by Travis Borne
Then, Rab’s mind got the best of him and he plunged deep into, something else. The demon that had protected him became suppressed, mostly. The others, however, constantly encroached upon his sanity: Troll, Snake, The Vine—to name a few. Jon desperately wanted everything to remain the same but Herald had fallen deep into solitude—and eventually work took over—interminably, fastidiously; the new chains shackling him to his office were positive-feedback loops into oblivion. Then project Archeus demanded bottomless impossibility, and the rest was history…
Jim enjoyed diving into his new memories, somewhat replacements for the things he’d missed out on when the world was whole and he was too young. When it was such a grand, fully functioning organism in itself, when individuals could do wondrous things—live rightfully and true, for good or bad, knife to the throat at 2 a.m. or just got fuckin’ lucky, hence—life, the authentic experience. The memories were his now, his own stew of chances, backfires, and the occasional bliss that made everything worth it. And he thought and thought, while he walked.
The morning sky was clear and Jim took in a deep breath as he exited the hotel, then crossed the street and continued through the pale layout he was becoming very familiar with. For a moment he saw himself from above, in a dollhouse city, on a plywood reconstruction of some neglected hobbyist’s wasted time.
Old Town was a quaint dust bowl, Jewel City pants-to-ankles, bare-assed and simple, but best of all, without the fucking wall. Jim passed the ol’ saloon and strolled, strutting with an A-Okay walk toward the mercado, feeling pretty, well, pretty fuckin’ good actually.
Saturday. A few vendors were up early and the sun was masturbating on the horizon, straight ahead. Pipes clanged and a piece-of-shit radio played Spanish, I-am-not-ready-for-that-shit music, as vendors constructed their makeshift tents on the baked tierra of what would soon be a bustling flea market. Then he spotted Carlos. His oldest son was helping him put galvanized corner pieces on galvanized tent poles. Their space was one of the first near the entrance, by what would soon be the food court. One of his younger sons was balancing along the poles like a tightrope walker; the older one was getting mad. Then Carlos unfolded the sun shade; it looked like it was made of faded blue-jean material.
“Rafael,” Jim called out.
“Buenos dias,” Carlos said, looking up while unrolling the canvas. Jim had one hand in a pocket, and was as incongruent as a tourist in a non-tourist town. “Rafael esta tres líneas para adentro, vende cuadros de pintura.”
“Uh. English, Señor?”
“Ah, Yes,” Carlos replied. “I said, Rafael is three lines back, take a right, I think the third booth in. He sells paintings, makes them himself. The wife and I have two adorning our walls. Very nice, he’s a splendid artist.”
Shit. Carlos speaks perfect English? The trace of an accent was a hair on a shaved ass—and Jim tried to get a hold of his morning, coffee-lacking grump. But again, surely not Mexican, perhaps a dab of Spaniard—and like a hungover dolt sucking a gallon of water, Jim realized, perhaps Carlos taught his wife who, as he had learned last night, was a dream character. It’s perfect English. Luisa had spoken perfect Spanish too, and the contrast, like now, struck him odd.
Then Jim remembered what Marlo had said: He won’t even remember Rafael or who he once was. Jim knew—he had some convincing to do. He tried again: “You are Rafael.”
“Ah, I remember you, sir,” Carlos said. “Weeks ago, you broke my table, with the young girl. And those men, if I recall their names…yes, Greg and Eddie. Haven’t seen them since.”
“You are Rafael, you’re a bot, Herald’s best friend.”
“I am sorry, sir, you have me confused with someone else.” He hastily finished rolling out the sheet of patchy jeans then took a step toward Jim.
“I know it’s you. You are—”
“I already told you, sir, Rafael is several booths farther in.”
“Just hear me out for one—”
“Look, honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about. And you are obviously new in town. If you would so wish, my son will escort you to the only Rafael I’m acquainted with.”
Jim sighed. He put one hand on his chin, the other came out of his pocket. He angled his head away and around, then muttered to himself, “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“If you would please excuse me now, we have a lot of work to do. Very busy day ahead.” Jim nodded and pressed a smile. The rising sun put a glint in his eye and it pegged Carlos. Not going to be as easy as I thought. “What time do you open, maybe I’ll catch you later—get some tacos?”
