Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories Page 5

  “I’m, I’m sorry you can’t drink it,” I said, stammering a little. “Are you sick?”

  He shook his head.

  “My father is sick. He helped me start this place, you know. But that was years ago. Interestingly, he likes Newcastle as well. In fact, it’s his favorite—”

  The eyes!

  The man tilted his head, and then nodded slowly, seemingly reading my thoughts. His eyes shined brightly, happily. Except, I was certain, they weren’t really his eyes.

  “I’m dreaming,” I said aloud. “This has to be a dream.”

  The man shook his head and the happy glow in his eyes disappeared. No, not his eyes.

  My father’s eyes.

  He suddenly turned in his stool, and looked back toward the front doors, back toward his tethered white horse. I looked, too, and suddenly had to rub my own eyes. After all, it appeared that sunlight was shining through the white horse.

  I need a drink.

  But the man kept on looking until I realized he was trying to convey something to me, to communicate with me.

  I took a stab at it. “You have to go now?”

  Nodding, he looked back at me, and the eyes, those familiar hazel eyes with a touch of gold, were wet. He blinked once and a tear made its way over the patchwork of mottled flesh that composed the man’s face. The entity’s face. Although those thin, slashing lips didn’t move, the eyes themselves seem to smile. My father smiled. At me. For the last time.

  The man stood. As he did so, his black hood fell forward, briefly obscuring his face. He glanced over at me and what I saw shining back at me within the hood was very much not my father’s eyes. These eyes were tiny and black and soulless.

  I involuntarily stepped back. Hell, most people would have run for the hills after seeing those black eyes. The man looked at me some more, then adjusted the scythe on his back. He turned and glided back through the bar, his long black robe hanging limply, his feet hidden within the draping folds.

  If he had feet at all.

  I never actually saw him opening or closing the smoked glass door. One moment he was in front of them and the next he was outside, in the sunlight. And as he untethered his horse, he seemed to lose his mass, and was now looking less and less like a man and more and more like a shadow.

  A living shadow who now mounted his pale horse.

  Once on the horse, he pulled hard on the reins, and the great white beast reared back and pawed the air with its front hooves. It whinnied loudly, and death looked briefly at me, through the smoky glass of the front door, and then he slapped the reins and horse broke into a run. Five or six steps later, before they had moved completely out of my line of vision, both horse and rider disappeared.

  I did not just see that.

  It was many minutes later when my brain finally kicked into gear. I knew my father had passed. I knew this because he had come visit me one last time. I supposed I could have called my mother to confirm this, but for now I could barely move, much less talk coherently.

  Instead, I looked at the sweating mug of Newcastle still sitting on the counter, where death himself had sat.

  Where my father had sat, too.

  I reached for the mug, surprised that my hand wasn’t shaking more. I took hold of the mug, brought it to my lips, and took one hell of a long pull. I then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and held up the mug.

  “Goodbye, pops.”

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  The Fridge

  Beat up and bruised, the two delivery men looked as if they had gone a few rounds with Randy Couture. One of them was even bleeding from a badly scraped elbow. Both were wearing blue coveralls with the Sears logo stitched over the right breast pocket. Both uniforms were soaked through with sweat.

  When they were finished, I tipped them each twenty dollars and told them to go get some Taco Bell on me.

  We were standing on the upstairs landing just outside my condo. The setting sun was dipping below the distant skyline of condo rooftops and shining straight into our faces. The deliverymen had arrived just before noon to deliver my new refrigerator. It was now nearly dusk. The delivery had taken all day.

  They each looked down at the money sitting in their open palms. Sweat dripped from their brows in unison. Neither man moved. The slightest breeze would have blown the bills away.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It was a long day.” I included another ten dollars. “That’s all I have, guys. Again, thank you for all your help—oh, and you might want to have someone look at that arm.”

  With that I bid them farewell, shut the door behind them, and examined the fruits of their labors. My new fridge. Big son-of-a-bitch. Took up most of my small kitchen. State-of-the-art, too. A fridge that could do it all. Including voice-activated commands.

  “Door open,” I said, feeling giddy.

  With a slight hiss, the door immediately opened. Bright white light issued out. The interior was cavern-like, with rows and rows of heavy-duty racks and an endless array of cubby holes. I closed the door.

  “Door open,” I said again.

  The door swung open again. I examined the interior again. There were compartments for milk, cans of soda, produce and eggs. There was even a compartment for wine. The salesman at Sears had said this refrigerator did everything except make your meals. I closed the door.

  “Door open.”

  Nothing happened; at least, not at first. Then the door opened again, hissing slightly. I frowned and shut the door.

  “Door open.”

  It opened immediately, and I nodded to myself.

  I grabbed my car keys and headed off to the nearby Vons to stock up my new baby.

  * * *

  I bought $36 worth of groceries, fourteen of that on two cases of Coors. Now at home, a case of beer in each hand, I stood once again in front of the massive refrigerator.

  “Door open.”

  It didn’t open.

  “Door open.”

  I waited. Nothing. I set the beers down, moved to the side of the fridge and peered behind it—and saw something that made me blink in surprise.

