The Man Who Couldn't Die

Ron Haggin

Description

Because of a genetic mutation, Joshua is able to live an extraordinarily long life. He wanders through time and civilizations, ending up in a bar in Portland, Oregon, where he encounters clinical psychologist Robert Call. Robert observes a severely depressed and taciturn man, but his professional instincts and empathetic nature draw him to the mysterious patron, and after several attempts, he finally succeeds in sustaining a reluctant conversation. The interlocutor drops several hints of his longevity, suggesting that he is as old as an ancient coin drawn from his pocket and spun lazily on the bar. Intrigued, Robert convinces Joshua to visit his office, where the wanderer narrates an amazing story that closely parallels the ministry and passion of Christ.

But during his long life, Joshua has created a separate persona—one that has evolved as antisocial, aggressive, and misogynistic. Robert becomes acquainted with both personalities, setting up a moral dilemma: Should he alert law enforcement to the dangers of the aggressive one, or seek the truth of the story told by the docile Joshua?

Sujets

• Alternative History
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 10 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977258908
• Langue: English

Extrait

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The Man Who Couldn’t Die All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Ron Haggin v4.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-5890-8
Cover Photo © 2023 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE COIN SPINNER
THE MOPE VISITS
A STORY OF THE LONG PAST
ELSIE LEAVES PORTLAND
BACK TO GRAYSON
THE RABBI
MERELY A SOLDIER
ANOTHER VICTIM
A GENETICS LESSON
AN UNANNOUNCED VISIT
A BOOK FOUND
CHINYERE
THE COIN SPINNER
Laces and clouds of pewter smoke rose and melted into the heat of a recessed amber bulb, creating a column of hazy light bounded by the semi-darkness of the dimly lit room. The cause of the smoke was a cigar of modest circumference moldering in a plain back ashtray. The owner of the cigar was a middle-aged man with a slightly receding hairline, gray at the temples, but otherwise smoky light brown. The owner of the recessed amber bulb was Grayson tavern, a ground level cigar bar of unassuming character. The establishment, whose namesake Charles Grayson was long since deceased, was run with incipient lack of attention by his son.
Clinical psychologist Robert Call alternated among draws on the cigar, sips of martini, and spooning from a bowl of soup. His routine was to schedule his last Friday appointment at 1:00, which afforded him the opportunity to visit Grayson early and avoid the happy hour crowd. He enjoyed the calm and quiet of the sparse company, which gave him time to shore up notes and reexamine his course of action on current clients.
Autumn light poured in through the bourgeoning gap as a patron entered the front door, stood motionless as his eyes adjusted to the contrast, then chose a barstool that left one empty between himself and Robert. The new patron was a man, thirtyish, whose appearance was clean but not fastidious, his black hair combed but in need of a cut. He wore a light blue polo shirt and khaki pants, which when seated, hiked up to reveal ankle socks under a pair of well-worn athletic shoes. Robert was content to give the man his privacy if he so desired but was willing to exchange pleasantries and engage in casual conversation if that was his preference. He would let the man decide with an overture.
The man ordered a Bud bottle and inquired if there was a soup of the day. "Yes" was the bartender’s answer. "Clam chowder," he specified, and the patron completed the transaction with an "OK." He sat quietly, looking downward with a slight tilt of his head in Robert’s direction but no eye contact.
After several minutes of morose mystery, the psychologist could no longer contain his curiosity or propensity for empathy. "They throw a decent clam chowder together. I think you’ll enjoy it." This was Robert’s foray into conversation, and it met with short-lived success.
"Thank you, sir, I’m certain that it’s excellent" was the man’s meager contribution to the exchange of pleasantries.
The voice was slightly quavering, just north of diffident, and as he turned to address the interjection, Robert observed a pleasant-looking man with dark olive skin surrounding deep-set black eyes perhaps Eastern Mediterranean. Also noticeable was a three-inch raised scar on his forearm, probably the result of improper healing due to inattentive medical care. The scene returned to silence; however, the bartender delivered his soup and beer, and for now, the awkwardness was postponed.
After both men had consumed their chowder without any further words exchanged, the man reached into his pants pocket and drew out a coin, which at first glance was made of bronze and quite old. He held the coin on edge against the bar using the outside edge of his thumb and flicked it with his index finger, causing it to spin. The coin didn’t spin quickly or smoothly, being that it was worn and out of round, but Robert could tell that the man had performed this action frequently and was second nature to the spinner.
