by Sean Platt
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 not to 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.
There’s history here, and hell, maybe Frank has earned his boss’s ire before 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.
I grab his finger, pull it, and his hand, behind his back, then shove him forward, slamming Stan’s face into the lockers.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I yell.
He cries out, his face squished against the metal, “Let go!”
But I don’t want to let go. I want to break his fingers, then sit back down and finish my Coke with a smile.
Instead, I let go and back away a few steps.
He turns to me, brow furrowed, face red with embarrassment, hands straightening his clothes, though I didn’t ruffle them.
“You ever come back on this property, I will have your ass arrested. Now get out!”
I want to say something, but I’ll only make things worse.
So I leave, wondering what the hell just happened.
This isn’t right. I’m not supposed to interfere in my host’s life, let alone get him fired from his job.
I’m sitting in Frank’s car, still in the parking lot, staring at the steering wheel and wondering what to do.
Should I go back and apologize, beg for Frank’s job? Or should I go home and get drunk? I know what Frank would do. But how can I help?
I’m still pissed and don’t want to blow up on anybody, so I head for home, hoping that no one is there.
I’m sitting at Frank’s kitchen table, trying to think of the best way to deal with this situation. When he wakes up tomorrow, assuming I’m out of his body and not stuck for a second day of hell, he’ll probably wonder how he lost his job. From what I know, he’ll have a few memories that I’ve left behind, and his brain will fill in the gaps to make sense of what little he has. But this feels like an awful lot of white space to color.
How the hell do I keep him from losing his shit? From going to the store and causing a scene?
I start searching through the classifieds, circling jobs that look like possibilities for someone with Frank’s limit
ed skill set, education, and people skills.
The doorbell rings.
I get up and look outside to see the mail truck sitting at the end of the driveway.
I open the door to a short, bald mailman holding a pad in both hands.
Where’s the package I’m supposed to sign for?
No sooner do I think this then he drops the pad, wielding a blade cutter in his left hand.
He lunges at me.
My instincts kick in, and I dodge to the left then grab his right arm to twist it back behind his back. But something else happens when we touch.
Another flood of incoherent memories.
It’s the Jumper!
I let go.
Our eyes meet.
“You?” he says, stepping back, making no move to swipe again. “Why are you here, again?”
“Why are you trying to kill him?”
“You know … oh wait, you don’t … we don’t know the whys. We only know that the job must be done. He’s a bad guy, or he wouldn’t be on The List.”
“What do you mean we? Are you some kind of assassin?”
He nods.
“Was I?”
He stares at me, not confirming or denying.
“I have a job to do. A job that you’ve now prevented twice.”
He slides the blade into his pocket, bends over to recover the pad, apparently feeling safe that I won’t attack him. Then he turns around and heads back to his truck.
“Wait,” I say, “you’re giving up?”
“I can’t kill him when one of us is in the body.”
“Wait. I need to know more. I need answers. Was I an assassin?”
The Jumper turns back to me, shaking his head. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Just trust me, okay. You’re better off not knowing. There’s a reason you don’t remember anything, so stop trying. And please, try not to mess with my job tomorrow.”
He turns and heads to his mail truck.
Nothing I can say will bring him back.
I pace the kitchen, frustrated, trying to avoid alcohol’s siren song from the fridge.
The urge to drink is like an itch that needs scratching, but I’m afraid to start in this body. It’s already full of a toxic brew of rage and chaos. I don’t want to add anything volatile. It’s not that I think I’d lose control and hit Tommy or Stacy, but I don’t want to do anything that makes controlling this body more difficult than it already is. I’m pushing one of those shopping carts with an errant wheel, and it’s a struggle just to keep it straight.
I decide to lie down in his bedroom and watch some TV. I flip around until I stop on a sitcom I’ve never seen, figuring it’ll relax me. With any luck, I’ll fall asleep and wake up tomorrow far away from Frank and the assassin.
I try to focus on the show, but my mind keeps drifting back to Frank and the Jumper attempting to kill him. But not just the Jumper, but what the Jumper had said.
“We don’t know the whys. All we know is that the job needs to be done. He must be a bad guy, or he wouldn’t be on The List.”
Who is we? And what is The List?
I remember the voices I’d heard while in Renaldo’s body, leading me to the Hyundai. Voices that sounded like communications, instructions for the assassin. But it wasn’t just her instructions. Someone, another voice, was leading me to the car as well. And the assassin knows me, or at least of me, yet is warning me not to dig deeper.
What’s happening here? Was I part of some body jumping assassin’s guild or something? If so, what happened? How did I get separated from them, and why don’t I remember anything?
I can’t imagine killing anyone. Yes, I did a couple of weeks ago, but that was different. I was fighting to protect myself, and to save Allie Martin from the serial killer. But killing someone on a list? The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
Frank’s a terrible guy, but does he deserve to die? I’m not picking up on any memories, other than flashes from last night’s incident. Yes, he hit Tommy, but he feels ashamed. I can’t imagine that was routine.
How could some group determine he needs to die for his sins?
Who are these Jumpers? And are they all assassins?
A chill runs through me. Before now, I thought, or at least hoped, that I’d someday have a normal life. I’d return to my body — wherever it is — and resume my life.
