Sharing Nightmares

Ian R. Cooper || A Fair Of Psychopomps

A Fair for Psychopompsby IanRCooper

Pronunciation: /ˈsīkōˌpämp/

(also psychopompos /ˌsīkōˈpämpəs/ /-ˈpämpäs/)

noun

(In Greek mythology) a guide of souls to the place of the dead.
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The streets of Santa Ana are alive tonight. The people cluster, clad in brightly colored traditional Mexican garb, celebrating Dia de Muertos. They crowd the sidewalks, spilling out into the road and slowing traffic. Sharon has the window of her taxi rolled down, her cigarette smoke mingling with the coastal California air. The breeze blows in, smelling of salt and tobacco. One woman stands out, shrouded completely in white, with her arm outstretched. The universal sign to hail a cab. Through the traffic, Sharon has watched three other taxis pass the woman by. She knows they didn't have fares, they just can't see the dead woman.

But Sharon can. Sighing, she takes one last drag on her cigarette and pulls into the closest lane. A lady, with arms full of sugar skulls and bread for the dead, parades directly in front of her vehicle. She's followed by a man in a purple top hat, bobbing along with a skeleton marionette.

"Please, please, please, someone else pick this crazy bitch up" Sharon mutters to herself. "Night full of spirits and psychopomps, and I'm the only guide on this street? Bullshit."

She drives at a crawl towards the veiled woman, hoping the traffic will delay her long enough to pass the responsibility to someone else. Sharon brakes to a stop, the passenger side pulled next to her fated fare. She waits until she hears the door close before checking the rearview mirror.

"Where to?"

The woman sobs faintly. The face beneath her veil is beautiful, the kind of attractiveness that can't be hidden behind a layer of tulle. Out in the street, she should have been thronged by young men acting out displays of machismo, peacocking for her attention. If only they could see her. Black mascara flows down a face as smooth as porcelain. It stains through the material, shading her like the painted faces of festival goers, framed by raven-tinted hair.

"City center" she says, pausing her sniffles long enough to answer.

"Sure thing." Sharon exhales slowly, hoping the woman doesn't catch the sound of relief in her breath. Lots of people there. Lots of lights and confusion. It would buy her time. "You from here?"
"From the river. I need to get to the city center. My children are there. We got separated, but I'll meet them there. At the ofrendas."

"Yeah, I'm sure they'll be there. That's where everyone will be." Sharon says, reassuring her. The cab turns right onto North Bristol Street, heading toward the Boulevard. The woman continues crying softly, her light moans burrowing into Sharon's brain. "So, uh, what's your name?"

"Maria" the woman answers.

"Maria." Sharon repeats. "Well, I bet your kids are missing you."

"Yes. I can hear them calling out to me. Here." She says, placing her hand across the pure white fabric covering her heart. Any other night and she would have been mistaken for a runaway bride. But this is Dia de Muertos, and nothing could be that simple. Not even a woman looking for her children.

"Ah, a mother's intuition." Sharon says, tapping the steering wheel as she hangs a left onto North Ross. "You're very beautiful. I bet your kids are just as lovely."

"They are." The woman replies. A smile plays at the corners of her plump lips. The black eyeliner has run down, trickling its way into her mouth. "Both boys. Such handsome boys. Oh, my children..." The smile fades and she resumes her lament.