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Auction House for the Soul

Robert Brabham

    By chance, his eyes caught the light shining from the large entrance of the building. AUCTIONS, it said in red paint on an old rusty sign hanging aslant near the corner. There were a dozen or so silhouettes milling around the entrance, some conversing. Instinct seemed to draw him forward like an insect towards the brassy illumination. He hadn’t the slightest interest in bidding on some dead fart’s junk, but where else was he going to spend the last night of his life?
    Jake caught the scent of funnel cake and... popcorn... now some sausage and onions. As he strode towards the auction building, he felt as though he was walking along the midway of some state fair. For a moment he waxed nostalgic at the idea of enjoying a roller coaster or some other vertiginous venture. Someone belched loudly somewhere in the darkness.
    A new sound emerged.
    It was a man’s voice, as mellifluous as it was commanding. It had the bark of a salesman and the glibness of an entertainer. Jake wished to avoid this man and find a seat quickly inside.
    “.... something for everyone. It’s here. Don’t be afraid to ask...”
    Damned carny salesman, Jake thought bitterly. Thank God the doorway was wide for he was apt to slip inside unnoticed – oh damn, the guy was selling the tickets. Jake sighed and crept over to the voice.
    The light shone golden on the right side of the man’s face. It appeared kind and terribly prescient at the same time, perhaps the countenance of a man who knows people love to buy other people’s crap.
    “Very good evening, sir! Welcome to our auction. Admittance three dollars please, if you wish to participate.” His teeth looked perfect. His hair was thick and dark except for gray at the temples. His hands were large, but seemed delicate. Jake held out a rumpled five dollar bill he had fished from his pocket. “Excellent.”
    Why’d I do that? I’m not going to bid.
    The man handed Jake two dollars and offered, “Don’t spend it all at once.”
    Jake said nothing and stepped inside, faintly hearing the man chuckling. Great entertainment. You get what you pay for. Should have left him the two bucks for that brilliant quip. Suddenly, a loud noise on an overhead speaker - BE SEATED, WE SHALL BEGIN IN FIVE MINUTES.
    Wooden bleacher seats ran along each wall and led to a small stage at the end of the metal building. It seemed like a large number of people for a weekday night. Jake turned left, climbed to the top row, and sat alone on the uncomfortable wood.
    The din of light conversation drifted, extraordinarily subdued for a rustic crowd, Jake thought. He remembered the small motel at which he was staying. He thought of the Rubenesque owner who smoked and prattled on, with lipstick stained teeth, so stereotypically. He thought of his tiny room with stained wallpaper and musty scent. He thought of lying in those sandpaper sheets another night.
    Why’d I come in here?
    Men and women began entering the stage with chairs and fold out desks, the sort one would use for a TV dinner. There were six of them, two women and four men. They were dressed corporate casual. Jake wondered what would be offered first. This arrangement seemed rather odd. For a blinding second, Jake wondered if these people were going to burst into hymn to commence the auction. Dammit!
    A young woman sitting at the bottom bleacher stood suddenly and hurried to the front door. He could hear the ticket man’s voice at the entrance saying who knows what. Jake wondered where the bathrooms were.
    The idea of attending a sermon dawned again and he wanted to scat. He could find some other way of killing time. Instead, he looked at his feet and avoided gazing at anyone. Why the bloody hell did he come in here?
    Dummydummydummy.
    WE CAN BEGIN NOW – shot out and Jake started. What a place to spend the last night of his life. Why was he wasting it here in this rural, rusty, ridiculous place of business. He was supposed to be out in those open fields behind the motel studying the stars one last time. It was a clear night, perfect for a cosmological peep show. He was going to start with the dippers and bears and move on to – NUMBER ONE – Jake jerked again. Damn that cacophonous loudspeaker was indeed loud.
    A pale man walked up to the stage and gave an awkward wave to the six, seated and waiting. From left to right: Two men, a woman, two men, a woman. The pale man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The back of his neck beneath his thinning hair looked pale and moist. He ears seemed to reflect his demeanor, drooping with ineptitude.
    The man on the far left of the stage spoke out with a stentorian voice.
