by Inmon, Shawn
Cautiously, Charles walked along the sidewalk, crossed the street in the crosswalk and walked the short distance to the bus stop.
He spent the bus ride trying to make sense of his predicament but came up completely empty. This didn’t seem to have anything to do with math, so there was no equation he could work his way through, no formula that could explain it.
He let himself into his condo and the memory of the last time he had seen it flooded over him.
Killed myself then. Doesn’t seem to be any point of that, does there? I’ll just wake up back in the same spot again. But, even if I don’t kill myself, I’ll end up back there anyway.
Charles stepped to his bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books. The top shelf held thrillers. Lined along the bottom were non-fiction tomes like Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas Hofstadter and Principles of Mathematical Analysis by Walter Rudin.
I don’t think the answers to my questions will be in one of these books. Or any book, likely.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. A preview of that night’s American League Championship game between the Boston Red Sox and Oakland Athletics was on ESPN.
Oakland’s going to win that game.
Charles glanced up at the digital clock and saw it was time for dinner. He shuffled into the kitchen, removed the spaghetti dinner from the freezer and put it in the microwave.
He watched it go ‘round and ‘round and wondered if this was the same spaghetti meal he had eaten in his first life. He rapped his knuckles on the kitchen counter.
Is this made of the exact same atoms as the counter in my first life, or just a remarkable copy?
He took a plate from the cupboard and poured the steaming spaghetti onto it.
As he sat down to eat, his mind continued to swirl with questions, but few answers.
What about work? Do I want to go in tomorrow? They replaced me before I was even gone. Still, I need to go.
He glanced at the television and considered changing the channel, but he couldn’t summon up any interest.
The weight of so many confounding and troubling things falling on Charles’ narrow shoulders hit him all at once and he held his head in his hands.
I am so alone. I have no one to talk to about this.
With no other option obvious, Charles walked into his bedroom, undressed, and dropped his clothes into the hamper. He put on his pajamas and sat on the edge of the bed, looking for a direction. Finding none, he went into the bathroom for a glass of water.
The bathroom ran along the common wall he shared with Mark’s apartment. Overall, Charles had to admit that Mark was a decent neighbor. He never had loud parties, he didn’t cook foods that smelled up the hallway, and he typically kept his music at respectable levels.
Tonight, though, Charles could hear the faint reverberations of a song playing.
As if he was in a dream, Charles did something he would have bet he would never do—he picked up his keys at the front door, stepped into the hall and went through his door locking routine, then walked to Mark’s apartment.
With wonder, Charles watched his own hand reach up and knock on Mark’s door.
The music inside went quiet, then a few seconds later, Mark opened the door wide.
“Hey, Charles, are you here about the music? Sorry, I was listening to Leon Redbone’s new album and I know I turned it up too loud. Won’t happen again.” Mark began to close the door.
Charles expression was blank. “I’m not here to complain about the music.”
Surprise lit Mark’s face. He took in Charles’ mussed hair and pajamas. “Oh! Well, something’s gotta be wrong then. You better come in.”
Chapter Fourteen
CHARLES HAD BEEN EXPERIENCING an odd sense of Déjà vu since his first death. It was only natural, given that he was living the same experiences over and over.
Walking into Mark’s condo gave him an entirely different sense of the same concept. It was a mirror-image of Charles’ own place and yet was completely different. Charles’ condo, even after all the years he lived there, looked like someone had just moved in and hadn’t unpacked the decorations yet.
Mark’s condo was a cornucopia of colors, framed prints, and unfamiliar smells.
There was a long leather couch along the wall where Charles felt the television should have been, with a matching loveseat facing it, creating a cozy conversation area. Whoever had bought this condo initially had paid for the upgrade of having a gas fireplace, which Charles thought was unnecessarily extravagant. Above the fireplace was a framed, hand-lettered poem titled Desiderata.
Scattered around the condo were knick-knacks, small framed pictures and prints, and knitted afghans. To his surprise, Charles noted a partially-finished afghan on the couch. Mark lived alone, as far as he knew, but he had never pegged him as a knitter.
“Come on in,” Mark said, waving a hand toward the love seat. “I was about to put some tea on. What’s your poison? I’ve got a pretty good selection—it’s all I drink.”
“I don’t drink tea,” Charles said. That was true—he’d never tried tea of any sort.
“Hmmm...anyone that doesn’t like tea just hasn’t tried the right tea, I would say. I’ll try something that will surprise you.”
Charles was slightly non-plussed.
Is that the price I have to pay for knocking on a door late at night? Being forced to drink tea I don’t want? I’ve never understood these social conventions.
Charles sat on the loveseat, which was turned sideways from the kitchen, then turned his head so he could watch Mark prepare the tea.
Mark put the kettle on to boil, then moved slowly around the kitchen, gathering cups, a jar of honey, and opening a cupboard which was filled with different types of tea.
