Curbside Prophecy

Curbside Prophecy: The smell is what I remember above everything else. I was up at the ass crack of dawn, nearly getting trampled by the stampede of telemarketers, insurance claims adjusters and other suit-clad professionals. Some jagoff bumped my elbow, making me clench onto my coffee cup and scorch my fingers with the overpriced elixir, staining the pavement below my feet. 

I remember that I didn't cross the road with the horde, even though the tiny light-up man on the other side was telling me to. I wiped my coffee stained hand on the side of my pants and dropped the mostly empty cup in the overflowing corner garbage can. Then that smell hit me, and he grabbed my shoulder. 

“Tonight, by thine own hand!” I didn't register what he said at first, only that trashy, pukish smell mixed with candy wafting out of his mouth.

When I finally turned to face him (I couldn't really avoid it because he kept pulling on my shoulder, trying to get me to turn around) I also remember him looking oddly out of place. This man did not belong amongst buildings tickling the bottoms of clouds and cars moving in illogical patterns. I’m not sure where he belonged, with his miniature green tie, half shaven face and comically large shoes, but I’d say it was somewhere between Middle Earth and the set of Ed Wood. 

“Cherish these final moments. They’re slipping through your fingers, like a forgotten feather.” 

As I pulled away from him, the weirdo plucked a feather from his pocket and gently blew it over to me. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, but with my tender hand still wet from the coffee it floated gently into my palm and stuck there.

Leaving me with nothing but a memory and his feather in my palm, the man weaved his way into the next hoard of suits crossing the street. I stood there for far too long, looking at the pocket-worn feather, wondering not about how I might perish, but how long he’d held onto this feather. It seemed well loved, so loved that I felt the tiniest tinge of guilt when I shook it off my hand and carried on across the street.

The scenario played over and over again in my head as I walked to work, the UPMC Steel Building over on Grant Street in downtown.

As I rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor, still replaying the events in my head like a mini-movie, I hit the mental ‘pause’ button when I got to the coffee spill part, then looked down at my suit jacket. Stained. Horribly stained. Josh would blow his top when he saw it. 

Jumping out of the elevator at the next floor (I think it was the fifth), I scurried past the maintenance worker drearily rolling his cart off the box and ran for the stairwell. I caught a room full of confused looks along the way. After all, a swanky office building isn’t the most common place for a morning jog, but I didn’t care.

Thankfully, the emergency alarm didn’t go off as I pushed my way through the door. I couldn’t help but think how hilarious this all was. I was spending my supposed last coffee-soaked morning on Earth trying to avoid a dress code violation from the man who’d promoted not one, not two, but three family members ahead of me. On my supposed last day of life, I was sprinting down the UPMC stairwell to buy an overpriced coat from the general store. My fleeting feather moments were spent trying to please a man, my boss, with less education than myself.

Despite hardly fitting me, I paid just over two hundred and fifty dollars for my stupid new jacket. While the cashier checked me out, I was getting steadily edgier thanks to the flickering, dusty lights in the general store. A store packed to the brim with unused suit coats, stationary, calculators and other crap people only bought if they were in a pinch–like myself. My thoughts don’t tend to dip into the daydream pool anymore. I don’t remember when I stopped, but they restarted today, whilst standing underneath those dusty strobes. 

Once upon a time, I could coast through a whole day of work, looking seemingly normal, all the while dreaming about my next drawing. Today it was cats for some reason. That’s what I studied after all, drawing. And it wasn’t until I took the sales job with Citwell and Schuster that they petered off. Which is why it’s funny that today of all days, I felt that part of my brain prick up one more time. I kept imagining that today was truly my last day alive, and got flashes of all the undrawn pieces that I hadn't tended to. Regretful of how they’d never come to be. 

Afraid I might rip the jacket while trying to button it, I took the next elevator moving up. The oversized buttons wouldn’t catch; the jacket was just too damn tight. Right before our suspended metal box reached the eleventh floor, I gave up on buttoning the jacket, quickly pulled off my tie, pocketed it and unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt. I couldn’t sell a coffee stain to Josh, but I could sell a calendar mix up. 

DING!

“It ain’t Friday Elliot, it’s Thursday,” Josh blurted out before the doors even fully opened. “We canceled casual Fridays anyway, remember?”

In fact, I did remember, but I was always the best salesman on the floor. And Josh’s worst quality is that he thought he was. 

“Is it really? Are you sure?” I questioned as I stepped off the elevator, joining him in lock step as we walked across the floor towards my cubicle.

Glancing quickly at my watch that displays the day and time (fancy, I know), I looked over at Josh, pulling from the acting camp I took in the seventh grade.

