Cosmic Joke (2) “Speak,” he declared. Martin raised his eyebrow. He was used to being commanded in this manner, but really wasn’t in the mood for someone else to be trying to control him. After a few moments debating whether or not to be argumentative, he decided he was in just too good of a mood to argue. “She’s wonderful,” he said. “She eats pickles for breakfast, but doesn’t pay for them. And not those free scoops of sliced pickles, no, she picks up the whole pickles, the ones you have to pay for, and eats them before she pays. She showed me this trick where—“ “Is she good looking?” asked Alexander. He didn’t really care, Martin often had a taste in girls that was different from his own. He had only noticed that the conversation wasn’t getting anywhere fast, and he was starting to feel eager to get back to whatever it was he had been doing. “Definitely. Probably one of the best looking girls I’ve ever met.” Martin had that dreamy look in his eyes that was very, very difficult to tolerate if you are the person trying to talk to someone who’s afflicted by it. “Sounds great, it’s a shame we can’t talk any more than we have, I have so much to do, and I care so little, having never met her.” “She said she would wear pony pajamas…” Alexander got the feeling this conversation was rapidly stalling, much like a car made from limestone would stall. He became concerned about the fact that he might never be able to get out of it. So he did exactly what was best in that situation—he made Martin self-conscious. “So did she like you?” he asked. The single phrase was so effective that Alexander almost patted himself on the back, it was a simple approach he had never used, but he would definitely have to remember. Martin’s eyes filled with fear, with confusion, with everything that was contradicting his previous mood. “What if she didn’t? What if she was just making fun of me?” He ran his hands through his still tousled hair. “She could have just been trying to make me feel good about myself, with no intentions of meeting me tomorrow at all!” Alexander grew worried. He hadn’t ever upset anyone this much without meaning to. And in this case, he hadn’t really wanted to give Martin a seizure, a scenario that looked as though it were rapidly approaching. “Relax, Martin, I’m sure she liked you just fine. Sounds like she has the same tastes as you, that’s for sure.” “But I’ve barely told you a thing about her! How can you already make that assumption?” “Pony pajamas? Pickles for breakfast? Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong.” Finding his logic difficult to argue with, Martin calmed down a bit. “Well, I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about all of this,” said Martin, putting his hands on his head. Alexander rolled his eyes. “You’re going to go to breakfast, woo this girl, and… and… eat pickles. But that isn’t for another twenty-four hours. Until then, you have plenty of time to complete other meaningful tasks, such as vacating my dorm room.” He never expected Martin to listen, and he was correct in the assumption that he wouldn’t. Instead, Martin flopped backwards onto Alexander’s perpetually made bed, and sent a cloud of dust into the air that could have choked a horse. “Everything about her was unique, when I first saw her…” Alexander had grown quickly tired of this talk, and was fast approaching an area of his brain that he could sink into as Martin talked away. He would still be listening, and with luck, giving viable responses, but he could also think about other, far more important things, such as the next place he was going to get a drink. Because of his seminary training, Alexander was a bit older than most of the Freshman population at Saint James—twenty-two to be exact. He had become very rich from “Donations” that the student population would bestow upon him, and he, in a gracious act of repayment, would provide cheap beer in large quantities. This was another of the reasons Alexander was never in his room for very long—campus police were always trying to confiscate his hard-earned alcohol, an activity which Alexander never considered very nice of them, considering he kept the dean’s son well stocked with beverages. “Are you listening?” asked Martin. Alexander, who obviously hadn’t been, confirmed that he had. “What was the last thing I said?” “Something about pickles,” replied Alexander. Martin narrowed his eyes. “Good guess,” he said. Martin continued talking for the better part of an hour, which gave Alexander enough time to get casually inebriated. He wasn’t a heavy drinker—He liked to portray himself as one, but he wasn’t. However, on this occasion, the only possible way to stay interested in Martin’s drivel was to become slowly smashed. Martin laid down on Alexander’s bed, which until now had been unused by any human being, and fell asleep talking. Alexander took this opportunity to exit. He didn’t bother locking the door, because he knew the 3 p.m. police raid would be happening shortly, and he had already paid for two doors this semester. Since there was nothing of value in the room, he had left it unlocked for the last few months. He reasoned that Martin was not something anyone would actually try and steal, and went off on his way. Over the next half hour, Martin drifted into an area of his brain that had, until now, been non-existent. It was an area where a possible future was being drawn out for him. He saw himself in his own dorm room, sitting on his bed, with Alicia. It was night time, and the room was dark. They weren’t talking, they were just sitting there, holding each other. Quiet music played from somewhere in the room, and there was just enough light from a streetlamp that he could see the blue in her eyes. They stared at each other’s eyes, just stared, and couldn’t stop. All at once, a very sudden, and very loud banging came from outside. The lights came on in the room, Alicia disappeared, and a man in a black SWAT uniform opened the door. “Alexander Hoffberg?” he asked. “No, my name is Martin, I just fell asleep in here,” Martin replied, dazedly. “Damn,” said the police officer, and closed the door. Martin took this opportunity to wake up. He brushed the sleep out of his eyes, thought of his dream, and smiled. At some point, Martin decided he should probably go to class. He hadn’t been there