A Date with Death

Benjamin Knechtel had a date on the last Friday of March with a beautiful older woman named Arlene. Ben wasn’t picky about who he went out with, charming women both younger and older than him, and he didn’t want anything serious. He went on three to four dates every week, which some might deem excessive, but he had no hobbies and six free hours every day after his shift ended, and at his age, a greying fifty-seven, he didn’t know how much longer the dates would keep coming. He still had his looks, and often likened himself to a Clooney or Brosnan, but between the ages of fifty-five and sixty, the aging process turned on the afterburners, and before long, he knew he would look in the mirror and no longer see a grey fox but a starved coyote.

Before the date, Ben attended a funeral. It was 4:00PM when he arrived at the Tara Village Senior Living Community. He set up chairs, wrestled with floral arrangements, and placed several foam-board photos of the deceased on easels. A fellow funeral assistant named Sarah, only twenty-three, dressed and pampered the deceased, which Ben was thankful for. He didn’t enjoy that part.

The guests, primarily comprised of other members’ of the retirement community and the deceased’s family, including her 5- and 8-year-old granddaughters, arrived promptly at 4:50 for a 5:00 service and mulled around in the entrance hallway. Ben and Sarah greeted them as they entered and helped the disoriented elderly find their seats. One woman, who must’ve witnessed the birth of Christ, broke wind interminably from the time she entered the building to the time Ben helped her into her seat. Her farts smelled like garbage, and the event hall already carried the overbearing scent of cigarette smoke and old people. The woman thanked him and gave him a $2 bill.

“Thank you.” Ben smiled.

“Thank you, young man. Oh, you’re so handsome.” The woman turned to her husband next to her who was reading the program through horn-rimmed glasses with his head tilted-back, granting him five chins. “Horace, isn’t he handsome?”

Horace waved a hand as if to say, Yeah, yeah, I don’t care, then asked Ben, “Have you seen that show on the Discovery Channel about the men who work the oil rigs?” Ben politely listened and nodded along to Horace’s symposium about whatever TV he had seen that week.

Finally, at a lull in the one-sided conversation, Ben smiled and said, “Well, I have to get back to greeter duties, but if there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Knowing he had a gorgeous date later that night helped him tolerate the smells and blathering of the geriatric. He purposefully scheduled dates on the nights of funerals so he could have something to look forward to, and a means to decompress.

The ceremony started fifteen minutes late, and Ben stood in the back of the event hall tapping his loafers together and biting his nails. It was a filthy habit—no woman wanted a man who bit his nails—but he couldn’t quell the fear that he would be late for his date. He told Arlene he might be late, as the timetable of a funeral is unpredictable, but he wanted to meet her at 7:30 at the latest, and he still had to transfer the deceased to the cemetery in the neighboring town of Green Hills. Earlier, black storm clouds promising rain began to tumble in from the west, and heavy rain would only add to the tragedy of being stood up. He hated the thought of Arlene alone in her car, waiting for him.

An older gentleman wearing a tweed suit labored to the microphone and introduced himself as Jim, the deceased’s husband. He had gaunt cheeks, a round head, and the splotches of red and purple under both eyes that the elderly always seem to acquire. He thanked everyone for coming and launched into a lengthy story about his wife’s obsession with different types of plastic. “‘Don’t eat or drink anything when you see a 3,’ the man said in a grumbling interpretation of his wife. “‘That has BPAs. You want the polyethylene. That’s the bottles with the 1.’” The assembly laughed. Jim went on to say that although he pretended his wife’s plastic lectures annoyed him, he secretly loved her many quirks, and dwindled into low sobs.

