The Matter of Abbygale Neely

By D. Lane Sharp

Abbygale Neely lives in Portland, Oregon. You know her or someone like her. She's your friend—the one who never quite lives up to her potential. She’s smart and funny but guarded in a way you don’t understand and she won’t confide.
The thing about Abbygale is that she does her best. Every day. She does her best. None of it matters though. In seven days, she’s going to die.
The terrible virus that has kept her holed up at home under a mountain of fuzzy blankets with quaking chills in the middle of summer is, in fact, not a virus at all. So too the surreal, violent fever dreams—they’re not dreams.
Can she save herself? Probably not. She never has before, not in a single one of her previous lives, so it seems unlikely she will this time, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try.
The Matter of Abbygale Neely is a fast-paced story about how true love isn’t love, time isn’t time, magic is real, and the devil is indeed out to get you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Lane Sharp
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310476372

D. Lane Sharp

D. Lane Sharp is a writer from Portland, OR.

Book preview

Part I—In which we meet Abbygale Neely. The events that follow occur in one week’s time.

Chapter 1

I misjudged the first step, which caused me to stumble and trip on the second. I thought for sure I’d left the porch light on; apparently, I hadn’t. Forgetting wasn’t like me.

Darkness wrapped itself around the stoop, slowly constricting it to blackness before swallowing it whole. So dark was it, I couldn’t make out my front door.

I righted myself and looked over my shoulder. The street was quiet. Eerily quiet. No wind. No street noise. No cars or pedestrians. No sound at all except for my own breathing which came high and heavy, crashing and receding in my head. My fingers tingled, and my heart pounded.

I took the last step, and there it was—my door. It waited for me, slightly ajar, a sideways whispered word of warning. With my arm extended, I pushed against it, and it swung inward.

Hadn’t I locked the door, or at the very least, closed it? First the porch light now the door? Common sense told me to stop, to turn around, and not go in.

I went in.

I saw the shadow of a man, his back turned to me. He had ransacked my living room and now was rummaging through my bookshelves. Casting off books, looking in decorative boxes, and then throwing them aside. He had made his way through most of the items on the bookcase. Maybe a third of them remained on the shelves. The rest lay scattered, discarded, or trampled under his burnished leather wingtips.

What are you doing? I said.

The man turned to face me, and it was then that I noticed it was Ben.

There you are, he said.

What are you doing? I said again. This time I yelled it. The fear I felt upon seeing the form of a strange man in my house turned to outrage now that I knew it was Ben.

What do you think I’m doing? I’m looking for it! he yelled back at me. He was furious. I could tell by the way he carried himself, the tension in his shoulders, the jerkiness of his movements, the way he clenched his jaw so tight the muscles rose up like jug handles on the sides of his neck.

What are you looking for?

He searched through the remaining contents of my shelves before turning his swirling, destructive attention to my desk.

Oh, come on now, he said. Let’s not be obtuse. You know what I’m looking for.

No, I don’t, I said.

Look, he said. I’m not interested in playing your little mind games, Abbygale. Tell me where it is.

I’m not playing mind games. I don’t have any idea what you’re looking for.

He looked up from rifling through the contents of a desk drawer that he had pulled all the way out and overturned on top of the desk.

Still a bitch, I see, he said.

Get out! Get out!

I’m not going anywhere, Abby. You have it. I know you do. It’s mine, and I want it back.

I don’t have anything of yours! I screamed.

Where would you keep it? Somewhere precious? Where I wouldn’t think to look? It won’t help, he said. I know all your precious places.

He crossed over to the wall of photos my father had taken of me when I was a little girl. I had matted and framed them and hung them on my wall. They meant more to me than anything. They were the only things I had left of him aside from the pair of work boots he wore the day he died. Those I kept in the back of a closet because I couldn’t bear to know they existed.

Ben lifted a picture off the wall, the one where I had my arm around our old, red dog, grinning, my two front teeth missing, pigtails and freckles, squinting into the sun. He raised the framed picture dramatically over his head and brought it down across his knee, breaking the glass, bending the print and the matting. He pulled the matting off the back, and made a show of looking into what remained of the mangled picture frame, as if anything could be hidden there, before tossing the picture and broken frame to the floor.

Nope, he said. Not there. Maybe this one?

He plucked another picture off the wall. This one was of my dad and me. My dad had taken it with his tripod. We were laughing. He’d probably told a joke right before the shutter closed that would have been just like him.

Ben raised the picture, preparing for the knee smash.

No! I yelled.

I rushed at him, reaching for the picture. Ben changed up his swing mid-motion and instead of bringing the frame down on his knee; he swung it, baseball bat style, and struck me across the side of the head with it.

The force of the blow knocked me over, I tried to regain my balance but I couldn’t. I managed to cover my head with my arms before I fell into the TV. The TV fell with me down the wall. We landed with a bang and a thud on the floor.

