by Joseph Walls
It is another day. Now, you and I experience days differently than each other. I should start by telling you that. My days, well they’re violence, and welcoming, and death. It was written in the Book that way.
I don’t sleep. Never had the chance. I’ve heard it’s nice from the many people I’ve met. Maybe I’ll get to try it one day. Anyway.
Today’s list. I should say, it’s always a physical list. It started eons ago. As a scroll. The handwriting large and elaborate. Each name was written with vigor. The eons have since dwindled that fervor but the list remains physical. On bad days, the list is multiple pages. Today is a lighter day. Remarkably, this is one of the easiest days I’ve encountered. I have one name on my list. Today, should you be interested, it’s written on a postcard.
Now normally I’m rushing from appointment to appointment, welcoming those who belong with me and giving those who don’t a run-through of the time that lies before them. They only can ever conceive of it in time.
Today I’m working with a man named Horace Jefferson. I won’t be with him long. I’ll give him the run-through and then someone else will pick him up and ferry him around for a bit before Upstairs gives the green light. I never know how long that takes.
***
In the file I’ve got, Horace has lived a whole lot of life. Born in 1935. Lately I’ve been getting a lot of more recent arrivals, this is a welcome change. He’s from Louisiana. I’ve heard they like me there.
A musician. I’ve always had an easier time with them. Their fingers, their voices aching to transcend to my world much sooner than they’re scheduled. A lot choose to make their way through other avenues. Whatever keeps me busy.
Horace was never anyone well known. He played in a bar band back in the day. I don’t know that he loved every minute of it, the file says he didn’t, but he never skimped on the feeling. Many couples met to the sound of his horn. Quite a few split to the sound too. Seems he’s an indirect cause of some future arrivals.
Thanks for the business, Horace.
***
“Hate to tell you…” I start.
“You’re about as tall as I expected,” he tells me.
“You thought about me?” I try to act surprised.
“More lately, than before,” he tells me. “Which way’s the journey?”
“I don’t get to tell you that,” I reply.
“Can I ask a question?”
“All you’ve got is time,” I tell him.
“Did you meet Robert?” he asks me.
“I get that question a lot. You know, once it was a different name. For you it was centuries ago, for me it feels not so long. I used to get asked if I met Orpheus, or if I kept Eurydice.” I pause.
“I did meet Robert, eventually,” I continue. “The story that I came up to the Delta and he sold me that soul? Well, I got it on discount from the guy he sold it to.”
“Really? He wasn’t lying?”
“Not as far as he knew while he was up there. Down here, well he apologized to me that he said I looked the way I did. Said I look much better now. What do you think?” I asked Horace.
“Look? Well, you don’t hurt my eyes. Are they still eyes down here?”
“Yeah, they’re still eyes. Remember how it was hard to hear though?” He nods at me. “Well it’s easy again.”
He just looks at me for a second. They don’t usually do that. It’s usually questions, even from the youngest of them. I usually don’t hear quiet.
“Do you mind if I sing?” he asks me.
I don’t get that question a lot. For the first time in a while, I look at the name on my list. I mean, I look at the person. I mean, I look at Horace, in front of me.
“I haven’t heard singing in a long time, Horace. I’d love a song.”
He takes a big deep breath in. He closes his eyes.
You got to go to the lonesome valley
You got to go there by yourself
Nobody else can go for you
You got to go there by yourself
Oh, you got to ask the Lord’s forgiveness
Nobody else can ask him for you
You got to go to the lonesome valley
You got to go there by yourself
Nobody else, nobody else can go for you
You got to go there by yourself
Horace breathes again. And he opens his eyes.
“Is it oxygen down here?” he asks me.
“Down here isn’t quite the right way–and well, it’s not oxygen either,” I tell him.
“Are we speaking English?”
“You are, in a way. But me? No. I speak something old. Older than English. Older than the world too.”
“But I can understand you.”
“You can understand everyone once you’re here. And everyone can understand you. You’ll get the chance to see it more,” I tell him.
A car pulls up. It’s nice, Galaxie, ‘64. The black paint glistens.
“Is this for me?” he asks, for the first time bewildered since he’s been here.
“That’s all yours.” I tell him.
Horace starts for the car. Then stops.
“Will I remember you?” he asks me.
“No, but I’ll remember you, Horace. You’ll have a good time though. Do try to tell Robert I said hello. You won’t remember to. If you meet him, you’ll tell him a friend said hi. I think we’re friends, aren’t we Horace?”
Horace looks into the car. He looks back at me. He nods.
“If I do remember, what’s your name?” he asks.
“You were calling me Mr. Scratch up there, so you can call me that.”
Horace stares at me again.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Scratch.”
“And thank you for yours, Horace Jefferson.”
He heads for the car. He has one leg out.
“Will I see her again?” Horace asks me. He looks away. His hand rests on the door handle of the Galaxie, ready to support him if the answer I give is not the one he wants.
“She’ll be there waiting for you, Horace.”
Horace finally smiles. Decades melt away and he’s young again. They all end up that way. The car revs. Horace reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a cigarette and lights it. With the cigarette in his hand, he waves at me.
I wave back.
The day closes.
***
By my count, my next slow day won’t be for another century. Not that slow, at least.
I’ve received the record you sent. Would you be able to spare someone from your end to show me how to use it in the next century? I would like to hear Horace’s voice again.
Eternally,
______
Joseph Walls is a filmmaker and writer based in Los Angeles. His time is spent in secondhand stores looking for things he's never heard of. You can find him among the paperback books, records, or movies. Or @wallsallaround on any social media.
[GO HOME.]