MULLIGAN

MULLIGAN
By
David McClain


The snow came down in solid white sheets, driven sideways by the strong wind that funneled down the man-made canyons of the city. The sidewalks were blanketed with the white powder and almost deserted of life. The traffic on the street was almost nonexistent; only the hardiest or the most desperate commuter was willing to brave the near arctic weather. On the lonely sidewalk one figure struggled against the wind and blowing snow, making slow headway.

Head bowed against the blizzard, the man half walked, half stumbled through the storm. Abraham Allen Jones wanted only one thing that night, a place to get warm. Jones was one of the countless, faceless, homeless people who haunted the streets of New York City. Jones’s clothes were woefully inadequate for the weather he now struggled against. His pants; old jeans slick with accumulated dirt and grime, two mismatched and ragged shirts, and an old sports jacket rescued from a garbage bin months ago was all that Jones had between him and the elements. Jones’s body beneath the ragged clothes was wasted and his face was lined and covered with grime and filth. Though Jones was just past his forty-second birthday, he easily looked ten years older. His face was obscured by a wild growth of beard and his hair, unkempt, reached past his shoulders in a wild tangle made worse by the blowing wind.

Abraham Jones had been on the streets for almost ten years and this was the worse winter he had ever had to endure. As he stumbled along, he couldn’t help but remember what his life had once been like. There had been a time when the name of Abraham Allen Jones was well-known in literary circles. He had been a bright and rising star in the celestial heavens of famous authors. He had come out of nowhere with his first book which had remained on the bestseller list of the New York Times for a year. Oh, what heady times those had been for Jones. He had been young, just past his twenty-fifth birthday, and on fire with the creative forces that had always flowed through him even as a child.

Jones gritted his teeth against the stinging bite of the wind as he walked. Those times were all behind him now, he mused bitterly. Ten years ago he had gone suddenly and completely dry. Just as quickly as his star had risen, it had dropped. Jones crawled into a bottle and never came out again. It didn’t take long for him to lose everything he had accumulated. The home, the cars, and the money all went into the next bottle in hopes that the chemical boost might unclog the words bottled up inside him. Of course it didn’t and he soon found himself on the street.

Now Jones just wanted a warm place to spend the night. Unfortunately, the street he now found himself on was almost as run-down and desolate as Jones himself. A long unending line of boarded-up shops faced outward darkly. No life was present here; he might as well have been walking the street of a ghost town. Street lamps here weren’t even replaced when they burned out, leaving large pools of darkness, periodically pierced by small pools of light from the rare bulbs still working. Jones stopped a moment and leaned against one of those rare lights and stared along the street, desperate to find shelter.

Jones removed his hands from the pockets of his old sports coat long enough to wipe the snow from his eyes and face as he tried to think of where to go next. He remembered another snowstorm in another place. It had been in Colorado two months after he had sold his first book. The book had been an instant success and that had forced Jones to make a very hard decision. He could either stay in the small Colorado town and marry the sweetest girl he had ever known, or he could do what his agent wanted him to do and move to the Big Apple and devote his time to the writing of a second book and an extensive promotional tour for the first one.

Hope Haliwell had reached the cabin in the mountains they shared for holidays and special occasions before Abraham. She was waiting beside a roaring fire, stretched out on the soft bearskin rug when he came through the door. It had just started to snow.

He remembered now how she looked that night, so beautiful and so much in love. It broke his heart to remember her. Hope had been so proud of him and she couldn’t wait to tell him of all her plans. But he had ruined those plans hadn’t he?

The reason he had asked her to meet him there was for one last talk. He told her then, as gently as he could, that he just wasn’t ready for marriage; he wasn’t ready to settle down. He wanted to go to New York alone and pursue the fame and fortune everyone assured him was his to grab.

Her beautiful face had collapsed in on itself with pain and grief when he broke the news to her. Her soft brown eyes were red rimmed as the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. His words had struck her like punches from a prizefighter, but she stood straight and took each one and it was only the paths of the tears that told of the pain she was feeling inside.

Thoughts of her now caused his throat to constrict with pain. He pushed onward through the snow trying to rub out the picture of Hope that had lodged in his brain. Yeah, some fame and fortune, he thought bitterly as he trudged through the snow. He had left her that night, driven straight to the airport and boarded a plane for New York. At first everything had gone wonderfully well. He was wined and dined and touted as the next Hemingway.

His first book was a grand success and the movie rights were sold almost immediately. He toured the U. S., promoting both the book and the movie. He was seen with all the right people and at all the right parties. Then a funny thing happened to Abraham Allen Jones. When all the fanfare had died down and it was time to work on his second book, he made a horrifying discovery about himself; he didn’t have another book in him! He was one of those “one hit wonders” who, after writing that big first book, ran dry of ideas.

