THE STRANGER only comes at night.
He only comes to certain people, too: those trapped in life, unable to free themselves from the daily grind and the cares that keep you from caring. Those sick of commutes, meetings, rude customers, spouses, children, or being stuck at home. Tired people. Desperate people.
People like me.
Donât bother trying to contact or look for him. Heâll know when itâs time. So will you.
Get ready the evening before. Say youâre going on a business trip or vacation. Better yet, donât tell anyone. Youâre going to disappear. Leave your credit cards, purse, wallet, anything that can be traced back to you, on a table somewhere with a note that says this verbatim:
Gone. Wonât be back. I have unfinished business. Whatever happens, I love you.
Four true statements, or three truths and one lie? Fear not. It will become true.
When everyone else at home is asleep, when youâre utterly alone, sit by the front door.
Wait.
He comes at night, but I donât mean 8-10 PM or midnight. Heâs not Cinderellaâs coachman. No matter how few cars pass by or how many creepy noises you hear, warning you to turn back and go to bed, donât. This is your only chance.
Ever see some morose soul at a bar staring into the far distance? How about a coworker doing the same thing? Either theyâre close to meeting the Stranger or have already missed his call.
Some refuse it, thinking theyâve dodged a bullet, but the next time their kid has a tantrum at a restaurant or their favorite Netflix show gets canceled, they wonât just be disappointed. A deep part of them will die. Theyâll wonder what could have been. Where they could have gone.
So wait as the moon climbs in the heavens and the stars maintain their course. Wait as traffic lights change from green to red and back again. Wait as your current life, hard and hueless, starts to thin out and become intangible. Wait until 3:00 AM: the real witching hour.
Heâll show up right on time.
No matter how bright the streetlamps are, no matter how good you are at identifying vehicles, no matter if itâs right there, you wonât be able to pinpoint the model of the Strangerâs car. Itâll look like every other one youâve seen, a shape blacker than the pavement, than the sky.
Shut your eyes against the sudden glare. If you dare, keep them open.
Youâll think the whole worldâs gone taillight-red, red as the depths of Hell, of a human heart. Youâll see silhouettes of those you love, those you hate, even those youâve forgotten. In that split second youâll catch a glimpse of the last place youâll go, though you wonât know it then.
The Stranger will leave the car, close the driverâs-side door with a click, and approach you.
If youâre waiting inside, heâll scrape his nails against the glass of your front door pane in a nearly-silent knock, leaving trails of frost. If youâre waiting outside, his footprints will appear on your sidewalk in a dusting of snow even if itâs the middle of summer.
Open your door, exit and lock it. If youâre outside, make sure itâs locked anyway.
The sight of your visitor might unnerve you. He also appears as a silhouette: a tall man in a fedora and trench coat, like a 1940s film noir detective. Youâll find heâs as solid as you or I.
Heâll stretch out his hand. Take it. Itâll be surprisingly warm.
He will lead you to one of the car doors. If youâre a regular passenger, youâll ride in the rear.
If he likes you â if youâve longed for this journey your whole life â youâll ride shotgun.
The carâs interior is close and cozy, as if youâre huddled under your favorite blanket. Thoughts of an earlier, easier time and place will come to mind. A time when you had no bills to pay or mouths to feed. A place where no landlord came pounding on your door late in the evening. Even if youâve never been so secure thus far, youâll feel completely safe because you are.
Despite the seemingly midsize dimensions of the Strangerâs mode of transportation, thereâs a minibar in the back. Like in a limo. Youâll think youâre in one because the leather bench is so comfy and slick that you can slide from one end to the other in one smooth motion. Donât do this too much or the Stranger may stop the car, force you out, and leave you stranded.
You donât want that. Not on the way to where youâre headed.
Instead, take a look at the beverages. All your favorite drinks are there, alcoholic and virgin.
See the Nepenthe Vodka? Whatever version you prefer, take the bottle. A choice is near.
Thereâs some up front. In fact, itâs the sole drink available to you, chilling in the cup holder, but hold off. The Stranger has a long drive ahead. He wants company. Heâs chosen you.
In the shotgun bucket seat, all youâll be able to see are the dashboard and door-lock lights and the glowing tip of his cigarette. Youâll inhale the aroma of fine-grained leather, the musk of his aftershave, and the intermingled scents of menthol and tobacco. Beneath it all, a tinge of ice, a breath of winter. Youâll shiver for an instant. The carâs still warm, though.
Congratulations on getting this far. As I said, this is your only chance.
Whether youâre in the front or back, the Stranger will tip his hand as if to say: Shall we go?
If you say no, heâll help you out of the car and usher you back inside, into your old life.
If you agree, heâll lock the doors, back out of your driveway, or continue down the street.
