Chapter 11

With a slight grunt Mary lifted the corner of the mattress and slipped the end of the fitted sheet down over it, then she let the mattress flop back into place. She picked up the folded flat sheet from the nightstand and holding onto one edge, she tossed the sheet out over the bed. With a couple of fanning waves in the air the sheet was spread over the bed. She evened the overhang of the sheet on both sides, lined up the top, and then tucked the bottom of the sheet under the mattress. With the end secured she folded the sides of the sheet under the mattress and placed the pillows at the head of the bed then spread the light blue goose down comforter over the lot. She stepped back to view her work.

“There, as good as new. It just looks like I've been doing a little Saturday house work.” Mary smiled at the thought of her and Mark an hour ago. And how the bed had looked then. She picked up the dirty sheets from the floor and headed to the laundry room beside the kitchen.

The front door was thrown open. Mary, walking down the short hall connecting the bedrooms to the living room was startled by the suddenness.

“Mary! Mary, where are you?” Al called excitedly as he rushed into the apartment.

“I'm right here,” Mary called out.

Al rushed into the hall and embraced her, sheets and all, crushing her with a big hug.

“Oh god, what is he doing?” she asked herself? “And these sheets! I hope he doesn't smell anything!” With her arms pinned to the bundle of clothes by the hug, all Mary could do was shake her body, twisting from the waist up as she tried to free herself. It quickly became apparent Al would not release her until he landed a kiss on her; she allowed him to find her cheek for a brief moment. Next second she was free and hurrying to the laundry room, clutching the sheets tightly.

“You must have had some luck at the library,” she said over her shoulder as she entered the laundry room.

Al stood where he had embraced her. The flush of his excitement was still on his face but a hurt was in his eyes. “She just ran away,” he told himself.

“Yes,” he began, then recovered some of his prior excitement putting aside his negative thought. His tone brightened, “Yes, I found everything I went looking for.” He began to tell Mary all that he had discovered corroborating his dream. He spoke loudly, both from excitement and to be sure that his voice carried into the laundry room. His exclamations were interrupted by the washing machine starting up.

He walked into the laundry. His anger building, Al watched Mary add detergent to the machine. “What in the hell are you doing Mary?” he demanded. “I've been in the library for hours, busting my butt, proving something, for you! And all you can do is the wash! You can't even god damn listen to me!”

Mary exploded “You're right, I can't listen to you. While you're screwing around all afternoon, I'm here taking care of business. Someone has to do it, that's me, right? I don't care what you found 'cause that's all a lot of shit! It's a lot of shit isn't it Al?” She found this loud exchange a better outlet for her guilty feelings than a hug and a kiss.

“No it's not shit! It's important, it's my life and that's not a lot of shit to me; even though it seems to be to you!”

Mary's eyes were bright, blazing emeralds in sharp contrast to her red raging face. “Al, your life is important to me but if you think that this dream is your life, then you're as crazy as everyone says you are!” With that verbal shot, she stomped out to the living room where she opened the liquor cabinet and poured herself a large glass of bourbon. “How dare he accuse me of not caring!” she said under her breath as she took a large drink from the glass. “No wonder I sleep with Mark.”

Al walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, cupping his chin in his hands. “I can't believe she thinks laundry is more important than my life?”

Chapter 12

Al microwaved a burrito TV dinner for supper that evening. He watched television and ate silently as Mary continued to drink. Just before 9 PM she went off to bed. Al forced himself to stay up and watch the first half hour of “Saturday Night“ before he went to bed. His side of the double bed was cold as he slipped between the covers. The fresh sheets felt good to his tense, tired body. Mary was never aware of his arrival.

Sleeping was a poor description of Al's night. It was filled with real dreams of his experience, tempered with the fight that had occurred that evening. He could not for the life of himself figure why Mary was not more on his side. Why would she not believe him? He was far from a perfect husband still he felt that a wife, his wife, should support him. He tried to do what he felt was the right thing in his marriage and life. What more could he do?

This was not the first time he had asked himself that question. He always found the same answer; he, like everyone, had to follow his own lead and believe in his choices, and temper them with the remembrance of his aptitude for error.