    “Are you ready?”
    The pale man nodded. The others onstage nodded.
    The entrance doors closed. The only doors to the building, Jake realized.
    “I would like the Chris –
    “We haven’t gotten that far yet. Please wait a moment.”
    The pale man looked down and shifted on his feet. The six wrote fiercely on their notepads. “OK.”
    The first of six said,“You may begin.”
    Pale man said, “Like I was saying, I want the Christian one.”
    “Number one, Christianity is a specific religion, a personal matter of faith, and therefore a complete irrelevancy. If you are Christian minded then whatever you choose will, of course be Christian. Perception is reality, sir. You may begin.”
    “I just thought I should ask. It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t. That’s what I think. Anyway... I want a farm.”
    The six looked thoughtfully at him, waiting.
    “You know, just a plain old cattle farm. Lots of land. Good grazing. No diseases. Good weather. That’s about it.”
    “Will you be alone?”
    The pale man thought for a long moment and then answered, “Yes.”
    One of six wrote on the tablet of paper and then handed it to the pale man. As he was reading it the other five people wrote on tablets and then tore loose the paper upon which they had written. The pale man looked up from the paper he was reading.
    “That’s pretty much it.”
    Two out of six handed over a piece of paper and pale man read it. “Wow, that’s not bad.”
    This procedure followed for the rest of the members, each of the remaining receiving less enthusiasm by pale man.
    One of six said, “Have you made a decision?”
    “Yes sir. I like yours, but I like the second one better.”
    Two of six stood from his chair and shook pale man’s hand. He waved him to the rear of the stage and pale man followed his gesture. After turning the rear corner, he began shrinking. Jake stared. Pale man was definitely getting shorter.
    Oh my God.
    Jake watched as the pale man continued to shrink as he walked forward. Jake suddenly realized the man was descending stairs hidden from view. How did he know –
    NUMBER TWO.
    A teenage girl approached the six. She was wearing a tight t-shirt and loose jeans. She had long auburn hair that seemed unkempt. Or was that an expensive style?
    The first of six said, “You may begin.”
    The girl leaned on her right leg, right arm akimbo. Her head was tilted to the left. She seemed vulnerable and defiant. “I want a fast car and an endless highway. I want to meet people along the way. No cops, no government, no rules. I want an endless road trip. I’m not saying everyone I meet has to be cool or good or whatever. Just not boring.” The girl thought a moment. “I also want to be able to fly.”
    “A few minutes please,” said one of six. The members wrote quickly on their tablets. The girl’s posture had not changed a millimeter.
    What in hell is this? thought Jake. I’m in some damned theatrical act. That’s got to be it. Jesus H.
    The six handed her their papers in tandem and down the line she responded:
    “That’s not it at all.
    That’s okay.
    Sucks.
    Sucks.
    Not bad.
    Awesome”
    Six of six rose and shook the girl’s hand. The girl vanished down the stairs.
    NUMBER THREE.
    Jake couldn’t believe it. What a strange theatre. Was this some sampling of the avant-garde out in BFE of the USA? It’s not bad. But God, it’s weird.
    Jake looked down at the ticket he bought, hoping to find a title or cast list or something. All it had printed was 22.
    An old man crept up to the stage, obviously in pain. Jake couldn’t tell if it was his knees or hips or back or all.
    The first of six said, “You may begin.”
    The old man responded at once. “I want my body back from when I was in my thirties, I want to be rich, and I want to bang a lot. A hell of a lot. The hell with everything else.”
    The same procedure followed. The old man took the paper from one of six and read it cursorily. “I’ll take it.”
    One of six rose to shake the old man’s hand. The old man did not extend his hand, but instead spat out, “Choke on it.”
    The members patiently waited the extra amount of time for the old man to descend the stairs before...
    NUMBER FOUR.
    No one responded. Jake looked around the auction house, for the first time really taking in the details. There were wooden bleachers running along the left side and right side of the building. They had once been painted white, but the paint was all but flaked away. A total of eight hanging pendant lights with wide rusty shades hung from the ceiling, a row of four over the length of each set of bleachers. Two lights hung over the front stage area. The overhead illumination had the effect of blackening the eyes and casting hard shadows the cheeks. A few people in the audience were looking around as well. No number four seemed to be responding.
