A Numbers Guy

Both a skilled carpenter and a perfectionist, Jaxson was very attentive to numbers.  Exact measurements were always important and his wood orders were down to the inch.  Indeed, in every aspect of his life, Jaxson relied on and took notice of numbers.

This trait was especially significant when he remembered and relived his only romantic relationship.  Since they had met on July 17 and broke up on August 18, two years later, the numbers 717 and 818 were of special importance to him and he noticed them everywhere, especially on billboards, license plates and the access codes sent by his bank.  Their appearance in his life made him think of Kate and offered reassurance that she might be thinking of him as well.  Of even more significance was a number that blended their birthdates; since he was born on June 10 and she on October 27, the number 61027 was highly sought but observed only once, on the back of a UPS truck.  Eventually, he paid for his own license plate, emblazed with that number.

Now approaching fifty, Jaxson had never married and remained hopeful that he and Kate might reconnect.  With a little online research, he found her cell phone number and kept it among those of his family members and friends.  One day he would call her, perhaps on her birthday or on July 17.  He had learned through mutual friends that she was married, with kids of her own, but hoped she might still be glad to hear from him, even after thirty-four years, six months and twelve days.

True Stories

   An admirer of her work for many years, I finally met Sylvia Marshall at a local bookstore.  She was signing her latest collection of short stories and I couldn't wait to devour them.

   Waiting in line, I was surprised by her appearance.  Short and thin with a mop of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she looked up to thank each customer with nothing more than a smile.  As one who seemed to know me so well, she was alarmingly passive.

   How could this tiny person in a pale yellow dress know about my absent father and my domineering mother?  How could she write about my failed relationships, my struggles with alcohol and my thoughts of suicide?  Who kept her informed about my loss of faith in God and humanity?  Somehow, she bared my soul in each story.

   When I finally reached her desk, she signed a book, gazed up through her thick lenses and said something that I could not understand.  Though I wanted clarification, I was forced ahead by the lady behind me and moved on to the cashier.  What had she said?  It sounded like "Thanks for the inspiration."  Could that be? Have I been right all along?

   I rushed home to read the stories and to see what else she knew.  

Night Ride

  Swaying gently with the train, I opened my eyes to watch the city lights.  As I began to drift off again, an elderly man settled into the seat next to mine and asked if I wanted a drink.  Startled by both the question and his voice, I looked over to confirm that it was, indeed, my father, who had died several years ago.

  "Where are you headed?" he asked.

  "Down to Lexington for a pickleball tournament."

  "At your age?  You should have stayed in medical school."  He shook his head.  

  I was about to argue the point when a commotion in the aisle drew our attention.  Some guy in a clown suite was running from an old lady who kept beating him with her cane and telling him to keep his fucking hands to himself.

  "Wasn't that Clara Johnson?  The old lady that used to live down the street from us?" I asked.

  Unfazed by the incident, my father asked what I wanted from the bar.

  "Just a Diet Coke."

  "I'll get you a beer."

  While he was off to the lounge car, a young woman grabbed his seat.  I initially tried to ignore her but jumped when she spoke.

  "Hi, Mack" she said.

  Unbelievably, it was my college girlfriend and she had not changed a bit.  She was even wearing the same perfume.

  "Hey, Margo.  How have you been?"

  She just leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

  "Want to come over to my place?" she asked.

  Though I've been married for twenty years and have two teenaged kids, I did not hesitate.

  "Sure.  When?"

  "Now," she said. "It's at the next stop.  Don't you remember?"

  It was then that I noticed the train was actually a bus and that I was dressed only in a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.  As the bus creaked to a halt, we stood at the door and, when it opened, jumped from the steps into a large, calm pool.

  The water was warm and a bowl of stars gleamed overhead.  It was otherwise pitch dark and I could not see Margo.  Though I repeatedly caller her name, she did not answer.

  I suddenly awoke in my bed, tears on my face.