He felt his phone vibrating. He took it out of his pocket. It was a message from Mr. Solidali. He ignored it, as he had ignored all the previous messages, and instead focused on the time displayed on the screen.
He blinked, surprised that he wasn’t really paying attention to the hour but to the new meaning time brought with it.
“A currency,” Alfred said. “In … What did he call it?” He scratched his head thoughtfully for a moment. “The economy of time. What kind of a rabbit hole did you fall into? Geez.”
Alfred stopped suddenly, realizing where he was. He looked up at the sign illuminated by a streetlight. Main Street.
The sun had almost disappeared beneath the horizon, and the night was waiting to fall.
As Alfred resumed walking, he noticed other people walking behind him. Men and women strolled slowly, shoulders hunched, eyes far away. Their working day was over, and they were heading home.
Alfred felt strange, looking at them. It was like looking in a mirror but seeing a complete stranger looking back at you.
He was looking at them from a different perspective, now, one less like his old self and more like someone he was only just getting to know.
He felt like he was trapped at a threshold between worlds, too proud to go back to where he came from but too scared to take the last step that would bring him inside a new reality. Pacific’s reality.
A raindrop splashed on his neck. Alfred looked up. The sky was stifled by huge clouds amassing around a sickle moon.
What time was it?
When he looked at his phone again, he realized it was dead.
“Great timing,” he grunted.
It was getting colder, and Alfred felt tired. He looked around, hoping to hail a cab, but found none. The rain grew stronger.
Alfred put his hood up and walked faster.
While he walked, he passed a person lying on the street, snoring inside a sleeping bag. Alfred stopped, went back a few steps, and looked at the homeless man more closely. Even with the dirt on his face, Alfred could see that he was a young man, probably no older than himself. He was sleeping over a pile of cartons with food garbage all around him. His wrist was tied with a long string to a shopping cart full of garbage.
There was a cardboard sign nearby. It read, “Anything helps. But booze helps best.”
Suddenly, Alfred found himself wondering about the man’s story. Who was he? Why had he ended up like this? What was the series of events that had brought him there, sleeping on the ground like a stray dog with nothing but the clothes on his back? Then other questions started surfacing. What if Alfred woke him up and started chatting with him? Would he know more about his life? And then, what if he pictured a square while thinking of the homeless guy? Would he see how much time this man had left to live? Would he really have Pacific’s power?
This line of thought brought him closer and closer to uncharted territory. If he had the choice, did he really want to know? Alfred thought about it for a second. The answer was yes. Yes, he wanted to know.
But why?
There were several answers. The first one was obvious: he could convince this person to turn himself around in the time he had left. He could change the man’s life with that knowledge, letting him know that his time was limited and he needed to use it well.
It started pouring heavily, and Alfred was forced to find shelter. He ran quickly inside the first store he could find. He closed the door behind him, looked around, and found himself inside a liquor store.
“Howdy,” an old lady behind a counter said without looking up from the book she was reading. “We close in twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” Alfred said. “Is there a taxi station around here?” he asked.
“Nope,” the old lady replied.
“Any bus that gets to Clayfall?”
“Don’t know. Don’t use them.”
“Do you have Wi-Fi?”
“Look, son, I’m trying to read. If you need anything other than booze, you’re in the wrong place.”
Alfred ran a hand over his wet air. “Thanks for nothing,” he grumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Uh, nothing. I’ll take a peek around.”
“Suit yourself.”
Alfred started wandering around the store, a world made of cans and bottles and wooden boxes with more bottles in them. He decided to wait out the rain, taking his time reading bottle labels and price tags. The biggest section of the store was dedicated to beer. There were countless kinds, with different names and shapes and colors.
He kept walking, past the wine section to the far end of the store, where he found the spirits. It was the smallest in the whole store but the one Alfred was most interested in.
The only thing he remembered enjoying during his university years was rum. A big, red price tag attached to a couple of bottles attracted his attention. There was a thirty-percent discount on selected brands of rum.
“Do you need any help over there, son?”
“No,” Alfred replied quickly to the woman who’d greeted him. “I’m good, thanks. Just looking.”
“That’s a very good deal,” the old lady said, pointing to the bottle Alfred was looking at. “It’s a darn good amber filler with spicy notes. Do you like rum, son?”
“Well, I don’t dislike it.”
“Good.” The old lady nodded. “It’s on promotion just for today. It’s a steal!”
“I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“Well, don’t think for too long.” The lady went back to the cash register. “I’m closing in five minutes.”
“Sure thing.”
Alfred stared at the bottle, contemplating the amber liquid inside.
Why not? he thought. Considering what he’d been through, he deserved a little something to cheer himself up.
He brought the bottle to the cash register, where the old lady was waiting.
“Good lad,” the lady said, smiling a sparsely toothed smile. “No problem this bad boy can’t solve. Trust me on this one. I’m gonna need two pieces of ID, though.”
