Sway

George Alison had the gift of second sight since birth, just like the scar that ran across his back.  The scar that looked like three sixes that meant something and nothing at all, all at once.

Once, when George was a toddler, he astonished his mother when he gasped and yelled, “Fall! Break! Bad!” His mother looked at the dining room table where little George was looking, perplexed.  A moment later, her husband, late for work, brushed her full coffee cup off the dining room table with his overcoat  and it fell onto the wooden floor, shattering and spewing hot black liquid underneath the table’s legs.  Mr. Alison gave his wife an apologetic shrug and said, “Babe, I’m late.”

Mrs. Alison tried to talk to her son about how—how he knew—but the toddler just kept shaking his head, pointing at the shattered cup and repeating, “Bad. Bad.”

August 11, forty  years later, George Alison wakes to a headache, the  scar on his back itching and hurting, just out of his reach. A single yellow index card sits next to his stash box on top of a book he is re-reading.  His Dark Overlord has, again,  left instructions while George dreamed about white kittens with black paws, tumbling through the darkness.

George Alison, reading the note, throws on some crappy clothes—no coffee—and, as instructed, walks from his downtown apartment toward Town Square to collect the soul of an eight year old blonde girl, destined to be run over by a black Charger, her mother screaming outside the bank where she has just deposited her husband’s weekly check, watching her only child die in the street in the brisk South Texas morning air.

George Alison took the two block walk, earbuds in, approaching the gazebo as Street Fighting Man faded out in his ears and the tribal drumbeat of Sympathy for the Devil began. As was his habit, he was fifteen minutes early.

He continued listening to the playlist, taking the earbuds out and stopping the music at Under My Thumb when he saw them, mother and daughter, leaving the bank. In a few moments Nevaeh would dart away from her mother as her mother examined the bank deposit slip she had just been given. Nevaeh would, according to the premonition George briefly saw as he was reading his Dark Overlord’s instructions, run into the crosswalk to get to her mother’s car, parked across the street, and the driver of  the Charger, on a green, would clean hit her into the middle of the intersection. Nevaeh would hit a slightly upraised manhole cover with her head, splitting her skull open, leaving her unbaptized soul an easy pick, her brain slowly spilling into the city’s sewage system. Someone would call 911. Not George.  Praise the Darkness, this time there would be no waiting at the damn hospital. George smiled. He’d be at Starbucks reading the Sendera Advocate within the hour, his Dark Overlord done with him for the day. He stretched his arms over his head. Felt like Saturday.

Keith Underwood, dressed sloppily in black slacks and a mostly untucked white shirt, leaving his downtown office, walked east to west in the crosswalk on Main Street. Midway through the walk, he glanced to his right and noticed, diagonal from him, a man in faded jeans and a Texas A & M hoodie loitering near the gazebo. A mother and daughter approached Keith Underwood on the south side of Constitution. As he was stepping on to the landing curb, breathing heavily from the short jaunt across the street, he saw the girls walking toward him, the mother’s face buried in a bank receipt, the daughter bouncing around her mother, anxious to get to the car and—later—to the egg taquito she was promised if she was good in the money place. She was good!

The light signaling drivers on Constitution was green while “Do Not Walk” flashed at Keith and Nevaeh and Mom, now together, more or less, at the corner of Main and Constitution.

George, across the street, watching them, licked his dry lips. If all went to plan, people could later say they saw an A & M fan reach down to the little girl in the street and yell, “Call 911,” before exiting the scene. What they could not see was him swallowing the girl’s soul, only to regurgitate it a few moments later in his apartment’s kitchen sink, under the watchful eye of 8.

George Alison licked his lips again as  a black Charger approached the crosswalks and Nevaeh darted from her mother and in between the painted lines on the street. George stood on the balls of his feet, his excitement heightened.

Then—then the plan was eviscerated:

Keith Underwood, watching the girl separate from her distracted mother and seeing the approaching vehicle, dropped his Surface Pro and ran in between the little blonde girl and the Charger, waving his arms wildly.  The driver slammed on his brakes as the other drivers who were stopped on Main watched the drama unfold, gasping as the sound and smell of burning rubber on Constitution filled the morning air. Near the gazebo, George Alison, watching The Plan fall apart in real time, turned a whiter shade of pale.

