𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒆

Humans can transform from solid to spirit in about half a second. I just found this out. Just a half-second ago.

I might be shocked if I weren’t so dead.

“𝑯𝒖𝒉,” is all I have to say about it.

“𝒀𝒆𝒑,” my wife agrees, equally shockless.

She is standing beside me along the sun-baked shoulder of a two-lane country highway, and we are both staring down into the drainage ditch. At the bottom are scattered piles of junk — a nasty trail of breadcrumbs — all leading to a battered tomb.

The tomb used to be a car. For a while, it was our car. But that was before the rock.

“𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?” I ask.

“𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌.…” My wife’s hand becomes a vapor before reforming into fingers. She points at the junk in the ditch. A tire is still spinning.

“…𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈.”

Time seems off. I count to five, but can’t tell if five seconds or five hours go by. We point out the broken pieces of what became our soul cocoon, transforming us from flesh into … whatever we are now.

“𝑺𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓.𝑯𝒖𝒃𝒄𝒂𝒑.𝑩𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒓....𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒆?”

“𝑴𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒆,” she confirms, “𝑰𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆?”

“𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚,” I tell her. I notice my hands are balled into fists. I open them. “𝑫𝒐 𝒘𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕.....𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?”

My wife says, “𝑰'𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.....” and another pause that’s either a second or a century “.....𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕”

“𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏.” I sound motivated, but I don’t move. “𝑰'𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌. 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

“𝑵𝒐,” she tells me. “𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐.”

Something like a laugh springs from my mouth. It sounds like a frother steaming mud. I feel funny and I laugh again because I’m so relieved to feel anything. It feels normal and good. Feeling feels good.

I know it’s because of her.

And for the first time since we found ourselves standing on the side of the road, I look her way. I can tell my eyebrow has lifted. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒑𝒔𝒆?𝑩𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕.”

She shrugs. At least I think she does.

“𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆,” I tell her with the voice of a carnival barker. “𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒓𝒆! 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔....𝒔𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

“𝑰'𝒎 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕”

“𝑵𝒐𝒐𝒐𝒐.... 𝑹𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆?”

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕....”

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐”

“𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒆,” she says, “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰'𝒎 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔.”

And then she looks at me for the first time with the same eyebrow raised. “You want to see our dead bodies? Bullshit.”

Now I’m shrugging. “I can take the gore.”

“The sight of your own veins makes you queasy.”

“I like scary movies.”

“You like cartoon anatomy,” she clarifies. “But if it gets real...”

She squeezes her eyes shut, covers her ears, and goes “la-la-la” to make her point. It’s a good point. Clinical butchery makes me black out. But not anymore. Not after the rock.

The rock changed me in more ways than one.

“I’m still me,” I say, smiling. “I think you’re still you.”

“I guess we are. But who were we? What did we do?”

I move. I think I’m walking. But there’s no tensing in my muscles, no popping in my knees. It’s weird and slow, but good. I’m still smiling. I say, “Baby, anything we forget is probably not worth remembering!”

While I walk, she’s saying, “I remember what it feels like to hear a knock at the front door, knowing there’s a hot pizza waiting on the other side. I remember trees turning red and yellow and orange. Not like this.” She sounds disgusted. “All green…”

“I remember that,” I say.

She goes on, “I remember the first sip of great wine out of the bottle and how it changes when it’s the last sip. I remember purring cats and photographs and staying home and seeing no one. I remember our wedding vows.”

“Forever and then some,” I recite.

The mangled car-tomb is upside down and far too crumpled to look inside. I slip below the earth without digging, spying buried rocks and burrowed worms, all without dirtying my skin or clothes.

What other tricks will I discover after the rock?

My head wafts up into what’s left of the front seat.

“We’re not as gory as I thought!” I shout from the rubble.

“Not so loud,” my wife tells me. “I can hear you just fine.”

“Your eyes are open,” I say with a softer voice, just above a whisper. “You’re looking right at me.”

“Am I looking at you or…you?”

“Uh…dead me.”

“Both of you are dead. Try again.”

“Uh…the me that isn’t a ghost?” The G-word feels funny to say. I laugh a little. It sounds less frothy and more like it used to. “Your hair’s in your eyes.”

“It’s not mine anymore.”

“I just brushed it back. And touched your face. I think your skin is cold already, but I don’t know what cold feels like with these new fingers.”

“I was always cold.”