At last Al gave up wrestling with sleep, it was six-thirty in the morning. He slid out of the bed quietly and headed to the bathroom where he slipped on his house shoes and robe then walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee. With the coffee brewer pumping out its hot water and the carafe receiving the dark, dripping liquid, Al stepped out the front door to retrieve the Sunday paper.

The morning outside the door was bright and clear, the sun already warming the concrete street before the apartments and the dark bricks of their exterior. The sunshine felt good to Al.

The newspaper lay on the narrow band of green grass separating the building from the street and broken regularly by the sidewalks cutting through to the curb. The broken plots of grass appeared to Al as though they continued on everlastingly in both directions from his front door. Virtually every grass square held a plastic clad newspaper. No one else was visible as Al picked up his paper.

Al drank coffee while he browsed the paper. By eight o'clock his stomach was trying to digest itself and Mary was still not awake. He fixed himself a stack of pancakes and bacon.

After he ate Al cleared the table and washed his dishes then he went to the bedroom and checked on Mary. She slept facing the door, looking tired through the dim light of the room. He started to lay back down then decided against it, thinking he might wake her. He went into the living room and lay down on the couch and fell asleep.

Al was awakened by Mary shaking his foot.

“Did you sleep here all night?” she demanded. She was still on fire from yesterday.

“No I didn't,” he shot back, freeing his foot from her hand and sitting up, staring into his wife's distorted face. “And I don't care to start that all over again either.”

“Me either. My head hurts bad enough now without talking to you! Why don't you get out of here and let me rest?”

“I'll do that,” Al said. He rose from the couch and headed to the bedroom to dress.

It was past twelve as he started up the car. The bars would be open now. He cut over to Greenville Avenue and drove up “Lower Greenville.” It was still early and there were almost no cars on the streets as he drove. He got a parking place in front of The Saloon. The bar set katty-corner across from “The Greenville Avenue Bar and Grill.”

Al stalked into the bar angrily and headed to the raised section to the left of the tinted glass front. He sat down at a heavy wooden table placed in the corner created by the rear wall and the restrooms. From this point he could not see nor be seen from the entrance.

Al waited a while, when no one came to take his order he walked to the split in the retaining banister and stepped down the eight inches to the lower floor. The bar was to the right, about ten feet away.

“Afternoon,” Al said to the bartender, a stringy blond haired man, about forty, busy washing glasses, his back to Al.

When Al spoke the man turned quickly around, nearly dropping the glass in his hand.

“God damn man, I didn't know anyone had come in. You scared the shit out of me.” He breathed heavily as he began to wipe at the glass in his hand with the dishtowel. “What can I get you?”

Frightening the bartender brightened Al's day. With a smile he answered, “Jim Beam and Coke, please.”

“Coming up.”

With the cold glass in hand Al returned to his table. Sipping on the drink, he thought about this latest fight with Mary and decided he had done nothing to cause it. Was it his fault he had a blackout?

“I'll be damned if I'm going to sit here by myself all day.” He stood up, set the glass down on the table and rummaged in his pocket for a quarter. When he found one he walked to the wall phone across from the restrooms and dialed a number. It rang three times before it was picked-up.

“Hello,” a cautious female voice spoke.

“Robin, this is Al. What are you up to?”

The voice warmed up immensely at the other end. “Nothing much Al. What are you doing?”

“I'm getting drunk. Would you like to join me?”

“Well, I don't know. What is going on? Where are you?” Robin asked in answer.

“Oh, I just had a friendly fight that's all. I'm at The Saloon right now. Do you know where it is?”

“No, but if you'll tell me, I'll be there as quick as I can.”

Chapter 13

Al was busy looking at the bottom of his second drink and did not see Robin until she stopped in front of the table.

She said, “Hello, Al,” in what he took as a seductive voice. He looked up and stared, not intending to, but her appearance was a happy surprise. He had not been sure she would really meet him, much less be beautiful doing it. She was dressed in jeans, a western shirt, jean jacket, and wore a simple pair of open-toed flats. Her hair had a soft warm glow in it that carried over to her smiling face.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked, motioning toward the chair opposite Al.

That unfroze Al. He jumped to his feet and blustered out, “Sure, sure sit down. I didn't mean to stare, I was just a little shocked to see you.” He fumbled his way back into his seat as Robin took hers.

“Well, you did ask me to come,” she said with a touch of a question in her tone.