When he began this job fourteen years ago, Ben felt guilty for concerning himself with such boyhood trivialities as dating when surrounded by mourning family members, but now, he’d seen enough funeral services to become numb to death. He’d prepared and transported men, women, children, parents, murder victims, burn victims, cancer victims, and once, a 70-year-old man with Argyria, a disease where the skin turns a greyish blue. The man worked in several factories including one that specialized in melting sterling silver for jewelry, and another that manufactured steel airplane parts, and the amount of silver he incidentally ingested over decades turned his skin the same color. The condition was benign, but the diagnosis delivered him a lethal heart attack. The family hadn’t seen the man in over a year, and Ben suggested a closed casket ceremony. To Ben, the guy looked like the tin man from The Wizard of Oz.

He sat through three more speakers, covertly checking the time on his phone every couple minutes. It was 6:15. Shit. He bit his nails through a horrible five-minute rendition of “Amazing Grace” performed by the deceased’s two young granddaughters. Then, the mass moved onto the patio and released a basket of doves into the air. At 6:30, Ben concluded the ceremony and said, “Everyone please congregate in the banquet hall next door for snacks and refreshments. If, during the reception, you’d like to come back and have a private moment with the deceased, feel free.” He paused, then added, over the sound of shuffling feet, “You will have until 7:00 to do so.”

At that, Sarah—directing people into the banquet hall—narrowed her brow and shot him a confused glance. After everyone had left, she asked, “Why only a half hour? You got somewhere to be, old man? Another hot mom?”

“Maybe,” Ben said with a smirk. “I’m gonna be late though, so I might have an empty table waiting for me when I get there.”

“Rough,” Sarah teased with a grin. “I’m twenty-three and I haven’t even had my first kiss, and you go on a date every other day. How does that work? Don’t get me wrong, you’re a stone-cold fox or whatever, but you need to teach me your methods. You’re really not on the apps?”

“Nope,” Ben said. “Coffee shops. Bookstores. Hell, even places like this, sometimes. Just gotta talk to people.”

“Oof, that’s a dealbreaker for me.”

Ben laughed and checked the time on his phone again—6:33.

“I’m sure the caterers and I can hold down the reception and teardown if you need to bounce,” Sarah told him, “but you still have to take the lady to Green Hills.” She hitchhiked a thumb at the closed casket.

Ben turned and looked at the foam board picture of the smiling old woman next to the casket. She had short white hair, rectangular glasses, and the jowls of a bloodhound, but her smile was infectious. “Yeah, I know.”

“Might want to cancel that date. Round-trip is an hour, at least. No way you get back to Tara Village on time.”

“Way ahead of you. I actually scheduled the date at a restaurant in Green Hills, because I knew this would happen.”

“Wow, look at you,” Sarah buzzed. “What place? My friends and I go into Green Hills on the weekend to go bar hopping.”

“Oh, I don’t remember the name. It’s plugged into Maps already. Some Irish place. Prime rib and creamed corn and creamed spinach and…creamed everything, I guess.”

“Hopefully that’s not the only thing creaming tonight, am I right?” Sarah winked and held out her palm for a high-five.

“I’m not high-fiving that. Jesus, I’m old enough to be your dad. Go make yourself useful and hand out drinks or something.”

Sarah laughed her way into the banquet hall and disappeared into throngs of people. Ben stood his post at the corner of the event hall as loved ones came and went in small groups, murmuring over the casket, some people placing small trinkets on the side-table designated for such “treasures.” At 6:57, after five minutes of no visitors, Ben ended the visiting time three minutes early and employed Sarah’s help, along with the help of two other facility members at the senior center (who were probably used to being insourced for such tasks) to load the casket into the back of the black hearse.

The attendees gathered in the entrance hallway, not willing to venture into the downpour, and watched the hearse disappear into a wash of rain. Ben looked in the rear-view mirror and saw waving hands and crying wives burrowing into their husbands’ shoulders. Two minutes later, Ben exited the wrought-iron gates of the senior living community and turned onto Bellevue Road.

He considered taking the freeway, but the rain launched a vehement assault, and even on Bellevue, a 40 MPH road, the windshield wipers on their fastest setting, the visibility was horrendous. He saw brief, distorted snapshots of stop lights and tail lights, but he couldn’t see the dashed lane lines, and apparently neither could the other drivers, because the night sang with car horns and ambulance sirens.

