"Hold on," I say.
I pull the cash out of my pocket in a wad.
"One, six, seven, seventeen, eighteen. Eighteen twenty-five. Eighteen-thirty. Wait. Hold on."
The last quarter is somewhere in the deepest pits of my pocket. It is very important that I produce it. It is the most important thing in the world.
"Hold on." Got it. "Fifty-five. I owe you...."
Hundred minus fifty-five. Forty five. Plus twenty-nine.
“Seventy four cents.”
She has fallen out of love with me and now sees me as something to pity. She takes the one-fifth scale pie and puts it in a plastic bag with some napkins and packets of crushed red pepper.
"Some parmesan?" I ask.
She throws in two packs of dried cheese dust and hands the bag to me. I head for the door.
“Are you okay to drive?”
She does love me.
“I walked.”
”Are you okay to walk?”
"That remains to be seen."
She rolls her eyes and gets back to work. Thus endeth our love affair. I will never forget her. I didn't see The Notebook but I think her and I were almost The Notebook. Fuck. I need to be more like Gosling. Fuck commercials and cereal and talking toucans. I need to be like—but I can't. Nobody's Gosling. Not even Gosling.
I get outside and resist the urge to sit on the curb and eat. It's only eight minutes. This will be an exercise in restraint. Can I go five blocks with death-defying munchies carrying hot food without ripping into it like a savage? Bet on it. My money's on me. Gosling could do it. So can I.
And if the pizza gets cold, my microwave is my best friend. It has kept me alive for the last two years. The microwave is a better cook than my mom.
It's for the best that it's a little person pizza. There is only so much bread and cheese you can eat before your stomach distends with gas, your skin breaks out, and every bite tastes like giving up.
When I'm sure I've gone three blocks and five minutes I realize it's been one block and two minutes. I don't think I could possibly be more stoned but I know when I get back the first thing I'll do before digging into my dwarf pie will be to rip off another hit or four.
Why do I do that? Why do we do that? We, the herbally inclined. There are times where it is physically impossible to be any more high and yet we always make the attempt.
I love what it tastes like and smells like and does to me so much but I'm beginning to think it hates me and wants me to fail at everything. It didn't help in school. It doesn't get me work or girls.
Okay, some girls. But not the right girls.
Shit. I forgot the Coke. Left it on the—
Shit. I should go back. But it seems so far away. Forget it.
That's it. I'm done with weed. No more.
Well, not forever. But I'm taking some time off.
I'm only about half-way through that eighth I bought. Would be a shame to waste that. Cost me sixty bucks I barely had. Okay. Finish this eighth, and then I'm done.
For a little bit. Not forever.
I pass by a nail salon and one of the apartment windows above it lights up—
BLAM!
Was that a gunshot?
A gunshot?
A fucking gunshot?
I freeze. The suspect window is dark and still. I wait for another shot, screams of pain, cries for help. But there's nothing. I expect a masked burglar to come bounding out onto the fire escape with a Smith & Wesson in one hand and a sack of loot in the other.
But there's nothing.
In the instance of brilliance did I see the little silhouette of a man? Did I see two?
I have to get out of here but I can't move. I want to go home. I don't want to be a witness. But home won't be any safer. They'll canvass the neighborhood, the police. They do. They canvas.
And they'll ask me if saw anything or heard anything and I won't lie to them. It's not what I do. I'll have to tell them what I saw or heard, and then they're going to want me to testify. And then some bad-ass with tats and a Croatian accent will come to my house and tell me if I show up in court I end up at the bottom of the Hudson. And then I either let a killer go free and save my life, or I die to see the right thing done.
Or I go into hiding, but witness protection seems like such a bummer.
When you order spaghetti with marinara sauce all you get is egg noodles and ketchup.
I can't go home. And I can't go home.
But I can go home-home.
Maybe I'm being paranoid.
But home-home. Phoenix. Second time that's come up tonight. Might not be a terrible idea.