Wait until youâre out of town or the lights of your rural dwelling have faded. Then, if youâre in the back with the long bench and minibar, youâve gotten the shorter, sweeter end of the deal. Drink the vodka â every drop. Lie down without a pesky seatbelt and drift off to sleep.
If not, youâre in for a gentle, exhausting trial. Itâll take all you have, all you are, to stay awake.
Your chauffeur wants to talk. So talk. Tell him your life story. Better yet, tell him everything that happened from the day you found out you wanted to take this trip until tonight.
Maybe youâve learned there are more dead ends in this world than viable roads. Maybe a job or a relationship went sour and life got more lemon-like from there. Maybe you feel like youâve seen it all before, because on the karmic wheel, you have. Or maybe, like me, youâve traveled back and forth across a threshold. Youâve experienced what itâs like on this side, and now. . .
As you talk, youâll notice three things: 1) the car is cooling; 2) the end of the Strangerâs cigarette never gets any closer to his mouth, which you canât see because the sky and car are so, so dark, and 3) the Stranger never says a word. He doesnât have to. He understands.
He remembers.
Pay attention to the road signs if you can.
The first one broadcasts familiar locales from your present existence â apartment, home street, workplace, the restaurant where you and your partner had your first date. You can tell your driver to take the exit to any of these places, and heâll obey, but why would you? You didnât brave getting in the car in order to look at this sign and chicken out. Take your first sip of Nepenthe if you need to. The Stranger doesnât judge. Heâs here to carry you forward.
The next eight signs mention locations you know from early adulthood. Your alma mater if you went to college or trade school. Your first place of employment if you went right to work after getting your high school diploma or GED. The bars and clubs you frequented on campus or on busy city streets. The farm where you spent several summers as a hired hand, learning of the Strangerâs business. Again, you can ask him to take you there, take you back. He will. Yet you run the risk of having the same problems as in your current â now previous â life.
Better taste another mouthful of your new favorite liquid. Youâll forget soon enough. He wonât.
At this point, if youâre not too wrapped up in the narrative of your days, nights, and everything in between, youâre starting to get an idea of who your companion is and what his vehicle really is. Youâre a little nervous but not terrified. You still have time. All the time in the world.
By the time you reach sign ten, youâll shiver in earnest. Youâll put on a coat if you have one.
Youâll ask the Stranger to turn on the heat, but he canât. The car doesnât have heat or A/C.
Youâll look out the window, an even darker sky above you, the lights of possibility behind you.
Donât drink the Nepenthe too fast. Itâs a mini-bottle, so take mini-sips. Youâll need it later.
Signs eleven through nineteen? You guessed it: venues from childhood, full of balloons and bullies, cotton candy and carousels, presents, pets and peppermints. Places where you found love, laughter, and precious memories if you were lucky, or nothing but pain if you werenât. Lots of passengers make the mistake of finishing the vodka here, and boy, will they regret it.
If you exit to this earlier and simpler time, believing youâll make different choices thatâll lead to different outcomes, beware. The results may be worse than the ones you have â had. Our formative years arenât all that. Take it from me. I prefer myself formed, however imperfectly.
Sign twenty? Itâs the first one you wonât know, with a name you wonât want to forget: LIMEN.
No, not Lymonâ˘, the main ingredient of Sprite. Limen, plural limina, adjective liminal.
The Latin word for threshold.
People panic here. âStop, stop,â they cry. âStop the car. I want to start all over.â Indeed.
After the Stranger unlocks the doors and tenderly escorts them out, his hand the temperature of a river in early October, these passengers begin life anew in the womb. Whether the womb of their current/previous mother or another, itâs their decision up to a point. They donât all get billionaire or celebrity moms. As before, itâs the luck of the draw. Or God or destiny.
We like to think weâre the captains of our fate, Invictus personified, but life doesnât work that way. You fight for everything you gain, sure, but thereâs no way I, with my cerebral palsy and lack of hand-eye coordination, would ever have been a ballerina or a tennis pro. Not unless I was one before. Not unless Iâve had more than one turn on the cosmic merry-go-round. Not unless I picked my own horse before the ride even started. Still, you and I arenât omnipotent.
Will you choose to remain in the car and cross the LIMEN? The first threshold of three?
If so, let all further road signs pass without scrutinizing them too closely. Iâm warning you.
Sign twenty-one is in a language with letters youâll recognize, but you wonât know the name of the place it announces. Nor should you rack your brain trying to figure it out. Some of you will try to outsmart the sign and the Stranger, but after a single burst of mental effort youâll slump in the front seat, exhausted. Youâll be tempted to lay it back and take a nap. Donât.
Instead, fight to stay awake. Youâll have finished your story and will begin learning his.
