Day 59 - Two Year Countdown

 Two Year Countdown 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The taste of tobacco lingered in the back of Dave’s mouth, but he wasn’t sure if he was getting any of the effect or not. A little nagging feeling in the back of his mind wanted to light another, so he figured something was kicking in somewhere. Dave couldn’t remember the last time he had smoked. Years. Or more. Or less. There was probably some drunken night in there somewhere that he had one and didn’t remember. But those drunken nights were a long time ago as well.

When asked he had told his doctor he didn’t do either. He has had started a new regime of medications for blood pressure and cholesterol and was pretty sure one of the warnings said not to mix with anything else. People probably did though. All the time. He couldn’t be the first. And it was only one.

Dave realized he had been rubbing his fingertips. An old habit. His tongue felt dirty. Nothing was tingling. When he was young, he used to get a tingle. Maybe it would kick in if he smoked another.

Wendy had been calling again. He didn’t want to answer that call. He didn’t have an answer to that call. His bed had been empty just long enough that he was considering answering that call. But he knew all the trouble that would entail.

If he had that drink, it might make it a whole lot easier.

Or worse.

It had been a long couple of years and a little mindless fun might make things seem better. But Wendy was never mindless.

Years ago, Dave would have never considered anything casual. He was a different man that he was years ago.

Years ago, he had promised undying love to a girl named Carrie. Several times. Harsh reality to marry and divorce the same woman. Twice. He wondered if she would be at the reunion. That wouldn’t be for a few years. Covid had ruined the last one. But maybe he’d try and make it to the next one.

Dave hadn’t talked to anyone in at least a year. Probably closer to two now. He heard that Mitch’s mother had cancer. He should have called. Maybe Mitch was talking to his dad again. Maybe time plus tragedy was all it took. Mike and Max and all those other fools. They were all out there somewhere. Probably having good lives.

He could probably lose a few pounds. Maybe. Fix that diet. Fix that cholesterol. He’d show up and show them. That would count for something, right?

A lifetime later and probably no one would go the reunion after all and he’d be standing there like an idiot.

He fought the urge. One smoke. One drink. Just one, the small voice told him. Just one. Exercise tomorrow. Do all those other important things tomorrow.

He could waste the day tomorrow. And the one after. There were a lot of days left on the calendar. Why rush change? Maybe he would call Wendy back after all.

Day 58 - Another Day Altogether

 Another Day Altogether

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

My journal was a liar. It told stories written by someone who was almost like me about someone who sometimes sounded a lot like me, but often was not me and nothing like who I was then or who I was to become later.

Some might say my journal had a different perspective and that perhaps I should reevaluate my memory and see if there was some balance that could be struck. I would say to those people that they are liars or fools or had been fooled, but in all cases, they had no reason to trust my journal over me.

I can’t remember the first time my journal lied to me, but I know it was my handwriting and it was a story very similar to a real-life story that had occurred. But there were mistakes. Omissions. Truth, but differences. Similar, but not the same.  

Some might say that Past Me had written something down that was an interpretation, or variation of the truth, a better version, something I would have wanted to have happen or a way I’d choose to remember the past. But that wasn’t it. If Past Me were protecting Future Me and trying to give Present Me a better memory, then the story would have been better. Past Me would have embellished in such a way that I got what I wanted, that I won, or achieved or had more fun or something positive. But this was just a slightly different story. No better, no worse. Just different.

What would be the point? Why would Past Me lie if there was nothing to gain? No, this wasn’t Past Me trying to alter history, this was something entirely different. That’s why I hypothesized that the journal itself was changing things and lying to me.

What do you do with a son-of-a-bitch like that? A trickster. A jackal. Trying to gaslight me into believing my life was different but just as boring? What strange nefarious plot could it be up to? What to be gained and to what end?

I began to keep a second journal. A secret journal. Not just to repeat myself, but to categorize and analyze the changes that were being made. The second would document not only what was, but what was being altered.

The problem first discovered was that as long as I was going day-by-day, the journals matched. There were no changes. It was one for one. Almost as if the original journal knew not to change itself what it was being tracked. It knew I was watching it.

No, the new entries were staying the same. It was the past ones, the ones I couldn’t verify, the ones from long ago, before I began the second journal – those were the ones I suspected were being altered. Those were the ones that told the story of a different man.

Who was this man? And why was he so similar to me? I dove in and dedicated myself to rereading all entries to determine just who the alternate version of myself was and what story my journal was trying to tell me.

