INITIUM NOVUM: Part 1

by Casper Greysun

  “I want to tell you my name, but—

  “But?” She interrupts me.

  “I don’t know it,” He tells her.

  She scoffs.

  “You’re high,” she says, so very assured that her words are true.

  Don’t tell her even when you do know.

  This time, there’s no hesitation when it comes to heeding the voice’s instruction, despite the madness in it all, because there is nothing he can do to disobey the voice. The matter is out of his hands. Still, he looks for a different channel, different option. His endeavor is to no avail. Looking around the subway cart, he takes notice of nothing which can help him invent a name. The train begins to pull into the next station.

  “This is my stop, stranger. I have a sudden detour before work.”

  “Can I have your number?” He blurts out.

  No. Pull back.

  “You are so not my type. But, I don’t know, fuck it, I guess,” she says, reaching into her purse and handing him a pinkish-beige business card with a golden script font printed on both sides. “When you remember your name, call me.”

  “Sure,” he says, taking the business card from her.

  They smile at each other before she walks out of the train car and across the platform smiling because she likes him; but, in being quite frank with herself, does not understand – for the life of her – why she likes him or what is it about him that she likes. He just feels very familiar to her. Sure, he’s an okay-looking guy, but that cannot be it. The girl is used to model-caliber males fawning over her. And in all actuality, she prefers a more thuggish look to her potential courters, piercings, tattoos, and the like; he possesses none of these qualities. However, she did like that he might have been high, as she has never been able to help the fact that she is drawn to a certain type: losers, derelicts, criminals, delinquents, and etc.

  The girl’s business card reads:

  Laura Cohen

  Assistant to the District Attorney

  New York County

  (212) 114 1986

  Obviously, Laura is older than she appears to be. However, the irony, which escapes the young man, is the fact that Laura Cohen has a specific type, unbeknownst to the young man with no name at the moment. That specific type happens to be the very kind of people she has built a career upon, the dredges of society. It is unclear whether her type is a result of over-exposure to the certain men encountered in her work day or if her career is a result of her gravitating towards her sexual interest. More importantly than it being unclear is it being unimportant. The fact that is of note is that, time after time, her type has fallen to her will in the courtroom. As a general rule of thumb, she usually has her way with men, whatever her way might be at that moment. Men either love her, getting their hearts broken along the way, or they hate her and she break their hearts in a different fashion.

  Still at a lost over what his own name might be, the young man ponders over the possibility that he had recently ingested some memory impairing substance. A random series of thoughts form a train and lead him to suspect that perhaps the lady was right and he indeed is high.

  No… He shakes the thought from his head. If he were high, he’d know it, he’s sure of that. Besides that, he was most likely busy last night with something important. An instinct buried deep inside of him reaffirms his belief that yesterday he was surely preoccupied. With what exactly? He couldn’t say, even if he wanted to.

  The downtown-bound train pulls into yet another station. Rising from his seat, he steps out of the subway car and ascends the staircase leading to the surface. Walking absentmindedly, his feet take him to his yet to be discovered destination. When he finally becomes conscious of where he is, he figures that he has made some type of mistake. The sight before him cannot be right. Logic dictates that there is no way he has an interview there, at the location his feet had placed him at. What position could he possibly hope to attain there at a newsstand? A shabby little hut under the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “This is bullshit,” he says loud enough for those passing by to hear him. In addition to his complaint, his empty stomach growls. For the first time since the incident, he thinks of the old lady. More specifically, he thinks of the breakfast sandwich which probably killed her.

  Go to her.

  Looking towards the newsstand, he sees a young brunette staring at him, so he goes to her...

  CHAPTER 2:

  It can be described only as luck that the train she needs to be on arrives just as she reaches the platform, coinciding perfectly with the pace of her gait. The doors part, she enters, the doors close behind her, and the train takes off. The station which it departs from is calm with nothing occurring which can deemed unusual. Commuters bustle to and fro accordingly, in no particular rush, patient and unhurried. The ambiance at the scene being the exact opposite from the one she heads to, the same one she had only but a small chance to take in the first time around.

  With the train speeding through the tunnel, she takes the time to check her appearance. Using the reflection on the dark windows of the train door, she fixes her hair, puckers her lips, and applies a layer of gloss with her middle finger. She would fix her breast, but one quick glance at them and she can easily tell that they’re fine the way they are. Readjusting the bad boys, as she sometimes refers to them, would only draw unwanted attention to their superb quality. Having had already surveyed the train scene upon entering, she knows there is no one riding which she would even give a second thought about placing her “bad boys” on display for. The only exception would be for a young, flat-chested teen; and best believe that the sole purpose for this would be to stir envy.

  Suddenly a thought crosses her mind. She opens her purse and retrieves a stack of business cards from it. She shuffles through the card looking for one in particular. After she’s scanned the small deck three times, she accepts the fact that the specific card she searches for is missing, but gone it is not. It only takes a few moments for her to realize where the card had made it off to. The fault for its misplacement belongs to her. Just minutes ago, she had given her business card out. Unfortunately, she had given out the wrong one. The one she had lost was a very special and expensive prototype of sorts.

