In Search of Sal Blumenthal

It’s always the same.  I am walking in this garden and there he is sitting on a bench reading poetry by Charles Bukowski.  As I pass, he reaches out and touches my hand very gently and says, “Excuse me, are you Sal Blumenthal?  I am Carl Kranz.”

Problem, my name is Jarod Hipple, not Jacob Blumenthal.

“Sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else.” I smile as his dark eyes open wider behind his round rimmed glasses as if I had said something to offend him. 

The flowers become brittle.  A wind blows the pedals from the blooms turning these once beautiful buds into something ugly and dead.  All at once this peaceful enchanted garden is transformed into a place of death where winter has established its dominance.

I wake with a start, sweat pouring down my face, my sheets are soaked.  I walk into the bathroom and gaze into the mirror as my eyes turn from a shade of light sandy brown back into the blue eyes I was born with.  This transformation is unsettling, but the dream is heart stopping.  Barbed wire begins to wind around me until I begin to feel as though I am being strangled.

“Jerry.” I hear my wife call me from the kitchen. 

“Misty.” I answer, “What do you need?” 

“Your breakfast is ready.” She answers.  She has no idea about my nightmare.  I have never told her about it. I have never told anyone about it for that matter. 

Where do I begin?  Where do I start?  It is all so baffling to me.

I take a deep breath.  It feels so good to fill my lungs with air once again.  Putting the toothpaste on my brush, I begin to brush.  I am grateful that I have teeth to brush. As I ran from Carl, my teeth began to fall out of my mouth, the metallic taste of my own blood.

“Are you alright?” Misty asks me as she puts my breakfast in front of me.  Even though I rinsed my mouth, I can still taste the mint of the toothpaste. 

“Fine.” But my one word answer does not seem to assuage her.  

“You look like shit.” She says as I put a forkful of egg into  my mouth. 

“I’ll be alright.” I put my elbow on the table and rest my cheek on my open hand. 

“You might want to think about seeing a doctor.” She suggests.  We have been together for about five years, but neither one of us is interested in getting married since we both are divorced.  My mother is always hoping that we will change our mind, but so far we have no intention of doing such a thing.  My mother is from the old world where marriage proved to be the final solution to a relationship that included sharing a bed.  Growing up my parents each had their own bed, so after a while I began to wonder how my brother Stan and I came to be in the first place.  

Misty’s parents were hippies and had more of a toleration for our decision to live together out of wedlock.  After five years, we had become comfortable with each other, tolerant of our idiosyncrasies and quirks.  We ran like a Toyota Celica, nothing fancy, just functional and dependable.

“Dr. Boyde wants me to come in early.” She said. She had worked as his dental hygienist for over ten years, completely satisfied with her occupation. 

“Good, we can use the extra money.” I sighed.

The fact her paycheck was more than mine most of the time did not bother me.  I was assistant manager at Newby’s Grocery where my salary had not changed in the past seven years, despite my loyalty and dependability.   When Walter retired a few years ago and let his oldest son Ken Newby take over, I had difficulty getting along with him as he was close to my age, but very arrogant and conceited.  Many of his customers were old-timers and used to the way his father ran things, but as soon as he took over he wanted things to change and change they did. The friendly neighborhood grocery store Walter kept was transformed into a corporate model of efficiency and convenient access.  The only problem with such progressiveness is that it comes at the cost of the benign and benevolent service the customers had become accustomed to.    

“Quit.” Misty told him when he started to complain.

“I can’t quit.” He shook his head.

“Why not?” She asked.

“Because I will lose all my employee benefits.” He pointed out.

“What benefits?” She asked.

“The 401K.” He answered.

“Hardly worth squat.” She sighed. 

But he didn’t quit.

And the nightmare kept coming.  Details of the garden became even more vivid.  Carl’s face became more animated.  It snowed flower pedals as the cold wind blew.

He woke up and went to get a glass of water and saw his face morph into his own as he gulped the water.

