Monty's Redemption

On the Road

Monty could feel the back of his neck begin to burn as he walked along the lonesome highway. Texas summers were not designed for hitchhiking, but Monty knew he had no choice. Sure, there was more than enough cash in his duffle bag for a taxi, but that wasn’t an option. He had a debt to pay, and every penny counted (even the gummy, half-bent ones he found on the side of the road). The heat was almost unbearable, but Monty dared not complain. He seemed to find meaning in the suffering, as though it were the fruition of karma.

Just as the sun was climbing to its peak, Monty heard the rumblings of a distant eighteen-wheeler approaching from behind. With his free hand he wiped the sweat from his brow and held out his thumb. A sense of relief washed over him as the truck began to slow down and eventually stop.

“Where you headed?” asked the driver as Monty climbed into the passenger seat.

“As close to town as you can get me,” Monty instructed.

As the truck headed down the road, the driver decided to strike up some friendly conversation. “Where you comin’ from?” he asked.

“Well, if I’ll be honest, I just got out of jail this morning. My next stop was the bank, were I pulled out every dollar I had, and started heading west.”

The driver sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. He had so many questions, but no idea of which to ask first.

“Why on earth are you hitchhiking in hundred-degree weather when you got a duffle bag full of cash? Also, what’s a convict doing with a duffle bag full of cash anyway? I’m thinking you’re up to no good.”

“It’s a long story,” Monty replied. “A month ago, I was lying in my cell with the worst flu I had ever experienced. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or even walk for almost a week. When things got their worst, I began to have visions. At first, I thought they were just fever dreams, a dying brain doing its best to distract itself. After a while, I realized they were memories, but not my memories. I was remembering things from my past lives.

“Over and over, I watched myself be born, suffer, and die. It turns out that this life is not my first time being poor, alone, or in trouble with the law. For the last two centuries I’ve been repeating the same cycle, suffering the same consequences.”

The driver had decided that Monty was crazy, but certainly not dangerous. He continued listening.

“This cycle began about two hundred years ago, when I, in a past life, met a farmer named Wardell Johnson. I was a weary traveler, and he invited me in for dinner and offered to let me stay the night. Well, I had no intentions of staying until morning. While the family slept, I robbed them of anything that was shiny, as well as their two horses. The way I see it, all the misfortunes I’ve faced since then are a result of the bad karma I earned that night.

“I did the math and, based on value at the time of the stolen items, and the combination of inflation and interest, I owe about four hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars. I’ve got about six thousand dollars in this bag here. Assuming my labor is worth minimum wage, if I work sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, minus food, water, and shelter, I can pay off my debt in about forty-five years.”

           The driver was dumbfounded, both with the audacity of Monty’s words and the sincerity of his voice. The man next to him really had a bag full of cash that he intended to give away to a complete stranger. Then, an idea struck him.

           “You know,” the driver said, “it’s funny that we should meet like this, because I recently had a vision too. I was a farmer named Wardell in a past life, and some precious things were stolen from me. Yes, it’s all clear now, why we met. If you go ahead and give me what’s in the bag, I’ll let you off the hook for the rest of it.”

           Monty smiled. “Even if you are telling the truth, it’s not Wardell I owe. You see, Wardell would have lost everything the day he died anyway. The real victims, the souls who continue to suffer the effects of my crime, are his children and grandchildren. I have tracked down his only living relative. It is to him that I am indebted.”

           The driver shrugged. Had to try, he thought.

           Soon the truck reached town, and the two parted ways as Monty continued his journey on foot.

The Johnsons

           When Monty reached the Johnson’s house, he was struck by how pleasant the neighborhood was. The quiet streets were lined with white picket fences and well-manicured lawns. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a pleasant looking married couple in their early thirties. It was clear to see that they were shocked to see this young, scruffy-looking young man knocking on their door. He explained why he was there, just as he had with the truck driver. Much to Monty’s dismay, couple simply apologized and shut the door.

           “This is what happens when you close the asylums,” Mr. Johnson said to his wife.

           Monty remained outside their door, dropping to his knees as if to beg for the opportunity to repay his debt. Minutes turned into hours; day turned into night.

           Looking out her bedroom window, Mrs. Johnson began to pity the young man. “You know, maybe we should take him in. I know it sounds crazy, but something about him seems so… so genuine. Who knows, maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe the only way his soul can find rest is by helping others.”

           Mr. Johnson was skeptical, but figured off the young man would be better off in his home than back in prison, so he went downstairs to tell him the good news.

