Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

He shouldered his pack, walked to Interstate 69 and stuck out his thumb. He didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but several of the vets in the Rusty Bucket had talked about a place in Mexico that was welcoming to veterans of all wars. Even better, their monthly checks stretched a lot farther there.

With that in mind as an eventual destination, Scott rode his thumb first south, then west, then south again. He crossed the US-Mexico border at Tijuana. He had hoped to lose himself in a different country, but soon found himself hanging out at a bar that, aside from the fact that it sold a lot more tequila and had more colorful decorations, was a lot like the Rusty Bucket back in Indiana. Different location, same concept—drink yourself into oblivion.

He found an inexpensive second floor room and set out to drink his life away, one day at a time. When that proved to be too slow, he branched out with his self-medication.

In less than a year, he was living a life he never could have imagined when he was a young man with clear eyes and a full heart. The little boy who had vowed to become a police officer because he wanted to help others was a strung-out junky, living in a three-dollars a night flophouse in Tijuana, injecting every bit of his government check into his veins.

Scott McKenzie was as lost as any human being could be.

Seeking the final oblivion, he blew his remaining bankroll on two double barrels of heroin, went into his cramped, fetid apartment, and sought the solace of the final darkness. He went through the ritual he had come to know so well, injected himself, and laid on his bed, waiting for death.

It came.

Scott McKenzie opened his eyes. He felt warm, and there was a pain in the shoulder where he had been shot. He hadn’t felt that particular pain in a long time. In fact, he discovered that he hurt almost everywhere.

He was on his grandparents’ couch, in the living room in Evansville, Indiana. He sat up and threw the heavy quilt off of him.

What the hell? Where am I? Gram and Gramps’ place? No way. Nope. I’ve had a lot of tripped-out dreams and nightmares, but they all had that feeling of unreality. This feels like I’m here, which is impossible.

Down the hall, the toilet flushed and his grandfather emerged from the bathroom.

“You all right, Scott? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Yeah, but which one of us is the ghost? Pretty sure both of us are dead, so does that make it you, me, or us?

“Gramps?” Scott said. His voice was weak and tremulous.

“Of course. Who else? There’s just me and Cheryl here.”

Hold on. How did I get here? If someone found me before I died, I should be waking up in a hospital in Mexico. Not here. And, especially, not having a conversation with a man who died more than a year ago.

“Gramps, how did I get here?”

Concerned flashed in Earl’s eyes. “You got out of the hospital and rode the bus here, remember?”

“Right. Of course. Uhh… how you feeling, Gramps?”

Earl gave Scott a look that tried to ask Are you Stupid? but the words he spoke said, “Your grandmother died this morning. How do you think I’m feeling?”

Okay. So, I’m dreaming I am back in Evansville on the day Gram died. It’s so realistic, though. I can smell food cooking in the kitchen, and it’s too damn stuffy in here, with a fire going and this quilt over me.

Scott attempted to throw the quilt off, but his arm didn’t function correctly, and he gave a small gasp of pain.

”Hey, Hey!” Cheryl said, running in from the kitchen, spatula still in hand. “Take it easy. I’m sure the doctors told you not to exert yourself too much, right?”

“Right,” Scott agreed. “I think I’m going to go lay down for a little while.”

“Good idea. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. I’ll come get you.”

Scott limped across the living room.

This is too damned real. I haven’t felt like this in years. What the hell is going on?

He made it to his bedroom, which smelled of a fresh coat of paint, and collapsed on the twin bed.

None of this makes sense. I’ve already lived this once before.

Scott wracked his brain, trying to logically figure out the impossibility he was living. He was still chasing one idea after another with no solution in sight, when Cheryl knocked on his door and poked her head in.

“Come on, dinner’s ready and Gramps has Cronkite on. Let’s eat.”

As they had done the first time through this moment, the three of them ate in silence. This time, though, Cheryl and Gramps exchanged worried looks first at Scott, then at each other. Scott pretended not to notice.

When he had eaten as much as his stomach would allow—which wasn’t much—Scott stood up to take his dish into the kitchen. Cheryl jumped up and took it from him.

“I don’t want to be cleaning peas and casserole out of the living room carpet. I’ve got it.”

Scott nodded and said, “I’m gonna head to bed. I’m still tired.”

“Of course you are,” Cheryl said, kissing him on the cheek. “Sorry, Scotty. This isn’t the homecoming any of us envisioned.”

I thought this day was odd the first time I lived through it. Repeating it hasn’t smoothed out any of the wrinkles.

Slowly, Scott undressed, pulled the covers back, and climbed into bed. He slipped between the cool, clean sheets—a marked improvement over what had passed for a bed in Tijuana.

I can’t believe I’m back here, but even if I am, so what? Nothing’s changed. Life still sucks. I don’t feel the need to go running out into the streets for my next fix, so I guess that’s good. Nothing else has changed, though. Doesn’t matter. I’ll probably go to sleep and wake up in some other place. Please don’t let it be back in the jungle or in the hospital. I can’t live through that again.

AS SOON AS THE FIRST rays of light filtered through the curtains the next morning, Scott’s eyes flew open.

Still here. Shit. What’s next, then?

He swung his feet onto the floor and tried to stand up. He made it most of the way, but lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. And this sucks, too. I’d gotten a lot better, at least in some ways. Now I’m back here again.

He walked into the living room and saw his grandfather sitting there, looking out the window at nothing in particular.

Wait a minute. Gramps is still alive. I can make a difference with him at least.

“Morning, Gramps. I want to ask you a favor.”

Earl pulled his eyes away from the deep nothing he had been staring at and focused on Scott. “Cheryl’s already gone to school.”

“Okay, I figured.” Scott stood between the old man and the window. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“What do you need?”

“I want you to go to the doctor for a checkup.”

“My next checkup isn’t for six months yet.”

“Right. That’s why I said I want you to do me a favor. I had a bad dream about you last night. It will put my mind at ease if you’ll get in to see someone.”

“Likely caused by your Gran’s passing.” He sighed. “Sure, why not? No harm in it.”