“Carlos is an adept employee and he works hard, but he’s not right for the job. You know what I mean?” Mr. Benson opened his eyes a little wider and motioned his slightly tilted head at me.
I think I understand what Mr. Benson is trying not to say, and I didn’t like it. “I want to thank you for this opportunity. It’s satisfying knowing my hard work is noticed; however, I can’t, with a clear conscience, take the job. If you had offered it when I first applied, I would have jumped at it. My previous management experience made it a fine fit. After working the line side-by-side with the guys, I know Carlos is your man. I am content scrubbing the cars for now. Thanks again, but no.”
Mr. Benson stood up, opened the cabinet up, threw the papers in his hand back in and slammed the drawer shut. “Here I offer you a chance to get back on your feet and you refuse the job. Well, who am I to stand in your way of being an idiot? I guess I’ll find someone else to give this job to. It won’t be Carlos though. He’s where he should be. Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” I shook my head no, “You can pick up your check in the morning.”
“You’re firing me because I won’t take a promotion?”
“Yep. It’s too late to change your mind, too. You’ve shown me the kind of man you are and there is no place for you here.”
In total disbelief, I walked away from the carwash to the bus stop. When am I going to learn not to do the right thing? It was a long, weary journey back home. Standing at the front door to my house, I was unable to open it. After a moment, I mustered up my courage, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
My daughter came running out of her room, “Daddy’s home! Huggies. Kissies. Kissies. Huggies.” She hit me at full speed and gave me the requested hug and kiss.
“Dinner should be on the table shortly,” Charlene said from the kitchen. “How did work go today?”
“The usual. I vacuumed out some cars. I scrubbed some cars. Next, I dried some cars. Oh, the boss offered me a promotion.” Charlene came running out of the kitchen and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “And then I got fired.”
Char pushed away from me a bit, “What happened?”
“He offered the promotion for the wrong reason,” I stepped away and headed to the bedroom to change. “Do I have time for a shower?”
“Please do. I don’t understand how you can work at a carwash with all that soap and water but come home dirty.”
“Well, you won’t have to ponder that paradox anymore.” I went to our bedroom and closed the door. I stepped out of my clothes and into a long and hot shower. After my weariness had been washed away, I put on fresh clothes. The clean duds made me feel a little better. It is fascinating that something as trivial as fresh clothes can make you feel better.
I heard Char yelling something. She never yells in the house, “We’re waiting for you before we start dinner.”
I yelled right back, “Coming,” as I walked out of the bedroom and to the table. I sat down at my spot and beheld fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, freshly baked yeast rolls, and (be still my heart) country gravy. This dinner almost makes it worth losing my job. “Oh, this looks so tasty. Let’s dig in.”
Everyone dished up their share of this feast. As we were eating Moiraine broke the quiet by announcing, “We are raising chickens in my class at school. They hatched today. We are learning how to take care of them.”
“Very nice, Moiraine,” Char said.
“How many chickens does your class have?” I asked.
“We have six chicks. That’s what Ms. Keele calls them.”
“What are their names?” I asked. When Mo told me they didn’t have names yet, I made a suggestion, “Why don’t you name them herb, lemon, sweet and sour, baked, fajitas, and fricassee.” Charlene sprayed me with bits of mashed potatoes as she tried to choke down the laughter struggling to burst out.
After Char regained her composure, “Nathan, those are terrible names to suggest.” Char attempted to take the high road, but she couldn’t stop giggling as she scolded me. I always enjoy making my wife laugh.
As Char got herself under control, Moiraine asked, “Mommy this fried chicken is delicious. What is it made of?”
Char referred the question to me, “Well, Nathan, what is fried chicken made of?”
“Okay, Mo honey, fried chicken is made with chicken,” I sat there waiting for the answer to sink in.
“No, Daddy. What is FRIED CHICKEN made of?”
After waiting for a beat, I answered with emphasis on the only word I spoke, “Chicken.”
You could see the wheels turning in my daughter’s pretty little head. The look of horror as it crossed her face was priceless. As quickly as if she flipped a switch, her expression changed to one of a half-tilted head, a quirked smile, and the sound of ‘hummm.’ Next, she proceeded to take another bite out of her chicken leg.