“And you were always beautiful. Even now. Hauntingly beautiful.”

My wife pretends to snore from the roadside. It’s what she does whenever I get cheesy.

“I’m not kidding,” I say, louder again. “You wear death like it’s Chanel.”

She scoffs from the roadside. “Are you sure you’re not looking at someone else’s rotting wife?”

“I’m serious. You barely look crushed. You could have an open coffin if you wanted.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“Not me, though. There’s a big hole in my head.”

“Oh my love, that’s always been there.”

We both laugh at that, and I feel electricity. And also something that might be love. I remember love. I love that she called me my love.

I stare at my dead body like I’m combing through a childhood photo album. Here’s me at 7 reading a book in a laundry basket. Here’s me at 10 dressed as Freddy Krueger for Halloween. Here’s me at 40-something, dead at the bottom of a ditch, in the middle of nowhere, with a hole in my head.

Past blood and bone and gray matter, I can just make it out. “I see the rock.”

“Where?” my wife asks. “In your brain?”

“Yeah. A bit gooey. I think I can grab it.”

“Why would you?”

“A keepsake? To show…I dunno…other ghosts?”

“Do we have to? Other ghosts used to be people, you know.”

“We don’t have to be their friends. I would just say, ‘Hey there, fellow spirit. Here’s the rock that struck me dead.’”

“And they’ll say, ‘Booooo!’”

“Because they’re ghosts?”

“No, because they won’t find you as charming as you think.”

“I’m taking the rock.”

“Okay, but where will you keep it?” With patience, she explains: “You have no pockets. We have no house. Not anymore.”

“Good point,” I say, finding nothing but mist where my pockets used to be. “I’d have to carry it in my hand. Forever.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” I can feel my wife nodding. She says, “And think of all the livvies. They’ll see nothing but a floating rock in the middle of the highway.”

“Livvies?”

“Living people,” she tells me. “I’m trying this new word out.”

“Hey, I like that,” I say after frowning about it for a second. “Yeah. Probably scare the livvies to death.”

“Then they’d never leave us alone.”

“How terrifying.” And I’m standing beside her again — out of the car, up from the ditch, and now on the side of the road. She’s looking up at the sky and whistling the first 8 notes of “If I Only had a Brain” from The Wizard of Oz, which she often did when she was alive. It passed the time.

She might be doing it now because of the rock in my brain.

I look where she’s looking, see what she’s seeing. It’s daytime, but the skies show us everything, all the stars and all the worlds. Thousands of satellites race by in streaks alongside a billion shooting stars. And all the clouds are funny shapes. I see a cumulus egg hatching a skeleton hand.

“That’s nice,” I say, then look back at the soul cocoon.

I try and fail to recall the crash. “It must have been a swift death. I only remember driving past that big tractor mower. The one over there in the farmland.”

I point, but the tractor mower is gone. I listen and hear the faint growl of a monstrous engine coming from somewhere in the tall grass.

“Anyway,” I continue, “I was driving when I heard a crack. Then … we were standing here. All like that.” I snap my fingers, but I don’t hear them clap or feel the vibration in my hand. I try again and again without success. It looks like I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for our interred bodies.

“It wasn’t that quick,” my wife tells me.

“No?”

“Your window shattered. Your body crashed into mine. We veered towards the ditch. We flew here and twisted. We tumbled there and crunched. We rolled and I stopped breathing. We landed upside down and it got very quiet. I tried to scream, but I choked. Then I was standing here with you.”

She says all this matter-of-factly, like she’s reciting the steps of a cookie recipe.

“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚.”

“Eh.” She shrugs again. “𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏.”

She whistles some more, always the same 8 notes. I watch her watch the corn and soybeans, taking stock of her familiar spirit. Hazel eyes, shiny teeth, and the frail trace of a scar where a dog once bit her cheek as a child. Amazing that it’s all still there. Her skin is smooth and pale, the way corpses appear in Gothic horror. She looks the part. I imagine we both do. Even before the crash, we rejected suntans and freckles. We were born to be dead.

My wife sees me watching her. “What?” she asks. “I got something on me? Is it a bug?”

I tell her, “There’s no such thing as ghost…bugs.” But I check her scalp anyway just to be sure.

She asks me, “What do you want to do now?”

I would sigh in thought if I still had lungs. I pretend to inhale, exhale. I drum my fingers against the wind the way I’m sure all ghosts fidget when they consider options. I say, “Let’s go find that tractor mower.”

