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?In my past life, I was a bird.?
?How'd you know??
My little brother shrugged. ?I just feel it.?
Piles of debris painted where the houses used to be, torn-down walls and foundations mere remains of the structures that were there. We must have scavenged through all of them, finding nothing but rubbish and mud. The blue comet streaked across the sky. Cold winds blew onto my back, smelling of sand and cement and something else. A tinge of something bitter, something revolting. The water took four people from around these parts, but the way they polluted the air was something I did not expect.
The people readied themselves for the rain and the wind, according to the news, but never for the swelling of the ocean and the subsequent taking. They all cried during the interviews, I remembered, their tears mixing with the drizzle and rain. Unfortunate, but I would have given a hand to have the leeway they had. They all blamed the blue comet which, if their word was to be believed, was a bad omen. I thought that rather stupid.
?You won't find anything in here, Jo,? I shouted at him as he stooped down and grabbed something from the rubble. ?The sea's taken everything.?
?We've got nothing to lose, do we??
?No, you've got nothing to lose. You're dead, remember.?
His posture, upright and square, slackened. A small piece of plastic robot snuggled in his hand. It looked clean and undamaged, unlike the debris of the furniture and the houses around it. He dropped it back to the mud.
?Hey,? I said.
?It's fine.? He stood up and gazed overhead, the blue comet dazzling over the dim late morning sky. He hopped over the remains of a destroyed TV set. ?Let's just go back home. Take my things for me, will you??
-
?What were you in your past life?? he asked.
?I don't know. I don't think about it.?
?Come on. Anything.?
Jo pulled at a book underneath a pile of mess that once were the contents of our closet. The book's pages had turned brown from the mud and water, its contents folded where the debris on top of it fell. I remember it being his favorite, some story about three fishermen finding and fighting over a tuna made of gold. He beamed like a crazed man when he brought the book home. He placed it inside one of the banged-up boxes we brought.
?What do you want to do with it?? I asked.
?I don't know. Give it away, maybe??
?I don't know if anyone would want it.?
The sea gives and the sea takes, Father used to tell us over our meals when we were younger. Aside from our home, the sea took my textbooks and my pens, along with my uniforms and school bag. My little library was no more. Mud found a way inside my little make-up kit, three brushes, two lipsticks, and three other augments inside a tin cookie can. A few of my clothes still looked usable despite the muck seeping in on a few of them. I folded them neatly and placed them in my separate box.
Jo squealed, and I turned to see him holding a transparent plastic globe. Depicted inside was the ocean floor, small plastic cutouts shaped like fish floating on the bluish liquid inside. Glitters scattered inside the sphere as he shook it. The display seemed to swallow him whole. ?This doesn't belong here,? he said, and placed it inside the box that was his.
?You remember when I bought that for you?? I asked him.
?Christmas, two years ago now. I was eleven, I think.?
?I didn't know it's still working.?
?I kept it in its box under my bed. It looked too good to leave out in the open.?
The kitchen and the living room had disappeared. Two adjacent walls were all that was left, three wooden support columns supporting them. We scavenged for ten more minutes, finding nothing else worth taking in the leftovers of what used to be our little wooden one-story house. As we were leaving, a fire truck's siren blared past, three trucks' worth of relief packs following close. People scampered behind it. Jo and I ran alongside the crowd, both of our boxes in my arms.
-
?Father's already on the other line,? Jo told me.
?And??
?It says ?One pack per family only' on the tarp.?
?It's fine. They won't know.?
The relief trucks carrying Governor's New Year Packs parked outside the school grounds, this time used as our temporary shelter. The line of people snaked thrice around the school building, hundreds of hungry and sweaty people filling the air with musk, mud, and saltwater. I fell in line after giving Mother our boxes.
A tarp hung on one of the trucks, ?Jason Mesa for Reelection.? ?Unconditional Service? it said on another. When they told me they only allowed one pack per family, I told them only I was available to get our packs, my mother currently taking care of a two-year old sister I didn't have. Three hours I stayed on the line, bathed in the afternoon sun and the mindless chatter of hundreds of people. The only relief I had was looking up to see the blue streak in the sky.
We stayed on a classroom on the ground floor, with six other families. When I gave the packs to Mother, she didn't look me in the eye, as when I gave her the boxes. I mostly looked at the floor, myself reluctant to ever look at her. Almost as if I didn't deserve the respect. I wanted to insist that, again, it was not my fault, but knew my protestations, like before, would fall on deaf ears.