At the western edge of Green Hills, Bellevue became a one-lane road that weaved through a mountainous, wooded area. The hearse’s engine protested the steady incline, groaning threats to overheat and stall. The trees offered some shelter from the rain, but not much. His heart rate slowed, however, because he hadn’t seen a car going either way for five minutes, which allowed him to drive at a moderate speed. He drove further into murky nothingness, feeling like a man wearing swimming goggles filled with water.

He turned right onto McMurphy Street, barely delineating the outline of the orange NO OUTLET sign. He followed McMurphy for another half-mile until he reached the chain-link fence of an old gravel pit that had been abandoned some time before he became a transfer care specialist. He parked at the base of McMurphy Street, sandwiched between the gravel pit and the woods, put the hearse in park, and killed the engine. The sound of rain instantly multiplied, and wonky thuds reverberated across the hood and roof.

Ben turned the rearview mirror toward him, adjusted his tie, and tucked a strand of unruly wet hair behind his ear. He smiled at his reflection and admired his two rows of straight, white teeth. What woman could resist that smile? He got out of the car, stepped over the oil spot the hearse left earlier that week (before he got the leak fixed), and swung open the rear door of the hearse. He stepped inside, hunched over, his body folded at a ninety-degree angle, and closed the door. Again, he adjusted his tie and suit jacket.

He unlocked the casket, opened the top, and received his first look at his date. Arlene still boasted a sweep of white hair and her cumbersome jowls, but she looked much older than her picture. Wasn’t that always the case?

“Arlene? Pleased to meet you, I’m Ben. Sorry I’m late. I hope I’m not being too forward when I say you look beautiful tonight. Wow, red mahogany with ivory velvet interior. You spared no expense. You even have the matching pillow and throw. Should I take that as a hint?”

Glory Days

Duke Holman was haulin’ ass up California’s Highway 1 wearing a shit-eating grin when he saw the strange plea on the variable-message sign.

His afternoon drive had no purpose at first. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Leisure was as good a purpose as any, right? He had planned to get off the highway in Santa Monica and head back to Los Angeles, but the sun was shining, the wind was combing through his curls, and each tune on the radio was better than the last. The station was 103.1, Blast From the Past, which he and his chums called the “Oldies Station,” but today, it seemed the disk jockey at 103.1 knew Duke Holman was having a sensational drive and didn’t want to hear anymore Bing Crosby or Ella Fitzgerald, because they were playing current, rock ’n’ rollin’ chart-toppers; “All Shook Up” by Elvis Presley, “Tutti Frutti” by Little Richard, “Too Much Monkey Business” by Chuck Berry.

When he reached Malibu, he decided he would turn the leisurely drive into a purposeful expedition. He’d go visit his girl, Susie, in Santa Barbara. They went to high school together, but after graduation, her father, who flipped houses for a living, tore the family from its roots and replanted them at their next cash grab on the coast.

“I can’t think of a more disgraceful occupation than flipping houses,” Duke’s father had told him. “That guy’s ruining the housing market. By the time you have to buy a house, it’ll be thirty thousand dollars!”

She still lived with her folks at 19, could you believe it? Duke had attempted to convince her to move into his apartment several times, but she declined. “I’m just not ready to live that far away from my family yet,” she had said. As much as he wanted to wake up to her rose-scented hair and soft skin every morning, a small part of him was relieved. He was going to pop the question in the next year or so, but first, he needed to make sure his internship at the upholstery shop would evolve into a full-time position. He’d have a good paying job with benefits before 20. An honest man’s job, unlike Susie’s father’s.

