The Five Lives of John and Jillian

by Greg Krehbiel

  “Two ounces of Little John, Matt,” he said. It was a strong blend that he didn’t often smoke. But he had a theory, and nothing was going to stop him now.

  No words were exchanged as he purchased the small bag and headed out of the store, back onto 14th Street, north to G and west towards the Treasury building.

  As soon as he passed the police barriers on Pennsylvania he started loading the pipe. By the time he was at the Southwest corner he was taking his first puff, and before he reached the magnolia tree he saw her. And she saw him as well.

  “You again,” she said in surprise. “What happened this morning? We were talking and then that weird guy sprayed you and ... you were gone.”

  “I’m not sure yet, but ... I have an idea. A theory, anyway. Would you please help me test it?”

  She looked at him oddly, but didn’t object.

  A young woman was passing by at that moment. She was carrying a small brief case and looked uncommonly tidy and professional in a pressed beige skirt, stockings, fine leather shoes and a white blouse.

  “Excuse me, miss. Could I please ask you a quick question?”

  Like most people in D.C., the look in her eyes showed that her first concern was that he was some weirdo trying to get her money, or convert her, or get her to join his strange political party, but when she saw his clean-shaven face and professional attire, his pipe, and his generally inoffensive demeanor, she softened and smiled.

  “This is a little embarrassing, but I have this ... medical condition, and sometimes I see people who aren’t really there. Like in that movie with Russell Crowe.” He cast a quick glance at Jillian. “So I need you to be square with me. Is there a woman standing here,” he said, pointing with his pipe towards Jillian. “A pretty woman in a blue business suit?”

  The poor girl looked so sad John thought she might cry. She said, “I’m so sorry. No. There’s no one there.”

  John thanked her, then turned to Jillian.

  “Could you hear that conversation?” he asked her.

  “I saw you turn away,” she said, “but I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Is there someone near you?” he asked. “I know this sounds very strange, but please humor me. Please find somebody and ask them if they see me.”

  The young woman in the beige skirt wasn’t sure what to do. She hovered a few feet away with an expression of worried concern as John seemed to carry on a conversation with nobody. But John’s attention was focused on Jillian. As she turned — presumably to speak to someone else — she faded ever-so-slightly from his view and her form became a little cloudy. John suspected that he wouldn’t have noticed this if he hadn’t been staring at her intently.

  A moment later she was back, biting her lower lip, with eyebrows raised.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why can I see you but others can’t?” Then her eyes widened as she looked past John in surprise. “Oh! It’s him! Look out behind you!” she cried, and John turned in time to see the old man swinging a heavy stick at his head.

  He ducked, a little too late, and took a blow that glanced off his shoulder into the back of his head. It sent him to the ground, and the old man immediately dashed in and grabbed for John’s pipe, but John clasped it tight and put it in his pocket.

  The bystander in the beige skirt sprang into action. She stepped in and pushed the old man away with surprising vigor.

  “What’s wrong with you!” she shouted, and John noticed a bit of a Spanish accent. “You can’t go around hitting people like that!”

  The old man turned to run away, only to be stopped by another helpful bystander. This time it was a bike messenger who had hurried up when he saw the scuffle. He grabbed the old man by the shoulders.

  John slowly rose off the ground and looked around for Jillian. She was gone. If, he had to admit to himself, she’d ever actually been there.

  He turned to the old man, who had stopped struggling, but was obviously in a bit of pain. The bike messenger was holding the old man’s right hand behind him, with two thumbs pressing his wrist at a sharp, uncomfortable angle.

  “What’ll I do with this bloke?” the bike messenger asked.

  “Do you mind holding him there for a minute while I ask him a few questions?” John asked.

  “Long as you make it snappy, mate. I’ve only got a ten minute break, and the sandwich is calling, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, is this your pipe?” the young woman interjected, stooping to pick one off the ground, and resorting to her unaccented, almost too-perfect English.

  The old man clearly objected to this and moved to stop her, but the Aussie biker’s grip didn’t allow much freedom of movement.

  John reached for the pipe with a grateful smile and the woman gladly handed it over. John retrieved his own pipe from his pocket, which seem to startle her. She clearly thought the one on the ground was his.

  John studied both pipes carefully. They were certainly a matched set. The bits were identical — black, and apparently the same style of Vulcanite, with no markings of any kind. A thin gold band separated the bit from the stem, and looking at them both now he thought for the first time that it might be a band of real gold. The briar was smooth from where it met the bit down to the shank, where a pleasant sandblast finish spread to the bowl. The chamber was about the same diameter and depth on each of the pipes.

  He took a sniff of the old man’s pipe and smiled. Latakia. He was sure of it. But there was something else. An odd scent he couldn’t place.

  John suddenly remembered he had an audience and realized he had some business to attend to. The first thing he did, much to the irritation of the old man, was to take his picture with the camera in his phone. Then he turned to the young woman and said, “Thank you very much for your help today. Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to her. “I’d be delighted to buy you lunch some time. If you would be so kind as to call or email me, we could arrange a time and a place.”

  She smiled politely and without any sign of interest, took the card, looked at it briefly, put it in her jacket pocket and walked away with a dignity and bearing of a princess.