“What for?” my wife asks.

“I think we should haunt it.”

“A tractor?”

“Or at least bum a ride into town.”

She repeats herself, but slowly. “A track-ah-tor?”

“Why not? It did this to us, after all.”

When we passed the tractor mower, alive, it was cutting the tall grass maybe twenty feet away, scattering green blades over the highway. No mere riding mower, but a hulk with a sealed cab. Nothing else could have launched the rock with such force. All the rest is nature — cruel and vicious, but never armed with missiles.

I see no cornstalk catapults. No soybean sharp-shooters.

It was the hulk. It mowed up the rock in the tall grass and threw a perfect strike into my skull.

The driver didn’t stop when we crashed. He either didn’t see what happened, or he panicked and tractored himself behind green cover, or he didn’t care that we tumbled and rolled and died. How can anyone end a life and not feel a rot in their core?

I look and spot glints of sunlight flashing behind farmland camouflage. I see the glass of the tractor’s cab. It is still mowing somewhere in the thick of the grass. Or maybe hiding.

My wife considers for another century-second. “Okay, sure.”

We take our first steps across the highway and, suddenly, we are standing in the path of the giant tractor, surrounded by tall grass. Two hundred feet traveled in a blink. My wife smiles and asks if we just did magic.

“It’s all magic,” I say — even though, before the rock, I didn’t believe in anything I couldn’t prove with each of my senses.

We stand still and lock eyes with the driver, expecting him to double-take and squint and gawk and scream and clutch his chest in utter horror. He doesn’t. He can’t see us. The tractor mower rolls over my wife and me, and, in another sudden blink, we are in the cab with the driver. He’s not a he, but a she in flannel with a trucker hat pulled low. A girl of twenty, perhaps. She is looking down at her phone, thumbing a text message, waiting for reply.

I imagine a series of public service posters designed for farm equipment.

Distracted Tractor in bold print above a cartoon combine that gleefully swallows children while its driver is glued to a phone.

Don’t text and mow.

I wonder if there are ad agencies in Heaven. I wonder if there’s a Heaven. I wonder why nothing has come to collect us. I’m not worried. Haunting farmers with my wife ain’t a bad way to spend Eternity.

My wife jabs the driver in the back where a wing would be if the girl was an angel instead of a murderer.

At the same time, I shout in her ear: “Get out!” because it seemed the ghostly thing to say.

The driver obeys in electro-shock spasms. She jumps from the tractor, howling various vowels. She stumbles and limps and flees the farmland. Her fright is everything I hoped it would be.

Unmanned, the farm hulk keeps rolling, and I wonder whether it will die in a ditch or topple a barn.

“That was fun,” I say.

“But you’re frowning,” my wife tells me.

“Am I?”

She paints an ectoplasm smile over my murky face.

I say, “I guess it all felt kinda pointless.”

“What did? Scaring her?”

“Oh, god no. Revenge for the rock. I thought it would taste sweet. But it just tastes like celery.”

“Who cares? So what? Do it for fun next time.”

My wife has always been the wisest of them all.

We push every button and pull every lever until the tractor mower comes to a stop.

I say, “Well, anyway, I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sure,” my wife agrees.

Another blink takes us three hundred feet away from the lulled behemoth. We are back at the roadside crash. We are together. I reach for her hand as she reaches for mine, and a spark of light ignites between us for an instant as we touch and clasp.

A cobalt Camaro drives by, flashing high beam headlights, and I realize the world is suddenly shaded in moonlight blue. The Camaro has somehow brought the night. It is backlit by stars and galaxies and the blinking red beacons of distant TV towers.

Time. Acting weird again.

The Camaro slows down as it passes the edge of the ditch where we died. The livvies inside are all aglow in their dashboard lights. We are separated by life and death, but they can see us … and we them.

Our eyes meet. Theirs are the size of bocce balls, bulging from their skulls, on the brink of escape. Both livvy jaws hinge to the breaking point. They look like a pair of airhead babies, opening wide for a spoonful of horror.

We feed them.

The Camaro nearly spills into the ditch graveyard. I reach out my hand and shout, “Be careful, you idiots!”

This makes them shriek and snap and jerk the wheel back along the center line. Their heads swivel back and forth, rubbernecking for one more look.

