Nearly Departed Max Schlienger (important of reading books .TXT) 📖

“Oh, I’ll let you out,” the woman said. She hurried past September, nearly knocking him into one of the cat-like statues, and opened the door. Even in the brief few moments he had been inside, the rain had mostly dissipated, leaving a damp coating of water on the ground and a thin mist blurring the air. September walked forward, pulling on his gloves and trying not to appear clumsy as he wrestled with his briefcase.

“I sincerely hope that things work out for you,” he said as he stepped outside. The woman leaned against the doorframe and watched him leave.

“Goodnight, Doctor September.” He winced even before he answered, but saw no way of avoiding it at this point.

“Goodnight, Moon.”

Then, with a nod of his head, he turned on his heel, walking up the street and into the night.

The man called September arrived at his beat-up green car with the unpleasant feeling of cold water running down the back of his neck. His attempts at locating the source of the drip had proved futile, and had left him with a stiff shoulder rather than a dry spine. He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it into the back seat, followed shortly by his hat. A few seconds after climbing in himself, he remembered that his phone was still trapped in one of the overcoat’s pockets, and he reached back to try and find it. Outdated though it was, he fervently hoped that the phone had not fallen out while he was in Alberta “Moon” Bennett’s house, and he felt a sense of relief when his fingers finally closed around its shape. A quick check of the display showed that he had missed a few calls from “Thoreau’s,” but that was probably just Luke calling him in an effort to impress some girl he had met.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled into the driveway of a small house on the southern edge of San Francisco. The highways had been all but deserted, save for a few police cars and one very angry-looking teenager, and the trip had been otherwise uneventful. September set the car’s parking brake, grabbed his briefcase, hat, and coat, and walked up to the front door, which swung open as he reached for the handle. An attractive woman in her late twenties glared out at him, brushing a curl of chestnut-colored hair from her face.

“How many times have I asked you to tell Luke to stop calling past nine?” she said. “If he has to call, he should call you on your cell phone. And he should learn to get dates without your help.” She reached out to take the briefcase, and pulled September into the house.

“I missed you too, Alena,” he replied jokingly. The house was warm and inviting, particularly after the rain. Matching couches in a relaxed off-white color flanked the spacious area, and the marble coffee table at the living room’s center was piled high with dog-eared novels.

“Still not enough to wear your ring, I see,” Alena joked back. She tossed a silver band at him, and he fumbled to catch it. “Honestly, Dennis, would it be that bad if people knew you were married?”

He slid the ring onto his finger. Then, wincing, he reached up to peel the fake beard from his face. Tiny flakes of glue still clung to his skin, but he was immediately more recognizable as himself.

“September can’t be married,” replied Dennis. “I mean, half of these women want to hit on him.”

“On you, you mean.” She gave him a warm smile. Alena and Dennis Gufehautt had been married for nearly a year now, and she wasn’t showing any signs of losing her youthful beauty. Luke, Dennis’s best friend (and best man) had warned him that marriage would “Turn that fox into an elephant,” and was always quick to encourage Dennis to spend more time at Thoreau’s, the bar where Luke worked. In truth, his friend was mainly interested in using Dennis’ presence for his own prospects, since Dennis had been bestowed with minor celebrity status after mentioning the bar in his recently-published book. He wasn’t bothered by it, although Luke’s late-night phone calls did have the unpleasant effect of irritating his wife.

“Me, him… It’s all relative. Hell, do you remember that hag from last week? She actually mentioned me by name.”

“You, or you?” Alena asked jokingly. She shoved Dennis’ shoulder good-naturedly. “Go wash your hair. I don’t want any more gray stains on the pillowcases.” Dennis touched his temple experimentally and examined the tips of his fingers. The label on the spray he used claimed that the color would stand up to quite a bit of wear, although the pale ring that had been forming on the inside of his hat said otherwise. He smirked as he moved towards the bathroom, picturing a gray residue on the head of a wooden cat sculpture. No doubt it would be attributed to spiritual essence or something.

“So, how did it go?” came Alena’s voice from the other room. Dennis waited before answering, fully aware that her interest was only for his benefit. Alena had never spoken against Dennis’ profession – which was more of a hobby, anyway – but he was well aware that she disapproved. In her opinion, his time was better spent writing, rather than in the presence of delusional and occasionally deranged followers of the occult. There had been times, he had to admit, when he had felt like he had gotten in over his head, and more than one occasion where the validity of his advice had been called into question. Secretly, though, it was the thrill of the act that Dennis enjoyed, and it was something that he just couldn’t find while sitting in front of a keyboard.

“It went well enough,” Dennis answered finally. He opened the medicine cabinet and removed a small bottle of fluid, the contents of which he rubbed on his face. The oily