Psychopomp

Short fiction: 10 minute read

Based on a true story.

I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.

My day on the slopes had been less than awesome. It was too warm. But, you know, still better than the best day at work. Near dusk I was headed back to the car with my board, ready to roll one and hit a dive bar. Some red-faced suburbanite in a $60,000 grocery-catcher was blowing a gasket on another driver, screaming and flipping him off with the window rolled down. He ran up over the curb and peeled out of the lot, tires squealing. Should’ve stuck around for a toke, that guy. Not that he’d hang with a dude like me. That guy won’t touch the so-called gateway drug. Probably drives with a bottle of Seagram’s under the front seat, though. Anyway, that’s when I heard it. Louder than the mosh pit at a Mudhoney show. A deafening noise of steel on asphalt. I turned around.

All I could really do in the split second I had left was acknowledge it. An overturned semi was ripping jackknifed through the parking lot, sheering toward me on its side, sparks flying everywhere. Regular fuckin’ Fourth of July.

And that was it. I don’t remember feeling any pain. The next thing I know, I’m looking down at my body. Something that normally would’ve made me hurl suddenly doesn’t bother me. My body’s a mess. For one thing, my left leg is detached at the hip, just hanging there by some spaghetti-looking shit. There’s blood everywhere. The ski lodge is total mayhem. People are running in all directions. Most of them are running away – scared out of their balls. Everybody’s screaming.

I try to get someone’s attention, to let them know I’m alright. I’m like, “Yo, chill out! I’m still here!” That’s when I realize they can’t hear me. I go up to people and they look right through me. They can’t see me, either.

“Well, shit,” I think, “In that case, there’s no point hanging around.”

When I turn to leave it gets even weirder. My left leg is missing. I mean, I guess I lost it in the accident, so it kind of makes sense. Otherwise I’m fine, so I don’t see any reason not to stick with the après-board plan. Take a couple deep hits off that phat shit my buddy Allen grows, order a state-sanctioned beverage in one of these seedy small-town saloons, and then sit back with a velvety buzz and observe the local fauna in their natural habitat.

I notice the bar across from the main lodge. I don’t remember that place being there, but whatever man. The sign reads, “Angeline’s Five Layer Cake Cafe.” I love a pie and pancake joint. I’ve just started hopping (it sounds harder than it is) toward the Cafe when I see this chick running from her car clutching her flip-phone.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” she’s saying. She’s white-faced, and I don’t just mean Caucasian. She’s dialing her phone and she’s shaking so bad she keeps screwing up. “Slow down. Slow down,” she mutters to herself, carefully punching 9 . . . 1 . . . 1.

I can hear the dispatcher on the other end, “Snoqualmie Fire and Rescue. What’s your emergency?”

“I’m at the main entrance to the ski lodge. A man’s badly injured. There’s so much blood! His leg – oh god! I think his leg might be severed! An overturned semi. Please hurry. There’s so much blood! Oh my god. Please hurry!”

For a chick my own age, she’s decently hot. Her black and white buffalo plaid’s popped a button, I can’t help but notice. Plus, she seems to care, which is pretty touching. I don’t see any of these other assholes hanging around waiting for an ambulance. Not one to waste an opportunity, I decide to make conversation.

“I’m outta here,” I say to her. This time it works. She looks right at me, like she heard it. So I tell her, “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll smoke a joint together.”

Just when I’m thinking that this being dead thing means you can have whatever you want, she says, “I don’t want to smoke a joint. I want you to get in an ambulance and go to a hospital.”

Damn, girl. The Serious Type. Well, I’ve always been pretty lucky with women. Aside from the fact that I do work out, I attribute my success in part to my number one rule: Never quit after the first try.

“Suit yourself. I’m going over to Angeline’s for a drink. Join me if you want.” Rule number two: Never seem too interested.

When I get inside Angeline’s, it’s everything I hoped for. The dim lighting. The worn booths, seats patched with silver tape. Brown, patterned carpet hiding the stains of decades. Fry grease as old as the regulars. The bouquet is complex. Gracefully aging fry grease is the dominant aroma, followed by a pungent funk from the restrooms with a sultry finish of stale cigarette smoke. This is my happy place.

Like most of being dead so far, Angeline’s just gets better. To my right is the 21 and over corral. Inside it, a bunch of crusty geriatric day-drinkers are clustered around a sticky table like flies on a No-Pest strip. I couldn’t be more stoked. I’ve just located the regulars.

“Mind if I join you guys?” I say, hopping over to their table.

“Take a load off, kid,” one answers, “You look like you’ve had a rough day.” They all laugh.

I order a pint on tap and pull up a chair. What I dig about these guys is how they immediately welcome you in and just start telling you stories. They tell you about how they used to wax their wooden skis. They wouldn’t know a snowboard if it smacked them in the ass. Wool knickers and wooden skis. Jesus, they’ll tell you over and over. But they also tell you about their parties and their women and all the crazy shit they did back in the day. It’s great stuff. Crazy, human stuff. I love it.

