Immortality and Crackers
by
P. David Benjamin

Aside from can openers, memories have been regarded as the singular most useful thing in the universe- and the cruelest (can openers also have a cruel side, but only when it comes to other small household appliances). The particular set of memories that rushed across the crevassed surface of Harold Brook’s brain where of the latter.

“What the hell am I doing here? I’m alone. My kids are gone. My wife escaped years ago. Is she still alive? Does she know I’m still alive- kind of? Why don’t I just lay down, eat some saltines and go to sleep. Maybe jerk a squirt first, if I even have enough blood to inflate the misshapen blister of a dick. What have I done with my life? Where did it go? Who will remember me? My kids? Sure, but then what? Shit. Damn it. I do care. And it’s too late. Shit shit. I need crackers and a tissue. Probably come dust. I remember when I got so much I could lift a Volvo with my prostate gland. Ha. Oh shit.”

He had lived and pretty much stopped at that. There were few points of interest in his life but they were too uninteresting even for Harold to go into. Except for today.
The flair of attaining orbit lies in reaching the horizons fast enough to keep falling over the edge of the earth. For example, at a height of 1 yard the required velocity is 17686 miles per hour. Harold fell far short of this speed when he leapt in the path of the bus and snatched the little girl out of doom’s way and landed hard on his left arm.

Harold had been on a morning walk through the neighborhood when a substitute bus driver, not knowing the location of the proper stop, overshot by an Antarctic Blue whale length and in a stupor of caffeine withdrawal (due to her coffee maker being damaged by some ingenious cruelty of her can opener) failed to notice the six year old crossing the street.

After Harold’s grand jete en avant of salvation Rob and Wanda Ipley thanked him to the point of shut the hell up and Harold ‘you’re welcomed’ and peeled away toward home.

Rubbing his arm and moistening the tip of his nose in the steam of a cup of coffee Harold reflected some more on his life and was jerked out of his deep reflection by the chest hollowing bark of his dog, Tra-la-la (a terrier, lab mix named by his wife in a soupy moment). The dog had been his wife’s and he hated it and it hated him. On some level the dog knew this and developed the most startling bark it could and used it in the most serene moments with hopes of stopping Harold’s heart.

Harold got up to answer the bark wondering who would be at his door this early, hoping for some stimulating conversation or someone to at least say ‘hi’ to. He opened the door and the cool morning air stood alone on his stoop. “Hello.” He whispered, hoping that his vision had just gone. Hmmphing and cursing the dog he returned to his chair in the family room and resumed his position of reflection, arm rubbing and nose moistening not noticing that something had entered his house.

The murine creature scuttled and shimmered behind couches and under and through cabinets until it was sniffing at the air behind Harold restraining a miniscule sneeze brought on by snuffling Old Spice and Ivory soap. The mission the mouse was on was an exiting one. He had never brought a new member into the society before and considered it an honor. Climbing up the side of the overstuffed chair, the mouse was overcome with pride and swelled a bit before he sunk his teeth in to Harold’s thigh. He would have preferred to bite the neck (tradition as he saw it) but he settled on the little victory and scuttled out undetected into the autumn air.

Harold felt the bite’s cutting pinch and his glands contract squeezing a splurt of adrenaline into his blood stream, acting without the consent of the brain. The brain was putting off any reaction until it had come to grips with everything that had happened today. This was more than happened in years. He felt like calling somebody, but who?

Harold deduced these things would have only been of interest to someone if there life was as uninteresting as his, and he knew no one of that description. He wished he had some crackers.

“OW!” Not too many voices were heard in the house and this one caught Harold off guard even though it was his. Rattled, he got up and went into the bathroom to inspect the damage, never seeing the cause. There was a little hole in his pants and a little hole in his thigh. He grabbed alcohol out of the medicine chest and daubed some on what was a wound only by definition due to its lack of size and lack of blood. Harold dismissed it as un-noteworthy and went back to his post in the chair and turned on Regis and Kelly and fell asleep before Regis could annoy him much.