I rush back to the apartment. I hear no fire-fights, no sirens. There are no choppers in the sky sweeping the East Village with spotlights. Maybe I'm in the clear. Maybe there wasn't anything to worry about.
Maybe some guy was just watching an action movie way too loud and I'm just high as fuck.
But maybe not.
I get inside and I set down the pizza and forget about it. I look around my place. A year in these three rooms and it still isn't a home. It's a layover, a rest stop, a hostel. It smells of sweet smoke and dirty laundry.
The only art is a ripped Miles Davis En Concert poster held up with thumb tacks.
I'm not even sure I like Miles Davis.
Home-home.
I pull out my phone and check to see how much is in my checking account, how many miles it is to Phoenix, and what gas prices are. Maybe when I die they can clone me from my internet history. My phone knows more about me than I do.
Four hundred bucks.
Twenty-four hundred miles.
About four bucks.
Hold on. Doing some math.
...divided by...
...carry the...
It'll be close but I can do it. I'll do the math again in the morning when I'm not so far gone.
Go home. Refresh. Refuel. Rinse. Repeat. Return. Come back a new man. See Kevin and the guys, hit the diner, do some skating.
I check my phone's calendar to see if I have something coming up. I know I don't, but that's what grown-ups do.
A week. Maybe two. I could do two. I'm sure Steph will let me stay with her. Somewhat sure.
I'm willing to gamble on sisterly guilt. Get to spend some time with the nephew. He's four… three?... four? Four. He's fun. I’m sure he likes video games and Adult Swim too.
Getting away will do me some good. Forget this place for a while. Forget the callbacks, the imaginary murders. Forget pizzas without cheese. Forget Atlantic City, Asian-Mexican fusion.
Forget Gosling.
Forget failure, loneliness, and poverty.
Forget that girl Cora.
Oh, man, that girl has some legs.
Go home.
Home-home.
Phoenix.
Time to go home.
Okay. That’s settled.
Now.
Where did I park my car?
Excerpt - The Dark That Follows
A novel by John R. McGuire
O ffice building. Elevator. Sam from accounts payable. Sip of water. Far office. Jim the terrible boss. New office. Handsome guy. Blush. Smile. Sandwich. Phone call. Tears. Screaming.
Marilyn.
“Are you sure this isn’t going to hurt?”
Her words snapped him from the trance. Jason Mills watched as the woman fidgeted in the seat across the table. With one of her hands now freed from his, she maintained limited contact with the other.
“Just breathe deep and relax. You came to me, but we aren’t going to get anywhere if you continue to be this nervous.”
“It’s just that, well… I’m beginning to rethink coming here.”
He smiled at her. It was the same disarming smile he’d given to hundreds of other skittish customers who’d come to him. Whatever it took to make sure she remained a paying customer. He reached out with his free hand and coaxed her to regain the connection.
“Release your thoughts and let
your mind wander.
“There…that’s it.”
Jason Mills gripped the older woman’s hand tighter while her potential life revealed itself. The sync between the two complete, he began to search out anything within the immediate future.
Through her eyes he glimpsed a corner office overlooking the weeds of cubicles. The man inside smiles while pointing at the nameplate on the desk: Ellen Small.
The words flowed from Jason.
“This is the year when all your hard work starts to pay off. You’ve been biding your time over the last few years. Something you have managed to earn and not just ease yourself into.”
A gasp escaped his charge’s lips. Spurred on by this first fortune, her grip strengthened to match his.
Another day and different images flowed through his mind. Ellen sat alone in a deli, her attention divided between an e-reader on the table, a partially eaten sandwich, and the attractive gentleman sitting three tables over. Jason caught the briefest glance; all she would allow herself to experience.
“New people and new possibilities go hand in hand. You should shed your shyness. Push beyond the nagging voice inside you which urges restraint, and instead open up to new experiences and new people.”
Another shift and another hand squeeze.
