I wiped the grease off on my jeans and glanced at the clock. I could see Mia’s blonde mane in her usual corner booth, so I did my best to make myself presentable as I dashed down the catwalk and over to her.
I took a shortcut through the kitchen, grabbing two clean glasses from the racks and carrying them out to the counter to fill them up. I couldn’t show up at her table with such an important proposition without drinks. As our glasses slowly filled, I tried to think of the right approach.
“So,” I said, sliding into the booth across from her. She’d been chewing on the edge of her thumbnail, now nearly bare of its previous polish, and she looked up as I placed the glass of amber ale in front of her.
“So,” she said back, watching as I pulled my sleeves down over my scars. “I looked into the Kennedy thing today when Uriel wasn’t looking. Jonas was right. It was the CIA.” Her smile was more reserved than usual.
“I told you. We all know that down here. It’s usually the first thing people ask. Either that, or what happened to D.B. Cooper,” I said.
“What happened to him?” Her eyes widened with excitement.
“Still alive, according to Michael. A fisherman in Maui. It’s honestly kind of disappointing,” I muttered, taking a sip of my beer.
“That is kind of disappointing,” she said. “Speaking of, when were you going to tell me that you were leaving?”
I hadn’t expected her to go in for the tough questions so early, but it was a fair point. I looked into my glass. “I don’t know. Honestly. It was impulsive. I was supposed to leave when you got here, but I then saw you. I convinced Michael to let me stay, and I’ve really just been winging it, wracking my brain trying to figure out how I can just stay with you.”
“Okay, I get that, but that still doesn’t change the fact that, what, in a few days I’m going to have to find someone new to do this whole afterlife thing with?” I could see a little fire rising in her that I hadn’t witnessed before.
“Well, what if we could both leave? Tomorrow.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” She narrowed her eyes and took a sip of her beer. “Especially given that I’m supposed to be here for the next ten years.”
I smiled. “The sin eater.”
“The guy with the applesauce?”
“Well yeah, the guy with the applesauce,” I said. My scars started to itch. “But the fucking fruit doesn’t matter. I talked to him last night. He’s willing to do it for you. I’ve already got the money. He says a few things, eats something over you, takes a drink over you, and you’re absolved. You’re free. You’re on the weekend train out of here.”
“Right,” she said. “No, I get how it works. But what about my lesson?”
“What about it?”
“Well, there’s the fact that I haven’t learned it? The fact that I haven’t come to terms with how exactly I got here. We haven’t even talked about it.”
For the first time, I started to question myself.
“I know, I know, but Michael explained it to me. And I understand. I really do.” I tried to be comforting and understanding, the way she had been for me when I broke down crying in her lap as Wolfman Jack howled about good times and dancing.
“What?” It was more cannon-shot than question. The fire from earlier was growing into the kind of all-consuming wildfire that levels forests and cities, as if I’d inadvertently committed an act of war.
“Michael explained—”
“Yes, I heard that. You listened? You let him? You let him tell you such a personal thing without even asking me?” Her eyes were imposing glaciers, and my hull was about to split open.
“Well, I mean, I didn’t ask him to. He just kind of told me.”
“Did he tell you everything? Did he tell you all about the family problems? Did he tell you how difficult it is to grow up the way I did? Did he tell you how awful Catholic school was? Did he tell you about the things I dealt with as a kid? Do you know what I lost?! Do you know any of that at all? NO? Then how the FUCK are you asking me to run away with you? How am I supposed to be okay with that, when you hardly even know me? When you’re not even concerned with whether I find the penance I’m supposed to?”
“But, b-but . . .” I stammered. “He’ll be here soon. I’ve already got the money for him. Can’t you come to terms with all of that up there, rather than down here?” I didn’t mean to be insensitive; if I could have frozen time and stepped outside of myself, I’d have given myself a good, hard punch in the face.
This was another one of those bullet points: big, bright, bold, and thoroughly heartbreaking. This was how I lost her.
