In-Between Days
by
NICK DESJARDINS
VIRGINIA BEACH
CAPE CHARLES
In-Between Days
by Nick Desjardins
© Copyright 2017 Nick Desjardins
ISBN 978-1-63393-502-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
210 60th Street
Virginia Beach, VA 23451
800–435–4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
For Hurricane J,
The storm that changed everything.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
1
In the twelve years I’ve been here, I had never once been late—until today. Sleep was almost nonexistent here. A little over a decade of next-to-no rest, yet somehow, on the day I was getting out, I managed to get eight full hours. That was the kind of ironic meal this place served up, but today was the last time I’d have to swallow it.
I rolled out of bed and looked at the answering machine, flashing red and beeping incessantly. Sighing, I smacked the button next to the blinking light and listened as a gravelly croak crackled out of the tiny box.
“Owen, this is a courtesy reminder of your appointment with Michael this afternoon concerning your release. Remember to have your things packed, your affairs in order, and please arrive early.” Her tone somehow managed to be both acrid and apathetic, the true sign of a hardened receptionist.
“Yeah, thanks for that,” I muttered, my tongue pressing hard against the back of my teeth. I pulled on my only good pair of jeans, doing my best to look presentable. I stared into the wall mirror, dirty and cracked since long before I took up residence here. There were bags under my eyes. Everyone here had them.
It took me a minute or two to find a shirt, another five to locate my wallet, and an embarrassing amount of time to tug on a pair of boots. Emerging from my apartment building, I almost expected to be greeted by a bright, colorful day, as if the universe knew I was on my way out, but that wasn’t the case. Every ounce of pigmentation that should have been there—the blinding yellow of the sun, the pristine white clouds, the deep and comforting blue—had been swallowed up by an unforgiving, ravenous gray. It was always gray here.
Boot heels clicking on the sidewalk, I ran to the bus stop, shoving keys and other belongings into my pockets along the way. I made it to the corner just as the bus door closed. Smacking against the side as it began to pull off, I managed to catch the attention of the driver. Begrudgingly, he hit the brakes and pulled the lever.
“Most people know how to make it to the bus stop on time,” he sneered, his words slightly muffled by the plush growth above his upper lip.
“And most people prefer a nice ‘hello there’ as a greeting.” I shot a smile, my best attempt at a courteous “fuck you,” as I dropped change into the coin slot. I took the seat behind him and, for what I hoped would be the last time, observed the marks on his neck. The rope had burned a perfect red ring all the way around—a grotesque ascot to match his flared slacks and seventies-machismo mustache.
Looking at my forearms, focusing on my scars for what must have been the hundred-thousandth time, I knew I had no room to judge him. The scars hadn’t faded from that dark pink shade in twelve years. Though no one ever said anything about them, I couldn’t help the urge to hide them. The guys in charge always said that once I left, the scars would leave too. None of us knew if that was true. No one who left ever came back. Why the hell would they?
I caught his glare in the rearview mirror and rolled my eyes. After today, I’d be done with his scowls and shrugs. I settled into my seat—non-cushioned and comfortless, solid steel covered in cracked faux-leather. The bus chugged along to the next stop, squealing and groaning on the uneven pavement.
Though I hated this place more than I’d hated anything in my entire existence, I had stopped the self-pity and wondering what I’d done to deserve it all.
The commute was especially bad right now, and it seemed to get longer each day—Greek heroes had shorter journeys than this. Some days it rained, and some days the sun was blinding, peeking out of the clouds like a cosmic game of hide-and-seek. But the color never changed. You’d go crazy in a place like this if all you ever did was stare up at the great big monochrome. You learned to look at the people instead.
An old woman frequented the back of the bus, her face weathered with wrinkles. She wore a head scarf, but not as a fashion statement or cultural icon. Instead, it covered up a nickel-sized pink scar on the front of her neck, and another slightly larger scar on the back. I assumed she’d been some kind of KGB spy, and that she’d run one of those secret numbers stations. She probably turned a gun on herself when the Berlin Wall came tumbling down, distraught at the collapse of her nation and the frivolity of her life’s work
A young girl with frizzy blonde braids sat two seats in front of her. She had scars like mine: big, brutal lines stretching the length of her forearms, though hers were far less jagged. They’d been sliced long before mine and she’d been staring at them long before I got here, but every time I saw them I had the urge to grab bandages and wrap her up in a blanket. She seemed so young, but I guess I had been too. I wondered why she was still here. I wondered if she ever thought the same of me.
Some people looked completely normal, and they were the biggest puzzles. It was easy to see how the ones with the obvious scars ended up here, but the others kept you guessing. It became the most interesting way to fill the time, wondering to yourself if the man in the pressed suit and slacks was here because he ruined a half-dozen marriages with acts of infidelity. Or, maybe he was one of those Wall Street guys who flew to second-world countries to fleece money or resources. Horrible thoughts, for sure, but no worse than being out in the real world, sitting on a bus passing superficial judgements.