I’m just getting into it with these dudes, when who should show up but Serious Type. She’s still talking into her phone, even though no one’s answering.

“He’s left the scene. He’s obviously disoriented. I want to be sure the paramedics are aware of his location. He’s entered a place called Angeline’s. Angeline’s Five Layer Cake Cafe. . . . Hello? . . . Hello?”

“Well, look who! Care to join us?” I say, attempting to be suave. I mean, I am pretty suave. Debonair on a good day, maybe. Whatever. I’m dead. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Besides, every serious type has a wild side. No need to overplay the game. Rule Number Three: Never be a fake.

“Damn the cell service up here!” she says, slamming her phone on the table and taking a seat.

I nod my head in her direction. “She’s trying to save my life,” I tell the old timers. This gets me a round of laughs. The old men all turn to her and nod or wink. They’re trying to be suave, too, but they’re busting up over the joke.

“Buy you a drink?” I ask.

“Alcohol . . .”

Oh god, here it comes.

“. . . is probably the worst thing for your system right now.”

“I’m hitting on my mom!” I joke to the geezers, who chuckle.

I can’t figure it out. Unlike the crowd at the scene of the accident, she can see and hear me. She’s gotta be dead, too. So why doesn’t she get it?

“I’m hitting on my mom.” I repeat it for effect, giving her my best suave stare.

She finally cracks a smile. “Any other day,” she says, “under any other circumstances, I’d stay and have a drink with you. But right now, you need immediate medical attention.”

Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the old men’s tales of conquest in the golden age. Maybe it’s being dead. But I go straight for the prize. “Well, okay, but if you give me your phone number I can call you later, right?”

She’s still glancing over her shoulder toward the entrance, like she’s expecting the cast of Chicago Hope to burst through the doors and rescue me.

She smiles again. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you my number.” Soft smile. Sexy.

I don’t know when the whole tunnel of white light thing is supposed to take effect, but I’m in no hurry. She hands me a business card with her number on it, and I tuck it into the pocket of the new Pendleton western wool plaid I notice I’m wearing. Orange and brown, like the pie and pancake joints. My favorite.

---

At exactly 3:33 I awakened abruptly from the strangest dream. In it I witnessed a terrible accident at a ski lodge. I saw a man dismembered. It was horrifying and graphically gory, which isn’t typical of my dreams. I was trying to get help for the victim, who didn’t seem to comprehend the extent of his injuries. Everyone else was just as cavalier. I was the only one who understood how gravely the man was wounded. Blood was everywhere. I remember talking to a 911 dispatcher. I tried to stay on the line, but I crossed a parking lot and when I reached the other side she stopped answering.

The emotional content was powerful. And the man himself seemed so real. Apart from him being ambulatory in his condition, the only surreal aspect of the dream was that we were in a bar. Right before I woke up he asked me for my phone number, and I actually gave it to him.

I knew this type of dream, with its graphic realism and pervasive sense of urgency, would remain with me. To shake it off, I got up and walked around. The streetlamps cast a glow through the blinds, giving just enough light that I didn’t need to switch on a lamp. I stumbled into the kitchen for some water, something cold and bracing. But leaning against the counter by the sink, I could still see images from the dream playing in my mind. I had to get up early, so I decided to try to sleep again regardless. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out.

---

As soon as I get her number, she disappears. As in, vanishes into thin air. No shit. The old men barely notice, like it’s no big deal, happens all the time. I know things from now on aren’t going to be what I’m used to, but cut me some slack here. I’m trying to pick up a girl.

Seconds later, she’s back.

I’ll swear on the disappearing part. That happened. I’ve had half a beer and I haven’t smoked any of Al’s bud yet. I know what I saw.

Now she looks at me, real earnest, and says, “This is a dream.”

Au contraire, Serious Type. “You’re dead,” I counter.

“What I mean to say is, I’m dreaming. You are actually dead.”

“Broad’s right,” says one of the geezers. He looks over at her. “Took ya long enough,” he laughs, draining his whiskey and motioning the waitress for another round.

“Let me get this straight . . .” I lose my train of thought because I notice my other leg has gone AWOL.

“Energy body,” she says. “That’s why we can see each other. Mine remains anchored to my physical body. Yours will dissipate. It’s residual. Technically, you can stay here for as long as you want, but once you become pure consciousness, you’ll probably choose to move on.”

“The tunnel of white light thing?”

“It’s usually not a tunnel.”

I can overhear the old dudes having a friendly argument over some baseball stats from the ’70’s. I’m not sure what I think about being pure consciousness. If it’s as rad as the rest of being dead, I guess I’m cool with it. Anyway, I’m probably not in a position to argue.

“I’m highly lucid,” Serious Type announces, “which probably means I won’t be here for much longer. And frankly I’m new to this. These gentlemen are here to help you transition. You’re in good hands.”

One of the regulars raises his glass in her direction and nods.

“This is as far as I can go with you,” she says. And she’s gone.

On that note, I polish off my PBR. Then I check the pocket of the Pendleton and smile. Yep. Still there.

Never quit after the first try.

---

Photo by Nick Fewings

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