“Sure I did. And I'm glad you're here.” When he saw her smile at the statement, he relaxed a little himself. He was not use to this. “It's just that,” he continued, “when you're feeling sorry for yourself you always figure that no one else gives a shit either.” He lifted his glass and finished off the last of the drink. “That's the basis for the whole moping process. Can I get you something to drink?” he asked before Robin could comment.

“Yes, what are you having?” Al told her and she made a sour face, it made him smile.

“How about a daiquiri?” he asked.

“Yes, that would be good.” Al walked over to the bar and ordered. He waited nervously while the bartender fixed the drinks and then carried them back carefully to the table. He set Robin's drink down in front of her and reclaimed his own chair.

“Sorry, service is a little slow today,” he smiled. “Tending my own table today. Don't forget to tip.”

Robin took up the cold glass and, as she took a sip, watched over its rim as Al took a big drink from his.

“How many have you had?” she asked, resting her elbows on the table, the glass cupped in both hands just below her mouth.

“This'll make the third,” he said.

“What's happened?” Robin asked, peering over the glass that she only occasionally raised to her lips.

“Nothing,” Al replied, his eyes dancing over the table top, knowing full well Robin would never believe that answer and feeling childish waiting for her to question it.

She reached across the table and took his left hand in her right and asked again, “What's wrong?”

Al looked up into her friendly eyes and said, “I'm just tired of all the shit, going to work, marriage, driving ninety miles an hour everywhere I go. I want to do something with my life. Earn a place in the world.” He knew he sounded sorry for himself but that was how he felt. He was frustrated. “Didn't that sound corny?”

“No, not at all. What happened?” Robin asked firmly holding onto his hand.

Secured by her hand he told about what he found at the library, Mary's reaction, and their fight, the latest of many fights in recent months. Robin listened quietly to Al. When he was finished she did not discuss the marriage, she talked about the dream.

Robin released Al's hand, took a sip on her drink, and sat back into her chair. “Do you think this could be something like reincarnation?”

“No!” Al was emphatic. He leaned over his drink in a state of physical and mental fatigue, caused equally by worry over his health, “'Maybe I am crazy?'“; and his marriage, “'Maybe I am a fool.”

“No by god, I was there. I went back there when I was blacked out. I know I did!” His gesticulations got out of control and he knocked his glass over, spilling out the little amount of liquid that was left.

“Shit, let me go get a towel,” Al said beginning to rise from the table.

Grabbing some drink napkins from the next table Robin began to clean up the spill. “We don't need one, this'll get it.”

Al was glad to drop back into his seat. He was not use to drinking this much.

“I'll go get another drink,” he said with a slight slur of his tongue. “You ready for one?”

“No, I don't need another one. It's still a little early for me,” Robin answered in a kind, diplomatic voice. “I think it's a little early for you too. Have you eaten any lunch?”

Slumped in his seat Al said, “I had a big breakfast, I'm not hungry just yet. What about you?”

“I could use something to eat and so could you. Let's get out of here,” Robin got up from the table without waiting for a reply. Al followed her lead.

Outside the bar the afternoon was warm, almost hot. The glaring sun, reflecting off the street and buildings, dazed Al, making him feel sick. He realized how drunk he was.

“Your car or mine?” Robin asked. “I'm parked around on the side street. If we take it, you'd better move yours, they're likely to tow it away.”

“Let's take mine,” he answered, “if you'll drive? I don't think I can.”

Robin looked at Al. She had not realized he was in that bad a way. In the sunlight she could easily see the drink in his eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked, taking him by the arm, walking him over to the passenger side of his car.

“I'm alright, just stupid. I shouldn't drink in the morning,” he said as he leaned against the car and pulled out his keys. Once he was safely seated in the shady front seat and the car door locked, he felt much better. With his eyes closed, trying to control his stomach, Al followed the sounds of Robin circling to the driver's side and entering the car. He felt the seat move as it absorbed her slight weight. A warm hand settled on top of his and she said, “You going to be okay, Al?”

“Sure, just drive,” he answered, but he did not open his eyes.

Robin drove up Greenville Avenue to Mockingbird Lane where she turned left and pulled into a shopping center opposite the Dr. Pepper building. She parked in front of an El Chico's. She helped Al out of the car and into the restaurant. Once seated Robin ordered fajitas and coffee for two. She spent the next forty-five minutes getting Al to eat and sober-up a little.