The results were vexing.

This man, this other me – he lived such a plain and basic life. But the stories were all told with such sincerity. I never found anything that seemed embellished or misleadingly boastful. They were just the thoughts and tales of a standard life. Just not exactly my own. As far as alternate lives go, this was rather sad and disappointing if only because it was so average and ordinary.

The only thing I couldn’t quite resolve was the texture of the paper and the bleed of the ink. I’ve always been quite particular with such things and there was something every so slightly off. Which made me wonder if these weren’t fake or lies, but that instead they weren’t mine. And if that were the case, then where was my journal and who was reading about my life and judging my ordinary existence? And what else could be out there with other opportunities and options waiting?  

Day 57 - Cross Country

 Cross Country 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Five days after turning graduation I turned eighteen. Five days after that I was on the road with my three best friends. We were going to drive from Pittsburgh to Seattle and see the country. College cast a shadow over us all, but that was the future and for now we were young and free. My parents didn’t want me to go, but they were no confrontational and bad at arguing. We also all lied about where we were going, telling them we were going camping off Lake Erie with a possible side trip to King’s Island.

It was Mike’s car because his parents were lawyers and not only had the best car, but also a credit card in case we got into trouble. Charles was my best friend so we would have fun no matter what. Adam was Mike’s best friend. But we all got along. We were idiots and geeks and this was the biggest most dangerous thing we had ever done. None of us expected trouble, but he was the only one really thinking ahead that we might have some fun.

I brought a bag of disc golf discs so we could stop and play a round in each state. Mike brought cards and a couple of board-games. Charles brought a fifth of whiskey. Adam brought a box of condoms.

We had very different agendas. We had very different levels of realistic expectations.

None of us had girlfriends. Maybe one of us had had sex before. Maybe. That didn’t stop any of us from dreaming about what could happen on a trip like this. We had all seen movies. We all wanted stories to tell. But some of us knew better than the others what was actually more likely.

I researched restaurants that had been featured on reality shows. Charles researched strips clubs where the age limit was eighteen. I mapped out routes to famous landmarks. He learned the marijuana laws in each state. I realized that even though we were best friends, we didn’t exactly know everything there was to know about each other.

We had made it across the border into Indiana when the car trouble began. Mike had money, but he knew nothing about cars, oil levels, or regularly scheduled tune-ups. I say that as if any of the rest of us did either.

We were less than twenty minutes away from Fort Wayne. Nowhere close to King’s Island. Hours past any camp grounds on Lake Erie. We had been gone for less that one day, but just long enough and just far enough that if we called home now, we’d all be proven liars. We had Mike’s credit card but that too would leave a trial easily tracked.

Charles had a plan. He had a AAA card that allowed for road side assistance and a free tow of up to 100 miles. We could almost get to Dayton. Still not close to King’s Island but a whole lot more believable.

The next day we sat at the counter at a 50s diner eating lunch, waiting on Adam’s parents to arrive. Cheese burgers and milkshakes in nowhere, Ohio. It was a far cry from a big cross-country adventure.

Charles disappeared and we found him in the booth in the back of the diner talking to a table full of teenage girls headed for King’s Island. They asked what we were doing and we were all a little embarrassed to admit what was really happening. We all spontaneously kept to the same story of driving and the open road and going to see the Pacific Ocean.

I think we impressed them. We even exchanged phone numbers. I think they were less impressed as they pulled away in their van when they saw Adam’s parents picking us up in the parking lot.

Day 56 - Three O’Clock in the Morning

Three O’Clock in the Morning

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The ashtrays were full. A half-smoked, half-chewed cigar remained on the metal patio table. The outdoor couch was and stained from an errant spilled drink. There were random cards on the patio and a few dominoes in-between couch cushions and someone tried and failed at their attempt to things up. There were at least a dozen red cups spread around, in various states of fullness. At least two had cigarettes floating in them.

The outdoor lights had been left on. A potted plant had been knocked over in the yard. Some succulents had been trampled. Someone had let their dog go the bathroom and failed to clean it up. Rinds of oranges and lemons and limes were scattered about. A crushed watermelon lay on the walk, sticky smears on the wall of the garage. Behind the garage was the legacy of men too impatient to go inside and wait in line for the bathroom. There was also a condom, a different sort of legacy left behind.