When the kettle started to whistle, Mark shook some loose tea into two strainers, dropped them in the cups and poured steaming water over them. While it steeped, Mark stood over the cups, swaying slightly to the music that was still playing. A minute later, he plucked them out and dropped them in the sink, then used an odd-looking tool to drop a dollop of honey in each cup.
I’m glad I don’t like tea. It seems like an awful lot of fuss and muss.
The tea-making ritual over, Mark brought the cups to the coffee table in the center of the conversation area. He set each one on a cork coaster, then moved to the stereo and lifted the needle from the album.
He sat on the couch so that he was opposite Charles and said, “So. Charles, what has you wandering the hallways of Covington Arms Condos at,” he glanced up at the decorative clock on the wall and said, “ten-thirty at night?”
Charles hesitated. He hadn’t had a plan when he had felt compelled to knock on Mark’s door, and he didn’t know what to say now. He picked up his cup of tea, blew on it, took a sip, and a flavor he’d never known exploded in his mouth.
He looked at Mark. “That’s tea, hmm?”
“That’s very good tea, yes. I import this from Thailand. It’s one of my favorites.”
Silence settled on them. Mark didn’t seem to be inclined to ask a follow-up question until his first question had been answered.
Charles set his cup down, then turned it a quarter-turn, so the handle was at a ninety-degree angle.
“I’m stuck living my life over and over again.”
If Charles had spoken those words to almost anyone else, they likely would have been met with incredulity or disdain.
Mark leaned forward a bit and said, “Reincarnation?”
Charles hadn’t considered that possibility.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about reincarnation.”
“It’s generally thought of as the process of rebirth or recycling of a soul from death to a new life.”
“I don’t think that’s what I’m going through, then. I’m not experiencing a rebirth. I am dying, then opening my eyes again at a particular moment in this day.”
“That’s
interesting.” Mark’s eyes traveled up to the ceiling for a moment, before he asked, “How far in the future are you when you’re dying?”
He acts like he’s taking me seriously. But, how can he? I wouldn’t, if he came to me with this story.
“Not far. My last life lasted less than fifteen minutes. The one before it was eight days.”
Mark shook his head. “Not reincarnation, then. It’s more like you’re living in a loop. I read a story like that called Replay last year. His loops weren’t short, though, until the very end. And, it was fiction. At least I think it was fiction.”
Charles brightened at that. At least giving a name to the whole thing felt more manageable.
“I like loops. They are complete. But, how can you believe me? What I’m telling you is unbelievable.”
Mark waved at a bookcase stuffed to overflowing with books in the corner. There were more stacks of books on top and on the sides. The covers were colorful and Charles didn’t recognize any of them.
“I do a lot of reading about fantastical things and ideas. Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, Tolkien. Plus, I’ve spent a life studying better living through chemistry. Maybe those two things have combined to make me more amenable to new and different ideas than the average person. Or, maybe I’m gullible. In the end, I am who I am, like Popeye.”
“I don’t have many friends or people I can talk to.”
“Do you have any friends?”
This was an unkind question, but Mark did not ask it in an unkind way. Instead, it was a search for information.
“No,” Charles said, “and until the last few days—or lives, whichever—I never felt the need for them, or understood why everyone else had them.”
“One thing—you said you have died several times in the last few days. Why? Is someone stalking you, trying to kill you?”
“No, nothing like that. I have late-stage pancreatic cancer. In my first life, I saw my doctor and he told me that I had thirty days to live, more or less. Then, things didn’t go very well and I only made it a week.” Charles elected not to tell Mark that he had killed himself in the condo right next door. “Then, I opened my eyes and I was right back there in the doctor’s office and he was telling me the same thing again. I got flustered and ran out in the street and got run over.”
“Ouch.”
“It was unpleasant, but at least I died quickly. I opened my eyes again right back in the doctor’s office. Now I’m doomed by the cancer to die in the next month, then apparently doomed again to wake up back in that doctor’s office and do it all over again.”
“And of course, each time your life starts over, no one remembers what had happened in the previous life except you. That’s a hellish scenario.”
“Of course. So, when I die in a few weeks, I’ll be all alone again. You won’t remember that we ever had this conversation.”
“True enough. But, this conversation wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Mark paused, then looked puzzled for a moment. “Just come see me and explain again.” A sudden thought hit him. “Wait. We haven’t already had this conversation, have we?”
“No, this is a first. It’s nice to be not repeating something. I’m going to have to try to do some different things or it will be horribly boring.”
“I’ve never known – what do you do for a living.”
“I’m an actuary for Graystone Insurance.”
“When an actuary thinks something is horribly boring, that’s saying something. So what’s next for you, then? Do you have a plan?”
“Not really. I guess I’ll go in to work tomorrow, tell them about my diagnosis, and see what happens from there.”
“I think you hit upon an important idea. You say you’re going to have to do some new things or be horribly bored. Maybe that’s the cosmic point of all this happening to you—to give you the chance to do a few things differently—to learn some things.”
