Philo Returns Home
by Charles C. Cole
Philo returned home a day early, his tail between his legs, from a weeklong conference. He’d gotten carried away, with the help of alcohol, and behaved unprofessionally in a very public space. Details not needed and best forgotten. The result: termination.
Philo’s wife, not yet fully informed, let their golden retriever, Aronnax, out the door to greet him, to cheer him up as only canine love could. Nax was such a delightful spaz, whimpering at Philo’s feet one moment and the next running in barking circles in the yard like a dog fresh out of a stressful bath.
All that unbridled dog emotion, however, came to an abrupt end with a taunting squirrel and a collision with a fast car driven by a distracted teen.
Having lost his job and best friend within 24 hours, Philo was certifiably inconsolable, reasonably. His wife, Barb, took the kids to her parents’ house so they wouldn’t have to see their father’s demonstrative breakdown. She “allowed” him time and space to work through his darkest hours without worrying that he’d freak out their two little boys.
A casual friend, one familiar with recreational drugs, recommended something laced with fentanyl, offered at a discount, to cut the edge off. Philo was familiar with the drug and knew of its lethal reputation but, in his vulnerable state of mind, he would have said yes to acupuncture performed with rusty staples for the promise of temporary relief.
It should be said that Philo’s elderly father in his last weeks fighting cancer had worn a pain-relieving fentanyl patch on the back of his shoulder, which Philo had been instructed to place — and remove — while wearing protective latex gloves. Such was the almost-mythic raw power of the pharmaceutical. In other words, Philo knew better, but proceeded anyhow.
Philo remembered semi-napping on the living room floor near Nax’s toybox and the distinct sensation of being trapped underwater, needing air. But he couldn’t figure out which way was up, like it mattered, and he was convinced there was more breathable air outside the house than inside. If Philo could just stand, he reasoned, things would get better. Finally, in a moment nearing clarity, he decided to call his wife so she could call for help. And then he blacked out, which is to say Philo died.
Everything got loud: the ticking of the clock on the wall, the burbling of the kids’ fish tank, the hum from the refrigerator in the kitchen. There was a blindingly bright light, big enough to be a doorway, and the host of a morning TV show from his childhood stepped through, unaged, closing the door behind him. Admiral Hazard, chubby and perky as ever, was coming to the rescue. Hazard was dressed all in white, in a peaked cap, wearing loose shorts and knee-high socks held up by garters.
“Oh my goodness, someone’s run aground!” said the Admiral. “No matter. We’re here now.”
“Help me!” Philo said.
“Time to weigh anchor, sailor! All will be shipshape soon. Your ride is coming.” Hazard blew into his boatswain’s pipe, and a shrill sound brought Philo reluctantly to his feet, like the smacking of two metal trashcan lids had done in bootcamp. The room swayed briefly then settled, while remaining in preternaturally sharp focus. Philo noticed a familiar human body crumpled on the floor behind the Admiral.
“Is that me?” Philo managed, not risking a peek around his guest.
“Yes and no. Yes and no. Yesterday’s news. For now, we must batten the hatches and trim the sails. You have a voyage ahead of you, young man.”
“Listen, I’m sure you mean well, but I really could use some—”
“Answers! Everyone always needs answers. Yes, and you shall get them. But there’s a limo pulling in the drive any minute now, and my job is to get you in it.”
“Am I dead?”
“Yes and no. Yes and no. You’re more alive now than you were the last five years in that unrewarding job, if you ask me. You’d lost your spark, irrevocably, and there was nothing short of a reboot to get it back. But now our mainsail is perpendicular to the wind, and we’re tacking back toward the harbor.”
“Respectfully, Admiral Hazard, sir, I’d appreciate you using simple words and short sentences.”
“Charon is coming,” said Hazard.
“Charon? The deliveryman who carries souls of the newly deceased to Hades?”
“He has a tight schedule. He’ll explain everything.”
A horn honked.
“Do I want to look?” Philo asked, indicating the body.
The Admiral shrugged noncommittally. “Sometimes it helps the reality settle in but, in my experience, most are convinced it’s not really them. We look less than real, waxy, when the life’s been drained out of us.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Philo looked about the house, especially at the various family photos on the wall. “I hope they don’t think I killed myself.”
“After your dealer left, you wrote down, in exacting detail, the instructions he dictated to you for self-medicating. I think that will indicate your intent.”
Philo stood just inside the front door. “What a stupid way to die! Next lifetime: no alcohol and no drugs, ever.”
“Good for you!”
Car honk.
“Off you go,” said Hazard, congenially.
“Final question: Why you? Were my parents embarrassed?”
“Uncle Dewy’s in the hospital. They wanted to be ready.”
Philo stepped outside. The black limo looked as real as his house. Maybe more real. Philo felt like weeping. Helluva day.
The back door of the limo popped open, and Aronnax came bounding out.
“Nax!” Philo stooped down to pet his dear friend. This was real. “Did you know this was gonna be my day? Is that why you got yourself killed, so you could come with me? You’re amazing!”
The two climbed into the limo. Philo threw his arm around the shoulder of his dog and hugged him close. “I don’t know where we’re going,” he said, “but it helps that you’ll be there.”
Copyright © 2020 by Charles C. Cole