“Fuck,” he said, already sensing his Dark Overlord’s fury. “Fuck,” George repeated. He would bash the little girl’s  brains out on the sidewalk in front of him if he could, even now. The Dark Overlord didn’t have many rules but non-engagement was one. George had done what he was supposed to do, without question. Like a fucking trash collector. George Alison had learned the hard way, pissing thick painful blood for a week, to do things 8 required of him without question.

Later that day, back at the apartment, George Alison would write his report on the back of the yellow index card left for him that morning. At the least, he would hope, his  Dark Overlord would give him Keith Underwood, the traitorous intervenor.

That was for later.

Back on Constitution, the hero Keith Underwood  pushed Nevaeh behind him, her butt landing squarely on the manhole cover (that had previously been destined for her head) as she let out a yelp and began crying.  Keith backed up and away from the rapidly slowing Charger. He leaned over, putting his hands on the hood of the car as it screeched to a burning stop, its front bumper pushing at his knees. Keith lifted both hands off the hood of the now still Charger and screamed, “What the fuck is wrong with you!” at the driver, although the driver had done nothing wrong.

Alison’s premonition, usually spot on, at least got the screaming mother right. Watching this full-on fuck up occur before his very eyes, he closed his eyes, thinking “shut up bitch” and he imagined her tears flowing back up into her eyes, until both were dry again and she was looking at her receipt, walking backwards into the bank’s entryway. He opened his eyes; shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t Cher. He couldn’t turn back time. He turned from the scene, tightening the pull cords of his maroon college hoodie, and walked back to his apartment, changing the music. Air Supply would accompany him on the way to his sparse, if not immaculate, abode. George Alison was all out of love.

He would finish his shitty report, read a little Anton LaVey before napping and wait for his next insight, grabbing the sleep Nevaeh stole from him that morning.

The next insight came after his delayed Black Rifle coffee, before noon, napping, fast asleep, eyes wide open, staring at the cockroach crawling across his second floor ceiling, watching it take flight just outside his peripheral vision. He also saw:  Keith Underwood would be at Haligan’s later—after 5. George Alison would (inwardly grimacing) smile and compliment Keith Underwood on the Shirley Temple save from this morning, offering him a wish in gratitude from The Universe. George hated the wish thing. He had been lobbying his Dark Overlord for decades to give him a kill card. But his Dark Overlord had time—forever in fact—to toy with his victims and George’s request was always stamped “DENIED” on form QA-667. George, unlike his Dark Overlord, did not have infinity to mess with these filthy humans; he  had exactly forty years and one day left, dying in a horrific apartment fire on August 12, forty years hence. Alone.

In the meantime, there was daylight to waste.

The only dilemma left for George to face the rest of the day was whether to load up on Led Zeppelin or Bryan Adams on the walk over to Haligan’s a bit later.  Zeppelin was so depressing (all that Valhalla bull) so he decided he would queue up Run to You and let Pandora pick the rest. He smoked half a joint and drifted off, Outnumbered on his TV in the background.

Keith Underwood met up with his friend, Vincent Paul, weekly, two forgettable middle-aged white guys , usually dressed in matching solid blue button-downs, Keith’s tucked in loosely over a brown belt, Vincent’s hanging out. Vincent had more hair, not yet balding; Keith had more weight, his thick gut hanging over that brown belt. They met every Thursday as soon as Haligan’s opened at four o’clock. Today was Thursday.  Vincent sighed more than usual on Thursdays. It was 3:00. The sighs were increasing.

When George Alison woke from his afternoon lull, he noticed that his Dark Overlord had not yet taken  the yellow index card, now filled on both sides; instructions on one side, results on the other. On his small bedroom TV,  Outnumbered had switched to The Five. George had neatly placed the card, results side up, on top of a well worn paperbook copy of Different Seasons. With no further written instructions, he started to question his insight—especially after this morning. Maybe he WASN’T supposed to meet up with The Hero, offer him a wish. His hatred of Underwood reigned in place, visceral and tangible. He would make the trek.

