Killing Time by Matthew Snyderman

Ian preferred to drink alone, whether it was booze or coffee he was craving.  That’s when he did his best thinking.  So when local rents and a low-paying service job (the bitter reward for following his passion in college) obliged him to take in roommates, he often found himself at one of the neighborhood’s less trendy cafés.  The kind where the patrons kept mostly to themselves.  His current favorite was The Purple Cow. 

That was where he was headed one sunny afternoon in his Sunday best ratty white t-shirt and thrift store Levi’s, humming the infectious hook to a punk song that had come to him in a dream and was too good to forget.  A scowl, his natural expression when composing, kept Todd, The Cow’s chatty barista, at bay as Ian strode past him and the enigmatic chanteuse reclining on a piano in the full-length painting above the bar to his favorite spot in the back, the only table with a single chair.  Tossing his messenger bag in the corner, he flipped open his sticker-laden laptop and settled in to work on the lyrics to “Styrofoam Heart.”  Just one of several undiscovered artists scattered about the room. 

“Tink, tink, tink.” 

“Jesus!”  Ian started, nearly upending a bottle of Dead Guy Ale that had landed unnoticed at his elbow.  An older, but not elderly, man was seated across from him stirring an espresso and gently tapping a tiny spoon on the edge of the cup.  “My apologies.  I have an unfortunate tendency to startle people.”  He was half a head shorter than Ian and clean shaven, wearing a dark suit and tie that were more than a bit formal for The Cow.

“I’m kinda workin’ here,” Ian growled with his best “piss off” glare.

The man was undeterred; “That was a curious rhythm you were humming,” he said, never taking his light grey eyes from Ian’s.  “Do you mind if I join you?  The beer’s on me.”

Ian couldn’t help but be intrigued; it wasn’t every day that he encountered a person over 60 who didn’t cringe reflexively at the sight of his medium gauges and the tattooed sleeve of M.C. Escher lizards scrambling up his arm.  But even more disarming were the older man’s courtliness and vaguely Scandinavian accent, which brought Ian’s beloved and recently deceased great uncle to mind. 

“I suppose.  As long as you’re not selling anything.”

“Heavens no!”

“So you like punk.”

“Its attitude, especially.  I am a collector of sorts and enjoy all types of music, even punk…Ach, where are my manners?”  Half standing, he extended his left hand, “My name is Antonius.”

Ian took it and noticed that Antonius was missing a pinky and sporting a ring of exotic design.  “Ian.  OK, then; but what do you usually listen to?  I’ll bet it ain’t The Damned.”

“Well, if choose I must; Balkan folk music or, better yet, Haitian drumming.  They have a fascinating complexity to them.  Trancelike, almost.”  He rapped out an exotic rhythm on the table with his 4-fingered hand and the spoon before switching seamlessly to Ian’s song.  

The songwriter could only whistle in appreciation as the drumming tapered off, which elicited a modest smile from the drummer.

“Great ring, by the way,” Ian added, finally.

“I acquired it in Mesopotamia – Iraq to you – some time ago.  Would you like it?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I am not.  It would be my pleasure.”  Antonius deftly slid the ring from his finger and onto Ian’s before the younger man could object.  It was heavy and oddly cold.  Ian examined his unexpected gift.  “Thanks?” he said before raising his head.  The eyes gazing back at him were still friendly, but somehow different, almost blue. 

“You must be great at card tricks.  You do anything else besides collect music and rings?”

“Hmmm…What do I do?  You could say that I am a travel agent of sorts.  For a niche market.  It’s an ideal occupation for a people person like myself…I hope this is not too much of an imposition, Ian, but would you be good enough to sing me that captivating song of yours?  If it makes you more comfortable, consider it as an exchange for the ring.”

“Sorry.  It’s not finished and I’m a pretty shy about singing in public.”

“A shy punk.  How quaint.”

Ian’s first response was to sullenly run his fingers along the obscene graffiti gracing the table top, a photo of which he had pictured on the cover of his band’s first album, if he ever had a band and they ever put out an album.  “And it would sound lame a cappella, even with the right singer.  Besides, I’m writing it for Stephanie, a girl I know.  She has her own band.  They’re pretty hot.” 

“She is, too, I imagine.”  Antonius stuck out his lower lip in disappointment and produced a cigar case, removing a joint of Rastafarian proportions, which he fired up with a Zippo lighter and offered across the table. 

Ian hesitated.

“My dear Ian, my intentions, I can assure you, are strictly honorable.”

Ian eventually nodded his thanks and took a hit.  “WHOA!”  He had to pinwheel his arms to avoid tipping over.  “What is that shit?” he coughed.  Todd, who made a point of loudly chiding any customers who violated his “right to breathe clean air,” remained mute for once as a pungent cloud began to spread.

“Perhaps that will relieve you of your inhibitions,” Antonius suggested hopefully. 

Upon regaining his balance and returning the joint, it seemed to Ian that Antonius was now somehow taller.  His eyes looked different, as well.  They were yellow.  Ian was no stranger to being stoned, but not like this, and abruptly headed for the men’s room without excusing himself.  A jukebox, coated with a thick layer of dust that marked its long-term disuse, sprang to life without anybody having touched it, hissing and popping like a gadget from an old sci-fi movie.  But Ian barely noticed as he wove unsteadily through the tables.

