You've Taken The Clouds

He wakes to a cockroach on the empty pillow beside him; and like the pillow, somehow, Cason knows the roach is cold.

Winter in Seattle’s never a great time for waking, the mornings—especially when wet—atrociously numbing, which brings him no solace as he concludes that this final countdown to leap from his bed will be his last.

He counts; one, two—

But even as he chants, he knows he won’t be stirring. Not yet anyways. He slept nude last night—a mistake—his regrets daunting while glaring at his clock.

Nonetheless, Cason groans a mighty, guttural groan and drags himself into a sit up, and when his feet do touch that cold, splintered floor, that's when the thoughts begin; why is there a roach in the winter; he needs coffee; what will he do today—Cason, just one of the many who are now unemployed and mindless without their career engraved, societal purpose.

So out of the many bouncing thoughts, he chooses to address the first, slowly turning to the roach. “Sorry, friend,” he apologizes before aggressively flicking the insect from the case-less pillow. He watches it cling to his bedroom wall before crawling down and away, frightfully out of sight.

Cason sighs—It’s time for coffee.

But alas, once in his kitchen, nothing brews. Nothing smokes or signals life in any way as he slaps his 2006 Bosch coffee machine in sleepy frustration.

Cason releases a second guttural moan, this one far deeper, more drawn out—as if much older than his true age of thirty-six.

He stares at the machine for a solid minute, maybe two, before understanding that he cannot start this blank, new day without a hot cup of black, bitter coffee. He just can’t.

He won’t.

So he slides himself into his stained, gray jogging sweats, a hoodie with missing drawstrings, and a scuffed set of white sneakers; his preferred outfit of 2020 thus far. One he hopes to burn once the new year rolls around.

And again, while leaving his apartment, Cason is groaning.

____________________________________________________

On any other occasion, Cason would’ve avoided this diner; the one with the mapped out cracks in the window and the shoddy silicone signage and the striped, red and green awning with the many rips sliced in it, as if something sinister tried to claw its way in.

But today, Cason awoke to the cold and a cockroach and a broken coffee machine, so this morning, he steps through the doors, the bell above his head much too obnoxious for its size, and instantly, he questions his choice.

The place is no bigger than that of a post office lobby, and just as poorly lit. But instead of long lines of people, the diner is uninhabited, with not a single soul breathing within except for the plump woman behind the counter chewing as if starved on her elongated pinky nail.

Without a greeting, she waves him inside, and even though there’s only seven tables littered about the room—scattered lazily, if he may add—Cason has absolutely no idea where to sit, ultimately deciding the safest option to be the table by the window; because besides the coffee, all Cason really desires is warmth.

Once seated, it takes the gaudy woman approximately twelve minutes to eventually approach him, and another thirty seconds before taking his order. “Whatcha thinking?”

Cason clears his throat. “C-Coffee, please. Black.”

“Sugar?”

“No, just black.”

She eyes him. Up and down. “You gotta buy a pastry or something. Coffee alone doesn’t cost enough to run a card.”

“Oh. Well, I have cash.”

“Card only.”

Cason wants to scream. “Okay. Um, you got pie?”

“I have scones. Blueberry or peach.”

“Hm. Peach.”

She nods, trodding away without another word.

Odd, he thinks, digging into his pocket for his—

Damn. No phone.

So instead, he digs for his wallet, and it’s at this moment when the alarming screech of wood on crusty tile spooks him, and when he looks up, he finds the vacant, messy eyes of a man staring directly into him; and with how loud the bell above the door was, Cason wonders how he didn’t hear him come in.

He’s an older gentleman, his cheeks baggy and his beard pasty white, which suits him, because from his polished shoes to the top hat snug on his scalp, everything he’s wearing is white—except for the small, black leather book he clutches against his chest.

Cason wages in a staring contest with the old man for what feels like centuries, their embrace beginning to create voids, before Cason looks around the room in a mad daze. “Um, are you looking for—”

“Cason, correct?”

Slowly facing the man, something in Cason’s blood starts screaming, something ancient suddenly awoken, or startled. He tilts his chin. “I—yes?”

“Good,” smiles the old man, his voice jagged and ripe. “May I sit?” he slurs, almost singing the question.

Cason adjusts in his seat. “I suppose…” But the man is seated before he can finish his sentence.

Mysteriously, the air in the diner turns dangerously frigid, and odorous, and when he looks to the woman at the counter to complain, he’s terribly upset to find her gone.

Now alone in the diner with this man who reminds Cason of Fear itself, he feels himself drifting, his body itching to float far, far away into oblivion.

But yet, he’s frozen—inexplicably, unquestionably stuck.

Cason taps his toes. “Is there....something I can do for you, or...?”

The man breaks out into a smile, each tooth in his wide mouth poking at his panic. “No. No, I’m afraid you cannot. But I, on the other hand, want so badly to do something for you.”

Cason’s cheeks burn, but he asks, “How do—?”

“No time for niceties. We have much to discuss.” With his mouth still wide, the old man sets his little black book onto the table. Sliding it forward, his eyes never leave Cason's, and vise-versa, until finally, the edge of the notebook bumps against his forearm. “Cason, I’d like for you to open that notebook.”

