by Anton Strout
When I saw the familiar red-framed windows and enormous oak doors that marked the Lovecraft, I stepped in. The strong, pleasant smell of coffee was mixed with the buttery cinnamon swirl of baked goods and my stomach nearly leapt out of my body in Pavlovian response.
I put my stomach in check and surveyed the main room. Movie posters ran along both exposed brick walls. The dark wooden floors probably hadn’t been touched since the 1800s, creating a cozy, lived-in atmosphere that I loved. The usual mismatch of furniture reflected the mismatch of people that the Lovecraft Café attracted. I looked for a seat up front by the television and found one across from a very attractive woman with shoulder-length dark hair seated on a hideous mauve couch. A few scattered patrons filled a plaid couch here and a lemon yellow chair there, but my mentor was nowhere to be seen.
“Connor around?” I called over to the counter. The espresso jockey, a rainbow-mohawked punk whose name escaped me, stopped polishing the wooden counter along the right side of the room and looked up. I wanted to call out his name, but I couldn’t remember it. Was he a Jared or a Jason? I knew he was one of the many Department employees who didn’t actually possess any powers, but that was about it. As far as I recalled, he just served coffee for the Lovecraft’s front operation. The counterman shrugged his shoulders noncommittally and moved off to rearrange a stack of muffins that had gone terribly awry.
“Thanks loads,” I muttered to no one in particular, and sat back in my chair. On the television, David Davidson—the Department’s liaison at the Mayor’s Office—was fending off verbal assaults concerning allegations of paranormal activity in Manhattan. I shook my head with amusement.
“Mr. Davidson! Mr. Davidson!” various members of the crowd shouted. The sunny New York City weather had made it possible for the latest of these press conferences to take place on the steps of City Hall.
Dave Davidson stood before the crowd of reporters and took a moment to smooth his tie into position. He looked out over the sea of people beyond the forest of microphones on the podium and pointed at random.
“Yes? You!” he said. The camera cut to a reporter who scanned his notebook anxiously for the right question to throw out. The camera cut back to Davidson as he waited with a look of serenity.
Cool as a cucumber, I thought.
Finally, the reporter found what he was searching for and looked up.
“Mr. Davidson,” he said. “Can you confirm rumors concerning the use of psychics by the Mayor’s Office to help investigative crime units? Specifically, I’m talking about events that occurred just north of Washington Square at University Place last night.”
David fixed his face with the practiced smile he was famous for. Disarming, jovial, and mixed with a touch of “you must be kidding.” It was his best tool, and I was sure it had helped expedite Davidson’s meteoric rise at the Mayor’s Office of Plausible Deniability.
“First,” he said, holding up one finger, “I’d like to clarify exactly what happened last night. I know several calls came into emergency services as well as to the news stations concerning the report of a ghostly encounter. Apparently, several drivers passing by said they saw something in the area that caused a traffic pile-up. Thankfully, no one was hurt.”
“Does this have anything to do with the legendary spectre that people have been reporting for decades in that area?” the reporter persisted.
I watched Davidson closely and could see he was resisting the urge to laugh. The reporter was more on the money than he could possibly know, but Davidson simply shook his head in response. “No, I’m afraid I can’t give any credence to rumors of that type. However, I personally talked with the head of Con Edison this morning and I’m told that this particular ‘ghost’ that people thought they saw was nothing more than wisps of steam coming from a series of pipes that run under that area. Con Ed assured me that they will be fixing those leaks today.”
Again, Davidson pointed randomly into the sea of media. “Yes?”
This time the camera settled on a young woman with glasses. “What about the eyewitnesses on the sidewalk who claim they actually saw this apparition pass right through another person?”
The camera quickly cut back to Davidson and the practiced smile was already back in place. Cool as a cucumber, I thought again. Ice water in your veins, buddy.