    NUMBER FIVE.
    A woman in a yellow print dress approached and stood timidly before the members.
    The first of six said, “You may begin.”
    “I... I just want... I want what I have now, but I want it to be... clean, you know? I want clean water and air and clean food. I want my child, my youngest, to be healthy and happy.” Her voice was breaking.
    “Are you bringing your oldest child with you?” asked one of six.
    “No! No, he’s staying. I couldn’t... my baby just hasn’t been the same since...”
    The six prepared their papers. The woman read the first one. She shook her head and was silent. She did this five more times.
    “None of these are right. You see, I want the same... You don’t understand. After the shots...”
    The first of six asked, “Which offer do you accept?”
    “I don’t want any of these; they’re not right. I don’t...”
    At the front of the building, Jake noticed one of the doors opening and the ticket man with the extraordinary voice and middle aged polish strode into the auction house, directly toward the stage.
    “I’m trying to tell... I don’t want this anymore. Everything important is gone. How can I keep on...”
    The ticket man punched the woman in the back of the neck. A nauseating thunk reported through the building. Jake gasped. Some of the others in the audience groaned. No one moved.
    The woman crumpled to the dirt floor immediately, rustling a diaphanous haze of dust. The ticket man grasped one of her twitching ankles and unceremoniously dragged her out of the building. Near the entrance Jake could see blood around the woman’s mouth and nostrils now caked with dirt. Her dress, which had been riding higher along her body, finally covered her face as she was dragged out of the entrance.
    She was wearing red polka-dot panties.
    “As a reminder,” the first of six called out to the audience, “We are not psychiatrists with happy pills, we do not dole out free advice.”
    Goddamned red polka-dots.
    “We are not here to fix lives.”
    Urine soaked red polka-dots.
    “Once you approach us and offers have been made, it’s too late.”
    Oh my Christ.
    One of six had bellowed his statement with the countenance of a middle manager announcing corporate demands for higher productivity. A touch of petulance colored his equanimity, like the rust upon the auction sign.
    Jake was desperate to leave, but had no idea how. Was it safe? He felt like he was going to vomit and piss his pants at the same time.
    A woman on a bottom bleacher below Jake slid onto the ground. The man who was sitting next to her hastily picked her up and clutched her next to him, her head slumping forward.
    The first of six waved his hand and the door closed abruptly, the sound hammering the inside of the building.
    NUMBER SIX.
    No one responded. A moment passed.
    NUMBER SEVEN.
    No response. Jake thought he recognized that crackling voice over the intercom. Of course. The ticket man. The garbled effect of the old speakers had tarnished his voice, but it was unmistakable. Where the hell was he? What did he do with that woman?
    NUMBER EIGHT.
    NUMBER EIGHT.
    The first of six said, “Let’s take a short recess. Remember the refreshments outside.” The members stood and left the stage. They descended the stairs in the rear. The front doors swung open and were latched into place by the ticket man. He smiled at the audience.
    Astonishingly, no one rushed out.
    People began rising and working their way to the front. At least half remained seated, hunched over on their seats, some sipping drinks from paper cups.
    Jake stepped down the bleacher seats rather than return to the middle stairway. His knees were buckling and he was afraid he would fall. He reached the ground and tried not to bolt for the door. He could feel the gaze of the ticket man on him like a hot oven’s breath. He fancied seeing a crematory oven with rusted bars for teeth clambering after him.
    The air was cool outside. Another wave of nausea struck Jake. He hurried around the side of the building, into the shadows, and retched. He wiped his mouth and running nose with a shaky hand and wiped it on the leg of his jeans.
    He heard approaching footsteps.
    “Are you feeling quite alright?” asked the ticket man. Jake could see the grounds gate over the ticket man’s shoulder. It was chained. A few cars drove by on the highway beyond, headlights gleaming with freedom.
    The ticket man looked over his shoulder and then back at Jake, providing an oily smile with perfect teeth.
    “Sorry, there’s no leaving once the auction begins.”
