Meet William Cole (Excerpt from After Life)
Here's a little snippet from later on in the story, as we meet William Cole for the first time. Enjoy!
(Excerpt from After Life by Matthew Culberson-Available July 5th)
“Please let me get a hit. Please let me get a hit. Just this one time.” Silence and then the dial tone. I assume the voice on the other end of the line is Ben’s. He was so young when I died. It’s so hard to believe this is the first time I’ve heard from him since arriving here. It’s good to hear his voice.
There’s a knock at my door. I have no desire to answer it, since I’m expecting it to be Preston. Another knock. Maybe it’s Morgan, or better yet, Lisa. I open the door and find neither standing there. It’s a giant of a man, probably about the same age as me, his arms as big as my legs. He is the walking manifestation of bulk.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Yeah, we have a conflict,” he says, his voice, deep and commanding. I move out of his way to let him by, because it seems he has every intention of coming inside. It’s not like I could stop him anyway. There’s a second chair at my table now, a chair I didn’t even know I had.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
“No. And that doesn’t matter,” he answers. “That request you just got. My son’s the one pitching to him. He just finished his prayer on the back of the mound. It’s a big game. A playoff game. Bottom of the ninth.”
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” he replies.
“So why come to me?” I ask.
“It’s a conflict. We both can’t get what we want, can we?”
“To be honest with you, I didn’t even know my son played,” I reply.
“Ouch,” he replies. “Well, then it’s settled. I’ll answer mine, you let yours go.”
“Wait a second,” I retort. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want him to do well. I’ve been away for awhile, so I missed a lot. But I’m back now, and if I can help my son get a hit I’m going to help him get a hit.”
The man sighs in deeply as he stands up, his body towering over me as he peers down at me. My entire body tenses up because it looks like he’s about to attack me. He lifts his left arm to pull something out of his back pocket. A knife? A gun? Why would he need a gun? He could take me out with a single punch.
He pulls out a deck of cards and slaps them on the table.
“Five card stud. You know how to play?”
“Poker?”
He shuffles the deck and then places it in the middle of the table. “Cut.”
“Is this really how this works?” I ask.
He deals each of us five cards.
I glance at my hand and see three beautiful kings staring up at me. Three beautiful kings. “So what now? Do we show our cards?”
“That wouldn’t be a very interesting poker game, would it? Start the betting.”
“What do I bet?”
“What do you want to happen? The better the hand, the better the result.”
“I want him to hit a home run,” I reply.
“Whoa,” he replies. “All in on the first bet?”
“Home run,” I repeat.
“Look, I’ve got a good hand here,” he says. “He can make good contact. Not strike out. Maybe even a line drive to someone. There’s no shame in that. But you have to fold.”
“Home run,” I say.
“Or a three pitch strikeout where he looks like he doesn’t even see the ball. Pure humiliation. That’s my bet if you want to show our hands.”
I played a little poker in life, and I’m pretty certain he can’t beat three kings. But the thought of my son being humiliated does cause me to pause for a moment. I’ve been there before. I’ve struck out with the game on the line. And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But I know I have the best hand.
“I call,” I say.
The man shakes his head and then lays down three tens. “Sorry, man. I tried to let him off easy.”
“Like I said,” I answer. “Home run.” I lay the hand down, showing him the three kings.
“Wow,” he replies. “Nice hand.” He gathers up the cards, noticeably upset. “Then it’s settled.”
“Just like that?”
“That’s how it works,” he replies. “And if we hadn’t been able to come up with a solution we would have to talk to the arbitrator.”
“Arbitrator?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Too much trouble. This is the easiest way.”
“And what’s been happening while we decide all this? Does the world pause or something?”
“You’re new here,” the man says.
“Kind of,” I reply.
“Well, you need to drop all your notions of time. It doesn’t work the same here.”
“I’m having trouble wrapping my head around that.”
“It takes some getting used to.”
He saunters over to my front door and turns before he leaves. “I’m William,” he says. “William Cole.” He extends his hand to shake mine. I answer with as firm a shake as possible, but the overwhelming size of his hand over mine makes me feel childlike and weak.
“Michael Black,” I reply. “And I think I’m okay with a nice single up the middle.”
All the size and menace disappears from the giant of a man in front of me, as a smile stretches across his face. “You’re a good man,” he replies. “I can sense that. Thank you.”