Keith Underwood was an exceptionally underwhelming person, who was at this moment working, one hour left to go, at his downtown office, shuffling papers at his step-uncle’s real estate practice, waiting patiently for his unearned $2,000.00 Christmas bonus, peeling the months away. He would have to use some of that bonus this year to get a new Surface Pro, where he kept his dreams of being a writer. Keith stopped reading the quitclaim deeds for typographical and grammatical errors, rubbed his eyes and stared at his window. There was nothing to see. The blinds were down. Closed. Today was the same. He had had a huge double burger for lunch, along with two Lone Star longnecks. Or was it three? No, he thought again, today was different. He rubbed his eyes again, ready to re-look at the Walker deed.  Different, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

3:50 p.m., outside Haligan’s, Vincent Paul waited. He always surprised Underwood at how early he got there. Vincent would open the door at four sharp, waiting if it was locked, slam a few Coors and flirt with Chloe before he had to put up with Keith for a few hours and then beg off before taking shots started.  If he was not Keith’s only friend, he would cancel. Every week. And, Jesus, when Keith started talking about his “first novel,” Vinnie was ready to jump out the first story window and hope it wasn’t safety glass.

Now, sitting in his car, Vinnie started reading a local story on the Sendera Advocate website (The 70 year old mayor died of a heart attack overnight.) and lost track of time. It was ten after. He scurried across the street.

When Vincent walked into Haligan’s, he saw a man at the end of the bar, black jeans, black ankle high shoes and a Mastadon tee shirt covered by a black suit jacket. The Hagar Collection from JC Penney, he assumed. Next, he saw a woman—red hair—place a bar stool next to some guy in a shirt and tie at the bar, chatting him up, he supposed. It looked like he was leaving—or trying to— just as she was settling in.

He only had time this time for one beer before Keith came trudging in, an oddly smashed Surface Pro in his left hand, a $20 bill in his right. Keith ceremoniously put the bashed up computer on the bar and extended his right hand, with the twenty. Vinnie did not know why he was being offered money.

“You were right,” Keith said. “They traded Brady,” he continued, more sad than the occasion called for.

“I’ll buy you a beer,” countered Vinnie, taking the money from his erstwhile friend, smiling. The only smile he would smile that evening. Then, out of misplaced empathy, he asked, “How’s the novel coming?”

Keith Underwood’s haggard face brightened at his friend’s mercy question. Keith looked younger, ready to respond. But before he could answer, a stranger’s hand clasped the right side of Keith’s shoulder. Keith instinctively looked to his right, the stranger’s extended arm still hanging there, the stranger out to Keith’s left. Then Keith looked to his left. George Alison took his hand off Keith’s shoulder, took a half step back.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “I just wanted to compliment you.”  He now had both Keith’s and Vincent’s full attention. Keith was perplexed.

“You saved a little girl this morning,” George said.

The memory of the girl’s crying, the mother’s tears, his own anger at the hapless driver, came flooding back.

“Oh,” Keith said. “Oh yeah. How,” he started, “how did you know?”

George did not want to be associated with being on the scene so he stated, ”Facebook. It’s all over Facebook. Someone posted a picture of you and what happened, I guess,” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “back there.” He paused, gauging his mark’s reaction. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure man,” Keith said. “I’ll take a Bulliet on the rocks. That’s my favorite.”

Vinnie winced. That’s a $12 drink. He knew his friend always got the $2 longnecks.

“What happened,” Vinnie asked.

George ordered two Bulliets, offered Vinnie a drink, which he declined, and relayed the events of the morning. He then put his hand on Keith’s shoulder again and said, “I’m not of this world” to Keith’s stunned face.

“We are very impressed with your actions this morning. Very altruistic.” George felt light-headed, ready to vomit, like the first time he had a cigar. “I am here to grant you a wish.”

Keith’s open mouth closed while Vinnie’s closed mouth opened. Then Keith began laughing at the punchline of a joke that was untold.

“Okay, buddy,” Keith said, turning away from his new friend and toward the bar, breaking George’s grasp on his shoulder.