    “What the hell auction?” Jake shot back. He took a step back without thinking. “I don’t know what this is, but I’m leaving right now.” Jake tramped to his right, intending to swing (with a wide berth) around the ticket man, but his exit was cut off.
    “Not enjoying the auction?”
    “What the fu- “
    “You didn’t stumble in here by accident,” the ticket man said. “People with death on their minds usually find an auction. Or it finds them.”
    Jake’s head was swimming.
    “Most people don’t accept bids their first time. I suggest you do the same. Just watch and keep quiet. You don’t have to decide right now.”
    “Decide what?” Jake’s voice was hoarse.
    “Your eternity,” the ticket man said. “You have given it some thought, haven’t you? I did notice you have your death mask on.”
    Jake stared at him. The ticket man’s shoulders were very thick.
    “Perhaps you spent more time on how you were going to snuff it rather than on what happens next. It’s an understandable mistake.” The ticket man put a meaty hand on Jake’s shoulder. Jake was surprised to feel a sob well up. Jesus H. He just watched this man kill (didn’t he?) a woman in this nightmarish place and he was actually responding to his fulsome comfort. His euphonic voice sluiced though the spine like some tingling serpent, rendering a pleasant somnolence in the mind and weakness in the extremities. It was an ineffable quality possessed by few, Jake had found. He remembered his third grade teacher had that same gifted inflection.
    “I suggest you just go back and try to enjoy the rest of the auction.”
    Jake was allowing himself to be led back into the building, the back of his neck and scalp still tingling pleasantly. What choice did he have? He didn’t have the strength to fight this dude.
    “Who are they?” Jake heard himself ask.
    “They’re just bidders, they... well...” The ticket man actually rubbed his forehead in thought. “It’s probably easier if you think of them as Gods.”
    The ticket man patted Jake on the back and hurried over to another man, addressing him as “Sam.” Were there people who came to this damned thing regularly?
    Like some damned show. He thought of the race fans that people joke about who seem drawn more to the crashes than the competition.
    Why the hell am I going back in there? Jake wondered as he reentered the building.
    Jake took the same seat he had earlier. Most of the attendees had remained seated, seemingly veterans of these auctions. Jake was pretty sure he was the last one to buy a ticket or close to it, yet there were nearly fifty people here. He felt growing animosity for these ghouls. What sort of demented satisfaction -
    The sound of the doors closing reverberated.
    NUMBER NINE.

#


    Jake knew his marriage was over by the time his wife, Sue, was seven months pregnant. Both of them knew that she wanted the baby more than him, but Jake was determined to do his best for their child. As she grew more and more devoted to maternal affairs and nesting, Jake felt himself more and more scared and powerless to contribute. He had no idea how to be a Dad. His own father didn’t have a clue. She responded to the distance between them by not responding. By the time she miscarried, the chasm was too great to bridge. They avoided each other and rarely spoke. They couldn’t even find the initiative to divorce or file for separation.
    As he reflected on it, Jake was glad because she would still be the beneficiary of his life insurance, not to mention his 401k. With additional deductions taken out of his paychecks, she stood to make about a cool half million. Did they yank taxes out of it?
    Jake wanted his death to happen out of town. He had driven himself into the position of regional manager, following a collegue’s resignation (I’m going to have a baby!), to get on the road and manage different offices in the region. Jake had been doing constant traveling to the thirteen drug stores in his region to provide training on Medicare updates in the pharmacies. A month ago, as he was near his destination, he passed through a small town, the name of which captured his attention.
    Public.
    There was something damned peculiar and engaging about a small town named, Public. As he continued into the city, a mere eleven miles ahead, he knew he would die there. He remembered laughing aloud and then crying with relief.
    Later, during a long meeting with a manager and two assistants, he kept thinking of the inevitable sort of postcards that could be sent from such a small town.
    I slept in Public.
    I made love in Public.
    I took a dump in Public.

    How about: I died in Public.
