Reincarnation Blues

by Michael Poore

  “Take your time,” someone said.

  A pale man, thin and angular, with softly blazing eyes, crouched in the sand at Milo’s feet. Long black hair wrapped him like a shroud, or maybe like wings.

  Death. One of them, anyway. Not Suzie.

  “Where am I?” Milo asked.

  Death said, “You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” and vanished in a burst of dust and hot wind.

  Asshole.

  A heavy, oceanic sadness filled Milo.

  Suzie. He sat paralyzed for a while, remembering.

  Then he shook himself and did his best to come alive. He had forced himself out of bed on half a million Monday mornings and knew how to do this.

  Okay. To begin with, once again, where was he?

  The afterlife, like time, was infinite, but he had a definite sense of having been dumped beyond the fringes. Like, if he usually woke up in Boston, this time he found himself on the moon.

  At least he was dressed for it. He found himself wearing the robes of a desert traveler.

  Milo had been a Bedouin nomad in a former life and knew it was foolish to travel in the heat of the day. So he pulled his robes over his head to make a kind of tent and closed his eyes awhile.

  —

  He woke up shivering under a star-washed sky and hiked along the river in the night.

  Just after dawn, when the heat had begun to rise, he came upon the river’s source: a tiny oasis with green weeds and a single date tree. Beyond this splatter of life, the desert stretched like a windblown tortilla.

  Would it be best to backtrack, Milo wondered, hoping the water led to bigger water and maybe to people? Maybe he could just stay here and become the official Water-Hole Hermit.

  As he stood there, considering, someone called, “Halloooooo!”

  He beheld a rider on horseback, leading a camel, atop a nearby ridge.

  Milo waved. The rider waved back and nudged his horse downhill.

  He was, Milo observed as he approached, a man with a proud beard and an air of cheerful assurance.

  “Do we find you in need of assistance?” this person asked Milo.

  “A state of indecision,” answered Milo, “at least.”

  “You’ll make slow headway on foot,” the bearded man predicted. “I offer you my companionship and the loan of a camel.”

  Milo bowed his head and said, “Thanks.” He held out his hand and said, “Milo.”

  The traveler shook the hand and said, “Akram.”

  Akram began unloading camping equipment from the camel. Milo assisted by leading the horse to drink.

  The tent Akram pitched bore a logo, advertising, in silver letters, AKRAM THE REMARKABLE.

  “Remarkable what?” Milo asked. Astronomer? Dogcatcher? Beard grower?

  “Juggler,” Akram explained. He tossed some tent stakes into the air, whirled them around in a lazy circle, then stomped them into place.

  “Remarkable?” asked Milo. “Not ‘Great’? Not ‘Astonishing’?”

  Akram lowered his eyes and said, “Modesty intercedes.”

  —

  The juggler was kind enough to share his tent, and the two of them slept through the heat of the day. Milo dreamed about Suzie.

  Her voice, in the dark. Far away.

  “Milo!” she called faintly. Was this a sign? Was she still in the world, in the afterlife? At twilight, Akram shook him awake.

  “Milo!”

  “Suzie?” he croaked.

  “Well, no.”

  There followed an hour of pulling down tents, loading camels, and brewing fresh coffee over a fire, after which Milo climbed aboard Akram’s camel.

  The beast tried to bite him. Succeeded a little.

  Milo shrugged. How would he feel if a stranger climbed on him? They would get to know each other, and their rapport would improve.

  Later, the camel kept wandering off course and wouldn’t listen when Milo shouted and flicked the reins. Akram would have to trot after him and tow him back. Minutes later, off course again.

  Each time he redirected the animal, Akram murmured, “As-salāmu alaykum.”

  “ ‘As-salāmu alaykum’ means ‘God is good,’ right?” Milo asked.

  “It does.”

  “Then why, when this excellent camel needs correcting, over and over—”

  “It’s better than cursing. Curses darken the soul. I am sorry he’s so troublesome.”