  John smiled after her, wondering why there were so few young ladies with that kind of poise, and then turned to the bike messenger. “Thank you, friend, but please let him go,” he said.

  As the old man shook the pain from his arm and wrist, John asked the bike messenger if he smoked, and pretended to offer him the old man’s pipe as a reward for his help, but this sent the old man into a complete fit. John smiled again, pocketed the pipe, gave the messenger his card, and repeated the offer of lunch.

  “A pint after work would be more my style, mate,” he said. “I’ll give you a shout. Take care,” he said with a wink as he mounted his bike, and then sped off toward an empty park bench.

  John turned to the old man, who stood there — still wiggling the pain out of his wrist — as if waiting for the stroke of doom.

  The old man was smallish, bearded, with thin, gray hair, but had a surprising vigor about him. It wasn’t the sort of look you’d get in the gym. It was more the grizzled look of a man who was accustomed to being outside, cutting wood, hiking, stooping to tend a fire or to set a snare. His skin had a leathery quality to it, and John had no doubt he was stronger than he looked.

  His clothes were plain and out of date, but sturdy and serviceable. He wore thick wool pants, despite the heat, over tall leather boots. They were the sort of boot John had been looking for these many years. Neither “dress” nor “hiking” nor “work” nor “western” boots, as the modern catalogs would have it. They were substantial leather boots with long laces, made to last, but stylish in their way. And the old man kept them well-polished.

  He wore a belt of polished leather with a simple brass buckle and his shirt was old-fashioned — the sort he imagined might be worn by a factory worker in his grandfather’s day. And in many ways the old man reminded him of Pop Pop. Even in some of his facial features.

  �
�We have a few things to talk about,” John eventually said. “Care to sit and have a smoke?,” he said, gesturing towards a nearby park bench. He offered the old man his pipe.

  The old man grabbed it quickly, as if he was afraid John was only kidding, then gave it a quick appraisal to ensure it was really his pipe, and nodded.

  “I’m John Matthews,” John said as they sat down, “but I have a feeling you know that already. And I have a feeling you’re the man who sold me this pipe.”

  “True enough,” the old man said, fishing in his pocket for his lighter. Then he looked at John with a mischievous smile. “Just ‘cause I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t use eBay.”

  “And you are ...?”

  “How’d you like the Edgeworth?” he asked.

  John smiled. “A serviceable tobacco. Too bad it’s not available any longer.”

  “You needn’t worry about that,” the old man said. “I have cases of it.”

  “And why is it important to you that I smoke Edgeworth?”

  This seemed to catch the old man off guard, as if he wasn’t expecting such a direct question. His eyes wandered back and forth and his head seemed unsteady on his neck for a moment, but he recovered and said, “I thought you liked it.”

  John pulled out his pouch of Oxford and filled his bowl.

  “You don’t want to do that,” the old man said in an almost threatening tone, gesturing towards the pouch. Any pipe smoker could distinguish Oxford from Edgeworth at a glance. They were cut very differently and had a different mix of tobaccos.

  “And why does it matter to you?” John continued to fill the bowl.

  “It matters to you,” the old man said with a sharp glance. “You’ll not have a decent night’s sleep until you stay with the Edgeworth.”

  He started to move as if the conversation was over and he was going to get up, but John held out a restraining hand. The old man looked at him as if he’d taken a shocking liberty, but also to size up John to see if he was a man who could, or would, restrain him forcefully.

  John tried his best to express his feelings with his eyes. Something like, “really now, you just tried to take my head off with a stick.” The old man seemed to get it and sat back down. Reluctantly.

  “What do you know?” John asked. “Why do you want me to have a pipe like yours? They’re clearly a matched set, which also means you knew my grandfather. And why do you want me to smoke a particular brand? It’s not what you smoke.”

  The old man sat silent for a long time, fingering his own pipe.

  “Stick to the Edgeworth,” he finally said, and this time the threat in his voice was clear. He rose from the bench with a determination that said only main force would keep him this time. John didn’t want to cause a scene or create even more of a rift. “I’ll send you another can,” the old man said.

  John sat in silence as the old man walked away. Then he put away his pipe and started visiting every tobacco store he could find.

  Chapter 7: The Stolen Pipe

  Three hours later he was brooding over a pint at The Laughing Man, a nice but slightly pricey watering hole near the Metro Center station.

  What a day! It had started off so well, and then he saw Jillian on a street corner and everything went to Hell.

  “Is this seat taken?” a familiar female voice asked, and John looked up to see Lisa smiling down at him. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes looked worried.

  John gestured for her to take a seat and signaled to the waiter to bring two more beers.

  “And what brings you here today?” John asked, suspecting there was more than chance to this meeting.

  “Let’s say a little bird told me to look for you.”

  John shook his head. He could guess, but it didn’t matter, and he didn’t actually care.

  “I understand you took the day off,” Lisa said. “Did you get in a good jog or anything?” She clearly wasn’t serious.

  “How ‘bout you tell me what you know so I won’t have to cover familiar territory,” John said, slightly irritated.

