Never Enough Time by R. T. W. Lipkin

Author:R. T. W. Lipkin [Lipkin, R. T. W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-06-06T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 46

“Dear me, you have got quite the burn, missy,” says a beautiful dark-skinned man with a Jamaican accent. He could be ten years younger or a hundred years older than me. It’s impossible to tell.

I’m so enamored of the cadence of his words that it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.

“I was lying out in the sun all day,” I say. Well, not all day, but I don’t say that to this man—who’s carrying a bag! The only person I’ve seen with a bag! I want to hug him just for that. My shoulder is burning, which I’ve been trying to ignore.

“You have a bag,” I say, not hugging him.

“Tools of the trade,” he says.

“Are you Jamaican?” I say.

“I’m from the Bronx,” he says as he walks across the car, sits down next to me, and opens his miraculous bag, which I’m staring at. Imagine—a person with a bag. It’s mesmerizing.

“I was just there. This morning,” I say. “On the D train.”

“I ride the 2,” he says, “after we get into Manhattan.”

“I’m not usually there. In the Bronx,” I say.

“Where are you? Usually?” he says as he continues to look through his bag. I want to look inside too, but it’d be too awkward, and even the new—what I mean is old—I-don’t-give-a-fuck version of me isn’t in a hurry to engage in awkward.

“Suspended,” I say, “between time, space, and the distance of understanding.”

“Be happy for this moment,” he says as he produces a small pot from the bag. “This moment is your life.”

“You’re a poet,” I say.

“I’m a shaman,” he says, unscrewing the pot’s lid. “The poet was Omar Khayyam. A long long time ago.”

“The moving finger,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “A loaf of bread.”

He puts his fingers into the pot, then rubs his hand over my burnt shoulder. “It’d be easier if you’d use sunscreen,” he says.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I say. “I was just being.”

I squirm under his touch. My flesh is broiling.

“Stay still,” he says. His hand’s still on my shoulder, covering the ointment he’s rubbed into it. “It has to get absorbed. Be patient.”

“I don’t usually have time to be patient,” I say.

“There’s that usual again.”

“But maybe today I do.”

The lotion and his cool touch soothe the fire throughout my skin.

“How do you become a shaman?” I say. Maybe this would be something I could study if my path of sevens ever ends. Shaman seems like a good profession. He seems so sure of himself—and so relaxed and happy.

“You can’t become a shaman,” he says. He takes his hand from my shoulder. “Better?”

I look at my shoulder, making sure it’s the same one from a moment ago, when it was about to blister. I mean, this could be fifty years from that moment. But it isn’t. It’s the ordinary next moment. I’m still wearing the flowery dress and flip-flops. The sweatshirt’s folded up in my lap.

“Yes,” I say. “Then—how?”

“You either are a shaman or you’re not. There’s no becoming,” he says, as though this explains things.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.