The old man shambled down the sidewalk at his usual time. Walking hunched over, he pushed his walker before him. On one handle of the walker, he had a cup holder and on the other, a bell like the ones children had on their bikes in decades past. As slow as he moved, it seemed unlikely he would need to warn anyone to get out of his way.
He always dressed the same: baggy khakis, runners that had once been white, and despite the warming morning, a tattered Carhartt coat. Atop his white shaggy haired head, he wore a greasy Seattle Mariners ball cap.
He turned into Starbucks and after a time, exited with a cup of coffee in the cup holder. He chose a table in the sun and turned his face to it for long minutes. It had been a long, wet winter in southern British Columbia and he relished the opportunity to warm his bones. Fishing a newspaper out of his walker and reading glasses out of his jacket, he commenced to read.
When he looked up, he noticed an ancient wrinkled woman at the next table staring at him. She had brilliant blue eyes that did not fit with her otherwise wrinkled weathered face. A loose, flower-print dress hung on her gaunt frame like an old curtain. She smiled, exposing tiny, white, perfect teeth and nodded at him. The man gave an almost imperceptible nod, took a swallow of the coffee and returned to reading.
When he looked up again, he noticed a young, slender woman pushing a baby stroller approaching. She held her phone in her right hand with flashing thumb on the screen, she navigated the stroller with her left into the Starbucks. When she came out, she took the adjacent table, faced the child away from the sun and extracted her phone from her purse. She started texting, ignoring the child. She was dressed in the young woman’s uniform of skin-tight black leggings, tight black top that exposed a slice of skin and black knee high leather boots. She kept pushing her improbably blond hair back. The old crone muttered, “High maintenance.” The old man looked up at the blond to see if she had heard but she was completely absorbed in her phone.
The child was perhaps a year or 18 months old with soft pink, smooth skin and light brown hair. His eyes were the same dazzling blue as the old crone’s and were gazing directly into his eyes.
“Happens to you a lot,” Said the crone.
“What?”
“Young children stare into your eyes all the time.”
“How would you know that?”
“I know things. They look deep into your eyes to examine your soul.” He looked up and the mother was texting and paying no attention, and the child still stared into his eyes and smiling.
“Oh, I get it,” the man replied. “The eyes are the windows to the soul, or mirrors or something.”
“Windows according to the Bible and the ancient Greeks.”
“Ok, but why would a child, a baby really, be interested in my soul?”
“Think about it.”
The mother took a last gulp of coffee, slipped the phone into her purse and rose. She wheeled the stroller around and the child turned his head for a last look at the old man. When he turned back to talk to the crone, she was gone.
The next morning when the old man exited the Starbucks the crone sat at an empty table and nodded at a seat across from her. He maneuvered his walker around the empty chairs and sat with a groan. “I’ve been thinking about what you said and wondered why a small child would want to see my soul ?”
Her blue eyes twinkled and she replied, “To see if it is a good one.”
He shook his head. “So a child that cannot even talk is going to make judgements about my soul, my character?”
“Yes.”
“That’s absurd. It seems far more likely they are looking to see if I am a threat. Maybe it’s a vestigial thing from caveman days. Maybe the men of the cave are unsuccessful hunting for a couple of days and the kid starts looking like a tasty supper.”
The old crone gave a wrinkled grin and replied, “Sure. That’s the logical explanation, but wrong.”
“Why do you claim to know this stuff? Who are you anyway? Where are you from?”
“My name is Aristillia and I come from a place and time as ancient as the Earth and the stars.”
“Oh, bullshit, lady! You’re daft and likely escaped from a mental hospital someplace.”
“I am not crazy, Charles.”
“Hey, how do you know my name?”
“I know a lot of things Charles. I know about the lump in your chest and I know the diagnosis of that cancer.”
He took a sip of the coffee and stared at her. “Have you been talking to my doctor?”
“Doctor Chang? No, never met the man.”
“Then how…?” He frowned and his bushy white eyebrows nearly touched.
“Charles, I know you have lived a good and honorable life. Good to your wife and generous with your friends and the church. I know that you and your wife were unable to have children but you volunteered as a coach and Boy Scout leader. You are very honest. In short, Charles, you have a good soul.”
He sat gripping the coffee cup but not moving. “So why are you here talking to me?”
“I am your guide. I will guide your soul to a suitable new home with a young worthy child. It’s a common assumption among all religions. An afterlife gives people comfort. If you’re good, you go to heaven, but if you’re bad you go to hell. It encourages good behavior in society, or at least it used to.”
“So you’re saying that souls don’t go to heaven or hell but are….er… recycled? Isn’t that reincarnation?”
“No, societies that believe in reincarnation believe that your soul, your essence can come back as another human, an animal, even a slug. What I am telling you is that your soul goes to another young human. In your case, a worthy one.”
“Maybe like that kid that was staring at me yesterday?”
“Unfortunately, no. You have heard of nature vs. nurture right? It takes both to produce a righteous human and that child unfortunately doesn’t have enough of the nurture to weather the misfortunes that are coming his way.”
“How can you possibly know this kind of shit?”
“I told you, I know a lot.”
“Are you saying that a good soul or character cannot overcome bad nurturing?”
“Sure it can, but it’s longer odds.”
“Let me ask you a question. Does everyone get a ‘guide’?”
“Obviously not. People die suddenly in accidents and in wars or murders.” Those souls go into a pool and are randomly given to newborns. The number of people who get a guide is extremely small.”
“But why me?”
“Well, as you might have guessed, a lot of people lead good lives and have good souls but you were exceptional. Caring for your wife all those years with her dementia counts for a lot.”
“I didn’t think it was anything but my duty and I loved my wife. Remember that ‘through sickness or in heath’ vow?”
“Of course. But she would not have known in the last couple of years if you had simply put her into a home.” He had his head down and the baseball cap covered his face. When he lifted his head she could see a single tear creeping through the silver stubble on his cheeks.
“We better not be on candid camera or something. If this is a hoax I am going to be seriously pissed. There better not be a camera filming us.”
“I promise you it is not a hoax.”
“Do I get to choose the kid to get my soul?”
“Yes. It’s rare but you’ve earned it.”
“Ok, then I choose that kid that was here with the blond.”
“I told you he is going to have a very difficult youth and young adulthood. There will be divorce, abandonment and abuse.”
“I guess he’ll need good character to survive it. How do I designate him?”
“Wait here. The woman will come back with the child and all you need to do is put your hand on the top of his head.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Just wait here every morning at your usual time and she will show up eventually.”
“What if I die before she shows up?”
“Then I get to choose.”
“Will I see you again?”
“No, Charles. My work here is finished. I have others to guide.”
“Well then, goodbye and thanks.”
With Charles now gone for two months the crone visited the Starbucks again. As chance would have it, the high maintenance blond was there with the boy. As she sat, the boy gazed into her eyes, smiled and gave a small nod.
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