  She should be more concerned. Yet she’s relaxed and at ease. There exists not a single doubt in her mind that she’ll have the special business card back in her possession soon enough and, with it, a bonus for her business. Not that the present is the appropriate time for a side venture. But since everything today is going according to her plans, and she’s running early, she figures, why not. What could possibly go wrong?

  No more than ten feet away, a young boy, about thirteen years of age, watches the woman. He is awe-struck, completely consumed by her beauty. Also, as all boys his age, he is inexplicably horny for no particularly good reason. It is a good thing that he only sees her reflection, as he might not be able to handle her beauty face to face. Still facing her own reflection in the dark window, she puckers slightly so as to accentuate her full lips more so than the gloss currently does. Her gesture, done without knowing that a youngster was looking on, adds a sultry expression to her already remarkable gorgeousness. The simple act is enough to get the boy hot and bothered. She takes notice of his fidgeting and looks away from her own reflection and towards him. He blushes as soon as their eyes meet. A bulge begins developing in his trousers which he attempts to conceal by crossing his legs and folding his hands over his lap. However, he takes action a bit too late and his erection is seen, in the briefest of glimpses by the lady’s inexplicably trained sight. She rolls her eyes and chuckles, turning back to window. It’s humorous to her, but not the least bit flattering. She couldn’t care less that this pre-teen boy finds her hot enough that a slight lip puckering induces an instant woody. Her narcissism rationalizes that the boy would have to be a little fruitcake to not have an erection at the sight of her.

  “I’d have a hard-on for me if I were a pre-teen too. Hell, I’d have a hard-
on for me if I was thirty,” she thinks to herself, still watching her dark reflection in the faux mirror of the train’s window. Finally, she decides to do it. She fixes her tits, cupping the “bad boys” and pushing them together inside her blazer.

  “A bit of spanking material for the horny lad,” she says to herself as she turns her head to the boy and winks.

  If she can be asked who she most likely resembles, she’d say Marilyn Monroe. Truthfully, she only resembles someone trying to impersonate Marilyn Monroe. Not that the young boy has enough blood left in his brain to give thought to who or what she’s thinks she resembles.

  The train enters the station and her reflection in the dark window becomes the subway platform before her. Oddly enough, even without her reflection in the glass, she can still see herself in the scene just outside of the train doors; she only needs to close her eyes and picture it.

  Now, if Laura Cohen can find all the information she needs concerning an injured, elderly woman, she’ll be well on her way to retrieving the one business card she should not have given out.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Go to her.

  Since the voice has yet to let him down, he follows through and walks up to the gypsy-looking young lady inside. Despite her weird, other-worldly style, the lady is a looker; long, curly, black hair, and cold blue eyes.

  “How can I help you?” The girl asks with a smile, leaning her weight on her elbows over the newsstand counter.

  “I’m here for the interview,” he says, his response sounding more like a question than a statement.

  She looks at him, her head tilted, her face nearly resting on her shoulder. He smiles because she looks cute to him, like a sad puppy. When she straightens her head, a smile crosses her face too.

  “What’s your name?” Her smile widens even more so when she sees the blank look on his face. “No. Of course you don’t know.”

  She is dead-on, as correct as correct gets. This surprises the young man.

  “No, I don’t,” he replies. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve gotten good at predicting things, you know?”

  “Like a psychic?”

  “Like, but not exactly,” she says, staring into him so deeply he recoils in discomfort.

  He stares at the ground as he contemplates her statement. “Was I drugged?”

  “You’ve never taken a drug in your life?”

  “I’ve taken drugs. I know what drugs feel like. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have a reference point.”

  “You have knowledge of it. But you have never done any before. You haven’t done anything before today. Anything. Ever.”

  “What are you talking about?” He asks as mentally numb as ever.

  “Give me your wallet,” she says.

  He complies. She takes it, opens it, and retrieves his photo I.D. After examining it, she places it face up on the counter and slides it to him. He picks it up and examines it as well. Everything on the card seems normal except for there being no name on it.

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “What’s happening? Am I being erased by the government or something?”

  “No, sweetie, not erased, written. The exact opposite is happening to you. You are brand new. The universe is catching up and you can’t know who you are until the course is set. But, you’ve already messed up, haven’t you?”

  “How?”

  “The old lady, hot coffee, hard floor,” she answers.

  “How did you know that?”

  “This interview, this is meant as a briefing of sorts. To tell you what the universe wants from you.” She says this in a serious tone.

  “The universe wants something from me?” He repeats with an air of derision in his tone, as he stares blankly at her, not quite following what she’s saying anymore.

  “The coffee incident,” she reminds him. “An old lady is just now arriving at Beth Israel Medical Center. Her condition is serious.” This quickly offends him. He does not feel it was his fault. He never wanted of it to happen.