George could leave, fill out a supplemental report on the Dark Web and call it a day. There were, after all, no written instructions—just a newly unreliable premonition. He could probably finish learning the keyboard fill to Waiting for a Girl Like You before falling asleep.

That’s no way to earn a kill card.

Over the course of an hour, George Alison got to know Keith Underwood better. He prodded him about his novel ambitions and then came in the back door.

After ordering another round of Yeager bombs, he acted drunk, slung his hand around Keith’s shoulder a third time  and asked, “If you could have just one writing wish, what would it be?” George raised his ring finger and the overhead music quieted.

“Well,” Keith said.

Vinnie looked at his friend.

“I’d like to write a best selling novel. The one,” Keith nearly  teared up, imagining his success. “The one I’m working on.”  Keith glanced at his tablet, so abused.

“ Fair enough,” George exclaimed. He asked for his tab, paid and again thanked Keith (ignoring the tightening of his stomach) for saving the little girl in the crosswalks that morning. George, almost skipping, left the bar. The last two patrons at Haligan’s, Vincent and Keith, took turns talking about how weird that guy was. Chloe, all breasts, legs and tattoos, ignored the chatter, texting her girlfriend, smiling occasionally.

Keith Underwood could not sleep that night. Or any night after.

By trial and error, he discovered that only by working on his “novel” was he able to fall into a few fitful hours of sleep before waking and doing it all over. By the end of six weeks, he had finished the book.  He sent it off to six publishing houses and one bit, offering an advance—big enough to allow him to quit his menial paper-pushing job, buy a new car, put down a down payment on a new house, update his wardrobe and—most important to him—pay off his student loan debt to his parents. He discovered he actually did like Bulliet, Vinnie stopped paying for his drinks and—Chloe noted—he became a good tipper. His jokes were a little louder and his hugs a little more (uncomfortably) tighter but nobody begrudged him a good time. And then he was gone.

The publishing company wanted him to push his book. He called it “Pivoting Right.” He subtitled it “An Unrequited Love Story.” It was a mish-mash of short stories, poems and essays about women leaving him. It was more autobiographical than fiction but it was mostly incoherent, his conceit being to drop the same characters into seemingly random stories, including the ever hapless “Steve,” who was, of course, him, overweight, balding and not much fun. Always put upon.

For some reason people listened to Kayne West and for some dissimilar reason, people liked “Pivoting Right.”  Initial sales were strong, the critics at first calling it “experimental fiction” but now, months later, sales were dropping and his Dark Overlord—excuse me—his Publisher needed him to tour so they could at least break even. Pivoting Right was pivoting red. He was more than happy to leave Sendera, Texas, for the benefit of his benefactors.

The tour was to start in the Pacific Northwest and after ninety days was to end in his home state of Texas. The Publisher was to pay for everything except food and drink. Underwood had one flight booked into Medford and another one booked out of Seattle; he had a rental car for three days and hotels for two nights. His itinerary for the ensuing 87 days was TBD.

He was in Medford, Oregon, at a small independent book store at 7:00 p.m. and he flubbed  the entire hour, start to finish. He did, however, find a very attractive red-haired fan who managed to spend all the cash he had brought with him. She had an expensive habit and, of course, being a gentleman, it felt only right paying her for the time she spent with him at the Hampton.  In the morning, he offered her a shower but she simply collected her powder blue Kate Spade clutch and left, a slight kiss on his forehead.

The next day in Portland, when he went to pay for his dinner ahead of his  performance, his American Express card was declined. He quickly checked his bank account and discovered he could cover the meal with his debit card but if he was going to make it to the end of the next eighty-six days, he would have to subsist on Subway and Chipolte. He thought of how he spent the advance and was not embarrassed. Then he thought of how much of that advance he had sunk into brand new friends’ investments and his face flushed red. They were yet to show a profit. He remembered the consultation with the financial advisor, before he had spent a dime, offering a balanced variety of safe short and long term investments, no new car, no new house. She had him convinced until, toward the end of the free consultation, while he was looking at her one page summary, she said, “Mr. Underwood, I prepared the prospect sheet with the assumption that this advance will never be repeated, the residuals from sales of your book will be modest and decline to zero over a period of three years and there will be no replacement income.” She appeared to be proud of her projections. She was smiling at him. Then he saw a line notated “Monthly Allowance.” It was less than he had been earning at the slave shop. He made a graceful exit and shoved the advice in the glove compartment of his car. No residuals after three years? No replacement income? Those, what did they call them, financial biases? They were way, way off. This was his first best selling novel, not his last. He was sorry she couldn’t see that.

