The Reincarnation

David subsided from sleep peacefully. He had dreamed no more, and felt better off because of it. He barely remembered waking up earlier with the theater and birthday dreams on the tip of his mind. He rang for the nurse and Laura came in, looking radiant. She had good news.

“We ran some tests while you slept. I hope they didn’t wake you.” She started to cross the room.

“Never slept better. What’d you learn?” David watched her every step of the way.

“You seem to be all systems go at this point.” She approached the bed. “Hungry?”

“You bet I am.”

“Let me take you off the IV,” she said as she expertly took the needle out of his arm, leaving a hole in his skin that looked like a tiny eye. She placed a piece of white gauze over it, and bound the gauze to his skin with white tape.

“Remember my promise about the sandwich?” she asked, finishing her work.

“It’s all that’s been keeping me going.” He felt good with her beside him, caring for him.

“Well, we thought you’d have to wait until Monday, but if you feel up to it I made one for myself for lunch. You’re welcome to it...in fact, I’d be really happy if you had it.”

“Bring it on. I won’t disappoint you.”

Laura left briefly and returned. She had put a sparkler in the sandwich and set it on a silver tray. The sparkler was sizzling and popping as sparks flew from it, forming a glowing orb that danced across the room to him as she carried it.

“Ta da.” She displayed it proudly.

“Laura, you’re too good to me.”

“Least I can do, Dave.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

David had no trouble biting into the sandwich; his jaw muscles squeaked a little on the first bite, but then were happy to be of service. The sandwich was delicious – hummus with lettuce and tomato on rye, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with paprika.

Laura sat with him as he ate, fascinated by his pleasure of a process she took for granted every day.

Epstein McAllister didn’t know much. And what he did know, he wasn’t too happy about. What he did know was that he was out of a job again. What he did know was that his wife wasn’t going to be happy when she found out. What he did know was that he couldn’t be seen on the street when he should be at work. Christ, he thought, I only work weekends, and I can’t even hold that up. Epstein was frequently frustrated by his inability to do almost anything right, at least according to his wife.

So there he was, walking into a theater. Worse, one that stayed open twenty-four hours. Worse yet, one that showed those terrible films. Epstein wondered briefly which would make his wife madder at him – going to a pornographic movie theater or losing yet another job. Figuring the job would probably be worse, but not by much, he glanced around the street to see if anyone noticed him. Confident the coast was clear, he paid and ducked inside.

Looking at the show times and checking his watch, he saw that in twenty minutes a movie called “This is Your Life” would roll. The poster advertising the picture showed the backside of a man grasping at his crotch while a woman in bed on the other side of the room hid her frightened eyes. Looking around the lobby he saw the titles of the shows he would miss; “Your Life is Shit,” “Selfish Riot,” “Foul Shyster.” Indeed, he thought, his wife would not be happy. He walked into the theater.

The theater was almost empty at this hour, but it did have one other patron. Epstein squinted his eyes and saw someone sitting in the middle of the third row from the front. Epstein wondered if the theater always smelled this bad. He sat down near the other man, hoping to maybe strike up a conversation before the show started. Then he thought better of it. Guy probably wanted to be left alone, especially in a place like this. Besides, what if it was somebody who knew his wife? Still, Epstein couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked as lonely and bored as Epstein, worse even. In fact, he looked passed out. Epstein wondered if he was okay, if maybe he was hurt or something. Guttural, rasping noises were coming from the man, like he was in pain.

Epstein got up and walked over to the man, social conventions be damned. Leaning over and putting his hands on his knees, he tried to get a closer look. The theater was dark, but the exit signs cast a crimson glow among the front rows. Touching the man’s shoulder and shaking him gently, he whispered, “Hey buddy.”

David swallowed the last bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He looked up at Laura.

“Thank you, Laura. You can’t possibly know how much that meant to me.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Her hand was still on his shoulder.

“Hey buddy,” Epstein McAllister said a little louder to the man in the theater.

The man answered Epstein by arching his back and throwing his head forward as what looked to Epstein to be raw meat drowned in hot coffee showered the seat in front of him. It was steaming. The man didn’t wake up.

“Christ,” Epstein stammered, holding his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to avoid the stench so it wouldn’t be a double feature. “Christ,” he said, running up the aisle, out of the theater, and into the street.

Epstein immediately decided that no matter what his wife said about him losing his job, it was infinitely preferable to what he had just seen.