The Coincidence Makers

by Yoav Blum

  But that was definitely not her style. Not yet.

  Maybe she should sit down sometime and analyze what she had done in order to understand how to use this technique more in the future.

  She tried not to think at all about the horrible coincidence of the previous evening.

  Her diagrams were still on the walls around her, circles and lines and small lists about video machines, mountain climbers, fortune cookies. . . . She tried to avoid looking at them. That’s the way it went: a coincidence that she worked on for many long months turned into a pathetic attempt at courtship, while a coincidence on which she had given up simply happened on its own without her noticing.

  And now it was time to open a new envelope.

  She sat on her bed and spread out the pages that were in the envelope, trying to construct in her head what she should do next. It was exactly what she needed now, a new and clear mission that would help her return to reality, a flood of activity that would wash away all of the moments and places where Guy’s face was imprinted.

  This time, it appeared to be a simple timing mission.

  Someone was supposed to suffer a heart attack. She had to arrange for a doctor to be in the area. If this were all the mission entailed, it could have been an exercise in the course. But, naturally, there were the complications that were always a part of true missions.

  He must have the heart attack on a flight; its destination didn’t matter, the pages declared. The doctor must be on the same flight. Of course, neither of her two clients planned a flight in the near future, and certainly not exactly when the attack was slated to occur.

  She’d have to organize a flight for the two of them somehow. And, as if this weren’t enough, the doctor was afraid of flying. Would another doctor be possible? Emily knew the answer before she turned the page. Of course not.

  It wouldn’t be easy.

  Why specifically on an airplane?

  Eric would say that it was related to the dramatic effect. If they asked him, the goal of this entire coincidence was certainly not to save someone from a heart attack. There are consequences, and consequences of consequences, he would say—changes in consciousness. Everything was designed for another passenger, who was supposed to feel something as he witnessed the attempts at resuscitation. That’s what Eric would argue without any basis.

  Eric had a theory for everything. Why make an effort to have someone you haven’t seen for fifteen years enter a restaurant exactly at the moment you spoke about him? And, in general, why organize coincidences that really made no difference and only aroused a strange feeling? Eric had presented his theories to them one evening during the course, after five vodkas.

  “Let’s assume,” he said, making hand gestures that were a bit grander than necessary, “let’s say that all the people in the world are lined up in a long line, sort of like standing on a scale. At the far left—that is, over there—are all of the people who really think that everything is completely coincidental. That nothing has meaning, that there’s no point in searching for it or asking about it, that life is a result of a toss of cosmic dice that no one actually tossed, and that it’s okay that this is how things are. And on the other end are all of the people who are sure that there’s a reason for everything, and I mean everything. That there’s someone or something that organizes everything, and that nothing happens randomly.

  The people standing at the two extremes are the happiest people in the world. At both ends. Do you know why? Because they don’t ask why. Never. Not at all. There’s no point, because either they believe there’s no answer, or they believe that someone is responsible for the answer and that it’s none of their business. But these people aren’t even one-thousandth of the population. Most people stand in the range between them. No, they don’t stand. They go, they move. They constantly move in one direction and then the other. They think they’re on one of the sides, but occasionally, nonetheless, they ask themselves why and don’t understand that they’ll be happy only if they let go of this question, for whatever reason.

  “That’s why there are meaningless coincidences. Every time someone encounters this sort of coincidence, he moves a bit on the scale. To one side or the other. And this movement can be difficult, like a fingernail screeching on a blackboard, or pleasant, like an infant’s caress. That’s why we perform them, these coincidences. In order to get people moving on the scale, because this movement on the scale, any scale, is called life. That’s the way it is. The main thing is to move. And now, pass me an olive from the bowl there and watch how I hit that girl on the other side of the bar with the pit, right on her head.”

  Emily was now immersed in calculations. This was the first time she’d received a mission with two centers, two clients, that wasn’t a matchmaking mission. She would need to develop two tracks of coincidences in order to cause the changes in consciousness in both of them. A business meeting or family gathering for one of them, and perhaps a prestigious conference for the other. And somehow she would have to deal with the doctor’s phobia. Somehow.

  She spread the thin booklets on the bed. A booklet describing the situation, a booklet containing details about the “patient,” a booklet about the doctor, restrictions on possible coincidences (there was nothing special—they could even sit in the same section in the airplane, but for some reason they couldn’t wear the same brand of shoes), a bit of background on the region and the upcoming period of time. . . .

  Her heart skipped a beat for a moment when she found another page inside the envelope.

  It’s not that she hadn’t seen it before, but she was surprised by the thought that came to mind the moment her eyes rested upon it. For one second, one very quick second, it seemed relevant to her.

  In every envelope, at the end, after all of the booklets, was a Waiver.