She looked at me like I’d slapped her, and for a moment I thought the color drained from her eyes. She didn’t finish her beer, didn’t touch my hand, didn’t leave her book behind. She tucked it under her arm, stood up, and walked toward the door. She didn’t look back as I called her name, or turn as she opened the door. It was a silent goodbye, the sea breeze exiting the Depot as the door closed behind her. I finished both of our beers, still feeling like I needed a dozen more to slake this thirst.
I splintered into fragments as everything clicked into place. She was right. Of course she was right. I hadn’t thought about anyone but myself. And Michael was right. I’d been completely and utterly impulsive. I wouldn’t be leaving in two days; this was a bump in a long hard road that was not over yet. I had hurt one of the very few people in twelve years who truly cared about me. She hadn’t even been here two weeks, and I’d already damaged her. I wasn’t surprised she walked out the door, and I doubted she’d ever be back. It was over. My plan had been destroyed, and I’d proven myself to be an expert self-saboteur.
If it were possible, I would have ripped my arms open all over again, right there on one of the empty lanes.
17
As closing time neared, I stared at the door intently, wiping at scuffs on the counter that had been there for years. In a way, this exercise in futility was no different than throwing myself on the couch and devoting hours to The People’s Court. Since our fight, the Depot had been dead. A lone lost soul turned in her ball and shoes after bowling two games on Lane 3. I spent two hours hoping Mia would walk back through that old wooden door and my luck would turn around. But it didn’t. That wasn’t the way this place worked, and this situation was no different.
Ten minutes before closing, a man walked in, bringing in a chill that felt all the worse because she wasn’t here. His glasses sat delicately on his crooked nose, and his silver hair was cropped close to his head. I could see the faint outline of a long-weathered rope burn under his business suit. At least I knew how this one went, I thought as he stepped over to the counter, nary a scuff on his loafers. Jonas looked up at him warmly, as he always treated new faces.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Jonas said, his spectacles sliding down his nose. “We’re about to close up for the night. My assistant, he has already closed up the lanes.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the man said. “It’s been a very long day, friend, and I’m really just looking for a bite to eat. Could you do me that kindness?” I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that we’d met before. His voice had an almost-familiar tone, but I couldn’t place him.
Jonas looked at me and shrugged. Looking back at the man and raising his hand, Jonas called him over. “Of course, of course, this is not a problem. But you will have to be the last meal of the evening. A man needs his sleep, after all.”
The stranger walked toward the counter. His lips were so chapped I had to lick my own; they looked as if he’d spent his day avoiding water and kissing sandpaper. Jonas motioned me toward the door. I slid the lock and flipped the switch. The little neon train outside darkened to a halt.
“I have little left in the kitchen today, my friend,” Jonas said, grabbing a glass from under the counter and filling it with a simple beer. “I hope that you do not mind, but your options are limited.” He stopped, and a long, wrinkled finger pointed at the man
in the suit. “I am sorry, my friend, but I did not ask your name. How terribly rude of me.”
“Jude,” the man said. He sat on a stool, crossing his arms in front of the beer. His smile was crooked but infectious, disarming.
“Ah, like the Saint,” Jonas said, his froggy little hands clapping together.
Jude smiled. “There are no wings under this suit. These days, I like to think it’s a bit more like the Beatles song.” He checked his watch, which was silver and ornate and slightly scuffed, before returning his attention to my employer.
“Right on,” I mumbled, lost in an awful valley of used and noxious shoes that not even a clown would consider fashionable.
“Wonderful. They were big in Germany, you know?” Jonas said. “But anyway, Jude, what can I get you this evening?” And then he stopped, chuckling. “Actually, it becomes more a question of, would you like some schnitzel and spiced apples?”
Jude laughed, his leathery hands resting on the untouched beer in front of him. “That sounds absolutely delightful, Mister—”
“Ach, my apologies, I have asked for your name and not given mine, how rude!” Jonas wiped his hands on his chest before extending one for a shake. “My name is Jonas Ehrlichmann. I am the proprietor here, and over there, the moppet with the shoes, that is my employee.”