His agent and his editor started to hound him as he began to miss deadlines. Nothing he tried seemed to help; he just ran into a brick wall when he tried to put words together on paper. Finally, he crawled into a bottle of bourbon and lost his way out.

After that, the end was swift and inevitable in coming. He lost the money, the prestige; people stopped returning his calls.

The publisher sued him to recoup the large advance he had been given for the second book. The final blow came one miserable night. After being evicted from his townhouse; he had decided, in a drunken stupor, to call Hope and make up with her. Her number was disconnected and she was gone. That had been the moment when he knew he was truly alone. Jones had been living on the street ever since that night.

All these things played out in Jones’s head as he struggled against the icy wind that buffeted him. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to just lie down and give up. Death would have been a welcome friend at that moment. He was so tired of struggling to live, of seeing the disdain in the eyes of strangers who walked past him, giving him a wide berth so they would not have to smell his filth or look at his ravaged face. There was just something in Jones that wouldn’t let him give up, so he just kept walking, a dirty, forlorn ghost of a man who didn’t have the good grace to die.

Jones had almost reached the end of the street when his eyes, stung by the wind and snow, caught a beautiful sight. The last building on his side of the street was lit up from roof to front door with bright garish lights.

FINALLY! Jones almost wept with relief at the sight of the bright lights that framed the storefront. He didn’t care what kind of store it was; it looked warm and if he was lucky the owner might let him stay at least long enough to warm up. Maybe he would even take pity on Jones and direct him to a shelter! Jones stopped in front of the entry to the building and looked at the lighted sign that hung in the front window: MULLIGAN it proclaimed. Jones remembered his long-ago days on the golf course with the big shots and he knew that “Mulligan” was a golfing term that meant a "do-over" or a second chance when you had made a bad shot.

Must be some kind of golf shop, he thought to himself. Hell, he didn’t care if they sold horse turds at this particular moment; all he wanted was to be warm again.

He was about to open the door when instead it was opened from the inside. He stood there blinking stupidly at the small man who stood in the doorway.

“Well do come in, Mr. Jones.” The small, bald man had a soft voice and he spoke like some kind of well-mannered butler. “I have been waiting for you for a very long time you know.”

Jones stood very still. He was totally confused. Did this man know him? Well it didn’t really matter, the door was open and he was damn sure going to take the opportunity to get inside and get warm.

The small man ushered him through the door and closed it behind him. “Oh, it is so good to meet you at last, sir,” the diminutive shopkeeper said warmly as he helped Abraham off with the wet, smelly jacket. “My name is Lionel, sir, and I have everything ready for you.” As he spoke, Lionel took the smelly jacket and holding it between his thumb and forefinger, carried it at arm’s length over to the counter and dropped it into a large trashcan.

“Hey!” Abraham yelled. “That’s the only jacket I got man.” He moved as if to retrieve the offending coat but Lionel barred his way.

"Trust me sir,” his voice was soothing as he stood his ground. “You will have no further use for that rag. I have a brand new coat waiting for you after your bath, that is.”

Abraham stopped trying to rescue his old coat at that. “Uh...Lionel,” he hesitated then continued. “Just WHAT kind of store is this, my man, what are you selling?” As bad off as he was, Abraham Jones was not into kinky stuff whatsoever.

Lionel looked hurt for a second, then he smiled. “Oh you have the wrong idea, Mr. Jones.” he said. “This is not a place to BUY anything. This place is here so that I may give you a gift.”

Abraham was totally confused. A store that didn’t sell anything? This was all too much for him and suddenly the warmth inside the building closed in on his exhausted brain; he felt as if he might faint. He closed his eyes and his body swayed from side to side; just as it looked as if he might topple over, Lionel was there, supporting his weight and ushering him to the back of the store and through the door there.

Jones was aware of the scent of candles in this back room and when he opened his eyes, he saw a huge bathtub filled with steaming water. Candles were burning around the outside of the tub and giving off a wonderful aroma.

Lionel turned loose of his arm and walked over to the tub. He bent over and checked the temperature of the water with his finger then straightened up and beamed at Jones. “Ah, the water is just right sir. I will leave you to your bath and when you are done, you will find clean clothes in the closet over there.” He gestured across the room at another door.

Before Jones could say another word or ask another question, Lionel turned and walked out of the room.

Jones looked at the door for a moment as it closed behind the little man, then he looked back at the bath.