When they were finished eating and Al was drinking his forth cup of coffee she asked, “What do you want to do now? Are you ready to head for home or what?”

The “what“ caused Al to look up into Robin's questioning eyes. He could see what her idea was. And he liked the idea too much to comply with it. He wanted to take her home, to her home, but he would not. He was not sure why. It may have been Mary. A marriage is a marriage and theirs' had many good moments, just not lately. It may have been he was afraid of Robin, afraid of another emotional attachment. He looked lovingly into her eyes. “Let's see what's on at the Granada,” he offered.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Sounds good to me,” she happily, maybe in relief, answered. “They're showing a Bogart double feature, “'Maltese Falcon'“ and “'Casablanca.'“

Al paid the check and Robin drove them back down Greenville to the Granada. She parked behind the building. “The Maltese Falcon“ had just started as they took their seats. Al and Robin held hands throughout the movie. Sometime during “Casablanca“ Al fell asleep. Robin watched most of the film with his head leaning on her shoulder.

Chapter 14

When Robin woke Al he was embarrassed. She told him to hush, she had enjoyed every moment. It was dark as Al drove back to where her car was parked. She slipped out the passenger's side and closed the door. He slid over and rolled the window down.

“Thank you, Robin,” was the best he could say in the way of appreciation.

“Anytime Al, anytime,” she said. He reached out the window and grabbing her hand pulled her down to him. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly on her soft, warm lips. He enjoyed it greatly, she seemed to.

“Take care of yourself Al,” she said as he began to ease the car away from her. “See you in the morning,” she called after him. He waved back in acknowledgment of his having heard.

Robin opened the door to her black Feiro and watched after Al until his taillights turned the corner.

At home Al opened the front door and walked into the dark house. It was after eleven, he had been gone almost twelve hours. He wondered if Mary was home, he had not noticed her car in its usual parking spot. As he headed to the bedroom he decided he did not care either way.

The night light in the bathroom emitted enough light that he could see Mary, asleep in the bed. She was laying on her side, her back toward him.

Al pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed quietly. The bed was soft and comfortably warm. Mary moved slightly to come in contact with him. Her skin felt nice to the touch.

Al became sick. He felt drunk again. With his eyes closed tight he fought to keep from emptying his stomach. His head began to spin. He opened his eyes to stop the spinning but it continued, increased. His eyes would not focus, his head spun too fast. There was a flash of bright red light, he tried to scream.

It was a hot, sun shining morning. The wind blew briskly. Al looked around in wonder, and pleasure. He was standing on the broad, coarse planking of a wharf, dressed in a pair of heavy, worn brogans, overalls, and a threadbare blue cambric shirt. The ocean lay before and behind him. To the left and to the right, there stretched warehouses, busy warehouses. There was an endless streaming of men and goods in and out of them. Using handcarts, horse pulled sleds and wagons, goods were being hurried about. There was a great deal of smoke and steam arising from behind the warehouses. He walked along the wharf and came upon a small break in the line of warehouses. He saw a multitude of railroad tracks behind the buildings. The cumulative bustle was deafening. The wharf stretched for miles. On the warehouse before him Al read in large, washed out red lettering, “Smith and Sons, Export/Import, Port of Galveston.” Al smiled, he knew where he was, he had been right.

To the ocean side of the wharf there was a fleet of ships tied-up, either loading their goods or unloading someone else’s. The ships were magnificent to see, so varied. Docked in front of Al, a three masted schooner was taking on bales of cotton. There were hundreds of bales waiting to be stowed. A wooden boom was fixed on the craft's deck to raise the heavy compressed bales. Through a series of pulleys the rope fed back to the ship's windless where four men supplied the winch's power. Once the cotton was hoisted above the ship, several hands guided it across the deck and down into the ship's hole. It was a joyful experience for Al to stand there in the middle of the busy wharf and watch.

A loud steam whistle down to his right interrupted. Al turned and saw a steam driven crane-hoisting cotton onto a steel hulled ship. Al worked his way down the dock toward the ship.