Or maybe their heads are just shaking a violent protest. NO, I won’t believe my eyes. NO, they weren’t real.

I think I saved their lives. What a relief. Company is my nightmare.

The car vanishes with a punch of acceleration, taking the night with it. Daylight returns just as it was a few seconds ago. The livvies are gone, but I can see their future. I listen as they tell a thousand stories about us over the next thirty years:

That’s where we saw them! The dead lovers! They’re trapped in limbo, forever searching for their wrecked car. One of them screeched at me, trying to crash us into the ditch where they died.

What a crock. I know where my car is. I just don’t care anymore.

My wife touches my cheek and asks, “Better?”

“Much,” I reply.

“They’ll call us the Demon Sweethearts of Route 24!”

Our future legacy makes her giddy. Me, too.

“We’re a ghost story now,” I say. “We’ve gone legend.”

“Let’s do it again. Somewhere else. There’s a million places to make better stories. Think of all the fun we’ll have.”

“Forever and then some.” I look deep into her soul. I squeeze her hand and feel warmth even though we’re just bloodless, fleshless thoughts and memories. I tell her, “I’m so happy you didn’t survive.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅.” Her tears float up and away like defiant rain. She says, “𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝑰'𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

"𝑰'𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅."

She pulls me to the middle of the road where a minivan is fast approaching. Unlike the Camaro, it doesn’t carry the night, nor do its livvy riders see us standing here.

“𝑾𝒆'𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒃 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅,” my wife declares.

The minivan runs us over. We get scooped up, becoming invisible passengers. The livvies are singing along to some terrible song.

I break the radio.

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒆,” my wife says. And it is.

We’ll ride quietly till we stop in the first town or city or lakeside cabin surrounded by deep dark woods. My wife’s hand passes through the sliding door to fly on the wind. Her head is on my shoulder.

She says, "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒚..”

A slate-grey sky hung heavy over the President James K. Polk Memorial rest area on Interstate 64 in southern Indiana. At the fueling station, eighteen wheelers lined up under bright green lights for diesel and windshield wiper fluid from an army of apathetic attendants. A mother carrying a styrofoam coffee cup emerged from the Kwik Mart, pulling the collar of her neon pink and light purple ski jacket tight around her neck with her free hand and hurrying her two children across the broad expanse of cracked tarmac. A grove of oak trees, damp brown and bare of leaves for months now, peaked above the domed roof of the food court. At the far end of the parking lot, a mountain of exhaust-stained snow towered precariously over a red and yellow dumpster belonging to Solid Waste Disposition Incorporated, Akron, OH. A cacophony of colors and commotion.

Frank eased his Kia into a parking spot and surveyed the scene. He was not like the rest of them, hustling to-and-fro on their way to somewhere else, to grandma’s house for Christmas, perhaps, or home after a work trip in Louisville or Wheeling or Pittsburgh. No. For Frank J. Marone, the President James K. Polk Memorial rest area was the destination.

In front of him, a fifty-foot steel pole held aloft the black and red cowboy hat signage of the Arby’s Corporation, the curved lines of the double-peaked crown and round brim glowed a warm red against the cold of the December day.

He picked up his phone, smiled, stuck his thumb up, and snapped a selfie. Below the image, he typed, “It’s been twelve years since I started this journey. At last, I come face to face with my white whale (or is it a cod?).” He sent it off to his forty-eight thousand-plus followers and then scrolled through his timeline. Back to the beginning, to 2009, the Roy Rogers outside of Toms River that still served the Cordon Bleu Gold, discontinued nationally in 2005. That one had been pretty easy. Just a quick jaunt down the Garden State Parkway. There and back in a short afternoon. Number nine on the list: the McSalmon Fritters, which he'd found at a barely functioning McDonalds outside of Homer, Alaska. That one had required more doing, an online fundraiser and a series of puddle jumpers.

It had started as a lark, the quest for obscure and discontinued fast food items. Something to do. To pass the time. Shits and giggles. After he'd crossed number five or six off the list of twenty-five sandwiches and tenders and salad shakers, though, the quest had taken over his life, become his identity.