Images will skirt across your consciousness. Impressions. Colors and shapes. The silhouette of a boy chasing one of an ivory dove across a field of frosty grass. The boy grows into a man, and the dove lands. Comforts, coos, and comes to stay. The boy and the dove merge.
Outside, itâll start to snow. The flakes will land on the car windows like a baby birdâs down.
Inside? Youâll bury your hands in your pockets and beg your poor teeth to stop chattering.
One more tiny taste of Nepenthe. Thatâs it. You must refrain from finishing the bottle.
Signs twenty-two through twenty-nine will pass you by. For the love of all thatâs holy, donât read them. The snow will cover them pretty fast, so you might not need to worry. Still, would you like to go mad once you learn the actual names of the outposts for the actual afterlife â or before-life, depending on how you look at it? If your answerâs yes, go right ahead.
Youâll pound on the windowpanes so hard youâll break your knuckles, but you wonât break the glass. Youâll try to unlock the doors, only to find your black, frostbitten fingers falling off. You will beg your driver for mercy, and heâll grant it. Heâll let you out where you belong. If itâs a paradise, all will be restored to you minus your memory of the Stranger and the Ride. If itâs a place of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, youâll pay the price of eternal slumber. If itâs somewhere in-between like a waiting room, then youâll wait until the arrival of Winter.
If, by some miracle and your chauffeurâs grace, you hold on, youâll come to the thirtieth sign.
If the first LIMEN was the threshold of physical experience, the second is of the metaphysical.
Past this point, Heaven and Hell donât exist. Neither does any sort of afterlife or before-life.
Past this point, you, the Stranger, and what you now know is your hearse simply are.
The snow continues inside the car, but âinsideâ and âoutsideâ are terms which will soon fade.
Youâre coming to the end of the line.
Keep awake. Keep conscious. Focus on each of the hues in your mind, clear as day:
Red for the blood pounding in your ears and your mortal life, which the Stranger will grieve.
Orange for the speedometer needle spinning round, and the one on the gas gauge nearing E.
Yellow for the sun, anticipation and hope, the bright, orgiastic future you never got.
Green for growth, Earth, the forsaken planet you and the Stranger have chosen to leave.
Blue for the sky and sea, for knowledge of the soul, for sweet and kind cerulean words.
Indigo for the deeper wisdom, deeper darkness, of your third eye thatâs starting to close.
Violet for connection, union, divine revelation and the higher consciousness youâve gained.
White, or rather ivory â the color of the Mourning Dove and the Strangerâs boon companion.
Black, for the color that is now seeping across your skin and into your bones.
The colors will shift and combine into a portrait of you, warts and all. Even if itâs hideous, absolutely grotesque, itâll be the most beautiful painting youâve ever seen. It will materialize.
For the first time, the Stranger speaks: âThis will brighten your quarters, donât you think?â
One more sign: the third LIMEN. It also says WEIGH STATION: IN SERVICE Y/N
One last choice for you to make.
If you say yes â as I did â he will hold you to his service as a Tenant, a Leaseholder of Memory. You welcome the despairing, ragged travelers who fell asleep, thus falling short of the glory of godhood. In your Apartment youâll host them as guests, hear their confessions and help them scrub their room clean of the wrongs theyâve done, their sins and struggles. In time youâll help them find their own blessed space, though the Stranger demands rent:
Repentance. Remembrance. Rejoicing in the Journey, no matter how cold it once was.
If you say no, however â I pray you donât â youâll go to the WEIGH STATION.
Your ice-encased flesh (think of that poor naked woman in Saw III) will slough off your bones.
Your bones will fall onto the scale and crumble to dust.
Your organs will liquefy, then vaporize in a haze of the ghostly equivalent of liquid nitrogen.
Your soul will turn black and flake off like paint. It belongs to what counts as Earthâs gods.
All that will be left is your spirit â the part of you thatâs you.
If youâre found to weigh more than a feather, youâll awaken from this nightmare to find yourself in the living one you thought you escaped. Youâll sleepwalk throughout eternity, never knowing how, never knowing why you failed, yet youâll keep on striving time and again. Youâll get up, go to work, come home, go to bed, get up, go to work, come home, go to bed. . .
Because you lied to your driver or thought you could cheat/outwit him, youâll never find rest.
If you weigh less than a feather, youâve passed the last test. Your spirit is freezing, however.
Youâll don a familiar trench coat and fedora, warm and waiting as you knew theyâd be.
Youâll get in your new car, the safest and most dangerous there is.
The Dove will tap on your window. Let him in. Let his warm feathers enfold you. Merge.
You know all because you remember all. Nothing more can be taken from you, dear Stranger.
You are become Death.
Credit: Tenet
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