The Januaryist

Spots

Becky, Becky, Becky, Becky, Becky.

Repeating her name like a mantra, Sam scanned the bar for someone to match the profile photo. Wait! No. Looking around seems nervous. I’m casual. I’m just here at the bar reading my iPhone in a very casual way.

A hand waved in front of his screen. It was attached to an arm which was attached to a red-haired girl. “Hi!” she smiled and cocked her head. “Are you Sam?”

“Yes! I’m Sam. And you’re…” The name vaporized from his mind.

“Becky.”

“Yes! Great! Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love a Sixpoint if they have them on tap. Can I have a seat?”

“Oh! Yes!” He moved his jacket off the chair next to his. “Please.”

She sat. “Reading anything good?”

“What?” She was beautiful, really beautiful. Thick hair, straight teeth, big blue eyes and more freckles than even her profile photos had shown. He wondered if she’d photoshopped some of them out.

She pointed at his hand. “On your phone. You seemed deep in thought when I came in.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I was just reading, you know… nothing, I guess.”

“Yeah, I do a lot of that on my phone, too,” she said, gesturing at it. “The phones these days are so much better at doing nothing than the ones from ten years ago.”

He said nothing, staring into her eyes and nodding like an idiot.

“Okay…” She broke the silence and turned down the bar. “So about that beer…”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” He waved a hand at the bartender. “Dennis? One more of these?”

Dennis delivered the pour, and she held it up for a toast. “Cin-cin.”

They drank. She smiled and crossed her legs. He felt all the more convinced she was the one.

“So yeah, tell me about what kind of philosophy you do.”

“I’m sorry?”

“On the phone. When we set up the date.” She raised an eyebrow. “You told me you live in Greenpoint, you have a Dalmatian, you aren’t a big fan of peirogies and you study philosophy. So I’m just wondering what kind, like aesthetics, or metaphysics, or epistemology, or… what?”

He laughed. “Oh, of course. Yeah, I didn’t say philosophy. I study moleosophy.”

“Did you say moleosophy? Like moles?”

“Oh, absolutely. They fascinate me.”

“Wow. Okay. But not, like voles and weasles? Not the same?”

“No, no… not the animal mole. The other one.”

“Moleosophy is the study of pigmented spots?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. There’s a really rich history of divination based around moles. I did my thesis on it. I mean, it’s never been as big as astrology or runes or whathaveyou, but it’s absolutely legit.”

Becky put her drink down. Her glowing smile receded. “Did you ask me out because you wanted to study my freckles?”

“Well, I thought…”

“You did,” she said, pulling her coat back on. She shook her head. “You’ve got some freaky-ass mole perversion so you took one look at my freckles and you said to yourself, ‘boy, here’s my dream girl,’ didn’t you?”

“Becky—”

“Well, I’ll tell you something, buddy. A freckle is not a mole. A mole is dark and ugly and they have hairs growing out of them. I am NOT covered in moles. Freckles are beautiful. They’re fucking angel kisses and FUCK YOU.”

With that, the woman of Sam’s dreams turned on the heel of her brown leather booties and minced out of his life.

By the time Lindsey — a sweet strawberry blonde with a golden field of spots — sauntered into the bar a few weeks later, Sam had taken down his blog, trashed his books of moleomancy and paid a reputation management company to bury his comments and forum posts. This time, the cheetah wouldn’t run.

Flim-Flam

The wild west show spread out like an army field barracks and rolled up like a battered big top.

While the young hands folded the banners and pulled down the crow’s nest, Doc Mazur stuffed rags between bottles to keep the tinkle of tinctures from driving the clown out of his mind. Nobody wanted to see Aloysius on another drinking tear.

Boss Laing said they’d leave Yuma at first light. By Thursday, they’d be setting up outside Flagstaff to start another weekend run. They’d push northeast over the weeks ahead, and nobody expected much for crowds at the early stops. The money was better out east, but they’d have wait for the weather to clear.

