The air from the open window feels cool against my aching head as I restock the liquor bottles at the bar, preparing for the happy hour traffic. I take a pull from my cigarette and finish the remaining whisky at the bottom of my glass. I hear footsteps at the door, turning I see a Mexican man in his late 50’s entering.
‘We open in thirty minutes,’ I said uninvitingly.
Walking with a gimp, he continues toward the bar with a smile on his face. What the hell is he so happy about? He looks awful, the baggy skin around his cheeks flapping with his every step. He slides onto a stool, a smile still plastered on his face. ‘Give me a Cranberry juice.’ he says, his strict tone not matching his smile.
I gaze at him momentarily, but his stiff stare didn’t budge. I slam a glass on the table and snatch a bottle of cranberry juice from the fridge. ‘I’ll make an exception this time, but for now on, 5 pm is opening time.’ I say splashing the cranberry juice into his glass.
‘Time. What is time but another moment unveiled,’ he says licking the cranberry juice from his finger he had wiped from the bar. ‘Today is a good day,’ he says looking at every fixture in the bar. ‘Pour yourself another whiskey.’ he adds.
Before I became suspicious of how he knew what I was drinking, I realized the amber tint at the bottom of my glass. I oblige and pour another.
‘I have a story that will knock your socks off.’ he says, smiling wider.
‘No thanks… I have to finish…’
‘I lived many lives, Keith.’ he says. He must have read my nametag, I thought to myself as I fixed it to my shirt.
‘Not all in the same body,’ he adds. ‘After each death, my consciousness went back to the source, waiting to be compatible with another human brain.’
I grunt in disbelief.
‘The thing is,’ he continues. ‘I always seem to come back when there’s a pandemic.’ His smile falters for the first time.
‘In 1796–Smallpox–bad stuff. I shared a brain with a fifteen-year-old girl named Mirna. Sweet kid…’
‘Hold on! Shared a brain,’ I say laughing. ‘What do you mean? Please tell me about this!’
He ignores my sarcasm with extreme focus.
‘But Five months in she developed brain tumors and died.’
I simmer down a bit at the mention of death. It’s like he knew I would do just that.
‘I was back at the source before you knew it,’ he says. Then in 1918, the Spanish flu hit. I got a real winner that time–Sebastian Rodrigues a fine man, until he decided to jump off a bridge from some brain trauma.
He stops for a moment possibly waiting for a smart remark, but shortly continues.
‘You think I could’ve stopped him, but no… And don’t get me started on Polio–1950’s, poor Larry Turnhill. Heart attack. Great guy though–He loved New York City!’
I couldn’t help but smirk, ‘You’re telling me you lived through all those pandemics?
The man nodded Solemnly. ‘Human bodies, Keith, fragile. Frail. But you don’t know true suffering until you live as a true trapped consciousness. No feeling, touch, or smell- just floating in the void, waiting for the next chance to exist. That’s real torture.
‘You remember all that?’ I ask with a dash of skepticism.
‘It’s a blessing and a curse,’ he says staring deep into me. ‘You don’t remember anything from your previous lives.’ he asks staring even deeper.
‘I don’t believe in reincarnation,’ I say feeling him trying to get into my psyche.
He stares me up and down, nodding his head. ‘Even a puzzle has a goal. And you need more than one piece to make it. Stories have a goal. And you need more than one word to tell it. The goal is what counts not what you believe.’
I take a gulp of whiskey to burn through the feeling of being humbled.
‘I’ve been through all those lives, all those deaths because I’ve been trying to get somewhere.’ he says.
‘Where,’ I say clearing my throat.
‘Storyville!’ He says, a smile returning to his face.
‘Storyville,’ I echo. ‘Here?’ I add confused.
The man chuckles. ‘Storyville is a special place. You can get whatever you want here. All you have to do is ask.’
‘I got all that I need.’ I say taking another gulp from my whiskey and popping a cigarette out of the pack.
‘Simple minds need simple things,’ he says eyeing my bad habits with a strict smile. ‘The goal is to ask from here,’ he says pointing to the front of his head. ‘And here,’ he says placing his hand over his heart.
He finishes the last of his cranberry juice and then gets up. ‘My message has been delivered,’ he smiles again softer this time. ‘Anyway. Thanks for listening. I should get going. I’ve just started walking again today.’
‘Started walking?’ I frown. “What do you mean?”
The man taps the bar lightly. ‘I’ve been living this life in a wheelchair, Mr. Stagger. But today is a good day.’ he says flexing his legs. ‘You’ll be seeing more of me around here.’
With that, the man turns and stumbles his way toward the door.
‘Hey, I didn’t get your name,’ I say.
‘Just call me Mr. Cranberry,’ he says without turning.
Waving him off, I shake my head at the strange story he had just told. But something nags me. I can’t take my eyes off of him as he exits. He makes it to the bus stop across the street, and just like that, the bus scoops him up, leaving a trail of dust, almost like he had vanished in thin air.
I get up and walk to the door, watching the bus turn the corner.
Then I see it—sitting on the patio, as still as a statue: a wheelchair. Empty.
My heart skips a beat. Keeping my composure, I pour myself another whiskey. Then it hit me… How did he know my last name?
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