Richard had spent the past hour staring at his reflection in the mirror. Troubled he was going insane, he ran his hands across his scruffy beard again, tugging gently at the hairs, hoping that perhaps all of this was a dream.
“Odd,” he said.
It was going to be a rainy Sunday today, according to the DJ reading off the weather report from Richard’s small battery-powered radio.
“Sunday…” Richard repeated, still gazing at his beard. “Sunday…”
The DJ had begun to list song requests when a loud knock came at the front door.
“Manong Richaaaaaard!”
Stumbling out of the bathroom, Richard made his way to the front door and saw Manolo, the boy who delivered his copy of the Midland every Sunday. Handing the newspaper over to Richard, the old man looked at the child with an expression of uncertainty.
“Is everything okay ‘nong Richard?” asked Manolo.
“Oh, yes. Yes. Thank you, ading…” said Richard, choosing his words carefully, as though afraid to seem foolish—or crazy. “It’s good you brought this Midland… because… today, of course, is Sunday… right?”
Little Manolo stared at the old man.
“I guess so?”
“Right, right, just making sure okay- yes- anyway- thanks.”
Richard closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. Collecting himself, he slumped into a chair and read the paper’s headline: “City’s Trash Woes Continue.” Another wave of deja vu washed upon him.
He had already read this story.
He had read this, yesterday.
A knock came at the door again.
It was Manolo once more, his tiny hands outstretched.
“Oh! Yes, sorry Manolo!” said Richard, as he picked whatever loose change he could from his pajama pockets and handed them over. “I appreciate you bringing my paper today. Please let your father know th-”
The boy scampered away before Richard could finish.
He could have sworn Manolo did the same thing yesterday.
**********
The regulars at the bar knew the routine for whenever Richard came. The TV station would be switched to something less “stressful,” like the weather channel. The jukebox would tune into its 70s playlist. A seat at the bar would be vacated, and an ice-cold Pale Pilsen would be served with a napkin and a pen.
Such was the price in keeping the regular happy — after all, he had been coming to this bar for the past three decades, and more importantly, he tipped well.
“Any news, Ed?” Richard asked as he took his favorite seat.
“None, sir,” said Ed the bartender. “A lady walked in a few days ago and I almost thought it was Marie, but it was someone else. I nearly said hello.”
“I see. Well, maybe next week she’ll swing by, right?”
The bartender nodded and handed him his beer. Richard took a long swig and sat quietly, watching the muted TV screen behind the bartender. The weatherman mimed holding an umbrella. Apparently, it would rain all Sunday afternoon today.
“Ed,” said Richard, “I have a question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wasn’t here yesterday, was I?”
Ed stared at Richard, expecting a punch line.
“I didn’t see you yesterday sir. I thought you only came on Sundays.”
“Yes… Yes, I suppose I do. I guess I’ve just got the worst case of deja vu.”
“DJ who?”
“Deja vu.”
“I’m sorry sir, are they also a band from the 70s? ”
“Nevermind,” said Richard, deciding against explaining what he himself couldn’t. He took another swig from his beer.
A few tables away, a lady accidentally knocked her beer off the table. The resulting crash of the glass on the floor was enough to strike Richard with the certainty that this situation had played out exactly as it did yesterday. His heart began to race. The room started to spin. He felt as if he was losing it, and losing it fast.
“Is everything alright, sir?” asked Ed as he came back from mopping the spill.
“Yes,” Richard said, hurriedly scribbling a note on a napkin and leaving a large tip on the table. “Thanks for the beer. I’ll see you next Sunday, like always.”
Once Richard was out the door, the bartender, shaking his head, picked up the bill along with the note which had Richard’s address and phone number. He walked behind the bar and stuck it onto a notebook filled with all the past times the old man had left his contact details in case anyone he knew ever showed up.
“What a waste…” muttered Ed as poured the rest of Richard’s unfinished beer down the sink.
**********
Dementia had always been Richard’s fear for when he grew old. Of course, there were probably worse ways to go, he thought, like getting struck by lightning or devoured by a mountain lion, but oh how terrifying it must be to forget — and not to realize. His breath shook as he gripped the umbrella handle tighter. The rain had weakened to nothing more than a drizzle, but holding on tight to something gave Richard a sense of balance and control over what has been a strange Sunday.
He was never the forgetful type, but he presumed he had age-related dementia. Or perhaps sudden-onset Alzheimer’s? Although, maybe he just got his days mixed up. Maybe he was tired and reading too much into all the coincidences and notions of deja vu. Richard argued over his self-diagnoses quietly as he circled back up Session for the third time in the last hour—hoping to shake the feeling off by doing something he had not done in a while.
These were the nights when he longed for a familiar place, or face, to calm his spirit.
“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…”
The faint melody of a Beatles’ track wafted down from a nearby cafe radio, waking Richard from his ruminating. He took a moment and paused, humming along to the tune while watching the drizzle fade into a fog.
Richard let out a sigh.
He remembered how he and his pals used to sing this all the time, at the folk houses of old; spots that have long succumbed to the passage of time, supplanted by internet cafes, Asian fusion restaurants, and something called ‘co-working spaces.’ He wondered how his old friends fared, with some migrating permanently to foreign lands, and others migrating permanently to the sky.
He remembered his daughter. She loved singing along to the Beatles.
Ah, such was the trouble of growing old, he thought. First, your watering holes close shop. Your friends leave one by one. Your family grows apart. And then apparently, your mind just calls it quits.
“Now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday…”
A teary-eyed Richard hailed a cab home before the song could end. Regardless of what affliction he had—be it real or imagined—he figured that perhaps his time had run out too. Everything had to come to an end, and if his came with him losing his mind, or turning into a loon, then he decided he would at least look good doing so.
And it came that later on that evening, Richard shaved his face once again. He dressed up in his Sunday’s best and said his prayers. He climbed into bed and hummed along to Yesterday’s melody until sleep finally took over him.
**********
Dawn the next morning was cold and dreary.
The radio DJ read out text messages from listeners. Ruby839 greeted everyone working the night shift a beautiful morning, while Cathy from Hillside thanked the kind stranger who returned her wallet at the club last night.
Manolo, who lived down the street, slept soundly in bed. Frolicking in dreamland, the boy had no class today, and thus no reason to wake up early. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Ed, the bartender, had just gotten home after a few patrons overstayed until the wee hours of the morning finishing their last round of beers.
And Richard, on the other hand, sat at his table with a blank stare, his coffee gone cold. He noticed that the Midland from yesterday was now nowhere to be found. Running a hand across his beard—which somehow reappeared—he tugged gently at the hairs, hoping that perhaps all of this was a dream.
But, deep down Richard knew this was not a dream.
Nor was it dementia.
Nor was it a case of him mixing up his days.
In his hand, he held a faded photograph from years ago. He was surrounded by friends and family, as a younger version of himself held his baby daughter in his arms, beaming and smiling like a man looking forward to the journey of life ahead. The Polaroid’s caption read “Marie’s 1st.”
Richard laid the photo on the table, and whispered to himself.
“Soon.”
Outside, the rain began to fall—just as the DJ said it would, as he read off the weather report for today, Saturday.
Copyright © 2019 Cousin from Baguio