Unfortunately, I can’t seem to move my hands.
Suddenly, I’m back in Afghanistan on that fucked-up day in July. I’m pretty sure I already lived through this because I know how it ends. And yet, the smell of burning rubber is so real it turns my stomach.
I stay flat when the pop-pop of gunfire halts. Blood drips down my face as I grab my weapon and crawl over the hot sand to my dead buddies. Hell, Cicero was about to be married. His girl is going to be devastated.
Like Scrooge and the ghost of Christmas-past, I flash-forward to a bar in Brooklyn and the famous face of CJ Quinn, New York City’s most famous quarterback. Those deep-blue eyes melt the panties right off women. Tonight, he’s gone too far and four guys have ganged up on him. Apparently, CJ thought he could leave with a blonde belonging to a biker. CJ punches two and even drunk, we kick their asses.
The bouncer nods his approval and calls the cops while me and CJ grab another drink or two. After, he offers me a job.
The ghost isn’t done because the scene at the bar morphs to about five years later.
I’m sitting in the same bar, this time out back on the terrace, and staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Tongue-tied, I figure I’ve blown it with her even though the sexual vibe is off the charts. Then, she hands me her business card and my whole damn life changes.
Some part of my brain registers how much I got to live for and I open one eye. I guess the ghost has left me back in the present because this scenario seems pretty real.
A paramedic leans over me in the back cab of an ambulance and says, “Hang in there, Jack. You know where you are?”
“Toto, I've got a feelingwe're not in Kansas anymore." I grin and the guy smiles back.
“Close enough.”