On the drive from Portland  to Seattle in his rented Kia, his agent called. He punched “accept” on the rental’s touch screen and his agent’s voice filled the cabin:

“Hey babe, bad news. Tour’s canceled. Couple of old people died of some new disease in one of the nursing homes. They’re calling it coronavirus or something. Seattle is locking down, bud, before there’s an outbreak. Sorry. Hey I pushed The Books and they are gonna let you stay in the room if the hotel allows guests but they pulled the flight. You okay? I got another call.”

Before Keith could say “”WHAT,” the line went dead. Keith turned pale. He tried tuning into a local station. He had just crossed over into Washington, cruise control locked onto 70 mph. He had to keep auto-tuning past Beyoncé and Cardi B to get some news. The agent had it right: a novel coronavirus had hit the country and it looked vicious. People were dying.

Keith Underwood checked into room 1009 (Ten Oh Nine). He sat on the edge of the bed, his Nike gym bag at his feet. Fuck, he thought, the sunlight through the curtains starting to fade. It’s unbelievable that I spent all that money, he continued thinking, head in hands. House. Car. Debts. Food and drink. Strippers. Coke. Unbelievable.

Across the country, to the south, George Alison sat on the bed in his apartment, leaning over an ashtray on the floor between his feet, elbows on his knees, taking a long drag off his marijuana cigarette, closing his eyes. He saw a bewildered man in a Seattle Hampton Inn room, sitting on the edge of that hotel room bed, head in hands. George didn’t smile often. George smiled. He snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers, imagining the torrent of tears and guilt that was about to storm Keith Underwood and smiled again. He let the cigarette drop to the ashtray, laced his hands behind his head, and leaned back on his fully made bed. It felt like Saturday. He found himself giggling and was embarrassed at how high pitched his laugh was at that moment. He listened to Mick Jagger minister to him. It’s just that demon life that’s got you in its sway. Contented, George fell asleep.

In Seattle, Underwood felt a rising current of panic. He briefly saw himself homeless in Seattle. Tom Hanks would not be playing the lead role. Maybe Pauly Shore. At best. Keith had exactly one real friend he could call to help him, beg for money for a plane ticket home for the next day, no discount. He shook his head in disbelief. Did Vinnie have frequent flyer miles? Had Vinnie ever been out of Sendera? He picked up the cell to dial home. Six months ago, his hands would have been trembling, his voice shaking. But now he was used to demanding or, at worst, asking and—either way—getting what he wanted. The conversation went like this: no.

Vinnie said no.

Vincent Paul woke up the next morning, still incensed. His newly-rich friend wanted HIM to pay his way home? Fuck right off. Vinnie saw the new house, the new car, the dates that his average-looking pudgy friend pulled in, clearly not from Sendera. Yea, fuck right off. Dude got himself into some kind of mess. Let him figure it out.

Still, he thought he had heard Keith’s voice crack when Keith asked, a second time, for the money for the flight home. He thought that Keith sounded like an addict, promising to pay him back, asking him if he had flight points.  It had shaken Vinnie for a moment. But mostly, Vinnie was incensed.

Alison woke up the next morning and, not seeing any yellow note cards from his Dark Overlord on his night stand, used his new mini waffle maker from Target to make four waffles, drowning them in syrup, no butter. He followed that with a 12 ounce Dale’s Pale Ale and a quick hit off the cigarette from the night before. Then he loaded up a few books and headed to Starbucks to do some reading, go through some coffee, burn up some daylight hours. (It’s just that demon life that’s got you in its sway.)

In Seattle,  Underwood woke up and got on the phone with his broker. It would be at least three days before any sale of stock would be realized and show up in his bank account but—but for a slightly larger commission—his broker could advance the funds and pay himself back when the account settled. The mark agreed. He would be on Southwest that night, headed back to Texas.