Standing tight-lipped but smiling he watched the modern loading of a new ship. The crane belched black soot from its stack as it roared back and forth, moving cotton bales from the wharf up onto the ship. The ship was several times larger than the small schooner he had been watching. A coal burner, it was taking in coal at one hole on its deck while loading the cotton in at another. The ship, the crane, the wharf area adjacent to it, was filthy with soot. Al moved down the wharf. No one paid any notice of him. The wharf was bustling with commerce.

Al spent the ever warming morning covering the wharf from the Southern Pacific Railroad Terminal and its cotton compress at the south end, where they took the ginned, deseeded cotton, and pressed it into the thousand pound bales for shipping, to the north end, where he now stood.

Here the wharf was in disrepair and disuse. Only scattered space was taken up by ships and these were small crafts themselves in sad states of upkeep. The warehouses in the area were mostly empty. The area had the smell of decay.

Al was walking about, observing, with his hands thrust into the pockets of the overalls. The clothes were worn but clean. They felt good against his skin. The sun was hot on his head and a small amount of perspiration glistened on his forehead. The rest of his body remained cool.

This part of the wharf was still. No one worked, no one seemed to even be around. Al neared one of the warehouses and began to poke around. He stepped inside through a broken door. The door had at one time been over ten feet high and hung on a track so it would slide open or closed. Now it hung precariously by one end and was broken in two, the second piece lying in the doorway.

Al walked carefully into the large warehouse. It was dark and cool inside, the air full of a musty, dirt like odor. The wind outside, which blew slightly stronger than it had earlier in the day, had no effect in here. Coming in from the bright daylight it took several seconds for Al's eyes to fully adjust. He was in a great, empty room, the roof at least twenty feet above the smooth wooden floor. The floor was covered in places with a fine brown dirt, leftovers from its occupation. The roof was corrugated tin laid on wooden joists and rafters. The walls were of similar construction. Opposite the wharf side of the building were several doors hanging open, allowing shafts of sunlight to light the edges of the floor. The sun, as it lowered later in the day, would fill the area with its afternoon heat. There was a small, unused office near them. Through the rear doors Al could see an empty railroad car standing near and another car turned over on its side, blocking the twin sets of rails passing behind the building. Al crossed to the trackside of the warehouse.

The office consisted of a small, ten' by twelve', building set inside the warehouse. It had a flat roof. A stovepipe exited from the left side and ran out of the warehouse. The upper sections of the walls were glass. Al was close enough to peer into the room when a face rose up behind the glass and stared at him. Al nearly fainted.

“Hello there Bubba,” the man in the office said, “Would you have the price of a drink on ya?” The voice sounded slightly muffled coming from inside the room.

Al's hands were in his pockets. There was no money. He shook his head dumbly no.

“That's okay,” the man said turning and moving toward the office door fronting on the dock doors. “I got a couple of bits. Just thought I'd ask, never hurts to try.”

Al thought about running but he was too fascinated to do anything but wait for whatever was to happen.

The man smiled as he stopped before Al. He was tall and thin. Al thought he was dressed more like a cowhand than a dockworker. He wore heavy brown corduroy pants, much too heavy for the weather that shined at the knees. A pair of worn black boots covered his feet and the wool shirt he wore had been slept in for several nights in a row. The face was angular, clean shaved and happy. His pale, watery blue eyes smiled out from under a wild growth of blondish hair that fell across his forehead, despite the attempt made by a battered gray Stetson to keep it in check. Al knew that here was someone to like, someone not to be afraid of. Al smiled and stretched forth his right hand in greeting.

“Al Martin's my name,” Al said pleasantly, as he offered his hand. The man's hand was hard, dry as a bone. Al's hand was swallowed in its largeness.

“Those that call me call me Slim,” the happy stranger stated matter of factly. “Proud to meet you Al.”

“Watch ya doin' sailor?” Slim asked swinging his left foot back and forth in front of him in a childlike way. Watching Slim talk, seeing him kick at the dirt on the floor Al decided maybe Slim was a touch feeble minded. He thought he saw a certain weakness in Slim's his eyes.

“Guess you're a sailor, look like one. You work below decks? Look a little pale for a deck hand.”

“Yes,... I'm a stoker.” Al thought it clever to throw that in.

“You wear out a lot of gloves?” the happy, simple voiced Slim asked.

Al was surprised at the question. He thought for a second, found no reason for the question and answered, “No more than the next man. Why do you ask?”

