“Departures” is a supernatural thriller and love story published as a serial novel with new episodes dropping every Tuesday morning. Anyone can read or listen for free. Paid subscribers gain early access to new episodes. Watch the trailer or visit the table of contents to browse all the published episodes.
It was always a risk, leaving his apartment to walk among people. With the occasional guests who were granted access to the stage door at the back of the old theater and permitted to climb the narrow stairs to his place, he could manage all the variables to ensure a safe distance was maintained. But out in the world, it was unpredictable chaos filled with people who were ticking time bombs in a pinball machine never more than a breath away from bumping up against you. And then it was game over.
Still, it had been too long and he feared his self-imposed isolation was accelerating the aging process. At sixty-eight, given the pear-shaped trajectory of his life, he couldn’t explain why that mattered to him, but it did. No one truly wants to die, even those who go to great lengths to prove otherwise.
When he exited the back door of the theater and stepped into the fresh morning air, he remembered why it was worth the risk. It was barely seven but the Atlanta asphalt could not forget it was August and the heat radiated through the soles of his Chucks even though the city was still mostly in shadow. A long walk in the park would be nice, but first a cup of coffee. He made his way along the massive brick wall of the theater where the tinted coaches and tractor trailers for touring entertainers parked to load in. He stepped onto Peachtree Street where he crossed, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his hip.
The coffee shop was one of the rare local ones that survived. He peered in through the large glass storefront before committing. It was quiet when he stepped inside, only one man in a suit at the counter placing an order and two young women post-run, sipping lattes and talking conspiratorially.
“What can I get you?” the kid behind the counter asked.
Wilder looked down from the large chalkboard menu to focus on the twenty-something barista with gauge earrings so large a quarter could pass through them.
“Uh, just a coffee, please. Regular,” he said.
He appreciated when the kid just rang him up and didn’t quibble over the roast or blend or god knows what else they did to fancy up coffee these days.
“It’ll be just a minute. I’m brewing a fresh pot. Can I have a name to put on the cup?”
“Wilder, but you can just put Wild,” he said, stepping off to the side when the bells above the door jingled and two more customers entered.
The kid nodded, lips frowning in concentration as he used a sharpie to label the cup. “Cool name,” he said. “Sounds like a rock star.”
“Heh, hardly. It gets worse. Try growing up as Wilder Emerson Thorne IV.”
“Wow, that’s a righteous name. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore do they?” the kid said before turning to help the new customers.
More people flowed in. Another barista came in from the back to run the register. Wild’s pulse quickened and he felt his ears flush with blood. The place was filling up. He backed his way into the corner by the pick-up counter. After a moment, the kid emerged from behind the big espresso machine.
“Uh… Wild, you’re up,” he said, setting the steaming cup on the counter.
As Wild stepped forward and reached for it, his phone began to ring loudly in his pocket. He looked down and groped into his baggy jeans to silence the offensive thing. In his distraction, he knocked the cup over with his other hand.
“Ah shit, I’m sorry,” he said, quickly reaching for a pile of napkins.
Focused on mopping up the hot coffee, Wild didn’t notice the kid moving in with a large hand towel. In his hurry to capture the liquid before it spilled onto the floor, the kid’s hand grazed Wild’s. It was only a flicker of contact, but it was enough. Wild’s brain exploded with a thousand-watt flash that faded into a full-spectrum rainbow of colors that blinded him and sent him stumbling back against the wall. The pain was excruciating, like his skull was a walnut pressed in a cracker and he groaned.
“Hey man, you okay?” The kid hurried around the counter to steady him.
A few minutes later, Wild was sitting at a table by the front window with a new cup of coffee in front of him. The kid had asked if he needed an ambulance but the pain had receded as it always did so Wild refused and made it clear that he was okay. That hadn’t stopped the kid from taking Wild’s arm to help him over to the table. At that point it didn’t matter so Wild allowed the young man to exercise his good breeding.
He sipped the coffee, happy for its bitterness. With every sip, the tentacles of the migraine retreated further, leaving behind the sticky residue of knowing what he must do. Any thought of just getting up and leaving like any normal human would was squashed under the unbearable weight of the guilt he knew he no longer had the strength to carry. He hadn’t had one this bad in over a decade at least and the Rube Goldberg machine of his mind, once so capable of beautiful invention in these scenarios, was a garage sale of disintegrating boxes filled with cast-off odds and ends from a vagabond’s life. Still, he would find the parts he needed to construct a track that would deliver the boy. He had no choice.
He nursed the coffee as long as he could, waiting until the first morning rush was done, before he got up and walked back to the counter. The kid saw him coming and looked up expectantly.
“Hey, I know this is going to sound crazy,” Wild said. “But I could use your help today…”
A look passed over the kid’s face, the same one Wild imagined was there when he was accosted by a Jehovah’s Witness on the sidewalk.
“Look, I know you don’t know me, but I make my living telling people’s stories. I had an interview scheduled today but they flaked and now I have to find a replacement quick…”
“Hey man, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can help you. I mean, I’ve gotta work and…”
“I’ll pay you well for your time. The day rate’s $5,000 cash. If I end up using your story in my docuseries, you can earn even more.”
The kid’s face contorted, his eyebrows knit together, and he frowned but Wild saw past his imposing demeanor. He could picture him as a curly-headed little thing running circles around his parents and charming them with his bubbling laughter.
Wild imagined how he must look to this kid. He remembered himself at 23, so full of piss and vinegar— invincible until he wasn’t. Now he was certain he looked like one of those gangly wizards in sun-bleached tie-dye who danced like they had no bones on the lawn at every Grateful Dead show he traveled to see in the seventies.