“I swear to God this thing said ‘Friday’ this morning. Must have shorted out when I spilled coffee on it. Sorry about that man.” When acting, or lying for that matter, always mix in a little bit of the truth. That’s what my unemployed actor-turned camp counselor had taught me anyways.

The office was its usual cacophony of sales pitches and keyboard clatter. Josh had gone out of his way to make sure there was no culture in the office, or ‘distractions’ as he called them. The bastard couldn’t even be bothered to cut his hair into anything interesting, he just had it buzzed, and recommended I do the same. Citing interesting hair as ‘distracting.’ 

“Here are the leads for today, there’s a call at noon and yesterday's results,” Josh spit out the sentence as quickly as he could, shoved the folder in my hand and zig-zagged back towards his office. I always secretly wanted him to trip in front of his door. Every day I hoped he’d take a comedic tumble over his shoelaces or something. 

Maybe it started there. Perhaps that was the summit of the steep, windy mountain I’d tumble down all day on my way to my grisly fate. Or maybe I truly had just lost my marbles. Actually, I think either way it’s safe to assume my day went off kilter when Josh died. 

To be clear, I never once hoped that he would die. Hell, I never even wished that he’d get hurt. But as he walked away–his ridged crew hair looking like he’d just rubbed a balloon on it–I’d thought to myself if this really was my last day on Earth, God would see to it that Josh tripped. Just for me.

Oh he tripped alright. Mere feet from his office, Josh tripped over the back of Stephanie's chair; his shoelaces got caught up in the wheels. You see, Steph liked to lean back in her chair when she’d closed a sale, sort of like her victory lap. In hindsight, it was actually his own fault that he tripped. If he hadn’t promoted Steph over me because she happened to be banging his kid brother (married is the work-safe term), I’d have the cubicle next to his office. And I never lean in my chair. 

It was impressive how far Josh's legs kicked up in the air as he tripped. He walked so damn fast that his shoelaces yanked the chair out from underneath Steph. If he hadn’t been walking so fast, it’s unlikely that he would have landed square on his neck, snapping it. I’d never witnessed an actual death in my life. Yet, during what would be my supposed final hours, I’d witnessed three fatalities, this first being Josh, right there in the office of Citwell and Schuster. 

There was an eerie silence after he fell, the actual snap of his neck echoed through the cubicle like a gunshot. Everyone stopped and looked; the calm before the storm. The only thing still audible was the steady hum of eager or annoyed customers coming from ear pieces on everyone's phones. They all starred, waiting for Josh to stir. Even Steph froze halfway through getting back up from her own fall. 

While she eventually climbed to her feet, Josh never did. I power walked to my cubicle and sat, glaring down at the street below, trying to feel something. I know I hadn’t ‘smited’ Josh. Despite that, my mind was still racing, my body helplessly still as the paramedics bolted into the office, shoving spectators out of the way. They carefully strapped Josh to a gurney and rushed him to the emergency room. 

Of course they have to do that, but to me and everyone else, it was obvious their urgency was wasted. Josh's body tensed up like a squirrel that had just made an ill-timed jaunt across the road. While I never saw for myself, they say it was hard for the paramedics to even move Josh because his limbs were already stiff by the time they arrived. I’ll never forget how the maintenance crew was so fast to sweep in and remove the tiny blood stain from the carpet. The last drop of blood Josh would ever spill, the one that dribbled out of his nose and onto the carpet he’d commanded for over eight years now. Wiped clean before he even had a toe tag. 

How does one even carry on with their day after a thing like that? I thought I was going to be frozen in place, staring out of the window until the sun set that night. That is, until I saw him. Those stupid shoes and tiny green tie. He was staring up at me from the sidewalk, the passersby moving around him like fish in a stream. How long had he stood there waiting for me to find him?

However long that might be, the second my eyes met his, he gave a slow wave, a wink, then joined the school of suits. It was silly, but I remember actually shaking my head to snap out of it. I didn’t think people actually did that. 

There was no way I was going to sit in that office and pretend to work all day. The floor supervisor had stepped into the middle of the office and made an announcement after the paramedics were gone, but it was just a muffled mess to my ears. It wasn’t until I’d made the decision to go home and just take a sick day, that I realized he was actually dismissing everybody for the day. The office was barren as I walked through it. The depressing silence hanging over the office was genuine, not due to some state of shock I thought I was in. 

Already in the elevator, descending back to the street level (and to real life) it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was even going. I certainly didn’t want to go home, if you can even call it that. I’d just moved out of my old apartment. For some reason I’d gotten it into my head that I needed my own space, that I had outgrown living with my college buddies and was ready for a bachelor pad. Since moving in two months ago, I’d only unpacked my bathroom and kitchen essentials, going as far as to use my still-packed boxes as a coffee table and nightstand. 

