Tasted bile. Thomas Jefferson studied me from the face of a two dollar bill. I stared back into those familiar eyes while the Bartender laughed.
“I got new tricks, too. You ain’t the only one can change things up.”
Glasses crashed into the flagstone floor as I leaped over the bar. When I grabbed him, the front of his shirt was soft in my fingers. “Why is it always goddamn Jefferson? You know he abandoned me, right? At the end? He was happy to let everyone think I killed myself. Never even sent anyone to try and suss out the truth. I worshipped him like a father, and he let me go down in history as the ultimate prodigal son.” My voice caught in my throat.
He shook free of me and stepped back, his boots crunching through shards of glass. “I don’t make the rules here, Merry.”
“Rules. I’ll never figure out the rules in this place.”
“Hey, don’t blame me for your predicament.”
My nostrils flared against the stench of spilled alcohol and smoke. Even as I balled up my fist to hit him, I knew he had me cornered. Boxed in. It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t get things right.
His eyes softened. “You seem to be in a hurry, and I didn’t want you to run off without your two. That thing is supposed to be your good luck charm.”
“These scraps of funny money haven’t made any difference the last seven or eight assignments.”
“A dozen, Merry. You’re up to an even dozen.”
I slumped onto my stool. Thumbed through the pages of my journal. A word here. A scrap of letters there. No hidden message to guide me past the obstacles of Nowhere. To help me avoid the same mistakes. Every Nowhere appearance was new. I couldn’t remember them once I failed. Who I met. What I saw. No matter how I arranged what I managed to save from my other outings in Nowhere, I couldn’t make sense of the remnants of twelve times tried.
Twelve times failed.
“So, this is number thirteen. Can I just go ahead and skip this one? Have another drink?”
“You been around long enough to know that ain’t how it works.”
“Goddammit. I know how Nowhere works. I just can’t seem to make it work for me.”
I closed my eyes and relived the moment Nowhere found me, when I looked into my own dead eyes being covered over with the dirt of a hole that was too shallow to hold me. It was a pauper’s burial. An unmarked grave. I was barely cold.
That was when I saw it: a chunk of black leather. It stuck out of the ground at the head of my grave. I pulled it from the dirt, and when I opened it, I read these words:
Remembrance is immortality.
Make people remember your story your way.
Come to Nowhere.
My story was already in tatters. Newspapers trumpeted the supposed details of my apparent suicide. Two men who knew me best—William Clark and Thomas Jefferson—supported that tawdry version of events. Faced with a sensational story, no one cared about the truth.
With one muttered yes , I stepped through a portal. Woke up in a New Orleans bar.
The clink of ice teased me back. The Bartender stirred a sulfur-tinged cocktail and pushed it my way. “Seconds aren’t allowed, but I’m feeling charitable today.”
Liquid heat lit up my nostrils. “What is it?”
“A Thunderclapper. Of all my customers, I thought you might appreciate it.”
An homage to the pills members of the Corps of Discovery took for every conceivable ailment. We called them ‘thunderclappers’ because they gave us the runs. Clark was always partial to them. I had to smile at the memory of him, running off to empty his bowels behind a rock. Afraid he wasn’t going to make it.
I raised the glass and sucked the mixture down. Fire ripped through my gullet. Erupted behind my eyes.
The Bartender smirked while I coughed up smoke. “Think of it as a cleansing fire. Erases what’s come before.” He paused. Leaned his burly frame over the counter and touched my sleeve. “You know this is your last shot, right?”
“Thirteen is my last
“I got new tricks, too. You ain’t the only one can change things up.”
Glasses crashed into the flagstone floor as I leaped over the bar. When I grabbed him, the front of his shirt was soft in my fingers. “Why is it always goddamn Jefferson? You know he abandoned me, right? At the end? He was happy to let everyone think I killed myself. Never even sent anyone to try and suss out the truth. I worshipped him like a father, and he let me go down in history as the ultimate prodigal son.” My voice caught in my throat.
He shook free of me and stepped back, his boots crunching through shards of glass. “I don’t make the rules here, Merry.”
“Rules. I’ll never figure out the rules in this place.”
“Hey, don’t blame me for your predicament.”
My nostrils flared against the stench of spilled alcohol and smoke. Even as I balled up my fist to hit him, I knew he had me cornered. Boxed in. It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t get things right.
His eyes softened. “You seem to be in a hurry, and I didn’t want you to run off without your two. That thing is supposed to be your good luck charm.”
“These scraps of funny money haven’t made any difference the last seven or eight assignments.”
“A dozen, Merry. You’re up to an even dozen.”
I slumped onto my stool. Thumbed through the pages of my journal. A word here. A scrap of letters there. No hidden message to guide me past the obstacles of Nowhere. To help me avoid the same mistakes. Every Nowhere appearance was new. I couldn’t remember them once I failed. Who I met. What I saw. No matter how I arranged what I managed to save from my other outings in Nowhere, I couldn’t make sense of the remnants of twelve times tried.
Twelve times failed.
“So, this is number thirteen. Can I just go ahead and skip this one? Have another drink?”
“You been around long enough to know that ain’t how it works.”
“Goddammit. I know how Nowhere works. I just can’t seem to make it work for me.”
I closed my eyes and relived the moment Nowhere found me, when I looked into my own dead eyes being covered over with the dirt of a hole that was too shallow to hold me. It was a pauper’s burial. An unmarked grave. I was barely cold.
That was when I saw it: a chunk of black leather. It stuck out of the ground at the head of my grave. I pulled it from the dirt, and when I opened it, I read these words:
Remembrance is immortality.
Make people remember your story your way.
Come to Nowhere.
My story was already in tatters. Newspapers trumpeted the supposed details of my apparent suicide. Two men who knew me best—William Clark and Thomas Jefferson—supported that tawdry version of events. Faced with a sensational story, no one cared about the truth.
With one muttered yes , I stepped through a portal. Woke up in a New Orleans bar.
The clink of ice teased me back. The Bartender stirred a sulfur-tinged cocktail and pushed it my way. “Seconds aren’t allowed, but I’m feeling charitable today.”
Liquid heat lit up my nostrils. “What is it?”
“A Thunderclapper. Of all my customers, I thought you might appreciate it.”
An homage to the pills members of the Corps of Discovery took for every conceivable ailment. We called them ‘thunderclappers’ because they gave us the runs. Clark was always partial to them. I had to smile at the memory of him, running off to empty his bowels behind a rock. Afraid he wasn’t going to make it.
I raised the glass and sucked the mixture down. Fire ripped through my gullet. Erupted behind my eyes.
The Bartender smirked while I coughed up smoke. “Think of it as a cleansing fire. Erases what’s come before.” He paused. Leaned his burly frame over the counter and touched my sleeve. “You know this is your last shot, right?”
“Thirteen is my last
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