A second attempt at engaging the man in conversation was more sustained: "Are you a collector? I notice your coin looks quite old."
"No sir. I’ve had it for many years. I’ve been told that it was minted in the first century. Would you like to examine it?" This was issued in a slow cadence and only added to the psychologist’s initial analysis that this individual’s listless, unenthusiastic behavior was indicative of deep depression. He ruled out intellectual impairment due to his use of the word examine instead of see or hold and a sense that behind the dark eyes was deep wisdom.
The man handed Robert the coin. On one side was the engraved image of a fat-faced man in profile with curly hair or perhaps a wig. The outer edge of its circumference was embossed with letters too worn to be legible. On the obverse was a man on horseback with what might be a spear, underneath which read the word decvrsio .
Robert handed the coin back to the man and continued the nascent conversation by asking if it had been appraised by a collector. "No. I was told by a man I didn’t know, but who was obviously versed in ancient coins, that this is called a Sestertius, Sestertius denoting the value, and that the depiction is Nero. The word decvrsio translates as "military exercise." He told me that there was a chance that it was fake, but I’m convinced that it is not. As I’ve already mentioned, it’s been in my possession since my earliest memory. I don’t know how it came to be mine, but it’s possible that I’m as old as the coin."
Robert had never acquired an interest in numismatics and therefore attached a more transcendent value to the coin, at least more than the man’s detached description would warrant. Additionally, he was uncertain whether his last utterance was meant as metaphor or an attempt at light humor and of course on the darker side perhaps self-delusion. Given the man’s obvious mental state, humor could be ruled out. Whichever, the psychologist thought that the best course of action, short of disregard, was to skirt around the edges of the comment.
"Sometimes I feel a hundred years old. Sore muscles, memory loss, those sorts of issues. Was I right about the chowder?" Robert hoped that making light of the observation would lead to further clarification.
"I don’t wish to burden you, sir, with the travails of my life. I’ve traveled many roads, and most of my pre-twentieth-century experiences have faded into a nebulous space. I’m sorry to learn of your discomfort."
Robert had no reason to push back on the longevity question, given that the man didn’t seem to pose a threat to himself or others. He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, and empathetic, as indicated by his sorrow for Robert’s discomfort. His training as a clinician taught that initial analysis, especially those that are shorter than the time it takes to consume a bowl of soup, are often wrong. All in all, his instincts were to grant that the man was harmless. However, here he was sitting next to an individual who revealed a moderate to severe depression and possibly a detachment from reality. He couldn’t let the opportunity to prompt the man for clarification escape his grasp.
"Is this your first visit to Grayson?" said Robert, hoping to coyly set up a subsequent encounter.
"Yes. I’m new to Portland, having wandered throughout much of the Northwest. I don’t enter many bars, but I was drawn in perhaps by your presence."
Robert was not enthusiastic for premonitions or anything in the way of the occult, so he glossed over the comment, preferring to attribute it to some unknown aspect of the man’s way of expressing himself. However, it provided an opportunity to casually suggest another meeting.
"I’m a man who enjoys a consistent routine. I enjoy a cigar, cocktail, and chowder every Friday at 1:30. Perhaps if you’re in the area next week we could continue our visit. If not, I wish you great adventures. My name is Robert."
The psychologist extended his hand, not knowing if the gesture would be accepted. It was, and the sullen man gave his name as Joshua but didn’t provide any hint that he would accept the invitation. Robert didn’t know if his path would ever again intersect with the coin spinner, but his professional interest was piqued, and he was drawn to his humble, kind, and intelligent nature. He looked forward to Friday next in hopes that he could nurture a personal relationship and perhaps guide him in a direction that would lead to relief of his depression.
It was a rare day without rain, and the warmth suggested that he remove his sport jacket and fling it over his shoulder as he began the short walk to the condo that he shared with his wife of thirteen years. Although his encounter with Joshua was fresh and abounded with mystery and unanswered questions, it was not foremost on his mind. That position was held by his decaying relationship with Elsie, Mrs. Call.
Robert had noticed a reduction in Elsie’s enthusiasm when they made love. The frequency of lovemaking decreased, as one would expect for a married couple of thirteen years, but