Reunion Plans.
A Micro Short Story by Sean McGovern.
For: You. Thank
you for giving a damn.
Now it’s dark and I’m alone
But I won’t be afraid
In my room…in my room.
- Brian Wilson.
Here’s a memory – but be
warned: memories lie. On the day I
turned twenty-six, I met Death. No one
seemed to notice, but I knew – it was Death.
I had been
invited to the Halloween party at the last minute, given just enough time to
salvage various elements of costumes to make a serviceable pirate before
driving like a mad man to the liquor store and then to Philadelphia where I met
up with my sister and her husband and their waiting cab. From there we went to their friends’ Steve
and Lucy’s flat for what I had been told would be a quietly raucous good time
(how that worked I couldn’t guess at, but it was my birthday and it beat
sitting in my room trying not to drink myself into oblivion in case I wanted to
go to the all night diner).
I suppose I
should take this moment to say that I only appear to be good around
people. I’m not. I’m terrible with people, with parties, with
anything that takes me out of my comfort zone of being by myself. I can almost pinpoint where my neuroses come
from, but not enough to have a working theory.
I’m not very good at small talk…I’m not very good at talking,
really. I tend to speak in a monolog
that other people interrupt, leaving me flummoxed as to what to say next. So after telling both Steve and Lucy that
they had a nice flat, I sidled into the laundry/alcohol room, put one bottle of
scotch down for the others, and took the second one, with me as I tried to be
human.
It didn’t
work.
Even with the
fever dream, the sexual, the nightmarish, the ghastly, with the sardine can claustrophobic
press of costumed bodies, I was still painfully aware of being a subpar-pirate without
a hat. Everyone thought I was trying to
be Shakespeare in a pirate coat. Was
that even an option? Apparently, and I
had stumbled into it nicely.
I kept the
bottle with me, and I climbed the stairs to the top floor, and then paused
before pushing on to the ceiling. I put
my coat on the ground and sat, opening the bottle of scotch and toasted the
sky, the few stars I could see, and the feeling of expansiveness within a
metropolis. Halloween. My second favorite Holiday, two days removed
from my birthday, when the gates were opened and the souls could move about the
sunlit lands above.
“Do you mind
if I join you,” said the voice.
I squeaked.
“Sorry,” the
voice said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I turned to look at the source of the voice. The Lady was in a hooded coat, a long, black
raincoat that she had attached batwings to.
I scooted over and motioned to the other half of the makeshift
blanket. She crouched down on her knees,
and took the bottle when I offered it to her.
“It’s pretty packed down there,” she said, and took a swig. “Death,” she said.
“Guy who
pirates Shakespeare’s works,” I said, and we shook hands. “I’m not a fan of crowds.”
“The noise?”
I looked at
her. The face paint was amazing, the
jawbone a perfect off-white and the dark pencil lines denoting teeth were
expertly spaced. “The lulls,” I
said. “I can fake the rest. For a time, anyway.” I took out my pack of cigarettes, then paused
and looked at her. “Do you mine?”
“Not if you
have an extra,” she said. I offered her
the pack and she took one. I offered her
my lighter and she shook her head, cupping one hand over the end and lighting
it. I lit my own. “It’s a disgusting habit, but it is
enjoyable. So, you think you aren’t good
with people? I saw you down there. You seemed to fit in fine.”
“I studied drama
in school,” I told her.
“So you’re an
actor,” she said.
“Nah,” I
said, “I just make faces.” I laughed –
it was a line that I had heard a thousand times, I think it started with Peter
Lorre but had never wondered enough to look it up. “No,” I said, “I left school before
finishing. I used to use all of that
stuff, all the acting stuff, when I worked at the mall. Now, though…no real need for it. Tonight was a nice change of pace.”
“Good,” she
said. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Wha? Oh.
Thanks,” I said. “Nicole told
you, huh?”
“No, Sean,”
the Lady said. “But it’s a strange day,
and it will get stranger. And since it’s
your birthday, I think you’ll understand.”
She leaned back, resting on her palms but keeping her head up, letting
the hood rest in place. “How many people
were born on this day? Will see the
madness of it, as the world winds down?”
“What do you
mean,” I asked.
“I’ll see you
next year, Sean. And the year
after. And the year after. But after that…I don’t think I’ll be visiting
anymore.”
I was trying
to form a question better than “what” but she faded with the wind, a sand
sculpture coming apart and vanishing into the skyline. I sat there, growing colder for a long
time. I went back into the party, and stood,
shivering in the hallway, in the light.
Twenty-seven
saw a freak ice storm. I saw Her again,
in the mirror.
Twenty-eight
was hurricane Sandy. I went for a walk
before it became too fierce, and went to the bridge in my town to see the level
of the river. She was there, on the
bank, looking up. She waved.
I turn
twenty-nine tonight. I’m sitting in my
room. I have a bottle of scotch, a pack
of cigarettes, and an eye on the clock.
There’s no call for strange weather.
It looks to be a fine autumn night.
What else can I do, really?
Hi guys. This is a really simple story, much more
simple than the others. My thanks to Ia
Herbaugh, who dressed as Death (see the top picture) when I met her on my
actual 26th birthday, and to the dreams I sometimes get where something (not Ia) wears the outfit and talks to me. As I said, memories lie, and I've progressed the story a little to give it closure.
As usual, I'm not completely pleased with the end product - I should have given myself more time, but three false starts...ugh. Displeased. There's potential here, though, so I'm posting it anyway. Plus I said I would so...meh.
Hope
you guys have a great day, and, again, thanks for reading.
All the best,
SMcG
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