“Figured you must be hard on gloves to be a stoker with such hands, soft as a woman's.” Slim's voice got a little dreaming sound in it when he talked about a woman's hand. He stood looking down at his boots.

Flustered by his own ignorance, Al changed the subject, “Why did you ask for the price of a drink? Are you thirsty?”

Slim looked up with a broad smile on his face. “I'm always thirsty,” he answered.

Al laughed and clapped Slim on the back. Al was happy. He was in a world he liked, and he wanted to show it, to be like he always wished to be, friendly, outgoing, happy. “Sorry I can't buy you one Slim.”

Slim was pleased by Al's gesture. He smiled even broader, as though the smile should fall off the ends of his face. “I got two bits. I'll buy,” he proudly boasted.

“Don't spend your last cent on me,” Al started, but stopped when he saw the glow leaving Slim's face. “Okay, buy us a drink,” Al said merrily. The happy look returned to Slim's face. “Lead on.”

Slim lead the way out of the back of the warehouse, across the rusting tracks, and into an alley that wound about for several hundred yards before Al saw a break in the surrounding walls. He noticed the wind had risen higher.

Slim led him out onto a shabby street covered in blazing white sand. The alley had been sand, but there had been grass and weeds and the shadows of the buildings to block the glare. Here on the street, the sun was blinding, the heat stifling as the wind was blocked off by the buildings on the north side of the street. Al slowed to shade his eyes.

“Sun's bad here alright,” Slim said. Though shaded by the brim of his hat Slim still squinted through nearly shut eyes. “Heard they were gonna pave these streets.” It sounded as much like a question as it did a statement.

“They should do something,” Al chimed in just before Slim grabbed him by the sleeve and led him into a cool, dark bar. When his eyes adjusted Al saw that they were in a small place, no more than nine feet wide and twenty foot deep. A short bar counter ran a third of the way down the left wall. The confines of the place barely allowed walking room between the three men already standing at the bar and the right wall. Behind the bar and above the liquor was a crudely lettered sign that proclaimed, “Americans Only Bar,” then in small letters underneath it said, “No limeys, or foreigners!”

As they walked past the bar to the rough wood tables in the rear of the room, the short, fat bar keeper/owner, thundered his fist upon the bar, causing the glasses before the three customers to bounce.

“You there,” he shouted at Al, “Are you an American? I don't allow nothing but Americans in here! Slim, you didn't bring a god damn Aussie in here did you? If you did I'll throw you out with him!” The little fat man spoke too quickly for either Al or Slim to reply.

When he stopped to catch his breath Slim took the opportunity to say, “Where's ya home Al?”

“Dallas, Texas,” Al boasted.

“Dallas my ass,” the fat man said. “You sound like a Yankee to me.”

“Well I'm not!” Al staunchly defended himself. “They've got a lot of Yankees up there now, so I guess they've rubbed off on me.”

“I heard they had a few up there,” Slim joined. “Even if he was a Yankee, he'd still be an American, Fat.”

“I never counted Yankees as American,” the bar tender named Fat said. “But if you say they are Slim, that's good enough. A round on the house for Yankees,” Fat bellowed.

The men at the rail had paid no attention to the exchange. They had heard it all before, Fat's way of welcoming a new man into the bar and the excuse for getting himself a drink. They pushed their emptied glasses forward.

“Whiskey all around,” Fat shouted as he poured. He pushed two glasses toward Slim and Al. Al picked his glass up. Fat said, “America,” and Al flipped his head back followed closely by the shot of whiskey. The raw liquid burnt the back of Al's throat searing its way to the pit of his stomach.

Slim placed his empty glass on the counter and followed it with two nickels that he gently, lovingly set by the glass' side. “Two more, Fat,” he said in no way of an order.

“Gladly Slim,” Fat beamed with pleasure, and his own liquor, and he refilled the two glasses. Slim nodded his thanks as he picked up his drink. He moved toward one of the rear tables, Al followed; Fat pocketed the money, then wiped down the counter. The others there at the bar were still sipping on their free drinks. They were in no hurry to finish, not knowing when another one would be placed before them. They took no notice of Al or Slim nor of the life outside the bar. They watched their drinks.

Slim did not down his bought drink as rapidly as he had the free one. He sipped the liquid slowly and let it rest a great deal.

