This Mortal Coil

As was often his habit, Arthur Gilbert listened to a recording of his last stage performance from forty years ago. He listened to the lines and the life in his voice, the intensification of vocal tones and articulation. He would also listen to audio books. The susurrant stream of words lulled him to sleep each time. And today. But the sound of a distinct thud roused him and he remembered what brought him into another state of flux – a dream

“Waking up this morning,” Arthur told his best friend, “I had a dream. I was in a large passenger plane that was crashing in slow motion. When it finally landed nose first, I walked out of the cockpit window.”

Hearing this, his friend and fellow actor told Arthur that he saw a ghost of a man just last night on the ramparts. He wanted Arthur to see for himself. Arthur balked at the idea that an image could tell him anything. But his friend convinced him and Arthur said that he would go see “this poor ghost while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe.”

So that night his friend accompanied Arthur to the “parapet.” There, Arthur was beckoned by a voice to follow it to an enclosed space. Once inside, Arthur heard his bulwark being bombarded thud shudder thud. “Sling n arrows outrageous!”

“Are you OK Arthur?”

“To sleep, perchance to dream. I’m shuffling off . . .”

With acoustic script murmuring and a hovering thumping and whirring around his head, Arthur closed his eyes. After some time, he became aware that he was in a dream.

He left his apartment in east central Indiana and was driving to his home town in Illinois for a funeral. Call me when you get there, his friend told him.

Heading west on I-70 dark-bottomed clouds appeared. He heard packing paper being crunched. He became angry. He didn’t like driving in the rain or at night or to funeral. He didn’t like being cooped up for long rides.

His demeanor softened when he saw distant silos along the way. Memories of friends. His demeanor saddened as he drove further away from them.

Restaurant signs began to appear.

Good’s Family Restaurant

It’s All Good at Bob and Martha Good’s

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A Good Breakfast is not hard to find – Exit ½ Mile

Good’s Family Restaurant

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One Good Turn Deserves Another-Turn Left After Exit

Good’s Family Restaurant

He took the exit for Good’s Family Restaurant. He saw and heard what happened next.

He entered Good’s. He found a booth next to a window. Across from him sat a plump 30-ish woman with fuchsia streaks of hair, tattoos down both arms, and a face mask. She was wiping the table and menu with disinfectant wipes. The squeaking sound annoyed him.

He looked around the room wondering if there was another pandemic that turned everyone into Karens. He saw no one else wearing a mask. To each their own pandemic he said.

A waitress walked up with a pot of coffee.

Mornin’ Coffee?

Yes ma’am.

She turned over a cup and poured the coffee.

Where you headed?

He took a sip. To a funeral.

Someone close?

An ex.

I’m sorry.

She wasn’t.

Did she know Jesus as her personal savior?

He put the coffee down.

You’d have to ask her.

What about you? Do you know Jesus as your personal savior?

Ma’am my relationship with a personal savior began when I came into God’s good creation seventy-five years ago and when I realized that the fires of creation and apocalypse were inside me, I set out to find out what that meant.

He continued. Say, you remind me of Altar-call Jake with his tracts and the folk gospel road that I’d been on. That road reduced the cosmos to four spiritual laws and a personal tow-truck service ready to remove you from life on earth. Those on that road had a strangely-dim view of the things of earth.

He became unsettled. Doesn’t that machine noise bother you?

The waitress stood looking at him with a hand on her hip. Alrighty then. Do you know what you want to eat apocalypse man?

Yes ma’am. Two eggs over easy with hashbrowns and a side of bacon. He looked up from the menu. Are you Martha, Martha Good?

Yes, and I’m with Bob, the man that’s working the kitchen. She pointed to the opening above the counter where a head with a sports cap moved back and forth.

Ain’t no good flirting with me, Martha said with a twinkle in her eye.

Well, Martha Good, I wasn’ . . . well you do have qualities you don’t find every day on the menu. I’m sure Bob is a lucky man. You bring a lot to the table. He looked over at the woman across from him.

He hit the jackpot with me, Martha teased.

Bonanza Bob? he played along.

Is that your final answer?

Yes ma’am.

Martha finished writing the check. You win the million-dollar breakfast. She grabbed the menu and walked off.

After breakfast he walked to the cash register, told Martha that breakfast was satisfying in a Good’s way and she smiled and said Y’all come back after your funeral.

He was back in the car with the whirring thumping.

