Bitter/Sweet

Everett awoke, as seemingly endless bittersweet mornings before, cradled between a heap of discarded shipping boxes and a monochromatic blanket retrieved from a hospice donation center. His weathered, solemn brow and slipshod beard still held the crystalline rime of a January night spent under the oceanside boardwalk. He preferred to keep close proximity to the ocean, for the tides lived in his bones as much as they did in the motherly cradle of the earth; forever undulating in tandem between his angelic best or the regrettable business of existence. As of this moment, the only source of palpable warmth visible to an onlooker about his complexion was the perennial ardor of Everett’s dark blue eyes, which rarely failed to greet each new day preciously albeit not without hesitance learned from indefinitely measured time spent merely subsisting.

At roughly 5:30 AM, the telling creaks of wilted pine beneath his boots were the often the first sounds of human life on most Saturday mornings; the only ones rising earlier being bakers and those on newspaper deliveries. Everett cleared the boardwalk and passed a nearby convenience store whose doors had yet to open and helped himself to a copy of this morning’s paper still stacked outside. The news -whatever latent feelings of futility it aroused in his heart- still made him feel connected in some finite semblance to the world around him; like an old friend reaching out after many years just to see if you’re alive and still smile from time to time. Though his fingers felt nearly paralyzed from the frigidity of dawn, the perfectly crisp sensation of newly printed ink on unwrinkled paper telling him tales of the world beyond his reach was enough to goad them into movement.

After a bit of reading, the normal bustle of the morning had gone into full swing as the unmistakable scent of fresh bread had permeated the consciousness of the risen. The people, it seemed to Everett, were still wondering what businesses and services were essential. So preoccupied in fact that they forgot to ponder which practices were essential. These were the rituals that had long since been abandoned in our quest to grab all we could carry as numerous surges from the waters of social Darwinism shattered the levies of our consciousness. It felt odd at first; foreign and unknown even. But slowly, some people, and Everett in particular, started remembering that stillness was priceless, silence was worth more than ever thought possible, and the simple act of smelling fresh bread was outrageously satisfying. Coping with the sudden need for sincerity however was going to take much longer to feel safely about. So, uncomfortably at first, but with exponential ease, Everett enjoyed the paper, the bench, and the new day with reverence.

Several weeks prior, Alanna Alastaire Steinhardt, if not the most famous then certainly the most ostentatiously bedaubed of all of the Atlantic City psychics realized as she prepared to open her parlor that she could only give vivid recollections of the past to her clients- a grievous error that threatened the fate of her soothsaying enterprise. After all, what good is a fortune teller who can only look into the past, when we do that all of the time drenched in cold sweat in the middle of the night serviceably enough on our own? She thought that this could be worked with, but clients began cancelling appointments with increasing frequency, partially because so many were avidly invested in the business of forgetting their past rather than exploring it, and most importantly, because her visions actually showed her the objective history of her subject; unmuddied by perspective, cognitive bloviation, and emotional filters designed to keep us the protagonists in our own stories. Thus, in the land of stunningly beautiful lies, where the only real crime was probity, Alanna Alastaire Steinhardt prepared to close the door to her parlor after one last day at work near the boardwalk.

Finishing his brief dalliance with major media, Everett folded his newspaper into neat, individual bundles to be used as kindling for later, and thus began another day of aimlessness. Upon rounding the corner of Arctic Avenue, he noticed Alanna struggling with the keys to her parlor in between frustrated drags off of a Camel Red and sips of her large red eye that she spiked with rye whiskey. Upon finally opening the door, she noticed Everett sauntering down the street. Compelled by that unique flavor of generosity that can arise from the winning combination of futility and slight intoxication, Alanna extended an invitation.

“Hey! You there! What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I-“

“No, I don’t- you’re not doing anything wrong. Do you want to come in?”

Everett was taken aback. Nobody had asked him indoors in years.

“What’s- uh, why?”

“Behold,” started Alanna, pointing to the sign above her parlor with ironic flair, “I’m a fortune teller and it’s the last day I can keep this place open, and, I don’t know, I’m not going to get any more broke giving away a free reading. Do you wanna come in?”

“Well, sure, that sounds interesting.”

“The best reason to go anywhere, I’d say. Come on in.”

Upon entrance to Alanna’s parlor, Everett was immediately struck with how the myriad of collectibles surrounding him seemed somehow to make the space all the warmer, though generating no heat unto themselves. The talismans, symbols, crystals, trinkets, and all other tangibles that festooned the parlor were clearly not mere decorations, but polestars of her energetic might which emanated so thoroughly that even a layman couldn’t ignore their profundity. Alanna sat Everett down at her table and pulled a small black book out of her bag. This book was one of the many hundreds of books that she kept locked in a safe at the back of the parlor. They were, or rather had been, the Rosetta stone from which she was able to decipher her client’s futures. She would write down details of their features and listen to any stories they felt pertinent to share, which when held in tandem with the usual information (birthday, time of birth, eye color, etc.) Alanna could give a surprisingly accurate prediction of their future. The ink cast on the pulped repurposing of the earth serving as an incantation as much as a memorandum should she get a repeat customer.