“What the hell,” he muttered. “God knows it couldn’t hurt.”

Jones stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub. With a grateful sigh he sank down into the hot water and leaned back against the back…within minutes he was sound asleep, his head resting on the back of the tub, his arms resting on its sides.

Jones was awakened by the delicious aroma of roasting meat, the smell seeping through the closed bathroom door. Stifling a yawn, he roused himself and began to seriously wash his thin, wasted body. The water turned a brown tint as the grime loosened its hold on him. Once he was clean, he climbed out of the bath, toweled off, then made his way to the closet. Sure enough, there was a complete new outfit hanging there waiting for him. He shook his head in amazement. Before dressing, he walked back over to the tub. There was a sink there next to the tub, and a mirror. Next to the sink were shaving cream and a razor. He applied the shaving foam to his face and began to shave.

When he was finished, he looked in the mirror and was amazed at the difference it had made in him. Clean shaven, the effects of his years on the street was more clearly visible, sunken cheeks, ghostly pallor of the skin, but at the same time years seemed to have melted away from him and he could almost see a glimmer of the man he had once been.

Giving his face one last rub with the towel to remove leftover shaving cream, he turned and went back to the closet and retrieved the new clothes. Within minutes, he was dressed in a warm, new pair of jeans, a dark pullover turtleneck sweater and a comfortable pair of tan hiking boots. Just as he finished lacing up the boots and tying them, the door opened and Lionel walked back into the room.

“Ah, good. You are all ready for dinner, I see.” Lionel beamed at the fresh clean Jones. “If I may say so sir, you look like a new man!”

Abraham smiled a little self-consciously and straightened the neck of the sweater. “I don’t know how to thank you, Lionel,” he said. “I don’t remember my last bath.”

“That, sir, was painfully apparent.” Lionel said with a smile that took the sting out of his words.
“Now if you will follow me, your dinner is awaiting you."

Jones followed the little man sheepishly. They walked back into the main room of the store and Jones was surprised to see a long dining table set in the middle of the room, laden with food. There were turkey and dressing, fresh green beans, a large bowl of boiled potatoes, Yams, giblet gravy in a large tureen and mounds of baked rolls. There were other steaming bowls filled with different vegetables and there were platters of cookies and sweet cakes, many of which Jones could not even begin to identify.

“My God man,” he exclaimed. “You plan on feeding an army here?”

“No sir.” Lionel told him. “This is your dinner. Please sit and enjoy.”

Jones didn’t need to be encouraged further. He sat down at the head of the table and Lionel began passing dishes to him. He filled his plate to overflowing, then started to eat. How long had it been since he had seen this much food, he wondered as he shoveled the tasty morsels into this mouth. In no time at all he had cleaned his plate and Lionel was there to refill it again.

Finally, Jones could eat no more. He was stuffed. The table of food had been reduced to crumbs and empty bowls and Abraham felt as if he would burst from all the food.

He leaned back in his chair and looked down at the end of the table where Lionel had quietly taken a seat. “Well, I have no idea how I can repay you for your kindness.” he told Lionel. “I can’t remember the last time I had a good home cooked meal such as this.”

Lionel smiled back at him. “The last time you had a meal such as this one, Mr. Jones was at your mother’s house thanksgiving day, just before you met Hope up in that cabin in the mountains, I believe.”

Abraham stared at the little man in disbelief. “How the hell did you know that?” His face reddened with the memory of that day. What kind of twisted game was this guy playing with him?

Lionel, as if reading his mind, waved a hand in front of him. “Oh please Abraham, don’t worry, this is no game. I know these things because it is my job to know them, nothing more.”

“Your job?” Jones asked. “What IS this job of yours and what does it have to do with me?”

Lionel rose from his chair and began to pace about the room. Finally he started to speak and Jones leaned forward to listen.

“You see sir, my job is simple.” he said as he paced. “I am in charge of the Mulligan department. Do you know what that means?”

Jones scratched his head and thought a moment. “Hum, well I know that a ’Mulligan’ is a golf term meaning a do-over, a second chance.” he answered.

Lionel clapped his hands together and smiled. “Why yes sir, that is just what it is and that is what I do, I give some people a second chance at life.”

Jones closed his eyes and sighed then opened them again and stared at the little man. “As wonderful as that is, Lionel, I don’t believe in fairy tales, so how exactly do you plan on giving me a second chance…a meal and a bath?”

Lionel stopped pacing and stood in front of Jones. He placed a hand on Abraham’s shoulder and when he spoke, his voice was tender and kind, like that of a father to a son. “Abraham, the bath and the meal, and the clothes were just to ready you for what is ahead.” he told him. “The real second chance is in the next room.” He pointed to another door. “It is there that you will get your second chance. But first we must decide on what the chance is to be.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jones asked.