I looked at my wife. The glances we exchanged over the dinner table conveyed to each other this was going to be one of those family memories we will cherish for the rest of our lives.
“Hot dogs are made of dogs!” Moiraine cried out and the waterworks started.
Both Char and I jumped from our seats and hugged Mo and reassured her hot dogs are not made with real dogs. After we consoled Moiraine and finished dinner, we spent the rest of the evening in quiet pursuits. Charlene was doing something crafty with the cranes she saved. Somehow those little paper cranes became the catalyst for my wife’s recovery. When Char had been shot by the creature who is now a prisoner of my mind, she had nearly died. My daughter rallied the children and teachers of her school to fold a thousand paper cranes. A Japanese legend says if you fold a thousand cranes, you will be granted a wish. My daughter wished for her mommy to be well. Who knows, maybe the faith of a daughter has magic. Moiraine indulged her artist side by coloring something from her imagination while I indulge my memory by “remembering reading” J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Soon bedtime arrived and we all departed for our beds. Laying there in bed staring up at the ceiling, “Char. is there something wrong?”
Char rolled over away from me and said, “No. Nothing is wrong. Why do you ask?”
“Things seem different between us. You know I love you, right?”
“I love you too. Everything is okay. Losing another job has you upset. Go to sleep. Everything will be better in the morning,” Charlene pulled tight a little more than her fair share of the covers. Soon I heard the sound of her sleeping. I rolled over with my back toward her and drifted off to sleep myself and I dreamed.
As I walked up to the local liquor store, I spied a man dressed in jeans and a black hoodie holding a gun on the clerk. Somehow, I could hear the conversation between them.
“Come on man, give me the money. Open up the drawer. NOW!”
“Take it easy. I’ll give you the drawer. Give me a second,” the clerk was shaking like a leaf in the breeze. The clerk is a tall thin man with a dark complexion and hair. He frantically pushed buttons on the register, but it wouldn’t open.
“Quit stalling and open the drawer.”
“I’m trying. This is my first night alone. Please…”
“I told you to open the drawer! Hurry!”
The clerk tried everything, he even hit it a couple of times with his fist. The register finally opened, and the clerk grabbed up the money. He put it in a bag and handed it the to the man with the gun.
“Give me some of those cigarettes, too.” Grabbing a carton, he handed it to the bandit. The gunman gazed into the bag of money. “Holding out on me.” Bang, bang, bang, his gun barked. Lifeless, the clerk’s body fell to the floor. With a few snaps left and right of his head, the gunman looked around for witnesses. Thankfully, there was no one else in the store. This thug took a couple of candy bars from near the register and grabbed the box of change for Jerry’s Kids. He power-walked out of the store, got into the waiting car, and drove off in a black sedan with tinted windows and those weird h
ubcaps that keep spinning after the car stops.
I sprang up in bed in a cold sweat. “Not again.” Throwing off the covers, I lept out of bed.
“What’s wrong? Is Moiraine having a nightmare?” Char asked as I desperately put on some shoes.
“No, Moiraine is fine. Do we still have the big overcoat?”
“Yes. It is in the box marked costumes on the top shelf of my side of the closet.”
“Your side of the closet, really? The whole closet is your side.” It’s right where Char said it is, so I pulled down the box and opened it up. With a little digging, I found the big overcoat I had used as a costume last Halloween. After donning the coat, I gathered up what I needed. Retrieving the 45 John gave me from the gun safe, I loaded a magazine and pulled back the slide to chamber a round. I checked to see if the safety was still on. With no holster, I stuck it in the small of my back like you see in all the movies. It’s uncomfortable and awkward. How do you pull it out quickly if needed? I’ll worry about it later. No time.
“Nathan what are you doing with my father’s gun? I don’t like this.”
“It’s my gun now and I need it in case.”
“In case of what?” Charlene asked in a panic.
“I need it in case things get ugly. I must hurry. No time to explain. I love you and Mo.” Before Char could launch her objections, I rushed out stopping only long enough to retrieve my sword from its place of honor in the living room. The liquor store is a couple of blocks away. I began jogging with my katana held at my side under the coat. It didn’t look kosher to have a man in a dark coat running at night, but I had no time for a gentlemanly stroll.
