To Have It All(3)

“Are we still meeting at The Mill at six tonight?” she continued. The Mill I did know. It was a fancy restaurant downtown that I’d never been able to afford to eat at, even in the best of times. Even if I’d had the money, I wouldn’t have wanted to. A guy like me wasn’t meant for a place like that. I was a worn barstool at a hole in the wall kind of guy. Run down bars were my forte. I was too rugged for a place like The Mill. But seeing as how I wasn’t exactly me right now, or at least physically me, I supposed all bets were off.

“Uh . . .” I didn’t even have any money. How could I meet her for dinner? But then again, how could I not? She knew who I was . . . at least she knew who this body belonged to anyway. It would probably help to find out as much as I could about him. I could fake a sore throat, that way I’d have a reason for not talking much. Maybe she’d offer to pay. Or maybe he had a wallet somewhere. In my panic thinking about how to pay for the meal, I forgot to answer her.

“Please don’t cancel again, Max,” she added, her tone annoyed and defeated. “I only need ten minutes of your time and then you’ll never hear from me again.”

Whoa. She didn’t sound like this guy’s biggest fan. At least she gave me his name—Max. Knowing his first name didn’t help much, but it was a start. It was only a tiny step forward, but still a step.

“Okay,” I coughed, letting my voice rasp slightly. Had to make a sore throat believable if I chose to feign being ill at dinner. “Six it is. Do we have reservations?”

There was a long pause before she replied, “Yeah. They’re under Torres. See you at six.” The call ended and when the screen cleared it revealed the date.

It was August 24.

“Shit,” I gasped as I leered at the tiny screen. It was five days later . . .

That’s when it all hit me. The screams, the sirens—the pain came rushing back twisting my stomach. I crashed to the ground and lay on my side, holding my belly. Physically I wasn’t hurt, not in this man’s body anyway. It was the memory that knocked me off my feet. The memory of it all was so real, so intense that it felt as though it had just happened.

I’d died.

But I didn’t.

I was still alive.

But I wasn’t me.

I was Max.

The man whose life I’d saved.





The 19th of August



I’d been homeless for ninety-three days.

I’d never had much money. Living paycheck to paycheck was my way of life. I hated it, of course, but there never seemed to be any way out of it. New York is hella-expensive, and a mechanics salary only gets you so far, but I’d always had enough and I loved my job, which was worth more than any amount of money in the world as far as I was concerned—or so I had thought. I learned the hard way that passion doesn’t equal stability. Falling down a flight of stairs and breaking my left arm and right hand taught me that when it left me jobless. Two surgeries with months of rehab and physical therapy cost me my savings and my job. A mechanic kind of needs their arms and hands.

I applied for other jobs, anything ranging from fast-food restaurants to cashiers at grocery stores. But again, these jobs required full use of hands and arms, which I didn’t have. My bad luck snowballed from there as my bills quickly added up, and before I knew it my landlord was posting eviction notices on my door. One day, I came home to all my possessions piled up in front of my building.

I had to leave almost everything in used grocery boxes in front of my rundown apartment building. I could’ve left them at my sister Helen’s house, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Plus, she’d insist on me staying with her, and I refused to do that. My pride seemed more valuable than anything at the time. I was an idiot. I went from a small apartment full of furniture, clothes, and personal belongings to nothing but the clothes I was wearing and a backpack with what I could carry.

With great pain, I sold my most prized possession—my Harley Bobber. My best friend, Lenny, bought it, promising to keep it until I could buy it back. He did me a huge favor buying it. He didn’t need another bike, but he knew what that Bobber meant to me. I’d had that bike for over a decade. It wasn’t worth much monetarily, but it held great sentimental value. The money Lenny paid me from the sale kept me sheltered in a cheap motel for a bit, but eventually, that money dried up.

From that point on . . . I was on the streets.

I kept thinking it couldn’t get worse, that things would turn around if I was just patient and didn’t lose hope, but life continued to prove me wrong when it dumped me on the streets and kept me there. It can always get worse. By the time my hand started to heal after the surgeries, I had regained use of it, but not enough for mechanics work. It would take time for it to heal fully. When I continued to apply for other jobs, anything, no one would hire me because with over a decade in mechanics they knew I wasn’t likely to be a long-term employee and I’d eventually go back to that.

As I said, my sister would have let me crash at her place, but it seemed the longer I stayed away from Helen—optimistic that things would turn around for me—the more impossible it seemed to go to her for help. I couldn’t bear for her to see how far I’d fallen.

Rock bottom.

Most people think they’ve been there before. For me, I wasn’t just there—I’d set up house.