I looked up at Ben from my position on the floor. I was about to ask him what the hell had gotten into him, when he hit me across the face with the broken frame he was still holding.

Where is it, Abby? he said and hit me again. He’d dropped the picture frame, so this time it was with his fist.

He’d never hit me with his fist before.

Stop! I cried. My hand immediately went to my cheek where his blow had landed. Hot and painful, my cheek felt as if it had exploded. I scrabbled to my feet. The animal in me knew I needed to get on my feet and stay on them. Once upright, I wavered, unsteady and rattled, but I managed to stay vertical.

He shook his head as if to clear it. He took a couple steps backward. He looked dismayed, but I wasn’t fooled.

I’m sorry, he said softly. His words were gentle now, you need to tell me where it is.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said. Really, I don’t—

Stop lying! he roared. His face snapped back to rage. He paced back and forth in front of me. A lion. A predator. I sidled along the wall, trying to get between him and the front door.

I don’t know why you’re lying to me, he muttered.

I’m not lying, I said. My cheek throbbed. I was surprised at how badly it hurt. Was it broken? You hurt me. You really hurt me this time, Ben.

YOU HURT ME, ABBYGALE! he roared. He wheeled on me. I thought he might hit me again—or worse. He didn’t, not at that moment anyway. He shook his head again, I’m done here, Abby. I’m not going to play your stupid games. Send me back.

Send you back? What are you talking about?

You have something of mine. I need it. Either give it to me, or send me back, he demanded.

I crept, little step by little step, until I had a clear shot to the front door. When I did, I turned and ran for it.

As it turned out, I hadn’t crept far enough.

He lunged for me, knocking me face down on the floor. He fell on top of me. Flipping me over, he straddled my upper body with his legs on the outside of my upper arms. I wiggled and tried to get out from beneath him. I tried to buck, kick, and hit, but he had me pinned in such a way I couldn’t move.

He grabbed either side of my head with both of his large hands, lifted it up, and banged the back of my head into the floor. My teeth rattled. White-hot pain flared so intense I could smell it in my nose and taste it in my mouth. It smelled and tasted like metal.

Wake up! he yelled.

Bang.

Please. Please, stop! I pleaded.

Wake up! he yelled again, this time only inches from my face.

He banged my head into the floor for the third time.

Wake up!

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Chapter 2—August 15

Knocking at the door. One loud thundering bang after another. Just not stopping. For all that I had slept—days maybe. How long had it been? I felt completely unrested.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Next came the yelling.

Abbygale, if you don’t open the door, I‘m going to call the police. This is not a joke. I‘m not fucking with you. Open the goddamn door if you’re in there!

I opened my eyes. I saw the ceiling above me, my very familiar ceiling, and I tried to sit up. A heavy weight pressed down on me, and I couldn’t move. I was a tiny speck inside a giant, unmoving body. I was eyes and nothing else. My head pounded.

Wait. I’m coming was what I tried to say but couldn’t.

Abbygale, I have my phone here. I’m dialing 911 right now. Right fucking now. He was angry. Please. He was worried.

Get up, I willed myself. Get up! The weight on my chest began to ease. I could feel fingers, toes, and all the other parts of my body shrink back to wrap snug around my eyes.

Coming. This time there was sound. I’m coming, I said louder.

I pulled myself into an upright position, and with great effort, swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Walk, walk, walk, one plodding foot in front of the other until I was at the door. Unlatch, unbolt, slide the sliding-lock-thing, turn knob, and open.

Jesus, Abbygale. You look like hell, Jason said. He stood on the other side of my door. True to his word his cell phone was in his hand mid-dial. He stepped through the door, and with a sweep of his foot, he kicked in a pile of newspapers, take-out menus, magazines, and other whatnot that had piled on my doorstep. I thought you were dead.

I didn’t know what to say, or if I could even say anything reliably. My tongue filled my mouth, thick, dry, and foreign.

Jason held a stack of mail in front of my face. Mail, he said and dropped it on the coffee table. Yours.

He turned to face me, hands on his hips, I really was going to call the police. I really did think that you were dead, and then I’d have to be the one to find you dead, and that would just ruin my whole day.

I’m sorry that you would have been the one to find me dead, I forced my tongue to say, and with as much effort as I could muster, I smiled. It must have been a lousy smile. He grimaced.

Good news though. I’m not, I said. Ta da.

You look like hell.

Yes, you mentioned that. I feel like hell. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just feel fifty percent asleep, fifty percent sicker than sick, and half dead.

Oh, Abby, he said. His face softened, and he dropped onto the couch in a wide-legged sprawl. Is there room in your lousy math for one hundred percent needing a shower?

I glared, Yes, and there is also room in my math for one hundred percent getting new friends.

He said, Game plan. First you shower. Second we get coffee, and third, hunt you a new friend willing to not only find you dead, but cover your shifts and keep your sorry ass employed.