I drew close to the store and could see the sedan with the strange rims pull up. I hastened my pace. My timing needs to be right. I want to be there before the perpetrator pulls his gun. Maybe my entering the store will spook him enough to call the heist off.
Exploding into the store, I called out in excitement and with a slight slur, “Jimmy, man I got it. I hit the Lotto. Cash me out I want to go get something to eat,” I looked at the cashier, “You’re not Jimmy. Where’s Jimmy? He sold me the ticket. See right here.” I pulled out a piece of paper from the coat pocket.
“Shut up, you drunk old man. I was here first. Give me a carton of those cigarettes. Yeah those, and I want a couple of these candy bars here. What do I owe you?” The cashier rang up the items, opened the drawer, and gave the man his total. I thought the would-be robber was going to leave, but quick as can be he pulled out the gun and pointed at the cashier. “Now! Give me everything in there.” The cashier was shaking uncontrollably. He pulled out all the cash and placed it into a bag, and he handed the whole thing to the man with the gun. The robber looked in the bag and said, “You’re holding out on me.”
“No. No, that is everything, see,” the cashier pulled out the drawer to show the gunman. Some change fell out as he tilted the drawer.
“Not good enough,” the gunman raised his weapon.
“Son, you don’t want to do that.”
Interrupted in his task, the robber turned the gun and his attention to me. “How do you know what I want to do, old man? Maybe I’m gonna shoot your drunken ass.” I could see something change in his eyes.
“It’s going to be hard to shoot anyone with the safety still on.” This man’s eyes darted down, and he twisted the gun in his hand for a better look. The instant his eyes looked away from me I swung my katana out from under my coat. I slapped at his wrist. The sword was still sheathed, so he only received a painful rap. His gun fell to the floor. I kicked it away. It hit the back cooler with some force and the gun went off. A little pop, relatively nothing, but it would have taken the cashier’s life if I had not intervened.
The disarmed thief pulled out a knife and said, “I’m gonna cut you.” He lunged at me with the knife.
I slapped the blade away with my katana. As this man recovered from my parry, I pulled my sword from its constraint and snarked, “Now that’s a knife.” His eyes grew wide as I positioned my sword so it pointed straight at his left eye. After a moment his eyes focused on something over my right shoulder. I dropped to the floor and rolled away. Gunfire erupted from outside. The glass windows were breaking and most of the bullets hit the shelves with the display of outdated canned food the shop kept to pretend it sold more than liquor and cigarettes. He hates cans! What a jerk. I heard the broken glass crunch under footfalls as the thief made his escape. I stood as fast as I could. I made it outside only to have a great view of the back of the sedan.
I walked back into the store to make sure the cashier was okay. Shaken, but otherwise fine. “Have you called the police yet?” Shaking his head, no, as I said, “It’s a lot to take in, huh? Well, I just saved your life.”
Stuttering a bit, “I know you did. He was going to pull the trigger, I could see it in his eyes. My bad luck is unbelievable. It’s my first night alone. Look at all the damage. They’ll fire me for sure.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Looking into this young man’s eyes, I continued, “Okay, as soon as I leave, go ahead and call the police and your manager. Tell them you have some of the car’s plate. Okay, write this.”
Opening up my mind, I took my memory back to a few minutes ago. The internal clock of my memory ran backwards. Outside of the action, I watched as events unfolded back to the time I ran outside and glimpsed the fleeing car. Slowing the playback in my mind to the moment I saw the car’s license plate, but some of it remained obscured so I only saw four numbers. Snapping back to the here and now, I recited the information to the clerk. “I am going to leave before the police come. You’ll be okay. Tell the police everything you remember except for me. Leave me out of it.” I stood and started to walk out.
The clerk said, “Thank you, man. I would have been dead for sure if you hadn’t shown up. Anything I can do for you, you name it, anything?”
“You can spot me a Diet-Pepsi.”
The cashier chuckled a bit and said, “Sure. I’ll cover it.”
