Who is Blunderbuss?”
The girl shakes her head, the girl, who is Mason, and who is Isla. Except, now it is Eila, and somehow, this sounds different to him, even though he knows it isn’t. It is still Isla, no matter the construct.
The table is slapped, though there is no table. This is just my explanation for events I don’t understand, Mason—the girl—thinks.
Why? Tell me! someone shouts in his head. He—she—is crying, and with this there is a splitting, a rending, as if caused by the violence of the imposition and he floats in one corner.
Then he is wrenched, violently through the roof of the restaurant and into the sky where he looks over a land surrounded by great mountains of water that are far too high, that should spill over into the city, that should raze the city and drown its inhabitants, but that do not. Fire spills from this vantage, a piercing screech, and great wings flap in—
11
Now
“Get out!”
Mason opened his eyes. He was on the couch, it was bright, and the light blinded him. He turned his head left, away from the shouting people, squinted past the reflection in the window, but couldn’t see anything other than the interior’s bright lights reflected back at him.
Still night, some part of his mind told him.
Then he was awake enough to realize what was going on.
“Don’t touch me!” Eye makeup smeared Emily’s face.
Was it from sleep?
Her shirt was torn.
Had it been already?
“Hey,” Mason said weakly. He stood, fell. Stood again.
Dalton looked at him, as if he hadn’t seen him there. “Where’d you come from?” His mouth was open. Then he looked at Emily. “Oh, I get it. So you’re screwing him, huh? What, you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Dalton! Stop it.” There was a silence. “It’s none of your business, but no, I’m not screwing my brother.” She said this violently, a physical blow.
Dalton looked at Mason, anger turned to confusion. “Your brother? Your brother’s eight.” His voice was higher, questioning.
She sighed. “First, he’s thirteen. And obviously, that’s not Nick.” She pushed him in the direction of the door. His body moved limply, but his feet stayed planted. “Now go. We broke up, remember?”
“What?” Dalton’s mouth hung open even farther. “Oh. No.” He looked between Mason and Emily. “I have amnesia.”
Emily laughed and pushed Dalton again. “That’s not funny, now get out.”
Dalton looked at Mason.
Mason was still standing there, by the couch, and was glad he was older and taller than Dalton. “You should go,” he said.
But Dalton had already been backing away. “Is he okay?”
Emily glanced at Mason. She turned back to Dalton. “No, he’s not. He’s angry with you for upsetting his little sister. Now leave before he beats the crap out of you.”
Dalton made to say something, looked at Mason again, stopped, said, “Yeah, okay.”
Mason stood there, unsteadily, watching Emily follow behind Dalton to the door.
Dalton turned when they reached it, said something Mason couldn’t hear.
“No! And if I ever was going to I’m not when you keep bugging me.”
Dalton made to do something, what Mason thought looked like a hug, but the attempt was aborted and then Dalton was gone and the door was shut and locked behind him.
Emily fell onto the couch.
Mason looked down at her. “Why’d you let him in?”
“Me? I didn’t you shitface. I think he has a key,” she muttered.
“Calm down fucktard.” Mason sat down next to her.
“I used to really like him.”
“Not no mo’?”
She punched him.
“Why’d you say I was your brother?”
She leaned her head against him, arms around his waist. “Because you’re everything a brother should be.”
He could smell her hair. It smelled like coffee. It smelled like Isla. “What time is it?”
“Early,” she said into his shoulder.
He relaxed back into the couch. The weight of her anchored him, and he was asleep before he could even have the thought that he wouldn’t be able to.
12
Then - 17 Years Old
Mason waits outside for Ryan. Ryan said this would work, he’s done it before. Mason isn’t getting his hopes up.
Someone taps him.
He turns.
“Hi,” a kid says. She’s maybe eleven.
“Hi.”
She gestures toward the store. “Waiting for someone?”
Mason nods. “Yep.”
She nods too. “That’s what I thought.” She looks at the storefront. “Hey,” she exclaims, as though getting an idea, “would you do me a favor?”
“I guess.”