I went outside to escape what little New Year preparations we had. I did not feel any concern for it. Besides, I have my word to keep. Jo wanted to go to the playground, he said. ?On that park near the intersection.?
?You know there's probably nothing in there now, right??
?It doesn't matter. You promised we get to go wherever I wanted today, right??
-
On the park grounds laid toppled trees, their roots exposed to the open air. Bushes and shrubberies looked dead, the lightbulbs on street lamps shattered. Trash and dead things scattered everywhere.
The playground itself was leveled. The slides and wooden supplements were either destroyed or lying upside down in the mud. There used to be a sandbox in here, I remembered, but I couldn't find it. An upright swing set sat in the middle of the grounds, undamaged and dry under the faint late afternoon sun. Jo and I walked around and jumped over trees and debris. I took one seat, and when Jo sat on the other, he swung with his feet a little, the metal creaking every now and again.
?This was where they found Old Man Rudy, right?? Jo asked.
?Yeah, over there.? I pointed across a sizable shattered clay pot and its broken ornamental bamboo across the park. ?He was drunk, they said.?
?Drunk and drowned by the sea. Not the best way to go.?
?That drunkard kind of deserved it, to be honest.?
Obscured by clouds, the comet was invisible for the first time since it appeared before the storm. Jo seemed like he was searching for it.
?You know it was an accident, right??
?I know it was.?
His hand slipped from mine, I remembered, as we evacuated away from the sudden flooding on the streets. I saw the muddy water carry his body to the ocean, his head floating one moment and submerged the next. Debris floated around him. I could have reached out, that moment, but I didn't. Maybe my hand could have gotten hold of his, but I didn't want to try. I stood frozen, not wanting him to go, but not wanting to follow either. I wanted to take hold of him, but I didn't want to get taken by the mud and by the sea.
Mother lunged at the water, but Father hooked his hand around her waist and pulled her back. He hugged the both of us as we gripped onto a lamppost, chin-high water craving to push us to the ocean a hundred meters away.
?We should have tightened our grips a bit more,? I said.
We stayed on the swings for quite some time.
-
?We've only got time for one more place. I can feel it.?
?Where do you want to go?? I asked.
?I want to go by the sea.?
I fetched out Jo's box from Mother. The school grounds transformed into a massive camping site, dozens of charcoal grills and makeshift spitfires cooking New Year's Eve dinners. Smoke blanketed all over the school, the smell unpleasant but appetizing. Father sat on his own grill, a pan over the charcoal cooking canned meat from the relief packs we received earlier. He kissed my forehead and hugged me, and I hugged him back.
Jo and I walked towards the opposite side of town. As we inched closer to the sea that took him, the devastation worsened. Houses went from damaged to outright flattened. We saw fewer people. The mud got thicker, squishing on our soles and slippers as we went. After a while it got darker, the street lamps either destroyed or devoid of power. Only the crescent moon and the blue streak of a comet up above led the way through the road full of muck and debris.
?Will they ever go back?? Jo asked.
?Who??
?The people. Will they go back to their homes, near the sea??
?I imagine they will.?
?We should move away. It's too dangerous here.?
?If we had the money to move, we would have a long time ago.?
Debris still peppered the beach. Gentle waves rocked the surface of the sea, looking peaceful beneath the moonlight. The blue streak in the sky reflected off the water. Three days before, the typhoon made the ocean swell and, like a gigantic mouth, enveloped kilometers of land and pulled it back to its dark depths. Looking at it now, it seemed like no such event happened; that everything had been and will always be as peaceful as this.
I placed the box on the sand and Jo rummaged through what few items it contained. He picked up the plastic globe and gave it to me, the globe fitting snuggly in my hand. Remembrance, he said. I shook it, and the glitters and the fish floated up and sank back to the bottom again.
His box had his favorite book now caked with dry mud, his favorite shirt with an unrecognizable Superman logo covered in muck, and a Lego human figure with a broken arm. He lifted the box and we walked towards the sea. The water felt cold as I waded through, the sand tickling the places between my toes. Jo placed the box on the surface of the ocean. Its color darkened where the water licked on it. It rocked along with the gentle waves but kept its buoyancy, floating away from us, I supposed, towards the heart of the sea, or maybe where the moon met the horizon.
?Take them out of here, will you??
I've heard the discussions late at night where Father insisted he knew nothing his whole life other than to fish. It brought so much frustration to Mother, having her whole life tethered to the dangerous sea. I imagined even more so now that it took her youngest. ?You're dead, Jonas. Why do you care so much??