  Milo recalled from his own life as a Bedouin how to be virtuous and grateful.

  “Satan is a fine animal,” he assured Akram. “Merely headstrong. Is he young?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then I’m sure he will mellow and provide many good years of service.”

  “If you appreciate him so,” said Akram, “he is yours. I gladly make you this gift.”

  Aw, sonofabitch, no!

  But refusing a gift was rude.

  “As-salāmu alaykum,” said Milo, bowing his head.

  Akram’s horse tossed its head proudly, almost dancing across the sand.

  “That sure is a nice horse,” said Milo.

  Akram didn’t answer.

  It was a long, starry night.

  —

  Followed by a hot day with hot winds, spent dozing in the tent. Followed by another starry night. Then, an hour after dark on the second night, lights appeared over the horizon. Gradually, soft grass and date palms rose around them, and they found themselves on the outskirts of a grand oasis.

  Grand enough to have buildings and streets. The streets were lined with candles and colored lanterns and people. It smelled like food, incense, animals, and burning wood.

  Satan did his best to ruin the moment. He drooled a thick, sustained rope of snot, saliva, and vomit, leaving behind something like a snail trail. People made faces as he passed.

  Milo stayed focused on the good things.

  I might stay here awhile, he thought. Maybe a long while.

  It seemed like a happy thought. Underneath it, though, was Milo’s awareness that he had no reason to be anywhere else.

  —

  They stayed in town that first night, just long enough to eat a couple of chicken dinners and drink some beer. Then they rode back out into the desert a little ways, where other nomads had pitched their own temporary neighborhood, and set up camp in the midst of it.

  The next day, Milo became part of Akram’s remarkable magic act.

  Here’s how that happened:

  Akram woke him around midday and said, “You may wish to come into town with me. I’m going to get some breakfast and maybe put on a show.”

  “Sure,” said Milo, shrugging.

  They left the tent and the animals behind and made their way toward the heart of the oasis.

  Milo pointed out that Akram hadn’t brought along anything with which to juggle.

  To which Akram replied, “How mysterious!” and said nothing else.

  There was, Milo noted as they made their way to the bazaar, no shortage of entertainers already hard at work. Anywhere you looked, anywhere there was room, were people doing a whole spectrum of things to get travelers to stop, look, and maybe toss some coins in a hat.

  There were jugglers already. Some better than others. There were snake charmers, hucksters, and musicians. People who would draw caricatures of you. Fortune-tellers. Face-painters. Body-painters.

  Not all of the entertainment was in the form of talent. Some of it bordered on the mystical, like a man who had tied himself into a complicated knot. For a dollar, you could try to undo him. Milo tried and failed. There was a woman who could talk to animals, and a man, prudently concealed behind a canvas drape, who would shit you a gold necklace for five bucks. It was all very interesting, but it made Milo uneasy, too. These were people who had been hanging around the afterlife for some time and had no plans to be reborn anytime soon. They had found their way to the edge of things, for whatever strange reasons.

  Anonymity? Apathy?

  “How long has
it been,” Milo asked Akram, “since you lived an Earthly life?”

  “Five years,” answered the juggler. “Maybe more.”

  They stopped for burritos and coffee.

  “How long,” Milo asked, “before you think you will go back again?”

  Akram sighed and chewed.

  “There are these two universal women,” he said, “named Obong and Glee. They are my counselors. Everyone has them, yes? Well, they blew in on a sandstorm one day and suggested I go back to Earth as a tax accountant. I told them I would think about it. I have been thinking about it for some time. In my last life, I was in a coma for seven years. With apologies, Milo: The world of the living doesn’t interest me much.”

  Milo began to ask another question, but Akram forestalled him.

  “They will not allow me to wander forever, I suspect. I know this. Eventually I will throw off the precious balance of things and have to go be a salesgirl or a mule or a coffee bean, and I will be sad. No, no more questions. Peace.”

  They purchased Milo a tent of his own.

  “Not that I mind sharing,” said Akram. “I just might wish to entertain a houseguest or two, some evening, if—”

  “I get it,” said Milo.

