Traveler Chapter 1

The Traveler

The Traveler: Chapter 1

 I met the traveler in a small café on Hampshire Boulevard in December of 1978. I recall it was unusually warm for an Iowa winter. Faint wisps of snow meandered over the canopied window. Across the table, he sipped from the steaming mug the waitress had just topped off.

“Where did you say you were from?” I asked.

He smiled. “I didn't.” We shared a good old-fashioned awkward silence.

“So...where you from?”

“Around.”

“Around Davenport?”

“Good coffee.” His faint smile faded; eyes turning outward. This was the third or fourth question he'd dodged. I don't know if it was a game to him or what. Every response came back vague, if at all. Still, my curiosity had the better of me.

“Seriously, where are you from?”

The traveler didn't answer, instead he turned his head and peered out to the window. On the street, a little girl in an over-sized blue coat collected falling snowflakes on her tongue. Seeing this, the traveler smiled again. Turning back to his coffee, he sipped quietly.

“Listen, I don't have time for this. Tell me where you're from or I'm leaving.”

“You're the one who wanted to see me, if I recall.”

“Recall what? What are you talking about?” It's funny how curiosity becomes frustration when you don't get what you want. I continued, “I don't know you. How could I possibly have wanted to see you?”

“Her name was Shelly, right?” he asked. I want to say the hairs stood up on the back of my neck, but I don't think they did. I remember feeling cold...and empty. I had no problem feeling that way, but it bothered me that this man could see it.

“How do you -” I choked.

The traveler eyed his reflection in the hazel brew. “This needs more sugar.”

Bewildered and angry, I stood to leave. I retrieved my tweed blazer from the end of the table as the traveler reached for a packet of sugar. After fastening the top button, I paused. I don't know exactly what made me sit back down. Perhaps it was the fact that I felt more alive than I had in months. Maybe it was the curious glances from the other patrons. Whatever it was, I eased back into the L-shaped seat. After sprinkling a few grains of sugar into his drink, he looked up.

“Perhaps, I shouldn't have mentioned her.”

“No it's -” I hiccuped nervously. I hated talking about her; still do. My hands trembled as I composed myself, “how...I mean...did...did you know her?”

“I understand you've been having some difficulties without her,” the traveler said flatly. “My sympathies to your situation.”

“Um...” I paused in disbelief. Stumbling for words, I selected: “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he smiled. Lifting the quaint cup to his mouth, he finished the last of the coffee.

“So, did you know her?”

“A long time ago – very briefly. She was...a good person. I wish I could remember her better.”

I guess I felt the same way. She was starting to slip away. I can't describe how guilty that made me feel. The only thing keeping her anchored, making her short life have an impact on the world, was me. And I was failing her.

“Johnathon.” His eyes met mine for the first time. “I can't let you do it.” The traveler interwove his fingertips before his pale face. My heart's steady pace stumbled.

“Do what?” I struggled.

“In four days, 18 hours, 34 minutes and...” He paused to inspect the beat-up diner clock, “...six seconds, you will drive your automobile off the Rock Island Centennial Bridge.” There was an energy in his words that hadn't been there before. “The impact will break 23 bones, collapse both lungs, and sever your carotid and anterior cerebral artery. Brain waves desist at 2:37 a.m.”

What the hell? How could he know? Who was this man!?!

“I...I...” I couldn't speak. Tremors spread through my limbs as liquid panic spilled out onto my cheeks. Stumbling, I threw down a few bills on the table. Turning to head outside, the traveler continued -

“I can't let you do it, Johnathon.” His supernatural knowledge didn't bothered me as much as his expression. The mechanical face had sparked to life, inebriated by its own words. I was done. Moving each foot quicker than the other, I arrived at the weathered shop door. I left the café with no intention of seeing the traveler again. I was wrong.

The Traveler by Andrew J. Moran is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.