“Owen,” I said as Jude’s hand clasped with Jonas’s. It was a warm handshake; I could feel it even from my kneeling position in front of the shoes. There was something binding about it.
As their hands separated, Jonas pushed his spectacles back up his nose, grabbed another glass and poured yet another beer. “Well then, as we are now friends, this is worthy of a toast.” He raised his glass to Jude, who in turn raised his glass, sliding his arm under and around Jonas’s.
“Prost!” Jonas exclaimed.
“Prost,” Jude repeated calmly, taking a sip of his beer as Jonas swallowed a good quarter of his own glass. Jude politely wiped at the corner of his dry lips, then turned his attention to the jukebox in the corner. He studied it carefully—the busted neon tubing, the kitschy wood paneling, the goddamned scrap of wallpaper that had sprouted in the lower left corner. “This will be a long shot, I’m sure. But your machine wouldn’t happen to have a song called ‘Escape,’ would it?”
Jonas spun around, looking at his new friend like he’d just found his soulmate. “Do you happen to mean the one by Rupert Holmes? The song about piña coladas?”
“Ah yes, you know it?”
Jonas looked at me with impish delight and I sighed. The loud shuffling of my feet projected my objections. In front of the jukebox, I resigned myself to my fate, pulling out the silver coins that I’d intended to use for Mia’s escape to play that goddamned song about running away.
“No, no. Owen!” Jonas called, peeking out from the nearby kitchen door. “This is on me. I would really like to hear it a few times tonight, and our new friend has requested it too. Put your money away. I will give you the code.”
I looked at him, bewildered, but for the first time in hours I felt a smile starting to form. I wasn’t sure what I had done, but I earned the code to the jukebox, the one privilege I hadn’t earned in twelve years. I had tried to crack it in my spare time, but I wasn’t sure the number of digits, and I was forced to make a list. Through sheer grit and determination, I made it all the way from single digits through 428. I gave up at that point. I had enough coins to play the songs I wanted to hear anyway. It would just be another great mystery of how this place worked.
But now, now I had earned it somehow.
“It is a long code. I know it by heart, but you may need to write it down,” Jonas said, his eyes darting to make sure that our guest was not in earshot. He wasn’t. Jude sat at the bar stool, smoking a cigarette from a golden pack like Uriel carried, watching the smoke billow up into the already stained ceiling. I was certain he was making shapes, but not concerned enough to focus on it.
“I’m ready, J, lay it on me,” I said, my fingers wiggling, waiting to input this holy grail of numbers, even if it meant multiple plays of that goddamn pop song.
“Eins, neun, zwei, null, neun, vier.” Jonas whispered to me. “Did you get it?”
“One, nine, two, zero, nine, four,” I repeated in a respectfully hushed tone.
“That is correct. 1920. 9 April. That was my Anneliese’s birthday.” It was one of the few times he’d said her name without tearing up. I was proud of him, and I felt honored to have both the code and the intimate knowledge he’d shared with me. I tapped it in without reservation, being careful not to dishonor him by miss-pressing. With reluctance, I tapped the K, followed by the 1 and the 3. I did so multiple times, each more unpleasant than the last. I’d rather have gotten on my knees and started peeling away at that abyssal wallpaper. But Jonas was happy, and I didn’t want to deny him that. Not when I’d managed to piss off half of the In-Between today. I wondered where Dante was shacking up and if maybe he’d like a roommate. I’m sure we could find some common ground; he liked books too.
I hated the song, but I couldn’t help but raise my arms in the air. Though never a drummer in this life or any other, I could perfectly picture the movements. I air-drummed that opening beat like it could have saved my life, a little mini-catharsis as I floated in my sea of self-made bullshit. I turned to see Jude lightly tapping against his glass, still full save for the sip he’d taken with Jonas. He was smiling and bobbing his head slightly, the rope burn peeking out from beneath his collar. The more I looked, the more familiar he seemed, and the less I could place him. Perhaps he’d been a passenger on the bus. I’d seen so many these twelve years.