“Around 8 o’clock or so—” Carlos talked, back turned. He picked up the canvas, his son the opposite two corners, they made it fly into the air, then pulled it taut. Dust went everywhere. Jim turned his head and coughed. “—the wife arrives later with the meat and preparations.”
Jim told Carlos a blunt thanks and took off. He decided to search for some coffee amongst the clanking and clattering vendors assembling tents and poles. As he passed the vendor next to Carlos a woman under a tattered umbrella said, “Pan, Señor? Banana bread. Like a sample?” Jim brushed her off and continued down the line. Coffee, not banana bread. He also thought, how hard can this be anyway. I have three days?
Marlo had told them three days would equal the remainder of the afternoon logged in. Time twister—fucks with your head almost as much as the revert.
35. Coffee Nomad
“Rafael,” Jim said, again.
“Hola, Señor, buenos dias,” the other Rafael said. He was about to hop into his small truck. A pile of paintings sat on the ground, a few poles, a tarp, a cooler… “Te puedo ayudar en algo?”
“Just looking,” Jim said, then also again, “English?”
“No Señor, no hablo Ingles. Quiere usted ver mis trabajos de pintura?”
“Coffee, um, I’m looking—busco, coffee—café,” Jim said, reeling to retrieve one of the few Spanish words he knew. He also made a gesture with an invisible mug. “Carlos mentioned you. I came—”
“Ah, si! Carlos,” Rafael said, “él sabe hacer tacos muy ricos.” Jim nodded, flattening his smile.
The language barrier was going to be a problem; maybe beer—that would help more than a mug of the black sludge he craved. But he needed coffee, and even though it was a map, and he’d only been logged in for a little more than an hour or so in real time, it was morning for his current reality. The sun was now hovering above the horizon and as per habit, perhaps, he began to feel lethargic.
Understanding as well, that they weren’t getting anywhere, the happier-than-probably-should-be painter directed Jim with hand gestures to a coffee vendor—cuatro rows down, tres booths over—then got into his truck and sped away, leaving his paintings and other stuff unattended. Jim watched; he went to park it then jogged his delgado-ass back. The good feelings Jim felt earlier were fading in proportion to the amount of sunlight shanking his pupils.
“Keep it on the good side of the line, Jim,” he told himself, feeling a tad frustrated and out of place. He walked half of the flea market but had yet to find coffee. Three rows, four in, my fuckin’ ass. A burger-and-papas vendor all the way back toward Carlos, who’d just about finished setting up, had just arrived. Maybe that dude.
“Pan? Quiere probarlo? Like a sample?” the banana-bread lady blasted with her flute of a voice. Hearing her again made Jim cringe. A cane-wielding, unfortunate Señor crawling past her table brushed her off just as he had done.
Jim bounced like a pool ball from the banana-bread-lady’s side of the dusty aisle and went to ask the new vendor. He quickly learned they didn’t sell coffee, but, were friendly enough to offer him some from their personal thermos.
Odd, Jim thought, coffee seemed to be a rarity and many had to have awoken at 5 a.m. There were plenty of sodas and waters, he saw, but it was coffee that somehow just did it for him. He’d started using creamer when Amy had him feeling like a million bucks, but since her passing, that day, back
to black. The blacker the better, as black as a black hole—can it get any blacker than that? Flavorless or flavorful, he didn’t give a shit. Throat thawing, the void of tongue-searing magic somehow just set him at ease—and Jim walked the second half of the flea market, paper cup in hand.
The people helped his temperament too, except for banana head; a cup of Joe and overly optimistic early birds everywhere. Most were surprisingly welcoming and friendly, mood-elevating fellows and fellas. Fernando and his wife Loren happened to manage the next space Jim passed and they greeted him as he passed by. Being courteous, he inspected their merchandise—as if he could possibly buy something. Jim had yet to meet Loren, Fernando’s wife, who wasn’t at the bar last night. She appeared as if she could be Magnus’ sister, and much taller than her man Fernando. They were working together, opening plastic buckets of tools and placing the items on the table for sale. Jim conversed a little, mostly small talk, then kept walking. What a contrast to his old morning self, he reflected. He was a million times friendlier than he would have been to these people just a short time ago—before Amy.
