The Reincarnation

Rita Gastrill had celebrated her latest house sale a little too much the night before. It was now after noon, and she was just rising. Despite how long she had slept, her head still throbbed from too many daiquiris.

“Oh dear,” she said, realizing she had missed four appointments already. “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.”

She quickly dressed and doused herself with the perfume that more than one prospective house buyer had whispered to their mate smelled like battery acid.

She was in such a hurry she almost forgot her briefcase. Grabbing it, and the information about the houses she was showing today, she ran to her car. Her professional pseudonym was emblazoned on the driver side door. “Rita Realtor,” it read.

Rita pulled out of her driveway, got the car humming at sixty miles per hour, and drove it straight into a telephone pole.

The paramedics figured she was dead before her body had plunked back down into the driver seat. Although she knew it was impossible, the head paramedic estimated the time of death at around 11:30 the previous evening.

Jose couldn’t believe she was an American. Americans stopped coming to his country when the diseases became bad, and she sure looked like she had one.

“But I’ve got to get back to America!” she shouted at him in a language he hadn’t heard in ages, and didn’t understand any of except the last word, so he continued staring at her, hoping he wouldn’t catch what she had.

“You know, fly.” She put her arms straight out from her shoulders, and rocked them up and down like a see-saw. The other people in the lobby of the airport stayed well back from her. The ones walking in gave her a wide berth. Her skin was livid, and she looked more than crazy. She looked insane.

Jose called his manager.

Rudy Johnson never got hangovers. Never. This was mostly because Rudy was never sober, and stayed in a perpetual alcoholic haze. Had, in fact, been drunk for two years straight now. He didn’t care. The checks from his trust fund came in every month whether he could steady his hand to sign the back of them or not.

But today, waking up at his usual one o’clock in the afternoon, Rudy definitely felt what had become a lost memory for him; a hangover – a doozy. His head ached like it was filled with moldy bricks.

He rolled out of the nest on the floor he called a bed, and crawled outside through the basement window. He had lost his house keys six months ago, and hadn’t bothered getting a replacement set. Why bother? he had thought. There were other ways of getting in and out of the house.

He went straight to the garage and opened it. There was fine film of dust on his car. He had been caught drunk driving for the sixth time two months ago, and he knew a hundred trust funds weren’t going to get him his license back.

At first he thought he would just sit in the car, but before he knew it the car was running and he was slipping it into gear. He was driving again, realizing if he got caught this time, there would be no way he could pay off enough people to keep himself out of jail.

For some reason, he didn’t care if he got caught. His chest was warm, like he had thrown back half a bottle of Jack Daniels, and it felt good. It seemed to point him as he drove, telling him where to turn, and which roads to take. Rudy passed a lot of liquor stores on the way, but didn’t even consider stopping.

For some reason, he just didn’t feel like a drink.