The Unconventional (A Short Story)

by Raen Smith

  I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. I really didn’t.

  I head back towards the ovens and squat down to a shelf, moving a sleeve of napkins to the side. I reach my hand in and find the cool metal flask I’ve hid here for the last three years. It usually requires refilling every other day. I run my fingers along the curved edges before I unscrew the top and dump the amber liquid down the drain. I hold my breath to avoid the temptation to stop. Then I throw the flask into the trash.

  I’m not an alcoholic.

  Just as I begin to feel this odd lump of emotion forming in my throat, a swell of cold air drifts over me. It seems a little early to have customers, but hell, I’ll take them just the same. Maybe I’ll tell them about the plan to revamp the place. Fresher ingredients, a homemade recipe, piping hot. The words churn in my head while I walk past the cash register and into the dining area.

  I don’t expect to find the restaurant empty, but it is.

  The booths are bare, there’s no chatter among a group of friends, there’s no arguing between a couple, and there’s no sloppy kissing between the late-night hook-up. It is the same as I left it a few minutes ago, but I can still feel the draft. The door was open. I walk to the front to double check the door when I see a kid standing on the sidewalk. He looks around Sam’s age, maybe a little older. Suddenly, he turns like he’s going to walk down the sidewalk, but he doesn’t. There’s something stopping him.

  I watch him through the glass, studying his profile.

  His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s wearing one of those big wool hats with strings. A long fog of white streams from his mouth. His shoes are planted in the snowy sidewalk, but his knees are bouncing with small movements. It looks like he’s talking to himself, but I can’t be sure. Either way, I figure this kid is the one who opened the door. I’m about to go talk to him when he turns his head and our eyes meet.

  I don’t know the kid, but there’s a vague look of recognition in his eyes like he knows me.

  Then the look turns to panic, and I think for a second that he’s going to run. Like he just heisted something from the register and is in a hot bed of hell. I open the door and step out onto the sidewalk while he stands frozen in place. His knees have stopped bouncing and his gloved hands are out of his pockets.

  “Hey, man. Can I help you?” I shove my hands into my jeans as a car passes on the street.

  “No, I – ” he stutters. He looks back at me with that damn look of recognition again, like I should know him because he clearly knows me, but like I said before, I don’t know him. He’s just a bit taller than me with a bigger frame. I was right about guessing he was around Sam’s age. I don’t put him past twenty. He’s got a real smooth complexion with a glazing of almost olive color skin and deep innocent eyes.

  “Did you need something? Did you open the door?” I ask, huddling my body inward to conserve the heat. Another car’s headlights flash as it nears and passes us.

  “No. I mean yes,” he says. There’s something in his eyes that tells me this kid needs help or something. He’s standing here for a reason, but I don’t know why. There’s something about his eyes.

  “Which is it?” I ask.

  “Yes, I opened the door,” he says, nodding his head as if he’s trying to break himself out of the stupor he’s put himself into. I study his eyes, trying to assess if he’s drunk or high. I don’t think he’s either.

  “It’s colder than hell out here. Why don’t you come inside? I can make you some pizza. It ain’t that bad.”

  “This is your place?” he asks. “You’re Archie Briggs?”

  “I’m Archie Briggs, and this is Archie’s Pizza,” I confirm, nodding toward the sign. “Although that sign doesn’t really say so. Missing some letters. I’m getting it fixed in the next few days.”

  He’s nodding and reaching out his hand to me when I see another flash of lights out of the corner of my eye. But this light isn’t like the other cars that have passed us in the last minute since we’ve been standing here. The light is bright white, shining right on this kid. And I suddenly realize that the car is going to pummel into this kid. The car’s front tires are almost to the curb.

  I yell “WATCH OUT!” and then I lunge toward the kid, trying to push him out of the way. But I’m moving in slow motion, my arms and legs heavy as lead as I reach out toward him.

  They say that the world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of tiny pushes of each honest worker. It isn’t the mighty shove that gives him a chance because God knows, I don’t get to him as fast as I want to. It’s the tiny push from an honest place that gives him a chance.