    By the time he was due back a month later, he had arranged everything. It’s astonishing who you can run into at the gym. A year previous, he had met a pharmacist from a competitor’s store who claimed he knew a hit man. Jake still had the man’s phone number, but could not remember why he had saved it. The pharmacist remembered him and hooked him up. All without a prescription. He spoke to an elder sounding woman who collated the logistics, procured a referral, and called him back to confirm the location and date. She made sure Jake sent a current photograph and personal statistics. She was a dutiful secretary, more of a dispatcher for hit men. Jake felt as though he had arranged to have his air conditioner repaired.
    Jake was to be the victim of a robbery at the motel. He told his office he would be spending the night in Public to save money on motel rates out of the city. His room was to be broken into at approximately 4:00 am. He was going to be shot. Jake specified that he be shot in the heart. He would have the cash with him. Thank God the hit man was cheap.

#


    NUMBER NINETEEN.
    Jake looked up with a start.
    A man with a little girl, probably four or five, was approaching the stage. Behind them on the bleachers a woman held her head in her hands and wept.
    The first of six said, “You may begin.”
    The man was holding the girl in his arms, her thin, pale legs dangled. She had a pretty dress on and her hair was pony-tailed. Her mother must have spent some time preparing her for the evening.
    “She has cancer,” the man said. “She been fighting very hard but it’s going to take her soon.” His voice was breaking, but he carried on. “I want her to grow up like she had never been sick. I want her to know what life can be like... without all that pain.” He kissed his daughter’s head, tears gleaming on his cheek, Jake saw.
    The man read the notes silently, not responding. His wife was watching them, one hand over her mouth. The man stood there several minutes. He kissed his daughter’s head and then stepped forward to shake the hand of three out of six.
    His wife cried out and tried to stand, but couldn’t. The man walked back to the bleachers. His wife found the strength to stand and she threw her arms around her daughter and kissed her.
    Three out of six, stepped down from the stage and held out her arm, a quaint smile breaking on her lips. The father sat his girl down on the ground, her legs quaking. Three out of six took the girl’s hand and began leading her behind the stage. The girl cried out and tried to pull away from the woman but couldn’t.
    “Mama!Daddy!Mama!Daddy!” she screamed, her face turning red and wrenched with terror. The woman dragged her behind the stage, hurrying. The father and mother held each other tightly and dared not look at their daughter. One of the girl’s shoes came off on a clump of grass. The mother’s lips were moving. When the screams of the child abated, Jake heard the constant murmur of ohmygodohmygodohmygod....like some desperate mantra.
    NUMBER TWENTY.
    The mother and father were still standing there. No one responded.
    NUMBER TWENTY-ONE.
    Three of six returned to the stage. Jake had no idea what he was going to do... Then the ticket man’s words returned to him. Just watch and keep quiet.
    NUMBER TWENTY-TWO.
    Jake didn’t dare move. He looked down and watched his hands tear the ticket in half, then quarters. He watched the pieces drift down below the bleachers.
    What the hell would he wish for anyway? Was this shit even real? God damn it.
    The six stood together and left the stage, disappearing down the stairs behind it. The front doors swung open and the ticket man latched them to the walls. People began milling out. No one offered help or condolences of any kind to the man and woman still clutching each other in front of the stage.
    When Jake stepped through the front doors, he could see that the gate was now unlocked. He heard engines start and saw cars trundle by on their way out to the highway. Jake imagined these people hurrying home to watch the latest “reality” show on TV featuring the latest cache of losers to humiliate themselves on a global scale. Jake tripped in a depression in the earth and then made for the gate. He turned right on the sidewalk. His motel was five blocks down.
    He forced himself to think about a short walk into the field to watch the night sky, the constellations, one more time. It was getting late and only four cars breezed past Jake before he walked into the parking lot of the motel.
    He walked around the building, hoping no one would see him, and crept out into the dark field. It was chilly and he could see his breath, short and frequent puffs of smoke. He felt intoxicated and dropped down on the ground sitting cross-legged.
    His head hung and his hands clutched at each other. He thought of the bidders. Just think of them as Gods. Wasn’t that how one could view anyone in power?
