Grinning at the old-fashioned term, he suddenly considered the possibility the woman was a prostitute. It would probably explain why a woman was lying in bed with him. Movies of the era were strict about sex outside of marriage, something to do with a commission, if he recalled correctly. Given the money he carried, Warren decided his alter ego, this Baker guy, must be a playboy with little ambition beyond a life of leisure.
So, cliché and typical thinking of the old black and white movies.
“Well, if I’m dying again, might as well have some fun this time,” Warren whispered. He didn’t recognize his voice. But it didn’t come as a surprise. He hadn’t heard his voice from the first life for what seemed to be eons. But there was no concept of time to him now. In the end, it did not matter, he guessed.
He unconsciously ran his fingers across his chest where the bullets had entered the night before. As normal, no trace of the damage revealed itself.
“New body and a new future,” he grumbled, “just the terrible memories to ward off some sleep.”
Warren went over to the dark wooden cabinet, quietly pulling the front hinged desktop open. He carefully read through the few letters, while glancing over occasionally at his sleeping guest. Again, he felt strange, like he was reading stolen mail. The envelopes contained a letter from Mrs. Florence Baker of Boston. After torturing himself by trying to read the fine cursive letters, he decided the mother of Warren Baker was not pleased with her son. In short, the letter told him she was tired of his antics, and he could stay in Cuba if he decided to. To paraphrase, he could maintain his association with the lower classes of society.
“A homecoming with his mother would be a delicate affair,” he quietly smirked.
Another letter he carried was a formal introduction from a museum director named Morris, head of the Russian collection. Addressed to Count Casa Bayona, director of the Palacio del Centro Asturiano, the formal letterhead told him he dealt with influential people.
Well, that’s a potential problem.
If his character needed any actual knowledge of art or history, Warren’s charade about such subjects wouldn’t last long. He spent his college days drinking with the frat boys and attempting to avoid any classes that demanded significant effort.
While Warren mulled over the information in the letters, he also found his passenger ticket with the SS Andes stamped on it. It told him the ship was going to Boston from Havana. Also, in the small pile of paper, there was a telegram confirming his prior reservation at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba. He sat on the chair next to the wooden secretary, trying to align the pieces of the puzzle.
Not much to go on.
He would have to venture outside his stateroom to get some information about the ship, its passengers, and, hopefully, why he was onboard. Information was his lifeblood now. Warren knew from bitter experience he needed details quickly to stay alive longer. But first, he needed to know about the blonde in his bed.
“I guess I get dressed and start the day,” he said to himself lightly.
The passing thought of waking the girl for some morning fun crossed his mind, but he decided against the urge. He needed to keep his concentration on sorting his world. For that matter, he was not sure what the woman might be expecting. Assuming his first thought about the woman was correct; Warren pulled two twenties from his wallet, laying them on the desk edge. He could never be sure what things were worth in this make-believe world, so he always overpaid. Warren assumed she would take the money and leave, or, at least, he hoped so. He had enough on his plate before he could get caught up with a woman needing his attention. Besides, she might get killed with him.
Warren carried the burden of knowing he had to keep one step ahead of his killer, whoever it was. And he knew death would come for him again, as sure as the stubble he felt as he rubbed his face. He went into the small bathroom again and searched around the sink. He found no shaving kit. The man knew this meant his character used a barber to shave. It was still strange to his 21st-century mind to pay a barber for a shave.
Crossing the small stateroom, he opened the closet where he found several freshly pressed suits. After running around in the era, Warren quickly discovered you wore suits during the day and tuxedos at night if you were trying playing a rich man. He decided on wearing the brown suit. After dressing quietly, Warren Baker slid the letters and wallet into his coat pocket. As he stepped to the door, he heard a voice with a thick Southern accent from the bed.
“Aren’t ya coming back to bed, sweetie?” The woman smiled, and she lifted herself from the bed.
“No, I—well—I have something to do,” he stammered while considering the tempting offer.
