by Sean Platt
A twelve-year-old boy with dark hair hanging in his eyes is sitting at the small kitchen table, eating a bowl of Fruit Loops. Tommy, Stacy’s pussy son from her convict ex-boyfriend.
I try to shake Frank’s feelings out of my mind. He can’t stand the kid. Sees him as an impediment to his relationship with Tommy’s mom.
I feel horrible for the boy.
“Good morning,” I say, wondering about Frank’s typical greeting.
“Good morning,” he mumbles, not looking up, eyes fixed to his bowl as if he’s searching for Toucan-Fucking-Sam at the bottom. I wonder if he’s a moody brat, or merely hates his mom’s boyfriend.
I see a newspaper sitting in a spot across from the kid — Frank’s spot. An empty glass is facedown.
I pick it up.
“Where’s your mom?”
I head to the fridge looking for something to wet my dry mouth.
“She went to get you some eggs.”
“Okay,” I say, annoyed, though I don’t know why. There’s a part of me, or Frank, that feels suspicious.
Went to get me eggs? Yeah, right, she’s out fucking around.
I shake my head, trying to swim against the tide of jealousy and doubt that seem to anchor Frank in misery.
I survey the fridge’s sad array of contents: a pitcher of Kool-Aid; a half-gallon carton of milk, almost empty, likely used by Tommy; an almost-empty container of bologna, a few bowls with leftovers covered in foil; and three cans of Old Milwaukee beer.
Instinctually, Frank’s hand reaches for a beer, but I pull back, grab the milk, and slam the fridge shut harder than I intend to.
I go to the cupboard, pull out a plastic cup, and pour the remaining milk inside, annoyed that the kid’s bowl is practically overflowing, way more than he needs for his tiny bit of cereal, while all I get is a fucking sip.
I hate feeling this way. Frank’s anger taints my every thought. A filter turning things I might normally notice without annoyance into tiny bombs threatening to set me off.
I desperately want to be out of this body.
I sit down.
I look at Tommy, hair hanging over his eyes as he slowly lifts a spoon into his mouth, careful not to meet my eyes.
I drink the milk in one swallow. A part of me wants to slam down the cup, let him know it’s empty, thanks to his being a selfish little shit.
I fight the rage and open the paper, the Plymouth Creek Herald.
So, I’m in Plymouth Creek, California. While it’s on the West Coast, just like every other place I’ve been in my body jumping journey, I don’t think I’ve been here yet.
I skip past the local news and head straight to the op-eds in the back, to get the town’s flavor, or at least the people this particular paper represents. Are they liberal? Conservative?
I’m not even sure what I am.
Can’t tell what Frank is, either. He hates all politicians, but also just about every ethnicity that isn’t white. He hates rich people most of all. Blames them for every shitty thing that’s happened in his crappy little life.
There’s a part of me that would love to stay in someone like Frank for a while, to help them out, to show them that life isn’t that bad. Mostly it’s what you make of it. Show them that his hate is pointless and mostly harms him more than others. He needs a change of perspective. From the bits of memories I can sift through in the haze, he had a rough childhood, abusive parents, got picked on. An outcast as one of the only white boys in a mostly black and Latin neighborhood. A perfect recipe for the monster he’s become. But even if I could stay inside him for weeks or months until I could finally show Frank that he can turn things around, that everyone else isn’t the enemy, what would happen when he woke up back in his body? How quickly would he revert to old rage and familiar habits? How much could I correct his hardwiring in just a few —
A loud crash pulls me from my thoughts.
I practically jump out of my seat.
Tommy is standing there staring horrified at his bowl of cereal, still spinning on the floor.
When I jump out of my seat, he throws his hands over his face and squeezes his eyes shut. The flinch. You can tell so much from a flinch. And that’s when I see it — the bruises on his left cheek.
Frank did that.
Oh, God.
“I’m sorry,” he bawls, “I know I’m supposed to be finished with breakfast before you wake up. I was just hurrying to the sink so I could get out of your hair.”
My heart breaks as Tommy runs to the counter, tears streaming down his face. He drops to the floor, trying to mop up the milk and Fruit Loops.
“It’s okay,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Another flinch.
I pull my hand back.
God, I want to be out of this body.
The front door opens. A short, slightly heavyset woman in her early thirties comes in holding a bag. Stacy.
She sees Tommy on the floor, cleaning.
“What happened?”
She looks at me, then quickly looks away, eyes to her son.
“Nothing. He dropped his cereal bowl. No big deal.”
Is she scared of Frank too?
Does she know that Frank hit Tommy last night?
I figure she has to know.
Did she try to stop him?
No.
I can tell from her defeated body language as she enters the kitchen, sets the bags on the table, and grabs paper towels to help clean the mess that she likely didn’t try to stop him.
“Go ahead, and get ready for school, honey,” she says to Tommy, who is wiping tears from his eyes.
“Okay.”
“Here, I’ll get it,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“No, I’ve got it. You need to get to work.”
I look at the clock, not sure how long it takes to drive to the mall, but I go ahead and take the opportunity to leave.
