The Day That I Almost Died

I was pulling in the air sharply between my teeth. I rubbed my black gloved hand together swiftly. The thick, puffy police jacket was cozy warm, yet the winter air pulled on the fringes of my body: Up the pant sleeve and every strip of skin on the face that wasn't covered by the scarf. I let the air out into a big puffy cloud f vapor in the pitch black night.

Snow covered the sidewalk and all the fixtures like mailboxes and hedges from a long winter. The snow on the ground was half frozen ice and crunched under the boots. A small gaggle of people in long coats, thick scarves huddled under a street light in the empty street. The police barricade was in between them. People always rubberneck. If I weren't here on duty, I'd hole up at home, watch the Pacquiao fight, and hold my daughter on my lap. People will never find out what happened, neither will I standing out here while the detectives and crime scene investigators were snapping photos with flashes that lit up the windows of the school building.

This was surely a grizzly call. The school had a towering façade. The top floor was an attic with a giant window for an architectural accent. A boy was filling out the window. He hung from his feet upside down. The arms were stretched out to form a reverse, satanic cross with his body. The skin had been peeled of his body. There were still torn pieces of skin around the facial openings: the eyes, the nostrils, and the mouth. Fat bodied, red candles were burning on his arms. The wax had built pileups of drips on his flesh.

"Yo, partner. Try brushing your teeth before shift, will ya! Your breath smells like shit!"

Fabio, the Italian cop with the baby blue eyes, looked at me with disgust. I put my hand in front of my face. He was right, gargling skunk juice would have been an upgrade. The stress must have been getting to me. I'd probably spent the night again on the shitter with diarrhea. I gotta transfer out of this district.

A priest in the crowd drew my attention. My eyes were trained to notice subtle behavioral cues that were out of place. It was unusual for a priest to stand in all the regalia with the white collar, a bible in hand, and a swinging thurible. The incense smoke came out of the tiny holes of the thurible. The priest kept walking up to the barricade. Fabio put the flat of his palm on the priest's chest to stop him.

"Hold your horses, holly man. This is an active crime scene."

"I am Father Smert-Diler. I am with the Vatican delegation for investigating demonic crime."

From high above, the whole scene looked peaceful, like a scene on a model railroad set. There was fluffy snow sprinkled on. A few figures stood motionless. Two figures were placed to interact with each other. Three cop cars were parked diagonally over the sidewalk. An ambulance was standing with the back door open and the lights out. A young woman in a pink parka with furry rim texted on her phone.

"Yo, mad bro, our old high school is going to be on national TV."

I hit the send button on Snapchat. I was late for my shift. My boss was hard on my case for being tardy. I hope Jerome is coming back in. He is such a stud and always has something funny to say. He is going to med school or something. I'm so glad that I put my yoga pants over the warm underwear and got my new Ugg boots. I want to look good for him. My butt is my best asset. Wednesday night is always slow.

The Serotonin Chaser was five minutes away. The door hit the bells for a loud ring. The wood boards on the floor were uneven. I'd never wear high heels here. Seven coats were hanging at the entrance. The regular James was sitting in the corner reading another thick book. A couple college kids were playing a board game on high tables. The semi-homeless Mark was nursing a glass of red wine at the counter. My boss pointed at the watch on his wrist and made a c'mon expression with his face. I walked past the counter. I got the apron from the wall near the cash register. John, the cook, nodded at me from the kitchen.

A wicket feeling overcame me. My boss's attitude piqued me. There was something else. My period was around the corner. This could be the horny days before the period. Jerome walked. He stood with wide legs. His coat was open. His scarf had the refined look of an Ivy League preppy boy. His hair was perfectly groomed. He exuded swagger.

Without thinking, I grabbed his hand. He smiled a prideful smirk at being vehemently pulled. I pulled him into the only bathroom of the restaurant. It was a square room with a painting of farm life and a toilet plunger in the corner. There was exposed piping in the ceiling. I pulled him clothes and pressed my chest hard at him. I opened my mouth to hungrily kiss those lips that I had admired from afar for a month.

"Phew, what the fuck!"

Jerome pushed me away. He doubled over struggling for air. His hands were on his knees.

"That's gnarly. You gotta see a doctor!"

I glared at him. My eyes were filled with fury. I gloated at him. The anger and rage inside of me was so strong that I couldn't even move. I looked at the wooden toilet plunger in the corner. I could break it in two to drive the splintered wooden stake into his heart like I had seen in so many vampire movies. The contact of wood in the ball of his pumping heart and blood running out was the only soothing hope that my black heart of rage had.

The bells over the door chimed their happy melody of three different tones by three different bells. I carefully straightened out my blond locks and walked out of the bathroom with a smile. The stranger took me a little aback. It was a priest. I had seen the priest before. He was at the high school talking to the cops. How should I address him? That's an unusual priest to come out drinking.

"Hi sir, would you like the counter or a table?"

The ceiling was low. The light was dim. From the viewpoint of the ceiling, there was a lot of wood in the room: Wooden floor, wooden walls, wooden chairs, and wooden tables. Every group in the lounge was very self-absorbed. The reader in the corner was lost in his book. The college kids at the table were deep in calculations of their board game. The chef in the kitchen was working hard on three orders at the same time, throwing vegetable in the air from the pan with a flick of his wrist. The manager played solitaire on his phone. A twenty five year old lad with a dirty and worn messenger back over his shoulder walked out the lounge with a steaming hot cup of coffee in his hand.

