Secondhand Souls

  Sophie saw him, but didn’t look up from coloring her ponies. He was wearing sunglasses on an overcast day, which Aunt Cassie would explain as him protecting his retinas from UV radiation and which Aunt Jane would explain as him being a douche.

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to be here,” Sophie said. There was no gate into the playground, and he hadn’t come through the building, past the nuns.

  “It’ll be all right,” said the yellow man. His voice was friendly and he sounded Southern. “Why so sad, peanut?” He smiled, just his lower teeth showed, one of them was gold, then he matched her pout to share her sadness.

  “I’m in a T.O.,” said Sophie. She glared over her shoulder at Sister Maria la Madonna con el Corpo de Cristo encima una Tortilla, the Irish nun, who had stripped her of her recess and exiled her to this cold limbo by the fence. The nun returned her gaze with a stern, tight-­lipped resolve—­mime anger. The nun didn’t seem to see the man in yellow at all, which likely was something else she would be stern about.

  “How’d you do to get yourself in such a fix, peanut?”

  “I told them I had to go home to go to the bathroom and they said no.”

  “You have bathrooms in the school, don’t you?” He said bathrooms with an f instead of a th, which she liked and decided that’s the way she would say it, too, from now on.

  “It was number two,” she said, putting down her crayon and really looking up at him for the first time. “I don’t do number two away from home.”

  “So you got shy dookie. That’s okay, I had that, too, when I was little. Shoot, bitches need to respect a person’s habits.”

  “That’s what I said. But they’re all anti-­Semites.”

  “Y’all lost me, peanut. This a Catholic school, right?”

  “Yeah, I go here because it’s by our house, but I’m a Jewess.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “And an orphan,” Sophie added gravely.

  “Aw, that’s sad.”

  “And my dogs ran away.”

  He’d been shaking his head to the rhythm of the sadness of her story, but he stopped and looked up when she mentioned the goggies. She missed them. She didn’t feel safe without them, so she was acting out, that’s what Auntie Cassie would say.

  The man in yellow whistled, a long, sad oh my gracious note. “You got shy dookie, and you an orphan?”

  “I’m like Nemo,” Sophie said, still nodding, lots of lower lip to show her tragedy.

  “You don’t say, you the captain of a submarine?”

  “No, not that Nemo. The clown fish.” Her daddy had been a huge nerd and had taught her about Captain Nemo and the Nautilus, but she meant the real Nemo.

  “Shoot, that the saddest story I ever heard, Shy Dookie.”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “That’s what I’m gonna call you.”

  Sophie considered it for a moment. It could be her hip-­hop name. Her secret hip-­hop name. She shrugged, which meant, “Okay.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You can just call me the Magical Negro,” said the man in yellow.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that word.”

  “It’s okay. I’m allowed.”

  “Some words hurt ­people and you’re not supposed to say them. I have a word I’m not supposed to say. A really bad word.”

  “You do, do you? What that word?”

  “I can’t tell you, it’s a secret.”

  “You got a lot of secrets.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe this meeting we havin’, this be our little secret.”

  “When a grown-­up tells you it’s our little secret, it means they might be up to something. You should be careful.”

  “You don’t never be lyin’, peanut. You don’t never be lyin’. I do need to be careful. How long it been since you seen them dogs of yours, child?”

  “This morning,” she lied. It had been a week since the giant hellhounds had disappeared. “I like your hat,” she said to change the subject. “It’s nice. Daddy said you should always say nice things about a person’s hat because it was an easy way to make them feel better.”

  “Why, thank you, peanut.” He ran his fingers around the brim. “You miss your daddy, don’t you?”

  How did he know? That wasn’t right. He was a stranger. She nodded, pushed out her lip, went back to coloring her ponies.

  “You miss your mama, too, I’ll bet.”

  She had never met her mama, but she missed her.

  “You think they gone because of you, peanut? ’Cause of how special you are?”

  She looked up at him.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I know. I’m special, too.”

  “You should be careful,” Sophie said. “I need to go.”

  She stood and looked toward the building. The mean nun pointed for her to sit back down, but then the bell rang and the sister waved her in.

  Sophie turned back to the man in yellow, held out the page she had been coloring. “Here, you can have this.”

  “Well, thank you, peanut.” He took the drawing, then untangled from the table and stood as he looked at it. “That’s very kind.”

  “Their names are Death, Disease, War, and Sparkle-­Darkle Glitter-­tits,” Sophie said. “They’re the four little ponies of the Apocalypse.” Sophie liked saying things that shocked ­people, especially nuns and old ­people, but he wasn’t shocked.

  The man in yellow nodded, folded the drawing, and slipped it into his breast pocket. He looked over his sunglasses and Sophie could see for the first time that his eyes were golden-­colored. “Well, y’all take care, Shy Dookie,” he said.

  “Bye,” Sophie said. She took her handful of crayons and skipped back into school. Once in the door, she looked back to the picnic table. The man in yellow was gone.

  I’m not invisible,” Rivera said into the phone.