In all likelihood, most of them weren’t guilty of some spiritual crime or cardinal sin. Michael had explained it to me. For the most part, people ended up here because they weren’t particularly good or bad. Those kinds of people didn’t stick around for too long.
If you ran out of people to judge before you reached your destination, you were effectively left with nothing to do but count the number of scratches on the seat in front of you until the bus finally made it to your desired gray brick building. The first few years of this dismal commute were fine; there were enough people to guess about. I’d spend the whole ride dreaming up scenarios and life stories. The scarred young girl, with her long legs and slender build, had chased her dreams and tried out for the New York City Ballet. She was passed over twice, and in an act of desolation, she took a piece of a broken mirror to both wrists.
And that asshole bus driver, with his awful white, flared chinos and feathered hair, had been a happily married man with a secret lover on the side. When h
is wife found him in bed with his paramour, another man, he hung himself out of shame. His suicide left him scarred and driving this bus. That happened long before I was born.
Two blocks from the city, the bus screeched to a halt to let on a businessman in a sharp suit. His hair was coiffed perfectly to the side, his suit pressed and clean. He hadn’t been here long, and the sneer he gave the bus driver suggested that his attitude adjustment would take decades.
“I don’t have change, pal,” he spat at the bus driver, adjusting his cufflinks in a threatening manner. They looked like little white sleeping pills, the kind I’d once taken far too many of. “Just let me ride to the office, and I’ll pay you on the ride back.”
“Look,” the bus driver retorted, his words slightly garbled under his mustache, “you’re holding up the route. These people have places to be, and it’s poli-shee. Nobody rides for free. You either pay the fare, or you get off the bushh.”
The man looked as if his stock investment plan had just been panned. He glared at the driver, a long and angry scowl focused down a large, pointed nose. For a moment, I thought he might take a swing. Though I was no friend of the bus driver, I didn’t have time for a bus brawl between a couple of roughneck idiots. I was on my way to being paroled. I fished out the correct coins from my pocket and sprang toward the box, staring the businessman right in the eyes as I dropped each piece of silver into the slot.
“Sit.” Plink.
“Down.” Plink.
“Asshole.”Plink.
He looked at me like I’d put three coins directly into his ass rather than paying his bus fare, defensively adjusting his sleeping-pill cufflinks as if that would intimidate me into rescinding my comment. But it wouldn’t. I stared back, my callous eyes and curled lip acting as proverbial middle fingers. He got the hint, his coattails tucked between his legs as he skulked back to an empty seat next to the Russian woman. I was willing to fight him if he bothered her, but I’d done well enough to control my impulses up to this point.
The last two city blocks passed by in a rush of annoyance, adrenaline, and anxiety. My legs shook, each of them to a separate beat. One I was certain was a Ramones song I hadn’t heard in years; the other was the uneasy cadence of fear. I wondered what my father might say if he were here. I hoped he’d never be here, never see a place like this. I couldn’t begin to imagine what I’d say to him. Sorry was the only word that came to mind, but I didn’t have the time to spiral into those depths.
The bus sputtered to a halt, the door hissing open. We filed out, one by one, the carnivorous gray seeping down into the city from somewhere up above, washing over and muting everything. The absence left everyone wanting, wracking their brains for far-off memories of blue skies, of a life replete with vibrancy, and of childhood—of opening up a new box of crayons, filled with more colors than you thought you’d ever need.
***
The courthouse, St. Peter’s, was center city. Or at least it felt like the center. Except for the gray wash, it seemed entirely out of place, an archaic temple in the middle of a vast urban jungle. It was the only place in the city that never seemed to slow down, but it was too governmental to call a heart, perhaps a kidney. Floods of people were always rolling in—lifers looking to pay off debts, the freshly arrived not knowing what to expect, and the people who were lucky enough to be leaving—all climbing the granite steps to those heavy oak doors. It was too much like a church for any real comfort, but I guess they planned it that way.
Some people never made it past the statue. They’d stare up in shock at St. Peter towering over them, as if they’d stumbled onto the set of Attack of the Fifty-Foot Saint. I’d been here long enough to take in every crack in his marble beard, the precise angle of the tipping scales hanging from his fist. Awe faded into admiration, which quickly dissolved into apathy. I just wanted out. I was ready to go, and salvation was waiting for me in a cramped office behind those doors.
I’d never made it up the steps that quickly before, and I stood at the top like a conquering champion, ready to strap on boxing gloves with a bad eighties anthem stuck in my head. Before today, every tug at that door handle was like pulling frantically at a block of lead. But today I felt like Superman as they flew open with a simple pull. This place was as happy to see me go as I was to be leaving.
