Dead and Alive in Paris

“What’ll it be? New York? London? Maybe that little cottage you two rented in Montauk the second year you were married?” Joshua asks enthusiastically.

“Bristol, Rhode Island,” Tucker Tiempo replies.

Joshua crosses his arms over his Giorgio Armani suit. “Again? You have so many wonderful memories. You only have one trip left and you choose to relive the moment you met your wife in college – for the tenth time.”

“That moment never gets old,” Tucker replies. “Besides, this has all been about seeing her again.”

“So, it has,” Joshua says indignantly.

“I keep forgetting you’re not human, that you’re some kind of all-knowing, all-seeing being.”

“Just someone who has mastered time,” Joshua replies.

Like Tucker, Joshua stands at over six feet, but that’s where their similarities end. Joshua has pitch-black hair, a debonair mustache, and a stylish salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard to match his glib tongue. Although he’s in his sixties, Tucker has an athlete’s solid build, a full head of youthful blonde hair, fair features, and a ready smile.

“One of these days I’d like to hear your life story, Joshua... Born from hell fire, he’s a guardian angel who helps grieving spouses revisit their past.”

Joshua smirks. “I’m certainly no angel. Everyone in my father’s court said I loved a good joke and lived for mischief and chaos.”

“Oh, you come from royalty. Who was your father?”

“Zeus. Now sit down and close your eyes.”

Tucker glances at the pretty brunette seated at the next table.

“You’re not being very subtle,” his best friend, Mark, says. Short with swarthy features, Mark has been watching Tucker and the brunette trade smitten glances for nearly two years. “Why don’t you go over and talk to her?”

Tucker looks around the library before taking another peek at the brunette.

“She likes you too you know.”

“What makes you think that?”

“She shows up at every party we’re at and makes eyes at you from the other side of the room. Where does she sit when we’re eating? At the next table. And who’s been at every one of our football games, no matter whether we’re playing at home or on the road?”

“That’s coincidence.”

“C’mon, Tucker, how many hits to the head have you taken? I don’t get it, buddy, you’re not the shy type.”

“This girl’s different.”

“I’ll say. She’s stalking you.”

“When she comes into the room, I feel like I have a fever, and my heart beats faster.”

“You’re warm for her form.”

“It’s more than that,” Tucker says. “It’s like I’m supposed to be with her.”

“You’ve got it bad, man. It’s true she’s one of the best-looking women in school, but I don’t know what she sees in you. You’re a straight-A student, all muscles, surfer dude looks, and a star running back. Nope, no reason any woman would be interested in you.”

Tucker suddenly stands up.

“What’s wrong, and why are you hyperventilating?”

“I’ve got to get some air.”

“Air?” Mark exclaims. “It’s twenty degrees out there, man. The only thing you’ll get is pneumonia.”

Throwing on his coat, Tucker heads to the door.

The brunette glances at Mark. “Don’t look at me. Follow him!”

Tucker leans against a railing, trying to catch his breath. He looks up at the starry night, fascinated by the brightness of the full moon.

Sensing he’s not alone, he turns to his side.

The brunette gives him a cheerful smile as bright as the moon.

“Hi.”

“Hi back. I’m… Tucker Tiempo…,” he says, his voice quivering.

“I know. I’m Elise Blunstone,” she replies in a nervous whisper. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Cold enough to freeze the nuts off a jeep,” Tucker blurts out.

“What?”

Tucker smiles shyly. “I mean, the crisp air. It’s like nature’s giving us a new beginning.”

“Right. It makes me feel confident about the future.”

“Me too. I guess it’s contagious.”

They pause to look up at the moon, their breath issuing in foggy streams around them.

A bright yellow light streaks across the night sky.

“Is that a shooting star?” Elise asks.

“Looks like one, yeah.”

“You’re supposed to make a wish when you see one,” she says. “Well?”

“Would you like to go into town for a drink?”

“Hmmm. Looks like we both wished for the same thing.”

“They’re not paying me enough to treat me like this,” Sam Sung mumbles to himself.