Then he glanced at the desk. It was his first mistake. When she saw the money lying on the bureau, her swift reaction showed her temper.
“You son of a bitch,” her voice rose. “Do you think you can treat Mary Bristol like your whore?” As the woman tried to stand to get out of bed with the sheets wrapped around her body, she stumbled to the carpet. Instinctively, he kneeled next to her to help. She slapped him across his head, still yelling at him. Trying to protect himself, Warren grabbed the woman by her arms.
“Listen, you’re wrong. That money was there on the desk last night. I just forgot to pick it up this morning,” he lied.
“You bastard! After all the promises you made last night. I snuck away with a damn grease ball,” she yelled.
Her bloodshot eyes glared at him. When he tried to speak, she jerked away, standing naked by the bed.
“Y’all try to get along without me now, you nibcocked son of a bitch,” she viciously countered.
Grabbing her blue dress from the end of the bed, Mary stomped into the bathroom. Warren stood there for a moment, then followed her to the closed door. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he kept apologizing to calm her down. She just cursed him again.
Quickly opening the door, while adjusting her clothes, she reached down to grab her shoes, then stormed out of the room. Warren waited while staring out of the open door for a moment, half expecting her to return. He went to the desk, slipping the greenbacks into his pocket while debating his next move. With a shrug, the man slipped out of his cabin. Warren concluded he may have created an enemy from a stupid mistake.
The bright sunlight made him squint as he walked over to the railing. While he looked down at the water, it appeared blue-green and there was a pod of dolphins sliding through the waves. They were real, as in his first life. Even if the world was a script in a movie, it was reality. If he threw himself over the side, he would no doubt drown, or a boat would come to his rescue. Even if not part of the script, the purgatory continued unabated. It wasn’t a game or grand computer simulation; at least he didn’t believe so. If Warren carried a soul, he wondered if he experienced reincarnation. However, the concept went against his upbringing.
His memories swept over him like a wave as he considered his soul or his faith. Nothing in his past explained his world. Warren’s recollection of his elbow scar came to him again.
Playing football with his brothers as a kid, he landed in a pile of garbage where a broken bottle gashed him. Smiling momentarily when the memory of how his mother freaked out at the sight of the blood came back to him. Rushing him to the Callaway Memorial Hospital, he received nine stitches, along with a slap to the side of his head, when they returned home. Warren learned his lesson. Two days later, he busted the stitches open again. This time, he made sure not to tell his mother.
The scar turned out to be a catalyst for remembering his first life. It was a link to his past and continued to show up wherever his spirit landed. As he slowly regained his memories with each death he suffered in his purgatory, the recollection made him question his sanity at first.
During the first few runs he took through his netherworld of movies, Warren’s previous life invaded his dreams. Soon after, much of that reality forced him to accept the truth of his existence, both past and present.
Before his death in the future, Warren H. Phillips was a husband and father who lived to the ripe old age of 48. Most of his years, from childhood to manhood, he endured inside a small two-bedroom bungalow.
When he came back from college, he lived in his hometown of Fulton Missouri. Many people considered him a success, but it was nothing more than a charade. Warren remained an outer shell of civic virtue and visibly committed to his family. The reality was he ran two businesses into the ground while shuttling back and forth between several mistresses outside of the area. He only kept the marriage going to keep him with easy access to the capital controlled by his wife’s dad, who had a fortune.
The one truth that came out of his continuous cycle of death and rebirth came from Warren’s introspection. He was a bastard who agreed with the basic tenet that moral certainty and clarity was a relic of the past.
He stared out at the waves, remembering how the peacefulness of sleep turned into torment, especially when he thought about how he treated those who trusted and admired him.
Strangely, only vague images of the last moments when the chest pains started, then as the vehicle went tumbling. Still, he held no special attachment to his previous life.
It’s probably why I’m not a ghost!
Well, he couldn’t be sure of the idea, but it didn’t matter. After the many failed characters roles in his purgatory, his concerns focused upon trying to survive. He couldn’t think of anything else.