Frank set the phone back down on the passenger seat and watched it buzz and ding with congratulatory missives. In front of the Arby’s, a man shuffled back and forth and spoke to himself angrily, a burned-to-the-filter cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

Frank was there to meet a man about a sandwich. Gordon Warmbacher, franchisee of sixteen Arby’s restaurants across the upper Midwest and Great Plains, about the legendary Mahalo King Cod Filet, to be precise. The Mahalo King was the last on his list that included the KFC Turkey Tender, the Burger King Ostrich Deluxe, and Taco Bell’s Cool Ranch Gator Taco, served exclusively in Louisiana and the Florida Panhandle. He had dedicated the last twelve years of his life to tracking these items down and reviewing them for his ever-increasing number of social media fans and fast food aficionados.

Of all the items on the list, the Mahalo King Cod Filet had proven to be the most elusive. Introduced by the Arby’s Corporation at select stores in 2006, sales had badly underperformed expectations. Reviews were initially poor. People had mocked the incongruity of a New England fish served Hawaiian style. The pineapple slices that sat atop the deep-fried filet smothered in traditional Hawaiian huli-huli sauce would, if left for even a few minutes, soak through the sesame seed bun, leaving it soggy and difficult to pick up. Sales of the sandwich were discontinued after only four months, but it had become something of a cult favorite, with a small but devoted fan club dedicated to getting it back on the menu.

There had been tips. Whispers and rumors of rogue Arby's restaurants still serving the sandwich. Frank had followed one dead end lead after another for nearly a year and a half and had been on the brink of giving up when he received a cryptic Direct Message from Gordon. It could be arranged, Gordon said, but Frank would need to be discreet. Details needed to be omitted, a certain degree of anonymity required. Gordon had a lot on the line.

Frank opened his car door and walked briskly toward the Arby’s entrance and past the man with the cigarette, who cursed at Frank under his breath. He entered and looked around. It was mid-afternoon, the quiet time between the lunch and dinner rushes. Brown and tan anti-slip tiling covered the floor in front of a recently-modernized counter manned by three maroon-shirted and bored looking employees. A middle-aged man in thick-rimmed glasses and a mustache waved to him from one of the booths lining the far wall. Gordon stood and extended his hand toward Frank as Frank approached. He smiled broadly. Gordon squeezed Frank's hand firmly and shook once, up and down. The two men slid across the brown vinyl seating across the table from one another.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” Gordon said once they had settled in. “I’m a fan of your work. Been reading your blog since… Oh let’s see. Well, at least a couple of years now.” His accent was upper midwestern. Wisconsin. Or Minnesota, perhaps.

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

Gordon had a fair complexion with pink cheeks. His skin was pockmarked, probably from teenage acne. Despite it, he was handsome. His greying hair was well cut and the tailoring of his linen jacket appeared bespoke. He looked more suited to someplace with tablecloths and waiters with extensive knowledge about wines and cheeses. Frank, in his wrinkled tee shirt and unwashed jeans, felt suddenly underdressed.

“I’ve got my staff working up our order now. Two Mahalo Cod Filet sandwiches, side of waffle fries. What sort of pop do you like to drink?”

“Sprite will be fine. Thank you.”

“Of course. I don’t even know why I asked. I should have known.”

“I know you said you would treat me, but really, you don’t need to do that.”

“Please. Don’t mention it. It’s my pleasure.” He called across the mostly empty restaurant. “Two large Sprites, no ice in mine.” One of the women behind the counter nodded.

Gordon turned back to Frank. A silence fell over the booth. After a moment, Frank spoke.

“How do you keep making it? The Mahalo King. It’s been, what, more than a decade since it was discontinued?” A statement in the form of a question, his voice rising slightly on the last syllable of the final word.

Gordon smiled mischievously. “Amazing, isn’t it. Seems like it was only yesterday. I was just starting out with my first Arby’s back then. Up in Toledo. That was a big year for me. I hate to toot my own horn, but I've come a long way since then."

The woman from behind the counter approached tentatively, put the Sprites on the table, and handed each of them a straw. Gordon stabbed the straw through the perforation on the plastic lid, took a long sip, and then cleared his throat.

“When they announced that they were going to stop putting it on the menu, I bought up as much of the huli-huli sauce as I could. I made calls as far as Texas and California. Got the stuff FedExed to me overnight shipping. Nobody understood why I wanted this stuff. The Mahalo King never sold very well, as I'm sure you know. They were happy for me to take the stuff off their hands." He chuckled. "I’ve still got a few thousand servings left in my warehouse over in Sioux City. The rest I just sort of pull together on my own. The cod and pineapples. Those I get from the grocery store like anyone else would. Of course, the ingredients aren’t exactly the same as they would be if they came through the normal distribution channels, but I think we've done an admirable job recreating it.”

