[stylist] CK fantasy response

[Chris Kuell]

Greetings,

Fantasy really isn't my thing, but here's an attempt anyway. All comments and suggestions are welcomed.
 

 

Unexpected Guest

 

By Chris Kuell

 

 

The last I remembered, the Yankees were two runs down, but those bastards are always coming back in the ninth, so you never know. The ringing of the doorbell jounced me from the reverie of my recliner. "What the hell --" I muttered, trying to get a fix on my surroundings. The television was nothing but fuzz and static, so the ball game must be over.

After another ring, I managed to get up and make my way to the front hall. I flipped on the lights and opened the door.

An attractive woman wearing a conservative blue business suit stood on the porch, hands clasped behind her back, giving me a nice view of a pearl necklace and a fabulous bust line. Not completely deaf to all Maria used to nag me about, I raised my focus up to the woman's face. She had a pleasant, Carolina-girl look. Soft, shoulder-length curly hair, clear blue eyes and the friendly type of smile you see so often when traveling in that part of the country.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello. Are you Mr. Kuell?" Her tone was official.

"Are you a lawyer?" I asked, my hand on the door, ready to slam. "Are you serving me papers? Did my ex-wife send you? Because I'm up to date with the payments-I've got receipts."

"No, I'm not a lawyer," she said.

"Are you a Mormon, then?" This produced the tiniest hint of a smile.

"No, I'm not a Mormon, either." 

"That's good," I said. "Then, how can I help you at this hour?" I glanced at my watch, 9:45. That couldn't be right. The game was over; it had to be one or two in the morning.

"I need you to come with me," she said.

I chuckled. It had been a long time, way too long, since I had been anywhere with a pretty woman. 

"Normally, I'd take you up on an offer like that in a snap. But, perhaps for now, you could just tell me who you are and what you want?"

"My name is Lucy, and I'm here to escort you to the hereafter," she said.

Now, there's a conversation stopper. My innate cynicism took over and I glanced up and down the street. All the houses were dark and unnaturally quiet. Not a light to be seen, nor a dog to be heard.

"No offense, but you seem a little old for a sorority girl." I searched for the carload of drunken college kids, but the neighborhood was vacant and still.

In her airport customs agent tone, she said, "Mr. Kuell, you need to come with me." 

Whoever she was, she was good. Not a hint of a smile, a chuckle, nothing. Maybe she was a psycho, or an escaped mental patient, which wouldn't be good at all.

"Listen, Lucy, or whoever you are. It's late and I'm tired and going to bed. You're welcome to join me, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on going out tonight." I paused, then finished my thought. "Besides, I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm only forty-two years old, and still quite alive."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuell. You're dead."

"Okay, Lucy, believe that if you will. This dead guy has a full bladder, though, so I guess I'll just say good night-" 

"Tell me," she asked, were you drinking tonight, Mr. Kuell?" 

"I had a couple of highballs while I was watching the game. No law against that, is there?" Actually I'd had five, but that was none of her damn business.

"Did you also take a prescription painkiller?"

"I took a couple of oxys. They're legit, I got 'em for my back."

"Did you read the label that warns against taking the medication with alcohol?"

"I've got a friend," I explained. "He's studying to be a pharmacist. He says those labels don't mean anything."

She scowled, and then continued. "Were you smoking this evening while drinking and on a strong narcotic, Mr. Kuell?"

 "I've been trying to quit, but, you know. I can't yell at the Yankees without a butt in my mouth. It's just not the same."

"Congratulations. You have now officially quit." She smiled briefly as she delivered that line. Then she was back in Perry Mason mode.

"Do you remember falling asleep this evening?"

"Aw, shit," I muttered. "Did I do that again? The ex used to rag on me about how I was gonna burn down the house someday."

Wait a second. Did I just talk about myself in the past tense? Lucy stepped towards me and put out a hand.

"Take my hand," she said softly. Irresistibly.

I took it, the warmth instantly comforting, safe as a lover's touch. She waved her other hand before us and swiped away my house. In its place was the recently burned-out rubble of an ex-house. No walls, no TV, no comfy leather recliner. Just ash, soot, and charred remnants of a life that used to be.

She swiped her arm back and my house magically returned. At least the image of it, I think. This was a lot to absorb. I did drink the five highballs and I'm no Einstein. 

She looked at me, still holding my hand, and said, "It's time to go."

I walked with her down the steps, out to the sidewalk and towards . . . I'm not sure where. As the night closed in on us, the dark murkiness sifting upward, I asked Lucy one final question.

"Do you know who won the game?"