Al toyed with his drink, pushing the glass about the tabletop slowly. He was enjoying the atmosphere. He glanced about the bar hoping to see a calendar wanting to pinpoint the time of this visit. He did not see one.

He leaned back in his chair, pulling the front legs off of the floor to show he was relaxed here. “How do you ask the date without looking like a fool?” he asked himself. He tried several scenarios in his mind. They did not work very well. “Hell, I'll just ask,” he decided.

“Slim,” Al asked, “what day is it today?”

Slim looked up from studying his now half downed drink and smiled his broad, happy smile, “Heck, I don't know. Never paid it any mind.” He looked toward the bar and called, “Fat, what day is it?”

The fat man was sweeping behind the bar. He stopped and said, “Why you want to know? Got a date?”

The men around the bar cackled lightly while Slim blushed a hot red. “No I don't,” and then he pointed over to Al.

“September the seventh,” Fat said for Al's benefit. “Do you want the year too?” he asked sarcastically. The men at the bar again had a light laugh.

Al still sat back on the rear legs of his chair. Hiding his excitement, he answered back in the same vein, “Might as well throw it in. Seems like they go better that way.” Everyone enjoyed the little exchange.

Fat, trying to maintain the lead, swaggered and bellowed out, “September the seventh, nineteen hunerd.”

He stopped so sudden. Al waited, expecting some more years to follow. “Well,” he thought to himself, “I guess that year's as good as any.” Then to Fat he said, “Thanks Fat, and here's to your health.” He brought his chair back to rest on the floor, picked up his drink, held it for Fat to see, and pitched the contents back into his throat. Again the liquor burnt the back of his throat and seared its way toward his stomach. Al never felt it reach there.

Chapter 15

Al opened his eyes. It was dark. His head hurt terribly. It felt like someone had hit him in the head with a baseball bat. His temples throbbed with each beat of his heart, the sound of his pulse filled his head. He was hot, covered in sweat. He pressed his fingertips to his temples and pressed against the veins trying to stop the pain. It helped only a little.

He saw a light, the night light in the bathroom. He was in bed, under the covers; the central heating roared out hot air, Mary's hot body lay pressed closely to his.

With his hands still at his head he blew out his breath through his mouth. “I've got to get up and take something,” he told himself. He forced himself to lower his hands away from his head. Holding very still he gently pulled the hot covers away from his body. The room was much cooler, it felt good to him. Easing out of the bed, holding his head again, Al made his way to the bathroom cabinet. He had no thoughts of where he had been. His only concern was to cure his head. “Damn bourbon,” he told himself as he opened the cabinet and searched for some sinus pills. They might not help the headache but they would put him to sleep so he could ignore the pain.

He found the plastic bottle and began to pry off its lid. As the top came off, Al collapsed to the floor, hitting his head sharply on the side of the bathtub. The sinus pills scattered over the floor.

Al stood facing the beach, the ocean stretched away indefinitely behind it. He remembered the bathroom and his headache, it was gone. His time with Slim was now a vivid memory.

The wind blew hard from the north, just as it had earlier with Slim. It was hot, though the sky was covered over with a thick layer of clouds. The ocean was alive with large, dirty looking swells that rolled in from the southeast. The ocean looked all wrong to Al. The atmosphere did not feel right. There was something in the air, something wrong.

The beach, the ocean, in front of Al was empty. No one was about. “Bad beach or something,” Al told himself. He began to walk toward the east end of the island, where he knew the city lay.

Al walked easily along, above the ocean. His arms and legs worked smoothly. He breathed with ease and felt well, the best he could ever remember feeling. He liked it here.

Off in the distance he saw a trolley moving, heading eastward. He altered his course to intercept it.

It was a small, electrically powered, wooden trolley, open to the air and empty save for the driver. On its sides it stated “Bath Avenue and Branch Line.” The trolley stopped. Al stepped up and onto it.

“Five cents, sir,” the driver said.

He did not have any money, Al remembered, as his hand plunged into his pocket. It found a handful of change. Astonished, Al withdrew his hand, opening it to reveal a large group of coins. He found a nickel and handed it to the driver who slipped it into his collection box.

Al looked from the driver to his coin filled hand to his pants. He wore a pair of white linen pants that looked as though they were part of a suit although he wore no coat. His shirt was brightly striped cotton with a paper collar. He wore no tie. Brown high top shoes and silk socks finished his dress.

