by Shawn Inmon
With that in mind as an eventual destination, Scott rode his thumb first south, then west, then south again. He crossed the US-Mexico border at Tijuana. He had hoped to lose himself in a different country, but soon found himself hanging out at a bar that, aside from the fact that it sold a lot more tequila and had more colorful decorations, was a lot like the Rusty Bucket back in Indiana. Different location, same concept—drink yourself into oblivion.
He found an inexpensive second floor room and set out to drink his life away, one day at a time. When that proved to be too slow, he branched out with his self-medication.
In less than a year, he was living a life he never could have imagined when he was a young man with clear eyes and a full heart. The little boy who had vowed to become a police officer because he wanted to help others was a strung-out junky, living in a three-dollars a night flophouse in Tijuana, injecting every bit of his government check into his veins.
Scott McKenzie was as lost as any human being could be.
Seeking the final oblivion, he blew his remaining bankroll on two double barrels of heroin, went into his cramped, fetid apartment, and sought the solace of the final darkness. He went through the ritual he had come to know so well, injected himself, and laid on his bed, waiting for death.
It came.
Chapter Nine
Scott McKenzie opened his eyes. He felt warm, and there was a pain in the shoulder where he had been shot. He hadn’t felt that particular pain in a long time. In fact, he discovered that he hurt almost everywhere.
He was on his grandparents’ couch, in the living room in Evansville, Indiana. He sat up and threw the heavy quilt off of him.
What the hell? Where am I? Gram and Gramps’ place? No way. Nope. I’ve had a lot of tripped-out dreams and nightmares, but they all had that feeling of unreality. This feels like I’m here, which is impossible.
Down the hall, the toilet flushed and his grandfather emerged from the bathroom.
“You all right, Scott? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yeah, but which one of us is the ghost? Pretty sure both of us are dead, so does that make it you, me, or us?
“Gramps?” Scott said. His voice was weak and tremulous.
“Of course. Who else? There’s just me and Cheryl here.”
Hold on. How did I get here? If someone found me before I died, I should be waking up in a hospital in Mexico. Not here. And, especially, not having a conversation with a man who died more than a year ago.
“Gramps, how did I get here?”
Concerned flashed in Earl’s eyes. “You got out of the hospital and rode the bus here, remember?”
“Right. Of course. Uhh... how you feeling, Gramps?”
Earl gave Scott a look that tried to ask Are you Stupid? but the words he spoke said, “Your grandmother died this morning. How do you think I’m feeling?”
Okay. So, I’m dreaming I am back in Evansville on the day Gram died. It’s so realistic, though. I can smell food cooking in the kitchen, and it’s too damn stuffy in here, with a fire going and this quilt over me.
Scott attempted to throw the quilt off, but his arm didn’t function correctly, and he gave a small gasp of pain.
”Hey, Hey!” Cheryl said, running in from the kitchen, spatula still in hand. “Take it easy. I’m sure the doctors told you not to exert yourself too much, right?”
“Right,” Scott agreed. “I think I’m going to go lay down for a little while.”
“Good idea. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. I’ll come get you.”
Scott limped across the living room.
This is too damned real. I haven’t felt like this in years. What the hell is going on?
He made it to his bedroom, which smelled of a fresh coat of paint, and collapsed on the twin bed.
None of this makes sense. I’ve already lived this once before.
Scott wracked his brain, trying to logically figure out the impossibility he was living. He was still chasing one idea after another with no solution in sight, when Cheryl knocked on his door and poked her head in.
“Come on, dinner’s ready and Gramps has Cronkite on. Let’s eat.”
As they had done the first time through this moment, the three of them ate in silence. This time, though, Cheryl and Gramps exchanged worried looks first at Scott, then at each other. Scott pretended not to notice.
When he had eaten as much as his stomach would allow—which wasn’t much—Scott stood up to take his dish into the kitchen. Cheryl jumped up and took it from him.
“I don’t want to be cleaning peas and casserole out of the living room carpet. I’ve got it.”
Scott nodded and said, “I’m gonna head to bed. I’m still tired.”
“Of course you are,” Cheryl said, kissing him on the cheek. “Sorry, Scotty. This isn’t the homecoming any of us envisioned.”
I thought this day was odd the first time I lived through it. Repeating it hasn’t smoothed out any of the wrinkles.
Slowly, Scott undressed, pulled the covers back, and climbed into bed. He slipped between the cool, clean sheets—a marked improvement over what had passed for a bed in Tijuana.
I can’t believe I’m back here, but even if I am, so what? Nothing’s changed. Life still sucks. I don’t feel the need to go running out into the streets for my next fix, so I guess that’s good. Nothing else has changed, though. Doesn’t matter. I’ll probably go to sleep and wake up in some other place. Please don’t let it be back in the jungle or in the hospital. I can’t live through that again.
AS SOON AS THE FIRST rays of light filtered through the curtains the next morning, Scott’s eyes flew open.
Still here. Shit. What’s next, then?