Again, his blood is hollering. Telling him to run until his feet blister.

But instead, Cason unfolds his shaking hands and touches his fingertips to the book, and if he believed the air to be cold, it’s nothing compared to the leather. “What is this?”

"This was a gift. Given to me by a colleague many decades ago. And today, I’d like to gift this book to you.” Cason ogles the room again, confirming once more he isn’t being mistaken for another. “Come on. Humor me, would you?”

Even though he knows—even though his entire being knows—that he shouldn’t play along, Cason must admit, he’s intrigued. “I’m listening.”

The old man claps. “Excellent. A player, at last,” he whispers, Cason nodding while fighting a grin. “It’s easy, really. As stated, the first thing you must do is open the notebook.”

Swallowing, Cason goes to open the book, but—

“Ah, ah, ah,” the man scolds with the click of his serpent tongue, and instantly, Cason draws away. “When you open that book, you may open it to any page, any page that cosmically calls to you. But once you’ve opened it, you must not look at any other page. You must not question, or have desires to explore the other pages. The only page which should matter is the page on which you land. Understood?”

The man’s speech is wicked, each syllable established, and it’s this reason alone Cason finds himself so unnerved. But still, he’s enticed. “Understood.”

“Marvelous! Then, whenever you’re ready, slowly and carefully, open the book.”

As if absently spellbound, Cason does as instructed, flipping to a page, in a way, he does feel summoned by; and maybe it was a sound he was expecting, or confetti. But Cason finds himself outrageously underwhelmed.

All that lies on the open pages are random words, just words, which when compared seem to have no obvious correlation; vomited words and phrases such as mosquitoes, snow in the mountains, rubber, clouds, phytoplankton, the ability to dream, foam in coffee, ants, hibernation, plastic, and so forth—hence leaving Cason baffled.

“Scribbles…?” Awfully excited, the man jerks his chin. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you see. That’s the magic of this book, Cason,” he whispers mystically, and suddenly, Cason feels himself a fool for being so easily duped by a damn street dealer. “Which brings us to our next step. Have you already skimmed over a few of the words?”

Now offended by the old bats blatant attack on his intelligence, Cason decides—screw it, let’s play. “Yep.”

“Great. Now, from what’s written in the notebook, I’d like you to select five words. Five. And once you’ve chosen, all you must do is….scribble them out. Draw a line, an X. That choice is yours. Then, once you do that,” the gentleman gesturing for Cason to look down; and when he does, there by his feet sits a briefcase. Black. Simple. Gold latches. “There’s twenty-thousand dollars in that briefcase, Cason. And just like the notebook, there's magic to be found.”

Cason’s heart is throbbing violently behind his ribs, a lump the size of a glacier lodged inside his throat before asking, “Twenty-thousand dollars?” The old man nods, so Cason reaches for the briefcase. “May I?”

“Well, of course,” he waves.

First locking eyes with the man, he clutches the single leather handle, then smacking the frame on the flimsy table, unhooking the latches, and—

Holy shit. “Is this—”

“It’s all yours. And once that money runs out, all you need do is close the case, wait a few minutes, and poof—twenty-grand. An endless supply of money for as long as you live, Cason.”

Drooling over the multiple stacks of crisp bills before abruptly slamming the case shut, Cason pants like a dog, anxiety dripping from his tongue. “What—what are you?”

“Much like yourself, Cason, I'm merely a pawn in Gods game.”

Cason’s eyes dart between the money and the notebook. “When I scratch out the words, what happens? What’s the catch?”

Grinning, a rapturous venom glosses his lips. “Play along and find out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well,” the old man snaps, and right before his eyes, the briefcase disappears. No smoke, no theatrics, it simply vanishes. And Cason’s sure he’s peed himself. “So. What’s the verdict?”

A moment passes before Cason’s eyes drop to the worn pages of the notebook. He grips the pen tighter—a pen which has suddenly appeared inside of his right hand—while trying to control the terror packing his pores like caulk, his mind hungry for an evident link.

He reads the words until they appear foreign, doing this until finally, Cason makes his first selection: phytoplankton. He doesn’t know what it is, so it’s an easy decision.

His hand wobbles: plastic. He hates plastic, everyone does.

Sweat drips into his eyes: foam in coffee. Again, easy.

With only two choices left, Cason becomes selfish with his decisions. For example, he hates ants, so they’re cut, but keeps airplanes because he loves flying—bringing him to his last victim: clouds. Because, well, Seattle.

And before he knows it, Cason has selected his five words.

“Ah,” the old man whispers, “You’ve taken the clouds.”

Cason looks up, expecting to see the gentlemen he’s come to know.

But he too—like the plump woman behind the counter—is gone. And again, he’s alone. Alone with his cold coffee and his twenty-grand and his little black book.

So Cason takes a sip of his foamless coffee. He locks his briefcase—but not before leaving a most gracious tip—and then, back out into the world he steps, the city still revolving and alive.

Once outside, Cason shakes the briefcase, relieved to know the money’s still there.

And then, he looks up. Up at the sun, at the bluebird sky, at the—

Cason shields his eyes, closing them as they water, closing them as the weight of his realization settles atop his weak, pathetic shoulders.

So, he thinks to himself, I took away the clouds.