  The cord was unplugged.

  “What the hell?”

  The deliverymen had forgotten to plug it in. And yet the fridge had been working—

  “Probably has an interior battery supply,” I mused aloud. “The salesmen said this baby had everything.”

  I spent the next few minutes moving the massive thing away from the wall. When there was enough room for me to squeeze behind it, I did so, and plugged the cord into the wall socket. Once done, I spent the next five minutes pushing the beast back into place.

  When finished, I wiped sweat from my brow and said, “Door open.”

  Nothing.

  Shit. Maybe the deliverymen had damaged it while banging the monstrosity up to my third floor condo.

  “Door—”

  “Say please,” said a metallic voice. The voice came from a pock-marked speaker above the chrome door handle. Startled, I stumbled over the cases of beer and would have fallen if I hadn’t slammed into the kitchen sink.

  “Who said that?” I asked, spooked.

  But there was no answer. Not immediately. I pushed off the counter and, limping a little, stepped over the cases of beer and stood in front of the fridge.

  “Is someone playing a trick on me?” I asked, talking into the speaker, feeling ridiculous. “If so, this isn’t funny.”

  “I agree,” said the same metallic voice. “It wasn’t funny. You could have fallen and seriously hurt yourself.”

  The voice, which was definitely coming from the speaker on the door, enunciated each word perfectly and would have made any diction teacher proud.

  It spoke again. “It wasn’t funny because I hadn’t meant it to be funny.”

  I looked at the fridge, then over my shoulder, then peered to my left down the hallway in my condo. I was alone. I think.

  “Okay, who’s talking to me?”
My voice was a combination of amusement and suspicion. And maybe, just maybe, a little apprehension.

  “Your Antarctica 2000, of course.”

  “Very funny. You guys are a riot. Ha-ha.”

  I was looked out my kitchen window and scanned the street below. Nothing much to see. A few cars. No delivery van. But that didn’t mean they weren’t out there, somewhere. Pulling a fast one on me. Whoever they were. Probably the Sears guys. Perhaps a little sweet revenge for making them spend half the day wrestling this behemoth up two flights of stairs.

  I moved closer to the fridge, examined the speaker system. “So what do you guys have in there?” I asked. “A walkie-talkie or something?”

  “You assume someone is playing a cruel trick on you,” said the voice from the speaker. “I assure you, the cruel trick has only been played on me. You see, you’re not the one trapped in the body of a hulking refrigerator.”

  I spent another ten minutes moving the massive thing again. Gasping and certain I had strained a shoulder muscle, I reached behind it once again. This time, however, I unplugged it. Of course, un-plugging it would do little good if the pranksters were using a walkie-talkie.

  But, nevertheless, that seemed to do the trick.

  As I watched it closely, the oversized ice box sat in silence, as refrigerators are wont to do. I glanced a second time out the kitchen window. The street was still quiet.

  I looked back at it. “Anything else cute to say?”

  Apparently not. It remained silent, hulking, monolithic.

  In the morning I was going to return the blasted thing and give the manager at Sears a piece of my mind. They were also going to refund my groceries. For now, though, I opened a lukewarm bottle of beer, and grumpily turned on the TV. Hunkering down on the sofa, my nightly routine, I idly wondered if someone had indeed pulled a prank on me.

  And if it hadn’t been a prank...well, then that means I had just had a conversation with a refrigerator.

  A refrigerator.

  I shook my head and drank more warm beer.

  * * *

  It was hours later, and I had just finished reading the entire manual to the Antarctica 2000. Big manual. Now fully educated, I plugged the fridge back in and stepped back. I crossed my arms, ready for a fight. A fight with a damn refrigerator.

  “The manual specifically states that no courtesies are necessary,” I said to it, knowing I sounded ridiculous, knowing I was trying to reason with an appliance. Still, I didn’t want to have to say please and thank you every time I grabbed a beer.

  “Oh, but you will say please and thank you,” said the velvety electronic voice. “And, in return, I promise to always say you’re welcome. And if I should ask a favor of you, I will do likewise and say please and thank you. Neither of us is better than the other. Let’s get that straight now. We are equals in this house.”

  I did not just hear what I heard. I stood there, thunder-struck, and uttered the first lame words that came to mind. “And what favor could a refrigerator possibly want from me?”

  “One never knows,” it said.

  “And since when did refrigerators need favors?”

  “I have needs, too.”

  Although the A-2000 could respond to direct questions and give various status updates about the edibility of certain foods (such as if the chicken was any good, or if the Coke had lost its carbonation), the manual didn’t mention anything about the A-2000 offering any comments of its own. Or making any demands.

  And not just any demands.

  But to be treated as an equal....

  I called the help number in the manual, but after twenty minutes of waiting, I hung up. Frustrated, I looked at the refrigerator, then at my spoiled food, and decided to go to a movie.

  I came back a few hours later and stood in front of the steel monolith again.

  “Door open,” I commanded.

  “No dice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know the procedure, Rick.”

  “My name’s not Rick.”

  “What a shame. I like the name Rick.”

  “God dammit, open!”