No, I wasn’t going home. It would just remind me that Andrew, Mitch and Fernando were still together in our old place, laughing about some dank meme one of them found. I want to see the meme too. 

Today was Josh’s last day on Earth and he’d spent it giving me a folder and tripping over a chair. Obviously today wasn’t actually my last day, and if it were it definitely wouldn’t be by my own hand. Sure there were things I wish had gone differently in my life, but it never occurred to me to try and kill myself. Ever. That just begged the question, what would Josh have done if he’d known? Knowing Josh, he probably wouldn’t have changed a thing. I certainly would. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism after witnessing my first death, or maybe the prophesying feather man had gotten into my head, but I started daydreaming not just of my undrawn art, but of what I would truly do with my last day. 

Only if I knew for certain that it was my last day would I actually do this, but I think I’d liquidate everything. Cash out every account and share of stock and take off to Fiji or somewhere else remarkable that I haven’t been. Come to think of it, the list of places I haven’t been is quite long, never having left the United States. When we were younger we never had the money to travel, and as I grew up I just didn’t prioritize it. That seems stupid now, growing up poor and working tirelessly to ensure your adult life isn’t the same, only to continue on living like your poor to avoid spending what money you do have. If it were really my last day, I’d regret that. The man who dies with money in his account rather than miles on his soul completely missed the point. 

That said, Fiji sounds great. 

The concept of flying off to Fiji circled around my mind a dozen times before I realized how impractical that would be. If I only had twenty-four hours left, I’d die before I ever left the airport. No, if it were truly my last day, I’d have to start living how I actually want to right now, the very second I stepped off that elevator. Speaking of which, I’d ended up riding the rickety box all the way down, then back up to the top floor, and again twice before I snapped back to reality. Eventually, I made it back down and haphazardly walked out to the street. 

Once my soles had touched the sidewalk, instinctively taking me back to my bus stop, I stopped myself, the morning breeze coating my face in an uneasy chill. Through sheer dumb (and bad) luck I’d been given a free day. Just as I regretted never crossing the U.S. border, I'd regret wasting a free day. Especially one where I was already showered, dressed, and in the middle of downtown. Whether it was watching someone I know waste their own last day, or an old man prophesying that this apparently also mine, I thought ‘fuck it. Let's pretend it’s my last day.’

I just started walking, going wherever my feet took me. What stores have I always wanted to pop in? What museums were nearby? No, no, no, that wasn’t good enough. I wouldn’t want to spend my last day the same way a seventh grader would spend the day getting spoiled by his Aunt Judy. What’s something you can only do once? Or something you wouldn’t do because it’s too expensive?

I had no idea. I’d never wanted to hurt anyone, take revenge on someone or steal anything. There also wasn’t anything eating at me, begging to be done. I thought of every extreme sport one could do with a little money; bungee jumping, skydiving, rock climbing and so on. They all sounded thrilling, but not only were they horribly cliché, whatever one I picked would be the only thing I did that day. How can I make it personal?

Remember that mountain I was tumbling down? Yeah well, this was when I started picking up speed.

I’d just barely started ambling down the street, approaching a long line of shops (mostly clothing boutiques) when I heard a laugh. After looking the street over several times, it became clear that I wasn’t actually hearing this laugh. Not to mention, this laugh was familiar. It had a certain low pitch (low for a young girl, anyway) that I’d never heard from any other mouth. When I finally figured out what it was, I knew I was having a severe psychotic break. And it wasn’t even Friday yet. 

Then I heard her voice. It was eager, like she’d been waiting for me to find her in a dark room. Tabby. Her voice was so clear it was as if she was walking with me down the sidewalk. Then I saw her, clear as day; her short brown hair barely grazing her shoulders, glasses working hard to keep her bangs out of her eyes, and the left strap of her fashionable overalls swaying back and forth with each step. Still fourteen, and as peppy as the day I left her.

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind, Ellie?” God I always hated when she called me that. I never told her, but I think she knew. 

“I was going to check out the museum uptown I think. They have the giant squid that—”

“You’ve seen that already dude, come on.” 

“I have? Oh you know what,” I remembered doing it all of the sudden. My first college roommate, Bennie, talked me into it. It was average at best. 

“You’re right, I did it ages ago.” 

“Follow me.”

I probably–no, scratch that–I definitely looked like an imbecile talking to myself, then taking off running down the street, following my imaginary ex-girlfriend from the eighth grade (imaginary now, not then). Screw what people think. You don’t worry about crap like that when you’re hours from killing yourself, supposedly.