He swung his feet onto the floor and tried to stand up. He made it most of the way, but lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. And this sucks, too. I’d gotten a lot better, at least in some ways. Now I’m back here again.
He walked into the living room and saw his grandfather sitting there, looking out the window at nothing in particular.
Wait a minute. Gramps is still alive. I can make a difference with him at least.
“Morning, Gramps. I want to ask you a favor.”
Earl pulled his eyes away from the deep nothing he had been staring at and focused on Scott. “Cheryl’s already gone to school.”
“Okay, I figured.” Scott stood between the old man and the window. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“What do you need?”
“I want you to go to the doctor for a checkup.”
“My next checkup isn’t for six months yet.”
“Right. That’s why I said I want you to do me a favor. I had a bad dream about you last night. It will put my mind at ease if you’ll get in to see someone.”
“Likely caused by your Gran’s passing.” He sighed. “Sure, why not? No harm in it.”
This lifetime, then, the cancer was discovered earlier. It was more treatable. Earl went through the painful treatments with a stoic cynicism.
He died a few weeks after Halloween, this time.
Scott realized that all that he had accomplished was to cause Earl more suffering.
The rest of Scott’s life played out to a similar drumbeat.
He hung out at the Rusty Bucket and waited for Cheryl to announce that she and Mike were engaged, which she did right on schedule. By then, he was drinking heavily again, but hadn’t progressed to the drugs he had used, the drugs which had killed him in his first life.
When Cheryl and Mike’s wedding was in the rearview mirror for the second time, he hit the road again. He ended up in a different town, this time—Oceanside, California, instead of Tijuana, Mexico, but the end result was the same.
He found the drugs, or maybe the drugs found him. At this point in his lives, there was no difference.
He died the same way he did in his first life, albeit in a somewhat nicer place. He chose a deserted stretch of beach for his overdose this life.
He woke up back on the couch in his grandparents’ house, with Cheryl cooking dinner and his grandfather coming out of the bathroom.
He played through this life in this way so many times that if he had been asked, he couldn’t have told you the number.
Finally, after a particularly rough departure, thanks to a poisoned batch of black tar heroin, taken in a men’s restroom in Amarillo, Texas, he awoke as he had so many times, on the couch, covered by the quilt, in his grandparents’ house.
He sat up, looked around the empty living room and said one word.
“Enough.”
Chapter Ten
Enough.
A single word, but one that represented a decision. Scott McKenzie had finally had enough of that endless, debilitating cycle of life, death, life, death.
Making a decision is often easier than following through with it, especially when it comes to breaking well-worn habits.
When he opened his eyes—again—under the heavy quilt in his grandparents’ house, he knew that if he had truly had enough, he was going to have to do the most difficult thing a human being can do.
Change.
Change his mindset, change his attitude, change his habits.
After so many trips through this moment, he was used to waking up feeling weak and unsure of his balance. He sat up carefully, acclimating to his surroundings. He folded the quilt and put it on the back of the couch.
He heard the toilet flush and turned to see Earl coming out of the bathroom.
“Gramps? I know this is bad timing, but can I ask you a favor?”
Earl sat down in his favorite chair and said, “Of course.”
“I think it would be easy for us to sit around and mope about losing Gran, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what she would want for any of us. I’m going to call my VA rep today and see if I can get a physical therapist assigned to me. That will help. But, I’m wondering if maybe tomorrow, we can go down to the basement and start working on a few projects that will help me?”
Earl’s watery blue eyes considered Scott for several long moments. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right, of course. If she was here, she would be kicking me in the butt and asking why I was just sitting around.” He turned his head and stared at a picture of the two of them taken decades earlier. “I never thought I’d have to live without her, but here we are. First thing tomorrow, we can head down to the basement and see what we can come up with.”
Cheryl had emerged from the kitchen and listened in. She crossed over to Scott and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Scotty.”
And I have a hunch I’m going to need every bit of that love and support to turn things around.
“I love you, too. Right at this moment, I’m glad Gran taught you how to cook. I’m hungry.”
SCOTT SLEPT LONG AND deep that night. He woke up late and wandered into the empty living room. For the first time in more than a dozen lifetimes, he took the time to drink in his surroundings. The house was not large, but it was homey. Signs of Cora’s presence were everywhere. Doilies she had made covered most flat surfaces. Inexpensive paintings of vases with flowers or sunsets hung in the living room. Shelves in the kitchen were filled with jars of her canned peaches, pickles, and apple butter.
To everyone else, you died yesterday, Gran. For me, you’ve been gone a long time. I still miss you.
The basement door was open and Scott could hear Earl scuffling around. The occasional mild cuss word floated up the stairs.
Scott shouted down, “Permission to come aboard, captain?”
“Come ahead, soldier.”
Scott made his way down the stairs, but it wasn’t easy. There was no handrail and his balance was still tentative.
Earl glanced up at him. “That’s my first project.” He held up a length of steel pipe. “I’m building us a set of handholds going up and down those damn stairs. It’s only by the grace of God I haven’t killed myself yet.”
