Seance

Seance

By E. Ronin

He stepped out of the seance no more in tune with his brother's spirit than when he entered. The sun stung his eyes, and he recoiled under the awning of the shadowy storefront. Inside, the medium had put on a good enough show. The chanting and umming were done, without being overdone. The lighting was soft and glowy like you see on TV. And my God, if it hadn't been as cold as a morgue in there!

At one point, the medium asked the great spirits beyond for a sign of his brother's presence among them. It was supposed to be a sign of completion and, like, contentment in the afterlife. Which is probably what he was after when, over the phone to a heartbroken mother, he agreed to go. A mom of just another case, of just another did you hear what happened to such and such. A mom whose son was heretofore relegated to not more than a statistic the day after the funeral. After the medium asked her question, they sat in perfect silence. This was the type of silence in which you can hear your own blood pulsing in your ear. He remembered palpably the frigid air standing his hairs on end.

God, Mom - how is she going to get through this, he thought standing there on the sidewalk.

Peering out of the shade of the awning and into the sun, the skin baked on his neck. Inside his head he was swept away in a torrent of thoughts and memories, relics of the afternoon's little spiritual encounter.

Those things are rumination deathtraps, he concluded. He slowed his gait along the sidewalk to a controlled pace. He breathed fully, inflating his lungs to the point of discomfort. His eyes closed at the crescendo of his breath. The storm inside his mind still raged, but he watched it now. He observed it as if outside it.

I need a joint, he said to himself.

He sat on a bench by the docks with the sun at his back. He guessed it must have been about four o' clock. They used to come to a spot like this with broken poles and sliced up hotdog in the summertime as kids. They used to spend more time untangling lines than fishing. And they never caught nothing in that brown, murky water. Maybe an old boot. He flicked his lighter and took a long, steady pull of the joint.

Full lungs to the point of pain, he coughed out a billowy exhalation. The pain felt good and his eyes watered. He wiped them dry with the cuff of his sleeve. And when he opened them anew, sitting upon the cast iron rail of the dock was a crimson bird with a golden yellow beak and a perfect little crest of feathers along the crown of its head. The bird's head tilted this way and that in quick twitches. Its body hopped and bobbed on its perch. The two looked at each other.

The bold red bird fluttered to the ground by his feet. Continuing to bob and twitch the way birds do when they think themselves well away from danger and take on a more natural state. No doubt it saw him sitting on the bench but did not hesitate. Just then, the little cardinal pecked up a morsel of garbage under his seat and flew off.

He sat once again alone on the bench. Finishing his smoke break, he flicked the roach over the railing into oblivion. Standing, he glanced under his seat and instantly recognized the paperware and foil of a discarded dog and fries. Ron's burger joint was a local favorite along the pier. The sun was sinking below rows of neighboring brownstones and a chilly breeze swept in from the water. He decided it was time to go.

He continued to walk away from the pier in the shadow of the town. He strolled past the warm light of the restaurant windows beneath the bright, glowing sign. He read the slogan and smiled.

Ron's Burgers

"It's all good, brother!"

Est. 1987