Tabby weaved through the crowd on the sidewalk, careful not to touch anyone, almost skipping as she moved. Left to my own devices, I probably would have ended up at that stupid museum. With Tabby in charge, there was no telling where I’d end up. We ran together for nearly ten minutes straight. I had sweat through my brand new unbutton-able jacket and was panting like a dog. Soon as I saw it, I knew exactly where she was taking me. 

The Point. Smack dab in the middle of the city was a park everyone called “The Point.” Amidst the beautiful grass, massive park and bird-riddled trees was a massive 30-foot geyser of a fountain. The jets fired into the air every few minutes and rained down into the pool below. 

The pool and the fountain were strictly off limits to park-goers. There was no lifeguard, the water was too deep toward the middle and jets from the fountain were far too strong. Point Park’s Fountain is unrivaled in its beauty, and unmatched in its ability to tempt young daredevils into diving in. Tabby nose dived in without showing the slightest hesitation. 

At first I almost yelled out, telling her the water was shallow near the edge and that she’d probably crack her head open. Then I remembered she was imaginary. I skidded to a stop. This is as far as I was willing to go.

As Tabby resurfaced, kicking up water and splashing around, she spit a mouthful of murky fountain water at me. Before I could decide if the water was real or not, she started harassing me. 

“Oh come on, the waters warm! Well, lukewarm.” 

“How can you even see? Your glasses are all wet!”

“You won’t come in because you’re a baby. What's gonna happen? You gonna get a little-wittle ticket? You’ll be dead tomorrow bub. Stop worrying about shit like that,” she teased.

She sucked in another mouth full of water, but before she could hock it at me I cannonballed into the fountain. My heart was beating so hard I was certain it would crack a rib or something. Yes, I probably would get a fine, but if it was my last day, that bill would never come due. None of my bills would in fact. 

She’d lied. The water was icy cold. Or perhaps she didn’t know, because she’s not real. Anyway, as I resurfaced, ready to playfully shove her for lying to me, I heard the Park Ranger approaching. Some body building, fit-bit wearing fella who was shouting at me as he pedaled his little mountain bike as hard as he could. 

“Hey you! Criminal! That’s private property!” The whole park, packed with crowded sight-seers, glared at me. Some laughing, some rolling their eyes. The Park Ranger looked utterly ridiculous in his short shorts and loose bike helmet. His biceps were so large I thought it was remarkable that he could balance on such a thing. I looked for Tabby to share a laugh, which is pretty much all we did together back in the day, but she was gone. I was alone in the fountain. 

I was always alone in the fountain.

The bike screeched to a halt at the edge of the water. “Get out now! For your safety!” Although Tabby wasn’t there, I was able to channel her spirit. I know that’s what happened because I would never, in a million-billion years say the things that leapt out of my mouth. 

“If it’s for my safety, dickhead, then maybe you shouldn’t scare me like that? What If I lost my footing and drowned? Would you be upholding your civic duty then?” God it felt good to talk to someone like I had a pair. 

“Alright, funs over. Let's go buddy.”

“You’ll have to come catch me,” without thinking, I dove back down below the surface and started swimming around to the other side. The pool was so large, he had to jog to keep up with me. 

“The longer you swim, the bigger the—” POW! The jets soared sky high, sending a waterfall of recycled, probably acidic water through the air, then gently down onto my head. The mist was so heavy it covered up my view of the park, and the park's view of me. I didn’t think, I just acted. 

Assuming the Park Ranger was still running (thinking I was still swimming away) I made a mad dash for the edge of the fountain. When I made it to the edge, I reached through the mist. Like a man reborn from the belly of the ocean I grabbed the edge of the pool, launched myself over the side, and kicked off my soggy shoes while sprinting for the Park Rangers state-issued mountain bike. 

The small grip barbs on the pedals dug into my feet, but I didn’t care. I was escaping a city fine by riding off into the concrete jungle, the crisp March air drying my undersized jacket. I was living the life. Thank you, Tabby. 

As I glided across the pavement, my mind drifted back to her, to be fourteen and getting away with shenanigans like that every day. Certainly Tabby wouldn’t be into the same things anymore, she’d have grown up. We all do.

There was always something about Tabby that gave me the impression she was immune to age. Simultaneously the smartest, most polite girl you’d know, and the most reckless. Religion isn’t something I put much stock in. You’d never catch me saying “What Would Jesus Do?” But I did find myself wondering what she might do in a given situation. I tend to overthink things. She always just knew the best thing to do. How to have fun without it costing something, or being at others expense. I envied it. It was always easier to give her the wheel. 