But what if I don’t have a body or a life of my own?
What if this is forever?
Chapter Three
I wake to an alarm clock’s angry buzz.
I reach out and hit the snooze button. This body is exhausted. And young. I’ve only woken up in a child host a few times, so far as I can remember, and am always surprised by how much energy I have in their bodies. Even when the kids are tired, they’re never depleted like older bodies.
I open my eyes, see that the clock reads, 6:30 a.m. My room is dark, so I turn on the lamp next to me, illuminating blue walls covered in Seattle Seahawks posters and Mariners pennants. The floor is littered with clothes, books, and a few thousand Lego pieces.
I make my way out the door to the bathroom, waiting for my host’s brain to fill in the details: who I am, which family and friends will I be forced to navigate while trying my best to screw the kid’s day.
I step into the hallway and freeze.
Oh, my God. I’m in Tommy’s body.
I’m back in Frank’s life.
Why?
I stumble back into the bedroom, heart racing, trying to catch my breath. This is horrible. Why do I keep jumping into lives in this guy’s circle? If I’m not an assassin, then what am I doing here? And who the hell is making this happen?
Why did I let the assassin go?
I should’ve chased him, forced him to answer. Who is he to tell me not to dig into my life’s big mystery?
I remember the note the other Jumper had left with the psychic.
Stop searching.
You won’t like what you find.
Better to forget and let go.
Only then can you live again.
Could that have been the assassin, too? And if so, who was he (or she) targeting? Did I inadvertently get Lara Spencer killed and Allie Martin kidnapped by botching an assassination attempt on Alexander Bova?
A knock on the door shakes me from my thoughts. Tommy’s mom opens the door and eyes me. “You gonna get ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking up at her and seeing two things at once — how much she loves her son, and how incredibly tired she is. Though there’s a light in her eyes, there are also dark circles. I wonder how many sleepless nights Frank has cost her.
“Okay, I’m making breakfast so we can eat before Frank wakes up.”
I nod, head to the shower, wash up, and return to my bedroom.
Tommy’s closet offers little. Most of the clothes are hand-me-downs from Stacy’s friends, which means they’re either in need of repair, not quite the right size, or several years out of style. I can feel Tommy’s shame as I consider my choices. I pick jeans and a red tee with a silhouette of a skateboarder, which looks like it might be the closest thing to in style. Not that I would know what’s in style with teen boys. The few times I’ve been kids, I’ve either been younger or a girl, and typically the girls have had something stylish to wear. Poor Tommy is in need of a makeover, or maybe some money to get his own clothes.
Once I'm dressed, I head out to the kitchen where Mom waits with two plates of scrambled eggs and toast, along with two glasses of milk. Napkins, salt, pepper, ketchup, and Tabasco fill the center of the table, alongside a tiny vase with a yellow flower that looks like Tommy’s mom might have picked it from the garden.
Though they don’t have much money, I can tell that Stacy tries her best to make things pleasant for Tommy.
“Smells good,” I say, taking a seat across from her.
“Thanks.” She’s looking down at her phone, scrolling through messages or
email. I’m not sure if they’re work-related or she’s just catching up on personal email. Either way, I’m grateful for the silence. I don’t know what sorts of things Tommy usually talks about, or if he’s even particularly talkative. He didn’t seem so yesterday, but that was how Frank saw him. I don’t know his mother’s perception and don’t want to screw it up by acting out of character. Defaulting to quiet is best. A bit moody seems like a safe bet for most kids his age.
I take a drink of milk and flash back to yesterday. I hope she left enough food for Frank. I chew my eggs, searching Tommy’s memories to figure out what he does in the time between these early breakfasts and when he leaves to catch the school bus. Usually, he goes back to his room and either reads or draws pictures in his spiral notebooks. While he doesn’t consider himself an artist yet, Tommy loves drawing his own comics — even if he’s their only reader.
Stacy quickly answers her buzzing phone.
“Hey, hold on a sec.”
She looks at me, raises a finger to indicate she’ll be back in a second, then heads out of the kitchen, through the back door, out to the porch. She walks away, putting as much distance between herself and the house as she can.
I wonder who she’s talking to that she doesn’t want me to hear. Or maybe it’s Frank’s ears she’s avoiding.
It’s still dark outside, so I can barely see her. She sees me watching, and turns away as if I might read her lips. Now I’m more curious.
I turn back to my plate and finish the eggs. I grab a piece of buttered toast and take a bite. Unfortunately, it’s already cold. I keep eating; I’m hungry and don’t want to insult Stacy, who goes through the effort of waking up early to have breakfast with her son. I’m not sure if Tommy appreciates the effort, or even recognizes it, but I do. I’ve been in enough homes to know the rarity of parents sharing breakfast, let alone any meal, with their child.
The door slides open behind me. I resist the urge to turn back, even though I’d love to see her reaction to Tommy’s gaze — if it’ll give away details. Was she talking with a friend to bitch about Frank? I don’t know what happened after I dozed off in the afternoon and left his body. Did he sleep through the night, or did he wake up? He couldn’t have been in a good mood and was more likely confused, maybe trying to figure out why he’d been fired. As curious as I am to see what he remembers from the day a stranger claimed his body, I don’t want to be around for the fallout.
