Mark and All the Magical Things Read online

  Mark and All the Magical Things

  By Jeff Elkins

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 Jeff Elkins

  All rights reserved.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For my best friend and the love of my life, Wendy.

  Cover photo by Lucas Filipe found and used via Unsplash.com

  MARK ON THE TOILET

  Mark sat on the toilet again, pants around his ankles, watching for the time to change on the small, black, portable, digital alarm clock seated on the sink to his right. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and then firmly rubbed his goatee. He looked at the clock again.

  It read 1:57 am. Three minutes to go.

  He wondered if pulling his pants down was necessary for the magic. Not wanting to chance it, he left them around his ankles.

  Noise drifted from the neighbor’s yard. The remnants of a raucous party lingered on the back deck. Mark was nervous. Did he need absolute silence for the magic to happen? It had been silent the other times. What if the noise destroyed the moment?

  A girl outside let loose a flirtatious giggle. In a panic Mark lurched up from the porcelain throne, shuffled to his left, raised the bathroom window, and screamed in anger, “Shut the fuck up already! It’s two-o-clock in the goddamn morning! Get a room!”

  The clock ticked 1:58 am. He returned to his place on the cold, white chair. He heard the girl giggle again, and then a door closed. They were gone. He was alone. “Thank God,” he whispered to himself. He tried to relax by finding the special tile on the wall in front of him. Even though it looked like every other white bathroom tile on the wall, he didn’t have to search for it. His eyes went straight to it.

  The clock progressed to 1:59 am.

  Excited and brimming with anticipation, Mark wondered what scene the tile would bring tonight. Maybe he would see the time they shared a bowl of ice cream and Mary got some on her nose? Or maybe it would be the first time they watched You’ve Got Mail together on the couch? Or maybe the time he surprised her with dinner, and they made love in the kitchen before they ate?

  Mark hadn’t figured out how to control what played. This was only his twelfth night watching the magic. A few days ago he had tried meditating on one memory all day, but his concentrated thought didn’t seem to have an effect on what the tile chose to display. Before that he had attempted conjuring up a specific image as the ceramic wall tile started to glow, but the image he dreamed of wasn’t related to the scene he watched. One night he had placed items from a specific event all around the bathroom hoping they would guide his journey, but the objects didn’t help either. Finally Mark had surrendered to the mystery of the moment and learned to appreciate whatever vision came.

  There were a lot of great memories to relive. Two years is a long time to share a house with another person. No memory replay had been over five minutes long. Subtracting time they were asleep or not at home, Mark guesstimated there were at least 52,500 five-minute memories to watch. He would savor each one. These short daily encounters had become the climax of his life. Night after night he stayed awake waiting for the moment when the tile on the wall delivered.

  The clock changed to 2:00 am.

  It was time. Mark focused intensely on the white ceramic tile in the center of the wall. He tried to look past it, to direct his gaze through it.

  Mark had discovered the glorious, vision-giving white tile by accident. He had been drinking alone on the one month anniversary of Mary’s departure. He had come into the bathroom to pee, but he couldn’t keep his legs under him, so he had to sit. To his surprise and disgust, instead of relieving his bladder, Mark involuntarily leaned forward and loosed the contents of his stomach all over his feet and the floor. The smell of regurgitated bourbon, stale pizza, and chocolate was horrific. When he sat up he noticed the flicker. One of the white tiles was haloed with a faint blue glow. Mark looked closely and reached out to touch it when, suddenly, the tile magically lit up like a flat screen, high definition television. Mark watched the tile intently. That first night it played a scene from five years before. He and Mary sat at their kitchen table with their next door neighbors, engaged in a lively game of scrabble. There was laughter, conversation, and epic friendship. Mark teased Mary for having to use the dictionary. Mary playfully pushed him in reply.

  After five minutes the tile went white again. Mark pressed it, yelled at it, banged on it; all to no avail. It was still and cold, as if nothing special had happened.

  Mark awoke the next morning in the bathtub, still smelling of vomit; sure he had imagined the show. Hoping it hadn’t been a dream, the next night he sat in the bathroom alone, waiting. To his great delight, it all happened again. This time the tile revealed him and Mary eating Chinese food and watching some stupid reality show. From her haircut, Mark deduced the scene was from around six years ago.

  Every night since, at 2 am, Mark watched the life he had known and lost.

  The clock ticked 2:01 am. Mark began to panic. What if the magic didn’t happen tonight? What if last night had been the tile’s final performance? What if the wonder had run its course? He didn’t know if he could live without his five minute replay. He began to sweat with fear. His eyes stung from the intensity of his stare. His heart raced; but Mark refused to break his focus. He glared at the tile before him, willing it to glow, demanding it glow.

  Then the blue halo began. At first faintly, then building strength.

  Mark sighed with relief. He leaned in closer for a better look.

  Mary was there in the tile, sitting alone at the kitchen table, thumbing through a magazine. She glanced nervously at the clock on the kitchen wall. Mark wondered how he had missed her beauty those two years they were together. She was wearing a grey tank top and flannel, plaid, pajama pants. Her short brown hair framed her face. Her deep, sea-blue eyes sparkled. When she looked up again at the clock and bit her lower lip, Mark’s heart skipped.