  So now here he was, walking down the bazaar, balancing a load of canvas and tent poles over one shoulder. This left him blind on one side. He turned to make sure Akram was following.

  He wasn’t.

  “Akram?” Milo called.

  The crowd milled around him. No one answered.

  Then something caught his eye. Several paces away, amid the crowd, something shiny flew into the air, caught the sun with a flash—it was a brass lamp, the kind you burn oil in—and came back down.

  A moment later it rose again, followed by a wooden bowl.

  Finally, the lamp ascended a third time, followed by the bowl, a basket, someone’s hat, and a plastic spray bottle of some kind. At this point, the crowd spread out to make room for whatever dervish was causing these phenomena, and of course it was Akram.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Akram had collected a bunch of merchandise from one of the stalls and begun tossing it into the air, quite without permission or explanation. The shopkeeper stood before him, throwing a fit.

  “Good people,” Akram said to the crowd, “you will now be treated to a demonstration of aerial sorcery! I heartily recommend that, afterward, you visit this fine gentleman’s stall—what’s your name? Bill? Visit Bill’s stall. His goods are not only aerodynamic but of the finest quality, priced to move.”

  Mollified, Bill the shopkeeper withdrew. Milo returned his merchandise.

  “Now,” said Akram, cracking his knuckles, “someone throw me something to juggle.”

  Someone tossed Akram a pair of sandals and a straw hat. He tossed these things in a lazy circle.

  “Make it interesting,” he challenged the crowd.

  Someone called out “Yo!” and tossed him—what? Something long, like a question mark in the air, something that moved—

  “Holy shit!” cried Milo and a lot of other people.

  A snake!

  Akram cried out, too, but he caught the creature, and around and around went the hat, the shoe, and the snake. The snake hissed, twisted, and tried to bite, but Akram winked and boomed laughter.

  The crowd showered him with applause. He tossed the shoe and the hat back to their owners, leaving him with the snake, which he let slide down his arm and off through the crowd. This caused some jumping around, but most of his audience remained to see what would happen next.

  They were happy they did.

  Akram performed for another half hour. They threw him knives, bricks, hot coals, and stools.

  Akram seemed perfectly at ease, even when they threw him a whole sack of golf balls all at once. He snatched them from the air, his hands so fast that he and the golf balls became like a cloud. He wasn’t perfect. He dropped one or two but easily flipped them back into play with the toe of his sandal and kept smiling.

  His only failure, if you could call it that, was when someone threw him a bucket of water. Not the bucket itself, just the water. Akram stood there dripping, looking unsurprised. He bowed to the woman with the empty bucket.

  “My congratulations, madam,” he said. “You have offered me the one thing that can not be juggled.”

  The crowd applauded. Akram concluded his act by juggling three pretty girls, collected his earnings, and waved to Milo.

  “We’re rich!” he said. “For the moment. Tonight we’ll buy baked cheese and beer.”

  He was kind enough to shoulder Milo’s tent for a while as they walked back out of town.

  “How strong are you?” Milo asked, thinking of the three pretty girls.

  Akram shrugged. “It’s all in the wrist,” he said.

  —

  Later, after a lot of food and drink, they were struggling to put up Milo’s tent, and Milo blurted, “I want to work with you.”

  Akram hiccupped and said, “I work alone.”

  They succeeded in getting one part of the tent to stay up, and another part fell down.

  “God is great,” said Milo, instead of cursing. “Okay, but listen: If you had a partner, you could do stuff like juggle things back and forth. And we could talk and have patter, you know, instead of just standing there grinning.”

  “Again,” said Akram, “I decline. I am thinking of writing a book or buying a horse farm.”

  The whole tent collapsed again.

  “Forget it,” said Milo. “I’ll just think of it as a very expensive sleeping bag.”

  And he walked off to gather the animals and take them to the pond.