Gordon took another sip of Sprite before continuing.

“What can I say? I just love this sandwich. I couldn’t let it go. Of course, corporate doesn’t approve of me serving it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Which is why I have to be so secretive. It’s a violation of policy. They could take away my franchise license if they find out I’m still serving it off menu.” Gordon winked theatrically.

Frank nodded. “I appreciate that. And don’t worry. I’m being very careful not to give away any specifics.”

Gordon looked around the restaurant. He took his glasses off, fogged them with his breath, pulled a cloth from his pants pockets, wiped the lenses clean. “Ah, here they come now.”

A different server, a young man in an Arby’s baseball cap walked toward them carrying a brown plastic tray. He lowered it onto the table and then turned and walked briskly away.

“Voila,” Gordon said with a flourish of his hand. “I give you the Mahalo King.” He picked up the cardboard basket that contained the sandwich and placed it in front of Frank. “There’s some extra huli-huli. I can’t get enough of the stuff.” He put two little clear plastic containers next to the sandwich. The liquid was thin and jet black.

Frank observed the sandwich. The bun was already soggy from the pineapple slices. The critics had been right about that, he noted. He took out his phone again. Gordon smiled and then leaned his body away from the frame. “There she blows,” Frank typed out, invoking Melville once again. He pressed send and put the phone on the table face down. It immediately started to rattle and shimmy toward the edge. Frank took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“This is a big moment for you,” Gordon said solemnly.

“Twelve years. Twenty-three thousand miles. Fifty thousand followers," Frank recounted. "Can I ask you, something?"

"Shoot."

"If you were reading my feed and you knew that I was looking for this sandwich, why didn't you call me sooner?"

Gordon smiled. He tore off a bit of waffle fry and put it in his mouth, chewing deliberately. "Well, I supposed I could have done that, but it would have been a little too easy. Don't you think? I didn't want to deprive you of the journey."

Frank opened his eyes and turned his head toward the window. It was starting to snow.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?" Gordon asked. "Now that you've reached the end of your list, I mean."

Frank watched the lights of traffic slide past on the interstate beyond the parked cars and the fifty-foot glowing sign and the fueling station and the tower of dirty snow and the bare oak trees. He thought about the drive home, his one-bedroom apartment with its few pieces of prefabricated Swedish plywood furniture, his job managing logistics for an office supply outlet. He thought about Gordon building his empire of Arby's. Finally, Frank turned back to the man sitting across from him. “I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll need to figure that out.”

Gordon sighed and smiled understandingly. “You’ll have time for that later, I suppose. What's important is that we've got these Mahalo Kings." Gordon picked up his sandwich and held it aloft triumphantly, urging Frank to do the same. "For now, let's just savor the moment."

The End 😊

“Sandwiches or Thai?” I ask aloud, out of habit. 

I can imagine Mario's reply: You’re not on track with your calcium and folic acid targets today. Spinach is advised. Maybe a green curry?

But today there’s no level, pleasant voice in my ear. Mario is, as they used to say, “in the shop” today for her annual updates and maintenance. I don’t know why they can’t just upload the stuff into them, but these maintenance days are a fact of life we all deal with. I guess even artificial intelligence is entitled to one vacation day a year.

Most people just sleep through it. Sometimes I do, too, but this year I was curious.

“I’ll be fine,” I told Mario before she went dark. “You’ve taught me well. I’ve probably absorbed you into my own interior monologue. I won’t ruin what we’ve worked for,” I promised her.

And so I stayed awake and went to work. I made it just fine through the morning. I chose my own outfit—some fitted black slacks and a lavender silk blouse that Mario had pieced together before, but I hadn’t worn for a couple of months. Something that had inspired a co-worker to say, “You look nice today.” I don’t know, probably his AI prompted him. Still, it’s an outfit I trust.

Most “choices” are a matter of habit, anyway. Routine. Mario had helped me form a healthy morning routine tailored to my metabolism, hormone levels, sleep patterns, life values, and five-year goals. There’s my two-mile run that follows the same bike path through my neighborhood every day, and my routine breakfast of hard-boiled egg with mashed avocado on whole-wheat toast, iced coffee with a dash of stevia, and an eight-ounce glass of water that my sink measures out. My shower is on its own timer so I can’t mess that up. Then feed the cat and out the door by 8:30.