  He didn’t recognize this moment. Where was he? What night was this?

  Mary heard someone come in the front door. She stood with a look of concern. “Where have you been?” she asked gently, forcing her anxiety down.

  “Oh no,” Mark moaned with pain. “Not this moment. Not this. Not tonight. Not now. Oh no. Oh no.” His eyes began to fill with tears. A knot formed in the top of his throat. He fought the urge the run. He knew he needed this. He needed to see it. He needed to watch.

  “I’ve been worried sick,” Mary said to an unseen figure. “Where did you go? You got up to go to the bathroom and never came back. Who does that? Who just leaves?” Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were confused and frustrated.

  A bleary eyed Mark stumbled into the scene. He pushed past Mary and fell into a seat at the table. He sat with sprawled apathy, his legs spread wide. “What? Why do you care?” he challenged aggressively.

  Mary sat down across from him. She knit her eyebrows together and said, “What do you mean ‘why do I care?’ You left me. At dinner. I thought you had gone to the bathroom but you never came back. I sat and waited for you for over an hour. I had to call Susan to come and get me. Where did you go?” she demanded with sorrow.

  “I don’t know,” Mark said, pulling a cigarette out of the box he had retrieved from his pocket. His words were sharp and biting. “I went to get a drink.” He lit the cigarette with a lighter and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mary pleaded. She put her head in her hands and began to cry. “Why would you do that to me? Who does that? Who just leaves someone behind?�
��

  Mark leaned forward close to her ear. “You were having such a great time laughing with Brad,” he said menacingly. “I didn’t think I was needed any more. I thought Brad would bring you home.”

  Mary looked up, stunned. “That’s what this is about? He just stopped by the table to say hi. I haven’t seen him in six years.”

  Mark leaned back again and took another puff of the cigarette. “Well, I wanted to give you two some space to catch up.”

  A car horn called from out front and Mark stood to go.

  “Where in the hell are you going?” Mary questioned, her mouth gaping with amazement.

  “Sarah and Terry are waiting for me,” he said as he crossed the kitchen and opened a drawer. “I just came in to get another lighter because this one is old and it sucks.” He tossed the old lighter on the counter for dramatic effect.

  “It’s midnight,” Mary said standing. “Where are you going now?”

  “Why don’t you call Brad and ask him!” Mark screamed with sudden, terrifying ferociousness.

  “Don’t do this,” Mary pleaded quietly looking at the floor.

  Mark loomed over her, challenging her. “I don’t need this shit,” he said at her. Then again, slowly emphasizing each word. “I don’t need this shit.”

  “Don’t go,” Mary replied quietly without looking up, but Mark didn’t hear. He was already out of the scene moving toward the door. When it slammed, Mary collapsed onto the hard kitchen floor. She curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest, and softly sobbed. “No, no, no,” she mumbled to herself. “No, no, no.” Over and over. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.

  The clock changed to 2:05am and the tile went white.

  Mark wiped the slobber, snot, and tears from his face with the back of his hand. He stood, pulled his pants up, and moved to look in the mirror over the sink.

  He ran the cold water, cupped his hands under the stream, and splashed the gathering reservoir into his eyes. Exhaustion attacked him. He wanted to lie down, to sleep. He wanted a drink. He wanted to forget. He wanted to deny it all, to deceive himself, to find a way to place the blame on her.

  He splashed water on his face a second time and gazed listlessly into the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. The mirror image was sad, alone, and disappointed in the man Mark had become.

  MARK AND THE MAGIC CIGAR

  “Is this it?” Mark thought. “This is what it’s come to? Wasting the day, waiting for my five minute fix at 2 am.”

  He clipped the end of his cigar and fell into the brown leather chair. The cushion embraced him, urging him never to stand again. He struck a match, touched it to the end of the long stick, and sucked in. The warm smoke filled his mouth. He held it for a moment before releasing it into the light.

  He marveled at the dance of his exhale. The smoke played games in the beams of sunlight coming through the cracked back door. Excluding those small rays, the back room of the cigar shop was dark and empty. In the center of the room were four large leather couches in a circle. Scattered against the walls were pairs of recliners separated by end tables with ash trays.

  Mark looked at his watch. 3:17 pm.

  “You’re a pathetic douche,” he said to himself, angry he had looked at his watch again. “A PATHETIC DOUCHE!” he screamed into the air.

  A young-looking college student ran into the room. “Is everything all right, sir?” His employee name tag read, “Hello! My Name is Philip.”

  “Does it look like everything’s all right?” Mark snapped back. “Do I look all right to you?”

  “Um. No sir? I mean… I heard you scream, and I just wanted to check and make sure you were all right.”

  “No. I’m not all right. I’m fucked up, kid. Does a grown man come into a place like this to smoke alone in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday if he is all right?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. I just work here.” Philip stood in silence for a second, uncomfortable and unsure what to say next. “If there is anything I can get you, please let me know.” Philip left the doorway and returned to his counter.