Susie always loved when he showed up and surprised her. Her parents did not, throwing cold glares his way and asking through contrived smiles if he was going to stay for dinner. He didn’t know why they were upset, though. They had the privilege of seeing their daughter every day, whereas he’d only seen her about a half-dozen times since graduation. That was a year and a half ago. Maybe they didn’t like him because they regarded upholstery work as blue-collar slumming. Maybe they didn’t like the fact that he was the football quarterback in high school. Maybe they didn’t like that he played guitar in a rock ‘n’ roll garage band that played covers of what Susie’s father called “nigger-music.” (You’d think the man had a personal vendetta against Fats Domino the way he talked about him). Or maybe Susie’s parents didn’t like him because whenever he showed up unannounced and Susie led him upstairs, they could hear his belt hit the floor and the subsequent creaking of a bed frame.

It didn’t matter. He tried to make good with his future mother- and father-in-law, but if they weren’t buying, he’d stop selling. Susie would be living with him soon, and they’d start a family. God, he could just about cry thinking about a miniature blonde-haired, blue-eyed Susie running around.

He sailed down Highway 1 in his dad’s yellow 1957 Thunderbird, imagining all the bugs getting caught in the chrome waffle-shaped grill up front. He’d have to clean every damn inch of the thing before his dad got back from his business trip (and pray to God he didn’t keep very good tabs on the mileage). Every ten seconds, Duke surveyed the highway to see if anyone was breaking their neck trying to catch a glimpse of his ride. A few times he caught a group of young girls gawking at the white leather interior, which brought him joy in droves.

The radio was blasting “Oh Boy” by Buddy Holly & The Crickets, and Duke was patting the top of the bench seat to the rhythm. He looked to his left and saw the California coast underscored by a row of bushes with white buds. They’re called oleander, his mom had taught him. He breathed in and smelled the brine of the sea and the overbearing aromas of flowers in bloom. He felt a fine mist settle on his face. Everything was so goddamn perfect it almost felt too good to be true, as if he’d gone through the veil of the Twilight Zone into an idyllic society where the burdens of work and money and school were foreign concepts that had no bearing on one’s happiness. If the wind kept blowing and the tunes kept coming, he might forgo Susie altogether and continue on to Monterey. He went there on a middle school trip and had the best saltwater taffy of his life.

The thought of food made his stomach grumble. He considered stopping at a roadside joint and having something to eat, but that might ruin the mojo. After he paid the check and went back to his car, would thunderheads swoop in overhead? Would 103.1 hark back to playing Fred Astaire?

He was still mulling over the decision when his gaze caught on the large variable-message board overhanging the freeway. In electronic-looking orange letters, the sign announced:

SILVER ALERT

LOOK FOR VEHICLE

LIC. PLATE: BYF 331

It wasn’t until he passed under the sign that the realization came crashing down on him. The relaxation that had been steadily building for the last thirty miles was skewered by panic, and he imagined his own inner speedometer going from 60 to 0.

The license plate on the sign belonged to the Thunderbird.

“What the hell?”

Now he was certain he’d entered the Twilight Zone. Why should drivers, and presumably police, be on the lookout for his car? What the hell was a silver alert? He’d never heard the phrase in his life. He drove another two miles down Highway 1, surreptitiously glancing at other drivers, now hoping they weren’t looking at him. Had dad done something illegal in this car? Likely not, considering dad’s been out-of-town on business for a week, and the police could’ve found his address easily enough.

Did I do something? Did I kidnap someone?

Feeling ridiculous, he checked the floor space of the passenger seat. It was empty. Of course it was, doofus. He knew he hadn’t kidnapped anyone or broken any laws, but when accused of something, a person can convince themselves of just about anything.

Did I assassinate Lincoln? I don’t have any recollection of that, but if you’re saying I did, well, then—

He looked to his right and the rippling waves of Zuma Beach calmed his nerves. There was a sailboat a mile out, a white arrow bobbing on a hazy blue canvas. It was impossible to tell where sea ended and sky began. He turned the volume on the radio down and listened to the whispering waves being drawn back into the ocean. Gulls cawed overhead. Families and lovers laughed. He’d be with his lover soon, and he’d almost allowed something silly to ruin his good mood. The message board hadn’t read BYF 331. The B was probably an 8. Or the 1 was probably an I. Hell, maybe the 3’s he perceived were actually 8’s. The lights on those electronic boards bug out all the time. And silver probably referred to the color of the car, which was a long shot from the T-Bird’s pastel yellow paint job.