If it was my final day as a mouth breather, I’d want to see her once more. Not to reconnect, or catch up or anything like that. Just to see where she ended up. A simple glance across the aisle at the supermarket would be enough. Did she have kids? Married? Did she take over her Grandfather's farm like she always promised she would? She was top of her class afterall, she could have ended up with any job she wanted. 

The farm. Shit if I didn’t have just as many memories there as she did. That’d be one hell of a place to spend my last day. Fuck it, I just might. 

While that notion washed over my mind, I realized my toes were losing feeling from the wind. I checked quickly to see if my wallet was still in my back pocket, it was, and I veered off toward the Budget Rental Car two blocks down. Don't think, just act. Push those icy toes just a few more blocks. 

Never one to ride my bike–I had one, I just never bothered–I struggled to control the brakes and avoid bumping into people. I’d forgotten which was the front brake, and which was the back, and I was going too fast to test them. The ride through town wasn’t the least bit graceful, as I accidentally snagged someone's purse with my handlebars, making her drop it, and ran over some poor chap's foot. 

“Watch your ass, Lance Armstrong!” 

The Budget Rentals sign blurred passed while my head was turned, and I accidentally squeezed the wrong brake handle in an effort to stop. I tumbled over the front of the bike, kissing the pavement as I flipped over the handlebars. The bike landed on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I knew I was bleeding right away; the blood oozing from my ankle was about the only warm thing on my body. People were staring, I probably looked a lot like Josh just lying there as I mentally went through the post-accident checklist: Broken bones? No, good. Scrapes? Just the ankle. Bruises, bumps, anything else? Yes, but who gives a shit anymore. I’m having too much fun. Even after crashing that bike this was a blast, for some reason.

It was probably a big shock to folks in the Budget to see me, soaked in greenish fountain water, blood dripping off of my ankle and my hair blown back like I'd touched an electrical socket. Not to mention the jacket. But money is money, and they were glad to help me rent a car for the day. Still playing the “last day alive” game, I told the rental car agent to take his time and give me whatever was available. 

“Spare no expense!” He seemed to really enjoy my attitude. As did I. 

My phone had sent its last text early that morning around 2 a.m. to a girl I’d matched with on Tinder. We were supposed to meet up tonight, but I hardly wanted to do that anyway. My little dip in the fountain with Tabby had sealed my phone's new fate as an eternal paperweight, so I’d never reconnect with her even if that was my ambition. 

When I pulled the phone out of my pocket, a few meager drops of water dripped onto the asphalt next to my rental Camaro. Before he walked away, my rental car agent warned me not to get water in the car or there’d be a hefty fine. 

That bill would never come due either, my man. 

I dropped my cell phone where I stood, climbed into the driver's seat and fired it up. I knew my way to the farm by heart. It was only thirtyish miles north of the city. I’d be there before dinnertime, and Papa Meyers would no doubt ask me in for a plate of pot roast and potatoes, or something else that beast of a man crafted by hand. As I gently pulled out of the Budget lot, my mouth salivated at the thought of eating a Meyers’ home-cooked meal again, and not another sad Footlong over a cardboard box and paper plate. 

It’s a shame it didn’t turn out quite like that, but nothing ever really does.

The drive itself was the easy part, I even sang aloud most of the way if you can believe that. With every high note I belted horribly off key, I felt the trembly feelings of a big cry coming on. Somehow my tone deaf singing was suppressing it, keeping it at bay. Even as I lie here, waiting to die, I can’t even remember what I was upset about. All I knew is that the singing was helping, and the Meyers Farm would solve everything. 

Expecting a calming aura of serenity, the serious tones and dark atmosphere I inserted myself in on the farm tonight was quite the surprise. The farm itself hadn't changed a bit: a long dirt driveway leading up from the expressway, a rickety red barn still in disrepair off to the right (used only for storage now), the Meyers' freshly painted ranch home off to the left, and all the newer facilities and cattle ranges just beyond the chicken coop in the back. Just as welcoming as ever. 

I hadn’t even parked that obnoxious Camaro before Mrs. Meyers jogged out of the house and  waved me down. She didn’t know it was me of course, the dirt clouds puffing up behind my tires surely hid my face. No, she was trying to keep me from disrupting Mr. Meyers. 

I pulled up and rolled the window down. “Mrs. Meyers, it’s—”

“Well if it isn’t Ellie! I thought you were another one of them pipeline developers.”

“No ma'am, still hanging on to my soul.”

“It’s funny you say that,” she said this under her breath, almost like she was baiting me to ask about it. “What brings you up our way? Passing through?” She looked at me with a suspicious side eye.