“Look, the Village and the people who live there are some of the most…colorful in the City. I’m not surprised to hear an eyewitness account like that. It is New York City, after all! I recently had someone stop me in Washington Square Park to tell me how the squirrels were plotting a coup d’état against the Department of Parks.”
The crowd rippled with laughter. The camera switched back to the female reporter as she dug into a large bag hanging off her shoulder and pulled free a stack of photos.
“What about these photos a tourist took of the incident? They clearly show something distinctly spectral—”
Davidson cut her off. “Double-exposed film or merely a trick whipped up on the computer.”
I watched uncomfortably as the camera stayed with the reporter. She tucked the photos under her arm and began rummaging through the bag once more. This time she produced a small clay pot filled with a jellylike substance, just like the ones we had found last night. “What about this? Some sort of residue left by the manifestation?”
I knew the stuff well. I had rolled around in it last night.
Damn, I thought, physical evidence. Surely that would throw Davidson, but when the camera switched back, I was relieved to see his unfazed smile.
“Miss,” he said, “I just have to say…you’re a brave young woman for scraping anything up off the streets of Manhattan.”
The crowd roared with laughter and I was pretty sure that he was in the clear. Davidson held his smile for a few moments before the camera pulled close in on his face.
“Look. We’ve been over this type of situation before and my answers are still the same. Time and time again, the Mayor’s Office would like to state for the record that there is no government body that handles any sort of ‘paranormal’ investigations. His Honor is a practicing Catholic, and as such, he refuses to give credence to rumors of endorsement for any program that encourages a belief in life after death or the supernatural, unless it is in an appropriately monotheistic manner.”
“Simon,” croaked an elderly voice from the back of the coffee shop. It was Mrs. Teasley and her voice sounded roughly like the creaking of well-worn leather. “Is that nice young man Davidson helping us out again?”
“Yes, Mrs. T, I suspect he is.”
I rarely entered the café without finding the plump, pleasant woman with her kind face and always-present tabby cat seated somewhere at the back of the Lovecraft’s main room. Mrs. Teasley supposedly possessed the gift of telling the future by reading leftover coffee grounds from the morning brew at the Lovecraft. I had seen her powers at work only once, but it had taken a great deal of interpretation on my part to make any sort of sense of her vision. The old mystic had told Connor that he would “soon come into money.” When he left the café later that day, an armored car on Eleventh Street almost ran him down.
I turned to see Connor walking through the door among a crowd of the White Stripes, of which he was now a proud member. They were patting him on the back mercilessly, and although Connor looked a little bit rough around the edges from last night, I could tell how proud he was to be sporting the new shock of white in his hair. A female White Stripe went to tease Connor’s hair, but he brushed her away good-naturedly and waved to them as the rest headed off to the hidden offices out back.
He spotted me by the television, and headed over as he tried to wipe the out-of-place goofy grin from his face. He took a seat across from me in a ghastly purple chair covered in a paisley print that I bet even the seventies had rejected. He gave a nod to the punker behind the counter, who began whipping up Connor’s usual.
“Hey, kid,” Connor said, settling back.
“
Morning,” I said. “I see the Stripes noticed your badge of honor.”
He tugged the streak of white in his hair. “If I had known how many free drinks this thing was gonna get me, I woulda worked harder to do it years ago. Maybe you should have jumped through that ghost while you had the chance.”
I smiled at that but remained silent. Maybe it was vanity, but I hadn’t quite made up my mind where I stood on the hazing like esteem that was part of the White Stripes clique. It smacked of elitism, and I didn’t see how it fit here on Team Good.
Hoping to change the subject, I motioned toward the television. “Davidson was just talking about how last night’s event didn’t happen.”
“Tell my stripe that,” Connor said, still playing with his hair.
“At least we made the news,” I said with an optimistic shrug.
The counter jockey arrived and handed an iced coffee to Connor. Before Connor could reach for his wallet, I slipped the guy a ten. “Keep the change.”
Connor looked surprised.
“I promised you a beverage if we survived last night,” I said. “Remember?”
