The Voice He Hears (Part 8)

With a half-smile and an obvious response of confusion from Mike’s partial question, the old man uttered, “Hi, uh, I’m looking for Mike Sandersen. Are you Mike?” Mike was so confused by the whole thing–the man from his dream, now, standing at his door and asking for him. He was speechless, and the haze of the alcohol wasn’t helping the whole situation. “No,” Mike replied, “he’s unavailable.” The man looked at him with a smile and said, “I know you don’t want to talk to me, Mike, but may I have a few minutes of your time?”

Mike turned and gestured for him to come inside. Just as he was opening his mouth to ask, “My name is Douglas, Douglas McBride.” The man could see the question in Mike’s face. “I was the one who found your dad’s car.”

It made Mike’s heart jump. He could tell his blood pressure had instantly spiked. With a slurry and flustered voice, Mike asked, “Why in the world do you think you can just knock on my door, come in, and the first thing you say is some shit about my dead dad?” Mr. McBride just stood there with the half-smile. “I’m sorry.” He then turned to head back to the door when Mike quietly spoke, “No, I’m sorry. Stay. Can I offer you a drink? Coffee? Coke? Rum?” “Coffee,” he replied.

Mike walked to the kitchen to warm up the cold coffee from breakfast. He was staring off through the kitchen window when the microwave dinged. “How do you want it, Mr. McBride? The coffee.” “Oh, black is good. Is your mother still at work?” Mike was shaking his head in disbelief as he was pouring the hot coffee from the scalding hot mug into another. The man had shown up in a dream, claiming to be Jesus, shown up at his doorstep, brings up old and buried demons that were buried with his father, and seems to know that his mother is still at work–he seemed to also know about him, in some mysterious way. Nonetheless, Mike was trying to remain patient and kind. He pushed all his wonder aside and said, “Yes, she is.”

He brought the stale coffee into the living room where Mr. McBride was seated. “I used to drink Rum,” he said. He was staring at the partially peeled label on Mike’s bottle. “Huh, that’s interesting,” Mike replied. He grabbed the bottle and poured his usual half glass, topping it off with the warm Coke.


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