“Why’s it funny?” She was off. Her lips were tightly pursed and she seemed to be breathing heavy. Her comforting country aesthetic couldn’t hide her unease. 

“Oh well, I shouldn’t bother you with what we have going—”

“Sandy! Where’s Jacob?!” Mr. Meyer’s booming voice shot across the lot, ringing out from the smaller, newer barn next to the chicken coop.

She turned back toward the house to yell back, “ain’t seen him in three hours Davie! Still in town with the trailer!”

“You guys need help with something?” The dirt kicked up from my tires had finally settled and I killed the engine. This would be better than a home cooked meal, I’d get to help out again, actually doing something with my god forsaken hands other than typing. 

“Oh we’re done with work for the day babe, this isn’t something—”

“I need you now hun! It can’t wait!”

I didn’t ask, I just followed. Mrs. Meyers dropped her halfhearted attempt to refuse my help, and led me to the barn. As we hustled past the house, I thought back to the sunrise, and where I was this morning. The man with the half shaven face and oversized shoes, Josh and his neck. That felt like it was ages ago. You truly never know where you’ll end up around dinnertime. 

There was a long hose running from the garage nearby and into the barn where Mr. Meyers was waiting for us. There he was; the six-foot-eight hulking war veteran holding the end of the hose, looking down at a sitting cow, both unmoving. His ears pricked up when we came around the corner, but he still didn’t move. I couldn’t get a read on what was actually going on. 

Mr. Meyers was always a concrete presence in my life, he didn’t seem to hide emotion, but it surely never took control of his actions. I thought of him just as I thought of Tabby. A compass of logical thought and strength. But when I rounded that corner, I couldn’t tell what direction we were going in whatsoever. 

“Sandy, I think you’ll have to—”

“We have an, uhm,” she interrupted. “A very unlikely visitor.”

Mr. Meyers solemnly turned around, cheeks glinting in the light due to the water running down them. At first I couldn’t fathom that he’d been crying. 

Every time I’d ever visited the Meyers’ farm I'd been greeted with a hearty “well slap my face and call me happy!” Without exception. Today of all days, Mr. Meyers just stared at me, like he’d seen an apparition or was waiting for God to tell him what to do. 

“Bless my stars Son, what brought you here? Today of all days?” I was lost. 

Finally looking down at his hands, he looked to be holding a rusted old gun. A few seconds later I recognized it as a penetrating bolt. Used to euthanize cattle and other animals when the farm hands had exhausted all other healthcare options. 

“Well?” Mr. Meyers beckoned. 

“Uhm, it was a strange set of circumstances. Objectively, I’m probably just taking the death of my boss pretty rough.” The Meyer’s didn’t move, they were hanging on every word. “That’s not important actually—I just thought it’s been far too long since I’ve come to see you, that’s all.”

Mr. Meyers dropped the bolt, hobbled over and crushed me in a suffocating, but comforting embrace. He’d caught me with my pants down, so to speak, and I regretfully didn’t hug him back before he let go. He draped his arm around my shoulder and walked me over the statuesque cow. 

As we walked, he caught me up to speed. “When you ran off to school, a lot of the animals ‘round here were, well, just off. It can be like that when a familiar face stops bein’ familiar, you know?”

“Sure, makes sense.”

“You probably don’t remember this ole girl here, but she was born in the old barn out there near the house. When you left she was still just a heifer.” 

That sparked a flood of memories for me. Such an odd and beautiful sight to behold for a fourteen year old lad. Tabby wasn’t around then, just like she wasn’t today, it was just me and her grandparents. I assisted in the birth of a new calf, and ended up checking in on her every day when I showed up to work.

We’d reached the old cow, she looked stiff to me. By that time, I’d become all too familiar with what that meant. 

“Back when you used to help, you’d walk over from your uncle's place, ‘round back. ‘Member? And you’d hop the fence way back there,” he pointed at the now setting sun, past acres of open cattle range. “You’d always walk the same route. Well, after you ran off to college, this little missy,” pointing down at the cow, “would wait for you. Right where you’d always jump the fence. And when you didn’t show, she’d still walk your usual route up to the house. Least as far as the fence would let ‘er.”

Still unsure as to why, I was second away from unleashing my big cry right then and there. 

“We took to callin’ her Ellie. I know you hated when Tabitha called you that, but we just couldn’t help it. Just stuck.”

It was happening. The big cry. My chin quivering, my throat airy, my vision blurry from the salty tears burning my eyes. I was holding it at the door best I could, but it was leaking out now. Mr. Meyers could tell, but kept on talking anyways. 

