John’s Life

Tires of a 2005 Toyota Corolla, doing 90, parted puddles of water along a awkwardly empty bypass. The dense rain made it hard for any driver to see past the car bonnet. John Anoke was from his usual Sunday drive to his off-world destination, The Bau Beach. Where all the anxiety and stress of the week was

absorbed and dissipated by the cool ocean breeze, massaging sand and the warm goodnight kiss from the setting sun, all accompanied by a cold beer.  This week, he really needed it. In addition to being laid off from his minimum wage job as a warehouse guard, his mother wasn’t going to make it past Monday, tomorrow. Bloody breast cancer. If this was some test from God, John was far from Job’s faith. 

The arrival of the evening storm was declared by the grey cloudy morning sky. And now driving to Kindafall’s public hospital, lat that evening, was a depressed, poorly shaven and lonely middle-aged man. 

The drive seemed longer than usual without perspective of the surroundings. The headlights were on full, but were refracted and scattered between the raindrops. To John’s surprise, a man, or what seemed to be one, with his hand stuck out, was vaguely visible on the road side for a moment. John just past him, showering the being with cold muddy water. 

A creeping feeling of guilt filled John’s heart and slowly climbed its way up his throat. In his breathless remorse, he hit the breaks, causing the car to skid to a halt slightly off the road. After a few tries, the car managed to reverse out of the murram and back onto the tarmac. John reversed till he reached his victim, the slightly pulled down the window, to the point where he believed his voice could be heard.

“Hey. Sorry. I’m rushing to the public hospital,” said John, trying to kill his guilt with a feeble apology. His voice was unfamiliarly high. He cleared his throat. “Can I drop you anywhere between here and there?” 

The tall figure bent towards the co-driver’s window and in a deep raspy base said, “Ya. The slum before the medical playground.”

Not knowing what to do with the latter of that response, John simply unlocked the door. The tall man removed his covers as he entered the car, trying not to let in the rain, and they set off. Without the covers, or what might have been a worn out poncho, was an old skinny gentleman in a vintage dark blue suit, with a poorly shaven beard. His legs had covered more height ratio than the rest of him, hence he looked much shorter when seated. 

The drive was silent and calm, at list for one of them. John’s mind revolved around how he will survive the week, and the rest of his life. He did not know what his final words to his mother would be, or how he would go on living without her. Two weeks out of the womb and l his father found rest in a coffin. Wrong place, wrong time, his mother would say, without any further explanation. It has been just the two of them ever since. 

“Seeing someone at the medical centre?” The base seemed to vibrate condensed car air. The old man seemly had some sort of struggling charisma in his voice. An attempt to make conversation.

“Yup.” A short mundane response in hopes of concluding the conversation.  What else would I be doing, a morgue heist?

More silence. Straight to John’s museum of memories. In this exhibition, a boy, around six years of age, is kicking a ball up and down a church compound during a memorial. No! In a hospital, on the waiting bench outside a doctors office. It’s an old action figure he plays with, not a ball. The boy drops his toy to the ground and its head snaps off. He runs into the office crying, straight to the legs of a lady dressed in a dull coloured sundress, who wipes the tears, included her own. She was seated opposite a doctor, who looked uncomfortable. The mood is somber. The doctor was trying to say something, but he was at a loss of words. The lady handed little John a wallet that contained a photograph of a young handsome man showing all thirty-two. “Son!” Says the widow. “Be as strong as your father. Mom needs you to be strong, more than ever!”

“You look lonely.” Another rude, raspy interruption. This time, the charisma doubled. “Are you a lonely man, mister...?”

“Anoke.” John was finding the old man‘s attempts rather annoying. 

“Do you believe in fate? Destiny?” The old man was now staring at John, revealing his wrinkled brown skin and scattered grey facial hair, exposed by the dashboard and radio lighting. 

“No.” John’s reply was stale. No one forced you to go back for him, John! You’d be in with mother right now. 

“But you believe in god, right? The whole god knows everything, including the future, but you still have free will! Weird, eh!”

“Ya, guess so.”

The silence was given one more go, back to John’s corridor of thought. This time, a man in uniform lay in front of a warehouse gate that was wide open. A carpet of blood around the body, fusing with the tarmac. A van is leaving the scene, tires screeching, tailed be white smoke. Its occupants are all stirred up. Seconds later, a man, also in uniform, leaves one of the compound latrine stalls. Headphones on and a magazine held at his armpit, dancing his way to to the gate. He stops a few yards from his deceased workmate. The magazine drops to the ground and John follows it to his knees.

“What’s going on up there, you don’t seem to be on the road,” the raspy base now sounded kind and understanding, waking John from his mental state. “Seems like you’ve been having a bad day. A bad week.”

John had lost it within. He was reaching 110 kph, and his surprisingly calm passenger wasn’t helping. 

“Sorry about your mother...” said the old man, shocking John and causing to face the old man. How did he kno...

Without warning and audibility, John hit a pothole with his front right tire, sending the car into a barrel-roll of one and a half revolutions. Landing on its roof, the car skidded off road into the shrubs and thickets just below the slums. For hours, John hung there, upside down, by his seatbelt, unconscious. This time no memories, no thoughts, just an empty void of unconscious. He would wake from time to time, look at the road, look at his cracked windshield, and look at the empty passenger seat, all blurry. The world slowly faded away. 

A soft somber melody, played within a church, set the mood for the afternoon scenery. Couples sat on a field along a gentle slope in front of the church. Kids playing with each other, teenagers looking like they had somewhere better to be, and the elderly enjoying their fruits. The church was on a hill so it could be found by lost souls. The hill was surrounded by a small forest. Somewhere below the church, where the slope met the trees, was the heart of the melancholy radiated by the pianist. An old man sat on a bench observing time and life waltz on the field in front of the church. His mind distant, his heart sore. Unlike those that displayed euphoria in the distance, he did not feed from the same garden of life. He did no bare no fruits nor did he feed off any. His garden was a swamp that grew thorny thickets and clogged by mossy waters. 

The sun was setting as the church bell rang, and the euphoric waltz was concluding. The old man was joined by another. He was tall and wore a vintage blue suit. They sat there observing humans and their offspring gather into the church. 

“You know, I would have taken you,” the deep raspy voice was unchanged, “but your heart was too bitter. And yet, here you are, unchanged.”

The bitter old man remained silent as if he were not there, mentally, or even physically. 

“Your death would’ve been insignificant. But as it turns out, your life was so,” a brief pause, “You might have wanted to die that day, but it wasn’t your life I had come f...”

“You could have let me see her,” the old man interrupted his scolding. Mr Anoke’s voice was husky and dry with age. 

“Uh...” the old reaper was at a loss of words, so he simply sat there and brushed his, now pale blue, pants. His suit looked worn out. 

After a while, the old man in the blue suit stood up, stretched his long legs and said, “Your fate wasn’t mine to choose,” and walked away. 

Mr Anoke sat there, at edge of the field, watching both the sun and life leave him.