The wet putty looking sky above the interstate released its moisture. The pit-pat of rain drops became a steady thudding as he crossed the state line. Washing machine rain slashed his windows. Wipers whirred and thumped. He pulled off the road to wait. He didn’t want another rear end accident, another concussion. When a semi-trailer truck swooshed by his head throbbed.

The pounding rain stopped and he got back on the road.

He passed Danville then Champaign. He hooked up with I-72. He passed Decatur. He passed a Springfield sign. There was a thumping clanking noise. Car trouble? He pulled over into a cul-de-sac.

He suddenly felt cramped stiff panicky. His hands twitched. He couldn’t remember for the life of him why he was in this suffocating machine. He wanted out. He cursed the incessant banging clicking whirring clanging and beeping going on around him. Where was he going anyway?

He turned the car around in the cul-de-sac to retrace his way.

He passed the Decatur sign. The Champaign sign. I-74. He passed the Danville sign and looked for the Indiana sign. He saw a familiar sign.

Your Lookin’ Good at the Next Exit

Good’s Family Restaurant

 For Breakfast Lunch and Dinner

He drove to Good’s.

The waitress saw him come through the door, grabbed a menu, and said Welcome back. How was your funeral?

Who died?

No one here.

I can see that. The clanging of dishes and the overhead whirring of the fan bothered him.

The waitress showed him to a booth and handed him the menu.

Coffee?

Yes, and a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.

She wrote the order, grabbed the menu and walked away staring at him.

An ancient scrawny-looking man in a flannel shirt jeans and a Peterbilt hat walked up to the booth across from him. It was the same pipe smoking guy who came out of the rig parked outside his window. It was his Cavendish tobacco father.

The trucker threw down a book on the table with a thud.

What are you reading?

This. The trucker held up the book and then sat down.

The waitress brought coffee, filled his cup and turned to the trucker.

Morning ma’am, the trucker said.

Morning. What y’all reading? She poured him coffee.

The trucker showed her the book.

The Road. Cormac McCarthy. Don’t know it. Is it about trucking?

Well, yeah, in a keep on truckin’ kinda way after an apocalypse with who or what remains.

The waitress looked over at him. You read that, too?

He nodded and said Cannibalism.

Cannibalism? What on earth! The waitress scrunched her face. We don’t serve that here.

What’s left to eat is eaten, the trucker said.

To be eaten or not to be eaten that is the question! Right dad?

The waitress pointed the coffee pot in the trucker’s direction. How about you, fella? Do you know Jesus as your personal savior?

The trucker looked over at him and then at her. Ma’am, I’ve been on the road with him my whole life. But you see this Formula World is in a road race to end things to get on with the next big thing. Escaping the road and getting everyone to heaven before the next big thing, that is one formulation I don’t need. I’m a biker not a passenger in a car being towed off the road.

Uh huh. Just checking your GPS.

I had to break up with my GPS. She kept telling me to take a U-turn in my life!

Some of us need more than one U-turn. The waitress took his lunch order and headed to the kitchen.

What ya hauling?

Motorcycles, parts, manuals.

Where you headed?

Cross country. To the coast. How about you?

Home.

Where’s home?

If I knew that I wouldn’t be here.

What happened, son?

I am being eaten alive on this road. I live by words. I am made of words. And now words are being taken from me.

The trucker leaned over into the aisle Do you know your way home?

I’m seventy-five. I know my way home. What is that high-pitched beeping?

Where is home, Arthur?

Right where I left it.

The waitress brought his soup and sandwich.

Did I order this?

Yes, you did. The waitress put her hands on her hips. It’s not cannibalism but it’ll do.

Then I’ll eat it he snapped back.

The waitress looked over at the trucker and he nodded.

She turned back Everything OK?

Right as rain he replied.

The waitress looked over again at the trucker and then went to the kitchen to retrieve his order.

The trucker leaned over. Arthur, do you have family?

Yes, of course I have family . . . ah, ah . . .  ah daughter.

What’s her name?

What’s her name?

Yes.

If I knew that I wouldn’t be here.

Should you call her?

I did. She told me I had an appointment today.

Did you make it to the appointment?

Damn, that whirring is so annoying.

The trucker got up and put a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up. Are we going to be OK?

You’ll be OK. You’re one of the good guys, Arthur. You’re carrying the fire. Swear that you will carry the fire.

I swear.

Come with me.

Where?

He felt himself being pulled from the booth.

“Arthur, the MRI is done. Let’s take off these acoustic tubes.”

Arthur blinked a reset and looked all around.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

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©J.A. Johnson, Kingdom Venturers, 2025, All Rights Reserved

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