Damn, it was cold tonight. The hot cup of coffee sure felt good on the fingers. Even though the heat had to seep through the woolen gloves, it still reached my bones. Gotta hustle, right? I poured the cup of Joe into my water bottle, which I stuck into my ten gear. I pulled the bike from the lamp post. I wrapped the heavy chain of two-inch thick links around the horizontal crossbar of my bike. I carefully pushed down on the pedals to get speed. Once I was over 20 mph, the slipping and sliding on the winter road would be more stable. It was the slow speed that made the bike slip unpredictably.

I felt the cold air rushing over my face. I could feel the heat building in my thighs and spreading out. Soon, my internal stove would be burning at a good clip. I'd be the eagle of the night again – delivering papers between lawyers and condoms to couple afraid of stepping out in the cold. I owned the night. There was no traffic out in the road. There were no cops to haunt me with red light tickets. I was shooting through another intersection. This package was bringing me downtown. I'd get to say hi to Jenny. She'd sell hot dogs in front of Smash Club on a Wednesday night. I got a dried flower for her in my coat pocket as a little gift to cheer her day.

The parked cars with alternating amount of snow on their roofs swooshed past me. The tire crunched through a frozen trail in the snow. The bike wiggled a little under me. However, the momentum was so strong that I simply popped up into the air for an inch and adjusted the position. Fuck, working at Wendy's for minimum wage. I was getting a studly body while doing this.

A slow rumble was coming closer. Damn cars! I hate them. The grumble grew loud. What is a truck doing in the wee AM hours? The trepidation of the heavy engine was palpable. Hold tight, the truck is passing too close. The truck is so close the hairs in my neck are standing up. Panic grabs my throat.

The first thing I noticed was the very loud bang. I didn't feel anything. The second thing I remember is seeing the snow about a foot away from my face. My bike was gone. I had been so lost in thoughts that seeing snow without my handle bar in between the snow and me was odd, strange, and confusing. That moment seemed to last forever. The third thing I remember clearly is the realization hitting hard and fast: The truck had run me over. I was flying through the air. Impact was imminent!

The rest was messy blur without chronological order. (1) I couldn't get me arm in front of me before hitting the ground. (2) There was a loud popping sound in my left leg. (3) There was stinging pain on my right side. (4) I couldn't breathe. (5) A soothing sound told me to lie still and wait for the ambulance. Let them fix my head in a c-spine.

The truck door opened. Male steps came closer in the snow. The men stepped in front of me. It was priest. The white collar gave him a way. I had seen this guy at Serotonin Chaser before. His face was read and filled with determination. The golden cross on his chest was bouncing from his swift movement. He was holding a snow shovel in his hand. He raised it overhead.

"In the name of the whole spirit, I hunt you down! There is no one around. There is no escaping for you."

The whole scene spread out below. A green garbage truck was idling in the street. The light beams lit up a grizzly scene in the snow. A bike was half buried under the front tires. A priest was bludgeoning a bike messenger with a snow shovel. Blood ran into the white snow. Bones cracked. The thuds of the snow shovel ran out into the empty night, not a single star or cloud in the air.

I smiled. This is what it feels like to be a priest. The clothing was a little tight. My knuckles were bloody. I ripped the golden cross of the chain around my neck and threw it to the ground. Every office has its super powers. I could extract confessions from school girls. I would be able to walk into any place with impunity. I had always worried about chumping into a priest body before. I was glad that my worries found out to be unwarranted.

The only disappointment was the health of this body. The breathing was very hard. The priest must have been a smoker. I could tell that this was lung cancer that created the pressure on the lungs. I preferred younger bodies. They feel a lot better. There is more optimism in them. I'll shed this body soon. I walked to the trash truck. I reached my arms high to the door handle. My lungs gave a hard sting. What is this?

I was panting very. The air was wringing hard on me. My head started feeling lightheaded. What kind of trick was the priest playing me? I searched his pockets. I found his wallet. Ha, Adam was my name. There was even a condom in the wallet. Something sharp pocket me in the other jacket pocket. I licked the blood of my finger and reached, this time more carefully, back into the jacket pocket. I felt the round body. It was syringe: pentobarbital – the salt that stops the breathing until death comes.

Haha, there was a humor in it. Adam had outsmarted me. I let myself sink to the ground in front of the truck. The strength had left my body. I looked up and down the street. There was nobody. The lights to all the buildings were out. People were fast asleep. The snow felt wet against my butt as my body heat melted it.

So, this was it. I had a good run, a good 747 years. I had dealt havoc and suffering across the world. I had relished my immortal powers. I had seduced the finest ladies of the time. I had observed the biggest moments that humanity had witnessed: The Civil War in America, the falling of the Belin Wall, I had seen it all. I had lived well. My lungs had stopped breathing. I might use the last minute to draw up the memories, the girl on the meadows in my arms, the shot at JF Kennedy, and pushing the button in the bomber for the Hiroshima bomb. It was a good demon career by any measure. I closed my eyes.

I opened my eyes. My lips parted from the lips of the priest in the snow. I took in another breath to blow life into him. The loud bang had woken me. I had run out barefoot in my pajamas. I saw the priest collapsing in front of the truck. I played back the memories of how I had come to holding the poor priest's lifeless head in my hand.

My hands had age spots and wrinkles. The skin was very thin. I was shivering. An old man in his seventies called out at me from the door at the house behind me. He stood in the door opening: Frail arms, worried face, and pressed pajamas. He had to hold onto the door frame to steady himself without a walker. He was too afraid to walk onto the slippery surface. His eyes were too poor to clearly locate me in the street.

"Marty!"

My name was Marty. I got up with a smile and walked towards him. This was the time that I almost died.