Chapter 3

I wish I could say that the shower helped. I scrubbed and scrubbed, all the effort left me breathless, but the shower just didn’t take. I was clean—hot, shiny, and clean—for only a moment, before a thick, sheen of sweat covered my face, neck, and chest. My arms felt filled with cement. So heavy were they to lift, I had to pause several times mid-shampoo and let them rest. My legs trembled with the effort to stand, and the back of my head thrummed in pain.

I had never in my whole life felt so poorly. I was sick. It was nothing in particular I could put my finger on—more everything in general. I felt completely not right in every way.



After my shower, Jason took me to Porkchops Rest Area. Porkchops Rest Area was a charming, hole in the wall coffee shop clenched tightly in the fist of an artsy, slacker Portland neighborhood. Every morning, a line extended out the door and down the street. Our artsy, slacker neighbors were loyal. Fiercely loyal. Aggressively, fiercely loyal. Coffee was the fuel we ran on. At least I know it was my primary source of motivation to get out of bed in the morning, especially during the winter when the rain in Portland seemed endless, and the days lined up like one gray domino after another.

Jason owned Porkchops Rest Area. The story behind the name began with late night drinking, pork chops grilled to perfection topped with pineapple habanera sauce, and ended with a dare—typical Jason decision making. He got a kick out of the irony of serving vegan cupcakes and green smoothies to the health conscience yoga-la-la’s (his word not mine), plus someone told him that a coffee shop named Porkchops would never get off the ground. Aptly the logo was a flying pig with a halo poised over his smug, little piggy face.

Jason allowed me to be his part-time coffee jerk, at least one of them. I was an above average barista witch, if I do say so myself. I could make anyone’s coffee dreams come true—within reason of course. Portlanders had disproportionately high expectations when it came to coffee.

Not only was I a part-time barista, I was also the part-time baker. I got the job because I was Jason’s friend and needed supplemental income. I kept the job because as it turns out I was a pretty good baker. I had a knack. The hours were awful. I was up at 3am and had to be at Porkchops by 3:30am to start baking. I baked Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, spelling the full time baker, Barlow, who worked all the rest of the days of the week.

Baking was a solitary job, and Barlow was perfectly suited to it as he wasn’t much of a people person. To put it plainly, he was an insufferable ass. I liked baking too. I found it to be meditative, and I didn’t mind the solitary nature of it. I wondered what that said about me. I liked to think that Barlow and I were completely opposite in every way.

Working at Porkchops helped keep me afloat with my schedule loose for my photography. I picked up extra shifts here and there when money was tight, which if I was being honest, was happening more and more lately. My mom told me constantly, at least once every time I talked to her, that I was getting too old for this pie in the sky dream of becoming a famous photographer. She would also say that it was high time that I get a real job making real money, and just getting by was for other people, not for me. I was twenty-eight years old for Christ's sake.

I could care less about being famous, just fed, clothed, and sheltered from the proceeds of my photography alone. That would be nice. Once I told my mom as much, she made a bug-eyed, dry heaving motion I took to mean disapproval.

Porkchops was about as big as a large walk-in closet. A blue velvet couch occupied the entire length of one wall, while a couple of table and chair groupings huddled in the middle. The walls were adorned with local art—photos, paintings, sculptures, and a giant crystal and fork chandelier, tinkling and twinkling, hung from the ceiling.

Jason sat in one corner of the blue couch, and I sat in the other drinking an Italiano. We small talked. Well, he small-talked at me. I was less talking and more trying to ignore my pounding headache.

So did I tell you what Cindy said? he asked.

No, I said and sipped. The usually smooth and delicious brew tasted like tar and cigarette ash on my tongue. I sighed and sipped again.

Cindy taught yoga at the studio a few doors down. She looked like a fairy—a fairytale fairy—minus the wings. Her smile was just as enchanting as any smile I could imagine. I thought I spied a hint of wickedness at the corners of that smile, but I could be wrong about that. Jason hearted Cindy. Big time.

"Zambi told me yesterday that Cindy’s nickname for me is Medium T-shirt. Can you freaking believe that? He looked at his arms. Flexed. I’m not that skinny."

Medium T-shirt, huh? What size t-shirt do you wear?

I’m a human being. I would like to be judged on the quality of my character and not the size of my t-shirt.

Medium, I said, I thought you would at least wear a large. If I was buying you a t-shirt for a gift, I would totally buy you a large.

Ha, he said. He ran his hands through his curly, unruly hair, and dragged his palms down the sides of his face. He wore a healthy scruff today. I could hear his whiskers as he rubbed them. He looked up at his forky chandelier before looking at me, Another one? Hot? he asked indicating my empty mug with a raised eyebrow.

Please.