He thought for a second. ?You're alive, Marina. Why do you care so little??
Jo's ethereal body started disintegrating. The particles that broke off looked translucent and pale yellow, dissolving into nothingness after a second or two. I found myself wanting to sue for time, maybe a minute, or maybe two. My arms felt like reaching out again, grasping the material Jo was turning out to be.
?I was a bird, like you,? I said.
?Like me??
?Yeah, like you. And when the weather's bad, we'd fly off to another place.?
Jo's box, now some ways into the sea, tipped over and was swallowed by the water, its contents dropping straight into the ocean floor. The blue comet streaking across the sky turned dim, fragmenting into hundreds of little particles too small and too dull to be seen. I was alone by the beach.
?I should have held on a little tighter,? I muttered. ?I am so sorry.?
-
?We have rice, tomatoes, a can of meatloaf, and two cans of sardines.?
?Where are the others?? I asked.
?Why, I saved them up, of course. Take your pick.?
?I don't want to eat, Father.?
?Come on, Rina. It's New Year's!?
Twenty-six people sat inside the classroom that doubled as our temporary home. Families huddled close together sporting the same food they received from the trucks earlier. The room smelled of sweat and sardines and brine. I didn't understand the festiveness of Father and everyone else.
I sat beside Mother and Father and we prayed. Mother thanked the Lord for our little feast, and for giving us a roof beneath our heads this time of year. She asked to bless those people who, for the past three days, have been giving aid to us and everyone affected by the typhoon. She prayed for her youngest Jonas, that he was at peace, and that he was having fun in Heaven with the Creator up above. She sniffled as she said ?Amen.' Her eyes looked teary when she opened them. My eyes teared up too; she'd usually mention in her prayers a young woman named ?Marina' before.
Fireworks started going off outside. Everyone followed with cheers. People stood up and turned away from their food for a little while, greeting each other with amity whether they're family or not. Men shook hands and women hugged each other. Kids jumped around in glee.
I worried about the birds.
I reached for the globe in my pocket and shook it, scattering the glitters and the fish. I whispered a greeting to it; I hope Jo would hear. From across the room, Father called out ?Happy New Year!? as he marched closer and enveloped me and Mother in his arms.
I held the toy closer to my chest, hoping my little brother would also feel the embrace.
It was around ten after Life when he came in.
Nightshift was the best shift, to the three that worked at the diner at The End.
It let the dishwasher have a break when their feet started to hurt. It let the cook wear headphones while he worked. And it let the waitress write in her journal.
The customer was no one special. An average joe with a bit of scruff and a plain, if respectable outfit. He sat at a booth near the kitchen and ordered a cup of coffee, some pancakes, and a side of hashbrowns.
As the waitress poured some coffee, he asked her, ?Where am I??
She shrugged. ?Where you're supposed to be.?
?No,? he shook his head. ?I really don't know where I am!?
?I know,? she said calmly. ?And like I said. You're where you're supposed to be.? She set a small pitcher of cream and sugar shaker down. ?Food will be ready soon.?
?Wait!? He nearly grabbed her arm. ?May I have a pen and napkin please??
She brought him the requested items and went back to the kitchen.
?They're always so jittery,? she commented to the cook.
He flipped a pancake and nodded. ?He'll calm down.?
?I know. Are they on a break?? The waitress glanced at the sink full of bubbles.
?They're having a snack.?
The waitress nodded and wandered back out to check on the man at the booth. He was writing on the napkin, looking puzzled as he did so.
?Need more coffee?? She asked.
?I can't remember,? he whispered.
?Can't remember what??
?It.? He shook his head. ?It was important.?
The waitress went to grab the coffee pot. When she came back, the man had his wallet out, sorting what had been inside. Business cards, credit cards, debit cards, receipts, all of them scattered over the tabletop. She silently refilled the cup and went to the counter to grab the food that was sitting there.
?You know you're supposed to ring the bell,? she reminded the cook impatiently.
He pointedly put his headphones back in.
The waitress rolled her eyes and dropped the food off.
His name was Martin Serling. He lived on 22 Oak Lane in Somerville, Ohio. He was an electrician. He had a family. His wife's name was Helen, his oldest son's name was Greg, and his younger son's name was Thomas. His business card read ?Serling Electric, For All Your Shocking Needs!?
