“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.
Previously…
In the last episode, June’s friend from work died violently on the date Wild predicted weeks earlier in the note he left for her at the mental health facility where he was a patient and she works. Shocked and confused, June insisted on coming to see him that night. On this first memorable visit to Wild’s apartment he treated her to one of the perks of living above a historic theater - private seats to watch famed blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughn.
Three days after the kid’s death, Wild had still not ventured back out of his apartment. He was shaken. While death had been a constant companion in his life, he could count on one hand the violent ones he had witnessed up close.
He didn’t want to get out of bed. He had been dreaming about June again. Over the years, out of sheer desperation he had acquired a skill something close to lucid dreaming. He could set an intention before going to sleep and dream of a time gone by. Throughout the night he might wake several times, just hovering below the watery membrane of consciousness, his mind like a great leviathan surfacing for air before he wrestled back control and plunged it back down into the depths where he could be weightless, formless, and completely free to be with her.
But he was running out of food. His body, the persistent, breathing collection of bones still wanted to be fed. He lay for a few more minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust to the morning light that filtered through the skylight above. Unlike the main room where there were several, there was only one window to the sky here above his bed and it was like a cataract, covered with a hazy film and some greenish mold that was creeping toward the center from the edges. Maintenance on the old theater had fallen off in recent years. The new venture capital group that owned it was not out to make improvements. After almost a year of being dark from the pandemic, their mission was to hold it upside down and shake every last dime out of it before selling it off to the highest bidder.
Wild had no connection to the business of the Century anymore. Thorne Enterprises had long since divested in such a losing proposition as entertainment, but keepers of his trust, namely his sister, had established a clause in the contract that had endured several ownership changes across the past two decades so Wild could remain the eccentric tenant who lived above. But he was on borrowed time. Like most people advancing in age, he was being aggressively ignored and pushed to the margins. His predicament was one of his own design. He never really wanted the money and power his father’s legacy afforded him, only to have a normal life. So, Wild had negotiated just enough to ensure he could live modestly until his ticket was punched.
Sitting on the toilet waiting for his bladder to empty, he pondered as he often did after emerging from dreams, the irony of not knowing the date of his own death. But then, it occurred to him that the date could be known to anyone if they were desperate enough to know it. He had woken up many days convinced that he would ensure that day would be his last. Yet here he was, struggling to squeeze the last stubborn trickle of urine past his reluctant prostate. Finally, he gave up, rose with some effort, and tugged on his briefs which he knew would be damp as a result of the encore his bladder would play once he was fully dressed and ready for the day.
Descending the stairs down into the theater he could see the entire backstage area was bustling with the load in for a new show. Judging from the cartoonish set pieces the carpenters were assembling down-stage, it wasn’t a rock and roll show but some traveling kid’s thing with poor bastards sweating in furry mascot suits and dancing to saccharine music played from a recording. At least it would end early, and his place wouldn’t rumble like the cone of a subwoofer all night.
Down on the floor he did his best to navigate through the gauntlet of electricians, carpenters, and grumpy union guys who looked as though everything but their clothes had advanced since 1987. One burly guy in a pair of acid-washed jeans with a wallet chain and Reebok high-tops bumped into Wild as he passed carrying the head of an enormous pink unicorn. January 2, 2028. The date flashed in Wild’s mind like a billboard in Times Square and then it was gone. He blinked, sucked in through his teeth and kept walking. It was better not to stop and chat.
“Hey! What are you doing on my stage?”
The stocky woman with close-cropped hair and a nose ring was walking toward him with a crispness of purpose from the wings. She wore a headset microphone and was gesturing frantically on an iPad that seemed massive in proportion to her short frame. He knew her tribe instantly. Stage manager. He surrendered immediately, raising his hands.
“I’m sorry, officer,” he said. “I was just crossing through to go out for some groceries.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“I live here. Upstairs.” Wild pointed up as if that might explain things better but it did not.
“You can’t be here,” she said. “If one of my guys accidentally drops a par can on your head, guess who’s libel?”
Wild smiled and kept walking in the direction of the back door. “Understood,” he said. “I’m trying to get out of your way.”
“Well, you’re not supposed to be in here at all,” she persisted, the iPad now tucked under her arm so she could give him her full attention.
“Hey boss, take it easy. Don’t you know who this is?”
The voice came from behind so Wild had to spin around to put a face with a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. The stage manager turned too and shrugged with her whole body.
“This is the phantom of the opera himself, Mr. Wilder E. Thorne IV. He’s been living in this old theater since before you were making doodles in your diaper.”
“Well, hello Boots. It’s been a real long time,” Wild said, closing the distance between them and reaching out a hand which the man took and used to pull him into a back-slapping hug.
September 23, 2040. The date hadn’t changed and there was a great comfort in that for Wild. A man who loved music as much as Boots McClarin did could do worse than to depart at the ripe old age of eighty-seven on the day that both Springsteen and Coltrane were born. The man was tall and stooped from years of hauling heavy things around. He had a generous, crooked smile and hadn’t aged noticeably except for the expanding gray in his dreadlocks and some more pronounced crow’s feet.
“Oh,” the stage manager said without much interest. “Nice to meet you, and uh, sorry about that.”
She turned then and disappeared back into her iPad letting the two old friends move away and continue their conversation.
“How you been?” Boots asked.
“You know, takes a lot longer to crank the engine in the morning but I still do. How about you? What the hell are you doing lighting this thing?”
“Aw fuck, Wild, I’m too old to be chasing the rock and roll dream anymore. This gig, I’m in bed by nine every night. Pays the same and it’s half the work.”