On second thought, grub didn’t sound like a bad idea. It would get his mind off the peculiar sign, at least. A half-mile later, he turned into a slanted parking spot in front of Poseidon’s Trident, a seafood diner he and a couple football pals used to drive out to on weekends. He could smell the French fries from his car and thought: I could just about devour a plate of fish and chips right now. He hoisted himself out of the car and both of his knees popped. Walking to the entrance, he stirred over the bizarre car models parked in the lot. All foreign makes he’d never seen before, and all shades of silver, grey, and black. Times were changin’ fast. Come to think of it, he’d never even seen an electronic sign like the one he’d seen earlier.

He walked into Poseidon’s Trident, shaking his head. The place was packed but he found an open red-leather stool at the counter and signaled for the waiter, a black gentleman who wore a white apron and a white paper cap. Duke couldn’t believe they’d let a black man out of the kitchen, but he was glad to see it. He didn’t hold the same prejudices as his father.

“Anything to drink, sir?” the waiter asked.

Duke was taken aback. His dad was sir. When an adult addressed him, it was usually son or buddy.

“How about a Dr. Pepper?” he replied.

“Coming right up.”

The waiter turned to leave but Duke raised his hand again and snared his attention. “Wait, uh, is George in today?”

“George?”

“George Ellis, your manager. Whenever my pals and I come in, we give him a hard time, but he’s just as quick with the jokes. Secretly, I think he likes it. I was just wondering if he was in today.”

“George Ellis?”

“Yes.”

The waiter’s face fell solemn. He took off his pointy paper hat and kneaded it between his hands. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but George passed on.”

“Passed on? He quit?”

“No, sir, he died.”

“DIED?” The word seemed to jump from his throat, and the two men chatting at the barstools to his right stopped their conversation and looked at him. “What are you talking about? I saw him three weeks ago! Ah, Christ, did he crash in the ’Stang? I told him to be careful in that thing, but he raced up PCH thinkin’ he was James Dean.”

The waiter exchanged a concerned glance with the cashier, a young man about Duke’s age, and they both shook their heads. Duke clutched his fists beneath the counter. He hated when people ignored him and looked to someone else to share in the mocking. It was just about the rudest thing in the world. The glance, and those slow shaking heads, said: This poor young stupid boy.

“George died thirty years ago,” the waiter said. “Heart attack.”

“Heart attack? George couldn’t have been more than forty. Sure, he ate some of the supply, but he was fit as a fiddle. And what do you mean thirty years ago? I just told you, I saw him earlier this month! You must be thinking of George Senior.”

The waiter exchanged another glance with the cashier that made Duke feel like a wounded puppy they’d found on the side of the road. Stop looking at him! Stop it, damnit!

The waiter turned back to him smiled, but the smile was disingenous. “Maybe I’m mistaken, sir. Are you ready to order?”

Duke ignored him and watched the cashier disappear into the kitchen, but not before looking back at him through the circular window in the door and quickly looking away again. Something was going on. Something Duke didn’t like at all.

“I’m not that hungry, anymore, thank you.” He pointed to the menu board overhead. “Also, thirteen dollars for fish and chips? Christ, George must’ve left, because he never would’ve charged that much! Who’s gonna pay that? That’s a day’s work!”

Duke stood up and made for the exit, but a fat man wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt and cargo shorts stood up from one of the booths and blocked his path. “Sir, I think you should wait here,” the mountain of a man said.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think I can allow you to leave.”