When he woke up it was dark outside and his arm had gave up hurting, having gone on with its life. Harold felt invigorated. That was the best sleep he had in years, and it only cost him a day. Days were precious when you were 78, each one a fortune of “Thank God I woke up.” He wasn’t sure why he was always glad to wake up, but he took the little victory and was satisfied.

He reached for his coffee pot and decided that he didn’t feel like drinking any coffee. He had a strange sense of anticipation, as though he wanted to do something and didn’t know what. He didn’t want to go to sleep, as he should have done at 10:00pm, so he went for a walk.

Harold grew up in Spaulding MI.- a cornfield with roads. In the fall the air would be pungent with the spice of burning leaves. That smell still stirred Harold, stirred childhood memories of squash for supper and canning in his family’s kitchen.

When Harold was old enough he went to the machine shops that peppered the area and apprenticed until he was hired on as a machinist, and then he moved out. His father was stoic, his mother cried and his dog licked himself. Then Saginaw differed from Spaulding by a little more pavement. Since then Saginaw has matured into a concrete mesh steeped in capitalism. Go capitalism! Yeahya!

The difference between the city of Saginaw and the Township of Saginaw being in the city the roads run parallel and perpendicular to the river, which, further from the river, leads to interesting collisions of angles when the river bends. In the township, the roads are more of a grid layout. Also, the township is where the salesmen work, and the city where they live. It was in a subdivision of the township that Harold had lived for close to 50 years. When he built his house he was surrounded by corn, now the fields have faded into other houses, kids and dogs. “Why do people have dogs? They smell like a hairy fart. They can’t all have been stuck with one like me.” Harold thought.

The full moon was out with some lacy clouds- a dead eye staring through silk at the actions of nature and the reaction of men. Somewhere someone was burning leaves.
There were more people out walking at that nocturnal hour than he would have guessed. People he didn’t recognize even after nearly 50 years in the same neighborhood. There was a couple walking toward him and after them another couple.

The first couple was fat and the second, thin, and they both said “Hi” and addressed Harold as “Mr. Brooks”. This would have not been so disturbing if that hadn’t been Harold’s name. He didn’t associate with his neighbors. He didn’t know names, but he knew faces, and these faces he did not know.

More people walked by and said “Hi” to Mr. Brooks, each time adding to a nursing panic in Harold’s chest that lacked the constant tight feeling had been around since his late fifties. He was being irrational. He had to have seen these people before and it was the streetlights casting unfamiliar shadows on their faces that made them unrecognizable.

“Hi Mr. Brooks!” This came from a mouth in a face that Harold knew he didn’t know.

Harold knew very few black people and none lived in his neighborhood. The few he knew were from the shop and he never saw them outside of the shop and this one was too young to have been at the shop with him. Harold said “Hi” back and turned to go home.

He was further than he thought. He was almost to Gratiot Road and dreaded the walk home, knowing it was almost five miles. It was then he realized that his arm didn’t hurt.

How had he gone five miles? He normally scuttled around the block, not even a quarter mile, and was spent until about noon. He felt as though he could go another five miles before turning around. He began to run. Wind abraded his face and his ligaments stretched beyond any length in years. He passed the people that he met on the way out and they applauded as he zipped by.

He stopped in his driveway breathing like he had done nothing resembling run five miles. He inhaled deep and smelled cologne, a roast and loose change.

The cologne was spilt on a vanity top two blocks away, the roast was in an oven ten doors down and the loose change was in a pocket in the bushes. The pocket belonged to the gentleman that just stepped out and extended a hand to Harold.

“Hello, Mr. Brooks. I am Thomas Kilbourne. It’s very nice to meet you, and welcome.” Thomas Kilbourne was a tallish, blondish, thinish man, with many other ish-features. The most noticeable were a pair of longish sideburns like the kind no one ever wore anymore. Harold was uneasy, but extended his hand anyway.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my bushes?” Harold gripped Thomas’s hand tight as a gesture of male territorial pissing.

