Hot Pot Magazine

By Leah Mueller

I lived with you for two years before we decided to marry. Supposedly, the second
marriage is a triumph of hope over experience. We’d both been married before, to spouses who
required a great deal of maintenance. Your ex-wife used to pound her head against the wall. My
previous husband drank until he passed out. You and I were no longer young, so we didn’t
expect much. Just someone who would tolerate our sh*t.

We strolled through a Virginia City graveyard, pointing at tombstones. Two hours past
sunset, a half-moon hung in the sky. We’d flown to Reno for our honeymoon and stayed in a
hotel with heart-shaped beds. It was corny, of course, but both of us were suckers for kitsch.
Besides, the place offered cheap weekend rates.

Since we operated on a tight budget, we avoided the slot machines. This proved difficult
because the goddamned things constantly leered at us. Garish money-suckers lurked
everywhere—inside rest rooms and mini-marts, beside restaurant tables. A shimmering line of
one-armed bandits beckoned as we disembarked from the plane.

After a few days of glitz, we decided to drive our rental car to Virginia City. The town
was an odd place for newlyweds, but we needed a respite from the ceaseless clanging.
The graveyard was probably the only place in Nevada that didn’t have a slot machine.
Instead, it sported upright slabs, each inscribed with a name. Some of them belonged to
important landowners, others to paupers with crude, wooden headstones. Good citizens of Storey
County lay side by side beneath the flinty earth, irrespective of social rank. Death was the great
equalizer.

A few babies’ graves peppered the landscape. Most had died of childhood diseases like
dysentery and diphtheria. Fragile infants, born to hardy, fatalistic pioneer families, only to expire
a few days later. I imagined the mothers as heartbroken yet determined, stoic in the face of grief.
In the 1800s, women gave birth every year. A new baby was always on the way.

We stopped in front of a headstone that read, “Darling Joe, July 1—August 4, 1885.”

Crumbling angel wings adorned the granite’s edge. Joe hadn’t even lived on the planet for six
weeks. Life had already proven too rough for him, and he couldn’t stick around. Poor kid.
You stood with clasped hands, staring hard at the dates. Perhaps your gaze could make
them disappear. Your face always radiated a sweet concern, like you wanted to fix everything
but were never sure how. When I first saw that expression, I knew you would be a good
stepfather for my two children. They hadn’t lucked out in the dad department.

“I don’t understand why kids die,” you finally said. “It always makes me think of Pam.”
Pam was your older sister. She died at sixteen from a childhood leukemia that consumed
her body like candy. You idolized her because she had a guitar in her bedroom. Pam never had
time for the guitar. She just liked having it in the corner.

It wasn’t hard to talk her into giving up the instrument. One day she shrugged and said,
“Sure, take it. I’m never going to learn to play.”

You scurried back to your room, cradling your prize like a piece of fragile pottery. Then
you spent the next eight years teaching yourself, until you learned all the songs on the radio. A
sixties kid, your heroes were musicians and astronauts. Striving to emulate them, you built
spaceships from boxes and formed garage bands with your friends.

Despite your love of outer space and rock and roll, you wound up working as a software
tester. At least it paid the bills. Mostly. The Pacific Northwest threatened to swallow us whole,
with its congested highways and high cost of living. It was the land of your birth, not mine. As a
transplanted Midwesterner, I always felt irritated by the secretive, passive-aggressive manner of
Washington locals. On top of that, I loathed rain. Your low-paying tech job was the glue that
held us in place.

We both loved graveyards and visited them whenever possible. Our pastime had the odd
effect of easing your fear of death, at least for a little while. Today, however, our mojo didn’t
seem to be working. Any mention of Pam always brought you to tears, followed by a weighty
pondering of your own mortality.

“Death sucks,” I said in the most soothing tone I could muster. “Especially when it’s a
young person. Doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it would if we were religious.” I took your hand
and squeezed it. “Probably not, though.”

“I wish we had two hundred years. Even one hundred isn’t enough.” Despite the rigors of
life, you always wanted more time. I felt astonished by your desire to live forever, amidst
constantly diminishing expectations.

You shook your head at the tombstone. “I mean, there’s no telling when you’re going to
die, or how. Life is challenging enough without being terrified of death.”

“People say they aren’t afraid of dying. I think they’re bluffing, mostly. It makes them
sound badass, or something.” I squeezed your hand again. It felt clammy, like it did when we
took flights together. The take-offs and landings were always an ordeal for you. In between, you
pointed at clouds through the bite-sized windows, while I read flight magazines and counted the
minutes until touchdown.

We turned away from Darling Joe and wandered towards the opposite end of the
graveyard. “I’m definitely in the mood for a beer,” you said. “How about you?”

“Let’s head back to that bar underneath the hotel. I think it’s the only place open now.”
Sunday night in Virginia City was dead, to say the least. We’d checked into our hundred-year-
old hotel shortly before all the tourists left. No one else registered for the night, so we had the
place to ourselves. The desk clerk put us on the top floor, accessible only by a dusty, creaking
stairwell. We hadn’t seen any ghosts yet, but we’d double-checked the corners just to make sure.
After passing the perimeter of the graveyard, we secured the gate behind us. Though the
hotel was only three blocks away, we walked slowly, admiring the landscape. Brick Victorian
buildings loomed above us like sentries. Their beveled glass windows looked gray and dingy.
How many people had lived in those rooms? What did they feel as they gazed at the street?
Which unfulfilled aspirations kept them awake at night?