“What the—” Duke swiveled around and surveyed the diner, for the first time realizing that all conversation had fallen silent. Every set of eyes was on him, some looking on in horror, as if he boasted hideous scars. His knees trembled and the hackles on the back of his neck stood up. “What?” he asked the collective audience. The air was suffocating.

Two years ago, Duke saw a movie called Invasion of the Body Snatchers where every San Francisco resident was replicated in alien pods until Kevin McCarthy’s character was the only human remaining. That’s what Duke’s current situation reminded him off. Everyone in the diner stared at him, zombie-like, as if they were about to descend upon him.

“Get the hell out of my way, man!” he screamed at the obese man in the Dodgers T-shirt. He must’ve summoned enough anger to scare the man, because he stepped aside. Duke ran to his car as fast as he could, slammed the keys in the ignition, and peeled out of the lot. When he looked back, he saw the man in the Dodgers shirt standing on the front steps of the diner, his hand to his ear, a gesture Duke couldn’t make sense of.

Did his shirt say Los Angeles Dodgers? Are they a different Dodgers than the team out in Brooklyn?

He drove another five miles along the serpentine coast, trying to make sense of the strange occurrences; the sign, George’s supposed death, everyone staring at him. He nearly convinced himself he hallucinated the whole thing when a siren rose to a blaring whine. His heart clenched, as if a hand had reached into his chest and grabbed it. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a police cruiser with its lights alternating between red and blue. Even at noon on a mid-summer’s day, the lights were blinding.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked the rear-view mirror.

The obvious answer came to him at once. The cruiser was after someone else, probably a speeder or a guy with expired tags. Duke eased his foot off the accelerator and turned onto the right shoulder, which was half pavement, half sand. Beyond that was a line of storefront tourist shops. He looked into the rear-view mirror, expecting to see the policeman whiz by.

The policeman pulled over right behind him.

He’d seen the sign correctly, then. But what in the devil was going on? No, fuck that, he knew exactly what was going on. This wasn’t a policeman, this was a cop. What the delinquents called a pig. The guy had probably been bullied in high school and joined the police force to prey on any unsuspecting teenager he saw wearing a letterman jacket. What reason would he concoct for giving him a ticket? Going too fast? Going too slow? Busted taillight? Those were all bullshit, because he was going a steady 50mph, and he picked the car up from the shop a week ago.

He switched his gaze to the left side mirror and saw the officer walking up along the shoulder. Cars driving down PCH were rubbernecking at the T-Bird once again. He felt the weight of their eyes, and Duke suddenly wished he had left the hardtop on.

The policeman, who was probably in his mid-thirties, rested a hand on the driver’s side door and smiled. “Hello, sir.”

Again with the sir.

“Hello.”

“Are we lost?” the officer, whose gold badge said R. SUMMERS, asked.

“What?” Duke gawped at him, thinking he’d misheard.

“Are—you—lost?” He enunciated this slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.

“No? Is there something wrong?”

“Your family is very worried about you, Mr. Holman.”

“Family? What? My dad’s out of t—How do you know my name? What’s going on? Why’s everyone acting weird?”

“Sir, calm down. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Of course I’m not in trouble, I didn’t do anything!” He realized he was yelling and wondered if his cumbersome letterman jacket was instilling him with more confidence than he knew what to do with.

“You’re right,” Summers said. “You didn’t do anything.” He pushed his sunglasses to his forehead and smiled, which was probably meant to assuage his nerves, but only frightened him more. The smile was placating.

“Why’d you pull me over?”

“Like I said, your family’s worried about you. You took off without telling anybody.”

“That’s bull—” He restrained himself. This was an officer of the law, even if he was spouting nonsense. “That’s not true. I swung by my parents’ house, told my ma I was taking the car out for the day, and that I didn’t know when I’d be back. Did she call you?”

“No, Mr. Holman, your daughter did.”

“My—What?”

“Your daughter, Stephanie, called us after she saw you drive off down the block. I guess she was in the bathroom when you snuck off.”

