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What is the measure of a man's life? For me it is in moments. For some of those moments we intersect with another's life sometimes forever, sometimes very briefly. You say hi to some sleep deprived college student trying to get through their shift so they can go cram for the next big exam. Where are they ten years down the road,for that matter where are you?......

Another example is Yohan Rathbone. He was an elderly fellow who resembled John Hammond, a character in Jurassic Park. Like me his hair was just starting to become silver. He had turned his hair that color by devoting his life to his one defining eccentricity: applying philosophy to mathematics. It wasn't good enough for him to know two plus two equals four. He had to divine some metaphysical reason as to why that was the case.

Our lives intersected for months. We'd take breakfast together at a local greasepit and discuss a wide variety of subject matter over pitch black coffee and over easy eggs. I'm a detective or at least I was. I'm retired now and spend my time writing crime fiction. My style is mostly contemporary but every so often I like to dish out a throwback to the days of pulp. Channeling my inner Raymond Chandler I too write yarns about men who are “as inconspicuous as a tarantula crawling across angel food cake.” This provided Rathbone with no small portion of intrigue.

Eventually,one day I walked into that house of orange juice and flapJacks and never saw that man again. He just wasn't there, no obituary, no anything. To this day I do not know what became of him. The intersection of our lives had taken us down divergent roads.

I'm sorry for rambling this way but there is a point to all this, the intersection of my life with another and what became of them. It's dreary but I can't do much about that.

For as long as I can remember I'd been going to Hot Rocket, a little comic book shop in the downtown area. Back in the days of the Dust Bowl and 20 cent gasoline it had been a jewelry store then in the era of hair bands and Reaganomics it was a pawn shop. Nowadays it was the safe haven for those who looked up to Superman, who pinned lustfully after Wonder Woman, and also those wished to gather in the game room and become an elf trying to stop some dread lord from unleashing zombie dragons upon some realm from ages of yore.

I came in once every two months to pick up the bi-monthly issue of Molten Slag, a comic magazine filled to the brim with blood, viscera, boobs and epic Science Fiction lands( it was that aspect that interested me more than the boobs).

I struck up a conversation with Rick, the cashier. We'd spent hours on end talking. He was surprised that an “old head” was interested in the stuff of geeks. I'd seen many people in my days as a police detective who would have benefited from having a Superman to admire or an escape that didn't involve needles and overdoses.

Rick had always been well… to be frank he'd always been overweight. Lately he had been losing some poundage and he looked alot happier and more focused than I'd ever seen him. He looked down at the magazine as he rang it up. “You know, Mr. Baker, they've got a statuette of Tiffany Chainsaw now.”

“Mmm I'm not a figurine kind of guy. If I had to have one though, I'd prefer Danarla Starkisser.”

“ Right on. She's dope.”

He handed me the magazine in a bag with a brochure announcing guests for an upcoming convention. I took it and continued. “I find some of the Starkisser stories to be profound. Tiffany Chainsaw just seems like someone having an acid trip and writing it down.”

Ricky laughed. “You might be right on the money. I hear that Derrick Ricardo is a regular Stephen King if you catch my drift.”

“I think I do.”

Starkisser was my favorite ongoing feature in Molten Slag. She'd been the character on the poster of the movie in the 80’s. She was a scantily armored warrior princess from another dimension’s Mars who flew across the cosmos on her alien pterodactyl. Therefore I kept coming back to Hot Rocket again and again. I even did a book signing there for a sci-fi detective story I wrote.

The next thing I knew Rick…changed… His eyes began to show the signs of sleep deprivation and all the weight he lost returned with reinforcements. His personality was different too. He did his best to be polite but you could tell his heart wasn't in his job anymore.

I asked him what was wrong and he said he just had a lot going on. I respected his privacy and left it at that, however my years of experience had kicked in and the gear they'd chosen was overdrive. Something was wrong with this young man. Sure we weren't close friends but I was still worried about him.

New comics arrive in shops on Wednesday of each month. Though Molten Slag was bi-monthly it was very much the same. Like clockwork I was in that cozy little shop on that day to scoop up the latest issue. Unfortunately during the month in between I had ended up neck deep in writing my longest novel yet and I had lost all contact with the outside world. I also was down and out with a seasonal cold.

For those reasons I was unable to go out until the weekend after New Comic Book Day. Approaching the store I noticed it was closed. That was odd. The comic shop never closed on Saturday unless it was a holiday which it wasn't. Heck this shop had weathered the 2020 pandemic. Walking up to the door I found out why. The shop had shut its doors to honor the passing of Rick Fontaine.

Today was his funeral. A little memorial had been set up on the sidewalk. My jaw repositioned itself at my feet. I barely knew this young man but I was heartbroken nonetheless; I'd seen too many men his age go too soon not to be. Starkisser could wait, would have to wait!

I drove to the service to pay my respects. While there I learned he had a wife who went before him. A picture was forming on the canvas of my mind. As the service progressed I also learned he died in his car. It was still in the garage with the motor running. I already knew and it made my gut hurt. He killed himself with carbon monoxide or he had passed out and the exhaust fumes did the rest. I hoped it was at least the latter.

It was like a spoiled little dog nipping at my ankles now! I'd left the detective business but the detective business had never left me. I had to know what happened. What was the reason behind the sudden changes first positive then negative I'd seen during brief encounters every month.

Many of the staff from the shop were there and I comforted them as best as I could. One girl had even dressed as the goddess of death and life from her fantasy game setting. These young people, these nerds, these misfits had all been affected by the loss of Rick Fontaine and I think they were floored that someone like me was too.

Soon after I did some asking around and,like the Fates, began stitching together the tapestry of Rick's life by talking to those who knew him best. It was a roller coaster and it was very bitter sweet.

Rick had always been insecure and he escaped his insecurities by reading and doing some writing of his own. I was dumbfounded to learn he actually wrote a one and done story I'd read in an issue of Molten Slag three years prior. That yarn he'd penned under a pseudonym.

Then he'd gone to a convention out of state and that's when he met Rachel Beckinsale. She was a professional cosplayer( someone who dresses up like a character at conventions and stuff). I came to understand from my inquiries that she was an absolute goddess and nobody could believe Rick, nice as he may be, had managed to start dating her.

She was his everything. He started losing weight and getting healthier. She also helped him not be so scatterbrained and take care of himself. This is around the time I really got to know him. Within a year they were married and that's when things took a turn for the worst.

I had to do a little more digging to find out just what had happened. It meant long caffeine charged hours of sitting at the library sifting through newspapers until I once again had discovered a piece of the story. It made my stomach hurt andI had to step away and work on my book.

The happy couple were on their honeymoon. Both were riding a high of romantic ecstasy & they couldn't possibly know that the Grim Reaper was waiting patiently. Beckinsale had gone into the bathroom to freshen herself up most likely in preparation for the consummation. It never happened.

Rick was startled by a scream that suddenly went silent and was joined by a strange sort of thud. The tile floor had gotten wet and the poor bride had forgotten to lay down a towel. She slipped on the wet surface and cracked her skull against the edge of the tub. The night that was supposed to be spent beneath the sheets was spent instead in the hospital.

Rick Fontaine had become a widower on his wedding night. After that he let himself go. The pounds came back as I'd observed and he barely functioned after that. The rest I already knew.

As I said earlier a man's life is measured in moments and sometimes that measure comes up short. My life had crisscrossed with another and now he was dead and I still lived. Where will the next sales associate be in a year? Where will I be? It is something I ponder.