“Good idea, Gramps. Let me help you.”
They worked on the project mostly in silence for quite some time. While they were absorbed in their work, Earl began to tell Scott stories.
“Did I ever tell you about my first date with your Gran? It didn’t go so well.”
Scott smiled and shook his head. I don’t think you’ve ever told me anything about when you two were young. You’ve always seemed old to me. Hard to imagine you in the old days.
Earl told Scott a story about a disastrous date where things went from bad—him spilling a coke all over her pretty new dress—to worse—running out of gas on a lonely country highway and having to walk almost three miles to get her home.
“And there was still a second date, huh?”
“Cora was a forgiving woman. Plus, she had the ability to look inside people and see them for who they were. She was that way with your father, too. She warned your mother, but it was too late at that point. Your mother was in love.”
What’s gotten into you? Cheryl slip a truth serum into your oatmeal this morning?
“I don’t remember much of anything about Mom and Dad. Just the fights, really.”
“We never knew anything about those. If we had, I suppose we would have come and got you and your mother and brought you here. We didn’t find out until it was too late.”
“I knew that I should have told you, but I was scared of what would happen.”
“It wasn’t your job to tell us. It was our job to know. It’s the biggest regret of our lives.”
By the time Cheryl got home from school that afternoon, they had hand grips built to make the stairs easier for both of them, and had cleared out one corner of the basement. That was where they were going to build Scott’s rehabilitation center.
Over the next few weeks, it took shape. They were even able to use all the odds and ends that Earl had been keeping “just in case” for decades.
The work of building things was therapy for Scott in different ways. He got to know Earl more as a human being, instead of just as his grandfather. Plus, even before he got to start the physical therapy, the work helped him with his fine motor control and balance.
He faced a dilemma each day as he watched Earl work. He knew that every day, the cancer inside him was growing. But, he also knew that getting him to go to the doctor and discovering it earlier had only heightened his suffering and in the end, prolonged his life for a few weeks.
He made the decision to not say anything, but it tore at him.
Once they had built that everything Earl had sketched out, Scott spent a few hours every day in the basement, going through the exercises his physical therapist had given him and listening to Earl tell him stories about what life had been like in the period between the two World Wars.
Earl had been a little too young to fight in WWI, and too old to fight in WWII. He had enlisted anyway, and had spent four years working in the motor pool at Fort Lewis, Washington. Four years was enough time to be away from the girl he loved, so after his honorable discharge, he returned home.
While Earl told stories and worked on other projects, Scott sweated. Six months after he woke up in this life, he was in better shape than he had been since the fateful day he had gone on patrol in Vietnam.
Emotionally, he was doing better, although he wouldn’t have said he was cured of what ailed him. Unexpected noises still made him jump and break out in a sweat. The nightmares and crying out in the night still happened, but the intervals between them grew farther apart.
He realized that in each life, he had awakened with a fresh start. Each time he had opened his eyes back in his grandparents’ home, he didn’t have the physical craving of an addiction to drugs or alcohol. It was the emotional pain inside him that had driven him to seek them out and become addicted again and again. This life, he vowed to stay away from both.
His first goal was to get in good enough shape that he could still apply at the academy and pursue the dream of becoming a police officer.
In June, he watched Cheryl gradua
te from high school for the twentieth time.
I think I deserve a medal for listening to all these speeches once, let alone this many damn times.
He was tempted to sneak a transistor radio and an earpiece into the ceremony so he could listen to the Cubs play the Cardinals, but he refrained.
He applied to the academy the next day. Sergeant Berkman had been right about at least one thing. Having the U.S. Army on his resume did help him get accepted, even if he didn’t have the promised MP training.
Scott applied himself to the classes more than he ever had in high school, and he excelled.
In the end, his physical limitations were simply too much. There were certain standards that every graduate of the academy had to meet—the ability to lift and carry weight, completing an obstacle course—and he couldn’t do it. What was worse, he had to be honest with himself and realize that no matter how hard he worked, he would never be able to.
He would have to find another avenue to fulfill his dreams.
Chapter Eleven
It was mid-October, 1973. Earl Bell had received his cancer diagnosis and knew that he was dying. He was doing everything he could to get things in order. As he had done in previous lives, he met with his attorney and went over his will to make sure that Scott and Cheryl would receive the house and whatever money he had.
He sat in the living room drinking coffee and watching the winds of autumn blow in. The leaves had already turned amber and orange and quite a few had taken the plunge to the ground. He watched Scott on the ladder outside, putting the storm windows up. It was a job he and Scott had always done together. He was too weak to help this year, though, and sat watching instead.
When the job was finished, Scott came in, sniffed the air and said, “Coffee in the afternoon, huh? What are we rich folks or something?” He poured himself a cup.
Earl snorted a small laugh at the idea of them being rich folks, but it died quickly. Scott joined him in the living room and they sat for a few minutes, watching the weather.
