Category: Fiction Factor

Briscoe Cicci distinctly remembered hearing the slow, rhythmic beeps of the electrocardiogram machine, followed by a sustained hum. And he recalled seeing the doctor and nurses hovering over him, although they were out of focus.

Then again, most everything was out of focus; his eyeglasses were on a tray next to a plate of unappetizing – and uneaten – hospital food.

What he couldn’t remember, however, was how he wound up in an emerald green room adorned in only an open-backed, loosely tied white gown, tan saddle oxfords, and his black, horn-rimmed specs. And why was his banjo on the floor next to him?

“Hello,” he said, looking around at what appeared to be an endless sea of green. “Is anybody there?”

Indeed, someone was.

“Mr. Cicci, welcome,” said a slight, olive-skinned man dressed in a blue, polyester running suit. “I’m your attendant. If you could turn in your pass, we can go ahead and get started.”

Before Briscoe could ask, “What pass?” he found himself holding a laminated card. As he looked at both the front and back, he noticed there were several passport-style stamps on it.

“That’s it,” said the attendant. “If you’ll just hand it to me …

Briscoe pulled the pass to his chest.

“Look, I didn’t know until a second ago I even had a pass, and have no idea what it even is. So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you explaining that to me and why I’m supposed to give it to you.”

The attendant smiled.

“Perfectly understandable, Mr. Cicci. What you’re holding is your life pass. Every human gets one, and they use it all throughout their time on earth. Think of it as something of a train ticket. It can take you everywhere you need to go and sometimes where you want to go. It’s up to each person how they choose to use it. Sometimes they just let it sit there; other times it seems like they’re on a different train every day. You made the most of your ride, sir. You were a teacher and musician, so you had a positive impact on more people than you realize. You made everyone you met feel important. Apart from that, you made great friends, you made great music … there were no wasted minutes.

“But that adventure has ended and now a new one begins.”

Briscoe was starting to understand.

“Right, right,” he said. “I’m dead, this was my ticket to ride, and now that the ride’s over, I have to turn it in. I don’t have a problem with that, but I still have a few more questions.”

“Ask anything you like,” said the attendant.

“Why am I dressed this way? I understand the gown – I was in the hospital – but saddle oxfords? I have a nice suit to go with these. And I don’t recall ever having played my banjo while wearing a gown. Seems if you have to cross over, you should be dressed for the occasion. Not a criticism, but I guess I thought the transition would be more stylish.”

The attendant winced.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “We have some new people in wardrobe, and they’re still trying to figure things out. We have a lot of turnover this time of year.”

Briscoe eyed the attendant’s outfit.

“Do you get hot in that?” he asked. “I never could wear polyester. Never wanted to wear polyester, to be honest. It just seems uncomfortable. Looks good on you, though. You really pull it off, and I mean that sincerely.”

The attendant grinned.

“Thank you, sir. Well, if there’s nothing more …”

“Actually,” Briscoe interjected, “I had a lot more things I wanted to do on earth … a lot more things I wanted to say and a lot more music I wanted to play. Why did things have to end so soon?”

“That I don’t know, Mr. Cicci. I’m just an attendant. Someone higher up the chain will be able to tell you. I’m sure you’ll get an answer to that once you start your new phase.”

“Sounds good. And hey – never say your ‘just’ an attendant,” Briscoe added. “You have a big job and I imagine it can be tough. You’ve been nothing but helpful since I got here. You have every reason to take pride in your job.”

Briscoe handed over his pass and sighed.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then. I’m gonna miss talking to people. And I’d love to play the banjo one more time. To be honest, I’m kinda bummed that my story has to end.”

The attendant stamped the pass.

“Oh, your story doesn’t end, Mr. Cicci,” he said. “You’re just starting a new chapter. Now, grab your banjo and follow me because there’s someone who wants to meet you. Are you familiar with Johnny St. Cyr, by any chance?”

The 100^th birthday party of Marty Marcel was a small affair, but the friends who threw it made certain it was a festive one. There was a big birthday cake, of course, as well as colorful decorations and lively music. And Marty’s pals made sure he had plenty of his favorite drink, Kentucky Straight Bourbon.

Thirty minutes into the event, Marty and his eight buddies – led by Gray – had already polished off a fifth, thanks to a series of toasts.

“Here’s to your health, Marty!”

“Happy hundredth, and here’s to a hundred more!”

“To a great man and a true friend!”

Marty was still quite mobile and in decent health; he had been fortunate in that he never needed a wheelchair to get around. But the gears were surely starting to wear out, and he always had a cane with him – just in case.

“I don’t really need it, but it makes me look distinguished,” he’d say, “and I can fight off all girls who keep chasing me … especially Ethel.”

Earlier in the evening the staff at Pecos Retirement Village had held a celebration for him in the activity room, one that included the other residents. Most were quite fond of Marty and Ethel was his “date,” as she was most anytime there was a reason to get together. She was 92, and Marty joked that it was a “Late December/later December romance.”

However, that low-key shindig was over in less than an hour. By 8 p.m., Ethel had exited with a yawn and the facility was mostly quiet as the inhabitants retired to their apartments.

But at 10 p.m., Marty’s oldest friends scooped him up in a very special “party bus” and started the real bash.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Gray,” he said. “I mean, I do appreciate it, but you didn’t have to come all this way. After all, it’s just another day.”