The sink was full. One side with dishes. The other with some sort of red punch concoction and the last of the rum-soaked fruit. It was impossible to tell if or when the two sides were intermixed. The dishwasher was full. The recycling bin was full. The counters were covered with beer bottles, wine glasses and platters of snacks. There were half-eaten trays of pizza rolls on top of the stove. Something had exploded in the microwave.

There had been too many people there. There were still too many people there, but the party was long over. Someone was curled up in the corner of the living room. Someone else was asleep in the bathtub.

Dave’s head was already beginning to hurt. Drunk, but hungover. A terrible combination. He would have gone to bed, but someone was in his room and he didn’t have the energy necessary to take care of that yet. He leaned forward on the couch and rubbed his neck, but after his stomach started to churn, he had to lean back. Taking deep breaths, he tried to focus on anything other than the spinning room.

Braden and Sean were high and laughing at YouTube videos in the other room. Dave simultaneously felt jealousy and hatred. He needed sleep but envied their ability to still be going strong.  

Day 55 - They Took His Eyes

 They Took His Eyes 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Once he had been a warrior, a rogue, a rapscallion. He had walked among gods and spirits and the great mystics. He had been a student then a teacher. A fighter. A conqueror. A king. Once. But that had all be once, but once wasn’t now. Now was a bitter cold bitch and now was slowly killing him.

Through trickery and treachery the Young Ones killed the gods. With guile they stole their powers and set out to eliminate all those that opposed them. Using deceit, they surprised and trapped him. The Young Ones captured and took him prisoner. Locked away in a cell, they fed off his power and stole from him all that they could.

His voice was taken, not so he would be silent, but so that they could command.

His muscles were taken, not so he would be weak, but so they would be strong.

His dreams were taken, not so he would be cruel, but so that they could feel.

His eyes were taken, not so he would be blinded, but so that they could see.

Drained, unable to fight back physically, he turned inward.

They kept him alive, inside a cage, so they could feed, steal his energy, revitalize themselves whenever the need arose. The gods needed no such host to feed from, but The Young Ones were weak vampires, pale reflections of those that came before.

They kept him alive, thinking him defeated. Thinking of him only as food. Thinking but not realizing, for none of them thought to steal his wisdom. They took his eyes, but none realized they couldn’t reach his Third-Eye and that he was only biding his time, waiting for his opportune moment.

Day 54 - Mirror Mirror Rorrim Rorrim

 Mirror Mirror Rorrim Rorrim 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Sam entered the room. He had been there before. It was a dead end. He knew it. He knew it he knew it he knew it. His reflection stared back. What a joke. Getting lost in a house of mirrors. It was a shitty carnival maze. What an embarrassment. He had read that if you always made right turns and followed the walls then you’d eventually escape any maze. The same logic probably could be applied to following the left. Probably something to do with eventually touching ever inch of the place. It was not true. At least not for Sam. He had no idea how long he had been in this place. But he sure had seen this room often enough whether he was making left turns or rights.

 

Sam entered the room. He had been there before. He looked in the mirror and the mirror looked back. That stupid smug face, smiling back, as if he wasn’t lost and this was all a game. Surely someone who worked here would eventually notice that he had gone missing and was taking too long to leave. Surely someone would look for him if for no other reason than to make him leave.

Why was it taking so long? Why hadn’t he seen anyone else yet? He couldn’t be the only one foolish enough to pay for this attraction, could he?

Sam took out his phone to check the time. Ten minutes? It made no sense. He couldn’t remember when he entered, but it sure seemed like he had been here longer than that.

A shadow fell across the mirror and it caught his eye. He instinctively turned just as another person was entering the room.

 

Sam entered the room. He was already there. Staring right back at himself. At first he thought it was a trick mirror, or an illusion created with lights, but he quickly realized that it was looking at a real life human being, not a reflection. He was looking at himself. Another him. Him.

“Who are…” they both began.

“You are me? How?”

The conversation was going nowhere.

 

Sam turned the corner, certain that he had been here before. He was trying to follow the wall with his right hand, but he had gotten turned around at one point and now wasn’t sure he was doing it correctly. He approached a turn that he was fairly certain would lead to a dead end.

But he approached anyway, only to find two of himself locked in a staring contest.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Who are--”

“You?” the both finished his question for him.

 

Sam turned the corner and saw himself up ahead, halfway around the next corner. He was having a conversation and the voice -- voices? -- sounded like his own. They were arguing about something – “Quantum…” “Time…” “Clone…”

Sam turned back around. He didn’t need any part of that. He decided to follow the left walls instead.