“Sure.” Alfred passed them over. The lady took a painfully long minute to evaluate them from behind her silver-framed glasses.
“Can’t be too sure these days,” she said, giving the IDs back to Alfred. “Not an hour ago, I had a couple of kids in here with manufactured driving licenses. They used makeup and high heels to look older. Can you believe that? What kind of rubbish goes on in their head, I wonder. Are you paying with cash or plastic?”
“Cash.” Alfred gave her a fifty-dollar bill.
The old lady held the dollar bill up to the light. She touched it to check its texture, then rolled and stretched it a few times. “Broken heart, son?” she asked while evaluating the bill.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your girlfriend left ya or somethin’?”
“What? Girlfriend? No.” Alfred frowned. “Why are you asking me that?”
“You kinda look like a guy who was just run over by a bus.” She pointed to his clothes. “Your hoodie and jeans are full of dirt. I can smell vomit. And your face is paler than my ass. Only women and buses can do that to a man.” The lady chuckled.
“Oh.” Alfred awkwardly dusted off some dirt from his clothes. He smiled tiredly and mumbled, “Also time tricksters, I guess.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Alfred hastily replied. “I just had a very intense day.”
“Good,” the lady said. “Very good. I wish I’d had more of those when I was younger. They build character. Are you taking your change, or what?”
She had been holding the change for a while.
Alfred took the money and pocketed it.
“You have a nice, chill week,” the lady said. She looked outside, to the rain pouring angrily against the windows of the store.
“Thanks,” Alfred said. Then he glanced outside and sighed. “Well, at least I won’t need a shower when I get home.” Seeing no point
in waiting for the inevitable, he put on his hood and prepared to face the rain.
“Wait.”
Alfred stopped with his hand on the door handle.
“Where do you live, son?”
“Main and Clayfall,” Alfred said.
“You’re walking home?”
“Looks like.”
The lady scratched her cheek absentmindedly. “Clayfall, you said? That’s just a few blocks away. You know what? I’ll give you a ride home. Didn’t get the chance to do my daily good deed yet.” She took a piece of cloth and started polishing a liquor display cabinet infested with fingerprints. “Gimme ten minutes.”
Alfred still had his hand on the door handle. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, “but you don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t, but I’ve got nothing better to do. Now wait over there and be quiet for a moment. Won’t take long.”
“Er … sure. Thanks a ton.”
Ten minutes later, the lady switched off the light in the store, grabbed a set of keys, and limped toward the door. She took a heavy rain jacket from a coat hook and went out.
“Let’s go,” she said, closing the front door. “My Contessa is right in front of the store.”
“Contessa?” Alfred repeated, puzzled.
“That beauty,” she said, pointing. It was a Gran Torino as white as a bride’s dress.
“Nice car,” Alfred commented.
“Sure she is. And she knows it.” The old lady winked at Alfred. “Come on. Jump in.”
Once they were inside the car, the lady started the engine. They drove away from the store and onto Main Street.
“Name’s Freya, by the way,” she said.
She stretched out her hand. Alfred found himself staring at the chunky fingers, his body paralyzed by a sudden fear. The image of a bloody hand flashed before his eyes, and he inched away without realizing it.
Freya shot a perplexed look at Alfred. “What?” She looked at her hand. “Do I have shit on my hand or something?”
Alfred blushed. “I’m so sorry.” Alfred spoke rapidly, almost stuttering. “Alfred. My name’s Alfred.” He shook her hand for barely a second and then looked outside, avoiding her inquisitive eyes.
“So,” Freya said, driving like she owned the entire street. “Was it a bus or a girl?”
“What?”
Freya gestured toward Alfred’s messy look.
“Oh.” Alfred couldn’t help but smile. “Neither.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
He considered simply saying he didn’t want to talk about it, but then again, a part of him really wanted to talk to someone. Anyone. Alfred considered Freya for a long moment. She was a bit rough around the edges but a fine old lady nonetheless. She gave him the impression that she was crisp on the outside—just enough to signal to the world that she could not be taken advantage of—but tender and open hearted on the inside.
“Today I saw a person die in front of me,” Alfred found himself saying.
“Jesus Christ!” Freya looked at Alfred with wide eyes. “What happened?”
“He just died,” Alfred said. “He just screamed and fell to the ground, and then … and then he died.”
Freya shook her head and cursed under her breath. “Well, that explains your face.” She then glanced at the bottle of rum Alfred was holding. “And suddenly that booze makes a lot of sense.” She smiled a comforting smile. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Alfred said, cracking a smile. “Actually, I feel better now. Unloading the burden a bit, you know? Haven’t had the chance to talk about it with anybody. Until now.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes we just need to unwind. Drop the load and just talk, you know? You can talk more, if you want to. I’m a very good listener.”
Alfred nodded. “Thanks, Freya.” He looked outside, at a world lashed by rain. He was suddenly very grateful the old lady had offered him a ride.
“A waterfall to wash away all sins,” Freya commented, tapping at the window with her knuckles.
