You see, my father's full-time carpentry gig was on this restaurant ship called “The Moshulu,” which, in 1976 (and again, about 20 years later), was docked at Penn's Landing, three blocks east of Winston's. I somehow put the geography together, and I knew if I walked over the Very Big Bridge (in actuality, a pedestrian footbridge over I-95), I could see the Very Cool Big Boat. So in the middle of the largest crowd ever gathered in Old City Philadelphia, I ran away.

But not alone. I took an accomplice along with me: my Aunt Diane. Relieved? Don't be. She was only nine months older than me at the time. (My grandmother became pregnant with her late in life-the last in a series of five girls, spanning 22 years or so. God bless my grandpop Lou.) Why Diane followed me, I'll never know. I've never been the persuasive type. And you'd figure a five-year-old would know better. But, oh well.

I don't remember the walk over there. It was probably scary as hell, and I've blocked it from my memory. But I do remember walking into the restaurant portion of the boat, and Diane and I sliding into two seats at a table. A frazzled waitress with a nameplate emblazoned VICKY came over and dropped two menus and a large wicker bowl of popcorn on the table. She must have assumed we were brother and sister, and our parents were nearby. Of course, this was not the case. We were alone, and lost.

For about five minutes.

A man in a big suit appeared next to our table, looking down at us with a strange expression on his face. I remember worrying we were about to get yelled at, but he didn't. “You two aren't supposed to be here, aren't you?” he asked, smiling.

Neither Diane nor I made a peep.

The man pulled out a chair and sat down with us. “Well, that's okay. I'm not supposed to be here, either.” I watched him pull a cigarette out of a steel case in his pocket, and saw a big thick belt under his arm, with a Big Gun inside it. Wow. That was even cooler than being on a Big Boat. But the man quickly covered it up, lit the cigarette, and stared at us both. Then I saw him look up, behind us.

I felt the thin, scratchy breeze of fabric across the back of my neck, and caught a whiff of perfume. A woman sat down at the table. I recall her being incredibly beautiful-almost as beautiful as Lori, my babysitter.

“Who are these two?” she asked.

“I've been busy the past couple of weeks,” the man said.

“Very funny,” the woman said. “Are they lost?"

“Yeah. The waitress clued me in to them. I'm just doing my job."

The woman smiled. “Funny to hear you say that, after all this time."

“Well, I was kind of forced out of my old one,” he said.

“Now, now, Collective. Don't be bitter. You know this was for the best. You're not supposed to complete every task. Some have to be finished by others."

“I know. If I didn't, I'd plant a bullet in you right now."

The woman was quiet for a moment. I got bored and started to eyeball the popcorn basket. I loved popcorn. But Diane beat me to the punch: she already had her hand in the basket, almost tipping it over.

“I have a question for you,” the man said. “How much of that stuff you'd always tell me-you know, about what I am…"

“Yes?"

“Well. How much of it was true?"

The woman smiled. “Excellent question. I'd say you could place my factual accuracy at about 50 %. Some things were outright lies, meant to keep you confused, or bitter, or a little of both. But everything else was the truth. More than you know, actually. More than you'll ever want to know."

“What are you going to do now?” the man asked, righting the basket before we lost all the popcorn.

“Well, first I have a small matter concerning a certain hotel here in Center City Philadelphia. There's going to be a plague this holiday, and I have to make sure it doesn't spread to end life on Earth."

“Oh,” the man said. “I guess that's important."

“You might say that."

The man nodded, then turned to look at us kids. I always got uncomfortable when grown-ups stared at me, so I started to fidget with the tablecloth. Eventually-thankfully-the man turned away.

“And what about you?” the woman asked. “Any plans for the immediate future?"

“I'm going to make sure these kids get back to their parents. Nothing beyond that. Nothing I can think of, at least."

“You need anything? Money?"

“Only the air that I breathe."

“Catchy,” the woman said, smiling. “It would make a good song."

The man sat there, staring at the basket of popcorn on the table. Which, of course, prompted me to grab a handful and stuff it in my mouth. I looked at the man to see if was going to stop me, but he didn't. He looked like he was going to cry. I'd never seen that in an adult man before. It was weird.

“I know what you're thinking,” the woman said. “Rest assured, I'll take care of her. She's happy here."

“Can I say something to her? Just for a second?"

“Sure. But remember: I've wiped her memories away. The bad ones, I mean.” The woman swallowed and closed her eyes.

Again, I reached out with my tiny fingers and grabbed as much popcorn as I could hold, then tried to shove it all into my mouth. Most of it missed.

“Hi,” the woman said.

“Hello,” the man said. “It's been a while."

“I'm sorry, but I don't remember you."

“Of course you don't. I look different now. I wanted to wish you luck in the future. You deserve it. In fact, you deserve the world. I wish I were the one who'd be able to give it to you."

“Oh, okay,” the woman said. “Uh, thanks.” The woman blinked, and then sighed. Then she stood up from the table, patted us both on the heads, and said, “Be good."

The man sat with us for a while longer, not saying anything. Diane and I made short work of the popcorn basket, and the waitress brought over a full one when the man stopped her, smiled, and then took us both by the hand and led us off the ship, back across the bridge, back to the corner of 2nd and Chestnut, back to my parents. I don't remember their reaction; I can only assume they were overwhelmed with the urge to hug us and choke the living shit out of us, simultaneously.

My last memory of being a four-year-old was this: The man in the suit walking away.

I never saw him again.

October 2003

Philadelphia, PA

About the Author

Duane Swierczynski was playing keyboards in a bar band at the age of 10, hauling garbage at 15, interviewing fashion models at 17, and working at a magazine at 19. He was born and raised in Philadelphia, lived for a while in Brooklyn, and now has returned to Philly with his wife, son and daughter.

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