Day 53 - Whispered Spirits Whisper

 Whispered Spirits Whisper 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

“The daimons whisper and tell me secrets. I cannot tell you what they say, for then it would not come true.”

 

 

The shadows began to move again, and Max had another nightmare. He had been told there was nothing to fear. Young people were often scared in the dark. The shadows had come before. They wouldn’t leave him alone. He had slept with the light on as his only reprieve, but had been told he was much too old for that. So the lights went off and the shadows returned.

The shadows whispered their secrets and they told him not to tell.

The winds rose and the windows rattled and the house did begin to creek. The branches of a great tree brushed against the walls and the windows and it make his room into a nightmare cacophony.  The low howl of a far-off beast and the rustling of leaves and then the rain did begin to fall.

Max saw spirits in his dreams and he spoke to the specters of another age and answered their questions as to what the world had become. The winds brought visitors and the winds told their secrets and asked Max not to tell.

His parents believed Max had a brilliant imagination but that someday he would grow up.

The owls came and the ravens flew. They called and screamed and chattered in a way that Max could not understand. They were not afraid. Not when he turned on the light. Not when he opened the window. Not when he screamed for them to leave him be. They squawked and fluttered their wings, staring at him, as if he would somehow suddenly learn to understand their secrets. Max could not tell their secrets even if he wanted to.

The whispers grew and grew.

That which could not be heard. That which could not be spoken.

Louder and louder.

The shadows came to life. They spoke with one great voice, telling Max the divine. Futures that hadn’t happened. Pasts that could be undone. They told him a lie or two but promised that he could change that too if he wanted. They filled his head, but he was never clear on why or what they wanted in return.

Max could not tell a soul. No one would believe him. No one would understand. But he didn’t need them. He didn’t want them. He wanted the secrets. He wanted to futures he wanted to come true. He couldn’t tell a soul and risk these impossible possibilities.

Shadows surrounded Max, and in their darkness, he found salvation.

Day 52 - Karaoke Night

 Karaoke Night

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

She struggled with her sweater as she pulled it up over her head. I happened to notice and then I just happened to look a little too long. Her tank top underneath began to rise and I could see her bellybutton. And what looked like the start of a tattoo at her waistline.

I closed my eyes, embarrassed. We had made eye contact several times, but we were also on opposite sides of the room and I wasn’t ready to go find out if there was any shared interest or if I was just staring at her one too many times.

Chris had mentioned her – Sarah. Sarah Beth? Sarabeth? Something like that. She was friends with Becky who was friends with Dan who had invited me to the birthday celebration of Emily’s cousin Amy’s best friend Alice. There were too many names and too many people and I was feeling out of place and awkward. I usually stuck with the people I knew, but they were spread out all over the bar. It was a particularly angst-ridden situation for me.  

Chris had mentioned her as he mentioned most women. He was sad and lonely and didn’t know about better how to talk to them than I did. But he mentioned her first, so I guess I had to be a friend and let him have some sort of shot tonight. That was the problem in a group of friends like this – most people were couples, so when any new single person appeared, they were swarmed. I didn’t want to do that. At least not yet. Chris could try. I had seen him try before. I wasn’t too worried about the competition. Besides, the way he was drinking, I could probably talk to her later and he wouldn’t even remember it. Our friendship would be intact.

Her hair was frazzled, a victim of the sweater and static electricity. She tried to straighten out her tank top and fix her hair. That was when she caught me taking another glance. I thought she began to smile but I wasn’t sure. I looked away. Embarrassed.

I tried to return to my previous conversation with Chris, but a new song had started and the music was too loud and everyone was screaming along and I was distracted.

I thought about looking back. I wanted to look back.

She had a birthmark on one shoulder.

Later, after man more drinks, the mood was lightened and everyone began participating with everyone else’s song. People sang along. Many had no idea the correct words. Some people danced. Sara Sarabeth Sarah Beth danced and sang to no one in particular. Shaking her hips and swaying her head, getting lost in the music. Arms raised in the hair, having a good time. Eyes closed. Unaware.

I could just walk across the room. Be near her. Dance near her. That’s all I’d have to do. It should have been easy.

I sat too long. Thought too long. Indecisive too long.

She turned so her back was to me, but then she tilted her head, just a little, just enough so I could catch her glance.

And that smile. From before. Now more of a smirk.

She laughed. Alive. Happy.