Bathroom door closed behind him, Ian bent over the grimy sink.  Ten icy seconds under the tap cleared his senses sufficiently to decide he’d rather return the ring than reveal that his singing voice was more Joan Jett than Joey Ramone.  However, despite two minutes of tugging and twisting, it wouldn’t budge, even with the help of half a cup of institutional pink soap.  His determination to avoid the kind of wolf whistles and cat calls that had greeted his handful of excruciatingly self-conscious public performances remained equally immovable.

“You pick up that pot on one of your trips?” Ian asked as he rejoined Antonius, “Maybe – ”  There, carved into the table top in perfect gothic lettering, were the words “Ian Loves Stephanie.” 

“No, Ian.  And those ‘trips,’ as you call them are more spiritual pilgrimages.  Most of the time, I work with individuals, though I do take groups.  All ages, too.  But enough of my humble efforts.  It’s time for your song.  And considering I’ve been generous enough to set the stage to your exacting specifications,” he continued with a theatrical sweep of his arm, “how can you refuse?”

Ian scanned the café; they had The Cow to themselves.  No fellow artists drinking coffee, though their cups and spoons and crumpled napkins were still in place.  And no Todd.  Even the chanteuse was missing from her perch atop the piano.  Then, as if on cue, an instrumental sounding like an undiscovered demo from the Dead Kennedys started pouring from the derelict jukebox. 

“Who are you, really?” asked Ian, turning uneasily back to Antonius and noticing he was no longer missing a finger.

“Ah, ah.  First things first.”  And with a glance he brought the music to a halt.  “Maestro?”

The joint lay smoldering on the table’s edge, and Ian picked it up for one last drag before shutting his eyes and counting off the beginning to “Styrofoam Heart,” with the invisible jukebox band jumping in right on time with a raunchy, fuzzed-toned backup he felt more than heard.   That irresistible groove, just as he’d imagined it, shouldered his familiar inhibitions aside.  Each chord set the coffee cups and pint glasses behind the bar to rattling while the silverware vibrating on the surrounding tables practically stood up and danced to Ian’s fierce, sneering vocals, which filled the room as though he were belting them into a vintage preacher’s mic. 

Reaching the end of what he’d written and afraid to finish and thus complete whatever transaction his audience-of-one had in mind, Ian vamped for a while and even conjured an extra verse out of thin air, sweat dripping onto the floor off his nose and chin.  Yet, through his dread, he felt elation unlike anything he had ever experienced, a sensation he wanted to last forever.  But realizing that there was nothing left to say, he brought the song to an emphatic and perfect close.  The room was still charged, though silent, when the clapping started and Ian turned toward it, opening his eyes.

“Thank you, Ian, for a simply marvelous performance.  No offense intended, but the lovely Stephanie is not worthy of that song.  Now onto your question.”  Antonius, fingers steepled under his chin, looked at Ian through glowing red eyes which, with a blink, returned to their original grey.  “Some would call me Death, but Antonius sounds so much nicer, don’t you think?    Curiously, most people – perhaps, even you – believe there is a divine report card waiting at the end of a bright tunnel when they die and that I’m there to cast the unworthy, whatever that means, into a lake of fire for their multitude of sins.  But there is no final judgment.  No punishment.  No rewards.  When your time does come, you just cease to be, like a single raindrop that travels through the sky, distinct in its way, until falling into the ocean.   Painless oblivion.  For everybody.  My task is not to choose the timing or manner of your demise, but to make that journey a smooth one.  Not as colorful, admittedly, as what sprung from the fertile imagination of Hieronymus Bosch.  Now then…” he fished a gold pocket watch elaborately engraved with birds in flight from his vest and popped it open.

“So I’m, like, already dead?” Ian asked.

“Nobody lives forever, my talented friend.  But no, today you are very much alive,” replied Antonius, pushing back his chair, which shrieked against the wooden floor as dim outlines of the other patrons began to take shape.  “Today’s appointment is with another.  You see, occasionally, if I’m a little early, I like nothing more than to take a few moments to visit with interesting people and watch the world go by.”  Then turning with a dancer’s grace, Antonius strolled toward the door, humming “Styrofoam Heart” before calling back “I suspect you may have a hit there, an underground one.  Ha!”

Ian watched Antonius go, but with each step his memory of their encounter faded and the interior of The Purple Cow returned to normal.  Strangely exhilarated, he noticed a beer he’d never ordered next to his laptop and took a swig.

This phantom afterglow was shattered by the sound of squealing tires followed by a jarring crash.  It wasn’t right outside, but somewhere close.  Everybody rushed to the plate glass window.  Ian shook off the last of his mental cobwebs and joined them.  But their view was mostly blocked by a steadily growing crowd which, attracted by the noise and a long plume of acrid, black smoke, was surrounding the vehicles, standing on tiptoe.  “Fuck!” said Todd, sidling up to Ian, “That sounded like a bad one”

“No shit.”

They watched together, not speaking, while the distant wail of sirens grew steadily louder and a phalanx of emergency vehicles hurtled past.

“Hey,” said Todd, heading back behind the bar after the EMTs had spirited away the victims, “great ring.”

Ian held up his left hand, which sported a colorful band on the middle finger. 

“What the hell?”

Matthew Snyderman

Image by StartupStockPhotos from Pixabay – a cafe table with a lap top, drink and notepad and pen.