Cynthia’s Mug

Cynthia’s a good cop. Was a good cop, anyway. Now she’s frozen. Her body is so dead and cold and I’m here at Plankton drinking water. No ice cubes, no licker. I actually went into the lady’s room and filled up Cynthia’s mug with water from the bathroom sink. It’s warm and gross, like me. Like all earthly things – room temperature. 

When I get back to the bar, Al asks, “You want something stronger tonight?”

I tell him to go to hell and swig from my partner’s mug. The water runs colder now.  I have a vision of the future. I don’t ask for future-visions, they just arrive, unannounced: Cynthia floating on a cloud holding her Glock to her temple. Laughing at all the funny folks living their lives down below. 

“Hey Al,” I say. “Do you think there’s a portal in here? Do you think there’s somewhere we can escape to?”

Al laughs, nervous, his bald head sweating.

I take another sip. The water is ice cold. I look into the mug, no ice. Something’s funny. I can almost smell it. Like Freon mixed with last night’s pickled pigs’ feet. 

I look under the bar. No portal.

I lean over the bar and check out the other side. No portal.

I head over to the jukebox. It hasn’t played a tune in over two decades, but I got a hunch. And sometimes a hunch is the only thing you can depend on. A hunch is what’s saved us all countless times, we just don’t admit it.

I lean on the jukebox. Its cold and dead, grayed out. The songs all but forgotten.

Cynthia’s still on that damn cloud, and now she pulls the trigger, but she doesn’t die again. There’s no blood. There’s no crime. The gun isn’t even a gun. The gun is something else – something that used to bring us life not death. She keeps shooting herself with rainbows and jokes no one’s ever heard before. I chuckle and trip and reach out to the glass top on the jukebox, and then I’m falling through. 

Falling and falling all the way down where the gators mate and the gulls drop off all the peoples Coke cans; and the world teeters just so. There’s a tilt and glow. The mug in my hand is more of a doorknob than something to sip. It’s a friggin’ key, with its own aura. All of a sudden all my failures come rushing back at me. 

No one knows failure like a cop. No one knows what it’s like to go in with those young guns and pride, stock full of belief. Belief in virtuous systems. But that’s not reality, man. That’s the Lord’s work and anyone who thinks they can do That, well, all you’ll find is deviltries. 

“Hey girl,” said a voice.

I turn and face Cynthia. She’s all chill with a badge of gold over her heart. 

“I found you,” I said. “I was in the bar, you know that place, Plankton, and I was looking for a portal. And then I found one. Did you know the portal was in the jukebox all along?”

“You brought me my mug. How sweet of you.”

I handed over the mug.

She took a sip of the good cold water and then smiled.

“Can I ask you a question, old friend?” 

“Shoot,” she says, and points the mug at me as if it’s her Glock.

“What’s all this really about?”

Cynthia leans in and whispers, “Do you really want to know?”

I think about this. Do I really want to know? I nod. Why not?

She leans in and puts her lips to my ear and starts listing off all the things that matter. I cannot repeat them all to you, it would last longer than the story requirements allow. But here’s the gist, here are some of the things that really matter: broken piano keys, lost paintings, words no one ever says, grapefruits without seeds, biceps left unflexed, kidney beans soaked in soup, empty back pockets, the space behind the eyeballs, and aliens that roam city streets. The latter look just like you and me, but we don’t have time to get into all that. 

When her words stop, I find myself leaning against the jukebox. The lights are on, all those songs glowing. I flip through the options searching for the tune that fits the mood. I pick a song that’s never been written, not in this life, anyway. It’s called, “Cynthia Uses the Key to Open the Door that Leads Us All to Glory”.

Al seems to like it. He’s behind the bar, his eyes are closed, swaying his hips, occasionally pumping his fist.