“I’ve established the first part and as to the second, I wanted to see if your senses were there yet.” Harold stopped shaking his hand, and let it drop. “Could we go in?” Thomas cocked his head toward the house.

“I don’t let strangers in my house, not a good habit to be in.” Harold’s logic was sound as a brick.

“Strangers?” Thomas feigned hurt feelings. “But we’re brothers.” His words were a blunt instrument that thudded Harold through his stomach and into his pancreas. “And I mean we’re the contraction, not were the noun or were the verb.” Harold cocked his head like so many dogs when they fart.

Inside they sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee, which tasted too strong. Harold had his platinum blonde with milk, which he detested, and still had to set it aside it being still to bitter to bear. Thomas sipped at his. “Good coffee, Harold. You’ll get used to it again-if you want. It’s like learning to drink it all over again, acquired taste, really.”

“What is going on? You know?” Harold believed that Thomas knew something that he needed to know. How he knew that Thomas knew is part of what Thomas knew. Somewhere, hidden behind the clutter in his mind an imp hissed “People always feel better just before they die”. But run five miles? Harold never heard of that. The imp stomped off and sulked behind a pile of Harold’s work memories and unused piano lessons.

“You, Harold, are Were.” Thomas swung that blunt instrument that he used earlier and missed Harold by an Antarctic Blue whale length.
With caution Harold said, “I’m home?”

“No. Were.” Thomas corrected.

“Home?” Harold said in a long tone, most likely a g-flat.

“Listen, Harold, say what I say…way-r.” Thomas said with exaggerated mouth movements so even a blind man could lip read through a brick wall- not that one would have to. After a moment of trepidation Harold thought it best to play along.

“Way-er” Two syllables , g to g flat.

“You said it right, but I still don’t think you get it. It’s not so difficult- I’m not trying to turn your mood ring black.” Thomas took a long dramatic sigh and leaned forward on the edge of his chair. “I hate this example, I despise the trite, but it seems to work best. You know of the Werewolf, correct?” Harold nodded. “All right then, you are ‘Were- insert noun here’.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I thought not, but you are close. You should be flattered, we are very exclusive.” Thomas sat back in his chair and put his hand behind his head. “Your little feat of daring-do this morning is what brought our attention to you. Impressive. The sort of thing you see on T.V., or in the movies, but not so often in real life. You could of died, but you didn’t, and now your one of us.”

“One of who?” Harold was trying to keep up but couldn’t suspend disbelief yet.

“Not who. A Were. A noun. ”

“I am a Were?” Harold had to take baby steps.

“Precisely. Now you get it.” Thomas smugged up and seemed to recline in the straight-backed kitchen chair.

“A were what?” Harold had tucked disbelief away in a drawer; he didn’t think he would need it for a while.

“Don’t know yet. What where you thinking of when you were bit?” Thomas furrowed his forehead.

“Bit? I was bit?”

“Your leg!” Thomas pointed at Harold’s now covered wound. “Michael bit you on your leg.” Harold remembered being bit and what he was thinking about after, which was ‘OW’! But at that exact moment, he couldn’t remember.

“Michael?”

“The mouse.”

“I was bit by a mouse?”

“We should have sent a Were-Bear. How could you be so thick?” Harold recovered the original thread.

“I was thinking about my life, unfinished things, you know - regret.”

“Hmm. Not good.” Thomas seemed concerned. “What part of your life? Any particular nouns stand out?” Thomas inquired. Harold thought and could come up with nothing.

“No matter. We’ll know soon enough.”

“You are telling me that what ever I was thinking of at the time I was bit was the thing I’ll become at the next full moon?”

