Metaphysical Furniture

On the old blog, I annually posted on my birthday as a way to reflect on the pervious year and look ahead. Those entries are snapshots in my personal history that I read every year -- reliving the markers in time and events that impacted me. A couple of past entries are interesting given some upcoming events. On my 48th birthday , I wrote about my upcoming 30th class reunion. My 40th will happen this fall. In 2017, while turning 50 , I talked about the anxiety of my first novel being released. My second novel will release soon, so I'm reliving all of that once more. The final birthday post on the old blog commemorated my 54th birthday. I tried to continue the annual birthday stuff on my author's website, but it wasn't the same. Frankly, I didn't enjoy managing a website. I'm not successful enough to employ someone to do it for me, so I shut that down at the beginning of this year.  So, where am I now? 58 arrived yesterday while surrounded by my wife, our adult ch...

  Chapter Four: The Armchair of Avoidance Dr. Calico Verde and I found Randy Ellison at the laundromat. We spotted him folding clothes like the machines were sacred and he was their high priest. These were not his clothes unless Randy was into wearing cute pastel jumpers and floral print maxi dresses. If he was, he would get no judgment from me. Either way, he was folding whatever came out of the dryer with a monk-like reverence. He wore a flannel coat over his ragged sweatshirt and faded jeans. Dr. Calico Verde stood beside me, arms crossed, eyes tracking every fold. “He always comes here on what used to be Tuesdays,” she whispered. “This came up on in our sessions. Daisy would come with him.” We walked in together. The bell over the door chimed like a bad omen with manners. “Randy Ellison,” I said. “You’re laundering grief in public again.” He didn’t look up. “I can’t hear you. It’s Tuesday. And Tuesdays don’t exist.” “Not buying that, my friend,” I said. “You have pu...

                                                                                                                CHAPTER 3: THE GIRL WITH THE LAVENDER GUN The pistol in her hand wasn’t the kind they show off in action movies. It looked like something a quiet aunt kept in her knitting basket, just in case the neighbor’s time-traveling macaw came sniffing around again. Efficient. Boring. Real. She stood framed by the cheap doorway, backlit by a flickering bulb that hadn’t been replaced since the Obama administration. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want with Randy?” “Look,” I said, hands half-raised. “I’m not here to rob Randy’s stuff. I’m here to ro...

  Chapter 2: The Man Who Wasn’t There I know what you’re thinking. What is a metaphysical detective? What does one do? If you weren’t thinking that you are now. I find things that don’t want to be found. Realities that slipped behind the couch cushions. Truths too inconvenient for physics. I don’t chase suspects. I chase suspicions. I don’t solve crimes. I rearrange consequences. We each make choices in the life we’re given. Those choices impact those around us. Call it the butterfly effect. Call it what you want. I call it the damn truth. An off-handed comment. A simple gesture. A decision made in private. All of it matters. Each one leaves a wake. I’m presented with that wake and figure out why it happened. Most detectives work with what’s there. I work with what’s missing . The pause before the punchline. The sigh after the lie. The day that should’ve happened but didn’t. And somewhere in that negative space, I find the shape of the thing we’re all pretending isn’t real. ...

  CHAPTER ONE (MONDAY): A CUP OF JOE The Perpetual Egg isn’t a diner so much as it’s an anomaly. A backwater dimension you’ve never heard of occupying space and time in ways you can’t fathom. They serve eggs that taste like rubber gloves and an open-faced roast beef sandwich that will leave your digestive tract asking what it had done to piss you off. You could spackle the side of a Herpezoid Junkcruiser with the mashed potatoes. That’s something Herpezoids would do. The Perpetual Egg is the kind of place frequented by men with pockets full of expired metaphors, women who speak fluent déjà vu, and one guy who swears he's the original concept of the weekend before it got commercialized. But I didn’t frequent The Perpetual Egg for its culinary malfeasance or its clientele. I came for only one thing: a cup of Joe. *** I slid into my usual booth at this eatery wedged between dimensions and overdue health inspections. The lighting was fluorescent and unkind, like a truth-telling ex-wife...