  —

  The beasts drank, and Milo sat with his feet in the water, trying to juggle three stones. The best he could do was to keep two of them in the air, while the third either thumped to the ground or splashed into the water.

  A voice behind him said, “There’s a trick to it, you know.”

  Milo turned to find Akram behind him, juggling beanbags.

  “I can teach you how to juggle in less than five minutes,” Akram said. “It’s easy. Stand up.”

  Milo stood. Akram handed him two beanbags.

  “Hold a bag in each hand,” Akram told him. “Toss one bag from your left hand to the right, so you wind up with both bags in one hand.”

  Milo tossed. Easy.

  “Now do it again, except this time, when the first bag is in the air, toss the other bag so that it crosses behind it, in the air, and catch it in your left hand.”

  It took Milo a couple of tries to get this right, but he got it.

  “That’s the trick,” said Akram, shrugging. “Toss, crisscross, repeat.”

  It took only a few minutes’ practice before Milo could get all three beanbags popping and circling in the air.

  “Wow,” said Milo. “Thanks!”

  “So here’s what we’ll do,” said Akram. “Now that I’ve shown you the trick, it’s up to you to figure out how to juggle more than three. When you can keep seven things in the air, I’ll show you how to juggle knives without stabbing yourself in the face.”

  “Thank you?” said Milo. “That’s nice of you? What made you change your mind?”

  “The mind is a blessing and a mystery,” Akram replied, departing.

  —

  Milo had purpose again.

  He was a lowly student, studying under a great master. He was the sorcerer’s apprentice. It was a role he knew, of course. In his thousands of lives, he had learned kung fu and how to fly airplanes. He had been a poker champ, a pool-hall hustler, and a prima ballerina. He knew by now how to learn a thing and practice it until it looked like magic.

  It wasn’t easy. That was the first thing about learning anything worthwhile; you had to have patience. You had to know that if you tried to do a thing a thousand times, you could usually succeed in doing it, and if you practiced that thing a million times, you could do it very well. And so on. Mastering a
thing was not magic, just hard work.

  Chop wood, carry water, as the Buddhists said.

  So Milo worked hard. He kept the animals fed and watered. He watched Akram. And he practiced. This became his life.

  Of course, you had to have a reason to work that hard, to practice like that, and Milo did. He wanted very much to do what Akram could do with a crowd. Not only that, but he wanted the strange, easy peace that seemed to come over the master when he had a bunch of knives or shoes or kittens in the air. As if he weren’t there, almost.

  Sometimes he found himself dreaming of juggling instead of dreaming about Suzie. Sometimes.

  “Who’s Suzie?” asked Akram one morning when they were eating donuts in the bazaar.

  “Why?”

  “You call her name at night.”

  Milo didn’t want to talk about it. Or think about it, or dream. He stuffed his whole entire donut in his mouth and glared into the sun.

  “As you wish,” said the master. “Obviously this is a mystery of some import. Now chew, please.”

  —

  How to juggle more than three things?

  Milo watched Akram. He did exercises. He whirled his arms and flexed his hands. He learned to roll marbles between his fingers. He did push-ups in the sand.

  Satan liked to bite him and step on him when he did push-ups. He practiced dodging Satan.

  The aha moment, when it came, was not what he’d expected. He had been juggling beanbags all morning, trying new ways of crisscrossing, when it suddenly hit him.

  Ask.

  So Milo walked to the bazaar, caught a tall, dark-eyed juggler at the end of his show, and said, “I’ll give you fifty bucks to show me how to keep more than three things in the air,” and the dark-eyed juggler said, “You throw them higher.”

  “And faster, too, right?”

  “Nope. Just higher.” And the guy took his money and walked away.

  Aha!

  —

  Milo practiced for a month before he went to Akram and said, “Watch this.”

  “Now is not a good time,” said Akram, who had a bunch of paper and a pen and was busy writing. “I told you I might write a book. Well, I am doing it. The story of my life and also my teachings about juggling.”

  Milo popped five beanbags into the air. This did not seem to impress Akram much, but he stopped writing to watch.