There were at least a hundred vendors now, fuck, maybe double that, with enough junk to cram several three-story buildings from top to bottom, and as the sun became yellow customers arrived in drones to pick at everything like vultures to roadkill. By 8:30 the flea market was half as full as it had been when they had lunch with Amy—what seemed months ago—and filling. For him that felt like another lifetime. And his mind continued playing tricks on him, although he felt himself becoming more stable as time went on—or at least wanted to think so. He thought he saw Amy several times, peeking around the corner behind a booth, even under a car, hiding but not scared, and working inside one of the myriad food trucks; like flashbacks the delusions teased him. Then ahead—she was walking away from him with the same apple-green top and cut-off jeans (one side cut lower than the other), the same curly dark hair, and she turned around to see him with the same world-brightening smile. He shook his head. He thought of time, twisting reality itself—perhaps, just perhaps, time interweaves, and merges together. He wasn’t afraid to take it there and picked up the pace. Right behind her, now he was sure—Amy! She was carrying a bag of vegetables and stopped to look at some board games laid out on a tarp. Many were the same ones they’d played in the apartments. It can’t be, but it was!
“Amy,” he said, and touched her shoulder. She turned around, startled by his hand. It wasn't her. “I—I’m sorry,” Jim said. She stopped looking at the games and hurried off. He watched as she caught up to an older woman; she told the old lady what happened and they both looked back, grimacing, then continued on their way like the people who’d been stabbed in the ear by banana bitch. He looked down at the game. He surely remembered it. Amy ended up with six hotels and drove him to bankruptcy, it was the same—wait, he took a closer look and it was not the same game. But how?
“I must retain my lucidity,” he said out loud. Then mumbling, “I’m here to bring Rafael back, not to stir up memories and torture myself. Amy is gone, Jim.” He stood, spinning around as slow as a compass needle immersed in hair gel—and morning shoppers passed him by with little regard. Now, think, what can I say to Carlos, to get him to realize he’s Rafael. 45 degrees about. So many people, working, hustle, bustle, talking to prospective buyers. 90 degrees about. Some trading items, others paying in pesos. Mexican candy, vegetables. 135 degrees about. A short round woman trades a cage containing a burgundy rooster, for a white rocking chair. Her son passes the cage to an old man, then loads the chair onto his shoulder. 180 degrees about. A thin Indian man set up under a large burgundy umbrella is carving keys by hand with a file. 225 degrees about. Businesses everywhere, swap-meet heaven, or hell. 270 degrees about. A banana-bread sale, and behind her, Carlos. His family is arriving now. Luisa is carrying the meat and two kids are with her.
“I’ll kidnap him,” Jim muttered to himself while watching the family finalize preparations inside their space that had become a taco-manufacturing tour de force. The sun felt warm on his face, nudging him back across the line. “No, better not—” A woman smiled at him, then dissembled it for a grimace as she noticed he was mumbling to himself. He shut his lips and took it back inside.
Look at all these people, where do they come from anyway, just working and working—yes, that’s it. I’ll work with him! Surely, he can’t turn down free help, and it’ll give me something to do. Lunch, dinner, taken care of. And who in the world—or in a map—would turn down free help. It is going to seem very odd, though. Hey, Carlos, person I just met, yeah me, the guy who smashed your table two weeks ago—can I work for you, for free? I’m only here for three days. He’ll ask: Why? And I’ll respond: Uh…just bored.
Hell…but maybe it’ll work. Never know if I don’t try, and I’ll get some breakfast from him—Felix didn’t give us much money last night. It was nice of him, however, all he had to give. But we spent every peso at the bar.
Ah, I’ll bring it up, somehow. Work for food, stranded, yeah, that’s it, stranded, need money to get home, only a few bucks, and some food, pay my way. Sob story.
