Word Count: 359
The man said that the end was near and so I bought what he was selling. “Excelsior” the label said. “Like having Jesus in a bottle!” said the man.
It tasted like cherry cough syrup laced with bitters. It was an odd flavor you got used to quickly, though. The next day I bought more.
He was an old man, or so he looked, with scraggly wild gray hair and stubble five days old, dirty once-white shirt and brownish gray tattered suit. He certainly dressed for the part of an intense oracle. Though I personally made sure that I’d be well-dressed with clean underwear should the end be truly nigh.
Excelsior gave me a sense of stability. It tightened the rope I toe-gripped to get through each day. It softened the sounds into muted background noise. It rounded the edges of corners. It made life almost pleasant. I’d moved up to buying a 12-pack at a time. Once a week Sometimes more often than that.
There was a strange energy buzzing through my body. My nerves were electrical wires. I quick-smiled, fast-stepped, gobbled my meals. On the other hand, my skin was suddenly dewy and my waistline shrank into my jeans. I felt better than I had in a decade.
Then one day the old man wasn’t there at the corner. No display. No sign. No Excelsior stacked up in cartons to sell.
I walked several blocks in all directions. I asked other people if they’d seen him. I even asked a kind-faced policeman who said they’d cracked down on vendors. “Sounds like he might have been scared off.”
Every day, all different times of the day, every day for a month I searched the downtown streets. My skin sagged, my eyes dulled, fat added its padding to the places hardest to hide.
I searched for it online. I gathered all the ingredients I’d read on the label but it never came out the same. Years later, I still look for the man when I’m downtown. Though I wonder if he was right. If his world ended and mine just goes on.