“Did I mention anything about a full moon? No. That is the material of a weak mind explaining phenomena by way of superstition, and a lump of stupidity thrown in for good measure. That is why I hate using ‘Werewolves’ as an example.” Thomas stomped his foot with restrained temper. “No full moons, nothing. The only thing in the legend of the Werewolf that is even close to accurate is that we prefer to be nocturnal but that’s mostly because people suck. A person can be beautiful, generous even a genius. But people… people are ugly, selfish and dumb as hammers.” Thomas resettled into his chair and leaned into

Harold as though someone was listening. “You can transform whenever you want, provided there is no asparagus about.” Thomas talked very to the point.

“Asparagus?” Harold thought he had heard wrong.

“Yes Asparagus. You will develop a strong desire to eat asparagus when you are completely Were. There is no fighting it, I’ve tried. It’s delicious. Hey you wouldn’t have any, would you?” Thomas got up and headed for the crisper.

“No.” Harold stammered. “No asparagus.” That didn’t make any sense. Did any of this? Some asparagus would have tasted pretty good right then.

“What are you?” Harold directed at a despondent looking Thomas.

“What? I’m sorry. I was still thinking of asparagus.”

“What are you?” Harold repeated.

“What Were am I?” Thomas corrected.

“Yes. What Were are you?” Harold asked.

“I am one of the luckier ones. I got a good noun.” Thomas puffed up and stated. “I am a Were-Stone.”

“A wha?”

“Haven’t we done this already? I said I am a Were- Stone.” Again Thomas puffed.

“Petoskey stone.”

“A rock?” Harold tightened up his face exaggerating his eyes. Disbelief had returned from holiday, unpacked its underwear, and sat in a comfortable chair and told Harold that Thomas Kilbourne was so full of crap that he had to be 70% colon. A smile blossomed on one side of his mouth as Harold suppressed a visible giggle.

“Petoskey stone.” Thomas corrected with a sharp tone. Perhaps a f-flat “A vicious one! With hair!” Said a defensive Thomas.

“Hair?”

“Yes. All Were have excessive hair. There are some common ancestor theories, but nothing definitive.”

“You turn into a vicious, hairy rock?”

“Stone.” Thomas corrected. “It’s the Michigan state stone. Very honorable. Anyway, it’s not about what you turn into it’s about the heightened senses and strength and immortality. You know, all that.”

“Immortality?”

“You do have a lot of questions. Didn’t I mention the immortal part?” Thomas would have been going through his notes if he had any.

“No you did not.” Harold got heated. “I’ve been living my life with a constant fear of ultimate judgment, going to church picnics and not getting a tattoo because someone said the bible says not to, and now you tell me I’m immortal?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Thomas left and Harold sat in a lawn chair on his deck until the aural glow of the sun caught on the horizon. He couldn’t see the sunrise for the trees and houses, but nonetheless he knew it was there.

He slept well until about seven o’clock that night. Waking up had ruined his sleep. He had plenty of time the night before to let everything sink in, so even after his sleep he didn’t think for a second on the validity of the things Thomas said to him. He was standing in front of his coffee pot debating whether or not to make any when his doorbell rang.

“Want to go for a walk?” Thomas was wearing a blue warm up suit with reflective stripes on the legs and arms. “I want to introduce you to a few people.”

“Let me get my jacket.”

An autumn scented breeze held Harold’s head up and slapped it. It was a cool night, and it wasn’t long before Harold and Thomas met someone heading their way. “Hello Diane.” Thomas greeted. “This is Harold, he’s new.” Diane Held out her hand and Harold took it smiling. She was attractive and smelled like cantaloupe, two things he loved. After the introduction they walked on and a question nagged Harold. “What Were is she?” Thomas looked at Harold with a disapproving glare.

“That really isn’t important.” He dismissed.

“I just want to know.” Harold said not comprehending the rudeness of his question.

“She is a Were-Bowl of fruit.” Thomas said through aligned teeth.

“Wha?” Harold belched.

“Were! Would you please catch on! If we had known you were this thick, we never would have accepted you. You are making my mood ring black” Thomas sped up, to avoid any other questions that he may have been pelted with.

Another person came into view walking a dog. Thomas greeted and introduced Harold and then they continued to walk after a “congratulations” and a polite “thank you”.