Martin stared down at the picture in his hands. It was the four of them during Thomas's most recent trip home from college. He could see traces of gray in Helen's pitch black hair. His was already much more pronounced, the fine blonde having gone mostly grey by the time he was forty two. The class ring on Greg's hand was half hidden by the collar of Thomas's shirt.
He's nine and his mom dies in a home invasion. He spends the next five years in therapy for the nightmares.
He's eighteen and he meets Helen during a mutual friend's graduation party.
He's twenty seven and they've been married for three years when she tells him she's pregnant with their first child.
He's still twenty seven when she loses the baby.
He's thirty four and chasing around after Greg in the yard when a child from across the street dies in a hit-and-run. Explaining death to a five year old is hard. Even harder still is attending the funeral.
He's thirty seven when Thomas is born. Greg is overprotective in the best way of his baby brother. Always worrying after every little sneeze and hiccup. The night Thomas almost dies in his crib is the day Greg tells him ?I'm gonna be a doctor when I grow up? and Martin has never been prouder.
He's forty when his father dies.
He's forty two when Greg comes home with a black eye after a fight at school after some bullies targeted his best friend. ?They were calling him all sorts of terrible shit!?
?Greg, language?
?That's what it was!?
He's days away from fifty when Thomas comes out. Nervous and shaking during Christmas break.
?I'm gay.?
?Oh??
?I already packed and Greg said-?
?What do you mean you packed??
?...?
?Go unpack, you're not going anywhere.?
?Martin??
?What? We're not. He's our son, we're not kicking him out over something as small as this. It's not like he murdered anyone!?
He's fifty two when his best friend dies of cancer.
He's fifty six when he wins an award for patenting a new wiring technique.
He's sixty when Greg finishes medical school with honors.
He's sixty two when he gets the diagnosis of mesothelioma.
He's sixty seven when he beats it.
He's seventy three when it returns
He's seventy four when-
Martin blinked and a tear fell on the photo.
?I'm dead.?
?Yes.? The waitress said, gently patting his shoulder.
?Is this - is this all there is?? He cast a glance around the empty restaurant.
?It's the night shift,? she shrugged.
?The night shift,? he repeated dubiously.
?This is where those without a faith come when their time ends,? she explained. ?You get choices.?
?What choices??
?You were relatively a good person. You weren't perfect but no human ever really is. You can go to an afterlife of solitary time in a house with a garden and books and music that are all just ok.? She handed him a pamphlet with the words MEDIOCRITY IN A HOUSE across the top in yellow. ?Or you can try again. If you pick this,? she tapped the pamphlet, ?ask me for the check.?
?What if I want to try again?? It did look appealing in a sort of calm way. An eternity of calm repose. Like doing yoga for eternity. But bad, faux Indian guru yoga, like Helen's best friend's daughter's sort of yoga.
?Then go help the dishwasher in the back.?
He glanced up at her. The waitress was warmly lit in a strange way. Deep red-brown skin, oak brown eyes, and her hair tied in dozens of braids that were pulled back into a low ponytail. Over her shoulder, he could see the cook.
?What's his afterlife?? He asked.
?Not an option for you,? she said. Martin decided that that was probably something he didn't want to know, based on her tone.
How long do I have to decide??
?Until the night shift ends.?
Greg glanced outside. He must have been there for hours but it was still the same inky black.
?Do you want anything more to eat?? The waitress asked. ?More coffee?? She held up the pot.
Martin shook his head. She nodded and left him alone.
Martin read the pamphlet twice. The clock on the wall never changed. He drank another cup of coffee, and, remembering Helen's lectures on his cholesterol, had a bowl of fruit. He couldn't really say if they had any taste. If any of it had any taste.
With a final glance outside, he picked up his empty mug and bowl and heahttp://www.watc2distancelife1.xyz/cowering-amusement/1d46VO2K395S8GN612O90pNbcnd73L41OHbvvx8ibwxvIwwnmnErDbvsFbZDhfFhsZZIvEGsi7hQ59dSQ7j1YYX0L6t0@Lsvded into the kitchen. The cook barely glanced at him except to point at the sink full of bubbles, where the dishwasher of indeterminate gender, age, and ethnicity stood. Their head was bowed, hair tucked up under a baseball hat, arms plunged in the sink. A heavy duty apron was tied tightly to keep the water from soaking them.
They silently pointed at a second apron on a hook.
Martin set the two dishes down and put it on. The dishwasher shuffled slightly to make room. Martin rolled up his sleeves and began to wash dishes.
The clock on the wall changed.
The night shift was coming to an end.
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