Mazur stacked a final box of muted tinctures on top of the similarly padded liniments, salves and elixirs. He saw the top of the boy’s head over the top of the load.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Ned.”

“Will you need any errands today, sir?”

“Not today, Ned, but I’d be obliged if you might assist me in coiling the ropes here. Mind you keep them from knotting.”

Ned set down his lunchpail and settled onto the bench outside Mazur’s striped caravan.

“You pack out in the morning, sir?”

Mazur nodded and pulled tent stakes up from the packed earth.

The boy took a deep breath. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, would you consider taking me along? I work hard, and I’m sure I could be of use to your business.”

Mazur pitched the tent stakes into a pile near the caravan. “Don’t you need to tend your gran, son? She needs a strong body more than I.”

“Oh, no, sir. My gran’s got Uncle Pete and Aunt Annie. She won’t need me so much.” Ned finished his first coil and moved on to the next.

“You’re just a child, Ned. You can’t be more than 10. What would you do on a traveling medicine show?”

“I’m 12, sir. Almost a man.” He sat up a little straighter as he said it. “I aim to travel east on your wagon and attend medical school.”

Mazur collapsed the canvas and threw down the poles. “I’m afraid the answer is no.”

“But I swear I’ll work my way, sir. You’ll see — I won’t be a bit of a burden.”

“I said no, Ned, and that’s that.”

Ned threw down the second coil. “Gran says you’re not a real doc,” he said, spitting on the ground. “She says you’re a flim-flam man.”

Mazur shuffled to the caravan, favoring his left leg. That bad ankle was giving him trouble again — a bad omen before a long trip. “Well, your Gran’s half-right.”

“Gran says you fill up bottles and tins with wishes and dreams.”

Doc Mazur left Ned on the bench and ducked into the caravan.

Ned kept his hands busy with coiling and tried not to feel so sorry for himself, but his eyes watered a little despite all efforts to the contrary. He blew his nose on the handkerchief in his pocket and fixed his gaze on the twined web of ropes before him.

After a long while, Doc Mazur emerged from his dim wagon and settled on the bench next to the boy. The smoke from his pipe was sweet and rich. It smelled like warm leather and dried cherries beside a stove full of cedar.

As Ned tossed down the last coil of rope into the pile beside the caravan, Mazur unwrapped the cloth bundle held in his arms and he presented a worn volume of anatomy engravings and a leather-bound Latin reader.

“Ned, these books are worth a great deal to me. I’m leaving them in your care with the understanding that you will do me the great favor of storing them until this caravan returns next winter.”

He puffed his pipe while Ned turned the books over in his hands.

“But promise me you won’t go show them to your aunt and uncle and your friends. This is just between you and me, Ned.”

“I won’t, sir. I swear I won’t say a word.” Ned gently wrapped the books in the cloth and looked up at Doc Mazur. “And maybe next year?”

“Well, you’ll be a man by then, won’t you? We’ll just sit down and have a talk among men.”

The wild west show rolled out at dawn. Their fires were still smoking in the morning light as Ned passed the campsite on his way to school.

The show finally rolled back into Yuma just before the feast of St. Lucy. Gran was making her annual batch of saffron buns.

Ned ran out to meet the wagon train with a head full of ligaments and Latin, but Doc Mazur’s striped caravan was not among their number. Aloysius the clown remembered that the Doc had taken ill in Ohio. They hadn’t heard from him.

After graduation, Edward made a detour through Ohio on his way back to Yuma. He searched a field of stones on the south side of Akron, and he laid a pouch of fine, sweet tobacco at the head of Adam “Doc” Mazur’s grave.

Staycations Inc.

“Welcome to Staycations,” chirped the receptionist. “Can I get your ID please?”

Jerry stepped on the foot pads and looked into the scanner.

“It’s great to see you again, Mr. Forrester. We have a special for Gold Members this month. Would you like to hear about our mind-body dual package?”