I was cold, and it wasn’t cold. In fact, it was hot outside. Portland was knee deep in an extended heat wave. We were on day eight, and everyone was cranky. Usually, I would be cranky too, but at the moment, I wished I had worn a coat. I had what felt like permanent goose bumps raised up on my arms, they hurt. I rubbed my arms to make them go away. It didn’t help.

Jason stood and scooped up my mug returning a few minutes later with it hot and filled to the top.

Do you need to see a doctor? he asked before amending it to—You need to see a doctor. I’ll take you. Do you want me to take you?

I’m feeling better. If I feel worse, I’ll go.

You’ve been MIA for a week. You look like you have lost twenty pounds, twenty pounds you didn’t have to lose. You have huge circles under your eyes. I know you don’t have insurance. I can help, if—

I looked at him in the eyes and shook my head. He closed his mouth mid-sentence, biting off the rest of what he had to say.

I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better. Really. I’m sure it’s just some terrible virus. I’m coming out the other side. I can feel it. The worst part of this whole thing was I had a slew of terrible fever dreams. Some of them were so real. It was weird.

Okay, his mouth said, but his facial expression, specifically his eyes, had not joined Team OK. Will you be here tomorrow to bake?

Yep. You bet.

Sure?

Of course.

It’s just that you don’t look good, he said. And I get that you’re proud and all that, but I’m here if you need me. Y’know. Whatever.

I took a long swallow of coffee. I looked at him over my mug, making my best flirty eyes at him, which was always good for a laugh. MMMmmm. Good. Best ever.

He smiled and sighed, Glad you like. We aim to please.

Some customers walked in, single-file, bleary eyed, coffee zombies in need of their caffeine fix. Jason to the rescue. He jumped up from the couch, his curls flopping in his eyes. With both hands on the counter top, he vaulted effortlessly over the little swinging door to the back—the one that all the rest of us just walk through. At Porkchops Rest Area, the coffee might cost an arm and a leg, but the Jason show was always por gratis.

I nursed my second cup of coffee as customers came and went, basking in the normalcy of Porkchops and the heat from the window. The door was propped open, and fans blew hot air around the shop. I was tired, so tired I could just close my eyes and fall asleep, but for maybe the first time in the last week, I didn’t give in. I forced my eyes to stay open. They felt hot, swollen, and gritty and closing them felt so good—amazing really, but still I didn’t give in.

Hey, hey, sugar baby, Zack sashayed through the door.

Today the color theme was purple. He wore a purple hooded sweatshirt, purple jeans, purple everything pretty much. Zack ran the hair salon next door, and one look at him could convince even the most stalwart Homosexuality is Choice propagandist that being gay was something you were born.

Haven’t seen you in a while, Freckles.

I smiled, Hey, Zack.

Eeek! I just saw me a ghost, lordy lordy. Merciful heavens, are you half dead? His eyes were full of real concern.

Apparently I look it, huh?

I heard you weren’t feeling well, but lady you look like a sad photocopy of your hot self.

I’m feeling better, thanks.

You need anything, Abby, just ask, he spoke softly and sincerely to me. Then much louder and for all to hear, and speaking of needing something, I am slam about to fall asleep. I need a regular and stat. Miss Candy is under the dryer, and I need to be getting back. Jason? Jason, you hear me? You be taking your sweet time. If Miss Candy’s hair breaks off at the roots, it will be on your slow, coffee-making ass.

We all knew there was no Miss Candy. Miss Candy was an affectation. She stood for all of Zack’s clients in general and none of them specifically. Miss Candy was always in some sort of predicament. Once she cut her own bangs with hedge trimmers no less. Lawd, you should see her! Another time, she died her hair with Kool-Aid. Zack shook his head, I know this is Portland and all y’all want to do your own thing and be unique like everybody else, but Kool-Aid? Kool-Aid is not a color found in nature. It’s not even a drink found in nature. Have mercy!

Zack was a Portland transplant. He grew up in a small town in Georgia. He never talked about where he was from or his childhood. I had a feeling that growing up wasn’t easy for him. He had cultivated a fine Steel Magnolias personality that left him a one-dimensional cliché—which, truth be told, probably suited him just fine.

Thank you, Zack said and plucked the coffee drink out of Jason’s hands, and with a Good Day y’all and a Miss Candy be a-waiting, he was gone in a purple blur.

Chapter 4

Having been released from Jason’s scrutiny, I walked back to my place. The air radiated up from the pavement, hot like a sauna. It felt good against my skin, warming my cold hands and feet. The spaciness and cobwebs began to slip away, and I felt a little like my old self, which was admittedly not much of an improvement, but at least it was familiar.

Nice negative self talk, I thought. I stepped on a piece of cracked sidewalk pushed up by the root of a too big tree confined to a too small parking strip. I tripped and fell, ripping my pants and skinning my knee, like a five-year-old kid. Damn it.

