The Crossing

The Crossing

The blues were the only thing that could heal me.

In the twang of a guitarist's lowest string, I could cushion myself
from pain and stop thinking about him - until the music stopped. Then
I'd remember how he would lift his left arm in a silent salute to
describe how deeply he was feeling the emotion spilling from his
speakers.

My mother brought his record collection to me. It's still sitting in my
hallway. In many ways I haven't moved since. I've been still inside.
Contemplating death. Today, I decided to do what I hadn't done since he
died. I cut my way through the cold to a blues district, wandered into
a club, sat down. That's when I saw the man.

In the fluted darkness, his face stood out. Lurid and hard. His eyes
yielded nothing except the occasional twinkle hinting a deeper
knowledge. In the red light, his kinky knotted hair looked like a halo
ending in sideburns just where three deep uneasy slashes distinguished
him. Watching him, I became acutely aware of my mortality. I didn't
know why.

The man was sitting at the bar. He wore a royal blue suit over a black
shirt. He wore no tie. From his neck hung a teardrop shaped pendant,
which almost scraped the bar when he leaned forward to pick up his
cocktail glass. The glass was frosted. The bar lady seemed to know him,
for I saw them laughing together - even though I heard no sound.
Indeed, although the club was clearly full, the only sounds I could
hear were the strains of music coming from the band on the shadowed
stage - whose faces I couldn't see - and the undertones of his
voice.

The whole place was dark. It smelled like an empty tea chest. The walls
were made of glass, as far as I could tell, but you couldn't see
through them from either side and, apart from the bar and stage, only
my table was lit. I watched him until I was sure, then decided to speak
to him. Everyone seemed to rise with me. So, suddenly, I had a huge
crowd to get past. With my hands leading, I pushed my way through with
as much patience as I could muster. They were a deferential mass; each
body seemed to drift away as I came to it. I cannot honestly say that I
saw any faces. I felt like I was walking through fog.

He was gone. Apart from the bar lady - who seemed to glow a fluorescent
green - the bar was empty.
"Where is he gone?"
She stared at me with a pained look in her floating blue eyes. The
green flesh was bugging me, but I figured it must be a trick of the
light. I was getting wound up.
"Where the hell is the man who was drinking from this glass?"
I looked pointedly at the still-frosted glass on the bar.
Her lips moved hypnotically, producing no sound.

I don't know how I understood that he had gone to the toilet, but I
remember thinking, as I pushed the dark green door in, that the light
at the bar was red, not green. Something did not add up...

The air in the toilet was cold. Uncommonly so. It was empty too. The
whole thing was beginning to get to me. I felt a cold hand creeping up
my leg in freezing finger strides. The frost spread through my body and
grabbed my heart. I couldn't believe what was going on. Damn. I tried
to scream. My voice box appeared in the mirror in front of me. I
stamped on my own foot, just in case... It hurt like hell! Shit. I
remembered something my grandfather used to say to me, "Sometimes you
travel somewhere without walking, you get there because in your heart
you want to be there - even if you haven't admitted it to yourself." I
opened the tap. I washed my face. I closed the tap. That's when I
noticed that the water was draining out clockwise... I was in the
northern hemisphere for heaven's sake!

I looked into the mirror again, and he was staring at me. I took a good
look. His eyes had no iris, and his teeth were the same brilliant white
as his eyeballs. He was about my height, and, I swear, it could have
been my own fingers holding up his enquiring chin. It registered in the
periphery of my consciousness that I had no reflection. I found myself
asking if re-incarnation could make a man so ugly.
I spoke first, "Are you my father?"
He smiled.
"You are my father."
No person outside my family could smile and show only the top half of
their upper teeth and not look ridiculous doing it.
The voice that spoke erased any further doubt, "Why are you here,
son?"
"I don't know Dad. I'm confused"
"You just walked into a blues club, huh?"
I nodded. "First time since... What are you doing here? You're
dead!"
"I know." He paused. "I suppose you didn't check the name of the
club?"
"I never noticed. What is it called?"
"The Crossing"
"So...?"
"I haven't crossed yet."
"So how did I get here?"
"You are wandering close to death. You are obsessed by it; if you live
in death you die. You are lucky to have met me here."
"Why?"
"Because, if you had not, this would be your exit." He paused again.
His iris was beginning to fade in and out; a different colour each
time. "Do you understand? You are spinning too close to the precipice
of death."
"But, how?"
"Do you keep thinking about me?"
I nodded again.
"Quit."
"But, Dad, it's not easy. I didn't get to talk to you before you died.
I have so many questions. Sometimes I just want to talk to you, see how
you feel about something, ask if you approve... you know... just
questions. And what am I going to tell my kids about you if I take your
advice and quit thinking about you..."
He held up his hand. "Have you wondered why you have no
reflection?"
He paused and stared at me until I got uncomfortable and blinked. I
guess dead men don't blink. Then he spoke slowly. The way he used to
when I'd done something wrong and he didn't want to get mad.
"You are me. That is why you have no reflection. Can you honestly say
that you do not know how I would feel about things, what I would think?
I raised you son. If you know you, you know me... you couldn't even
pick a girlfriend I wouldn't approve of."
There were tears in my eyes at this point. I reached out to hug him,
but I just banged my head against the mirror. We both laughed.
"Can we at least have a drink together," I asked.
"Yeah."

We came out of the toilet together. This time I saw the faces of all
the occupants of the club. Most had something odd about their features.
There were some with fluorescent faces, some with yellow eyes... Some
had features but no faces. Some had faces but no visible limbs.
He explained. "You couldn't see them before because you would have been
scared off."
We shared a bone-dry martini.
"A dead drink," my Dad joked. The bar lady laughed, but I still
couldn't hear her.
"Is she dead too?"
"Everyone you can see is dead. But I can see other folk, confused
people like yourself - the living - who you can't see. That's why we
have the colours and crazy features. It's just so we don't get
confused."
"I see. I see."
In the laughter that ensued, the walls seemed to dissolve along with
The Crossing's faithful. In the blinding whirlpool, I lost my father
for the second time. I only vaguely remember him saying, "use that
door" before his teeth vanished along with the rest of his body.