“So, before you get comfy here,” Alanna began, “You should know that, for reasons I can’t explain yet, I can only reveal things to you about your past. If you’re interested in a reading, you should know my limitations.”

“How accurate are you?” Everett inquired.

“Accurate enough that I’m going out of business. The past only sells superhero reboots.”

“Well. Sure. Why not.”

“Okay, let’s get started.”

Alanna took out her pen and began inscribing his details in her book. Birthday: July 12th. Born at 7:13pm in 1973. She listened to the account of his morning thus far and further absorbed his presence with each glide of her pen. Leaning back in her chair, Alanna began recalling details of Everett’s past that he either hadn’t pondered in years, or worse, was news to him.

“You did all that you could for Susan, you know,” Alanna remarked. Susan was Everett’s daughter. She had died nine years ago from brain cancer, which Everett had been unable to afford to treat after several years, and the debt that arose after her death was the reason Everett was forced out of his home after her loss. “She still loves you. Wherever she is.”

Everett’s eyes welled up with tears.

Alanna continued on, regaling him with stories and revelations about his past that left him speechless. Eventually, Alanna remarked that…

“Your old friend Galen. He left you something by his house. Something very valuable.”

“I haven’t talked to him in almost twelve years,” said Everett.

“And you won’t. He’s been gone for five years. I’m sorry. But he remembered how you taught him to play Texas Hold ‘Em when you were in the Army. He had no next of kin. But he remembered you, nonetheless. Under an oak tree with a crooked trunk outside his house. I’d go check that out of I were you.”

Needing as much of a break from the deep dive into his past as he was curious about the fortune, Everett thanked Alanna for her time and the chance to warm up and set out to inspect the tree.

An hour or so later Everett arrived at the crooked, towering oak outside what used to be Galen’s house. Surely enough, etched into the fraying bark, was a jack of clubs.

Everett began to dig; boring his hands into the hard earth voraciously while being careful not to raise the ire of neighbors so as to get a visit from the police. Within several minutes, after removing a couple feet of dirt, he found a vacuum sealed bag which had to have contained tens of thousands of dollars, and a note.

I don’t know where you are, or I’d have given this to you myself. If you’re Everett, I hope this helps; and if you don’t need it, I hope you donate this. If you do need it, then, hey, Yahtzee! And give Susan a hug for me, would you? If you’re not Everett? Then aren’t you the luckiest prick in New Jersey?

Everett was, understandably, in shock, but not so paralyzed by fortune that his foxhole mentality wasn’t acute enough to replace the dirt and remove himself swiftly from the surrounding neighborhood onlookers who would only assume that he had stolen something. Still in a state of panic, Everett wandered through the streets of clutching this bag close to his chest and was overcome by an internal rising tide. Guilt from losing touch with Galen. Grief from wondering if Susan would still be alive if this money had come to him sooner. Shame from having this money at all, and a special kind of fear that arises when we’re morosely unaccustomed to things coming favorably into our lives- as if we’ve entered a Faustian pact with an unknown entity. Unsure of where to go, he returned to the only place he could think of.

“Back so soon?” Alanna inquired.

“How, uh,” Everett sputtered, “How much do you need to keep this place open?”

“What?”

“How much. How much do you need to keep this place open?”

“Did…”

“Yeah. There’s a lot. I can’t just take this to a bank. So how much?”

“I need to come up with thirteen thousand dollars by the end of the day or the bank owns my parlor.”

Everett reached into the bag and quickly counted out the aforementioned amount.

“Here. Take it. None of this would’ve happened without you.”

Alanna joined Everett in his state of shock. She approached Everett and hugged him, thanking him for his generosity before scurrying out the door to settle her debts. Upon her return, she sat with Everett over a pot of genmaicha tea.

“You can stay here, you know. I have a spare room in the back that I use when I can’t drive home.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll need,” Everett guiltily conveyed.

“Well, you take whatever time you require.”

They conversed for several more hours before Alanna locked the front door to the parlor and returned to her home. Everett walked back to his makeshift quarters and began trembling with a deluge of thoughts explicitly unfamiliar to him as his soul started painfully molting the lone focus of survival. Everett sat on a bed for the first time in years and, relenting, decided that he didn’t need to know every next move. He opted instead to rest in the promising doldrums of silence. Feeling the warmth of the space, the softness of the sheets and pillows, the pain of freedom, and the incomprehensible guilt of living. It was torrential, but there was stillness, and it was sincere.