  “Pathetic douche,” Mark said again, unclear if he was speaking about himself or Philip.

  He stood, walked to the cooler on the floor across the room, and retrieved one of the complementary Diet Cokes. Returning to his seat, he took another long puff on the cigar and blew the smoke into the daylight. It swirled. The waves weaved in and out of themselves.

  Tonight would be the magic tile’s forty-first show in the bathroom. He had seen it all now: joy, tears, laughter, fighting, flirting, and simply sharing space. He had considered stopping, letting the show go on without him; but he couldn’t. A few nights he even tried to go to sleep at a decent hour, but instead he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling until the clock turned 1:58 am. He needed to watch. He needed it all to play out. He needed to see their love blossom and wither.

  Mark took another drag of the cigar and exhaled into the light again. He watched the smoke turn and flip, twist and bend. Then, shockingly, there she was. For a moment, only a brief second, he glimpsed Mary’s profile in the turning waves of cloudy air.

  He blew again. This time slowly, allowing for a longer stream to hover in the light. There she was again. Her profile smiled at him as if she were looking over her shoulder. Then, as the smoke dispersed, the image dissipated.

  He blew again and leaned forward for a closer look. The smoke swirled in meaningless waves, until… there she was, looking at him. This time she faced him and bit her lip as if in deep thought. He reached forward with his thumb to caress her cheek, but the smoke gave way to his hand and she was gone.

  He blew again. She was mid-laugh. He imagined something he said was the cause of her joy. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her happy.

  He blew again. Her eyes were closed. She was asleep. Her face turned to the side, peaceful. Her mouth was serene. Mark shut his eyes and leaned back in the chair. He imagined lying next to her.

  He blew again. She was crying. Her eyes spoke pain. Mark didn’t want to see it. He waved his hand furiously through the smoke, dispersing the image. It vanished at his touch.

  He blew again, and again, and again. Each image of her was different. The happy ones he let linger. The sad ones he erased. Over and over, he blew. She was eating. She was speaking. She grinned. She yawned. She smirked. Over and over, he saw her.

  The cigar burned down to a nub. It singed his fingers. He took another drag. The smoky Mary cocked her head to the right and gazed back at him with curiosity. Mark slowly drew near. He cocked his head to match hers and came as close as he could without interrupting the smoke. They lingered there, in the daylight, together for a moment. Then she was gone.

  He tried to draw more from the cigar, but it refused. It was exhausted. Mark tossed the nub into the ash tray and took another from his black carrying case. He clipped the end, struck a match, and lit the fresh stick. He leaned back again in his chair and blew into the sun, but there was nothing. Waves of faceless smoke danced in the light.

  He blew again. The waves twirled, but she did not come.

  “No, no, no,” he said, panicking.

  He blew again and again. The waves twist and turned, but his hopes were denied.

  “Come on, goddamn it!”

  He blew again and leaned forward, searching for something, anything in the exhale. He was again denied.

  “NO! DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT!” he screamed. He threw the cigar across the room, grabbed a third from his case, and cut the end.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Philip the employee interrupted. “I need to warn you, we will be closing in two minutes. You should pack up.”

  “What the fuck, man?” Mark snapped. “You just opened!”

  “You’ve been here for three hours, sir. We closed at six. It’s six-fifteen. I’m sorry. You can have another few minutes while I lock up the humidor, but then you are going to have to leave.”

  “Yeah, whatever, man!” Mark yelled at Philip’s b
ack as the young man left him alone again.

  Forcing himself back into reality, Mark rubbed his forehead and wiped his eyes. They stung from the smoke and forty nights of no sleep. He tossed his cigar case in his backpack and forced himself to stand. He was stiff all over. Walking to the front door was difficult.

  The bright sunlight outside the store hurt. It forced Mark to squint. He looked left and then right for his car. He couldn’t remember where he’d parked. He rubbed his neck and then bent his head to the right stretching the muscles. He looked down the street again.

  There she was.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered. Were his delusions following him in public now?

  He stared at her. She walked toward him in an amazing white sundress which clung to her in all the right places. He noticed the perfect, athletic sway of her hips. Her short brown hair bounced slightly with each step. Her face was as he had seen it in the smoke, but better. He lost himself gazing at her beauty. This vision was the best yet. She wasn’t a fantasy. She was tangible. Her hair fell around her face as she laughed and playfully leaned into the person next to her.

  “Who the fuck is that guy?” Mark said angrily, realizing that in this vision of Mary there was a stranger walking next to her. It was new. Mark’s visions had all been memories, things from their past. This stranger was an unwelcome intruder.

  The man next to her was tall and muscular, with broad shoulders. His hair was cut tight. He wore cargo shorts and a green t-shirt. Their fingers were intertwined. He spoke and she laughed. He looked like the kind of man she deserved.

  Mark pinched his eyes closed tight and stretched his neck again, hoping the image would vanish, but it did not. In fact, they were closer.

  “Mark?” Mary called. She smiled and waved. “Mark! Mark, it’s me! It’s Mary!” She let go of the big man’s hand and jogged toward him.

  “You’re really here?” Mark said, confused. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “This isn’t a dream?”