“If so, I wish I weren’t being spun back to the exact moment when I found out I was dying. That would have been easier.”
“None of us is ever promised ‘easy’ and you might end up being the living, or dying, embodiment of it. Drink your tea—as good as it is, it loses a little something when it cools.”
Charles stayed and talked to Mark until midnight, which was much later than he ever normally stayed up.
A few minutes before he left, when he felt like sleep might overtake him right there on the loveseat, Charles asked, “When do you sleep? It seems like you’re always awake.”
“I’m a vampire. I go to sleep around sunup and sleep all day.”
Before Charles left, he told Mark that he would stop by again the next evening—to drink some tea and talk about the unusual situation he was in.
“You’re always welcome, man, but I do have a couple of conditions.”
Charles nodded. “What?”
“One, I know you won’t like it, but I want you to start calling me Moondog. That’s my name, brother. I don’t even know that guy who grew up being called ‘Mark.’”
Charles considered that, rolling the word around in his mouth, which felt as strange as the tea he had just drunk. Finally, he said it. “Moondog.” He nodded, then said, “All right. I can do that. What else?”
“I want you to listen to this new Leon Redbone album with me. It’s so good.”
“I don’t like music.”
“You didn’t think you liked tea until tonight, but you didn’t seem to be wincing as you drank it.”
“You’re right. It was fine. I can’t promise to like this music, but I will listen to it with you.”
“That’s all anyone can ever ask. ‘Night, Charles.”
“Goodnight, Moondog.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT MORNING, CHARLES got up at his regular time. He was tired and short on sleep, but he forced himself through his normal morning routine. It was Friday, so he drove to work instead of taking the bus.
From his previous life, he remembered that Vic would not be in early, so he didn’t bother getting there early, either.
When he walked through the doors of Graystone Insurance this time, no one paid him any mind. No one in this life knew he was ill yet, lugging his diagnosis around like a millstone around his neck. Everyone treated him as they always did—a quick wave and hustling away in another direction.
Charles unlocked his office and sat at his desk. He pulled out the project he had been working on and realized that he would have to do work he had already done. He didn’t even bother to shrug. He hung his jacket on the hook on the back of the door, sat down, sharpened his pencil, and began to work.
Reworking numbers he had extrapolated a week ago was not a penalty to Charles. Any numbers were comforting to him.
The hours melted away and when he looked up, it was almost lunchtime and he headed to HR.
This time, there was someone still in the office with Vic, so he sat in the waiting area outside and thought of nothing.
Minutes later, the door opened and a chastened young man emerged, cast a sideways glance at Charles, then hurried on his way.
Before the door automatically slid shut, Charles was out of his chair and poked his head in. “Hi, Vic, I need to talk with you.”
Vic was sitting behind his desk, an open folder open in front of him.
“Can it wait an hour or so, Charles? I’m on my way out the door to lunch.”
“I’m dying and I need to give my notice.”
Vic looked at Charles, blinked, and said, “Come in, come in, of course.”
When Charles sat opposite him, Vic said, “What’s all this about?”
“I’ve got late-stage pancreatic cancer. I’ve got less than thirty days to live. I still want to come in to work, but I’d like to use up my vacation time next week. Can you schedule that?”
Vic shook his head a little, trying to spur himself into action.
“Of course I can set that up for you. But, don’t you have other things you want to do? Make some arrangem
ents? Spend time with family?”
“No.”
“I’m so sorry to hear this. You’ve been such a good employee for so long. I don’t want to just let you walk out of here with no notice. I’ll set up a luncheon for you when you get back from vacation so everyone can tell you how much they appreciate what you’ve given the company.”
“No need for anything like that. The work was good.”
Before Vic had a chance to answer, Charles let himself out, and, because it was Friday, had the chef’s salad in the cafeteria.
He spent the afternoon quietly adding information to the new cost schedule he was working on.
AT HOME THAT EVENING, he made his dinner on schedule and ate it in solitude, chewing each bite thirty-seven times. He rinsed his plate, decided to run his dishwasher, then found himself at loose ends.
I’ve lost the idea of how I always spent my evenings. What did I do? Read, I suppose, but books are not attractive now. Television? What’s the point?
A moment later, Charles was in the hallway. He performed his door locking routine, then knocked on Moondog’s door.
Moondog opened the door and said, “Evening, Charles. Everything copacetic this evening? No new cosmic rule changes?”
“No. There’s only been the one oddity. It’s just repeating.”
“Just checking. Come on in. I’ll put the tea on. Tonight I’m going to make you some tea I imported from Korea.”
Charles headed for the loveseat. He sat on the left-hand side as he had the night before. He had already come to think of it as his spot.
“I liked the tea from last night.” The way he said it meant that he was uncertain he would like a second type of tea and would prefer what they’d had the night before.
“But you didn’t think you’d like what we had last night, either. Maybe that’s part of what this great mystery is all about—trying new and different things. You’ve been pretty stuck in your routine.”