He visited Dr. Pathwright, his shrink, but Pathwright went on with his usual psycho-babble about his personality disorder of which he had yet to diagnose.  

He went to work at the deli counter where he was filling in for a shortage of help and argued with a customer over the corn beef.  Ken pulled him aside and had a conference with him in his office.  By the time Jerry left Newby’s, he was in a bitter mood.  

He rode the bus home at an hour when he was sometimes the only person on the bus, but tonight there was a man who kept glancing over at him.  

“Do I know you?” He asked suddenly.

“No, I don’t think so.” He turned his head to look out the window.

“Yes I do.  You’re Mr. Blumenthal.” 

Jerry’s blood turned to ice.  

“Who?” Jerry turned to the stranger.

“You just remind me of him.” The man sat next to him.  It was Carl.

“What’s going on?” Jerry muttered.

“I am looking for this man.” Carl showed Jerry a picture.  The man in the photograph looked just like him.

“Why?” Jerry handed him back the photograph.

“He is a criminal who must be brought to justice.” Carl tucked the photograph in his jacket pocket.

“I am not him.” Jerry shook his head.

“It would seem to me that you are the man in the picture.” Carl smiled, but it was more of a sneer.

“This is my stop.” He pulled the cord which let the driver know he wanted to get off at the next stop.

“One day, soon, justice will be served.” Carl pushed his fedora to the back of his head as Jerry got off the bus.

Justice will be served.  What did he mean by that?  And how was it possible that Carl had manifested himself in reality?  Carl was just a man from his dream.

“You have been awfully quiet.” Misty commented at dinner.

“Things have been kinda strange lately.” Jerry pushed his plate to one side on the table.

“Tell me about it.” She acted interested.

“This man.  A man named Carl talked to me today on the bus.” Jerry folded his hands and rested his head on his hands.

“So?”

“He came from my dream.” Jerry felt a catch in his throat.

“Yeah.” She put her plate in the sink which was overflowing with dirty dishes.

“It’s freaking me out.” His voice cracked. 

“Did you talk to Dr. Shrink?”

“Yup, just the other day.” Jerry nodded.

“And what did he say?” Misty sat back down at the table.

“Not much really.  Just that this sort of thing happens when you are under stress.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Her voice became hard, “I told you to quit and to start taking care of yourself, but you won’t listen.” 

The silence that evening was deafening, but Jerry fell asleep watching television after Misty went to bed.

“Hello, Mr. Blumenthal.” Carl said with that same sneer of a smile on his face.

“Am I awake?” He asked when he saw Carl sitting where Misty had been sitting just a few minutes ago.

“Is there a difference?” Carl nodded.

“I’m just getting kinda tired of these games you like to play.” Jerry was irritated.

“Games?  You call this a game?” Carl laughed, “I have been searching for you for a long time and now I have found you.”

“I keep telling you I am not Sal Blumenthal.” Jerry stood up.

“Oh, but you were, you were.” Carl’s blue eyes followed Jerry as he moved restlessly around the room.

“Were?” Jerry turned and faced Carl.

“You saw the picture.  That man was you.” Carl shrugged.

“Maybe a Doppelganger?” Jerry suggested.

“No, I don’t think so.” Carl shook his head slowly. “You see we pass through different lives.”

“Are you saying that I was this man in another life?” Jerry asked.

“This is the truth.” Carl confirmed.

“You are nuts.” Jerry concluded.

“I have been chasing you for a long time and now I have found you.” Carl proclaimed with a sharp clap of his hands. “You were an enemy of the state.  An offense that carried a very heavy punishment.” 

“Get out of my house before I call the police.” Jerry threatened.

“Go ahead, be my guest.” Carl handed Jerry the receiver of the phone.  Jerry took it and began to dial the rotary phone on the wall. There was no dial tone.

“I am dreaming.” Jerry put the phone back into the cradle.

“You would conclude that, no?” Carl’s smile grew wider.

“I will wake up and all of this will be gone.” Jerry proclaimed.

