Story A Day May: With Friends Like This…

It’s hard to believe April’s behind us already, along with the A to Z Challenge! It was my second year participating, and I’m happy that I actually managed to stay on schedule this year (except for one minor delay).

And, because I’m a glutton for puni…err..thoroughly passionate writer, I’ve also signed up for Story A Day May. So without further ado, let’s launch in to the first tale:

The Prompt

You attend the funeral of an old friend.
Afterwards, in the mail you receive a postcard. It’s from the friend, and it reads “I’m not dead. Meet me Tuesday night at 8 at ____________.” And signed by him/her.
First make a list of possibilities for how this could be the case.
Begin your story with, or after, the arrival of the postcard.

The Tale

David Fairweather and I had been friends since high school. We sat together at lunch. We laughed at jokes nobody understood. We went on a double date on prom night. And somehow, despite the distance that separated us during our crazy college years, we managed to stay in touch. I was there at his wedding to congratulate him. And just two days ago, I was there at his funeral to console his widow.

So when a postcard arrived this morning with David’s signature on it, I was surprised to say the least. Though not as surprised as when I read it.

“I’m not dead. Meet me Tuesday night at 8 at Lonnie’s.”

I spun the postcard in my hands over and over, my fingers tracing its sharp corners as my mind tried to make sense of it all.

David Fairweather was dead. I read a goddamn eulogy at his funeral.

Was it some sort of prank? A sick joke perpetrated by…I couldn’t even imagine who would be that twisted. I looked down at the postcard again. It was definitely David’s handwriting. I’d recognize that looping script anywhere. I’d seen it on so many postcards he’d sent from his trips. David loved to travel and, even more than that, he loved to document his travels.

The last postcard he sent me was from somewhere in Nepal. He was trekking in the mountains and visited a monastery. Went on about some mystic mumbo jumbo. He always did love his tall tales. David just got back from Nepal a week ago, and then…the accident. The one that sent him to his next grim destination.

Seemed only fitting he’d send a postcard from beyond the grave. Except the grave was empty, apparently.

Who the hell did we bury then?

It was a closed casket funeral because of the horrific injuries David had suffered in the accident. It hurt so much to say goodbye to my old friend without getting to see him for one last time. Was that all a ruse? A carefully orchestrated fake funeral? Why?

There was only one way I was going to get any answers.

On Tuesday, I went straight home after work. I put on a heavy overcoat, thankful that the weather was still brisk, and paired that with a scarf and the biggest pair of sunglasses I could find. I hoped it would be enough for David, or whoever wrote the postcard, not to recognize me right away.

At 7:45, I was sitting at the bar counter with a beer in hand. I took a couple of small sips as I looked around. No familiar faces. No one that looked suspicious. Though in this case, I had no idea what ‘suspicious’ would even look like.

At 8:05, I was already getting antsy, my beer half-drained. Most of the people in the bar were with friends. There were a few loners, but it didn’t look like they were waiting for anyone. No sign of David at all.

By 8:20, I was convinced it had just been a very bad joke. Some bored jackass mocking a grieving man. I pulled out the postcard from my pocket. The handwriting. Would someone really go to the trouble of replicating it so precisely just for a laugh?

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

The voice sent a jolt up my spine, almost causing the card to slip out of my fingers.

David was sitting on the stool next to me. Not somebody that looked like him. Not a guy with a bad makeup job or a mask. David. Looking very much not dead. I had no idea how to react to that, no idea what to say. There were so many questions running through my mind, begging to be asked.

“What the hell, Dave?”

That was a start.

He motioned to the bartender, then turned back to me with a grin.

“You’re probably gonna need a few more drinks. What I’m about to tell you can…get a little weird.”

“Weirder than me talking to my friend days after his funeral?”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

“I – I don’t understand, Dave. What’s going on? How are you alive? Are you alive? Am I going crazy? Talk to me, man.”

The questions came pouring out of me as the relief over seeing Dave alive evaporated and was replaced by a cocktail of worry, fear and curiosity.

“Whoa!” he held his hands out.” Easy there, bud. All of your questions will be answered in time.”

He picked up the beer that the bartender plonked down in front of him and took a long sip.

“You remember the monks I told you about in Nepal? Did you know they’ve been over there since the 5th century?”

I scratched my nose, more confused than ever. “Okay…so you went to some really old monastery. What does that have to do with – ”

“No, no. Not the monastery. The monks. Those monks, the ones I met. They’re the really old ones.”

I must have misheard him. “What?”

“The monks that I met in Nepal,” he repeated, as if explaining it to a child, “have been around since the 5th century.”

It started clicking into place. It still didn’t make any sense, and I could feel more questions trying to push their way past my lips. I gestured to the bartender.

“You’re right. I’m gonna need several more drinks.”

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