“Standard Staycation, please.”

“Okay, great. I’ve got you down for a one-week experience. Do you want your usual, Mr. Forrester?”

Jerry paused for a moment. Yes, he could do the South of France again. It was lovely every time. He really had no complaint with the South of France, but then again, there were other options.

“Can you tell me the other one-week options again?”

“We now feature 18 Staycation options at that time interval — more than any other virtual vacation vendor on the market — and each one comes with our credit-back Amazing Staycation Guarantee. If you just scan down this menu, you’ll see the names and descriptions of each.”

“What’s the Magical Mystery Tour include?”

“That one’s new! And yes, it’s really a mystery. That trip is generated based on our proprietary algorithm of 38 different personalization factors. It’s customized just for you and it’s different every time, but it also comes with our Amazing Staycation Guarantee, so it’s totally risk-free.”

“Guaranteed amazing.”

“Yup. One hundred percent.”

***

At the appointed time, Jerry arrived at his Staycation Pod. An attendant helped him into his sensors.

“I see you’re one of our Gold Members, Mr. Forrester, so I won’t put you through all the safety and compliance instructions again. Just press your thumb here to verify that you’ve been informed.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you do feel like you need a refresher, just remember that there’s a reference card here, right below your call button.”

“I remember. Thanks.”

The attendant handed Jerry his pills and protein shake. “Thanks for choosing Staycations, Mr. Forrester. We all hope you enjoy ‘The Trip Without the Travel.’ “

***

Jerry spotted Zelda on his second day in Tulum. He was searching for a coconut vendor. She was slurping a mango-chile paleta as it dripped on the sidewalk. She laughed as pieces of frozen mango tumbled across her hands and her chin.

Zelda was an illustrator and a part-time letterpress operator. Yes, she said, her parents were big fans of the Jazz Age. She lived in Brooklyn. She was exploring Tulum on her own. She was quick to smile and had a tiny mole at the outside corner of her left eye. He was immediately smitten.

They spent the next five days swimming and eating, laughing and kissing. Each explored the other’s body and mind up until the very last moment.

Jerry looked at his watch. “I have to leave. I’m only here for a week.”

Zelda’s face fell. “Can’t you change your ticket?”

Ticket? he thought, but there wasn’t time to clarify. “You’re going back tomorrow, right? Do you have a pen?”

She did. He wrote out his number. “Call me as soon as you get there.”

“I will,” she said. “Don’t forget me, okay?” She smiled and he kissed her again, so happy to just be near her, kissing her, tasting her soft lips.

His watch beeped its one-minute warning. He left her in bed and found a chair in the lobby where he closed his eyes and waited for reorientation.

***

Jerry’s eyes fluttered open as the attendant was removing the last of his sensors. “Welcome home, Mr. Forrester. Did you enjoy your Staycation?”

The attendant handed Jerry a protein shake and set out a robe, slippers and a set of fluffy white towels.

“It was great. Really great.”

“Well, I’m so glad to hear that. Your shower is ready just through that door. Take all the time you need, and we’ll see you in reception.”

Reunited with his street clothes, Jerry dug out his phone and Googled Zelda Blackpoole.

The name was rare enough that she was the only one who appeared in the results.

He found dozens of image results. Zelda’s laughing eyes in photos. Her illustrations.

He found her Facebook page. He found her Flickr account. And then he found her obituary, dated January 27, 2012.

Jerry caught the attention of the receptionist. “Miss,” he said, “sorry to bother you, but I met somebody on my trip.”

“Uh huh,” she nodded. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. They’re not real. It’s just part of the program.”

“But are the people patterned off real people?”

“That’s a proprietary-“

“Please, miss. I’m not going to run and tell the competition. I just need to know for myself.”

She looked him over for a moment.

“Please.”