“I told you I didn’t sneak off!” Duke asserted. “And you’ve got it all wrong. Stephanie is my mom. Sweet shit, man, do you really think I look old enough to have a daughter?”

“That’s your mother’s name, but that’s also your daughter’s name.”

“Whatever you say, man. Tell whoever that I’m perfectly fine. And you can take my license plate off that big orange sign. Christ, what an eye sore that thing is.” He depressed the brake and wrapped his fingers around the gearshift.

“Sir, turn off the car,” Summers said, his tone suddenly military-like.

“You said I wasn’t in trouble.”

“And you’re not. You’re going to ride back to Green Hills with me in my squad car—as a passenger—and I’ll call someone to come tow your car, alright?”

“Woah, woah, woah. Tow my car? What the hell for? I’m on the insurance plan, man. My dad lets me drive this thing.”

At the mention of his father, confusion flickered in Officer Summers’s blue eyes, though Duke didn’t have the slightest idea why. “Hmmm,” Summers mumbled, contemplating. “Sir, can I see your license?”

“Shit, man, which is it? Am I in trouble or not?” He no longer cared about using profanity. This pig—yes, pig—was running the conversation in circles and not making a lick of sense.

“No. License, please.”

Duke begrudgingly withdrew his wallet from his pocket, ran his finger along his Diners Club card, a card for the upholstery shop, and finally his license. He slipped it out of the pouch and handed it to the officer.

Summers held it with two fingers and flipped it around, so the front of the ID was facing Duke. He looked at the ID photo and saw an old man with grey hair, bushy eyebrows, drooping eyes underscored by dark red and purple rings, and more wrinkles than a sopping wet T-shirt.

Duke was indifferent. He looked at the officer and chuckled, because surely this was a practical joke, right?

“Who’s that?”

“Could you read the name for me?”

Duke squinted at the ID, but the letters were too small. “Listen, man, I’m near-sighted. I’ve needed glasses since junior year, but I didn’t want people calling me four eyes.’”

“Right. Well, it says Duke Holman. Born August 19th 1938. That’s your name and birthday.”

“Bullshit. I mean, yeah, that’s my birthday, but that’s a picture of an old man.”

“That’s you, Mr. Holman. You’re eighty-five years old and you live at three-four-three-one Dermont Road. Your daughter visits you during the day, and your caretaker, Millie, stays the nights.” He attempted to rest a hand on Duke’s shoulder, but he batted it away.

“Alright, gag’s over. You got me. Ha-ha.” He was dimly aware that his voice was high and tinny. He discovered he was piss-your-pants nervous. Why was a policeman saying something so ridiculous, something that could so easily be proven false?

“Sir, please—”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Sir, turn off the car.”

“Am I under arrest?”

The policeman lunged an arm into the car just then, and before Duke understood exactly what was happening, his instincts took the wheel. He yanked the gear shift into drive and floored the gas. He didn’t even check his side mirror for oncoming traffic as he swerved into the northbound lane, but thankfully, the patch of road was empty. The officer spun in a clumsy pirouette and staggered backward, his foot barely escaping the wrath of the back tire. Duke drove around a bend and watched the cruiser vanish from sight. He was breathing heavily. Had the whole world gone mad? He felt like a spy in a foreign country, at the center of some wild conspiracy. He knew it wasn’t wise to evade a police officer, and he hadn’t meant to, his arms and legs had just operated in his best interest. Was the officer chasing him? Shit. He waited for the southbound traffic to pass and turned left into a parking lot marked by a derelict sign which read ZUMA BEACH. He parked in the back row, which was hidden from the road by a high sand bank. He combed a hand through his hair and dragged a deep breath, trying to relax. What the hell was all that about? Boy, would he have a story to tell Susie when he reached Santa Barbara.