“Or not.” Carl waved his finger in Jerry’s face.  “You came to the garden.  It was the beginning of winter.  You did not see me, but I saw you.  Snow was beginning to fall.  First snow of the year, very beautiful.  Very magical.  I followed you until you left the garden.  And then the bomb went off.”

Jerry stood there staring at Carl.  Bomb?  What bomb? 

“I heard shouting, but I could not get to my feet.” He bowed his head, “The ambulance driver told me to stop moving. It was the last human voice I heard in that life.” 

“I do not remember any of this.” Jerry replied.

“Of course you don’t.  You weren’t the one who died that day.  December 14, 1942.” Carl laughed. “It was me. And I swore I would chase you down and get my revenge. So here we are.  You and me.  Just like that day in the garden when you murdered me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I have not murdered anyone.” Jerry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.   

“You are Sal Blumenthal.” He pointed a bony accusatory finger at Jerry.

“Jerry wake up!” It was Misty.

“Whaaa.” Jerry sat up.

“You were having a bad dream.” She appeared alarme.

“It was so real.” He shook his head.

“Who is Carl?” She asked.

“Carl?”

“Yes, you kept saying his name.” She put on her robe and tied it.

“He was telling me he had come for revenge.” Jerry gulped.

“Revenge for what?” She asked, rubbing her eyes.

“For killing him.” Jerry explained.

“Did you kill someone?” She asked.

“No, it was all part of the dream.” His eyes moved wildly in his head as if he expected Carl to suddenly appear from thin air. 

“You had better talk to the doctor about increasing your medication.”  She reached over, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one.  It had been a while since Jerry had seen her smoke, but he could tell the stress was getting to her. 

The next day Jerry got on the bus to go to work.  It passed by the old abandoned Helton Building where they used to make steel fittings.  It has been closed since 1992, all boarded up with a chain link fence around the old brick building to keep the transients out.  There was barbed wire on top of the chain link.  Flower pedals began to fall from the sky.

Suddenly Jerry had trouble drawing a breath and passed out.

Waking up in the Emergency Room with Misty sitting in the chair next to his bed, Jerry asked, “Where am I?”

“Emergency room.” She answered as she flipped through a magazine. 

“How did I get here?” His eyes were terrified.

“You passed out on a bus on your way to work.” She did not look up at him. “Ken Newby was in about ten minutes ago.  I think it was more to verify that you weren’t faking.” 

“What the heck?” Jerry closed his eyes.  He could see the barbed wire and the flower pedals and his eyes popped open again. 

Dr. Pathwright came in smiling as he hummed. “Hey, heard you had a scare.” 

“I saw him.” Jerry said as Dr. Pathwright sat in the chair vacated by Misty.

“I wanna get some coffee.” Misty said as she left the room. 

“See ya, honey.” He waved, but she did not wave back.

“So you are seeing things?” Dr. Pathwright smiled and patted Jerry on the shoulder.

“No, I am seeing Carl Kranz.” Jerry sounded hoarse. 

“Who is this man?” 

“He came out of my dream.” Jerry explained.

“What does he intend to do?” Dr. Pathwright shrugged.

“Kill me.” Jerry gasped.

“I see.” 

“I feel the next time I see him, he will do it.” Jerry clutched his pillow.

“Perhaps if you take one of these, he may not be able to.” Dr. Pathwright handed him a pill. “Take this.” 

Jerry had always been a complaint patient so he did as he was told, “What is it?”

“Just a mild sedative.” Dr. Pathwright assured him.

The man was sitting on a bench in the garden. Snow was beginning to fall.  He was wearing a uniform and feeding the pigeons that had gathered at his feet.  He did not look up from what he was doing, “Sal Blumenthal, I did not expect to see you here this afternoon.”

There was a single crack of gunfire.  Jerry felt as though someone had punched him in the chest and when he looked down he saw his white shirt was turning red.

No one on duty could understand why Jerod Hipple’s heart had suddenly stopped beating just as no one saw the gray haired old man exit his room with an evil smile on his face.