  I’m not a hero.

  ***

  My world is black. I hear the ringing now, just like I heard the night Death came to see me for the first time. I expect to see Him again. I expect to see his outstretched hand, his grim eyes, and his solemn mouth. But I don’t. All I see is black, and all I hear is the ringing. The goddamn ringing.

  All I can think about is the kid. I wonder if Death has already come to see him or if the kid is somewhere in the middle. I don’t see him here, so I know he’s not with me.

  Suddenly, white light floods my eyes. It intoxicates me as I feel myself being rolled down a hall. A mask looms over my face, covering my mouth, and I savor the sweet taste of pure oxygen in my lungs. There’s a bag swinging next to me, rolling with my body. The wheels of the cart rattle. Footsteps pound. Voices swirl around my head, yelling things I don’t understand. I feel blinding pain now, screaming at me with no restraint.

  The rolling finally stops and there’s ripping and jerking and prodding all over my body. There’s warmth spilling from me in every direction, and I can feel myself getting colder with every passing second.

  I expect to see Death any moment, but he doesn’t come. Not yet anyway.

  Then my world turns black again. The pain and ringing are gone, vanished as if never there in the first place. Everything is gone except this black world and a single voice. It’s soft and whispers like a beautiful melody.

  “He’s not going to make it without a transplant. His heart is too weak,” she says. “He’s only twenty.”

  The kid. The kid’s not going to make it. The voice pauses as if she’s listening to a response. “His name is Archer Haen. He had this note in his pocket. It has Archie’s Pizza’s address on

  it. Archie Briggs is his dad. Yes, I called his mother. Rosalyn Haen’s going to get here as soon as she can.”

  The words collide in my head. Dad. Rosalyn Haen. Archer Haen. I never knew Rosalyn’s last name. It was just Rosalyn. The realization floods over me, filling me to the brim with both love and pain. I’m suddenly brought back to the night with Rosalyn and her endless hazel eyes. All I can see are those eyes. The kid on the sidewalk has those same eyes. The kid whose name is Archer. The kid named after me. My son.

  I see my son on a cart just like mine in the room over with doctors and nurses swarming around him. He needs help. Then I see Rosalyn with a phone up to her ear. Tears well in her eyes until they’re full and then they fall in streams down her beautiful, pained face. The phone slips from her hand and bounces on the floor. Once, twice.

  Then I see Death’s hand outstretched toward me, but he’s not taking my hand. He holds it there in front of my face, waiting. He’s giving me the choice.

  There’s no hesitation. After all, the choice is an easy one. This is my unconventional happily ever after.

  MY FINAL THOUGHTS BEFORE I TAKE HIS HAND

  In the few seconds before I die, I realize I didn’t know shit about anything. My life has simply been a series of events. Some happy, some sad, but almost all were simply lived. There were a handful of moments, little glitches when I was living. One was with Rosalyn. One was with Sloan. Another was when I defied Death the first time. The last one was when I made a choice for my son.

  The rest of the time, I wasn’t alive. There’s a distinction, I now k
now. A distinction that I want my son to live and for you to understand.

  Lesson to the Living: There’s a difference between living and being alive.

  About the Author

  Raen Smith writes romance and suspense novels with happily ever afters. She lives in a small corner of Wisconsin with her husband and two sons, and loves to be contacted by readers.

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  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to my husband, Brandon, for being incredibly supportive and for pushing me to pursue my dreams. I couldn’t have done this – or much else – without you.

  Another thank you goes to my two sons, Cole and Holden, who make me laugh, cry, and above all, make me realize that life is short, and we all grow up way too fast.

  A special thank you to Stephanie, Reba, Chalyce, Heidi, and Jenny who provided sound advice and feedback on first drafts. Thank you to my editor, Melissa Westemeier, for whipping me into shape.

  Last, thank you to all the readers! Without you, I wouldn’t be able to pursue my dream.