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NOW  BEING & BECOMING a novel by Stan I.S. Law

NEW RELEASE

Some say it's just a paranormal love story

Ascreech of brakes, a dull thud, then silence.

The lights go out. My car's and the lamppost's. Then my own. For a moment I'm completely disoriented, then I begin to see an ocean of stars. Must be lying on my back. 'Why no pain?' I wonder. The other half of my brain answers: 'Post-traumatic shock.' Only I am not in shock at all. I actually enjoy looking at stars. Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

Damn! They'll ruin it all! The oscillating lights of the ambulance follow the wailing sirens.

Wheee... wheee... wheee...

Why can't they switch the blasted things off? The stars are losing their brightness. They've arrived, haven't they? God, how people like noise. Both audio and visual. Noise. Big noise. My head is splitting. People are running up and down, adding to the confusion. They're going frantic. All I can see are their shadows silhouetted against the glaring lights of the cars above me.

"In the ditch! Look in the ditch, George. There's no one in the car. Not that anyone would have survived it. Lamppost one, Honda nil."

Not funny. I am just beginning to hurt all over. Then searing pain hits me right between the eyes. That's where my nose used to be. I decide to get out and let them do their work. I can also see better from outside. Everything is sharper, more distinct. And you should see the colours! Even the light from the streetlamps is split into an array of prismatic shades, like sharp rainbows cutting the night air. And speaking of air... it never smelled so good, and so rich in textures. Like summer and autumn and spring all rolled into one. Isn't it winter, out there?

There sure are a lot of vehicles around. An ambulance, two squad cars with at least four cops, and a dozen other vehicles. They must belong to reporters, or just the curious. Others are still coming-they come out of the night to feed on human misery-the usual accident gazers, maybe even some ambulance chasers. You know, young lawyers looking for a case and some money from the insurance. Or from anyone.

Two cops are slapping their holsters. I wonder if they'll draw their guns and do some target practice the way they do on TV down south, in LA, or somewhere. Or spray everyone with pepper spray. They're good at that, lately. Or zap them with their zappers. Or tasers, or something.

It's amazing how fast a crowd can gather, even on the outskirts of town. One moment it's a quiet country lane, well, almost, and the next a veritable country fair. Everyone's talking, gesticulating, pushing to get as close as they can to the scene of the accident.

"Please stay back," a girl says. Her voice is youthful, but it carries authority. "Now, back!" she repeats unnecessarily. People already took a step back, their necks still stretched out like hungry geese. Maybe she's not used to men obeying her.

"Hey, easy!"

That's me. How come I couldn't hear my own voice? I mean with my ears? For a moment I must have inadvertently slipped back into my body. They pulled me, my body, out of the ditch as if they were in a hurry. I wasn't. For as long as I didn't feel any pain, I didn't care if I was in a ditch or in the ambulance. I hope they didn't forget any of my body parts-you know: legs, arms I seem all disjointed.

All those people...

"Move back, please," says the girl's partner. He backs up his request with a gentle tap on his holster. I wish policemen wouldn't do that. Anyway, the crowd that gathered takes another step back. There must be some thirty or forty people already. Still gawking.

Hey, maybe I'm important? Ha, ha! We all think we are important, but it only shows when we smash into a lamppost. Or slide into a ditch. Nobody wants to be a Nobody. Somebody or not, the pandemonium they make is unbearable.

"I knew this would happen! I knew it!"

"It was only a question of time!" An elderly woman nods her agreement. I wonder what she's doing this far out, at this time of the night, on a night like this. Shouldn't she be at home putting her grandchildren to bed?

"With all the taxes we're paying, they could do a better job." Everybody's a wise guy. Or a wise girl. Woman.

Why do people make such a fuss? Accidents happen all the time. In nature they're called mutations. If it weren't for mutations, there would be no evolution. Only, right now, I seem to be rapidly devolving. My head hurts and I feel woozy. Christ, it hurts. And then it doesn't. In an instant it goes away. The pain, I mean. It doesn't hurt at all. I feel great. Light as a feather. Wow! This is fun!

I see them moving me on the stretcher. Yep! I'm all there. Bloody, twisted, but all there. I wonder why I feel so protective of my body. Ex-body? This, too, is wonderful. They are moving me like a sack of potatoes and I don't feel anything. No pain, not even discomfort. In fact...

In fact, I don't feel anything besides lightness. Except for a feeling of laissez faire. A 'let things be' attitude. As if nothing much mattered. From the owner of a vicious headache, I instantly became a bystander. An observer. I seem to be floating about, oh, I don't know, some distance above the crime scene. Only this isn't a crime scene. Except for the cops. They still haven't shot anyone. That's a change. There are now three squad cars. All spinning their violet lights. Only they don't hurt my eyes anymore. I don't care what they spin.

I watch dispassionately as the medics place my body on a portable stretcher and cart it off to an ambulance. Two guys in yellow jerseys outside pushing, two more inside pulling the stretcher in. I wonder why they bother. As I was saying, I don't hurt at all. In fact, I feel just fine.

Wheee, wheee, wheee...

The ambulance takes off amid gyrating lights. Good riddance. Too late I realize that my body is gone. What am I supposed to do now? I have half-a-mind to speak to the cops and ask them where they are taking me. My body, I mean. Surely, I have a right to know? But they seem busy. The tapes are out; they are measuring the skid marks. Others are snapping pictures with flashlights galore. Still other officers in blue are taking notes; one is speaking into a cell phone. She's quite cute, that one. Must be new on the force. Doesn't look more than eighteen or so. Then I remember Ruth. Watch it, boy, I tell myself. And anyway, there's not much you can do without a body. That makes me laugh. Ruth at home, a cute babe practically all over me, actually all under me, and I have no body. In fact, she doesn't even know I am here.

That's when it hits me. I'm dead. I'm bloody dead. For crying out loud, shouldn't somebody say something? A psalm, or sprinkle some holy water on me? I know I was not a regular churchgoer, but come on A bit of Christian charity wouldn't hurt? Forgive and forget? I think forget is the easy part. Then it strikes me. Do dead people go to church?

I am dead and nobody knows it. I suppose they all think I'm still in that body they drove away.

And then it hits me again. Poor Ruth. Poor, darling, little Ruth. She'll cry. And she did tell me not to take that second Scotch. Poor Ruth.