  Lisa frowned in an I’m your friend, I’m trying to help and you’re being a jerk sort of way, and said, “I know you saw Jillian this morning. I know you chased an old man into the park. I suspect you think he’s the old man. I know you begged off work for the day, which is entirely not like you. At all. And I know you’re in a dangerous mood, and likely to drink yourself silly.”

  “And you’re here to take advantage of me when I do?” John said with a sarcastic smile.

  Lisa looked at him long and hard. Several emotions played across her face. Anger. Shock. Disgust. Disappointment. Discouragement. Even a touch of fear. But she said, “If I thought that would help you, John, yes. But we both know better. We also both know that if you keep going like this, it’s likely that hard men with automatic rifles are going to strap you down and sedate you. Is chasing this … phantom, or whatever it is, worth it?”

  The waiter arrived with two more beers. John drained his first glass and pushed it aside. He started to pick up the other, ready to chug the whole thing, but then he looked at Lisa and said, “Are you up for a walk?”

  She nodded. John dropped a twenty on the table and they left without touching their beers.

  They turned left towards the Treasury building and John took out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “It’s actually important to the story I’d like to tell you.”

  She shook her head, and John recounted the story in order. The peaceful nights’ rest he had last night, and, now that he thought about it, like he’d been having as long as he smoked the Edgeworth. The decision to go back to Oxford this morning. His encounter with Jillian. His first talk with the old man. The afternoon spent walking and thinking, and his growing suspicion that this pipe was the key, somehow.

  He’d never had such lucid dreams — let alone visions — before he got this pipe. But shortly after he received it, things got crazy.

  Then he told her about the old man, and that he had a pipe that was part of a matched set with his own. And he remembered his conversation with his aunt about somebody named Heinrich.

  John had spent the afternoon canvassing tobacco stores, showing them the photo of the old man that he’d taken that afternoon. None of them had seen him before.

  “He desperately wants me to smoke the Edgeworth. But I can’t figure why. Why would it matter to him? Do my visions and dreams threaten him in some way? It’s driving me crazy,” he said with some heat. “But I don’t think he’s trying to help me. He has some agenda. I think he’s a cold and calculating fellow.”

  “And dangerous,” Lisa said. “If he was willing to hit you on the head with a stick in the middle of a public park.”

  “Yeah. What drove him to that?” John wondered.

  “What were you doing at the time?,” Lisa asked.

  “I was speaking with Jillian,” he said, as if he expected her to take that at face value. “When I saw her this morning, nobody else could see her. So this afternoon when I saw her again I asked some passerby if she could see her as well. And she couldn’t.”

  “So that means you were hallucinating, right?” she asked, as if she feared some other explanation.

  “I’ll admit it could be that. But here’s the weird thing. Jillian had the same experience on her end. She had people around her that I couldn’t see, and they couldn’t see me.” He said it as if that proved something.

  “Okay, so your hallucinations are getting more complicated.”

  John almost got angry, but then he saw her point.

  “Alright. Alright. That’s a possibility. Maybe my devious mind is creating some sci-fi explanation for all this.” He reached into his pocket. “But my mind didn’t invent this,” he said, showing her his camera and displaying the photo of the old man being held by the bicycle courier. “And this crazy old man attacked me right when I was having this vision. Or hallucination. Or whatever. If it was all in my head, why w
ould he do that, and how would he know?”

  Lisa stared at the photo for a moment but didn’t reply.

  “And my devious mind didn’t invent this,” he said, holding out his pipe. “My uncle says this belonged to my grandfather. And my grandfather always smoked Edgeworth tobacco. And that’s what this old man wants me to smoke.

  “You call it what you will,” he said, “but that’s too many coincidences for me. Something weird is going on.”

  “I’ll agree with you about that,” Lisa said. “So where are we going?”

  “To the park,” John said. “Every waking vision of Jillian has been at or near Lafayette Park,” he said. Then he pointed across the street at an old man. “Hey, there he is.” The old man was watching John intently across the 15th street traffic. But his attention suddenly turned to something next to John, and at the same moment Lisa yelled, “John, watch out.”

  She tried to pull him back, but a young man in a running suit grabbed John’s pipe right out of his mouth and took off at a run. The kid went north a quarter of a block and turned right onto New York Avenue.

  John said “hold this” as he handed Lisa his backpack and took off at a frantic pace after his assailant.

  Lots of heads turned to watch the spectacle of a well-dressed man chasing a kid in street clothes, but nobody interfered.

  The kid was fast and reckless. He cut across streets in the middle of traffic and knocked down pedestrians when they got in his way. John pursued just as recklessly, causing cars to shriek to sudden stops. One time he slammed into the hood of a BMW and thought for sure he was injured, but he shook it off and kept running.

  John made a strong showing, but it didn’t take long for him to realize it was a hopeless chase. The kid was simply too fast, too young, and seemingly tireless. The flesh and blood John wasn’t the same as the John in his dreams who chased car thieves through the woods to Jillian’s house. He was decently fit, but he was wearing wool pants, a jacket and dress shoes, and he was quickly losing his prey — who kept looking back at him with an irritating, mocking smile.