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” I say, wanting to offer Stacy a kiss, a hug, a peck on the cheek, or something. But she’s so busy cleaning up, and actively trying not to meet my eyes, I don’t get the chance.
They’re both scared of Frank.
I hate this man.
I let his memories guide me to where he keeps his wallet and keys, on a shelf next to the front door, then I say, “See you later.”
“Bye,” she says, still wiping the floor.
I step outside and stop dead in my tracks. There are two cars. One is Stacy’s battered white Ford Focus. And then there’s the other.
Frank’s car.
The same Red Hyundai that the woman was waiting at yesterday. I stagger back, losing my balance with the realization that Frank was her target. He was the one she needed to kill. And I interfered.
I’m trembling. Barely able to move, I force myself to the car.
I get in, keys shaking in my hand, fumbling until I find the right one and key the ignition.
Why was she trying to kill Frank?
And why am I now in his body?
And perhaps the most relevant question: Will she return, as the same woman or someone else? Someone I’ll never see coming?
I back out of the driveway, turn the car around, and leave the cul-de-sac, heading to work. My head is spinning in too many different directions, trying to sort through Frank’s few memories, searching for some clue as to why he’s an assassin’s target. Best I can tell, he’s a nobody loser stuck in a dead-end job, so messed up he can’t keep from hurting the only woman that’s probably ever loved him, or her kid.
But there are a ton of guys like that in the world. What makes Frank so special that someone — let alone a fellow Jumper — is trying to kill him?
I look in the rearview, into Frank’s eyes, searching for answers. I’m not seeing them if they’re there.
I hit the freeway, and traffic.
I feel myself wanting to hit the steering wheel, to curse, remnants of Frank’s personality so etched into his body that they’re almost on autopilot. I’v
e never felt so out of control.
I wonder if a part of Frank is still in here with me. I was feeling remnants of Lara, Yvonne, and Vinnie a week or so ago. In the three bodies I’ve been in since saving Allie, none of my hosts had stayed behind. Lara and the others faded more from my memory with every new day.
Is Frank still inside his body somehow? If so, why? If not, then how is so much of his temper affecting me? Maybe it has to do with his drunken state. Maybe there is some blurring of emotions that carries into the morning. I’m not sure that makes any sense in any scientific way, but then again, I’m not a scientist. At least I don’t think so. I’m just a traveller learning the rules as I go.
I hit the radio’s ON button and am immediately greeted with a political talk show with some blowhard talking about how they want to “take America back to the good ol’ days.”
I turn it back off.
As I sit in traffic molasses, I wait for more of Frank’s memories to fill in some blanks.
Why does Stacy stay with him? Maybe she’s just as awful as he is. However Frank feels about her, I’m not sensing much. Does he love her? Is he using her? I don’t get the feeling that she makes a lot of money, but there are other reasons people use one another. Maybe she validates him in some way. Or maybe he needs someone to abuse, and she doesn’t have the self-worth to walk away.
I can’t imagine she’s so broken that she’d let him harm her child. Maybe this was a one -time thing. Maybe he’s never hit Tommy before, and spent half the night apologizing before passing out blind drunk. I don’t know. And even if I did, what can I do?
I’m here for one, maybe two days.
Then I realize: maybe I’m here to help Frank keep his appointment with death.
**
Frank’s job isn’t just dull, it’s so physically demanding, I’ve almost stopped thinking about the fact that a killer may be lurking behind any of the faces I see through the morning.
The only reminder of the weirdness comes in the small talk, coworkers, both on the sales floor and in the warehouse, commenting in whispers about the two security guards killed yesterday. A few people ask me what I think. I echo their sentiments. It’s tragic. How can that happen here? The usual stuff people say in an aftermath. We haven’t yet reached Phase Two of Tragedies, where people wonder what role the victims played in their own murder. Surely, this was a drug deal gone bad or something.
I’m almost thankful when deliveries begin to come in and we’re split up to unpack several large pallets of merchandise, checking them against bills of lading, then bringing them to assigned spots on the towering metal shelves.
There are three other workers today, down one who called in sick. There’s a Puerto Rican guy named Angel, in his early twenties. He calls everyone boss, but beyond that has little to say. There’s a heavyset leather-faced woman in her early fifties named Marge, who smells like a cigarette factory. She curses like a sailor but seems otherwise friendly enough. Then there’s Stan.
Stan is a short, balding skinny guy in his late thirties. He spends half the morning barking orders like he’s vying for first place in an Asshole Match, and the other half walking the department store floor, doing God only knows what. Everyone seems to agree that they’d rather have him out of the warehouse, even if it means more work for us.
At eleven o’clock, my back is aching and my stomach is growling something fierce. Fortunately, it’s also time for my first break, a fifteen-minute reprieve from the grind.
I head to the break room upstairs. It’s a fairly large space that doubles as the morning meeting room where we get a lame morale boosting pep talk which, judging from the morning’s fatigued faces, failed to do its job. There are twenty or so tables, and plenty of bright orange plastic molded chairs with metal legs just starting to rust. Lockers surround the room, paint peeling. The TV is in front, between the two restrooms.