    When does the commerce end? Wasn’t it supposed to end before the afterlife? Even souls were a commodity. How many auctions like this go on? he wondered. What was the catch when you sell your soul to the highest bidder? Or in this case, the most inviting one. Did it last a day and then end? Was it some cosmic sick joke like an episode of The Twilight Zone? The bidders were just business people at the next level. Maybe they were more like a group of pharmaceutical drug reps. Jake smiled. That’s precisely how they looked. Here, buy this drug, it’ll lower your cholesterol, but destroy your liver in the process. They weren’t selling, though; they were buying. Was there really a difference between greedy people on either side of the commercial coin grasping and clutching for what they want?
    Commerce and corruption. Commerce and corruption. The two were as inseparable as they were ubiquitous. Why does it have to leave this earth with our souls? If one researched, Jake thought, one would find that behind every awful thing, from unfair insurance to poisoned food to deadly prescription drugs to assassinations to false flag terrorist events it was always about a select few people, the global elite, making giant money. It, ultimately, was always about greed. When does it stop?
    Jake looked up at the sky and saw the stars. No matter how hard he tried he could not focus on any group of them.
    Commerce and corruption.
    Jake checked his watch. It was half past two.
    His heart began pounding again. He thought of the visitor he would get at four. Should he be comforted in knowing precisely when and how he was going to die or should he be wondering if it was a horrible mistake? Why should it matter now? He had already decreed his life worthless. Of course, one man’s trash...
    Jake was back in the warmth of his motel room, the musty smell almost welcoming.
    Who gets his soul if he doesn’t auction it? Did someone auction it for him. Was there a God who accepted you into his graceful hands when you kicked the bucket? Were these people tonight cheating God or was God in fact some Mafioso patriarch. Was he in fact Mark Twain’s “malign thug?”
    Is it just more commerce and corruption?
    Where there is want, a market follows. Like needing a hit man for instance.
    Jake took the .357 Magnum from a sock in his suitcase and loaded it with the six bullets he had brought along. It was going to be the hit man’s when he left. It was once his father’s gun. It was part of his late father’s estate, passed especially to him. A gift. The man was as loving as those damned bidders back there. He made a meager living for his family and got drunk when he didn’t have to work. At least he did that much. Jake had spent years wondering if his inability to communicate (with Sue) was because of what he learned from his father. He had spoken to a psychiatrist over it, taken meds over it.
    Commerce and corruption.
    There’s a lot of money to be made from pain: mental, physical, metaphysical...
    The thought struck him like lightning.
    I could have controlled not only my death, but my afterlife as well.
    Why should he miss out?
    ...an understandable mistake.
    He had missed out all of his thirty-five years on this earth, why should he miss out in the after world?
    Both life and death had a simple price. He could buy some Godhood with a quick sale.
    You want a soul that bad? Here’s one!
    Jake left his room and hurried past the pool and out to the sidewalk.
    As he rushed back to the auction house, Jake allowed some hope to filter through. The bidders may still be there. If they weren’t he could stay there until they came back. He knew precisely what he wanted. Astronaut. He could spend eternity searching through the cosmos seeing all the wonders he could only imagine before. How many nights had he spent staring at the stars and wishing he could get out there, get out there and be free, get away from all the bullshit. Get out there with the logic and beauty of the infinite. Jake tried not to break into a run for fear of someone calling the cops after him.
    The gate was still open. The front doors to the building were open. The lights were off. Jake lurched into the yard. Why couldn’t he think of this desire before?
    You spent more time on how you were going to snuff it rather than on what happens next.
    Why did he listen to the ticket man? He shouldn’t have let him stop him. He should have been thinking about his auction. Maybe he would have thought of the astronaut thing. It all happened too fast, damn it. He could have escaped right then. He could have proof of death left in this world for the sake of his wife and met up with a dream in which to spend eternity. His soul? Somebody had to take it. It’s up for grabs. Why should he lose out again because of his ignorance of afterlife economics. He knew what to do now.
    Jake slowed when he got to the entrance to the auction house. It was dark. He could just make out the stage in the rear and started after it. He held his hands out in case he tripped.
    Once at the stage he felt his way around to the rear. He moved very slowly now. He didn’t want to fall down the stairs and break his neck before he could make a deal for his soul. Jake tapped the ground with his right foot and moved forward a few inches, repeating the procedure. Was it a bad omen the stairs led down?