Then, in response to Harold’s silent wondering, Thomas said “A Were-doctor.”

“You mean that you could become a were-doctor?” Harold queried.

“Yes of course.” Thomas was weary with this line of questions.

“How does school work?”

“Like any school, you just already know the answers.” Thomas said.

“Who was the dog?”

“A dog”

“Oh.”

“The leash was his brother.” This scrunched Harold’s forehead and pushed at his eyes from behind, but he hadn’t time to respond before the next person approached them.

”And this is Michael, the one who brought you into our fold, so to speak.”

“So you’re the mouse?”

“Were-mouse, thank you.”

“Yes, of course.” A cloud of dust and darkness cut the reunion short.

“Look out. Here comes Troy.” Thomas said out of the side of his mouth. Michael turned and walked through someone’s lawn he did not know and disappeared under a mum plant. The cloud that was not as much dust as darkness with a few strands of grey hair shimmering around like minnows in the streetlights wafted close to them. “Hello Troy.” Thomas faked politeness.

“Hello Thomas.” Troy said with equal mocking politeness. The small, dark cloud wafted behind them and continued into the night.

“What was that?” Harold ogled. “What were?”

“Were-despondency. Not someone with whom to chit chat.” They continued walking, slower to build a distance between them and Troy, keeping an eye out in case he turned around.

As the gap between them grew a peculiar feeling struck Harold in the pit of his liver. It was an emotion he had never felt before, like love-no-lust-no-infatuation- on speed.

No, completely different.

Thomas noticed a change in Harold’s pace. “Is anything wrong?” Harold couldn’t respond because the street was swimming around his head and the streetlights were laughing at him. Thomas grabbed at Harold shoulders to steady him. He knew what was coming.

“Here you go Harry.” The words sounded alien and underwater. “See you later. Have fun.” Thomas beamed like a proud papa.

Harold went to one knee. He breathed in all the scents and coolness of the air. Drank it like spring water. He barked out a breath and drank it in again.

Then the wild took him.

He snapped free from Thomas’s grip and set to a run that he had never equaled before. Like a sadist to a beating he ran through people’s yards and over fences and through pools and around trees. He questioned God, life and divided 78,987 by pi simultaneously. His mind was separating from his body and he looked down upon himself running wild like a river. What was going to happen? He had to get home to where he felt safe. Was he safe? Never more safe or more sure. He jumped a last fence and he was in his back yard. He dove through a screen of an open window then lay convulsing on his living room floor growing shaggy sideburns that rubbed against the berber.

What had he been thinking of when he was bit? The question repeated over again.

What had he been thinking of when he was bit? What? What? He was reflecting on his life, things undone, regrets… losses. He hoped he wasn’t going to be Were-despondency, the last thing he needed was to be shunned throughout eternity. Eternity? What was that? His whole life he had been courting death. Now he would never know it. And he knew it. All those insurance premiums for nothing.

A lightning bolt flashed through his mind. A divine fire coursed throughout his cardio vascular system. He got up and ran to his den rifled through some drawers and files. He held before his eyes some loose leaf paper with writing on them. Not taking the time to set up a typewriter, he grabbed a pencil and some clean paper and began to write, broke the pencil, sharpened it with his teeth and began again.

Years ago, when he was young and foolish-the same really, he began a manuscript of a tale of science fiction and never finished it, too concerned with the immediate necessities like food and family and a place to live, and set it aside for what had then been forever. It was this manuscript that he was thinking of when he was bit and the regret of never finishing it. A flame burned at his core - his soul. He had transformed into a Were-writer.

Harold heard his front door open and smelt it was Thomas. He continued his story of rockets and Jupitorian exploration as Thomas pulled a can of asparagus from his jacket pocket and searched the cupboards for a can opener. He placed a plate lined with green spears on the table and sat, watching Harold through a foot wide opening in the door to his den. "Good. This is good. We need you Harry.”

 

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