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by C. Dennis Moore July 14th
is always the day I die. Today I'd see
if my precautions worked. I parked on a ridge overlooking the
desert, turned off the engine and stepped out.
Going around to the back of the Blazer, I felt something skitter over my
boots. The air tasted stale and
heavy. The temperature was teasing
toward an even hundred, but wouldn't commit to the three-digit mark. But the humidity. . . . It was like breathing mashed potatoes. I opened the back window and the tailgate
and climbed in. Settling the back-seat
into the forward position, I cleared a spot to lay down, my head leaning an
inch or two off the back of the tailgate.
The stars were amazing. The moon
dwindled to a slit of white in a black sky.
I lay there for half an hour, thinking I should go to sleep and let this
night be over as soon as possible. I
had to know if there would be a tomorrow or not. A churning stomach put that idea to rest. Soon I had the portable grill set up with
a slab of meat on it. In my hurry to
get out of the city and away from the water, I didn't pay much attention to
what I'd grabbed. While it cooked, I
opened the Blazer's doors and turned up the radio. It was Eric Clapton weekend on the radio and by the time they'd
played two from Cream, two from Derek and the Dominoes, and two more from the
man himself, I'd cooked and eaten my food. Afterward, I leaned against a rock,
staring up, After Midnight in the background, when a voice said, "You
got a light?" I jumped and looked up, feeling, for some
reason, like I'd just been caught trying to decide what to wear from my
mother's underwear drawer. The little
man who came around from the front of the Blazer held a cigarette forward, in
case I might not know what he meant.
When my heart resumed a slower pace and I was able to breathe again, I
said, "Uh, yeah." I climbed
into the Blazer and pushed the lighter. "We come up here for the
weekend," the little man said, "the wife forgot to grab matches. Said she meant to pick up a lighter so we
wouldn't have to leave any match sticks behind. She thinks people in satellites watch everything we do and would
see her if she littered." I muttered, "Hmm," and the
lighter popped out. I handed it to him
and noticed his hand shook. He must
have been needing this cigarette for a while. "Thank you," he said on the
exhale. He handed the lighter back and
said, "We smelled your food. We're
just a couple-fifty yards over that way.
My wife said you were probably following us, trying to catch us eating
tuna, or something like that." I went back to my rock and sat against
it, looking out over the desert, wondering when I would be able to wake up and
see whether I was still alive or not. The man came to the edge of the ridge and
asked, "Do you mind if I smoke this here?
I'd just as soon not go back until I have to. Besides, my bunions could use a rest. Fifty yards used to not be anything at all." "Sure," I said. He sat down, drew deep on the
cigarette. "You guys here on ,
what?" "Retirement," he said
proudly. "Forty years teaching
little bastards how to multiply. Now
the only person I have to deal with is her." He said the word like he was saying Satan
instead. "Well," I said, "pull up a
rock and see the stars." "Don't mind if I do." He talked and smoked three cigarettes
while I let the radio keep me company; I wasn't interested in his story, but I
figured he could talk if he wanted to.
I don't know how much time went by before I realized he was quiet. I didn't want him to know I hadn't been
listening, so I pretended the radio had
drowned out the last part. "What'd
you say?" "I asked what you're doing out here,
on a Sunday, by yourself?" I tried to think of a lie, then decided
if tonight was my last night, for good, I might as well tell him. I readied myself for the look I knew would
cross his face, then said, "Everyone has that crap about, 'If I had it to
do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.'
That's bullshit. If everyone was
given the chance, just once, to start life over again, they'd change everything
about it. "A long time ago, I was at this lake
in Missouri. I didn't know how to swim,
but I was trying, and anyway, I was twenty-three and there were women
galore. I drowned. I woke up from the black to find my body
wouldn't work right. At first, I
thought I was waking up from a coma, and was paralyzed or something. Finally, my eyes focused and I looked
around. "I'd been reincarnated, but I'd come
back as myself one week old. Worse, I
still had all my memories from the last time. "I lived my life a second time,
doing things I should have done the first time. But when I was twenty-three, I went swimming, this time keeping
my bravado in check. I ended up
drowning anyway. Again, I woke up from
the water as a week-old me. This time I
lived more carefully, taking things from my first life with things from the
second, trying to round everything out, maybe that was what I needed to move on
to whatever afterlife there is. But, at
twenty-three, I drowned and was reborn, again, as myself. "This time I said fuck it and did
whatever I wanted, fucking all the people I'd wanted for three lifetimes, never
driving under 50, and picking my nose whenever I felt like it. I died again, and woke up from drowning, one
week old. And I still had every memory,
from four lives." I stopped to take off my boots. I flexed my toes and, waited for him to
laugh or walk away. He got up and I
heard him push the lighter in. I
waited. It popped out, he lit another
cigarette and walked back to the edge of the ridge. He sat down and put his arms on his knees, smoke drifting up from
between them. "Y'know, my wife believes in all
that reincarnation stuff, too," he said.
"Thinks she was Rasputin in a past life. Maybe that's why she always thinks people are out to get
her. I don't know." He smoked his cigarette. "I'm not talking about
reincarnation, so much," I said.
"It's not that. I come back
as myself, all my memories and everything.