The windshield was a blinding white from the sun’s reflection. He looked around it and observed the waves, the many-colored umbrellas marking the beach, and the girls in their swimsuits. He thought of Susie in her green two-piece bikini and decided that’s what they’d do today; lay out on the beach, get a tan, and talk about who-cares, as long as she hadn’t gone crazy like the rest of the world. He turned the volume back up on the radio as the disc jockey was mid-sentence.

“—of the fifties. Now, we’re moving ahead to the swingin’ sixties, starting with “Can’t Buy Me Love” by The Beatles. When the song debuted in 1964, reporters asked Paul McCartney whether the song was about prostitution, and he said it wasn’t. Later, however, after going on a date in Miami, he said he became aware that fame and money could—and this isn’t verbatim—get you laid. Yeah, you think? Paul said it should probably be called ‘Can Buy Me Love.’ Anyways, hear it is, ‘Can’t Buy Me Love,’ live on 103.1, Blast from the Past.”

Duke looked at the radio, confused, as if staring at the box itself would help explain what he’d just heard. Did the host just say swinging sixties? 1964? Who are The Beetles? Who’s Paul Magarney? And did the host just talk about “prostitution” and “getting laid” on live broadcast radio? Jesus wept, he was going to be unemployed by the time the song finished.

The song exploded to life. The voice was wild and young; an undulating, blaring voice. Duke had never heard anything like it. The only other time he’d been so enamored by a song introduction was when he heard Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” blasting in the corner store by his house. Wop-bop-a-loo-bop, a-lop bom bom!

The tune by The Beetles sounded so familiar. Maybe he’d heard it before. The host mistakenly said 1964 instead of 1954. That was it. He leaned back in the bench seat and listened, the sun beating down on him.

Suddenly, like a panel of circuit breakers flipping on, the information was all there. The Beatles, of course, not The Beetles. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. He bought their albums from ’64 to ’66, before they started getting all hippie dippy. And this song…they’d danced to it at their wedding. He and Susie.

“No,” he whispered. “Me and Victoria. Vicky.” They tied the knot in ’64…

But it was only 1957, that was impossible! Who the hell was Victoria? He put a hand to his forehead, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

“What’s happening to me?” He had to get home. Not back to his apartment, but his parents’ home. After everything that happened in the last five minutes, he wouldn’t mind helping his mom peel potatoes and carrots for dinner.

Mom died in 1978, he thought suddenly, livid with himself. What a horrible thing to think! Then came the next part: Breast cancer. Stage 1 to Stage 4 in 6 months.

“SHUT UP!” he yelled. Where was this information coming from? He felt very afraid all of a sudden. He turned off the car, staggered out, and began walking toward the beach. The water was always sobering. The hackneyed saying about allowing your troubles to wash away with the waves must have some truth to it. His back and knees ached, probably from the long drive. He lurched across a wooden footpath, his limbs feeling foreign. Each step was harder than the last. His forehead and underarms were dripping with sweat. Why had he worn his letterman jacket during a summer’s day? He looked around and noticed that more people were looking at him with concerned expressions. Like he had sprouted eight eyes and a set of pincers. A woman in a big straw hat and a black-and-white one-piece was watching him with her hands firmly placed on her hips. Two children stopped building their sand castle, looked up at him, and their smiles vanished.

Why are you all looking at me? Mind your business! Stop it! STOP IT!

He reached the water and allowed the soft waves to wash over his sandals. Except he wasn’t wearing sandals. He looked down and saw he was wearing white sneakers and compression socks. What are compression socks?

He looked into the slate of foamy green water being drawn back into the ocean and saw an old man’s face. It was a haggard, confused reflection that was marred with splotchy skin and sunspots. The face from the ID.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Holman,” a familiar voice said.

Duke turned around and saw the policeman, Summers, standing on the edge of the wet sand. His expression was one of pity and sadness.

“I—I’m very confused. I don’t nuh-know what’s happening.”

“I know. It’s okay, Mr. Holman. Let’s get you home.” Officer Summers extended a hand, and Duke took it in his own—emaciated and riddled with sun spots.