Soul Man

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Host paced back and forth muttering obscenities non-stop. After five minutes of constant swearing, he went into the bedroom and flicked on the light.

Consistent with the rest of the suite, the bedroom’s furniture was sparse, worn, but functional. A small desk with a laptop perched open on its surface sat in one corner with an office chair. A queen-sized bed with a flimsy headboard, a six-drawer dresser, and a nightstand with a lamp were the remaining pieces. The bed was made and there was no clutter to be seen—not even a stray sock on the floor. A tattered suitcase peeked out from the closet, which also contained several shirts hanging neatly.

He's been here a while. This place doesn’t look like it offers daily maid service, yet everything is neat, clean, and orderly. I suspect my Host has OCD.

Jeez. I can hear Linda now, 'just because someone is neat and you're not, doesn't mean they have OCD.' True enough. He might be former military, and it’s his military discipline, or he was taught well at home. But given how carefully he folded his sweatshirts when most every other guy would toss them on top of the chair, I am confident in my diagnosis.

Host sat at the desk, the chair squeaking under our weight. He opened the laptop and went to The Kansas City Star website and searched for "shooting Warren Ruth." In a second, an article appeared describing my murder.

There is no way to describe the experience of reading about your own murder. How could there be? If I controlled the body, I probably would have thrown up. I tried to be analytical, looking for clues that may help me identify my killer. Who was Host, and what motivated him?

The piece included a couple of pictures. One showed the BMW with a bloodstain by the driver's door—my blood—obscured partially by the snow. Fortunately, my body wasn't there. Since the picture was taken at night, not much else could be seen. The article also contained a headshot of me. I was glad they used the one from my website, which was three years old and more flattering.

Christ, I'm reading an article about my murder, and I'm worried whether they used a flattering photo?

We read the article. Reading without controlling the eye movement reminded me of watching subtitles on a foreign language film, only a lot more intimate. Chalk up one more absurdity in this

Picassoesque day. At least he was a rapid reader.

Details were sparse. The police had no leads regarding the killer’s identity or motivation for the attack, only a surveillance photo showing a shadowy figure standing by the building. You could tell he wore a cap, jacket, backpack, and sunglasses and had long hair and a beard, but there was nothing that could identify Host. The article did mention the police believed the murder was personal, and robbery was not a motive.

Our body tensed as we read about me, my practice, and my family. Host uttered another "f**k" under our breath as the article mentioned the two young kids I left behind. To my relief, the report did not discuss the pending divorce, only calling Linda my "estranged" wife. They did not interview her, although she may have refused any request.

I was not the intended target.

The realization hit me with the force of a semi going full speed, with a new wave of emotions washing over me.

Thank god, my family is not at risk. However, I am still just as dead, mistake or not.

Anger displaced relief. I became furious my life had been stolen because this fuckin' i***t asshole shot the wrong guy. Now my beautiful children would grow up without a father.

At least he showed some remorse at my tragedy.

Wait, if I am not the target, who is? Oh, God…Host will likely try again. The actual target must be the owner of the BMW I mistook for my own. Whoever he is—and it must be a he, since I was mistaken for him—his life is in significant peril. And he may not know it.

Now I had a purpose. Somehow, I had to prevent this murder. I didn't want another family to suffer and be torn apart. And I certainly did not want to be an unwitting and helpless witness to it.

Host stared at the article before slowly shutting the laptop. Sighing, he headed for the bathroom. After flicking on the light, he went to the tub, turned on the faucet without stoppering the drain, and proceeded to undress.

There was barely enough room to do this, as the bathroom was tiny. The fixtures were original, making them seventy years old or more, judging from the rest of the building. Tacky wallpaper adorned the wall, edges peeling.

Host never gazed directly at the mirror, indicating a lack of vanity. It was frustrating, though, as I desperately wanted to know what I now looked like. To get some idea, I paid close attention to our peripheral vision as he undressed to see any reflection of ourselves in the mirror. A few times, I got rewarded for my effort.

While I did not get a good glimpse at my face, I saw enough to be impressed with my new home. We had short-cropped sandy hair and broad shoulders. To my pleasure, we were ripped, including an impressive six-pack with no evidence of excess fat. As far as bodies go, I hit the jackpot—akin to trading an older Volt for a new Ferrari. And, as another glance showed, one with an extra-large engine.

Given that I might have ended up in some crinkly old body near death, I gave silent thanks my prison was at least first class.

A few other details stood out. For one, several scars dotted the body, predominantly on our chest but also on our right leg, our right arm, and Host’s face. They appeared old but still plainly visible, indicating deep wounds, and explaining the soreness.

Before stepping into the tub, Host turned enough for me to see a tattoo on our right shoulder. I recognized it immediately—the "Budweiser"—wings and talon. Host was a former Navy Seal.