  “I never said you were invisible,” said Minty Fresh. “The Big Book ­never said you were invisible. It says ‘­people may not see you’. Even if you are retrieving a soul vessel, ­people can see you if you call attention to yourself.”

  “I didn’t call attention to myself. The old man walked in on me —­was going to shoot me.”

  “And the bitch just Tased him. You know, that banshee know how to party.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Mr. Fresh, but if I hadn’t known the EMTs who arrived to take care of the old man, I’d be facing breaking and entering charges.”

  “Emergency operator didn’t record your call, then?”

  “I didn’t call. The old man had one of those electronic alert medallions. I just pushed the button and they dispatched.”

  “Yeah, shit tend to work out like that. If our frequent phone calls don’t cause the end of the world, I’ll tell you about my unified theory of irony someday.”

  “I’ll look forward to that. Meanwhile, that’s five out of five ­people from my calendar who I visited and there was no evidence of a soul vessel.”

  “And out of five, even you would have found one. Even a blind squirrel—­”

  “They weren’t there.”

  “Maybe you should try starting at the end of the list. Catch up on the most recent names, the ­people just went on your calendar. Retrieve those and work backward.”

  “When? I’m officially back on duty. I have real cases to work.”

  “Well, you put this off anymore, shit gonna get real up in here real quick. Let me call your attention to exhibit A, Inspector: motherfucking banshee Tasing motherfuckers in the privacy of their own home.”

  “I know. I know. But, assuming I find the soul vessels, how am I going to sell them? With my caseload, I can’t open the bookstore.”

  “Hire someone.”

  “I can’t a
fford to hire someone. I’m barely keeping the doors open working there myself, and I don’t even take a salary.”

  “You do what you’re supposed to do, collect the soul vessels, the ­money will come. It always does.”

  “That more of your unified theory?”

  “Experience. I’ve known a dozen Death Merchants. Everyone said the same thing: as soon as you start doing it, the money comes. You are catching up, Inspector. You’re not going to have time to work in your store at all. It’s a bookstore. There’s a multitude of bright, overeducated motherfuckers with liberal arts degrees who would be happy to come work for you, just on the outside chance someone might ask them about Milton or Postmodernism or something, just like for my record store, there’s a shitload of insufferable know-­it-­all hipsters who will work for next to nothing for the privilege of condescending to customers about their musical knowledge. Just run an ad and hire someone.”

  “What about that spooky girl who used to work for Asher?” Rivera asked. “She knew all about our business. I mean, if it’s all right with you, I know you two—­”

  “I told you, it ain’t a motherfuckin’ thing, Rivera.”

  “Sorry. Do you have her number?”

  “I’ll call her for you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fresh.”

  “I do not want to, I’m doing it because she won’t trust you if you try to tell her what’s going on.”

  “Trust me? But I’m a cop.”

  “Seriously? You did not just say that to a black man.” The Mint One disconnected.

  Crisis Center. What is your name, please?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Hi Kevin. I’m Lily. Where are you calling from, Kevin?”

  “I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m going to jump.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Nope. Not going to happen. Not on my watch.”

  Now he was going to tell her his story. Lily liked to watch French movies with subtitles on her tablet while listening to the story. The stories were usually pretty similar, or at least it seemed that way, because they were always calling from the same chapter. The chapter where someone is thinking about jumping off a big orange bridge or walking in front of a train.

  Kevin told her his story. It sounded sad. But not as sad as what poor Audrey Tautou was going through on the screen. Lily knew there would be sad French accordion music and she tried to work an earbud from her tablet under her phone headset ear so she could feel the full weight of poor Audrey’s despair . . .

  Kevin paused. Lily paused her movie.

  “Don’t do it,” she said. “There’s stuff to live for. Have you tried that cereal with the chocolate inside? Not on it, inside the actual cereal. How about pizza under a flaming dome? That shit is tasty insanity. Fuck, Kevin, you kill yourself without trying that, you’ll hate yourself even more than you do now. I’m a trained chef, Kevin. I know.”

  “At least it will be over.”

  “Oh, hell no, it won’t be over. You could hit the water, blow out an eardrum, shatter a bunch of vertebrae, die cold and in excruciating pain, and then, like five minutes later, you’re a squirrel in a top hat and tap shoes, fighting a pigeon with a spork over a used donut. I have seen things, Kevin, terrible, dark, disturbing things. You do not want to go there.”

  “Really, a spork?”

  “Yeah, Kevin, the fucking detail you want to grasp on to is the spork. That was the point of the story. Not that you’ll be a squirrel in tap shoes, fighting a pigeon over a donut? That’s a custard donut, Kevin. Custard is running out of the donut onto the pavement. There are ants on your donut, Kevin.”

  “Whoa, ants?”

  “Ants are still not the important part, Kevin, you douche waffle.”

  “Hey, I don’t even like custard donuts.”

  “Jump, Kevin. Over you go.”

  “What?”

  “Geronimo! Let loose a long trailing scream as you go—­warn any boaters or windsurfers to look the fuck out. No sense dragging someone along with your dumb ass.”