Alfred turned toward her. “What did you say?”
“Just thinking out loud.” She smirked. “Someone I used to know said that when it’s raining this bad, it’s because the planet is trying to wash away the mischief of gods and men. More the latter then the former, now that I think of it. Men are capable of way worse deeds than any god is. Yeah. That’s what he used to say, the bastard.”
“Was he a poet?”
“Nope.” Freya shook her head. “He was a drug dealer.”
“Oh.”
“But to be fair, before that he was a teacher. A theologian. I know: from the stars to the stables, right?” She shrugged as she widened her smile. “Life is a fucking roller coaster.”
Alfred nodded. “I second that,” he said.
The traffic was getting thicker. The cars were slowing down because of the rain.
“You believe in God?” Alfred asked.
“Which one?”
“The Almighty, I guess.”
“Oh, Him. Yeah, sure.” Freya lowered and raised her head with conviction. “You get to my age, and it makes sense to join that particular club. It warms my day to know that there are golden gates up in the sky, waiting for me, with a bunch of beautiful angels to look at.” She winked at Alfred. “If I’m good enough to deserve it, of course.”
Alfred looked away from Freya. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Shoot.”
“Have you ever seen somebody die?”
“Can’t say I have.”
Alfred looked back at Freya. “I knew that man was going to die,” he confessed.
Freya’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean, you knew?”
“I knew he was going to die before he actually died.”
“What the hell are you talking about, son?”
“I wasn’t alone,” Alfred said, and was surprised that his voice was steady. “A few weeks ago I met this person. He can do things. Strange things. Dark things. And … he can see when people are going to die.”
The old lady remained quiet for a long while. She glanced at Alfred, as if she expected to find something she could not quite see.
“Weird,” she said in the end, pursing her lips. “You don’t look high.”
“I’m not high,” Alfred said, offended.
“You don’t look crazy, either,” the old lady surmised, studying Alfred carefully.
“I’m not high, and I’m not crazy. And can you watch the road, please? You’re making me uncomfortable.”
The old lady chuckled. “Don’t you worry.” She looked back at the road in front of her. “I have a third eye on the back of my head, you know?”
Alfred put both hands over his face. “You know what? Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that. No one can understand.”
“Look.” Freya made a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t want to ruffle your feathers. But you drop a bomb like that and expect me to just nod at you? You should have framed it better. You should have said you had a story for me, one with a capital S. I love that kind of stuff.”
“It’s not something I made up,” Alfred said defensively. “It’s real. It happened. I’m telling you, I met a guy who can see the remaining life span of a person. That is why I knew that man was going to die.”
“Okay, I hear you.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you.”
“You’re just trying to be kind.”
“Look, son. Believing in everything is part of my day job.”
“What is that even supposed to mean?”
“Let me explain,” Freya said in a placating voice. “When you own a liquor store, you get to know a wide range of people. Some have boring lives, and some have lives that are, frankly, too exciting. They tell me all kind of stories. Weird, fun, awe inspiring, and just plain stupid. Lots of them don’t make any sense.
Others make me question my whole damn life up to that point.” She smiled a warm smile. “Day before yesterday I got this fellow completely covered in tattoos, with pink hair, shallow face, hollow eyes. The kindest person you could hope to have a conversation with. He said to me with a straight face that he had sex with aliens. Venusian, I think they were. Only, up there on Venus it seems they don’t call it sex, they call it … What was it? Interpheromonal congregational interaction or something. That story made my day. Anyway. The point is, I’m not against any kind of story. Stories make people interesting. And you know what? I’ve never heard of your story, and I’d like to know more.”
“I think you’re just teasing me.”
“The hell I am.” She put both hands over her chest. “I’m dead serious. Matter of fact, I can see this thing eating you from the inside. Talking about it will help you. Come on. You have this old fart willing to listen. I wouldn’t pass on this chance. Do yourself a favor. Tell me more about it.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.”
“What did you say?” Freya took both hands off the wheel and cupped them around her ear.
“Keep your hands on the wheel, please!”
“I’m sorry,” Freya insisted. “I just can’t hear what you’re saying, son. Try again.”
“Okay!” Alfred hollered. “I’ll tell you more. But put your hands on the damn wheel!”
The old lady chortled. She put her hands back on the wheel. Alfred started wondering if accepting the ride had been a good idea after all.
“Go on,” Freya encouraged him. “Hit me.”
Alfred looked at the old lady hesitantly. “Fine,” he said. He was trying to come up with a reasonable way to tell his story. “So. This guy who can see when people are going to die, he also has … a power—”
“Like a superhero power?” Freya interrupted, looking at him expectantly.
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“Like, flying in space and blowing up things with your mind?”
“Not quite as scenic.”
“Right. So what kind of power is it, then?”
“I was trying to explain it, if you’d let me.”
Freya lifted her hands apologetically. “Sorry.”
Lord of Time Page 12