I left the jukebox, unenthusiastically resigned to the incoming repetition of the playlist, and made my way into the nearly empty café. I pulled a rag from my pocket and wiped at the tables, the booths, and the seats, sopping up liquid and knocking stray debris to the floor. Jude looked toward the kitchen door, waiting for Jonas to return. As I walked past again, I caught him humming along, the occasional lyric slipping between his chapped lips.
“. . . if you’re not into yoga . . . if you have half a brain.”
I shook my head, walking into the backroom and returning with a broom and dustpan.
Halfway into the second playthrough of the classic, Jonas emerged from the kitchen smiling, his toes tapping that frog-step I’d known for so long. In his hands he held the cleanest plate we had, piled high with schnitzel and spiced apples. He presented the plate with great pride, setting it down in front of Jude and placing a knife and fork on either side of the plate.
“I assure you my friend, this will satisfy your appetite.” His smile was bright, like the sparklers I’d lit on summer nights with my father, back before everything hurt so much.
Jude looked up at him gratefully. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. He jabbed the tines of his fork into an apple.
Jonas reached out. “My apologies,” he said, straightening the knot in Jude’s tie. Jude didn’t seem fazed; he simply lifted his arm higher to take a bite of the apple.
“To escape,” he said, the apple slipping between his teeth. He chewed slowly, a smile rippling across his wrinkled cheeks. His skin seemed lighter. It was as if the slice of apple had rejuvenated him. Though he still looked weathered, his cheeks were less wrinkled, no longer bathed in a cold pallor. I could see warmth. The skin around his neck tightened, the rope burn looking less leathery. His lips remained dull and chapped, and no color returned to his hair, still argent and clinging softly to his scalp.
He placed the fork on his plate and looked up at Jonas, eyes twinkling. “I must confess, my friend, that may have been the best apple I have ever tasted, and I am quite the connoisseur.” He looked down at his watch in a robotic, unconvincing manner. “Ah, but it is late. I’ve already kept you open after hours, and I’ve made you cook for me. I’m so very sorry, but I have an appointment this evening and I really must get to it.”
Jonas looked confused, scanning for the words to say
to his new friend, who seemed ready to abandon the nice little relationship they’d formed. Jude stood, pulling an ornate silver clip from inside his suit jacket. He removed two graying bills and placed them softly on the counter, nodding first toward Jonas with a smile, and then, strangely, to me.
“Goodbye, my friends,” he said. “And Jonas, to you good luck. You are truly a wonderful man.” With that he was gone, silently exiting through the door as quickly as he’d arrived. Somehow, I felt lighter, a feeling I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t that the cloud of melancholy had lifted, or that my heart hurt any less. Something was just . . . different.
“What a strange man,” Jonas laughed, his eyes meeting mine. “Do you want to finish this?”
“I haven’t got the stomach for it tonight, J, I’m sorry.” I didn’t think I’d be able to eat for weeks after the day I’d had. My stomach felt like it was full of angry ulcers, growling and gnashing and refusing me any sort of gastrointestinal peace.
He nodded, saying nothing as he grabbed the dishes on the counter and scuttled off to the kitchen. I punched Anneliese’s birthday into the jukebox again, tapping out an old favorite on the keys. The selector arm picked an unmarked single, loaded it onto the platter, and as the needle plunked down, a familiar piano line plinked out. It wasn’t one often heard in the Depot, but I remembered it from my childhood.
Whenever my father fought with my mother, he always return home from work with a dozen roses, roses she always said she hated, though she’d immediately place them in a vase and spend the next week working hard to keep them alive. Then he’d go to the shelf in the corner and pull out the same record. He’d set it on the turntable, playing it at a higher volume than I was ever allowed. He’d grab my mother by the hips, and for two and a half minutes he would slow dance with her to “Blueberry Hill,” singing along softly with Fats Domino, just loud enough for her to hear. It was one of the few memories from before that ever really brought a smile to my face.
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