“Excuse me, pal,” said an unfamiliar, sharply-dressed man as he brushed past me. He didn’t even look my way or wait for me to respond, and I found myself dodging his wings as they stretched out. They pulled him up into the air, and he began spouting directions to the organized chaos below him.
“Alright, newbies, please follow me toward annex C, so we can get you documented.” His voice trailed off as he led a group of confused looking newcomers.
“The hell is this place?” came a voice from behind me.
“Are those . . . Is that guy fucking flying?!”
“Don’t say those kinds of things in the presence of an angel!”
“Annex B is off limits due to a wallpaper-related issue, please get a clean-up squad in here immediately,” yelled another important looking man with wings. Curiosity almost got the best of me, but before I could ask questions, he rushed in the opposite direction. It was dizzying trying to navigate the bureaucratic bedlam.
“New arrivals please consult your transition manager and quickly filter into your designated waiting rooms,” an unseen individual boomed over the loudspeaker. There was something unsettling about the delivery. That voice didn’t come from anything resembling a human, and it seemed taboo just to hear it.
My first day here had not been easy. Dazed, distressed, staring around the great sprawling lobby, I was crammed in the middle of a group of other disoriented pilgrims, and then herded along to a waiting room by a man in khakis—with wings. That’s what got most of the new arrivals; it wasn’t that they were seemingly alive and well in some undefined afterlife, that their wounds were no longer bleeding and had miraculously scarred over, or even that color seemed to be a thing of the past. No, it was the feathered appendages sprouting from the back of anyone with a sense of authority.
When you know you’ve died, and you realize that you’re still somehow conscious and existing, how can you think of questioning anyone with a divine presence? These winged beings shouted and pointed, and we followed along like cattle. With a supernatural sense of order and direction, the angels divided up the confused masses into separate waiting rooms, where we were instructed to take a number and entertain ourselves until we were summoned.
That had been ages ago, and I’d been filled with first-day-of-afterlife jitters. Today, however, I wove through crowds with confidence, ducking and dodging in between the old-timers and newcomers alike, determined to make my way to Waiting Room 13. The astonishment I felt for the lobby had long since faded, the biweekly appointments dulling the luster of anything marvelous.
The wings were now commonplace. The voice of the Metatron over the loud speaker? More akin to droning radio pop tunes than a member of the celestial choir. Visiting saints got more eye rolls than adulation. Miracles were fascinating the first time, but after a hundred or so, they were no more interesting than pulling on a pair of matching socks back in the real world, which actually would have been a miracle worth celebrating if it happened here. Before, making up stories about new arrivals helped stave off my boredom. You could always tell the new ones by the overstated looks of awe and confusion, and occasionally disappointment. But today, I wasn’t intrigued by the new group walking through the heavy oak doors—not the old men, the guy in the chaps and cowboy hat, the guy dressed as a clown, not even that gorgeous blonde in front. I opened the door into the waiting room, knowing the only thing standing between me and everlasting salvation was Michael and a bunch of miserable, gray people.
***
When I walked into Waiting Room 13 for the very first time, no one wanted to talk. But then again, what do you say in the modernized waiting room of some ethereal realm? You’re lucky enough to
stare at your shoes with any sort of concentration, let alone cobble together a simple “So what are you here for? And for that matter, where are we?”
We all sat in silence, save for the click-clacking of keys behind the desk. The secretary attached to the keys seemed familiar, the same wretched receptionist you’d see a couple dozen times a year—homely and outdated, with a bored, lackluster expression and a nameplate that was criminally under-polished. She was absolutely normal. Except for the wings. I wondered how many times I was going to experience that thought as I sat waiting her to call my number.
It seemed like hours passed, maybe even a day, but without a clock it was hard to gauge. I was busy staring around the room, trying to comprehend all of this—what exactly was going on, and how I was walking and talking as if nothing had happened. Janice, the secretary, snapped me to attention. Her voice was more akin to broken china than anything else; I couldn’t believe I’d managed to ignore it until then. She stared right at me, leering expectantly as she croaked out “thirty-seven?” I had to look down twice at the ticket in my hand before I finally stood and shambled embarrassingly toward the door she was guarding.
“Down the hall. To the left,” she wheezed, motioning at the door. “Don’t open the one on the right, and don’t keep him waiting.”
“Hey, can you tell me exactly where I—”
“Michael will answer your questions,” she’d rasped. She didn’t even bother to look at me; she was too focused on filling in the squares of a crossword puzzle. Every subsequent biweekly meeting was the same. At least today would end differently, and I had far fewer questions.
***
Like the scenery, the staffing, and pretty much everything here, the waiting room hadn’t changed during my twelve-year stay. Janice slung me her trademark look of brooding indifference and nodded toward the ticket dispenser in the corner.
“Ticket,” she mumbled. I strolled toward the machine for the last time and triumphantly wrenched a ticket loose. Eighty-six.
In-Between Days Page 1