Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

out of breath. He stared at the man huddled on the floor, his mind racing. The sound of his own heartbeat, which he had not even realized he could hear, gradually faded from his ears.

“I…” he stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.”

Draadtrekker’s arms moved down a bit further, but he kept them defensively crossed. “Doctor September?”

“Yeah,” replied Dennis. He let the statue fall into the pile of its brethren, held his face in his hands, and let out a shaking breath. “Christ, Draadtrekker, I thought you were a burglar.”

Draadtrekker cleared his throat, a trace of confused panic in the noise. “What the fuck, may I ask, are you doing in my shop?” He stayed curled on the floor, his breath still panting between his arms. Dennis felt something rising in his throat, and held his own breath to keep from vomiting. After steadying himself, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the carved stone, which he set on the floor between them. Draadtrekker cautiously unfolded his arms, and reached forward to take the stone.

“What the hell is that thing?” Dennis asked quietly. Draadtrekker hauled himself into a sitting position and looked up from the stone in his hand.

“This is why you broke in?” His voice was wavering, and he swallowed once. “It’s a trinket, September.”

Dennis scowled between his fingers. “Look, the sooner you give me a decent explanation, the sooner you can go back to playing musical chairs with all this garbage.” He gestured halfheartedly at the mess that the fight had caused.

Draadtrekker stared at Dennis, and his wide eyes narrowed with subtle disgust. “Are you drunk? Your breath smells like cheap spirits.”

In spite of himself, Dennis began to giggle. “Spirits are exactly my problem!” he laughed, feeling slightly manic. “I just met a ghost, Draadtrekker! A real ghost! And that stupid rock of yours started buzzing as soon as she showed up!” He shook his head, feeling torn between laughter and tears. “I don’t have a clue about what’s happening to me today, but I have a feeling that you know more about it than I do, and I am not leaving here until I get some answers.” Had he been in a more rational mood, Dennis doubted that he would have been behaving this way. As it was, though, his entire body was shaking, and he tilted his head up with a wild expression. “So start talking.”

“Look, mate, I don’t know what you’re on about, okay?” He held up his hands, two fingers still grasping the rock. “I won’t call the cops,” the man continued, “just go home and sleep this off.”

“No, that’s not...” Dennis’s voice caught in his throat. He swallowed, tasting bile. “Damn it, look, I’m sorry.” Draadtrekker seemed to deflate somewhat, apparently confused by the apology. Dennis regarded him quizzically, still trying to steady his own nerves. The two men sat in silence, each of them catching their breath.

“You’re not African, are you?” Dennis asked at last. Draadtrekker blinked in surprise.

“I’m from Greenwich,” he replied. He slowly lowered his arms, watching Dennis carefully. “That’s England to you, not Connecticut.”

“So, you’re British, then.”

“Too right.” He kept staring down at Dennis, his gaze slowly hardened. “I don’t know what your problem is, September, but I think you had better be leaving.”

Dennis held up his own hands. “Calm down, I can explain,” he said, pulling himself together. “That’s not really my name. It’s just something that I made up.”

The bigger man’s expression had gone from seriousness to puzzlement. “What’s your real name, then?” he asked.

“It’s Dennis. I’m a writer. I didn’t mean to cause a scene, I just came here to talk.”

“I’ve met better conversationalists.” The look on the man’s face was wavering between curiosity and relief. After a long moment, he appeared to make a decision. “My name’s Bobo.”

Dennis arched an eyebrow. “Bobo?”

“Yeah,” the man replied. “It’s short for Barnaby, but no one ever calls me that.”

“Well, Bobo,” Dennis began, “it’s nice to meet you, I suppose.”

Bobo tilted his head from one side to the other, as though mulling something over in his head. When he finally spoke, the beginnings of a nervous smile showed on his face. “I think I’ll stick with calling you September, if that’s alright with you.”

“You may call me what you wish,” Dennis replied. Then he snorted and shook his head.

“Something funny?”

“Let me tell you a story, Bobo.”

Over the next several minutes, Dennis did his best to explain the truth about himself. He started off hurriedly, still trying to make up for his earlier behavior, but he relaxed considerably when Bobo admitted that he had actually read Dennis’ book. Although he had never made the connection with the man called September, he had no problems accepting Dennis’ true identity. Midway through the story, Bobo invited Dennis into the rear of the shop, and the two men limped back into the room where Dennis had first entered. After retrieving two lukewarm bottles of soda from a sloshing cooler, Bobo sat down at the folding table, and Dennis joined him. Uncomfortable though the chair was, he could feel his limbs sag with relief.

When the story was finished, Bobo sat quietly for a few minutes before launching into his own tale. He had been born and raised in England. Having heard numerous stories of the world beyond his hometown, but never having seen any of it, he had decided to travel when he was old enough, and he had eventually wound up in California. “I came out thinking it’d be all beaches and models,” he confessed. “It’s what most blokes think of. Hollywood and all that. There’s no mention of anything like the real thing.” Still, despite his initial letdown, Bobo had decided that he liked the Bay Area, and had remained. He had been offered a job in the curio shop by the previous owner who, by Bobo’s description, had been the sort of person that Dennis encountered while in the guise of Doctor September. “When she retired,” Bobo explained,