A dark-haired man with a Van Dyke beard and a confident grin sits down next to him on the bench.

“Sounds like your job is getting to you.”

“I’m not made to be a lamb amongst the wolves on Wall Street. I wish I was still playing music.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Have you seen what musicians make these days?” Sam asks.

“So, you’re saying your music isn’t good enough?”

“I made a decent living out of college playing coffee houses in the backwoods of Vermont and New Hampshire. I was good. What I wasn’t was committed. I liked to eat regularly.”

“Talent always rises to the top, Sam”.

Reaching into his pocket, the man hands Sam a card.

“You’re a producer?”

“Bring your guitar to that address when you’re ready to commit. We’ll do a few demos. If the boys in the front office like what they hear, you can put away your suits. We’ll lose the glasses and straighten out your hair for photos. I can make you famous, Sam.”

“What’s the catch? What’s in it for you?”

“Fifteen percent. See you soon, Sam.”

Sam watches Joshua prance off, wondering how he knew his name.

Tucker sits up in his chair. His daughter, Simone, is standing next to Joshua, looking concerned. Her worried expression lessens as he stretches, yawning.

“How was Paris?” Simone asks.

“It wasn’t Paris this time.”

“Then it must have been Newport. That always puts a goofy smile on your face.”

“Well, my work here is done,” Joshua says. “I’ll be back in two days. And remember, Tucker, you only have one trip left.”

Tucker and Simone watch Joshua march out the door.

“He’s the creepiest man I’ve ever met,” Simone comments. “He doesn’t walk, he glides. The snappy clothes, the pointed beard, that sneaky smile all spell trouble.”

“I suppose it’s all part of being an angel.”

“I’m thinking he comes from someplace south of heaven,” Simone replies. “He’s no angel, no Greek god. He’s a con artist. He hypnotizes you. Your body stays in the chair, but in your mind, you’re with mother.”

“I spent thirty years reliving the night the police came to the door and told me the love of my life was gone. Joshua has made it so I can see her alive again. Do you know how much that means to me?”

“Everything. But you should ask yourself what’s in it for him.”

Joshua opens the door to the dressing room, giving Sam a thumbs up.

“Great news! Your album is number twenty-four with a bullet.”

Looking in the mirror, Sam grumbles at the green makeup the cosmetologist is slathering on his face.

“I don’t want to do a video, particularly as an alien.”

“You’re a visitor to earth in search of love, and in the end, thanks to your own song, you find it. It’ll be beautiful.”

“Sounds stupid and self-indulgent.”

“It’s part and parcel of being a pop star these days,” Joshua says.

“I don’t want to be a pop star. I want to be a musician.”

Joshua scoffs. “Are you telling me you’d be happy being some poor schlub sitting on a corner playing the blues, hoping people drop money in your cigar box? Who do you think you are, Blind Lemon Sung?”

“Music isn’t about the money for me. I just want people to enjoy what I’ve created.”

“So, donate your money to charity, but don’t deny the world your talent. In the meantime, you’re due on the set.”

“Which song am I miming to?”

“’This Has Gotta be Love’.”

“I hate that song,” Sam balks. “Those two hacks you hired wrote that one. Why can’t we use one of my songs?”

“Your stuff is great, Sam. It’s just not top-forty material, you know? It’s not the type of stuff kids and soccer moms would buy.”

Sam sighs. “There’s always a catch. I shouldn’t do a video, I can’t dance.”

“Just move your hips and feel the rhythm. If this goes over, we can start selling posters, autograph pictures, maybe even action figures.”

“Why don’t we sell out altogether and do a condom commercial for ‘This has Gotta Be Love?’”

Joshua’s eyes brighten. “That’s genius!”

Tucker sips his expresso, smiling at Elise.

“Nothing like Paris,” she says, reaching for his hand. “Being here with you is like being on our honeymoon all over again.”

The ping of his cell phone interrupts their conversation. Looking at his phone, he says, “Funny how such a quiet sound can have such an impact. We’ve got an hour left.”