Walking back to the cooler, I took a big two-liter bottle of Diet-Pepsi. As I walked to the door and home, I noticed blood drops on the floor. Checking myself quickly to see if I had been hit during the ruckus, a children’s song from The Wiggles started up in my head, Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, and eyes, and ears, and mouth, and nose. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. There are no holes in my body. The thief must have been hit by his buddy. As the clerk dialed the phone, “Tell the cops the robber was hit. There is a blood trail.” The clerk nodded his head while on the phone. Opening the two-liter bottle, the smell of the first shot of carbon dioxide filled my nose. The few swallows I took tasted like ambrosia, the nectar of the Gods. My addiction and thirst were well-slaked.
Creeping into the house as quiet as a teenager coming home after sneaking out, I put the remainder of the drink in the refrigerator. I made my way to the bedroom. Half-way to my bed the living room light clicked on, and Char was sitting on the couch. Oh crap!
Charlene stood up and briskly walked past me to our bedroom. Without saying a word, she conveyed her meaning quite clear. She was not happy, but she needed to learn to live with these sudden jaunts of mine. I saved an innocent life tonight. Understanding the mechanism of these foretellings is unimportant, but the lives I have saved are. Glimpsing events that have not yet come to pass, I can change what will be by taking action. The first time this happened, it gave me a warning about my family’s peril. This time I stopped an innocent work-a-day guy’s life from ending all too abruptly. I hope this time is the Swan Song of this ability. All these quasi-hero works is interrupting my sleep.
Chapter Four
Job hunting is never easy in “America’s Finest City.” San Diego’s excellent weather and beach lifestyle attracts job seekers from all over the country. Today is no different. After I picked up my final paycheck, I pounded the pavement. Every place I tried told me to come back in a couple of weeks. I’m so desperate I even gave the school distric
t a call to see if I could work as a crossing guard anywhere. I was informed (unofficially, of course) I could never work for the district again. The events of six months ago have put a red flag on my file. They reasoned it is better to be safe than sorry. I guess I can’t blame them. They are trying to protect the kids. I even put an application in at a temp agency. Who knows, maybe I’ll luck out.
The bus home started out as a boring ride. I am sitting there, minding my own business lost in thought, when a young man in jeans and a black hoodie boarded the bus and sat next to me. My spidey sense went off as a spooky feeling from came this guy. He was dressed like the mugger who attacked the woman in the park. I never saw his face. The odds our paths would cross like this (let me do the math) are an astoundingly huge number to one. It is, in all likelihood, a coincidence. The corner of my eye was on him just the same.
“What, you don’t recognize me? You must be slipping,” a familiar female voice said.
What do you know? It is my lucky day. Why didn’t I buy a lottery ticket.? Spying the person sitting next to me, I saw the man in the hoodie melt away and replaced by a pretty woman in a floral sundress with a French manicure. Seated next to me was Karma and I greeted her with, “Hello. Aren’t you afraid someone will see you change and get all freaked out? Nice trick by the way; you’ll have to show me how you do it someday.” Karma is a strange creature. She is beautiful, too. She is a tall young woman a little shy of five-foot-eleven inches tall with a super model’s figure or in other words, no bust to speak of and long legs perfect to wrap themselves around… Sorry, I had to stop myself. She is in her early twenties with golden blond hair which is currently styled in a messy pixie and is most fetching in her sundress. Every time I’ve met her, her black eyeliner makes her eyes pop and say howdy. Her lipstick color is always a bright cherry red; I normally don’t like so much makeup on a woman, but somehow it suits her. I haven’t figured Karma out yet. We first officially met in the park by those trees I enjoy. I became aware of her three times during the whole Mark Galos incident. When she finally introduced herself to me, she called me her “little investment,” whatever that means. We have had some dealings since then. She has access to some cool technology I don’t understand, and she dresses it up like magic, but it’s not. There is no such thing as real magic. The only real magic in this world is the warm touch of the woman who loves you, and the sight of your child on the day of their birth. Some people might say my talks with the dead are a form of magic, but it’s not. I have a theory: I believe talking to the dead is like tuning in an old-fashioned analog radio. My mind, for whatever reason, can turn the dial in my brain’s receiver and pick-up the dead’s broadcasting station. I don’t understand why so many people don’t believe in ghosts. The first law of thermodynamics states energy always remains the same, it is neither created nor destroyed, only its form changes. So it stands to reason when the energy of a life ends, it is changed into the form of a ghost. Easy. It has to be easy because I can't wrap my head around spooky supernatural mumbo jumbo.
The Calling Page 4