  “Bitch, what the fuck could I have done? I tried not to burn her face with the fucking latte. You tell me. What could I have done? Nothing. Besides, what does that even have to do with this interview anyway? Fuck that, yo. I didn’t do shit.” He fires quips rapidly and with much anger, one after another, before stopping to think about something other than himself. “Fuck… Do you know if she’s going to be okay?”

  “Oh, it’s done for her. You saw how old she was. And call me a bitch again, this conversation will be over. I’ll make you go at this alone, and I won’t help you with anything. Remember, I have a name. If anyone’s the bitch, it’s you.”

  He smiles at her. She doesn’t reciprocate.

  “Can you at least tell me why my ID is blank? At least,” he pleads.

  “Your ID is not blank. The information will materialize soon enough.” Her response is cryptic but direct enough to understand. Nonetheless, the gypsy looking girl’s words are lost on the confused, man.

  “I don’t understand,” he admits.

  “That’s fine. You needn’t understand all this right now, nor can you. We can – well, you can – proceed with your life despite your lack of comprehension. The problem is that the interview was supposed to help you understand where you are headed before you remember yourself. Once you do, fate is set.”

  “But I still don’t remember myself.”

  “You will. Soon.”

  “How did I mess up?” He presses.

  “You weren’t supposed to involve yourself in such a situation. The path has been complicated once again.”

  “Once again?” He repeats questioningly but she ignores him, proceeding with her explanation.

  “Actions determine where you’re headed. And you, well, you’re headed somewhere dark, down a road that you’re not going to want to travel. Or you can choose to be started from scratch, which is usually your last option.”

  The nonchalance with which she states this offends the young man. He does not feel himself to be a person of simple intellect but the gypsy makes him feel ashamed that he cannot make sense of the situation she is trying to explain to him.

  “Don’t feel ashamed. You’re not dumb. Your situation is unique, totally messed up, but unique.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” he says, lying to her with the straightest face he can muster.

  “Don’t lie to me. You can’t even if you wanted to,” she says. “I can read you. Literally, read you.” She smiles at him, but there a hint of sadness in her eyes, in the way they look pained by the words, almost like a wince.

  “Why don’t you get out of my head?” He snaps, now fully annoyed by the preciseness of her brand of divination.

  “I don’t need to be in your head. You haven’t done anything new and I’ve read all this before. That’s what I’m here for, to read you. And I’ve already passed this chapter more times than I care for. So, if you don’t mind, let’s get on with it.”

  “On with what?” He questions, but is once again disregarded.

  The gypsy pulls a pack of cigarettes from her purse and offers him one. He declines the smoke, which she knew he’d do, and instead watches on as she lights one up. With the fag in her mouth, she strikes a match and places it at the tip of the cigarette. She waves away the flame and inhales the smoke streams rising from the tip of the match. Drawing from the stogie a long, thick stream of smoke, she either relishes the feeling of the nicotine entering her bloodstream or the scent of the dead match. While she’s enjoying her smoke, he stares at her, finding her habit very unbecoming. He doesn’t say anything about it this time though, and she appreciates that.

  “Get on with what?” He asks again, more assertively this time around.

  “On with what is supposed to be your life,” she says growing frustrated. “Whatever and with whoever it happens with.” The sad glimmer in her eyes return as she smokes her cig.

  “Can you stop?” He asks, staring at the cigarette in her hand.

  “Stop
what?” She asks him in a patronizing tone. She already knows the answer to this.

  “You’re the psychic; go ahead and read me, bitch.”

  “Wow, you are either ballsy or stupid. Is this how you would really like to begin life?” She shakes her head in disbelief, finding it increasingly difficult to tolerate his presence.

  “Begin life? I’m in my late twenties,” he goes on.

  “And yet, still a boy. Never once having felt the warmth of a woman,” she retorts.

  “I’m not a virgin,” he scoffs defensively. I know what vagina feels like. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a reference point. Ha.”

  “You are not anything,” she corrects him.

  “You just want to hurt my feelings, don’t you? You are just the worst kind of person,” he says jokingly and with a smile, but meaning every word of it. This makes the gypsy laugh.

  “I don’t have time for this,” she says looking up at the dark, cloudy sky. She notices a formation of three weird clouds but is distracted when her phone begins to ring. She looks down at it, then back up at the man. For a brief second, his eyes follow her eyes and land on the phone. The contact image on the caller I.D. is a picture of the gypsy and another female. It flashes brightly, capturing the attention of the noisy, unnamed male before her. She sees him looking at her phone and moves it away. “Nor do I have the patience,” continues as she flicks her cigarette butt onto the sidewalk.

  “You plan to pick that up?” he asks.

  “The phone or the cigarette butt?” She retorts.

  The cigarette lands at an angle, cherry first, and explodes into dozens of scattering embers. At that very moment, the phone stops ringing and the gypsy’s eyes dart to it. Her mouth begins to move and she begins singing, “Make Your Own Kind of Music” as sung by Mama Cass Elliot. Weirdly enough, she sounds exactly like the singer. It’s almost as if her mouth is transmitting the vocals from somewhere else. It’s so precise that he swears he hears the sound of instruments coming from somewhere.