Connor raised his glass in salute to the distinguished Davidson on the television. I raised my own, joining his gesture.
“Davidson was just on TV. One of the reporters held up one of those clay pots we found. I guess Haunts-General didn’t do that great a job cleaning up the scene.”
“Not our concern, kid,” Connor said. “That’s their problem.”
As I took a hearty swig of my coffee, my eyes caught those of the attractive brunette across from me and the two of us stared at each other. A notable awkward silence stretched out and it was only when Connor rustled around in one of his coat pockets that I was able to pull my attention away from her.
“Whatcha got for me, boss?”
Connor’s mood shifted. In his hand was a reddish blue object about the size of a cigarette lighter and he tossed it to me. I caught it and gave it a cursory examination. It was a common enough item from my own childhood, three simple letters running down the worn rectangular body of the object, ending any possible doubt as to its identity.
“It’s a PEZ dispenser,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Case solved then, isn’t it, Poirot?” he said, brushing his hands together as if wiping them clean. He pointed to the television, where Dave Davidson was still press-conferencing away. “Let’s just close up shop and put him out of a job denying that the Department of Extraordinary Affairs even exists, shall we, kid?”
“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” I said with retaliatory testiness. I flicked the marred and unidentifiable head of the dispenser back, the empty candy clip mocking me with its lack of PEZy goodness. At one time the dispenser might have had a cartoon character or the mask of a superhero for its hinged top, but with age, the identity had been worn away. Just another mystery on top of Connor’s little test. “Is this honestly from a case?”
“You tell me,” Connor said, refusing to give anything away.
I knew this was just another little challenge meant to help me channel my powers more effectively, but after the night I had been through, I really didn’t feel like jumping through anyone’s hoops.
I thought about refusing, just getting up and heading off to my backlog of paperwork and mountain of forms back at my desk. Deep down, though, I knew that random exercises like this were good for my training.
I wrapped my hand around the object and focused the entirety of my concentration. I felt it wash over the tiny plastic toy as my eyes glazed over. I opened up a closed-off section of my mind.
Mrs. Teasley cleared her throat at the back of the coffeehouse and my concentration broke. I had come to know that sound all too well during the past few months. One of her half-baked visions was coming through, and since there was no getting around Mrs. Teasley having her say, I simply waited. She kept her eyes focused intently on the pile of soggy coffee grounds spread out on the table before her, not once looking up. “Simon, dear, I think you ought to know…”
She paused to shuffle the pile around with her stained fingers. I raised my eyebrows at Connor, who simply looked pissed off. He was, after all, in the middle of trying to instruct me.
“Yes, Mrs. T?” I asked. “What is it?”
I tried to hide my annoyance, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they were too harsh. Did I really want to be the kind of guy who shouted at well-meaning old ladies? I looked around the room to see if there were any babies I could steal candy from.
As Mrs. Teasley sifted her fingers further through the coffee grounds, I felt a slow, curious energy building in her corner of the café. Everything around her—except the cat on her lap—seemed to course with the mounting power. Magazines on an unbussed coffee table shuffled around of their own volition as if unseen hands were haphazardly flipping through them. Nearby coffee mugs clattered on saucers, adding their own cacophonous soundtrack. Through it all, Mrs. Teasley maintained her focus on the coffee grounds. I looked around to see if any of the norms had taken notice, but none of them were paying the old woman or the energy dispersal any attention.
Mrs. Teasley moved her face closer to the table and sniffed deeply before raising her eyes to meet mine. She looked at me with total seriousness, as if she had just been given a sign direct from the Almighty him (or her) self. Even though I generally thought her precognitive powers came from a secret pact as a Psychic Friend of Dionne Warwick, for once I took her seriously.