“It’s not just another day,” said the chief party planner, pouring two fingers of whiskey into Marty’s glass. “It’s your day. And 100 is a pretty big number. You look a little different than you did back when we met you, but otherwise you haven’t changed much.”

Marty smiled and took a sip.

“Lordy, that was so long ago. I was 21 and had missed out on the war, but still felt like I needed to do my part, so I joined up. I have to admit, I was awfully full of myself and thought I was king of the world when I put on that uniform … then I ran into you rascals and realized how small my world was.”

Gray opened another bottle of whiskey.

“We were glad you did … me, especially. I was in rough shape from the crash and none of us had any idea what to expect when you came along. We were afraid after you saw us, you’d start screaming. Or worse, shooting.”

Marty shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have done that. You were all funny looking to me with your big heads and little bodies, but I reckon I was funny looking to you, too. Maybe I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. Even when I was a little boy, I figured with all those stars up there, there had to be somebody else besides us.”

Gray – the leader of the group of extraterrestrials – downed another glass and quickly refilled it.

“If you hadn’t told everybody it was just the remains of a weather balloon, who knows what would’ve happened?” Gray said. “Being so close to the Roswell Army Air Field wasn’t exactly an ideal place for us to have an accident. But you helped us, gave us time to make repairs, and we’ll always be grateful. Which reminds me … you’re always welcome to go back with us. As you can see, we have plenty of room here on our craft. And once we get home, we can make your bones stronger and even add on a few more years if you like.”

Marty appreciated the gesture, but decided to pass. For better or worse, Earth was his home.

“Thanks, Gray, but I think I’ll stay put,” he said. “The International Balloon Fiesta is coming up soon in Albuquerque, and the village here is planning a bus trip there. I’ve already promised Ethel I’ll be her arm candy.

“Anyway, let’s have one more drink … and then you better beam me back down.”

Although the sign near the large gates explicitly stated that it would begin at 9 a.m., collectors hoping to get a head start on the estate sale were already lining up at 7:30.

The home of tech billionaire Ignatius Selbaz – well, one of his many homes – was up for grabs, as were all of its contents. Although most of the furniture and other items would likely be far beyond the price range of casual shoppers, there were plenty of curiosity seekers mixed in among the wealthy. While the affluent would walk away with the big ticket objects, surely there were a few bargains to be found.  

This particular sale was taking place in Atherton, California, but there were others scheduled across the globe. A week earlier, the mercurial Selbaz had released a statement that he was “shedding his excess” and there would be more information to come.

As the gates of the Atherton property began to open – nearly 90 minutes ahead of schedule – the hundreds of people gathered trotted toward the front door. Once there, they were greeted by a well-dressed young man with a big smile.

“Hello, everyone! My name’s Will and I’d like to welcome you all to the Ignatius Selbaz Estate Sale, conducted by Hood and Associates International. As you can probably tell by the sign out front, we aren’t supposed to begin the event until 9 a.m., but you all seem so enthusiastic I figured, ‘What the heck?’ So please, come in, browse around, and if you have any questions about pricing, I’ll be glad to answer them.”

A gold-leafed luxury piano was the centerpiece of the entryway, and its price tag was $3.6 million.

“Oh, my word,” marveled one shopper, “this is absolutely exquisite. Knowing Ignatius’ taste – I met him several years ago at a gala – I’m surprised he’s parting with it. I’m Mr. Willem Danforth, by the way … you probably already knew that.”

“Of course, Mr. Danforth. Mr. Selbaz feels that now is the time for him to lighten his load and he doesn’t even know how to play the piano,” Will said with a chuckle. “Are you interested in buying, sir?”

“I’m interested, but frankly, $3.6 million is a bit too unreasonable for that piece. After all, I already have a Bösendorfer and Schimmel.”

Will took out his phone.

“Let me make a quick call, Mr. Danforth … please bear with me.”

He turned away, talking rapidly (though in a whisper), then turned back to the potential customer.

“I just spoke to Mr. Selbaz and he said for you – and you only – the price is $2 million.”

“Sold!” Danforth exclaimed, the exuberance in his voice causing other buyers to look in his direction. “This will be a perfect piece for my trophy room!”

As the day wore on, Will became quite popular among those gathered. While none of them would be caught dead using the word “discount,” the fact that he was willing to negotiate on pricing proved that even the very rich are on the lookout for a bargain.

Throughout the remainder of the sale paintings that were listed at $500,000 were slashed to $250,000, and everything from gold to jewelry was marked down.

By 6 p.m. the house was completely cleared, and Hood and Associates International had secured a grand total of $51.3 million (including the $38 million price tag of the house itself).

Will stepped outside and loosened his tie. He made another call, and there was no need to whisper this time.

“Hey, it’s me. Oh yeah … we did really, really well. That money is gonna feed, clothe and house a whole lotta people. Have you heard from Marian, John and Tuck yet? Oh, I have no doubt they crushed it. I guess once we get the final tally we can go ahead and put Selbaz and the others on the island with the rest of the people we robbed.

“Anyway, there’s this Danforth guy we should probably put on the list … I’ll send you his info and we can discuss it once I get to Nottingham. Talk to you soon, Robin.”