A story of one soul during two lives

I stretch and blow out a pungent cloud of smoke rings. “I want to go to a concert or rave every night for the rest of my life,” I declare, passing the joint. “Come party with me. We’ll spend all my money. We can have large orgies here. I want to dance my life away.”

She examines me, cross-eyed, as she draws on the spliff. “You have a book to write,” she reminds me. “And I don’t think you should ditch your fortune just yet. You may need it.”

“For what? I’ll be dead in less than a year, Llewellyn. There’s no one I need to take care of. I may as well enjoy it.”

She inhales. “There might be something for you, Victor. Can I make a phone call?”

“No,” I say with a mock-Stalin accent. “You’re a hostage of the Slavic Cobras. Unless your government accedes to our demands, you will be kept here and repeatedly raped until dead.”

Llewellyn shrugs, not in the mood for silly games. “I doubt you could manage that by yourself. I seem to remember somebody saying, ‘Please, stop, I need to rest it, you’ll make it sore.’” She picks up my cell phone and I watch her ass ripple as she walks into the living room.

“Carmen? Llewellyn. Listen, I have a candidate for the DM experiment. What? Yeah, he’s terminal. I can verify at least seven lives, including the two most recent. James fucking Joyce, that’s who! Can you set up a meeting with everybody? ASAP, of course. The man is dying! Tomorrow at six? Perfect. Can you arrange to have everyone be there? What? I’m busy. Comforting him. He just got the news this morning. Yeah, I owe you one. Call this number if anyone important can’t make it. Love ya. Peace.”

“Who was that?” I ask in an offhand way when she returns.

“My sister. She’s involved in psi, too.”

“What’s DM? What does my being terminally ill have to do with it?”

“Directed metempsychosis. Listen, I really don’t want to tell you too much about this before tomorrow. I don’t want you to form any preconceptions. Can you be there?”

I grin at her cannily. “I don’t know. Do you think we can get through the Kama Sutra again by then?”

She sighs. “Baby, I’ve got appointments tomorrow. And I have to get home and meditate. That’s what I had on my schedule to do, before I decided to get high and laid instead.” She produces a yellow Post-it pad, locates a pen on the floor, and briefly scribbles. “Here. Come to this address. It’s right on the Row, just a few blocks from my office.”

I stare at the square. 1620 Illustration Ave. #18. Reality vibrates. Not precisely deja vu. More like the opposite. An odd sensation this will happen again.

She is dressing. “Once more?” I plead.

She hesitates. “Once more,” she agrees.

*  *  *  *  *  *