Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

than light itself. You’re not afraid of the speed, not afraid of crashing, not afraid of dying. Because what the hell, you’re already dead.

Next comes the heavenly brakes gently applied and you find yourself standing inside the pool of light. There’s somebody walking toward you. At first the somebody looks like ET waddling through all that light. You know, just a little dark, awkward silhouette. But soon ET begins to take shape. The closer it comes at you, the more it takes on a human form. Then, just like that, the silhouette becomes a real person.

It’s your dad.

Holy crap, you haven’t seen your dad since he bought the farm from the big C all those years ago. And the funny thing is, he’s younger than you are now. He died at forty-six years old and you just turned forty-eight. Now you’re older than the old man and you’re standing there inside all eternity with him.

You’re not sure what to do. You don’t know the newly-arrived-in-heaven protocol. Do you hold out your hand for him to shake? Do you take him in your arms and embrace him? You were sort of close back on earth. But you weren’t touchy feely.

You opt for the easy way out.

—Yo, what’s up, Dad?

The old man is dressed in the suit you buried him in under the oak tree at the Albany Rural Cemetery. Black pinstriped double-breasted, bright red rose on the lapel, hair slicked back with Dippity-Do. He looks pretty damn good for a guy been dead going on three decades.

—Son, I’ve missed you. I’ve been able to watch the play-by-play over the years and I must say, life hasn’t been easy for you.

Okay, now you feel red-faced embarrassed. Was it possible for the old man to see everything you’ve done? With and without clothes on?

—You know what happened then…to my head?

You find yourself touching the small button-sized scar behind your right ear, where a frag of .22 caliber hollow-point penetrated your skull during an aborted suicide attempt that went bad. If any of that makes sense.

—Son, things kind of got out of control. Your wife, she had an affair with your partner. Then you fell in love with a sadly married scarlet-haired beauty whom you could not have, and it nearly killed you both.

—You disappointed in me, Dad?

—You lived. You survived for your boy. But Richard, you are a hopeless victim of love.

The old man is smiling at you now. You can’t believe he’s really there in front of you. Alive but dead. Younger but older. But time is of the essence here, and you decide to pull off the nearest exit on this conversation and take a new route.

—What’s it like being dead, Dad?

—You tell me.

—No, I mean for a long time.

—Time is a nothing here.

—Are we in heaven?

—You could say that. I believe I raised you to believe in that kind of thing.

—What should I do first?

—Nothing.

—Nothing?

—You do nothing because you’re not done with life.

—Not done with life…I don’t get it.

The old man’s smile melts off his face. He takes a step back, purses his lips. You pick up on the old man’s expression right away. It means the earth, or should you say heavenly space, is about to shift right out from under your feet.

—I’m not staying, am I, Dad?

—You’re not ready, kid.

You recall the Some Young Guy your sig other was nearly tonguing inside the hospital room. You see something else, too. In your dead head you see the Obama-masked mugs of those mofos who pulled you off the street, pulled you into a back alley, kicked you in the face, kicked you in the kidneys.

But the good news is this: If you do come back alive, you might be able to take care of some unfinished business with said Obama-masked thugs. But then something else dawns on you. It dawns on you that if your dad could see you from heaven, then maybe he can help ID the bastards who further fucked up your already fucked up head. Masks or no masks.

—Dad, who killed me?

—You can’t ask me questions like that, son. It’s against the rules.

—Are they the Russians I put out of business? They had accents, I think. Or are they the on-the-take cops I exposed? Were they sent by my ex-wife to collect for back child support? Speak to me, Dad!

—You have work to do, Richard.

—What about that guy with Lola in the hospital room, Dad? Some Young Guy! You must have seen him. I couldn’t get a good look at his face. At least tell me his name!

But the old man isn’t talking anymore. Not about thugs; not about Lola’s new lover. Maybe up in heaven that’s considered cheating. He’s just back-stepping, back into the light.

Correction: he’s not walking so much as he’s floating back into the light, his body getting smaller and smaller, his figure becoming silhouetted against the light. Until finally he becomes one with the light.

That’s when something amazing happens. The light disappears. It’s replaced with that tunnel, or wormhole. You’re speeding through the wormhole so fast you feel the skin on your face peeling back away from your skull. That skin means you’re becoming human again. And because you’re human again, the lacerations on your arms begin to throb, your broken nose begins to bleed, your teeth loosen up, lips swell, your big black eye closes back up, your spleen bleeds internally, your kidneys balloon to twice their size, a big gash opens up on your right side, your temperature rises to a dangerous 103.5 degrees Fahrenheit.

Like careening out of control down a long schoolyard slide, you’re going too fast. Until there’s no slide left, and you drop flat onto your glutes, the entirety of your 175 pounds re-injected into damaged skin and bone. You suck in a breath, open your one good eye to a blinding overhead light, and abracadabra-holy-freakin’-crap, you’re alive again.

Moonlight rises.

Click here to learn more about Moonlight Rises by Vincent Zandri.

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