Coffee with the Devil: Book 1

by Pat Connid

Excerpt from Book 1 of
                                                            Coffee with the Devil

                                           (a comedy/horror/love story)


I knew the truth of the entire idea seemed unreal. Irrational. But, after trying everything rational, irrational is all that's left.

A thought which, I think, is some bastardization of the Sherlock Holmes' quote about eliminating all the possible impossibles to find the truth.

Which, itself, was some bastardization of some monk's Big Thinking that eventually got him a big, papal frowny face from the pope (not a good idea in the 14th century. Or any century, probably).

That's what I was going on. My maxim.

After trying everything rational, irrational is all that's left.

Sure, it's nowhere near as good as Occam's Razor. It's more like Raz's Frosting Spatula.

But, what was I supposed to do?

I remember those first signs, nearly a year ago now.

At first, she'd just been tired.

Working too hard.

Allergies.

Maybe just putting up with me.

All those things, sure, can sap the energy right out of you.

But then the headaches began. And while all Man's Shiny, Expensive Machines that Go "Ping" can be impressive (at least their cost is), it took a full five months before we had a clue what was wrong.

And by that time, it had been too late.

Like some adolescent, I felt sorry for myself as I could only watch... as the most full-of-life person I'd ever know, slowly be bled of her nineties, her eighties, her seventies, her sixties, her fifties, her forties... the disease had her in its sights and was circling for the kill now.

My Carissa had, again and again, saved my life--in big ways and small.

And here she was dying. It was my turn to at last repay a small portion of that eternal debt.

Turns out, although all my efforts were sincere, I wasn't any good at helping anyone.

Sure, I wanted to. Just what..?

The last time I prayed (clumsily, sure) was at her hospital bedside as she'd, once again, drifted off to exhaustion. I could only watch as the blood drained from her face.

Panic had gripped my chest--was this the time?

The moron doctor had said, at that point, she'd had a few weeks. Maybe a week.

But she'd looked so frail, right then! This woman who'd been bursting with life-- enough to sustain both of us-- was now a shell.

I thought, "It's something I did. She's perfect. Somehow being with me, did this to her."

Before slipping into sleep moments earlier, she'd asked "Are you okay?"

Maybe she was being punished for hooking up with a barnacle like me?

She deserved better. She deserved every last bit of me, whatever I could give.

As trite as it sounds, yep, I did the whole "Help me god, gimme something here, I'll do anything, etc..."

Nothing.

Then, I went for coffee--a moment that changed everything. Or might.

Or won't.

I don't know yet.

In the hospital canteen, I'd spilt that coffee on the guy in front of me in line for the cashier. It was the actor, Ralph Macchio.

Feeling foolish, I jumped back and begged him not to hit me with the Wax on/Wax off move and insisted that I'd pay for his food (despite his objections).

We'd sat down together and he'd assured me, tired of this oft-held conversation obviously, that he'd actually done other movies. He then pulled up his IMDB page on an iPad, detailing each of them (despite my objections).

That chat inspired "the idea."

An irrational idea, sure. But it's all I had left.

First thing I had to do was find out where this "Crossroads" was...

99 pages, Kindle Edition

First published September 24, 2013