“Well,” she sighed. “I guess it’s not a trade secret or anything. They did use some open-source personality data. I guess it’s people who put their lives out on the web back in the day. You know… before everyone started putting in privacy controls and stuff.”

“So they were real.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she laughed and rolled her eyes. “But that was like, fifty years ago. They’ve all been dead forever.”

“Right. Thanks,” Jerry croaked. He put his phone back in his pocket and turned away so that the girl at the desk wouldn’t see his eyes glassing over.

Game Theory

A week after Harold’s death, Marilyn set out a schedule of stakeouts at blind crosswalks (mornings), construction zones (afternoons) and dangerous curves (evenings).

It wasn’t a morbid curiosity that drove her. (On the contrary, she truly dreaded the day she’d witness some poor soul’s last breath.) Marilyn was merely calculating probabilities to set up the most efficient plan to track down Death.

After the fifth icy morning stalking the obstructed-view crosswalk by the projects, Marilyn was beginning to doubt her methods. But that night, her efforts were rewarded: a Friday-night playoff game combined with black-ice roadways, and she winced as a car full of drunken college students sped straight into a tree.

Hitting the call button on her phone (having already programmed 911 into speed dial), Marilyn kept her eyes on the roadway. In the bitter night air, the car steamed. Nothing inside it moved. She shivered, watching, waiting. And then, in the blink of an eye, he appeared, just as she’d envisioned.

Marilyn snatched the flashlight off the seat of her car, looked both ways and marched across the roadway.

Death, for his part, was busy. There were six kids in the car. Each one was freshly dead.

Marilyn called out, “Mr. Death!” Death ignored her.

She wasn’t put off by this. A long career in auto sales had perfected her polite, persistent delivery. “Mr. Death, I know you’re very busy, but I only need a moment of your time.”

As she dropped her business card into one of the pockets of his diaphanous robe, she said, “I’m Marilyn Mackenzie-Robbins. I’ve heard you enjoy games, Mr. Death, and I just want to invite you over for a quick session. Stop by anytime. I work at home these days.”

Death gave Marilyn a long stare from his hollow eye-sockets before returning to the task of extracting the last soul. Rising through the crumpled ceiling of the car, the ex-girl took in the scene around her, then sheepishly settled next to her friends in a line that trailed behind Death’s tattered cloak.

As Marilyn drove back to town, the ambulance and police cars sped down the opposite lane. “No need to rush,” she whispered.

Death arrived the following afternoon.

Marilyn shooed away Mitzi and offered him tea. He declined, pointing at his skeletal neck.

He had no shoes to remove, but he hung his scythe in the entryway. She showed him to the most comfortable chair in the parlor.

“Chess?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind,” said Marilyn, “I’m better at Connect Four.”

Death nodded. “Best of five?”

“Perfect,” she said, holding up a red chip and a black chip. Naturally, he chose black.

Marilyn took the first game handily. While she wondered whether he was toying with her, she let her guard down and he won the second round on a stupid error.

She trapped him on an open trio in the third, but before she could set up the fourth game, he stopped her.

“Marilyn, I can’t bring him back,” he said.

She looked at him quizzically.

“I don’t know where all that started, but you can’t win a game against Death and get somebody back from the dead. It doesn’t work like that. I take them and they’re gone. They don’t come back.”

“So, ghosts? Zombies?”

Death shook his head. A centipede that dropped out of his skull was promptly captured and eaten by Mitzi. “Not my thing.”

“Huh,” said Marilyn. “So there’s really nothing I can do about Harold?”

“Nothing that’ll bring him back to life.” He looked at the board, stroking one of the checkers with a bony finger. “Not that you’d really want that anyway. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Huh,” said Marilyn. Her eyes followed the path of a snowflake as it gently drifted from the clouds and melted against her picture window.

After a long moment, she shook off the reverie. “Well,” she said. “Do you want to keep playing?”

“Oh, yes,” said Death. “If you’re still game, that is. It’s true that I’ve always enjoyed a good diversion.”