36. Hard, Hot Work
“Dos platos de puerco y dos al pastor, Jim,” Carlos called out from the back opening of the trailer—rush order for a fellow vendor. It was noon and Jim was nearing the breaking point, but he was quickly learning the lingo. Two drops fell from his forehead at the exact same time, and into the grease catcher, Jim’s sweat vanished as if the first law of thermodynamics meant squat, while the plancha readied the pork, releasing toxins that could make a stone hungry.
“Comin’ right up, Carlos,” Jim yelled, then grunted, “wish he’d just speak English.” Then two seconds later, while carving the pastor, “Damn, it’s fucking hot in here.”
“Pan—banana bread! Like a free sample?”
He’d been hearing her all fucking day, like an atomic clock ringing at the top of every minute. He didn’t even hear it in Spanish anymore. “Fuck, does that bitch have a megaphone,” Jim growled. He carved more slivers from the large vertical cylinder of meat then refilled the smoking grill. Within four more banana-breads he called, “Tacos up.”
“Gringo, ah, muy bien,” a man outside bantered, chuckling. Others nodded. The man held up his taco and took a bite that nearly finished the thing while seemingly biting off his own fingers. Jim just raised his spatula and faked a smile.
“The fucking shit I get myself into,” Jim said, scraping, tossing in meat, meat, meat, and a bit more, meat.
“Banana bread. Just made it yesterday. Like a sample?”
Hopping into the trailer from the back with a fully replenished order list, Carlos said, “Really though, doing great, Jim. My oldest son is appreciative, first day off he’s had in a long time.”
“Thanks for the job,” Jim said, fixing a few drinks; he put a slightly sarcastic tone on the word job. Luisa smiled wide.
They all knew running the grill was hard, hot work, and although he complained a little, a few grunts here and there, Jim was doing fantastic.
And Jim comprehended the full scope: hard, hot, work—I might as well be standing in Hell, carving bodies.
“Banana bread! Pan de banana! Like a sample?”
Day two.
The plan went off without a hitch, thanks to the unworldly good nature of Carlos and his amazing family. They’d put him to work right away, but didn’t need him on the third day. Tomorrow was Monday, and through Friday the mercado was closed. The dust bowl was a soccer field for the kids, or purposed for other things: the semi-annual town fair, the tug of war held like clockwork on the last Wednesday of every month, town dances and unique festivals different from anything that had ever existed on the outside, fiestas—whatever. They talked quite a bit and Jim learned about Pueblo Viejo, Old Town, and the people within who seemed to grow on him faster than a sweet tooth matures in a child after the very first chocolate bar.
He said he’d been stranded with his friends, they’d come to
visit Felix and needed a few bucks to get back home, that they’d blown their money having too much of a good time along the way. It had to sound realistic. Every time Jim brought up the subject of Rafael, Carlos looked at him like he was crazy, just like when they’d told the group of lotería players at the bar, they’d have to go, they’d all have to leave Old Town soon, and for good. No one believed anything, except Felix and Rosita, but even they didn’t follow up on the subject enough to have a conversation.
And about being dream characters, now Jim knew—they didn’t really know. Felix had said it that night and the others went along with how Jim now comprehends it: a joke. No one knew they were dream characters, except Felix and his wife. They’d been told it so many times it didn’t matter anymore. Just like on Earth, back in the real world, when scientists discovered the Universe could likely be nothing but a hologram. Yes, could be, but that didn’t change a damn thing. Everyone still had to go to work, plod day in day out, school, life, die. Jim realized it was the same here. They were told the truth, but still had to live, and go on day to mundane day. And eventually, after so many years, it didn’t even matter anymore—none of that shit did.
So, Jim reiterated his attempt, “Luisa, and your boys also, they’re just dream characters.”
And Carlos replied, “What’s new, aren’t we all? Life is but a dream. Still have to work, raise my family, operate that plancha every weekend then work all week.” He said nothing more for at least eight seconds. Carlos’ eyes met Jim’s; his eyes had the power of a hundred eyes, deep brown portals into the all-knowable, and he finally said, “Jim, it doesn’t change a thing.”