           From that day, Monty began helping the Johnsons in any way he could. He started with basic things: mowing the lawn, doing dishes, cleaning the house. He looked after their son, coached a little league team, chauffeured him to school, and packed healthy lunches. He began growing a prized vegetable garden in the backyard, yielding organic produce for the family every evening. Johnson family dinner parties became the talk of the town, with residents competing for an invitation to see what Chef Monty was preparing.

           The years passed by, and Monty grew to love his new home. For the first time in his life, Monty felt like he had a family. The Johnsons were equally grateful for Monty, thankful to have such an enthusiastic helper in their lives.  

           Decades came and went. The Johnson’s son Charles went off to college. Mr. Johnson fell ill, and Monty became his main caretaker. Monty spent each day looking after him, giving him medicine, making sure he felt comfortable. As Mr. Johnson laid on his deathbed, he called Monty close to him. In labored breath, he whispered, “Monty, there’s… something you should… know…”

           “What is it?” Monty replied, gently clasping the dying man’s hand.

           “Monty, I… I…” He grew silent. Monty could see that Mr. Johnson had just breathed his last breath. Though Monty had grown so close to him, he couldn’t bring himself to shed a tear. Monty was confident that somewhere Mr. Johnson was being born again, taking his first breaths in a new body, free of the pain he felt the last few months.

           He spent the remaining days of his indenture helping Mrs. Johnson around the house, as well as babysitting her new granddaughter Claire when she came about. He found himself checking the remaining balance on his debt less frequently, as he had little concern about life after the debt is paid.

           Then, one night, it struck him. In three weeks, his debt will have fully paid off. If that happens, their unconventional bond will be broken. No longer will there be a driving force guiding him to this family, this home he had grown to love. This life will be the last he gets to spend with them.

           He decided, then and there, to sneak away. He had to leave with some portion of his debt unpaid so that he could repeat such a life in the future. Yes! Even if it takes a hundred miserable lives to find them again, it will be worth it! With that, he snuck out the back door, and left the Johnson house for good.

Epiphany

On any given Saturday night, Claire Johnson could be found working in the local soup kitchen. Unlike many of her fellow volunteers, she didn’t care about collecting community service hours or adding slots to a resume. For her, serving others was its own reward.

One evening, as Claire was ladling the stew of the day, she looked up to see a familiar face standing in line, though it was clear he did not recognize her. She watched the old man collect his bowl and head to an empty table. She left the counter to follow him.

“Mind if I join you” she asked, already sitting before he could respond.

She watched him as he slowly slurped his evening meal. She couldn’t tell if she was being purposefully ignored, or if he simply didn’t notice her presence. He just seemed to sit there, looking down at the bowl in front of him, pausing only to wipe the broth that trickled down his grey beard.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.

Without looking up, the old man silently shook his head.

“Didn’t think you would. I must have been three years old the last time you saw me. To tell the truth, I only recognized you from the old family photos. My name is Claire Johnson, daughter of Charles Johnson. My father talks about you all the time, it’s so great to finally meet you, Monty!”

Monty looked up from his bowl and into the young woman’s eyes. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Yes, I see it. You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

The two spent the evening catching up. Monty explained why he left, why he felt he had no choice.

“There’s something I need to tell you about the debt,” Claire said. “You see, my grandfather never had a relative named Wardell Johnson. In fact, his father was the first Johnson in our family. Apparently, they immigrated from Eastern Europe and chose the name because it sounded more American.”

Monty looked puzzled, though hanging on to her every word.

“The truth is, you never owed my family anything. My grandparents took you in because they didn’t know what else to do, and they kept you around because they grew to love you. I know how much it meant to you, paying off the debt, so I’m sure this must be devastating- “

Monty began to laugh a deep, warm, belly laugh, much to Claire’s confusion.

“Devastating? Hardly! As long as the debt exists, I am stuck in this endless cycle of birth and rebirth. I’m born, I suffer, and I die. Your family helped me find a life worth living, to which I credited the debt I owe. I feared that paying off the debt would mean I could never find such a family again, so I panicked and ran, hoping the little balance I had left could be enough to guide my next incarnation to you again. But I realized something just now. For the longest time I believed that the existence of the debt kept me from living a happy life, but now I know I was able to live a long, happy life without even touching it!”

No longer fearing that spending time with his beloved family would keep him from seeing them in the next life, the old man accompanied Claire back to her apartment where he slept on her couch. When Claire found him in the morning, he had passed in his sleep, and on his face rested the biggest smile she had ever seen.