The Mysterious Mr. Morton

Mr. Morton needed a new pair of shoes. The soles were worn, the leather cracked. And of course, my blood was splattered all over them. As I laid on the tile, unable to move, I watched the blood slowly swirling around me in a sticky pool, only vaguely aware that the sanguine liquid was mine. The blood-spattered sneakers took a step toward me, careful to avoid the red sea rising around me, and then Mr. Morton squatted down to look me in the eyes. By then, I figured out that the bullet had hit my spine, rendering me immobile, but I was able to use the last of my remaining energy to look him in his piercing gray eyes.

“I wish it didn’t have to end like this, Myra.” His eyes showed genuine disappointment before he stood back up, stepping over me to leave. I wanted to tell him that if he didn’t want it to end like this, then he shouldn’t have shot me, but my mouth stopped working. I was suddenly, irreversibly tired. The energy it took to look Mr. Morton in the eyes was my last, and my lids began to droop, filling my vision with the sticky red pool on the floor. I took one last breath, the bitter coppery smell filling my nostrils, and then my vision faded to black.

As deaths go, it wasn’t my worst.

When my eyes open again it’s morning and I’m back in my bed. I gasp sharply,  sucking in as much oxygen as I can into my deprived lungs. My racing heart slowly returns to normal as I wiggle my fingers and toes and find everything working as it should. My injuries always heal when my day resets, but I still check every morning to be sure.

Things weren’t always like this. Everything changed the day I finally made partner at my firm. I’d been a lawyer for twelve years,  and I gave the firm everything. Every moment of every day was spent on how to fight my cases, how to be better, how to win. At long last, the announcement was made that I would be the newest partner at Weisman, Gardner, Slater, and Frank, and the youngest to ever make partner at the firm.  Afterward, they took me out to celebrate. We ended up in a strange little bar I’d never seen before. Jared, the lawyer I beat out for partner, sauntered over to me and whispered in my ear.

“Let me buy you a drink, hot stuff.” 

I pointedly sipped the full drink I already had, while suppressing a grimace at his phrasing. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on, you won, I lost. No hard feelings.” He winked at me and moved his cold eyes up and down my body like a piece of meat he’s hungry for.  “You could be my consolation prize.”

I leaned over to him, my mouth close to his ear, and whispered back, “There isn’t enough alcohol in the world.” I walked away from him, feeling his glare on my back.

 After yet another round, when my face felt good and flushed and the euphoria of my buzz settled happily in my bones, I saw him. Sitting quietly in the back corner of the bar was an alluring man in a gray suit and pristine white sneakers. He looked out of place, sitting alone without a drink in his hand, but that’s not what drew my attention to him. What I noticed was his stare, which in a crowded room was razor-focused on me and me alone.

Enjoying the attention, I walked over, sat next to him, and crossed my long legs. His gray eyes never left mine.

“I’m Myra,” I said, meeting his gaze.

“I’m Mr. Morton,” he replied.

“‘Mister’ huh? So what do you do, Mr. Morton?”​ This was always my opening line. Not because I cared at all about what anyone did for a living, but because I knew chances were good they’d ask me in return and I could talk about how I was on the partner track at New York’s top law firm. Today was even more fun to ask because I could finally say what I’ve been wanting to say–I am a partner at New York’s top law firm.

“I grant wishes.” Mr. Morton’s face remained unreadable, his gray eyes boring into my soul as I tossed my head back and laughed.

“Well, I’ll give it to you, I haven’t heard that one before.”

“What wish can I grant for you, Myra?”

Still smiling, I glanced around the bar, at the faces of the jealous lawyers around me. I remembered the applause they’d given me hours before when my partnership was announced, and I couldn’t think of a damn thing I wanted that I didn’t already have.

“Not a thing in the world, Mr. Morton. I just wish every day could be like today.”

Well, dammit. 

Never make wishes to strange men in bars.

When I woke up the next day, and it was still the same day, it took me a while to notice anything was off. I was confused when I got the same phone calls, the same texts, the same hellos in the hallway, but passed it off as being incredibly hungover, even though, incredibly, I wasn’t hungover at all. Then I was called into the board room and it was announced, again, that I had made partner, and I thought everyone was playing a joke on me. They thought I was in shock. When I saw Mr. Morton in the bar again that night, in the same seat, I ran over to him.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“I grant wishes, Myra. Your wish was granted.”