“We need to address the elephant in the room,” Elise says. “I love reliving our past, except Simone’s birth. It was a beautiful moment, but it felt like I was passing a bus through my body.”

“We have one more meeting, one more time to share our memories.”

“Then what?” Elise asks. “We separate again, this time forever. I can’t face that.”

“I’m sure we can convince Joshua to let us stay together.”

“Trick the trickster?”

“Last year, I made a wish one night when I saw another falling star, just like the one we saw when we first met. I wished I could be with you again. Then Joshua, my guardian angel, knocked on my door. He answered my plea. He knows we’re meant to be together.”

“But even angels expect something in return.”

Sam holds his head in his hands, groaning. Peeking through his fingers he takes another look at the video for “This Has Gotta Be Love.”

On-screen, Sam makes a series of suggestive pelvic thrusts.

“I can’t unsee this. I look like an oversexed rooster. I can’t believe you released this!”

“The girls in the office liked it.”

“The same bunch that had a male stripper stop by for lunch?”

“Maybe I should have shown it to someone else. It’s generated a lot of press, though,” Joshua admits, handing him a copy of Rolling Stone. “Admittedly, it’s bad press.”

Pelvic Thrusts Pop Singer’s Popularity

By Logan Barlow

An admitted fan of Elvis Presley, newly minted pop star Sam Sung must have misheard the director when he filmed the video for his smash hit “This Has Gotta Be Love.” Instead of more Elvis, Sammy gives us more pelvis, preening around his bedroom and thrusting his junk at the camera like a bucking bronco in heat.

“It’s a disgusting display of vulgarity, definitely not what we had in mind for Sam’s fans,” said Constantine Orlick, President of Stunt Records. “We tried to get it pulled, but the late-night shows latched onto it. It’s the most requested video on the show ‘Bloopers and Blunders.’ It’s all over Tick Tok and people are lampooning it on Facebook. It’s made Sam and our record company laughing stocks. As a result, we’re canceling his tour of Europe and dropping Sam from our label.”

Sung’s genitalia gyrations have neutered his star power. His album and single, which had reached the top ten, have dropped farther than a Vienna Choir Boy’s voice after puberty.

“If it makes you feel any better, I got fired,” Joshua says. “I’m stuck here in Paris like you.”

“Boo hoo,” Sam replies. “I’m finished in music before I even got started. I’ll never be able to make another record. Looks like you’re going to get fifteen percent of nothing, Joshua.”

“As your producer, I get paid first. It’s standard procedure in the music business, and man, are you getting the business. By the way, you were right when you said there’s always a catch. Close your eyes.”

“What? Why?”

“I said, close your eyes.”

Tucker and Elise sit quietly at the Café Noir as if memorizing the sounds of the passing taxis and zig-zagging bicycles, taking in the enthusiastic chirping conversations of students and tourists. The Eiffel Tower stands in the distance, a friendly reminder of their happiest moments together.

“Sometimes I wish we could stay here forever,” Elise muses.

“Maybe we can.”

Tucker checks his watch, “Where’s Joshua? It’s just like him to be late on the most important day of our lives.”

“I thought that was the day we got married?” Elise replies softly.

Wearing a white suit and matching hat, Joshua strides down the boulevard, stopping at a florist to inspect a batch of roses. He smiles politely at the florist, tipping his hat.

He sniffs the flowers, which shrivel and die.

“I don’t know why people keep telling me to stop and smell the roses,” Joshua says to the stunned florist.

Joshua continues down the street, pausing to listen to a blind street musician singing the blues. He drops a few quarters in his cigar box.

“Thanks for supporting real music,” the musician says.

Joshua whistles “This Has Gotta Be Love” as he walks away.

Breaking a string on his guitar, the musician stops playing.

“Joshua! Joshua, you come back here!”

Joshua breezes toward the Tiempo’s table. As he sits down, he signals to a passing waiter for a glass of wine.

“Snazzy outfit,” Elise comments.

