The Wick

The night Alao and I had a drink he told me what happened to his chin. It was bandaged up, and I figured the big mole on his face had been removed.

Alao’s mole was one of a kind. It was bigger than a pea, blacker than a black pearl. It was different from a usual mole as it had several strands of hair thriving out. Each hair was at least two inches long.

“What happened, Alao? I asked.

“With what?” he snapped, glaring at me.

“With your chin?” I poured the beer from the pitcher to his glass.

“Oh, this?” he said, pointing at his chin. “You would not believe me, man.”

“Tell me, then I’ll decide whether I believe you or not.” I chuckled.

“Okay. I’ll just drink this first.” He mounted the glass. “One for the road,” he cried out.

I tossed my glass to him, making a dead clanking sound. “Down the hatch!” I chuckled again.

He drank his glass empty, leaving traces of foam on his mouth. Me? I just dipped my lip to the beer.

“Last night, man, I had a dream,” he said, as he set the glass down on the table.

“What happened?” I was eager to know if he still had his mole, which he considered his lucky charm.

“I dreamed I was already dead, man,” he narrated like he was a rapper. “I met St. Peter. He was waiting for me at the gates of the Purgatory. He had a white beard, man. He was cradling a white rooster. When I got to him, I learned that he was not really St. Peter but my neighbor Buddy,” he snickered.

“So what’s the connection to your ruined chin?” I asked, holding my chuckle.

“Just listen to me, we’ll get there. Give me another beer. It’ll arouse my confidence in telling you.”

I poured the beer into his glass. Then, he drank it in half a minute.

“Buddy or St. Peter said to me, ‘You wonder why you’re here?’ I shook my head and responded, ‘I’m dead, right?’ He nodded and said, ‘Come with me, son, I’ll show you your life.’ “

“He led me to a bright room full of candles. There were long ones, short ones, some were lit, others were unlit, or perhaps they had burned up and all that remained was the melted wax.”

I was now earnestly listening to him. He frowned and shook his head over what he was going to tell me next.

“I could not believe it, man. I thought the dream was real. I thought I was dead.”

He shoved the empty glass to me. “Give me another beer.”

I poured more beer into his glass. “What happened next?” I asked while pushing the glass back to him.

“He showed me a burned up candle. The wax had melted and dried up in its glass holder. The wick spiraled like a snake over the wax.

“He said, ‘Alao, this candle is your life. The light is gone, the wax has melted, and what remains is the wick, that’s your soul. I was really worried, man. Oh God, I really felt death was in me. So I asked Buddy/St. Peter if there’s any way to light the wick and consume the melted wax once more. Any way to make me live again. Oh, man. You know what he said?”

I shook my head, before gulping down some beer.

“He said, it’s too late. I can’t do anything about it. He said it was the stopping point of the candle, of my life.”

“What did you do, then?” I slowly put my perspiring glass on the table, and while staring at him, I groped for the pitcher.

He glanced at me, shamefully.

“I had no choice, man,” he said resentfully. “I moved closer to the candle. Then I suddenly clipped the wick; my soul, with my thumb and index finger. I pulled the wick off the candle…. Then, I was awake! I was alive! But my chin hurt. God, man, I had plucked the hairs from my mole…”

I burst out with laughter. It had been worth all the beer after all…

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