“How do you un-grant them?” A bitterness hit my tongue as if I could taste the panic that was rising in my throat.

“That’s for you to figure out. You’ve been given a gift. What you do with it, is up to you.” He stood to leave and tossed me a business card. It simply read Mr. Morton with a phone number underneath. “Call if you need help, but do try to keep it to emergencies.” With that, he walked out of the bar. The next night (which was really the same night once again,) he wasn’t there at all.

I spent the next few weeks (which was just a few dozen of the same days over and over again) trying to relish in hearing the repeated announcement that I had made partner. Each day I picked a new jealous face to focus on. That fun ran out quickly when I realized if this kept up, I’d never get to actually BE partner. 

Waking up without a hangover was fun for a while. I tried to push the limits of it, see how much I could drink in a night, but that fun ran out too because I started getting sick and had to wait hours in agony before the day would reset, which I learned happened at midnight.

Next, I started going home with different men each night. I started with the good-looking arrogant ones, the ones that previously I would never give the satisfaction to. I went through most of the men in the office, and half of the women. Everyone except Jared, whose smarminess made my skin crawl.

That got boring too after a while. What next? What would you try in a world with no consequences? Should I rob a bank? Go joyriding? Walk through Times Square naked? None of it appealed to me. Even work no longer fueled me, so I stopped going. More than anything, I just wanted someone to know what was going on, for someone to believe me that this was happening. I wanted to call my best friend, the person that I trusted more than anyone in the world, the person who would be there for me no matter what–but I drew a blank trying to think of who this person might be. I didn’t even have anyone to call to brag about making partner. I didn’t have any friends.

And now I never would. 

I’d never be able to meet anyone because they wouldn’t remember me the next day. Never be able to fall in love, have a family, do all the things I thought maybe I’d have time for one day. Now one day would never come. I tried telling my partners, my interns, even my parents who I rarely speak to anymore. No one believed me. I spent more than a few nights locked in a mental ward, only to wake in the comfort of my bed at home the next morning.

That’s about when I started trying to kill myself. I jumped off buildings, shot myself in the head, hung myself. I even once staged an elaborate car accident to result in my decapitation, just in case it took my head separating for the death to work finally. It didn’t. I called Mr. Morton, thousands of times, pleading for it to end. After my decapitation, when I awoke gasping for air in my bed, I called him again. 

“Un-grant it, Mr. Morton, Un-grant it, un-grant it!” I pleaded. 

He sighed. “Oh Myra, what happened to your perfect day?”

“You know what happened. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Maybe you just forgot how good the day was.” A flicker of the happiness I felt that day hit me and then quickly faded, replaced by my gaping loneliness. I was nothing but my career. I couldn’t do the job now with my day on repeat, and without it, I had absolutely nothing and no one else.

“What do I need to do to make it stop?”

“It was a gift, Myra. What you do with it is up to you.”

That’s when I decided that Mr. Morton needed to die.

It made sense. He was obviously the wielder of some sort of magic, and when you kill the wielder, the magic dies with it. Right? Or I suppose I could get stuck in the magic forever, but hey, I figured it was worth a shot.

Over the next few months, (or years maybe, as I had long ago stopped keeping track) I plotted to kill Mr. Morton. I’d call him to meet me in a park and try to shoot him. Or meet me in a bar, where I’d try to poison him. But he always seemed a step ahead of me, always knew when to dodge my shot or exchange drinks when I wasn’t looking so I’d poison myself. 

Predictably, it got harder to get him to meet me places, so I’d hunt him down and follow him instead. It took me a few months to figure out where he lived, a few more to get a key to his apartment where I hid in the shower, waiting for him to come home. When I launched at him from behind the curtain, a knife aimed at his throat, he sidestepped effortlessly, turned and shot me. The bullet plunged through my belly, and lodged in my spine.

Once my breathing and heart rate return to normal, and I am done inspecting my body for remaining signs of injury from last night's foiled attack, I stop to think about where I went wrong. How does he always seem to know I’m coming? I’ve failed at killing him many times before, but this particular attack took months of planning. Where did I go wrong?

I replay every moment of the day in my mind, down to the very last image I had: Mr. Morton stepping over me with his cracked leather shoes, splattered with my blood.

Wait a minute.  

Every day, Mr. Morton wears the same thing, since every day is the same day; a gray suit with white sneakers. I think back to that day, long ago, when I first saw Mr. Morton in that strange bar in the Village, the way he sat there, staring at me through the crowd. I remember noticing his gray suit that matched his eyes and his pristine white sneakers.