“If you'll take a seat sir, I'll start up,” the driver said politely enough.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Al mumbled as he walked to the rear of the car.

“Where would you like to go sir?” the driver inquired, turning partly around in his seat to look at Al.

“I was heading for town,” he said.

“Alright sir, to town.” The trolley started forward. Al was silent for a long time thinking about his clothes, Slim, and the hunters. He had no idea what was going on. Was it a past life, reincarnation? He did not think so. This was real. He knew that. This seemed more real to him than his own reality. He liked it. He liked it a great deal. It was another whole way of life.

“Driver?” Al had to shout to be heard above the noise of the wind and the trolley.

“Yes, sir?” the man called backed.

Al stood and walked forward, pitched about slightly by the moving trolley. When he was at the driver's end of the car he sat down and asked, “What day is it today? I've kind of lost track of time the last few days.”

“Don't worry sir. It happens all the time down here. By the ocean, time passes differently. Today's September the seventh.”

“Good,” Al smiled. “What year?”

The driver turned in his seat to look at Al. He answered, “nineteen hundred, sir.” He thought that he was being kidded.

“Thank you very much,” Al answered sincerely. This got another look from the driver.

Al began to enjoy the ride now. “Same day, same year,” he said to himself happily. He relaxed and looked about the trolley. The interior was wood except for the leather handholds hanging from the ceiling, the seat frames, and the brass hardware. The seat Al was in was backed against the wall of the car facing the opposite side, which held a similar bench a slatted, hard wood bench set in a metal frame. The wood had at one time born a high gloss as evidenced by the slats' ends and a spot on each of the bench's tops where the gloss had not yet been worn away by the passing of hands.

The driver was dressed in a dark uniform with a short crowned, black brimmed hat. The crown of the hat was dark blue to match the uniform. He was an older man, did not seem too tall. His black shoes were shined to a twinkle. There was a great deal of gray hair in his short sideburns and also in the hair that showed on the back of his head beneath the hat.

The trolley took a mild shake and began to veer out toward the waterline. Soon it was running out over the ocean. Al had not expected this.

“What's going on?” he asked excitedly. He sat stiffly upright in his seat and peered anxiously to his right and left seeing only the ocean.

The driver said, “This is the “Bath Avenue and Beach Line“ sir and that is the Gulf of Mexico.” He pointed down, not out. “You're not from around here, are you?”

Al tried to behave totally unconcerned. He did not do a good job. There was a crack in his voice when he spoke as the trolley rode further out to sea, the dirty brown waves licking at the thin rails held in place only by wood pilings.

“No, I'm from Dallas.”

“Lot of dry land up there,” was the driver's happy comment. He enjoyed Al's case of nerves. It always happened the first time someone went out.

Al tried changing the subject to ease his nervousness. “How come I haven't seen anyone out on the beach today?”

“This rough water and wind is keeping most people in,” the driver said over his right shoulder. “With the water full of sand like it is most people don't want to get wet.”

“Is that why the water's so nasty looking?”

The trolley was beginning to return to the shore now. The driver, again over his shoulder said, “Sure is. I heard that Cline has a warning posted. Don't know if that's true or not though.”

“What are you talking about?” Al questioned forgetting to cover his foreignness.

“A hurricane warning,” the driver said mundanely. “Isaac Cline over at the Weather Bureau says there might be a hurricane coming.” The driver turned about to face Al as the trolley clicked on its way, “But don't worry, it can't be worse than the overflow back in '75. That measured eight point two feet. Most buildings on the low ground have been raised higher than that.

You're not staying on low ground are you?” the man asked very seriously.

“No, no I'm on high ground,” Al said. “Dallas is pretty high,” he thought to himself.

The driver had gone back to looking out the front of the trolley. “Weather can't be any worse than it was in October of '86. We had a big gale blow by on the thirteenth and then a cyclone hit us on the nineteenth. Now that was a mess.”

The trolley shook and swayed slightly as it returned to firm ground. Al breathed easier. It looked to him as though he was in for his first hurricane. The trolley stopped and Al stood to exit. The driver turned and said good neighborly like, “Now don't worry none son. These things miss more often than they hit.”

“Thanks. I'll remember that.” Al stepped off the trolley and out into thin air.