There is also a pair of vending machines and a small kitchen area.
Stomach growling, I head to the machines, deciding I’ll get a Coke and some chips. I reach into my wallet to find a couple of crumpled bills.
Of course, the machines won’t take them.
I vent a muffled grunt, not wanting to draw attention from the two saleswomen sitting together and chatting over coffee.
I turn to the women, hoping Frank’s memories will give me a name to work with. But he doesn’t know their names.
“Excuse me,” I say, “would either of you happen to have change for two dollar bills?”
One of the women looks in her purse, then gives me an apologetic look, “No. Sorry.”
The other one isn’t carrying a purse. She shrugs.
Great.
I head back downstairs, figuring I’ll ask one of the other warehouse employees.
I’m about five minutes into my break when I run into Angel.
“Hey, man, you got change for two dollars?”
He pats his pockets, “Sorry, boss, I don’t carry change. I dump that shit into my daughter’s piggy bank as soon as I get it.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
I see Stan approaching, heading toward us, likely on his way back out into the store through the double doors behind me.
“Hey, Mr. Phillips, do you happen to have change for two bucks?”
He looks at me, ignoring my question, then points toward the loading bays. “Hey, I need you to check in a vendor.”
“Uh, I’m still on break.”
“Well, now you’re not.” He gives me his asshole’s smile then walks away.
I glare at the back of his shiny dome, watching him slip through the double doors, wondering why the hell he didn’t ask Angel or Marge to check the shipment in. They’re both still putting away stuff from this morning, but it’s not like there’s a rush to finish. They could easily be pulled away. Hell, Stan could’ve done it himself.
I head back to the bay and check in the vendor, which takes about fifteen minutes. I check off the bill of lading then bring a copy to the boss’s office, drop it in a box, and head back to the break room to resume my interrupted respite, hoping someone will have change.
A heavyset cashier with dark circles under his eyes has change for a buck, but not two. I thank him, then head to the soda machine for a Coke. The combination of sugar and caffeine should help me make it until lunch.
I’m sitting at a table alone near the rear, watching five employees glued to a twenty-four-hour news channel broadcasting coverage of “another senseless shooting.” One of the experts points out that gun laws won’t change things like this from happening, and, in fact, there’s a good chance that the victims knew their killer.
Ah, cue Phase Two — blame the victims.
If only these smug bastards knew the truth. Not that it would change an argument to restrict gun sales. Hell, if these people knew that there are people jumping from body to body, and that literally, anybody could be a killer, even your family, they’d advocate guns for everyone.
I can already hear the radio advertisements.
Yes, your wife says she loves you, but can you really trust her? What if she’s a Jumper? Shouldn’t you be prepared? Arm yourself today!
I’m surprised to have such a visceral reaction to the pro-gun expert on TV. I don’t know if it has something to do with my past, Frank’s, or maybe the number of guns I’ve had aimed at me recently.
I’m nearly done with my Coke when Stan enters the break room.
“What are you doing?” he asks, face red.
“Finishing my break.”
“Your break is from eleven to eleven fifteen. It’s,” he glances at a clock on the wall, “eleven twenty one.”
“I can see that. But, if you recall, you pulled me off my break to check in that vendor. Now, I’m finishing that break.”
“Did I tell you that you could resume your break? No. I said your break was over. That means it’s over. And you just left the pallet sitting there. You need to put it away.”
I’m not sure
what it is, the way he’s talking down to me, his scrunchy rat-like face, or Frank’s lingering hate for humanity, but I say something I don’t quite mean to say, yet am unable to stop it from leaving my mouth.
“I’ve got four minutes of my break left. I’ll put it away then.”
“What did you say?”
Stan gets right in front of me, staring down like he’s planning to hit me. A part of me would love it if he tried. Well, I’m not sure if it’s a part of me, or a part of Frank. Either way, I do my best to not push the violence.
“Lemme just finish this Coke, and I’ll do it.”
“Out,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“I said out. You’re fired.”
“Fired? For taking the break I’m allowed to take? You pulled me off, I’m just getting my fifteen minutes.”
“Hey, you wanna relax so much, go home, relax all you want, and maybe think about your shitty attitude.”
I stand. The chair scrapes the floor and draws everyone’s eyes.
Stan is about a foot shorter than Frank, but he’s not backing down. He glares up at me as if waiting for me to hit him, fists balled at his side.
Clearly, there’s history here, and hell, maybe Frank has earned his boss’s ire prior to now. But still, firing him over this is stupid.
My heart is racing. A hot wave is washing over me.
I barely keep my rage from erupting.
I smile, trying to pull this back from the edge. I don’t want to get Frank fired because of my mouth.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I missed breakfast and needed something to keep me going. I’ll take care of that pallet now.”
Stan stares at me, not responding. The dead look in his eyes is unnerving.
“Is that okay?”
Finally he responds. “No. I want you to take your Coke, and get the hell out of here. Don’t come back.”
He presses his finger into my chest to illustrate his point.
I lose it.