Now naked, he headed to the tub and stuck his hand in the water, which was warm. He twisted the right-hand knob, making it hotter. Following a second test, he turned the center nob, which started the stream out of the showerhead, and partially closed the most certainly unsanitary curtain.

Before climbing into the tub, Host stopped at the toilet to relieve the pressure building within, to our shared relief, providing another peculiar moment.

How weird is this—holding another man’s d**k? Only, I guess it’s mine now, too. Feels slightly different—yes, bigger. Linda would be pleased.

The perspective is also a bit different; the toilet is slightly farther away. The added height is causing more splatter. Never really watched another man pee so close before. Even his waggle is strange.

Finished, he bent down and grabbed some toilet paper.

You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s wiping up the splatter. Yep. Host is definitely OCD.

The experience drove home the new reality I faced. Whatever "I" was, I now resided in a new body. A great body, but one already occupied.

He took our time in the shower, perhaps subconsciously doing a spiritual cleanse as well as a bodily one. The hot water was soothing. We stood there, face buried in the spray, letting the water run down our body. Steam swirled around. Hot, moist air filled our lungs.

Eventually, he grabbed the small bar of hotel soap. As he soaped, I gained a greater appreciation of our shared vessel.

After toweling off, he proceeded to brush our teeth. For this, he had to stare into the mirror, allowing me to finally gaze upon my new face. I was not disappointed. Perhaps the best description would be ruggedly handsome, with piercing dark brown eyes that were almost black, thick eyebrows, and a square jaw covered with an overly heavy five-o’clock shadow. A long, thin scar down the right side of the face added to the mystique. This boy had seen some action.

Strange, the face seems familiar, like I’ve seen it before. Yet, I have no idea where or when. I am sure I don’t know him personally. His features are classic, though, so perhaps he simply fits the stereotype.

When he finished brushing, Host gathered the clothes lying on the bathroom floor and headed to the bedroom without bothering to dress. He opened the closet door further, revealing a clothes hamper, which he opened and dumped in the clothes. However, before climbing into bed, Host retrieved his gun from the living room and placed it beneath the pillow. Knowing nothing about firearms, I prayed the safety was on and could not accidentally be taken off by our movements when we were asleep. Dying once was enough for one day.

What is he so afraid of? Is this a PTSD reaction? Or is there something real threatening him—us?

We thrashed around in bed, turning side to side and front to back over and over. As we did, I wondered what would happen when Host finally fell asleep. Would I also sleep? Did a disembodied mind need sleep?

The answer came quickly. The thrashing slowed, then stopped as the alcohol consumed likely took effect.

Dear God, what is that wretched noise? Geez. We seem to have a terrible snoring problem. Maybe this is why he’s sleeping alone in a flophouse…

Then the impact of remaining awake while Host slept hit me.

Interesting. My body is asleep, and not only am I awake, but my senses are all working, not just my hearing.

I filed this bit of information for later contemplation as it had significant implications as to my new state and the brain's functioning. But that was for future conjecture. At the moment, I had more pressing concerns.

Since he’s asleep, if I am to gain control of the body, now would be the time to try.

Okay, get up!

Nothing. The body ignored my order.

Unfortunately, the process was not to be quick. The body did not automatically respond to me. But I was determined.

I am receiving input from the body—my senses work, and I feel pain, hunger. So if the nerves work one way, they should work the other. I just need to learn how to communicate with the body.

The thought reassured me. I had to be careful, though, as I did not want to wake Host, fearing he would instantly regain control. That meant keeping our eyes closed for now.

Getting up requires too many actions, too much coordination. I should start with something simple—like moving my little finger.

Move, damn it.

It didn’t.

Maybe I should try the middle finger…

After repeated attempts and utter concentration, the finger had not budged.

Why won't it move?

I paused my efforts to consider.

Perhaps I can't simply "order" my finger to move. After all, our “stream of conscious” does not control our movements but more or less narrates them or acts as a commander and issues general orders. It is up to the older parts of the brain to carry out those instructions. To succeed, I must reach the older part of the brain controlling movement.

I cleared my mind as best I could. Instead of thinking, 'move my finger,' I thought about touching the sheet with my finger.

What does the sheet feel like?

After several more minutes, I felt my finger slowly move, rising to gently touch the coarse sheet.

It worked! Today a finger, tomorrow the world!

I had a body again. For the first time since saying goodbye to Amy and my life, I felt a surge of joy.

If I can move a finger, I can move anything. I just need to take it slow and gradually work my way up to more complicated actions.

Buoyed by success, I tried something else. I concentrated on thinking my nose itched—badly. After a few minutes, our right hand moved. Seemingly taking forever, it emerged from underneath the sheets, reached my nose, and scratched.

However, all that work, combined with the trauma from the day's events and the alcohol, became too much. I soon discovered that, yes, in fact, a disembodied mind could sleep.