So how is it now that his soles are worn and his leather cracked?

Every day is the same day. No one ages, nothing changes. Damages from one day reset the next. How is it possible that Mr. Morton’s shoes are getting older?

My pulse quickens as I try to sort through the implications of this. Has anything else about him changed? Is he getting older? I can’t be sure. I run to my closet and check the shoes that I wear almost every day but they look as new as the first day I ever wore them. So why are his shoes changing? Unable to sort it out, I call him for help. After all, he’s the only person I can talk to.

“Good morning, Myra,” he says warmly when he answers the phone. “No hard feelings I hope? I do hate when your days end that way.”

“Your shoes!” I blurt out dumbly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your shoes. They changed. They’ve gotten older, worn down. They aren’t the same as they were when we met like everything else is. I noticed when I was stuck on the floor last night.” After you shot me in the spine, I add in my head. 

He pauses as if surprised by me for the first time in the years we’ve now known each other. Then he releases a slow laugh that starts to build and bellow from his throat.

“Mr. Morton! What does it mean?”

“I dry clean my suit every day but never thought to change my shoes. Very good, Myra. You finally see what I’ve been trying to tell you.” 

“See what?”

“I gave you a gift.”  And when you give a gift, I think, you no longer have it. “As the giver, only I can pass between both realities, but only you have the gift of immortality, not I. The world continues for all but you. Only you are stuck, and only you have the power to change your life. But will you choose to change it? You’re on your own now, you don’t need me anymore.”

He hangs up, and I know what I have to do.

I quickly get dressed, trying to remember what I wore that first day I made partner, all those years ago. It’s been ages now since I’ve bothered going to work, but I need today to go just how that first day went.

I try to say hi to all the same people, respond to emails and texts with all the same words. I spent enough time early on replaying this day in my head that I remember the details well enough. What I can’t remember, is how this ever left me feeling fulfilled. Finally, it comes time for the board meeting and my partner announcement. At the end of the meeting, Annette, our senior partner, stands to make the announcement. I stand at the same time, and she arches an eyebrow at me.

“I’m sorry to interrupt Annette, I just need to make a quick announcement, before you make yours.”

Her brow furrows but she nods and slowly sits down.

“Today will be my last day at Weisman, Gardner, Slater and Frank.” Surprised murmurs spread through the room along with looks of concern on everyone’s faces. Everyone except Jared, that is, whose eyes spark with hope.

“I appreciate the mentoring I’ve received here, and no, I don’t have an offer from another firm. I need to take time off, for personal reasons. I know Jared and I were neck and neck for partner, and I just wanted to publicly throw my support behind Jared for the position.” I clap, and a few people hesitantly clap as well. Jared beams despite his clear shock at the sudden change of events.

A few hours later, the firm is out celebrating Jared’s promotion. I swap my vodka tonics for club soda with lime but I pretend I’m still getting buzzed. I stand at the bar, the same spot where I first spotted Mr. Morton, and wait for Jared to slink over to me, which he predictably does.

“Let me buy you a drink, hot stuff.” 

This time, I make sure my drink is empty.

“Vodka tonic would be great,” I say, purposely slurring my words a little.  “Having a good day?” He smiles wide and leans towards me.

“I know something that could make it better.” His lips lightly brush my ear as he says it, his hot breath on my skin. I force a smile, knowing it might come to this.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, glancing at the clock over his shoulder. It’s 10:30 p.m.–I don’t have much time.

A half-hour later, we’re in his apartment. We start making out as soon as we get in the elevator and we’re ripping at each other’s clothes as we stumble inside. I make sure to keep acting drunk as I’m not sure he’d believe that I’d go home with him sober. We push into his bedroom as I rip the last of his shirt off and shove him backward onto his bed. I climb on top of him, straddling his waist, as he grins mischievously up at me.

“Don’t you wish tomorrow could be just like today?” I prompt.

“Man, I wish all my days could be like today.”

Relief pours through me and I feel something shift inside me at hearing the words. I slowly climb off him, grabbing my shirt, as his arrogant smile falters. 

“I gave you a gift. I hope you enjoy it more than I did,” I say sincerely, before turning and walking out.

“Myra? Myra!” He calls after me in confusion.

I go home and collapse into bed, more exhausted than I’ve felt in a while as the weight of my mortality returns. 

When I wake up, it’s tomorrow.