Back at home, I checked voicemail and email. I had a wedding photo shoot scheduled for this weekend. Thank God I hadn’t slept through that. I had a lot to prepare, since I hadn’t prepared at all.

I returned the nervous bride’s call to tell her that we were all set, and that I would meet her at 3pm for the pre-wedding, getting ready shots. Then I went about inventorying and packing my equipment, charging all the batteries and spares. I took my photography seriously, even if this was just a wedding and not some fancy art exhibit; each picture I took was as much about me as it was about the people in the photograph.

I printed a pre-shoot preparation check list off the computer and didn’t stop until every last item was checked off, and even if I didn’t feel ready, my completed check list told me that I was, so that had to be good enough.

After the last item was checked off, I sat down on the couch and gave myself a moment. I was out of breath just from packing up; sweat glistened on my face and arms. I was too tired to eat, but I microwaved a frozen bean and cheese burrito and stared at it anyway.

Later as I got ready for bed, I tried not to think too much about the dream I had last night, which I could still clearly remember and feel, or the dreams I had the previous nights, which no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite recall. I could only remember they too were about Ben. Good Old Ben. Bad Old Ben.

I lay on the bed, looking at the ceiling. I had rigged an old, oscillating fan in the open window to blow on me. The night was hot, nearly as hot as the day, and the fan blades whirred loudly, reminding me of my mother’s nagging—nag, nag, nag, breath, nag, nag, nag, breath. The sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down my face. I got up and turned the fan off.

Back in bed, I recited the self-help mantra that I used to say in the months after I left Ben when I couldn’t fall asleep. You are smart. You are capable. You are whole and complete all on your own. I love you. I tried to keep all other thoughts out of my head.

It didn’t help. Come to think of it, it hadn’t helped back then either, but doggedly I kept at it. You are smart. You are capable. You are whole and complete all on your own. I love you.

You are smart.

You are capable.

You are . . .



Yes, yes, I hear you, Abby. Talk about beating a dead horse, Ben said. You’re smart, you’re capable, blah, blah, infinity.

I looked around. We were in some sort of room. It was empty and deteriorating. Weathered paint chipped off the wall in dinner-plate sized flakes.

Where are we? I said.

Hell if I know, Ben said.

We sat back to back on the floor. The floor was made out of old wood that creaked when I stood. I took a step forward and felt something heavy on my ankle. I looked down. Chains. Around my ankle was a shackle connected to a length of chain that was connected to a shackle on Ben’s ankle.

What is this? I reached down and pulled the chain. It was legitimate and strong and not about to give.

He said, I’m guessing we escaped.

Escaped from what?

Shh, he said and pulled me down to a crouch. He whispered, They’re out there. Do you hear them?

I could hear them, people running and shouting, dogs barking and white spotlights shinning through the windows, running back and forth along the walls of the room we were hiding in.

Why are they after us? I whispered. What did we do?

Ben scowled at me, whatever we did, it was my fault we did it.

The shouting and dog barking got louder and louder until it thundered around us. The walls shook and plaster from the ceiling crumbled. I covered my ears.

They’re going to force us out, Ben shouted over the cacophony. As soon as he said it, a ribbon of fire raced around the room where the floor met the walls and began to climb. Within seconds, the walls were engulfed in flame. It was instantly hot, unbearably hot. I could feel the moisture in my lungs turn to steam.

We have to go! I shouted to Ben.

What’s the point? he said. They’ll just get us as soon as we run out. There is no escape.

Ben, come on! I pleaded, pushing him trying to get him to move, but he wouldn’t budge. He sat on the floor and waited, unfazed by the inferno.

Ben! The fire moved in on us. Franticly, I pulled at the shackle on my ankle and tried to pry it off. No use. I crawled for the only door in the room. I tried to drag Ben by the chain, but he was too heavy.

Please, I pleaded. Ben, for me. I can’t get out of here without you. Please.

I coughed and coughed. I couldn’t catch my breath. All I could do was cough. Black smoke pressed us into the floor.

I pulled and struggled against the chain.

I couldn’t see Ben through the smoke now, but I assumed he was still sitting like a lump in the middle of the floor.

I couldn’t breathe.

I curled into a ball and hid my face in my arms. I could feel Ben moving at last, but instead of escaping and saving us, he curled around me. I pushed him away.

What’s the point? We are out of time, said Ben. His voice was clear over the roar of the fire, the din of the dogs, and the shouting of the men. He put his hand over my mouth and nose completely blocking my airway. I shook my head. He pressed his hand to my face.

It’s better this way. It’s a kindness, which were the last words I heard.



I bolted awake. The clock read 11:45PM.

I rolled onto my side and coughed and coughed. I clawed at the bed. I struggled for air. It seemed forever before I was able to take a proper breath. When I could, the air felt sweet and clean in my lungs.