Tavern lights flickered on the cobblestoned street. Neon signs advertised various
beers—Budweiser, Sierra Nevada, Fat Tire. Not surprisingly, the joint was empty. An elderly

bartender sat behind the counter, engrossed in a paperback. The poor guy startled when he saw
us. Finally, he put aside the book and approached the bar. “What can I get you?”

You and I both ordered pints of Sierra Nevada. We settled into our barstools and smiled
at the bartender. He reminded me of a goblin—petite in stature, with a gray, pointed beard. After
setting the glasses down carefully, he scooped up our cash and stared at us. “Where do you live?
Everyone comes here from somewhere else.”

“Washington state,” I replied. “The two of us are in Nevada for our honeymoon. Virginia
City tonight, then we’re heading back to Reno tomorrow.”

The bartender’s face became thoughtful. “Well, isn’t that lovely. I remember my
honeymoon. Of course, it was a while ago.” He turned away, retrieved his book, and held it in
midair. “Sorry I didn’t see you come in. I can’t put this down. I used to be afraid of death, but the
author Thich Nhat Hanh says it’s just a natural transition. That is, IF we manage to live our lives
with purpose and dignity.”

I gaped at the book, astonished. Its title read, “No Death, No Fear: Comforting Wisdom
for Life.” The cover was plain—black letters etched against a white background, surrounded by a
circle that looked as if it had been drawn by a child.

You shook your head. “How weird. My wife and I were just talking about mortality. I’ve
never accepted death as an inevitable passage. I’m scared to let go because I don’t know what’s
next. Everything happens so fast, and before we know it, our lives are almost gone.”

The bartender smiled. “You’re still young. But I know what you mean. I felt the same
way.” He picked up a damp rag, then began to swirl it across the counter in slow, rhythmic
circles. “Martin Luther King thought a lot of Hanh. The man is a Vietnamese monk and a Zen
master, after all. Been around a long time. I figure he must know what he’s talking about.”

“It’s uncanny that we should meet you tonight. But fortuitous. I’ll try to get ahold of the
book.” I took a gulp of my beer and savored its fizzy descent. Nothing like a cold brew after a
graveyard stroll on an unseasonably warm autumn night. “Synchronicity is pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s never an accident. I’m sure Hanh would agree.” The bartender dropped his rag into
the sink. “You want another beer? I’m getting ready to close for the night.”

The two of us glanced at each other, then turned towards the bartender and shook our
heads. “Nah, one is enough,” I said. “We’re going to bed early. Big day tomorrow.” I looked
forward to climbing the dusty stairwell towards our four-poster bed. We’d fall asleep with our
limbs entwined, as we’d done every night since the start of our relationship.

Perhaps we’d have the energy for lovemaking. You were still shy in bed after two years
of cohabitation, because your first wife hated sex. Graveyards could be seductive, though. I
hoped the weird eroticism would work in our favor.

A few sips later, we rose to our feet and thanked the bartender. “I’m Joseph, by the way,”
he said. “When you’re back in Reno, be sure to look up my friend Dan. He tends bar at Clary’s
Pub on Virginia. It’s right by the Atlantis. You can’t miss it. Tell him I said hello.”

Once we reached the sidewalk, you chuckled. “I feel like I’m in a sort of indie-gothic
Wild West movie. First, we have a heavy discussion about death. Then we enter a tavern, and the
bartender happens to bring up the same topic. Afterwards, he tells us to visit his friend at Clary’s
Pub. So, we go there and ask about the guy. But all the patrons flinch and say, “Joseph from
Virginia City? JOSEPH? Impossible! That man’s been dead for twenty years!”

That’s what I loved most about you—despite your habitual melancholy, you always
managed to find a kernel of comic absurdity. You possessed a certain freshness that no amount
of trauma could eradicate. Though I hoped your humor would keep you going for years, I
suspected your life would be shorter than mine. Before we met, you subsisted on deep-fried
foods and Marie Callender dinners. I still couldn’t convince you to take care of yourself.
Frustrating, since you wanted to live two hundred years.

“Weirder shit has happened,” I said. “Come on, let’s go upstairs and enjoy our
room.”

You reached into your pocket, withdrew the hotel key. Three fumbling attempts later, you
found your way into the keyhole. When the door finally swung open, you smiled, looking
immensely relieved. “The ghosts are waiting. Step inside, sweetheart.”

Puffing from exertion, we ascended the stairs. Our door loomed at the end of the third
floor. Room 313. Perfect. The bartender didn’t lie when he said that synchronicity was real. That
is, if the fellow ever existed. It was hard to know in Virginia City. Especially when you spend
your honeymoon obsessing over death.

I could hardly wait to curl up beside you in our rented bed. We were still alive, at least
for now. The two of us had a lot of catching up to do.

Leah Mueller’s work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She is a 2022 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah’s flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her two new books, “The Failure of Photography” (Garden Party Press) and “Widow’s Fire” (Alien Buddha Press) will be published in Autumn, 2023. Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.