“This is legit,” Wild said. “My studio’s right across the street above the Century. Can you find someone to cover your shift? Might be worth it.”
“Why me?” the kid asked, and for a moment, Wild couldn't answer. His throat was choked with emotion. Why him, indeed?
“Why not you? Everybody’s got a story. I don’t record stories of famous people. There’s too much of that already. What do you say?”
Twenty minutes later, they were climbing the back stairs to Wild’s apartment. The kid, Conrad Wilson had a wad of bills stuffed into his front pocket. They had stopped by the bank and Wild withdrew $2,500. Half upfront, and half when the interview was complete was what they had agreed. Even though the journey was less than three blocks, Wild was on high alert, scanning every car that passed, looking over his shoulder, and insisting they wait for the light before crossing the street even when the closest car was two blocks away. The kid had visibly relaxed when he had seen the money. Wild thought it was funny how money had that power, like it could change anything that mattered. He knew it didn’t.
“You live here?” Conrad asked as they reached the top of the dark, narrow stairwell and Wild put his key into the lock.
Wild had had enough visitors over the years to predict a person’s reaction upon first entering his home. His hidden apartment was the equivalent of Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders. He tossed his keys on the stand by the door and moved quickly into the kitchen under the guise of making some tea, but really just to allow the kid a measure of privacy to enjoy the rapture of discovering the space.
“Make yourself at home,” he called over his shoulder.
His apartment hadn’t always been an apartment. It was built for him nearly forty years prior– a consolation prize from his father after Wild’s promising life imploded and Wilder Emerson Thorne senior understood his son did not have the back to carry the Thorne family empire. The Thorne Family Foundation had been the primary benefactor in the renovation of the old Century Theater back in the 1980s. The project was the only thing his young son had taken any interest in before he completely lost his mind after an extended backpacking trip through South America. Carving out the little space above the historic stage where iconic musical acts from a bygone era had played was a small matter. It was a safe place to hide his weird son after he had been institutionalized.
After a moment of letting the kid explore, Wild peered around the corner of the kitchen with two mugs in hand. He watched the young man, mouth agape as he took in the accumulation of artifacts covering every inch of wall space and flowing out across every surface of the apartment. There was a hand-carved native American flute hung with an array of spidery dreamcatchers alongside a Stratocaster bearing Hendrix’s loopy autograph. There was an enormous Ansel Adams original print crowded by a matrix of other framed photos from rock and roll photographers whose work had graced the cover of Rolling Stone in its heyday. The only source of natural light was from a series of skylights above and it gave the high-ceiling space the air of a museum or art gallery.
The boy paused in front of the wall that contained a massive built-in bookshelf that extended all the way to the ceiling and was crowded with first editions of classic works, among them, a well-worn copy of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s famed book on death and dying. The rows of books were interrupted by a collection of haunting objects– two human skulls, their empty eye sockets staring into one another for eternity, a wooden planchette from an early Ouija board, a nativity scene in the style of the Mexican day of the dead, carved wooden masks from Africa alongside the somber death mask of some wealthy white landowner who died centuries before, and a bundle of dried roses, their stems tied with twine and suspended from a hook. There was more tucked in between and behind.
It was a lot for anyone to take in. Wild cleared his throat as he stepped into the room.
“This place is so cool,” Conrad said, having to pull his eyes away from the wall of books to greet Wild and accept the mug of tea.
“I know, it’s a lot. I’ve been here a while.” Wild gestured to a large crimson, velour couch. “Here, have a seat.”
“So, how does this work? I mean, I’m a nobody. Why are you interviewing me? It seems kinda weird.”
Wild sat at the opposite end of the couch and placed his tea on the low coffee table pushing aside a stack of magazines and a plate with a crust of bread. He tried to meet the kid’s eyes but he couldn’t. It was too hard so he used the trick he had picked up from an actor friend many years before, focusing on the kid’s forehead so smooth and unravaged by a lifetime of worry.
“Everyone has a story,” he said. “I really want to hear yours. Tell me about your parents.”
“Aren’t you going to record?” Conrad asked.
“Yes, eventually. But I prefer to just talk first. My methods will seem very strange to you but I’ve done this many times before. You’ll have to trust me, okay?”
The kid nodded.
“So, your parents.”
“I um… we don’t really talk anymore. I haven’t seen them in over a year.”
“Ah, I get it. Well that may change today. Are they close? Do they live here in town?”
“They live out in the suburbs, Alpharetta. But look, man, I don’t want them to be a part of this. They don't want anything to do with me.”
“I’m sure it seems that way to you. What happened?”
The details didn’t matter and Wild only half listened as the kid talked haltingly about being queer and something about an incident with one of his mother’s friends. None of it was of any consequence. People pissed their lives and relationships away over the smallest things, acting as though they were invincible and had a stretch of endless numbered days before them. Wild knew with absolute certainty how wrong they were. This twenty-three year old kid full of angst and decorative hardware was, just a few hundred million heartbeats ago, a doughy cherub whose parents delighted in his every coo, giggle, and toothless grin.
But today. Today their son would be dead before they switched off the late show on the television in their empty three-bedroom house at the end of the street where their boy rode for the first time without training wheels.
Make a New Friend in the Comments
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Want More? Check Out My Other Novels
If you’re enjoying “Departures,” chances are you’ll also like my two previously published novels. You can preview the first couple of episodes for free.
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In the reality show competition for Houze, a revolutionary eco-home, six contestants face a winner-takes-all challenge. Beneath the surface of sustainability, altruism battles greed, turning a hopeful vision into a life and death struggle. Fans of “Nine Perfect Strangers” by Liane Moriarty will love this story.
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If you love the soundtrack for “Departures” you should check out the work of my friend and collaborator
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