'Til Death Do Us Part (13 page)

BOOK: 'Til Death Do Us Part
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Okay you can check now,

h
e said with a waving of his hand.

What I saw
just about took my breath away. T
he city
looked like you would envision H
ell. The sky was lit up a blazing red, dust and ashes moved down the street in tidal waves.

We can

t stay here,

I said
,
not able to tear my eyes away from the inferno I was gazing upon.


Fire, fire on the mountain
,

John the Tripper sang the Dead tune as he was staring out the window next to me.


John
,
you need to get whatever you think is important
and we need to get out of here,

I said. H
e was too lost in the vision before him to even take note I had not called him by his proper name.


Get u
p, get out, get out of the door
,

he said still in a sing-
song mode.

Good
,
I thought
,
he

s on the same page
. At least that is what I thought
until I realized he was still singing the song.

John!

I said grabbing him by the shoulders.

We need to get the fuck out of here!

I yelled, small flecks of spittle hitting him in the face, he didn

t seem concerned.


I know that, does John
,
though?

h
e asked.


Probably not. Grab whatever you think is importan
t and can help,

I added
. W
ho knew what he thought was important
. F
or all I knew
,
he would start ripping out the copper piping down in his basement.

Do you have a car?


A car? No
,

h
e answered, I could physically witness his thought process as he was trying to go through the catalog of his possessions.

My heart sank. I
t was going to suck trying to get out of the city ahead of the zombies and the fire.


I

ve got a van
,
though.

I almost kissed him, until I began to wonder if maybe he was using it as a planter in the backyard or something equally as useless.

Keys?


In the ignition,

h
e said
,
turning back towards the fire.

I was always losi
ng them and
that seemed like the safest place.


It runs then?

I asked, still keeping my fingers crossed.


In the garage,

h
e said pointing.

I grew up a few streets away from here before I became a roadie. I loved being on the road, but there was always a part of me that wanted to come home.

Tears were forming in his eyes.

I heard that you can never go home
, but that isn

t true. I did, ma
rried my high school sweetheart…
she still held a flame for me after all those years I was away. We took some cooking classes because we liked to eat well when we got the eats.

He smile
d
sideways as he reminisced.

Come to find out
,
I was something of a
protégé
in the kitchen
and ended
up teachi
ng the class the following year.
S
tephanie
never got any better
,
but she attended just to stay close to me.

He didn

t clarify
,
but I figured S
tephani
e was his wife
.

We were married for seven of the greatest years of my life.


I

m sorry, John the Tripper
,
I am. What happened?


She went to
Washington
.


What?

I figured she had
contracted
some rare blood disease and died in his arms.


She got a job offer.
She
wanted me to move with her, but I had finally come home and I didn

t want to leave again.

I wanted to berate him for letting the love of his life get away from him, but it was
his life to live as he saw fit.
Who
the hel
l was I to tell him differently?
Shit
,
I was just some bald guy wearing a poncho and a tin foil hat. I would have been shunned by bums in Detroit.

I

m sorry
,”
was all I could muster.


For what?

h
e asked
,
looking at me. I truly think he forgot the entire thread of the conversation we were just having.


Ah...nothing. Do you have any shoes I could wear?

I aske
d as I looked down at my yellow-
rimmed tube socks.


You going somewhere? I sure could use some mushrooms.


For cooking or eating?


Both, what else would I do with them.


I was thinking you meant the
psychedelic
kind.


Oh no
,
those taste like
shit.
I make sheet acid.


Forget I asked. John
,
I need some shoes if you have them
,
and you need to go pack some shit up
.
W
e need to get out of here.


Why would I pack shit up?

h
e asked.


Figure of speech.


You make no sense
, man,

h
e told me as he headed up his stairs. I really hope it wasn

t for a nap.


Well this is a first,

I said to the empty room.

I

m not the craziest one in attendance.


What size foot do you have?

John the Tripper yelled down.


Ten!

I yelled back up.


I

m an eight
. C
an you fit in those?


When I was twelve maybe.


Well can you or can

t you then?

h
e yelled down.

I think I would be better off with socks rather than trying to cram my feet into a shoe
two
sizes too small.


You could wear a pair of S
tephanie

s that she left behind!


I don

t think that

s going to work.


She was a women

s
thirteen
!

h
e added.


What are they canoes?

I asked softly, I didn

t think he would have heard me.


She had a condition.


Amazonian?


A women

s
thirteen
is about a men

s
eleven-and-a-half.
You
want them?


Sure
,
bring some extra socks.

Now I just had to get over my phobia of putting on someone else

s shoes. Hadn

t been bowling in over
twenty-five
years after I
once figured out how many nasty-
ass feet those things had been donned on. And that little squirt of disinfectant
deodorant
that the

shoe technician

put in there would do little to overwhelm the hardy microbes that must be b
reeding vigorously in that germ-
rich soup of toe fungus and foot jam. How

s that sound for appealing?
Might as well dip your feet in dirty toilet water.

I was still rubbing the unseen germs off of me when
John came back down the stairs. H
e was carrying an armload of socks and quite possibly the brightest pink sneakers I had ever seen in my life. I mean they looked as if they were potentially battery powered.


You

re kidding right? Please?

I begged.


I like socks.


No the sneakers.


No
,
S
tephanie
left a bunch of stuff behind. We

re still married.
She
vis
its about once every two months…
she

s late this time though.

My mouth opened, he had once again surprised me. I moved on to something I understood.


Can you shut those off?

I asked
,
shielding my eyes from the brightness.


You

re a funny bastard!

h
e said
,
handing over the shoes and some socks.


I wasn

t trying to be funny,

I said sadly as I went over to the couch to put on my new digs.

John went over to another table in the far corner of t
he room. H
e retrieved a large folder that looked thick with paperwork.


I don

t think you

re going to n
eed to file taxes any time soon,

I said
, looking up happily.
The
sneakers were ugly as hell
,
but with the added pair of socks
, they fit pretty well.
Plus,
I had the bonus of being able to walk on water if the need arose.


I

ve never filed taxes,

h
e said.


You

re kind of my hero right now,

I told him as I stood
,
surprised at how well S
tephanie

s footwear felt.

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