“Simon,” she sputtered. “You need to know this…there’s going to be some turmoil in your near future. Oh yes, great turmoil, indeed!” She pressed her eyes firmly shut as if she were going off to a distant land in her mind. Her lips trembled as if she was in great pain, and her breathing became irregular. She looked on the verge of passing out and I started to rise, fearing for her safety, but she spoke before I could get fully out of my chair. “You’re going…you’re going to be surprised by an unexpected guest.”
“That’s it?” I muttered. “Jesus, could you be any vaguer?”
Connor scolded me with a look, but I really couldn’t see what worth she had to the Department. I secretly thought they must keep Mrs. Teasley around simply as a way to teach other staffers tolerance and patience. I made a mental note to grab the pamphlet from the Training Department called Your COworkers & You: COoperate!
“That sounds right on the money, Mrs. T,” I said by way of apology. “Just great. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Quietly, I turned to Connor. “Honestly, why do they keep the old woman on? I’ve seen better guessing at a carnival sideshow.”
“And certainly better-looking women, too,” Connor replied. Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Truth be told, Simon, I think she’s got some pull with the Enchancellors. I know most of her predictions and precogs are limited to only a few minutes into the future and the accuracy of them is shaky at best, but someone higher up than either of us clearly feels different about it.”
I sighed.
Connor turned away from her entirely. “Never mind her. Just take a stab at the PEZ dispenser.”
“Right,” I said sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Settling back into the task at hand, I pushed away the surrounding chatter and smells of the coffeehouse. As I raised the PEZ dispenser once more, my eyes glazed over. A stir of energy much like the one Mrs. Teasley had generated began to form around me. It crackled like electricity and was charged with such intensity that it blew a wash of static through my hair. The last thing I saw as I fell into the vision was that Connor’s skunkish mop had gone all Einstein as well.
My mind’s eye kicked in and I was blinded by the brightness of the sun and the salty sting of the air. There was a light breeze carrying the pleasant smell of sand and sea. I concentrated on other surrounding details, hoping for clues. In the window of a car parked nearby (one of those midseventies fishbowly cars like a Pacer or a Gremlin), I caught the momentary flash of my reflection. A sandy-haired boy of abou
t ten years old with a somewhat dull expression on his face stared back at me.
He (and I) ran across a parking lot toward a rise of grass-covered dunes, arm in arm with a slightly older boy who looked a lot like him. The two of them were laughing and half out of breath, skipping foolishly along. Thanks to his smaller size, he was barely managing to keep up with the older one.
My brain kicked into a lucid dreaming TiVo-like mode as I sensed the inevitable about to happen and I was able to slip the entire vision into slow-motion. The boy’s shorter legs were no match for the older kid, and down he went, the older boy dragging him along. Because I sometimes experienced all the tactile senses of my host body, I felt the full pain of his knee scraping across the blistering, gravelly pavement. A sizable patch of skin peeled off before he shook free from the other kid and bounced to a stop.
Immediately, the older boy broke away from him, not out of concern, but because he knew he would be the first one blamed. His face was full of panic. As the younger kid began to cry, the older immediately started denying any involvement to the gathering of looky-loos forming around them. The younger one tried to stand up, but with a queasy look at his raw, pebble-embedded knee, he plopped weakly back to the pavement. An even saltier sting filled his eyes, and I could taste the bitter tears as they rolled down his face and into the corners of his mouth. He sat there crying until the comforting hands of an older woman scooped under his arms and lovingly lifted him up.
Through the blur of tears, her sympathetic face and frosted blond stack of hair came into focus. Lucidity kicked in again and I compressed time, speeding it up until I found the boy standing at the counter of a penny-candy store. The older woman tended to the one thing that she knew would soothe his pain and stop his crying—sweets. She paid the clerk and handed him a small bag full of waxy bottles filled with juicy bursts of liquid, caramel bull’s eyes, and Atomic Fireballs. At the top of the bag, playing king of the hill, was the best of all, a brand new PEZ dispenser. As he beamed from ear to ear, I could already feel the pain in his scraped knee fading. Ah, the healing powers of sugary goodness.