I got out of bed, drank a tall glass of water, and walked around in circles—kitchen, living room, bathroom—until I was able to calm myself. I took four long swigs out of the vodka bottle I kept in the freezer before curling up on the couch. I watched cooking shows on the TV, numb with vodka, the bottle nestled in the crook of my arm, just in case, until I fell back asleep.

Chapter 5—August 16

I woke up the next day early. Baking day.

I still wasn’t acclimated to waking up at 3:00 in the morning. I doubted I ever would be, even though I’d been doing just that going on three years now. The alarm sounding may as well be a gunshot. Without fail, I bolted upright, clenching my chest, gasping, heart racing. Every day. Every damn day. Today was worse than usual, on account of bad dreams, vodka, and sleeping on the couch.

Good thing I lived alone. I couldn’t possibly muster cute and endearing at 3am. I could barely muster stumble to the shower and get dressed. And breakfast? Forget about breakfast, no time. Sampling my baked goods was breakfast. I couldn’t sell something I hadn’t personally assured was delicious and up to the fine standards of Porkchops; now could I?

Bleary eyed and hung over, I biked to the coffee shop. All was quiet and peaceful. The only activity I could see was from the handful of bars that closed early in the morning. Here and there, dim lights were on. I could see one or two people sweeping up inside or taking out the trash.

I unlocked the ancient locks on the front door of Porkchops and rolled my bike inside. The tables were pushed to one wall. I leaned my bike against the other wall next the storage room.

I lit the ancient gas stove with a long match, started some drip coffee, and got to work. The work was calming. I found comfort in the mixing of ingredients and watching them puff up and become cinnamon buns, biscotti, cookies, muffins, pies, sandwich bread. I sipped coffee, listened to music, and tried not to think which was usually pretty easy.

Today though, my mind wandered, and I was its unwilling companion. Dreams and Ben were all I could think about. I hated thinking about Ben. I considered it a personal failing, seeing as I had spent the last seven years systematically scouring him from my memories. Ben made me feel weak. Thinking about Ben made me feel weak.

Truly, I was done with the Ben part of my life. If I could do it all over again or if present day Abbygale could tell seven years ago Abbygale anything, I would tell her to move on sooner rather than later. I would tell her to suck it up, and get the fuck out. She would survive. There was nothing realistic or rational about love, especially first love, assuming what Ben and I had was love, but seven years later I was fine, and she would be too.

Lost in thought, I burned my first loaf of bread.

Damn it.

Burning something was the worst, and I burned it good. Damn, Porkchops was going to smell like burned bread. Completely unappetizing. People were supposed to be lured in by the aroma of the freshies baking. This would lure no one in. The smoke detector went off. I fanned it with a flattened cardboard box until it gave up. I hauled the giant, industrial fan out of the stock room to vent my burnt mistake into the alley behind the shop.

It was still early. I had time for another batch. I hoped that the burnt odor would dissipate before Jason showed up.

This time I tried to only think of the bread, the ingredients, and feeling them form under my hands. I kneaded the dough, my hands working; I got my back into it when I heard a cough behind me.

I whipped around. Standing in the door to the alley was a tall, hairy, unclean, unshaven man.

I screamed. He screamed.

Jesus Christ, Jeb Blue Pants! You scared the hell out of me.

Sorry Miss Abby. S-s-sorry, he stammered. He started to tear up and backed out the door, stepping over the fan.

Jeb Blue Pants, it’s okay. Come back. You just scared me, what can I do for you?

Sweep, Miss Abby? he said bobbing his shaggy head up and down.

Sure, we can use a sweep. Get it good and clean, Jeb.

Oh, yes, he said, and he waited while I grabbed the broom from the cleaning closet and handed it to him.

He sloped out the door; shoulders bent forward, broom in hand. Twenty seconds later, I could see him sweeping the sidewalk out front. His brow furrowed. He swept hard and deliberately.

While he swept, I finished up the bread dough and left it to rise. Next up cookies.

When Jeb Blue Pants finished sweeping, he set up the outside café tables. This meant he was hungry. This was our daily conversation—Jeb Blue Pants and me.

Jeb Blue Pants was one of the neighborhood homeless men. When I first started working here, I asked him what his name was, and he told me I could call him Jeb Blue Pants, and no, he wasn’t wearing blue pants at the time. Jeb wasn’t quite right in the head, but he worked for what he asked for, the best way he knew how.

I didn’t know his story, but somewhere along the line, Jeb Blue Pants tripped on hard times and fell and couldn’t get himself back up.

Jason was okay with me giving him a cup of drip coffee for a sweep, just as long as Jeb Blue Pants didn’t loiter outside asking customers for money or becoming a nuisance. I knew Jeb Blue Pants would never do such a thing. In his own way, he considered himself an entrepreneur. He traded services for goods. Today I could tell when he set up the cafe tables that one of the goods he was looking for was breakfast. Today, Jeb Blue Pants was hungry.