  “Hey?”

  “Take the leap, Kevin. Into the maelstrom of suffering that will open for you.”

  “At least it will be different.”

  “Yeah, different in that it will be worse. Since when did a two-­hundred foot drop into icy waves full of sharks spell hope to you, huh? You think you’re depressed now? You think you’re hopeless now? Wait until you’re reincarnated as a crazed, scurrying little creature, desperate, afraid of everything, wearing stupid outfits. I’ve seen them, Kevin. I’ll show you. You take a look at them, see what you’ll become, and if you still want to jump, I’ll drive you back there and push you off. Deal?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I am. I don’t have a car. But I’ll pay your cab fare and say good-­bye to you over the phone as you go. Worst-­case scenario, you get to see some really creepy little animal ­people and two hours from now you’re in the same place you are now, and I’m giving you hot phone sex as you’re plummeting into the shark cafeteria.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Your phone got a camera?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Send me a selfie.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah, how am going to know what you look like?”

  “Okay. This shirt has a little coffee stain down the front.”

  “Got it. Now head for the city side of the bridge. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “You don’t have a car.”

  “I’m going to borrow my boss’s. Head for the tollgates. I’ll park the car in the visitor center and walk up.”

  “Can’t you stay on the line until you get here.”

  “Would love to, Kevin, but I can’t tie up the crisis line. Look, I’ll call you from my cell in a second. They make us leave them in the locker room, so give me five minutes. Head for the tollbooths. I’ll call you in a bit.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’m Asian.” She wasn’t Asian, but there would be a metric fuckload of Asian girls on the bridge for him to think were her. “Ten minutes. Don’t jump, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. But my battery is low.”

  “You’d better not jump because your fucking battery ran out, Kevin. Have a little faith, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I wish you’d quit swearing.”

  “Oh, right, I’m your fairy godmother. Now, allow me to grant your wish. See you in ten.” She hit the disconnect button.

  Lily sent Kevin’s photo to the Ranger station on the bridge with a note: Jumper, headed your way. Temporarily paused him. Detain and hold for psych eval. Another save for Darquewillow Elventhing!

  “Woooo-­hooooo, bitches!” One for the big board! Lily rose from her seat and headed for the big whiteboard at the head of the bullpen. The other three counselors dove for their mute buttons. She snatched up the marker and wrote SAVES THIS MONTH, then wrote her name and drew in a big 5 1/2 next to it with an exclamation point.

  “Five-­point-­five, losers, and it’s only the seventeenth of the month. That’s right, at least two more weeks to try to catch this train of effective fucking crisis intervention!”

  “That’s not a thing, Lily,” said Sage, a freckled blond girl about Lily’s age, wearing a huge fisherman’s sweater and cargo pants, who had clearly given up on giving a shit about her hair before she’d even started grad school. That kind of neglect didn’t show overnight. She was working on her master’s thesis in crisis counseling or something.

  “It’s not a thing for you,” said Lily. “Because you are a loooooser. La-­la-­la-­looooozzer.” Although she knew she was too old for it, and it was far beneath her dignity to indulge in such things, she did a subtle booty dance of
victory to mark the moment.

  “You’re so broken,” said Sage. “How did you ever get a job here?”

  “Death is my business, Sage. They came to me because they knew I would dominate! Five and a half—­yay-­ooooooh!”

  One of the other counselors, a tall fortyish guy with a mop of blond hair, looked over his glasses. He had his finger on the mute mic button like he was holding the mouth of a poisonous snake closed. “Lily, any chance you could wrap it up? I have to get an address and find out what pills this girl swallowed before she passes out.”

  “Oh,” said Lily. “Sure. Go ahead. You’ll save her, Brian. Want me to mark it on the big board for you?”

  “That’s not a thing, Lily.” He lifted his finger and said into the headset, “Yes, Darla, I’m here. Can you tell me the address where you’re staying?”

  Sage said, “The board is supposed to be for bulletins, BOLOs, events going on in the city, things we all need to know before we answer a call.”

  “You mean like Lily got FIVE AND A HALF!” Lily said, tapping the board next to her number. She thought as she moved: Booty dance. Booty dance. Right up on Sage’s desk with my great big booty—­

  “Lily, please stop twerking my desk.”

  “Fine,” said Lily. “I’m going on break. Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

  “You’re so sad,” said Sage.

  “No, you’re sad,” said Lily. She threw a booty bounce of dismissal toward Sage as she walked into the locker room.

  She dug her mobile out of her locker and headed outside to smoke as she checked for messages. He’d cried on her voice mail, which had been satisfying at first, but then kind of pathetic. She wasn’t going to be fooled into calling him back just because he’d succumbed to a moment of wuss. He was Death, after all! Or at least Assistant Death. How could you compete with that? They all had something special, Charlie Asher, even little Sophie, had been singled out by the universe as special, while she, Lily Darquewillow Elventhing Severo (the Darquewillow Elventhing was silent) was just a failed restaurateur and part-­time suicide hotline counselor. But she did have that. She saved lives. Most of the time. Kind of.