“Alright, I see you,” said Wild. They were standing by the open bay of the loading dock now. “Hey, you wanna meet up for some supper later?”
“Sure enough, after this little dancing dog show’s a wrap. My shit’s packed up an hour after curtain. I need an hour to decompress, so maybe meet up at seven?”
“That’d be fine. You still eat your weight in barbeque?” Wild asked.
“I would if I could, but at our age, that shit’ll kill you, man.”
For a beat, Wild debated whether to make the upside-down argument that his friend didn’t need to worry about baby-back ribs but thought better of it.
“Why don’t I make us something? You can just come upstairs whenever you’re done.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I don’t have the juice to go out on the town these days. Besides, I’ve missed your record collection.”
Wild spent a couple of hours shopping for groceries and a few other household things he needed. He was glad to be self-sufficient. This new contactless world was made for him. He could order most things from his phone, including a ride and nobody was up in his business wanting to chat or press the flesh. In a world recently filled with masked and gloved people, he no longer came off as such an oddball when he shied away from a handshake.
He made it back home in time to prep the eggplant and to make a salad before he slipped off his shoes and laid down on the couch to read, which was really just foreplay for a nap most days. He woke an hour and a half later when his place started shaking with the shitty canned music from the kiddie show downstairs. Fortunately, it wasn’t too loud, and his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. He watched CNN for an hour while he did his own version of a workout which consisted of some rickety calisthenics and half-assed yoga poses he’d picked up from a woman he had dated briefly when he still attempted such things. Then he took a long, hot shower before returning to the kitchen to finish making dinner.
At 7:02 PM, Boots knocked on the door. When Wild opened it, his friend extended a gift. It was a bottle of top-shelf bourbon with half of the bourbon only a memory.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” Wild said, smiling as he took the bottle.
“Oh, but clearly, I did.”
They both laughed and the whole evening had been easy like that. Boots combed through the wall of Wild’s vinyl collection and pulled out records to play. This was something Wild loved because it allowed him to randomly relive the music and memories from his past. It was the analog equivalent of shuffle mode on Spotify but better because it was curated by a friend. Over the dinner of eggplant parmesan and caprese salad with fresh heirloom tomatoes so red they looked purple, they listened to Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” After that it was Talking Heads “Stop Making Sense,” and Boots shared stories about being on that tour with the band. “David’s goddamned suit needed its own wardrobe case!”
When the last wailing gospel refrain faded on “Take Me to the River,” and the needle bumped at the end of the groove and returned to the cradle, Wild grabbed the bottle of bourbon and a couple of crystal tumblers and called out from the kitchen.
“Put on your closer, crank it up, and follow me.”
He walked to the narrow door at the back corner of the living room, opened it and passed through into a cramped hallway more like a secret passage. He nearly dropped the glasses trying to sweep a cobweb out of his face and then he heard the opening guitars on the first track of Robbie Robertson’s album “Showdown at Big Sky.” He made his way around the corner and down a small set of stairs and then he was there, in the private box looking out over the vast empty theater. Boots cursed, likely hitting his head somewhere in the narrow passage then he emerged and set down heavily in a seat, one over from Wild. Wild poured two fingers of bourbon in each glass and handed one to his friend. They clinked and drank.
“It’s dark in here, man,” Boots said. “Don’t they let you put on the lights for a guest anymore?”
The theater was dark except for the ghost light, a naked bulb on an old floor lamp standing at center stage. The grandeur of the old theater with its domed azure ceiling of stars, rows upon rows of red velvet seats, decorative hanging lanterns, and stone turrets was mostly cloaked in shadow. Anything visible was flattened out by the harsh white bulb, too dim to offer anything but a charcoal sketch of the place’s majesty.
“Nah, those days are long gone, my friend. I’m lucky to just keep my place. I think the new owners have an office pool on how much longer I’ll last.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Boots said, and raised his glass. He took a measured sip and then turned to his friend. “It’s good to see you, man. I’m sorry I don’t stay in touch, but you know how it is. The road is tough…”
“Yeah, I hear Binky the Unicorn’s a real hellraiser. Wrecking hotel rooms, booze, pills…”
“Don’t disparage the Unicorn. She’s paying my motherfuckin’ mortgage this year.”
They laughed and Wild refilled their glasses. Boots talked about his grown kids and his brush with cancer. He didn’t talk about his wife Eileen and Wild knew better than to ask. The first side of the record ended, and they fell silent, looking down at the empty stage, an audience of two. Then Boots turned in his seat.
“I’m guessing the fact that you still live in Vincent Price’s man cave means there’s no lady in your life.”
Wild’s only response was to take another drink.
“You never did get over June, did you?”
“Nah, I don’t think I ever will, man. She was… she was the person who had the keys to me.”
“Ah, c’mon now. You ain’t that complex,” Boots said.
“You’d be surprised.”
“Yeah?” Boots frowned and cocked his head back, as if to get a better look at his old friend. “Try me.”
For a moment, it was right there, on the tip of Wild’s tongue, that old urge to confess, to confide his secret to another soul. It was this anchor he carried around that was tethered to his heart, pulling him down. He was so tired of treading water to stay afloat. But he wouldn’t drown tonight, nor would he confess.
“I’m a veritable funhouse of neurosis, my friend.”
“Well, that may be, but I gotta say, I never saw a man who loved a woman so much as you loved June. She was lucky she had you.”
“I don’t think so,” Wild said. Tears were pooling in his eyes. “She was a lot of things, but lucky wasn’t one of them. I’m gonna go flip the record.”
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