When he looked like he was just about done, I packed up a day old cinnamon bun and a day old sandwich. I filled a large paper cup with drip coffee.

He knocked on the alley door before he came in. The fan was so loud I couldn’t hear it, but I was expecting him this time.

I am all done, Miss Abby.

I looked out the front window, mostly for his benefit. He liked people to appreciate his good work.

Looks good, Jeb Blue Pants. Oh, looks like you set up the cafe tables too? I put a little something in the sack for you.

You didn’t have to do that, Miss Abby. He eyed the sack hungrily.

It’s not a problem. I appreciate your help.

I held out the sack and the cup. His hands swooped in fast, but he stopped them, suddenly aware that he was about to snatch the offerings out of my hands. Jeb Blue Pants had manners. Gently and with a bob of his head, he took the bag and cup.

Thank you, Thank you.

He backed into the alley and was gone.



Jason arrived shortly before I was done baking. His eyes were heavy with sleep. We nodded at each other. He sniffed and furrowed his brow giving me a hard sideways look, but said nothing.

I couldn’t smell the burned bread anymore, but clearly he could. He poured himself a cup of coffee and rubbed his eyes. He began setting up in front. There was not much to set up, as the place was so small. We joked that if you wanted to change your mind at Porkchops, you’d best head outside.

Our early birds began trickling in. I liked to have everything done before customers arrived, but today I was running in slow motion. Jason was awake enough to small chat the earlies. He was charming and flirty with the women and chummy with the guys.

My back was to the front door, but I could tell that sweet, fairy-smile, yoga-la-la queen, Cindy had walked through it. I could hear Jason inhale as if he was trying to puff himself up, and the air suddenly smelled lighter.

Morning, Cindy, Jason smiled and leaned forward on the counter. What can I get you?

The usual, please, she said.

And what is that again? Jason wore his signature devilish, dimpled smile.

I snorted. Jason knew everyone’s usual, and Cindy came in every morning. Plus this was Cindy. What a joke.

Iced medium soy chai latte, please.

Of course. I remember now. This must be Jason’s way of playing hard to get.

I turned, Medium? Did you say medium, Cindy? Are you sure you don’t want a large?

Hi Abby, she said to me, and I, too, was the lucky recipient of a Cindy smile. So glad to see you’re feeling better. No, large is just too much for me. Medium is perfect.

Large is too large. There’s still hope, I whispered loudly to Jason as he walked to the refrigerator to get the chai tea concentrate. He glared at me and managed to step on my foot on his way back, which happened to be in the complete opposite direction of the counter, Cindy, and the way he was headed.

Oops. Sorry, Abby, he said sweetly before handing the chai tea to Cindy.

He smiled.

She smiled.

I gagged. Not out loud, but to myself. I wasn’t rude.

Bye, Jason. See you.

You bet. See you, Cindy, Jason said.

Bye, Abby, Cindy called over her shoulder as she passed through the door. She even tossed a sweet little wave my way. I waved a doughy hand in reply. Once Cindy was clean out of earshot, Jason exhaled, one giant whoosh.

And end scene, I snarked.

Jason turned around, growled, and charged, dropping his shoulder right into my stomach.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, I laughed.

You better be, he said. Gah, do you smell something burnt in here?

Excuse me? Service please, came a quiet voice at the counter. Neither Jason nor I heard the customer come into the shop. This was probably due to the fact that Jason was trying to sling me over his shoulder in a fireman carry, and I was trying to not get fireman-carried.

Excuse me? Service? the customer said again. This time we both heard him; we froze.

I do believe it’s Sir Beige, Jason whispered into my ear before releasing me and turning, with a smile.

Sir Beige looked disapprovingly at us. He sniffed, Tsk. Tsk. Yes, we were tsked. He tsked us.

Sir Beige, a slight man with wispy hair and thin, birdlike wrists, was a regular at Porkchops. He came in every day, whether he liked it or not. Jason and I referred to him as Sir Beige, first and foremost, because he was all one color—his skin, his hair, even his eyes, beige from the top of his head to the tips of his scuffed, beige shoes—and secondly, because he walked with an aloof, condescending dignity, managing to look down his nose at everyone even though he couldn’t be taller than my Nana, who was a tiny, old lady.

Today, Sir Beige ordered a medium dry cappuccino, extra hot, the same thing he ordered every day. He paid in coins, also, just as he did every day, pulling them one by one from his beige coin purse and sliding them across the counter. His mouth moved as he counted. He placed them in a row from largest coin to smallest coin by size not denomination.

While Sir Beige counted out his coins, Jason made the cappuccino. Mid-count, Sir Beige looked up from sliding a quarter across the counter, and focused his attention on me. He tilted his head. Don’t count on the next life to be better. In my experience, it seldom is. There is no release. No release. It is a lie we tell ourselves. It never comes. Never.

