Five Years Ago Yesterday
“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?”
“Need a new kidney.”
“How much time?”
“Five years.”
It’s a brisk morning. While traveling a narrow paved country lane between cranberry bogs, off the side of the road I spot a rotund man named Stan in a red bow tie, checkerboard flat cap and matching suit selling Lincoln retro stovepipe hats from the trunk of his ebony 4-door Studebaker to farmers. Stan’s barking, “Four US bucks, folks. Step right up. Step right up!”
A sucker’s born every minute.
I pull over in a PT/Cruiser, called Woody, and hand Stan, or Stan The Man, a special silver dollar through the window. Off his thumb, he flips it high in the air.
“Heard you have more of them, Jacky-boy.”
I get out. He turns his wrist and says, “Heads.” It drops in his palm. Heads it is. Stan The Man with the pure ivory cane and crooked smile takes a crooked step and yanks open the back door of ‘Stud’ and hands me the hat box stamped underneath – SMITHSONIAN.
“You said on the phone that there are five valuable coins you’re willing to trade for the original hat.”
I pass him the other four. He pulls out a magnifier, squints, and examines each one.
“One more and it’s a deal.”
“No way.”
“Just kidding Jackie-boy. Now drive to the river til you see an ancient covered bridge with a for sale sign.” Another crooked smile.
“Then what?”
“Shout Lincoln’s name three times.”
***
Under the bridge, I’m thinking, this is bullshit. You old fool. “Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Lincoln.” I place the hat upside-down on the ground.
A muddled voice from below says, “Turn it over, please.”
“What’s in it for me if I do?”
“One wish.”
“Yeah, really?”
“They don’t call me Honest Abe for nothing.”
I oblige. A cloud of dust and he rises from beneath the hat, puff, a six-foot-four bearded
man. Sniff, hate to say it but the president stinks. The stove-pipe top hat sits where it belongs.
I check him out against the five-spot in my wallet. Could be an imposter. You never know.
He smacks at his pants and jacket. Dust flies. “Thank you for your service, Jack.” President Abraham Lincoln was the first person to utter that expression. “What can I do for you?”
“My wife Sokha needs a kidney. Been on a transplant list for years. She’s had a rough life, sir. A war refugee from Cambodia. Lady could use a break, sir. Nothing else working, sir.”
President Lincoln puckers his lips, tilts his head, pointing towards my car, Woody. I lift a metal box off the back seat. How did it get here? I place it on the ground and take the lid off the Red Cross box. Fog seeps out. I gasp, cry, and touch the dry ice for a split second. Ah shit! It’s real, alright.
“Two hours to get to Lahey Clinic Transplantation Center in Burlington. Folks are waiting.”
“Bless you Mr. President. Do you need to eat?”
He laughs and taps the brim of his stovepipe top hat. “Thank you, been searching for over 100 years. Now I can rest in peace.” Abraham Lincoln disappears under the bridge. Yes, the one for sale.
I reach into the cell phone pocket of my pale khaki Dockers. “Sokha, you still at the dialysis center, dear? You won’t believe this. . . .”
After I explain, she says, “Bullshit. Gimme a break. Another dream? Another crazy idea? Touch the ice again.”
Sokha won’t believe me unless I do. “You’ve had lots of dreams about kidneys, dear.” She’s growing more tired and forgetful day by day.
“How did you hear about the hat?”
“A good source. Joe the bartender at The Golden Tap knew a guy who knew a guy.”
Ratz. I lift the lid again. Fog rises, I turn my wrist and stare at my retro Timex. Tic tock, tic tock. “Ahhh shit!” Wicked pain. Time’s running out. I hold my chartreuse middle finger tip up to the phone. “Do you believe me now?”
She laughs.
“I’m on the other side of Boston. No time. Call an Uber. Meet you at the clinic. Love ya babe.”
Silence.
Jack and Sokha live happily ever after in a resort town in The Kingdom of Cambodia.