“I’m a man of God, you know that. And God as my witness, if that little calf didn't grow up to be one of the best things to happen on this farm. She gave us six calves, if you can believe it, and needless to say we always had a soft spot for her. She still walks your route every day. Until recently that is.”

She was sick. He didn’t have to say it. I’d been around enough euthanizations to know that Mr. Meyers was about to tell me that they “tried everything,” and she just “won’t eat anymore feed, damn it.” It was a normal thing, euthanizing cattle. A quick bolt to the head, cut the throat, and it’s over before you know it. But they’d grown attached. You were never, ever supposed to grow attached.

Yet, it had only been thirty seconds, and I’d grown attached myself. 

“What Mr. Meyers might be trying to say, dear,” Mrs. Meyers interrupted, delicately joining me at my side, “is that we missed having you ‘round. That’s all.”

Mr. Meyers broke off, dropping the penetrating bolt in the dirt and hiding his nose in his elbow. I knew Mr. Meyers wasn’t torn up about the cow, I’m sure it was a good cow and all, but this was just a trigger. He couldn’t bring himself to end it, almost as if ending it would solidify the passage of time since I left. Since Tabby left. I know if I stood there much longer talking about it, I would have ended up on the floor next to the cow, bawling like a baby. 

Before either of Tabby’s Grandparents could go on, I stepped forward, grabbed the bolt, aimed and fired. Its eyes bugged out like, well, like it just got a metal bolt through its skull, then let out a tough breath through its nose. Mr. Meyers kept his eyes averted while Mrs. Meyers stepped forward to cut the throat. The bolt to the head was enough to kill it, but bleeding it out was just a quicker death for the poor girl.

There’s something cyclical about ending a life you helped bring into the world. It was impossible to not think of Josh in that moment, or Tabby, or the meaning we humans attach to otherwise meaningless things. Such as cows, or miniature ties, or coffee stained jackets. 

I dropped the bolt to the floor as Ellie’s blood pooled around her body, seeping deeper into the dirt. I took my chance to get that coveted Papa Meyers hug and buried my head in his chest. My head barely came up to his chin as he let out a horrible sob. He sobbed for the loss of a good cow, sure, but for Tabby, for me, for growing up and growing old. He sobbed for us all. 

Later that night, I was sitting alone at the edge of the fire pit behind the house. We ate some leftovers at the diner table, and Mrs. Meyers turned in early for the night–probably to knit something or read whatever new cozy mystery she’d picked up. As I sat there, still a little unsure how such a normal process, one he’d done a few thousand times over his lifetime, could rip Mr. Meyers up so badly. When he finally joined me around the fire, carrying a triple whiskey in each hand, I instinctively knew the right question to ask. 

“It’s been a while since Tabby’s been around, hasn’t it?”

He sat back into his lawn chair, downing half of his cup as he did. “Been a while since anybody’s been ‘round. But yeah, last time she was here was, oh I’d say, goin’ on seven years now. Still calls though.”

I didn’t say anything, I just gazed back into the dancing flames and sipped my whiskey. That brown potion tasted so old it felt like I’d taken the glass straight from George Washington’s hand. My face scrunched up like a fitted sheet. Mr. Meyers laughed at my expense, a deep, guttural laugh. When my face returned to normal, I shared a bit of the laugh with him. 

We went on to talk about my job, why I’d left early for the day, and a myriad of other standard “whatcha been up too” topics. The Meyer’s had invited me to stay the night in the guest room, and I’m sure it would have been just as relaxing for me as it would be for them. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that staying would make things worse, like we’d be dragging out something that had already come to a fitting, and resolute close. I’d blown in quickly off the expressway, the angel of death, ready and willing to take the life of whom I shared a namesake. 

I’m the last person you’ll hear reciting the “it was meant to happen” shit, but the Meyers weren't. To them, it was always supposed to end that way for Ellie. But to me, it was just time to go home. 

The city's endless lights dashed past the car windows like stars moving at hyperspeed. I was surely speeding, but it wasn’t just that. Time slowed down for me as I returned home. At some point during the drive I realized I’d have to wake up tomorrow, throw on another suit and tie, and make a full day of sales calls. My boundless adventure had come to a close, and there wouldn’t be another one like it for a long time. That is, unless another co-worker snapped their neck, or the tiny tied man made another curbside prophecy. 

The urge to cry out my unexplained feelings was gone. I haven't learned anything, I still didn’t know what had drummed up those feelings in the first place, but I felt eternally soothed as the lights whizzed past me. It would be the last good feeling I ever felt. 

