Mike Michael Mike
Matthew Ryan Fischer
“Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, Mike…” Derrick
whispered to himself.
He tried to ignore the smell of burnt oil. He heard the floorboard
creak, but pretended he hadn’t noticed.
“Mike, Michael, Mike, Mikhail, Mike, Michelle, Mike…”
Over and over, he told himself. Keep saying it. Like a mantra. Or
a spell. But what was he trying to evoke? He had already forgotten.
The smells grew strong. Burnt coffee. Motor oil. There was a hiss
in the background. A pulsing wave. He heard the creaking coming closer.
“Mike, Mikhail, Mike, Micheale, Mike, Michelle, Michael, Mike…”
Maybe he had the names wrong. Mark? Marques? Marc? Why couldn’t he
remember?
Somewhere there was fire. Smoke. He could smell it. Like dry
leaves in early autumn and a back yard burn barrel. Where people allowed to
have those in the city anymore? Probably not. Everything changes. Everything
good is ruined or taken away.
Stare into the flames and imagine.
The smoke. Or not smoke. Steam. Maybe it was steam. From the
espresso machine. Or was it the smoke from a pipe? Vape? Or something else.
Something scented. But not like candy. More like… spice. Was it the smoke from
a hookah? Something vaporized. A dream. Or lost home. Something, spread in the
fog. Something he couldn’t quite see.
Marc. His name was Marc. He was pretty sure of it.
He could taste the coffee on his is tongue. Black. Dark. Dark roasted.
Almost pitch black.
There was laughter and someone talking but he couldn’t make it
out.
“Marc… Marc… Marc?”
Was that right? The voices grew quieter. They didn’t answer.
The man in the white suit with the red fez hat kept staring at
him. His glasses were like mirrors. Derrick couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his
soul. Who was he? Not Michael or Mark or any other. This man had no name. He
watched. He watched and nodded and tapped his cane on the ground like he was
calling attention or perhaps sending something in Morse Code.
Why was the man so interested in him?
Where was the waitress with a refill for his coffee?
When did this coffee mug appear?
“Derrick. My name is Derrick. Can anyone hear me? I need help.
Help. I need help. If you can hear me. Someone. Help. Please. Mike? Marc? Is
anyone listening?”
The waitress appeared with a fresh cup of coffee. Derrick thanked
her and took a sip. It was dark and divine. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He
was happy to get lost in a beautify daydream. He had been thinking about
something or something but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t remember. He just
wanted to sleep.
The man in the red fez hat tapped his cane in a repeated fashion.
He smiled and signaled for the waitress.
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