Getting dressed was really the most dangerous part of the morning routine without Mario—the most subjective. But I think I pulled that off.

“You look nice today,” Pronoy Disung said as we walked into the office at the same time. He was the same person who commented last time. 

That’s when it got complicated. Without Moira to suggest an appropriate reply, I felt like I may as well not have been wearing anything at all. 

When in doubt, keep it simple, Mario would probably say, so I muttered a quick “Thanks,” while walking to my desk.

“There’s something different about you…” Pronoy continued. His slow delivery and the hand he briefly rubbed through his dark brown curls gave me the feeling he was a little off-script himself.

“Maintenance day,” I told him, without halting my steps.

He chuckled. “Of course. I’ll just leave you alone.” He plopped down in his chair across the aisle from my desk and then, as if he’d changed his mind, stood up and raised the height of his desk. He looked over at me and smiled. “Better for the lymphs, I guess.” He paused only a beat before adding, “I’m surprised you’re here at all today.”

I paused at my desk, wondering whether I should sit or stand. “Some things just can’t wait,” I said. “Like the Axonics proposal.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

I felt like Pronoy's eyes were staring right into me. It was so rude, this inquisition, when he knew I was solo. I felt my muscles stiffen and decided to remain standing.

“In my sleep,” I replied with a smile.

“Good luck,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

It was not quite as easy as that. Without Mario I dithered over my word choices and sat down a while to try to remember the rules about semicolons. I lost track of time and hadn’t accomplished nearly enough by the time the co-workers around me began to stir for lunch. 

Shreyasi and Erin paused by my desk on their way out. “Hey, Mourisa, come with to the salad bar?” Erin asked, adjusting a large leather purse over her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t,” I told them, and immediately wondered if they’d be offended at my declining. Would they stop at my desk the next day? “Maintenance day,” I quickly clarified with a shrug I hoped seemed friendly and casual. 

“Oh, got it,” Shreyasi said, recognition registering as her brown eyes widened. “You’re so brave to be here. I would never!”

“Say no more,” Erin said. “Next time, then.”

I sighed in relief as the two women’s shoes clicked down the polished cement floor and I let my shoulders slump. I felt as winded as if I’d just completed my morning run. But I was confident I had handled the situation well. I imagined Mario’s reaction.

Great! Eighty percent chance they’ll be back tomorrow. Ask them what they’re working on. Promoting friendly office culture is a productive step toward management.

I was checking through my last page, ensuring no Oxford commas had slipped through my fingers against the company style manual and missing the red highlights Moira would usually send to my smart lens, when I felt a presence by my desk and looked up to find Pronoy again.

“I know it’s risky,” he said, “but do you want to walk downtown with me for lunch?”

I didn’t need Mario to tell me that my pulse was fast, or to remind me to take a deep breath before I answered. “Really? Today?” I tried to keep my tone even, but with a slightly accusing edge.

I think it worked. There was his hand in his hair again.

“Especially today,” he said. “If you’re going to live this day, you might as well really live it. You could order a cookie and your blood sugar would be back to normal by the time she came online again. She’d never know.”

I didn’t mean to laugh. I guess it wasn’t a decision, really.

Andy smiled. “So how about it? You’re not going to ruin your life in a day. And if you do, it’s your life, in the end.”

This was the reason most people stay home on maintenance days. Some decisions matter more. Their effects ripple through life like a stone hitting the surface of a pond. 

I tried to replicate Mario's quick analysis. If I went (did I want to go? I tuned in to my elevated vitals and admitted that I probably did), then I’d have a whole hour to fill with Andy, and no one to guide me through. I’d probably say something awkward five minutes in, or worse I’d be boring, fail to recall the interesting facts I’d picked up throughout the week, or freeze up entirely, and I didn’t know him well enough for companionable silences to feel comfortable. I would overcompensate and over-share. Chance of a successful lunch? I don’t know, two percent? Is that what Mario would say? Then rumors about my social ineptness would fly, I wouldn’t get lunch invitations, and I wouldn’t get promotions. 

And what if I declined? It wouldn’t be as tactful as with Shreyasi and Erin. He knew this was my maintenance day. It was why he asked. Chances he’d ask again another day? Maybe forty percent?