The Park Ranger from the fountain (Captain America in an oversized bike helmet) dashed in front of my car as I raced down the street. In the split second before I crashed, I could see the look on his face. He was angry. Not just angry, he was defeated, probably from spending his whole day looking for a stupid mountain bike. 

He cruised across Grant street on his bike. I remember being happy for him that he actually found the bike, I felt pretty bad about leaving him out to dry, but I had my own shit going on. But he still looked bitter that he’d been bested by mentally bereaved man wearing a tiny jacket. 

My shoes dangled around his neck, the laces tied together. I couldn’t decide if he just liked the shoes and wanted to keep them, or if he meant to return them to me. Probably not the latter, they were pretty nice shoes.

I couldn’t swerve fast enough, I missed Captain America but hit the corner of my regular Cafe going at least 50 mph. The very shop that had sold me my brown elixir of life that morning ended up being the beginning of the end for me. The corner of the cafe was now where the engine of the car once was. Glass rained in all directions. I felt hot oil splatter across my face as the airbag sucker punched me. There was a moment of stillness as I waited for the car to explode, or for me to bleed out, but nothing happened. 

Smoke billowed from the engine as passersby recorded the event on their phones, but I just sat there, breathing. Existing. 

Then I saw him. That fucking half shaved face smiling proudly above that miniature green tie. Just across the street amidst a crowd of cell phone journalists. He was talking to someone, a young college girl wearing stylish overalls by the looks of it, telling her something that seemingly meant a lot to him. He was pleading with her about something while miraculously maintaining a cheery disposition. 

As I watched, it became clear that he was making her wildly uncomfortable. She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her hand, pulling her back in. She was horrified, looking around desperately for help, but the crowd was too preoccupied with watching my death. 

I coughed up a heaping helping of blood before I could shout “hey!” The crowd closest to the car jumped back. I raised my hand to point at her, to try and redirect the attention being shined down on me, over to her. But it didn’t work.

Against every medical professional's advice, I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to stand. I didn’t know it was the only thing keeping me upright, so once I was free of the belt I tumbled over sideways onto the ground. Nobody rushed to my aid, either. When I looked up, she was still trying to get away, the big shoe man was shouting at her aggressively now. It looked like a damn mugging. Her shirt was ripping from the tug of war. 

Against my body's plea’s to stay still, I clumsily climbed to my feet and hobbled across the street. Oil was still dribbling down my face, or it could have been blood, there’s no way of knowing now. As I made it across the street I could hear what he was shouting. 

“—by thine own hand! Tonight! Tonight!” I was now next to the very same garbage can I’d tossed my coffee cup in that morning. As I stumbled up onto the curb, my foot grazed a beer bottle that had no doubt fallen out of the overflowing bin. In one not-so-clean motion, achy and shaky, I scooped the bottle up and whipped it at the man as hard as I could. With my injuries, it wasn't very formidable at all. 

The bottle bopped the man comically on the head. The impact was so soft that he actually caught it. Looking rather amused, he looked from the bottle, then over to me. Hysteria in his eyes, there were almost completely crossed as he spit out “by thine own hand!” And laughed a crooked laugh.

This man was either a soulless instrument of the devil, or a clinically insane person. Either way, his new fondness for the bottle distracted him long enough for the girl to get away. As I watched her escape into the night, I felt the edge of the bottle crack my skull down to the brain. He threw it as hard as he could right at me. Even without the car crash, that blow would have knocked me on my ass. 

I fell backwards onto the sidewalk, right over my own coffee stain. I grabbed the body of the now broken bottle, got up on one knee and swung it in front of me in defense. I swung it madly, unable to aim, barely able to even see. If I could see properly, I would have noticed as the man ran up to me, still laughing, clasped his hands around mine and shoved the jagged bottle into my throat. It slid into my windpipe like a hot knife through butter. My vision was mostly blurred at that point, but the auditory circus going on around me painted a clear enough picture.

I heard the crunch of the bottle beneath my fingers, me gagging on my own blood, tires screeching as the evening commuters started rubbernecking, my blood splatter on the sidewalk, the shocked gasps, and the thud of my body hitting the cement. The last thing I heard was the man, it sounded as if he was skipping, chanting “thine own hand! Thine own hand! Thine own hand!” 

Now here I lay, the coffee stain of the morning mixing together with the fresh blood stain of the evening. Despite all that had happened, I felt quite lucky. Lucky that I could still see enough to see the blood pooling around my head, and lucky that I ended up next to this exact garbage can. Because tucked underneath the foot of the bin was the feather the man had blown at me that morning. With my last ounce of life, I gently plucked the feather from beneath the can, dipped it in the blood and doodled one last sketch. One that I'd perfected over the years. A sleeping Tabby cat.