“Simply put, Abraham, at what point in your life would you like to go back and start over?” Lionel smiled down at him.

Abraham could not believe he was actually thinking seriously about this. What point indeed? Where does one start to undo all the wrong choices one has made over the years?

Again it was as if Lionel was reading his mind. “Abraham.” he said softly. “The way I see it, you have two choices. You can either choose to go back to a time after your first book was published and get a second chance to write again, to be successful again, or you can go back to that moment when you entered that cabin to meet Hope and you can marry the girl and find happiness there. Both choices will bring you a kind of fulfillment; each of a different type…the choice is yours. Which do you want more? Love or success?”

Abraham stared into the kind eyes of this strange little man and he made his decision. Lionel smiled and nodded. He really did read minds.

Lionel took Jones by the arm and urged him up from his chair, then led him through the last door. They entered a small room. It had only a desk and a chair. On the desk was a small black box with a red button centered upon it. Lionel led him over to the chair and pulled it out for Jones to take a seat.

“I will leave you now Abraham.” he said softly. “The button is there, when you are ready, just push it and you will be taken back to the time of your choice. Good luck sir.” Lionel turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Jones sat a moment and stared at the box. Was this all some kind of elaborate hoax? Would he really go back to the time he wanted more than anything in the world? Well there was only one way to find out. He reached out and with a trembling finger and pushed the button.

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Abraham Jones stood in the small kitchen of the cabin in the Colorado Mountains. The snow was falling outside and the wind was howling. He stood for a moment in stunned disbelief.

IT WORKED! He was back at the very spot in time he had wished for. As if to prove his success, he suddenly heard a sweet voice that he thought he would never hear again.

“Baby, what’s keeping you?” It was Hope calling to him from in front of the fireplace in the next room. “Don’t forget the cheese!” She called again, then giggled in that way that always made Abraham smile.

He looked down at the counter and there sat a tray laden with cheese and bread and two wine glasses. He hurriedly poured wine into the glasses and picked up the tray. His heart was pounding in his chest when he walked into the living room.

There she was, so beautiful, so small and childlike, laying on the rug, her chin resting in her hands as she smiled up at him. “There you are baby, I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”

He eased down next to her and set the tray between them. Handing her a glass of wine, he took the other one and said. “No darling, you will never again have to look for me.” he inclined his glass until it touched hers. “Here’s to us.” he said. “and to the family we will raise and the happiness we will have as we grow old together.”

They sipped the wine, drinking to the toast, then he kissed her gently on the lips. She had tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she kissed him back.

Abraham took her in his arms then and held her close to his chest. He told her of this small college that might be interested in hiring him to teach and how, after they were married they would live in the small college town and raise their children. They talked into the night about their plans and finally sleep overcame Jones and he closed his eyes and they slept together there on the rug in front of the fire, holding each other tightly. He would never let her go again.
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The red flashing lights of the ambulance cast an eerie glow to the blowing snow on the darkened street. Two police cars were parked in the street and one cop was busy stretching yellow tape around the front of one of the abandoned buildings.

Two detectives stood at the front door of the old deserted building and they stared down at the figure laying on the door stoop.

“I guess it just goes with the season, Joe.” the first detective said. “But I will never get use to finding the Popsicles.”

“Yeah.” said Joe. “Whoever came up with that term anyway? Hell of a way to describe a frozen bum, George.”

George sighed. “You're right, it was kind of callous of me. Hey did you notice something funny about this one?”

Joe looked down at the body again. It was that of a white male, approximately forty years of age. He was dressed in a shabby dirty old sports coat and dirty jeans. His face, frozen, was covered with a dirty beard.

“Not really.” he answered. “What do you mean, funny?”

George reached down and took a hold of the frozen body’s shoulder. The corpse was lying on its stomach, and he turned it over slowly. “There, see what I mean?”

Joe looked at the body again and shook his head. “Now what do you think he was trying to do there?”

George shook his head, turned loose of the body, and let it settle back down on its face. “Who knows what goes through these bums' minds while they freeze to death.” he said tiredly.

What had caused both men to wonder was the way the corpse of Abraham Allen Jones had one hand under his body and a finger pressed down upon a black box. The finger was pressing down on a red dot that was colored in the center of the box.

“That looks like some kind of kid’s toy he must have scrounged out of a garbage can somewhere.” Joe said.

“Guess we will never know, but did you notice he was smiling? Almost like he had finally found some peace, poor devil.”

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