I wake up in my crib. It
takes a while for my body to work right, but I usually get it walking and
talking by the time I'm a year-and-a-half. "I've tried changing my life
completely, I've tried living it exactly the same, I've tried to do both in one
life. I once spent a year telling
everyone who would listen that I'd lived three incarnations as the same
person. At least now I always get my
license on the first try. And I always
know my birthday and Christmas presents ahead of time. "I've read whatever I can find on
karma and reincarnation, all that crap that used to be crap until the real shit
started happening to me. I've thought
maybe there's some big event I'm supposed to take part in before I can go on. I've thought maybe there was something in my
first life I didn't finish or didn't start that I was supposed to do before I
moved on. But no matter what I try, I
just keep waking up in the crib and living this crap all over again. And I'm telling you, my parents didn't make
it all that enjoyable the first time.
Try five times." "Well," he said, "I've
never believed my wife about that crap, but I think she's pretty loony
anyway. I don't necessarily believe
you, either. But," he puffed,
waited, blew smoke, "if that's the story you want to tell. . . ." "I wish I had another one," I
said, "but this is the way it is.
Every life, I die on July 14th.
Every life, it's on a Sunday. And
every life, I'm twenty-three. Today
fits that pattern, so I guess today's the day." A plane's blinking lights passed overhead. "So, if, to you, this is the way it
always happens, why are you here? If
you're supposed to drown, shouldn't you be at a lake in Missouri?" "No," I said, "not this
time. I moved here right after high
school, purposely for the lack of water. I finally thought maybe if I just didn't go near the water, I
could break the cycle." "You think fate works like
that?" "I hope so." "Why didn't you just learn to
swim?" I could here derision in
his voice. Then again, I asked for it
by telling him any of this. "I did learn to swim my second life,
hoping I wouldn't drown. That didn't
work. I still drowned, but that time it
was because my foot got stuck in the mud.
The next time, I kept my feet away from the mud, but ended up swimming
out too far and got too tired to make it back.
You'd think maybe I'd have realized before to just stay away from the
water." "What makes you so sure that would
work?" He'd crushed out what would
be his last cigarette of the night and now stood at the edge, looking down into
the bowl of the desert below us. I
wondered if his wife would show up, wondering where he'd been all this
time. I gave his question a couple
second's thought, then answered. "I'm not. I've thought a lot about fate.
If Kennedy hadn't gone to Dallas, would he have been killed someplace
else? If Jimi Hendrix had stayed clean,
would he have died some other way around the same time? Is there anything I can do to prevent
drowning and rebirth? I've also
wondered if there are others going through this, too. Or am I the only one? Why?
Believe me, I've had lifetimes, literally, to wonder these things and I
still haven't come up with anything.
And, since no one seems to be coming forth with any answers, I guess
wondering is my only course." He left soon after, not bothering to
thank me again for the light. I heard
his boots crunch away in the gravel and sand, his old man's shuffle dwindling
with distance. I knew he'd probably tell
his wife all about the man who gave him a light and was even crazier than she
was. Fuck him. I've seen a million people like him. And that's from one life. The desert night closed in. I wrapped myself in my sleeping bag and
leaned against the rocks, still staring out over the desert, starlight all
around, the air clean and chilly. I saw
the word Fate spelled in the stars and wondered if, by being here, was I
winning? Could you win against
Fate? Was there any such thing as the
future, or did we make up time as we went?
Were Destiny and Karma myths created by Bigfoot and the Loch Ness
monster? Going from one life to the
next, I'd never seen any tunnel of light, no all-powerful being of love urging
me to join the party. It's death, then
waking up in the next life, as the next me.
So what if there isn't anything past that? No, I had to believe that I'd get out of
this. I'd learn what it was I was
supposed to do to go forward and do it.
Tonight, I just wanted to see if I could beat the scheduled July 14th
drowning. Suddenly, I realized there was one more
thing I had to do to make my precautions thorough. I made sure the Blazer's emergency brake was on, and the Blazer
in Park. I got the flashlight and
walked around my small camp. The desert
is dry, but every now and again, a small spring appears. I searched, but didn't find any. I headed back for the Blazer to, probably,
lay awake all night wondering when I'd die. First, I'd put the grill in the Blazer,
in case the old man decided he deserved it after having to listen to my
crap. I reached for it and jerked
backward. Something skittered out from
under it. Something else scrambled over
my feet, tickling my socks against my flesh.
I danced back a little and tripped over some rocks. The edge of the ridge was dark and the
only way I knew I'd fallen into it was from the gravel scraping my arms and the
speed and brutality of my tumbling downward. I only felt a few specific wounds on the
way down. A rock jammed into my
neck. My body weight trapped and
twisted my wrist. An outcropping
knocked the wind out of me. At the bottom, I realized the outcropping
had done more than that. I'd never felt
a cracked rib, but I knew that had to be the thing keeping me from breathing
too deeply. My wrist felt broken. Then I started coughing. Not a tickle in the back of my throat cough,
but like I'd swallowed my coffee down the wrong pipe. Then I felt something in my mouth and spat. Warmth covered my chin. I tried to wipe it away, but could hardly
move and any move I was allowed wasn't going to be wasted on wiping spit off my
face. I kept coughing, but no matter how hard I
tried to force it (which wasn't very hard, considering), the need to cough
again just grew. It didn't take three
previous drownings (which I happened to have anyway) to figure out I'd fucked
myself up worse than I knew. My lungs
were filling with blood. I panicked for a second before realizing
Fate had its manhood firmly in place right up my ass where it apparently
belonged. I wanted to laugh, then I
wanted to cry, then I just wanted to hit something. I did none of them.
Instead, I ended up drowning again. When I died, I was reborn as myself.
Mr. Moore holds a very skewed view of reincarnation…
Again