    Where the hell was the stairs?
    The ground was black to him but his eyes had adjusted enough to make out the rear wall. He tapped around with his feet, moving just behind the stage and then turning and moving slightly towards the wall.
    Come on.
    All he could feel was earth.
    Jake dropped to the ground and began grabbing at the earth with his hands. He crawled along moving from the stage to the rear wall, back and forth as though he were a lawn mower covering the ground.
    “Where are you,” he cried out. “Come on!” He panted on the dust his hands and knees were kicking up and began coughing. He didn’t know if there were tears in his eyes before he started coughing.
    “Come on, dammit! I’m ready! I’m ready!” The earth smelled moldy and dank.
    Jake began rolling around on the ground. “Where’s the stairs! Where are you, you bastards” Jake clawed at the dirt and spit.
    “My soul ain’t good enough for you?”
    Jake stopped and rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored. He tasted the dirt. He could feel it caking into mud with his sweat.
    “Fuck you,” Jake said. “Fuck you and fuck you again.” His mind was whirling and a burgeoning headache throbbed at his temples. “Fuck me, too.”
    A moment later he got up and left.

#


    As he walked back to the motel, the highway deserted now, Jake tried to summon the enthusiasm he once had for his planned death. For the first time in months he had felt a spark of hope. Hope for what? It wasn’t for life; he had long since abandoned life. Jake was surprised to find himself struggling to remember why he had given up. It had become a habit lately, a given. He had missed his chance to find happiness in the afterlife. Maybe. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe there was another chance to barter with his soul. If there were enough screw ups like him, there had to be a market.
    Three sodium vapor lights cast a pall of ashen green light over the parking lot of the motel. Jake thought his car looked miserable sitting there all alone. He imagined getting in the car and leaving, driving... where?
    It was nearly four a.m. now. Jake forced himself to remember his original plan. He cleaned his dirty clothes in the tub and put them in a bag by his suitcase. He showered and dried his hair. He laid the gun on the circular table near the door. He put the envelope filled with cash next to the gun. When the hit man came in he wouldn’t have to search for it. If fact they wouldn’t have to say a word to each other. That would be much better.
    With no intention of sleeping, Jake got into bed, pulled up the sheets, and switched off the light. He was supposed to be surprised by a burglar; he couldn’t very well be hanging out at the table sipping a drink or jerking off for that matter. Was he breaking protocol by not jerking off in a cheap motel room? He watched the beam of streetlight coming in between the curtains.
    Jake thought of Sue. She could finally take a holiday in Europe as she had always dreamed. She could do something with the money. She couldn’t do anything with him. Wasn’t there something noble about dying for your woman?
    He felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
    No way, absolutely no way. Suck it up, you bastard. It’s too late now. You are not going to cry for yourself. No one gave a shit before, why should you care now?
    But, some part of him did care. Maybe when he got to the next world, he could try to do a better job than the one he did in this one. He checked the digital alarm clock by the bed.
    4:06.
    Jake felt panic seize him. He should get up. Get up and get out now. Go! Run bare-assed out to the car and goooooo! It’s not too late.
    A shadow broke the light coming in from between the curtains. A second later Jake heard scratching sounds on the doorknob. He could feel blood pounding at his temples, his heart was hammering.
    Too late.
    A bead of sweat rolled into his ear. This is what he had planned and created, controlled. Was it really that different from being a child led into a nurse’s station to receive a terrifying shot?
    It’s good for you, sweetie.
    The door burst ajar. Stopped. Then slowly swung all the way open.
    The light from the parking lot was sufficient to see the man’s face.
    Jake chortled.
    Of course it was him. It shouldn’t have been anyone else.
    Jake was giggling and crying. He closed his eyes and felt the tears streaming down his face, tasted the salty taste at the corner of his mouth.
    Commerce and corruption.
    Please...
    Commerce and corruption, again.
    Talk to me. Just a few moments. I’ve got two dollars.
    The pistol was now in the shadow of a large, but delicate hand.
    The ticket man swung the door closed behind him.



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