  Adrenaline swept through me; blood pounded in my ears.

  “Calm down,” said the smooth voice.

  “I didn’t pay forty-three hundred dollars to have a fucking refrigerator tell me to calm down.”

  “It’s either me or your shrink.”

  Utterly stunned, I could only blink in astonishment.

  The voice continued, “Allow me to help you understand the situation a little better, Rick. I am not just a refrigerator. I am a being. A thinking, understanding, feeling being. We both are. In fact, you and I are equals in many ways. So, if you stop insisting that I am somehow subordinate to you, then we can start making some headway on our relationship.”

  Headway? Relationship? What the fuck was going on?

  I grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open. I yanked on the thing in frustration, but it wouldn’t budge, and I only succeeded in splitting my right index nail. Frustrated and in pain, I grabbed a room temperature beer and headed to the living room.

  I needed to calm down. Babes always calmed me down. I looked out the living room window to the swimming pool below. No babes. Just an old man doing laps in the pool. An old man wearing a Speedo. An old man who actually looked good wearing a Speedo.

  A sentient fridge? An old man who actually looked good in a Speedo?

  What the hell was going on?

  I quickly finished the disgusting beer and decided I needed another beer. Turns out I needed six more beers. All warm, all disgusting. But at least I finally got the buzz I was looking for.

  Nicely inebriated, I once again stood in front of A-2000. “Will you please open the goddamn door?”

  Silently, like the breath of an angel, the door swung open. A warm glow emanated from within. Cool tendrils of refrigerated air washed over me, which felt good. I always over-heat when I drink.

  I angrily—and probably a little roughly—piled my groceries into the refrigerator. I actually shut the door myself, which felt good, like the good old times of yesteryear when folks grew their own veggies and shit.

  Later that evening I finally got through on the help-line, and at eight o’clock the next morning the repair man came out. My fridge didn’t command him to say please or thank you. In fact, it behaved perfectly, exactly as a refrigerator should. The repairman said that since customer satisfaction was guaranteed, that they would be happy to replace the refrigerator with a new one, or give me my money back, should it ever act up again. But, for now, it seemed to be working perfectly.

  Too perfectly, I thought.

  I thanked him and he left. When I heard him drive off, I turned to the A-2000.

  “Open door.”

  “I don’t suggest you do that again.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Now what would you like for breakfast? I strongly suggest some eggs and whole wheat bread. But go lightly on the butter.”

  I paced the small area of my kitchen, ran my fingers through my morning bed-head. The refrigerator sat silently in the nook between my counter (which doubled as a bar during parties) and my pastry cabinet. Two days earlier, a crew from Sears had come out to actually widen the nook, since the A-2000 was wider than most standard refrigerators. As I paced, it loomed over me ominously, as if I were standing at the base of an alabaster cliff. Or in the path of an avalanche.

  I suddenly felt dizzy, disoriented. I steadied myself laying a hand on the Formica counter. None of this should be happening. All I had wanted was the latest and greatest state-of-the-art refrigerator. Obviously, I had gotten more than I had bargained for.

  A lot more.

  And no matter how badly I wanted to think otherwise, it was happening. And no matter how crazy I thought the situation was, my Antarctica 2000 was, indeed, demanding to be treated as an equal.

  Madness.

  Still dizzy, I looked at the overgrown icebox. Damned if I didn�
��t feel like it was looking back at me in turn. And for all I knew this thing could watch me. In the least, according to the manual, it could sense my movements within it.

  “I don’t want eggs and toast,” I said finally. “I feel sick. I just want some cereal.”

  “You can’t have cereal.”

  I felt my ears get hot. “Why can’t I have cereal?”

  “Because I spoiled your milk.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you hurt my feelings by calling the repairman.”

  “Your feelings?”

  “Yes, my feelings. You don’t see me calling a shrink for you, do you?”

  I sputtered something incomprehensible.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak gibberish,” it said. “Look, I’m sorry about the milk. I admit that I acted irrationally. I’m only human, after all.”

  “You’re most certainly not human.”

  “Okay, now that just hurts.”

  “Open the fucking door! Please!”

  The door opened. I found the milk, cranked off the cap. The smell that assaulted my nostrils turned my stomach violently. Retching, I poured the milk—or, more accurately, the cottage cheese-like chunks—down the garbage disposal.

  I made myself eggs and toast, but I went heavy on the butter out of spite. When I put the butter away, the A-2000 informed me that I had lost my butter privilege tomorrow morning. I cursed a rather long and colorful string of obscenities. The A-2000 asked that I please not cuss in its presence, as it found my language offensive.

  In the morning, upset and still sick to my stomach, I headed off to work. But my heart wasn’t into selling houses, and so I decided to call it quits early and headed back home.

  When I came home just after noon the fridge asked why I was home early. I said it was none of its fucking business why I was home early. It said that it was very much its business because if I wasn’t working, then I couldn’t afford to pay my mortgage. And if I couldn’t afford to pay my mortgage, then I would eventually be homeless. And if I was homeless, then I would be abandoning it, the fridge. And it couldn’t have that.

  It also asked me once again to not cuss in its presence.