“Yeah, you can give Mister Rourke a run for his money,” Tucker jokes. “All you need is Tattoo running around behind you yelling, ‘The plane! The plane!’”

“Feeling frisky today, Tucker?”

Joshua sits back in his chair, his impish stare bouncing back and forth between Tucker and Elise like a spectator following a tennis match.

“I’m disappointed. I gave you dozens of chances to travel throughout your past…And you two kept picking the same half-dozen memories. You could have made new ones, relived your entire time together, but you kept coming back here.”

“It’s where we honeymooned, where we conceived Simone,” Tucker says.

“Well, that second part certainly falls under too much information… Let’s get down to business. You have one trip left. When you leave here this time, you’ll be starting your life over in whatever time period you choose. What age would you like to be, Elise?”

“Thirty.”

“The year Simone was born,” Tucker points out. “It was a good year. I made partner at the law firm and Elise sold five…”

“Six…”

“Six of her paintings. With our knowledge about our lives, we’ll be able to avoid what happens to Elise when we’re thirty-six.”

Elise does a double take. “Me? You’re the one who died in a….”

“Car crash,” Tucker continues. “You were going to sell some of your paintings in Westport, but your car wouldn’t start, and I’d lent mine to my cousin. So, you called a cab. There was a lot of black ice remaining from the last storm. A tractor-trailer skidded into your lane.”

“No. that never happened. You were on your way home from a softball game. Your cousin Randy was driving. He took a corner too wide, and the car flipped. Both of you were killed.”

“I helped Elise learn how to play soccer. She’s a teacher.” Tucker insists.

“I was at her graduation. She’s a veterinarian.”

They look at Joshua. “I used the old parallel universe trick on you two. I thrive off chaos, remember? Tucker, you lived on one timeline while Elise lived an alternate existence. You two have been living separate lives for so long that I don’t know which one of you is supposed to be dead and which one is alive.”

“The past aside, we should be together now.”

Joshua holds his hand up like a fleshy stop sign. Tucker is surprised he never noticed before that Joshua has six fingers.

“I never promised you’d be together.”

“Then what’s the point?” Tucker protests. “We have to be together, Joshua.”

The waiter places a glass of wine in front of Joshua, who happily takes a gulp.

“All right. I can arrange it.”

“I know you, trickster,” Tucker says. “What’s the catch?”

“For every thread that’s untied, another one has to be sewn together. It’s the yin and yang of the universe.”

“When did you start channeling Confucius?”

Joshua takes a drink of wine. “You’ll have to make a sacrifice.”

“What is it?” Elise asks. “If it’s my success as an artist. I’ll gladly give that up.”

Standing up, Joshua finishes his glass of wine. “You’ll recognize what it is. Ta! Ta!”

Tucker and Elise stand outside their home, eying every bush, brick, window, and step.

“The place looks exactly the same,” Elise notes.

Tucker picks his wife up in his arms. “Allow me to carry you across the threshold of our new old home.”

Once inside, Tucker and Elise check the rooms.

“Remember the toaster from hell?” Elise yells from the kitchen. “It’s back.”

“So’s your weird Felix the Cat wall clock,” Tucker replies.

Tucker joins Elise in the kitchen, taking her hand.

“It’s all here, just like when we were thirty,” Elise says.

Tucker glances at the calendar taped to the side of the refrigerator, noting the dates that are crossed off.

“Apparently, it’s November fifth,” he points out.

Gasping, Elise rushes into the hallway.

She carefully studies each picture on the wall.

“Spring break… Our first apartment… The day your team won the softball tournament… Our portraits… Paris…”

“What are you looking for, Elise?”

“Our daughter! Where are Simone’s pictures!”

Tucker follows Elise into Simone’s nursery. Simone’s crib, mobile, and the Little Mermaid wallpaper they had so meticulously plastered to the wall are all missing.

“The room is the way it was before she was born,” Tucker notes.

Elise falls into his arms, crying. “I gave birth to her in March. It’s November! She was never born!”

“There’s the catch,” Tucker says.