Excuse me, are you talking to me? I said, looking over my shoulder. I was moving cookie sheets around on the cooling rack and not really paying attention to him. Sir Beige never made conversation, not in the two years he’d been coming in every day. He spoke not at all, except, of course, to say medium dry cappuccino, extra hot. My brown eyes met his sand colored ones.

I was a pharaoh in a past life, he said. I was very important.

Sounds important, I said. Humoring him. I wished I could say this was the weirdest coffee shop interaction I’d ever had with a customer, but no, we had our fair share of the weird, the strange, and the odd. I suspected it came with the job, or maybe it came with just being human. I usually wasn’t surprised by people—mostly just intrigued, especially if I was behind my camera.

It was, he said.

Jason set the cappuccino on the counter in front of Sir Beige.

It’s not hot enough, Sir Beige said to Jason.

How do you know? You haven’t even picked it up?

I know. You never make it hot enough. Never.

Jason swept the coins across the countertop with one hand into the palm of his other hand. He stopped mid-sweep, leaving the coins in a pile on the edge of the counter, and picked up the cup and set it aside, no doubt to drink later. He proceeded to make another cappuccino, this time hot, extra hot. Sir Beige pulled the coins back from the counter’s edge and began lining them up once again.

I was a great pharaoh of Egypt in a past life, the greatest Pharaoh of Egypt, he said to the coins. I was wealthy and powerful beyond any measure of modern day society. You, of course, have heard of the Pharaoh that killed all the baby boys? He was I. Seventy thousand baby boys. Dead. Just because I said so. Kill them, I said, and my men marched out that very moment and slaughtered them. In front of their mothers. Leaving only pieces to be collected or throwing them into the river as their mothers howled on shore. Now, I don’t care what you say, that is power. Real, true power, he said looking up from his tidy coin row. No one has that sort of power anymore. Name me one person? You can’t. It can’t be done. His eyes took on a heavy, faraway look, and he licked his lips, Of course, it is a burden I carry every day in this life, his eyes darted from Jason to me to the new medium, dry cappuccino that Jason set in front of him. That’s my punishment. The knowing. The lack of power. The universe has punished me with the knowledge of what I have lost, what I will never have again. I pray for release from the knowing; I do, but it never comes. It never will. Life after life, I am remade lower, weaker, and more vulnerable but always knowing what I was. I can only hope that in the next life, I am granted a reprieve from the memories, which would be a double-edged sword, because then I wouldn’t know how powerful and great I was, but still, it’s probably best to not know. Don’t you think?

Maybe it’s remorse you’re meant to feel. Like a lesson learned, Jason said. He collected the coins again, shaking them around in his palm before dropping them into the till. He was ready for the Pharaoh to take his coffee and leave. He picked up a rag and began wiping the counter top around Sir Beige’s coffee cup.

"No. Men like me aren’t meant to feel remorse. Remorse is for men like you. Men that aspire to this," Sir Beige swept his hand to indicate his surroundings.

Jason stopped wiping and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He breathed deep and slow, his crossed arms rising and falling. His jaw tightened.

Despite the raging summer heat, Sir Beige pulled a pair of winter gloves out of his back pants pocket and put them on. He picked up his coffee, but made no other move to leave. He had stopped talking, which was a relief, but instead of talking, he was staring at me. Intently. Which wasn’t a relief. The longer he stared, the more uncomfortable I grew. The discomfort expanded around us.

Silence grew until the Pharaoh broke it with a laugh, a short, forced, hollow laugh. The sort of laugh that boys who are picked on laugh as a sign of surrender or to buy themselves time to look for an exit or a weapon. The laugh never reached his beige eyes. He then took a sip from his piping hot cup and continued to stare unblinkingly at me. I pretended to ignore him. I lifted chocolate chip cookies off a cooling rack and arranged them in the display case. I moved on to the next tray of cookies. All the while, I could feel his gaze with every move I made. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Jason watched the Pharaoh watch me.

You should go, Jason said. He’d had enough.

I mention all of this only because I think it might be of particular interest to you, Sir Beige said, ignoring Jason.

Why would this be of particular interest to me?

It’s close, he whispered. I can smell it on you. It smells like rain and looks like ruin. Do you feel it yet, bearing down upon you? Do you see it? Out of the corner of your eye?

I froze. Startled.

It’s frightening, he said taking a step forward. But I’m here to tell you not to be frightened. I can help. We have something in common. We’re kindred spirits of a sort.

I don’t think we’re kindred anything, I said.

He narrowed his eyes, and his face flushed red with anger, You’re broken just like me, only different, he placed a hand on the narrow, glass display case and stood on his tip toes. Sir Beige, the Pharaoh, whom, until this morning, I had only thought of as odd yet harmless, looked positively crazed and dangerous. He was so close, I could smell his coffee breath and body odor and see the white spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. "You can’t fight it! It