Jason delved one more time into her future. Somewhere her cell phone rang, the name on the other end read Marilyn, and Ellen placed it to her ear. Her world spun and twisted. Her words blurred and mixed with anguish. The phone slipped from her hand to the ground, and she slid to the floor after it.
Jason dropped the link and released her hands. Ellen sat before him, eyes wide and leaning forward in her seat.
Jason eased back in the chair. He ran sweaty palms through slicked back hair, the perspiration and the hair gel mixing to produce sticky goo. He let out a deep breath.
“You should take the opportunity to get in contact with your friends and family. They miss you greatly and will counsel you on your most difficult decisions.”
Ellen cocked her head to one side and nodded. Whether to him or to herself, Jason wasn’t sure. Either way, he hated this part. Better to have good news…or at least, not bad news to give his clients. It made for poor repeat business. No one wanted to come back to a fortune teller who gave them upsetting futures. Repeat customers were the one thing that allowed him to pay rent.
Terrible news also made his heart ache for them. So, most of the time, he tried to make it vague enough so the person might leave perplexed, a fine alternative to the other thing.
“Someone named… Marilyn… I saw that she might be of great counsel to you in the upcoming days.”
Ellen’s jaw opened in disbelief. Everything else could be explained away. Up until that point, Jason’s talk of true insight into the future appeared just vague enough. Much like the magician who performs his tricks on stage to a captive audience, no one wants to know how the trick is done, because then it is ruined for them for all time. Better to allow themselves to think it real, but know that it is not.
Instead, with one name, he managed to shatter her image of not only him and what it is he’s told her, but the idea that it could be real settled inside her head… a scary proposition for most everyone.
“How? I haven’t…”
“I can’t predict what I am going to see within the vision, but what I have said can push you into the right direction. It is you who has to take control of your life and make the choices. Understand?”
A slow nod greeted him behind which he could see the struggle within her mind. She rose from her seat still bewitched from his words. A slight dazed look lay frozen across her face.
The sign of a possible repeat customer.
* * *
Jason Mills had come to realize, in the last three years, the important thing was to live up to the customer’s expectations. No one wanted their fortune read by some guy in a t-shirt and jeans. People wanted theatrics, a story for their friends so they might debate the merits of whether the guy who had done her reading was for real or a fraud. Even then, they do not mind the apparent lies as long as they had a good time. It was something he had struggled with understanding when he first started out. All the bullshit items they gave credence to allowed them to have a connection. So for that reason he dressed the chamber up to match those preconceptions. Something an ordinary person would want to see and experience.
The corner lamp’s light filtered through a purple shade framing the small table. Centered within the pattern sat a crystal ball. The curtains, which surrounded the area, were a royal red. Every piece needed to convey that he was worth giving money to and his fortune reading was as legit as a fortune reading could be. Whether he gave good news or bad, if the show felt wrong, then their experience would match.
His outfit was meticulously picked out. He slicked his dark hair back, combined a simple black vest with a red dress shirt underneath and dark slacks. For the final piece he added an intense glare he mastered a long time ago, in a different life. It helped that his six foot three inch height not only allowed him to stand above almost every customer, but also caused him to look a little more muscular. His size helped him sell the show; it made him more intimidating than anyone else in the room. Had it been Halloween, he wouldn’t have needed to change as he could either add fake plastic fangs and say he was Dracula or forgo that and claim to be a Vegas magic act.
Customers fell into a couple of camps. The two largest groups were comprised of either tourists visiting the Little Five Points area for a little extra spice of Atlanta, Georgia local flavor, or college kids who consumed one too many drinks during the day and thought getting their fortune read might be good for a laugh. Those same rich kids seemed to treat the whole experience as a rite of passage. As if it was their job to expose him as a fraud.