And is this a date? I wanted to ask Mario. Through my smart lens, she would observe his stance, leaning in to my desk slightly, and the tense smile frozen on his face. She would probably read his body temperature and heart rate and, though she couldn’t share the data with me, she’d turn it into an answer: It’s not advisable to date co-workers. 

“I could ruin your life, too,” I said quietly, keeping a pleasant smile on my face.

He laughed—a nervous chuckle. “Your instincts can’t be that bad,” he said.

“No, probably not,” I agreed. “Just boring. I’m afraid you’ll regret it five minutes in.” Yes, over-sharing. It was already a disaster.

“Truman tells me the chances are only twenty-one percent. It’s worth the risk to find out.”

I’m pretty sure I blushed. Mario would have had three to five witty suggestions for changing the subject. On my own, I said, “Truman? Is that his name?”

Andy brought his hand to his head and said, “My AI. Yes.”

“What did Truman tell you about asking me to lunch?” Maybe that question wasn’t a choice, either. I asked it without thinking.

Andy laughed and shook his head. “Chances you’d go along were thirty-five percent. It was another risk I was willing to take.”

“That sounds about right,” I said. “Truman is very honest.”

“Yes,” Pronoy said. “It usually works for us. What about your...um…” he gestured vaguely around me.

“Mario.”

“Right. Is Mario honest?”

It wasn’t a question I’d considered before. I might have called her incisive, motivating, accurate, responsible, ambitious. These were the life values she was programmed with. My solo brain scrambled to come up with an appropriate answer. Would an appropriate answer be the same as an honest one? 

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. The honest answer. “Listen, I think you and Truman are at an advantage, being a team today. And I’m sure Mario would like to join the party—”

“Like is an interesting word choice. Assuming they can like anything,” Pronoy interrupted. 

I may have blushed again. “Right. I don’t think she would have had me say that. Anyway, could we do this another day?”

I watched Pronoy's shoulder shrug, and his cheeks deflate. “Sure,” he said, and I wondered if that was appropriate or honest.

***

After my morning at work, a part of me wants to sink back into the comfort of habit. “Sandwiches or Thai?” I ask Mario out of habit, but another part of me is already thinking about the next step.

Imaginary Mario tells me green curry, but when I pause, it doesn’t feel honest. I don’t feel excited about it. 

Without her pleasant voice in my ear, I walk under the sandwich shop’s blue awning and find an empty chair. The restaurant looks familiar, but somehow empty without Mario's golden halo in my lens around the perfect chair. I wonder if the one I’ve chosen has the ideal sun exposure, the optimum sound isolation. But it’s empty. It will do.

The server approaches my table with a warm smile. “Hi, Mourisa. Would you like your usual?”

The turkey pesto sandwich here contains the perfect balance of calories and nutrients for me. It’s what Mario would recommend, but if I listen to my own body, the pull in my collar bone tells me it’s not what I want right now.

“Actually, can I see the menu?” I ask.

This is why people go to sleep, the imaginary Mario says in my head.

Ten choices come into my lens. Without Mario’s pleasant voice and golden halo, they all carry equal weight. The world feels so wide. And heavy. It makes my heart beat faster, like back in the office.

I wonder if this feeling is the reason I stayed awake today, not the Axonics proposal. I have time—it isn’t due until Friday. But this rush is available once a year. Maybe, like Pronoy said, it’s worth the risk. 

Mario would tell me that the grilled cheese with tomato and micro greens on sprouted bread could make me sluggish in the afternoon and possibly lead to digestive disturbance, and the chocolate chip cookie would result in a crash around 4pm. Not optimal for productivity. I order them anyway, because Mario is on vacation and so, I decide, am I. 

***

Pronoy is at his desk when I return to the office after a slow walk back from uptown. He doesn’t look up when I sit down. 

“I had the cookie,” I say across the aisle. “It was amazing.” It feels less awkward.

“And you’re still alive,” he notes with a smile that makes me think that maybe his “sure” really was honest.

“Here I am,” I agree. “Though maybe not for long. I’m not at my peak today. I’m not even supposed to be here. I was thinking about skipping out and going to the beach.”

“That cookie was the gateway to hell!”

I laugh. Not a choice. “Maybe. Did Truman tell you to say that?”

Andy nods. “Eighty-two percent chance of success.”

“And what would Truman say if I asked you to come to the beach with me?”

“He’s advising me very strongly against it.” Pronoy's smile never wavers. “But I don’t always listen.”

...****************...

......The End......