  The personal data of the coincidence maker, a bit of general information about the reasons for resignation, and a place for a signature. An option to quit, at any stage.

  Usually she didn’t even take this page out of the envelope. No one took it out. A coincidence maker—that’s what she is, it was her essence now—was not a profession from which you resigned. The fact that no one knew what happened after you signed the Waiver also contributed to the general reluctance to do so. Only two coincidence makers had ever signed and quit the service of their own accord. Emily had no idea what had happened to them afterward. From her point of view, it had never been an option.

  Until now, she suddenly realized. She peeked again at the page lying at the edge of her bed and discovered that the thought of quitting had been incubating in her mind for some time. And now, today, it had grown enough to trouble her.

  She pushed the Waiver off the edge of her bed with her foot.

  She had a heart attack to organize.

  A few blocks away, an ordinary person was walking along the street.

  That was only one of his many abilities—to be ordinary.

  He understood the power this ability entailed long ago. In a world in which so many people chased after their tails in order to be different and extraordinary, a truly unusual ability was needed in order to blend into a crowd and be ordinary. Primarily, there was a need for mighty willpower because he was not ordinary in any way.

  And on the other hand, he didn’t like it very much. He liked to be in the center of things, at the top of the pyramid, the life of the party.

  He was a very colorful person; at least he thought so.

  For colorful people like him, it was harder to pretend to be ordinary. He had so many extraordinary things to carry out in the world.

  But now he was ordinary and walked along the street without attracting anyone’s attention.

  If someone were to ask the people who passed him on the street, “Did you notice a tall guy walking by at such and such a time?” they likely would shrug their shoulders and say, “No, no. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  If this same person were to ask them, “Was there a guy her
e, perhaps, who was leaning against the pole for an hour, as if he were waiting for something?” They would respond, “I don’t pay attention to everyone who leans against a pole.” If he persisted and said, “But he was there for nearly an hour, and was looking up at that window the whole time,” they would still say something like, “Do me a favor, leave me alone, okay? I didn’t notice anything special.”

  To appear ordinary was the closest thing to being invisible.

  He was still on the street corner. With the patience of an ancient glacier, he leaned against the pole and shot another glance at Emily’s window. He wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

  Timing—that was also one of his important abilities.

  A square of sunlight had nearly reached the opposite wall.

  Emily was unable to last five minutes before peeking again at the corner of the shiny paper looming beyond the edge of her bed. A small triangle of paper, much more tempting than she had thought. She should have tossed it in the trash rather than just kicking it to the floor. It continued to gaze at her.

  Actually, why not, she thought. And then she shook herself again and tried to return to thoughts about the next mission. Not that this helped. Like a new pupil in a meditation course, she discovered that she was unable to gain complete control over her thoughts. Again and again, she was tempted to think about the Waiver lying at the foot of the bed. Again and again, the feeling returned that here was an opportunity to change her life completely.

  Again and again, the thought crossed her mind that she no longer had any reason to remain here.

  What do you really want? she asked herself. To continue to drag your life between coincidences for people you don’t know while the person you love runs around in front of you searching for something he’d never agree to find in you? In fact, how long was it possible to remain torn like this? To know everything and say nothing? To dance barefoot on the tip of a knife and smile as if it didn’t hurt?

  Here—here is your opportunity.

  She sat up in bed and looked outside. She could do much more than this. She could deal the cards again. She no longer had anything to gain here, so why shouldn’t she take herself to a place where she had nothing to lose?

  Suddenly, she noticed that she was crying.

  Where had this come from? She quickly covered her face with her hands, like a little girl before a piano recital.

  She didn’t want this anymore. She didn’t want the endless calculations, she didn’t want this chase, she didn’t want this burning emotion laid on her heart like an overheated towel, searing through.

  Enough, enough, enough.

  She was allowed to admit that she was exhausted, right? And she was allowed to admit that she no longer believed in happy endings, or the assurances that “everything will work out,” right?

  Right?

  She wanted new, she wanted clean. She wanted smooth. She was even willing to go back to what she had been before. Perhaps that’s what happened when you signed a Waiver, who knows.

  Perhaps you forget.

  Perhaps you start over.

  Who knows?

  She was supposed to be strong and optimistic, of course. But now she just wanted to be different. Completely different.

  And faced with the choice of becoming “completely different” through hard work and internal persuasion, and a long and exhausting climb out of a pit with scarred walls, or the possibility of attaining this through one quick signature . . . she was allowed to admit to herself that she wanted to choose the easier path now, wasn’t she?

  He took a short walk to the end of the street and back.

  He couldn’t stand under her window for too long. It would appear suspicious.

  Besides, he had a little more time, he knew.

  He sniffed the air, waiting for the right moment.

  He felt like having a hamburger.

  But that would have to wait.

