Old Spice

I can’t say I truly believed that Brian’s dead father was speaking to him through the napkin dispenser at Cattle Mutilations. But Brian sure as hell believed it. And you know what? I’ve heard crazier things in my wicked life.

Not just any napkin dispenser would do, according to Brian. He had to be sitting in a particular booth to receive his messages from beyond.

This one here, he said one afternoon last June, showing me the way.

It was the booth at the very back, by the jukebox.

Dad loved jazz, he said, and that jukebox right there? It’s got Kind of Blue, his favorite.

Brian slid a dollar into the machine and picked “All Blues.”

That day, for the first time, I watched Brian pull a napkin from the dispenser and smooth it out on the table between us.

See this? he said, tracing a series of creases in the napkin with his index finger. He’s saying hello and asking me about the transmission in my Chevy.

I saw something, a nebulous geometry, but I couldn’t say for sure what it was.

He must have seen something skeptical in the way I drank my gravy, because he suggested we perform a little experiment.

Let’s try other booths, he said. You’ll see. I guarantee it will wipe that smug gravy off your face.

Even though such behavior was against regulations, we proceeded to booth-jump. In each new booth, Brian pulled a fresh napkin from the dispenser.

Nothing, he said each time. Nada. Do you see now? Do you understand?

To be honest, all the napkins looked the same to me, and I told Brian as much.

Nevertheless, said Brian. You have to look in, not at. To me, it is so clear.

We went back to the booth by the jukebox. That’s when the owner of Cattle Mutilations came over.

Saw you two booth-jumping, she said. Please don’t do that. We have a system here.

Sorry, said Brian. It was an experiment.

Sorry, I said.

We have a system, she said.

The owner crossed her arms, then put her arms akimbo, then put one across her chest and one akimbo. The posture suited her.

Your malts will be right out, she said.

She walked back to the kitchen, but backward, keeping her eyes on our table the whole time. She bumped into nothing, even sidestepping a dropped dollop of mashed potato.

Damn, I said. She’s good.

Brian pulled a napkin from the dispenser.

Dad says she has the second sight, said Brian. One foot in this world, one in the next.

He said all that? I said, looking down at the napkin. Where?

Not in so many words, said Brian. But it’s all right here.

He stroked the napkin with his hand.

I don’t expect you to believe me, he said.

But why a napkin dispenser? I said. Of all things? Why that?

Brian just shrugged his shoulders. He smelled the napkin. Old Spice, he said.