Their business was nice, if a bit unreliable. Still it was the regulars who allowed him to exist day to day. The older woman who searched for something to fill the hole in her heart. The business man trying to get the next big project off the ground, but had convinced himself long ago the fortune tellers knew something he did not. The Goth girl who believed in someone who could see the future, and hoped through her experience with Jason she would somehow become more connected to the universe itself. Inside each a puzzle piece was missing and the prophecies which Jason the Wondrous spouted could make them whole.
So now Jason sat, watching the feet moved past his curtain only to stop and shuffle back. The uncertain pause before a new face stuck his head inside the curtain and got their first glimpse of Jason’s inner lair. Aside from the lamp, only the crystal ball’s light permeated the room. It did its job well. Shadows made Jason look all the more mysterious.
Jason could hear someone behind the lead figure mumble something about going in, and sure enough the young man made a full appearance. Right behind him, two more followed.
The leader moved deeper into the curtained area, and Jason got his first true look at him. One of the few people who would have been able to look Jason in the eyes and from the shoulder length dark hair and complexion, Jason guessed the kid had some island blood in him. He dressed in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. His attire was the standard uniform of male college students when they hit the bars during these summer months.
The other two matched the dress code if not the look. A shorter, stocky guy took his spot on the left. His nose showed the damage of a man who’d won and lost plenty of fights, but from his frame, Jason suspected that he’d won many more than he’d lost. The taller friend flanked the right. He was all legs and arms and looked as if a deep breath would send him to the ground. His whole form looked as if each piece grew at different rates.
“Have a seat, my friend.” Jason used his best movie voice, struggling to channel Vincent Price, always trying to channel Vincent.
“Uh, alright.”
The twenty-something sat down across from Jason, eyes still adapting to the lower light around him.
“What is it that
brings you to me today? Is there something particular you would wish me to ask the spirits?”
“No. I guess, um, just a general reading? Is… is that alright?” It wasn’t fear, but embarrassment which got him stuttering.
“A general reading is fifty. Cash first please.”
Jason learned the hard way that you always needed to get the cash before giving the reading; otherwise you end up chasing your rent money down the sidewalk at eleven o’clock at night. Add to it the fact that Jason grew closer to forty than to thirty every day; any chase was something in which he no longer possessed any confidence.
The young man motioned for the taller man to produce the cash. “This was your idea. Pay the man.”
Taking money from the friend, Jason stared into the customer’s eyes. “Your full name?”
“Terry Soone.”
The shorter friend added. “With an ‘e’.”
“I don’t think he needs the spelling, ass.”
“Alright, Terry, I need you to place your hands face up on the table. As I touch you, clear your mind of all thoughts.” Jason used this moment to unlock eyes with Terry and focused on his two companions, “You must all do this. Any additional stray thoughts will cloud the reading. You must be a blank slate for it to work.”
It was a lie. Jason did not need them to do anything other than stay somewhat quiet. It was more for the mood than the actual reading. Still it added to the mystery. Once again, it was the little things. He needed to make sure they got their money’s worth.
As his friends chuckled behind him, Terry put his hands on the table, and Jason reached across, focusing back upon him. He took a deep breath then grabbed the young man’s palms.
The room, the lights, the crystal ball, and the speech were all a lie. The tourists did not want Jason Mills, they needed the Wondrous One. Regardless, the gift was reality.
Chips. Raise. Fold. Brandon can’t hold his liquor. A redhead girl. Front porch. Face stings. Black robes. Candles. Smiles. Knives. Knives. Knives.
Blackness.
The images slammed into his mind. They blurred and morphed from moment to moment. When Jason tried to explain the readings to anyone else the best he could come up with was to compare it to the old style movie projectors. Every image those machines showed the audience consisted of many individual frames. At the speed it ran, one frame in ten might be seen. It was the same with any readings. Jason saw a movie, but the images moved so fast he couldn’t comprehend anything. It was a blur. Thus the first step was to get a connection. That was the easy part. The second step was to slow the movie down and take a look at the individual pieces, the frames.
Machina Obscurum Page 22