  Emily sat down at the kitchen table and wrote the letter of her life.

  If she was going to leave, she had to leave at least a small explanation.

  The tears on her face had dried while she sat and filled the empty page with line after line. When she was done, she lifted it with a trembling hand and quickly read what she had written. Everything had to happen quickly now, before she changed her mind. Before she felt optimistic again. Half-depressed people always worried that hope would catch them unprepared, and all that despair would go to waste. She folded the pages of the letter and stuffed them into a long white envelope.

  As soon as she sealed the envelope, she felt it warming up in her hand. Before she realized what was happening, the letter burst into flames. Emily dropped it, surprised. The page turned into hot ash even before it touched the floor.

  She’d actually known this would happen, hadn’t she?

  There were secrets that must not be revealed, that the world did not allow being discovered because it was against the rules. She would never find closure. This was another good reason to get out.

  More certain than ever, she hurried to the bedroom and grabbed the Waiver from the floor.

  She returned to the living room and started to fill out the details. Now she was being spontaneous, right?

  She was making a decision in the spur of the moment, a rapid and irresponsible decision; how wonderful! She was spontaneous—that meant she was authentic, right? That she was alive, right?

  She quickly filled out the form. Suddenly she was able to control her thoughts. Everything was focused on doing this quickly and not looking back. She had a quarter of a second to change her mind before signing her name in the designated place at the bottom of the page, but she leaped over this quarter of a second without looking down and signed her name.

  His time had come.

  It was happening.

  Like the soft ring of an oven when a cake’s baking time was up. He must be precise now. He started to move toward her house and felt the small iron wire in his pocket.

  Lock picking, another important ability. Actually, not. Perhaps it was more of an acquired skill.

  The moment she lifted the pen from the page, the urgency vanished from Emily’s mind.

  She leaned back limply and allowed the tension that had built up within her to dissolve, together with the Waiver, which had slowly disappeared in front of her eyes, fading into the air. One deep breath, and then another, and she opened her eyes in terror.

  What in heaven’s name did I do?

  She tried to get up from the sofa, only to discover that her legs lacked the strength to support her.

  Precisely at that moment, after her urge of self-destruction had fulfilled its role and left her body, after she was officially no longer a coincidence maker, she saw the complete picture before her eyes. This was the decision of my life, she thought, and this was how I made it?

  Her breathing became labored. It was as if the air had become thicker. This isn’t what I really want, she said to herself; it wasn’t me. A desperate commander screamed to the pilots who could no longer hear him, “Abort! Abort!”

  She wanted to hurry and erase her signature, but the page was no longer there, and nothing remained of her being a coincidence maker except the ability to look at the broad picture and suddenly see all of the lines that led her to this point, that had led her over the brink. No, no, no, this couldn’t be.

  A faint noise at the door drew her attention, and when the door opened and she saw the figure standing at the threshold with an apologetic smile on his face, she recalled the question that gnawed at her mind during the first days of the course, and which she never dared to ask.

  Before her body sunk lifelessly into the sofa, before she shut her eyes, at her very last breath, she wondered whether all this would have happened if she had dared to ask, back during the course: “Do coincidence makers have coincidence makers?”

  FROM THE WORKBOOK FOR THE COURSE FREE CHOICE, BOUNDARIES, AND RULES OF THUMB, PART III (HUMAN BOUNDARIES)

  In her book E
mbedding the Also, Muriel Fabrik described six basic mistakes that most people make when making a choice. Her method became established as the standard that was accepted for many years by coincidence makers who sought to map the possible mistakes of their clients.

  Abstention. The most common mistake, according to Fabrik, is simply not to choose. In such a case, the client will not allow himself to take a risk or take advantage of any chance, and will prefer to have “reality” decide for him. This mistake derives from the fact that making any choice also means relinquishing its alternatives. “The abstaining client” sees this relinquishing and not the choice, and chooses a passive stance. The choice to do nothing, Fabrik explained, is also a choice, but it is simply a bad one. [For additional research on the problem of abstention, see Cohen’s book Why Get Entangled?—How to Make Coincidences for Spineless Clients.]

  Fear. Fabrik argued, among other things, that the correct choice is usually also the most frightening choice. This is not because it is necessarily the most dangerous choice, but because a bit more courage is needed in order to choose it. Most clients prefer a long and complex process of deliberation in which they ultimately choose what they would have chosen in any case from the outset—the less frightening choice, or the one they are familiar with and that does not demand a change in currently held beliefs or thought patterns.

  Self-delusion. Some clients understand that the correct choice is indeed the more frightening one. In order to avoid this fear, they create a complex mechanism of self-deception that leads them to both fear the incorrect choice and choose it. (Usually this is the decision not to do anything; see the first paragraph.) In the literature, this mistake is also called “misplaced courage” or MC.