Episode 2:

I found my self inside a large room sitting at a table. It was warm and humid and I was surrounded by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the drone of a dozen conversations. I was in a coffee shop. I must have chosen wrong again. As I have so many times before. This has happened to me before. I’d be in a bad situation, sometimes dangerous, sometimes just weird. The deciding moment would be about to happen and then I would open my eyes in a different time and place. I would be in a different body which would have it’s own agenda. I was definitely still me. My thoughts in my head, but something would be different. I would go to the right place without knowing where I was going or why.

What had happened on that mountain? I was in a bad place, but there were still decisions and actions to be made. My fate was never sealed. But here I was. Another dead me? Perhaps I’ll never know. When this first started happening – or has it always been happening I don’t remember life before it – I would try to analyze each previous life. But my new body always gets restless, it always has its own agendas. Luckily this time my new body seemed content to drink the cup off coffee in front of it. A sip of coffee. Still warm. It was strong and bitter, brewed dark and without cream or sugar added. Very soon I would stop thinking of my mind and body as separate entities. The mind can quickly make leaps of perspective when reality requires it.

The details from one reality to the next, or maybe more accurately one life to the next, are always hazy. I know that I was climbing that mountain pass with a sense of purpose. It was important for me to get to the other side. But I have no recollection what that purpose was. To meet someone? Deliver important news? Was I running from someone or just trying to keep moving to get out of the snow. Each time I start a life the previous one is like a dream. Some details are vivid and I remember them in exquisite detail, but most are just a blur. Like looking at another world through a smudged lens.

Time for the bathroom. Did a different me leave put me in this position? Or have I been here all along? The urgent reality of the situation didn’t allow for contemplation at the moment. Luck is in my favor for the moment. There is a clearly marked men’s room within easy eyesight. One of the only consistencies of manifestations is that I am always a man and from what I can tell a relatively young one. Business taken care of, I washed my hands. Warm water, lots of soap, I take my time. I’ve never understood whey so many people rush through it. Often just pushing their hands under a splash of water without even using soap. They rub their hands together for a second and call it good. It is unsanitary, more a rinse than really washing, but that’s not my main objection. The warm water is relaxing the soap soothing. My hands feel fresh and and smell good after a good washing. It is important to take notice of life’s simple pleasures.

After washing my hands I saw that I needed to face one of life’s minor pains. I have always hated automatic paper towel dispensers. You can never count on getting a paper towel when you need one. At times I have suspected that they are intended to operate by tricking you into waving your hands under the sensor in a futile attempt to receive a towel until your hands have been air dried and you no longer need the towel. As you walk away, cursing the “advances” in technology, your paper towel arrives, not longer needed. These machines, even when operating properly, will only give you one tiny piece of towel. This piece is not even big enough to fully dry your hands.

This particular machine was not operating properly. No paper towel for me. I wiped my hands on the back of jeans. Not sanitary and not a good plan in light colored pants, but I was wearing the right clothes for the job. I took notice of the rest of my attire. A grey cotton t-shirt. Comfortable but plain. A zip-up black hooded sweatshirt that smelled vaguely of smoke. The previously mentioned jeans, a proper fitting pair, which seems rare these days. Not urban-baggy hip-hop and not metro-skinny legged hipster. A pair of athletic shoes black on white well worn with a reflective logo on the back heel. Not the height of fashion, but I would fit in a lot of places. Odd that I focused first on the clothes and not the body.

I looked in the mirror. I knew that I had never seen this face before, and yet I knew that it was me. My life was full of these contradictions, if you can even call it my life. A long nose, blue eyes and short stringy black hair. Pale skin. I didn’t look tall, but I’m not sure what reference I was using. Slim build. In a word, forgettable.

I waited for a second. I knew that what I was supposed to be doing would come to me. An unspoken siren song. It was as if my pre-grown new body had it’s mission and I was along for the ride. I needed to leave. I walked back into the shop, hardly noticing the people as I passed through the room and out the front door. It was warm outside and humid. Just as it was in the shop. I wondered if I was in the South. Turned left on 6th street. A slight rise in the hill. I was used to walking fast. Nowhere to go, but in a hurry to get there. Moving always felt right to me. Especially at a walking pace. I would quickly get frustrated if I were stuck for too long in anyone place. Plane rides in particular, where you aren’t even free to walk around the cabin for most of the flight, are the worst. Feels like cattle off to the slaughter. And for that one in a million flight, or four per million if you fly those budget airlines, it is to the slaughter.

Walking is better. More dangerous statistically. Especially in the big cities where you can get hit by a car at any moment, but at least you’d be living when you die. Moving under your own power. Feeling natural air. Maybe the sun or the rain on your face and shoulders. Not a sterilized, season-less, climate controlled coffin. The outdoors is a place to live.

Lost in my thoughts several blocks went by without me noticed. It must have be a big city, no one looked me in the eye, smiled or waved at me, or acknowledged my presence, aside from stepping aside to let me by when the sidewalk narrowed. How is it possible to feel lonely among so many people? I took a right after another eight or nine blocks. Perhaps I was going home. The route felt very familiar, as if I had walked it a thousand times before.

I recognized a balcony on a building with a roof at an odd angle. It looked alpine, too steep of a pitch compared to all of the other buildings in the area. I had been at a party there. I remembered smoking a cigarette on the balcony talking to a girl. Maybe I kissed her? Or maybe I just wanted too. Suddenly the urge to smoke was overwhelming. On muscle memory alone my right hand went into the kangaroo pouch on my hoodie at the same time my left hand pulled out the lighter from my left front jean pocked. Marlboro Reds in soft-pack. I tapped the front of the pack against my left wrist and pulled out a cigarette with my lips. Cigarettes back in the pocket lighter applying flame and lighting the cigarette. All of this without a conscious thought.

As I pulled the smoke into my lungs I stopped on the corner and looked more intently at the balcony and the window behind it. Was this someone else’s memory or had I been there? The smoke filled my lung and I could feel the familiar tickle of the tar coating the inside surfaces. The light was on and people were moving inside. My brain wanted me to go inside and see who was there. If I could find out anything about who I was. My body wanted to keep walking. I knew that I would eventually lose the battle of will, but I decided to stay a moment longer at the corner. Another drag. I could feel the tingle and little bit of a head rush. I must not have smoked very often anymore. A decreased nicotine tolerance, but the urges and muscle habits of someone who smoked everyday. Maybe I was trying to quit. The party had been dull. Not my type of people. The wrong music. But she had saved my night. All it takes is a connection with a single person, a spark of interest, and nothing else really matters. I wondered if I could find her, but realised I didn’t even know her name.

It was time to move on. I took another drag from the cigarette and tapped the small ember out with my finger on to the street. I snuffed it quickly with a twist of the toe of my shoe and flicked the butt into the trash can. As I stepped into the street I gave the balcony a long last glance soaking in the feelings of the memory. Headlights out of the corner of my eyes. A horn. Tires squeal.