As evening secretly fell in Sendera, George, fresh off his afternoon nap, and Vinnie, in the middle of  Deadpool, lit upon the same idea: couple of drinks at Haligan’s tonight,  hit on Chloe, do a drive through for eats on the way home; call it an evening.

Alison pulled a Cowboys tee shirt from the pile of dirty clothes on the floor at the foot of his bed and whiffed it over his head. He had a baseball cap he bought at a Mastodon concert a few years back. He slipped that on and admired his own devilish good looks in the mirror. He had not shaved since Wednesday and he thought the growth made him look sexy. “Sexier,” he imagined Amber saying. He left his apartment and walked downstairs into the outside summer air. Walking to Haligan’s, he put his phone’s earbuds in his ears. “Oh what a night,” the song began,” late December back in sixty three.”

As was his custom, when he walked into Haligan’s, he knocked twice on the far end of bar before walking to Chloe at the other end.  He knocked to let 8 know that he was working, get the clock running. He spied Vincent Paul by Chloe and walked up to him, loudly ordering a Bulliet on the rocks for himself and a Blue Moon for Vinnie, sidling up next to him. Vinnie raised an eyebrow, silently asking, how did you know Blue Moon was my drink. As Chloe fetched their drinks, George thought, almost out loud, I knew; I knew. This, however, was not second sight; this was first sight.

“How’s it going,” George asked, a man in control of his own circumstances,  shoulder to shoulder with Vinnie,  a  video of Smooth Up in Ya playing on the system. “I’M GOOD,” Vinnie unnecessarily yelled back at him. “HOW DID YOU KNOW I LIKED BLUE MOON,” Vinnie yelled at him. George smiled and gave him an “OK” sign with his fingers—the real OK sign, not the racist one. George hated racists.

George leaned into Vinnie and in a deliberately lowered voice asked, “How’s your buddy,” hoping it would trigger a HUH or a WHAT.

Instead, it triggered something entirely different.

Vinnie went on a four minute, profanity laced, jealousy-tinged rant against what he disaffectionately called his “ex-friend.” But that wasn’t true. They were still friends.

“Do you remember his wish,” George asked.

“Yea, sure,” Vinnie answered, “the one you granted.” Vinnie  tried to laugh derisively but it was ingenuine. The wish his friend Keith made that night, the day he saved that little girl’s life, to have ONE best selling novel, hued to the point as to what, in reality, had happened. But that wish being granted, while it seemed like  a sweet dream come true, had turned sour. Vinnie took a prolonged drink of his Blue Moon and looked at George, his vision monetarily blurring under George’s considerable influence.  Vinnie was willing to believe that George was a dark angel, not of this world, that he had, in fact, granted his friend’s wish.  And for that, he kind of hated George.

“He’s stuck in Seattle,” Vinnie finally explained, answering the earlier question. He and George talked about Keith’s sudden rise in fortune, his foolish, reckless spending and his current cash-poor dilemma.

“He should have used that one wish to wish for money management skills,” George stated, looking at the beer bottle in front of him, adding, in a slightly edgier voice, “when I gave him the chance.”

It was now George’s turn to receive a direct Vinnie tirade, angry that George Alison (The Wish Granter! Whatever!) was so flippant about (yes) his friend’s predicament. George listened patiently, ordered a Hopadillo from Chloe, established that Vinnie had not helped his friend come home. Vinnie’s face reddened and he repeated his assertion, index finger near George’s chest, that his friend Keith did not know he was going to come into money, that he was going to be a successful writer, that he was going to quit his job—he simply did not know, so how the hell could he possibly know to wish for—money—management—skills. No one knew, he insisted, no one knew.

“No one knew,” Vinnie said, his voice lower, between gritted teeth, equal parts loyalty and guilt, “no one knew he was going to be that good of a writer.”

George brought  the fresh bottle of Karbach Hopadillo to his lips, winked at Chloe, and let the cool intoxicating liquid fall into his mouth, swallowed and put the bottle back down in front of him, letting Vinnie hear the echo of  his own “no one knew” resonate in his ears before answering, “I did.”