in a few days, and even though he had passed rudimentary algebra in the seventh grade, sometimes he liked to check in and make sure he was still very, very far ahead of the class. It was good for his ego. He poked his head in the door after making sure the professor wasn’t looking. “And so,” said the professor, who was very dull, and in fact, most times rumored to be asleep, “we find that X is equal to three, because twice X equals six.” Martin left the classroom door. He now knew why he had signed up for that class—it was valuable filler. Feeling thoroughly built up, Martin left the vicinity of the college for a nice, long walk. He tended to do this whenever he was feeling thoughtful, which at this point, he was. The only problem was he rarely knew exactly what he was thinking about. Ideas would float in and out of his head, calmly leaving their mark in the way of a stray thought or two. This usually came out of Martin’s mouth as the most arbitrary of random comments, earning him the reputation of a scatterbrain (which, by definition, he was.) By the time Martin had finished his excursion, time had crept past six o’clock, casually glided beyond seven and had settled slowly, and comfortably, into eight o’clock. This had fully been Martin’s intention—he had no desire to wait through the day while impatiently looking forward to tomorrow’s impending meeting. Martin had developed time killing into an art, almost to the point where he forgot what day it was on a fairly regular basis, sometimes more than twice in a single hour. He decided on whether or not he should repeat last night’s alcoholic frenzy, perhaps, he thought, if I replicate last night in full, there will be more of a chance of the next morning also repeating. He shrugged off this idea, however; he didn’t wish to miss his date by oversleeping. Something slowly, and methodically, crept into Martin’s head. It had to do with Alicia—he knew that. But something was wrong. “Meet me tomorrow,” she had said. But had she ever mentioned a time? SHE HAD NEVER MENTIONED A TIME. Martin panicked. If she hadn’t mentioned a time, would she be there at breakfast time? Could she have meant lunch? Is it possible she was speaking of a late supper? At this point, Martin felt it would be a very prudent idea to go quietly insane for a few hours. ********* Alexander had walked all over campus. It was about two o’clock in the morning, and he had gotten very nearly nothing accomplished. Something was troubling him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was almost as if the universe were out of balance. Something, somewhere, was missing. ********* Thunder rolled, rain poured through gutters and washed over windows. The lightning outside was a pleasant display to those who were into thunderstorms, and an all-too-real nightmare to those who had seen the worst thunderstorms of their time. The clouds left no room for the moon to shine through, or even give the impression of light, and the rain was cold. It wasn’t the kind of night to curl up into a warm ball and drink hot chocolate—on this night, the best thing to do was go to sleep and hope the crashes didn’t wake you up too often. A figure appeared out of the darkness. He seemed to walk out of the space between flashes of lightning, and was just as cloaked as the landscape. The rain seemed to fall directly where he wasn’t, keeping him impossibly dry. The specter pulled a large, flat envelope out of his jacket, and waited. A loud thunderclap sounded, and in the blink of an eye another apparition appeared. He seemed vaguely translucent, and altogether much more frightening than his predecessor. The darkness seemed to seep around and into him, entering his presence in slow waves and churning around slowly, as if it were oil slowly being stirred into a glass of water. He took the envelope, inspected it’s contents, nodded, and vanished. The first figure shook his head, and shivered. Whether it was from the cold rain, or the being he had just encountered, was something no one would have the time to determine. He looked around momentarily and walked back into the space from whence he came. *********** A thunderclap woke Martin. It had been another night filled with restless dreams, and each had ended with a bizarre turn of events, the same over and over again. No matter what the beginning, Martin always ended up going for a meal, meeting Alicia, and then losing her one way or another. In one of his dreams, she was absorbed into a crowd and never returned. In another, she was in the middle of a sentence, when all of the sudden, she got up and left, and in the third, she was hit by a Mercedes. Martin had been having a rash of dreams involving Mercedes-based deaths, and he began to wonder if he should go to a hypnotherapist. Instead, however, he did what came naturally at three o’clock in the morning, and watched infomercials. Vacuums, revolutionary cleaners, computer programs, and books on how to make millions of dollars by exploiting house foreclosures flashed across his screen. Martin was slowly lulled into the restless sleep of the semi-insomniac, when he sat on the remote control and the channel changed to a new, and very loud infomercial. “Do you wish to know your destiny? What does the future hold for you?” screamed a crazy-eyed announcer. “Let Madame Fu solve your every problem and answer every question!” Martin normally had very clear objections to phone psychics, televangelists, and politicians, but it was late, and he was sleep-deprived. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the illustrious “Madame Fu.” The phone rang once, twice, and stopped ringing a third time. Silence echoed out of the top of the receiver, and then the small click of the electronic answering service picked up. “Thank you for calling Madame Fu. Your call will be answered as soon as your operator senses your telephonic presence.” Martin could only blink. “Thank you for calling Madame Fu. This is Madame Fu. Girl trouble?” she said. Martin jumped out of his sitting position, then quickly fell to the ground. Balance was not his strong point. “How did you know I was even a guy?” he asked, flustered. “I didn’t. Trust me, I get all kinds calling me. I just know you have girl problems. You want help or not?” the voice across the line sounded old and worn, and Martin got the impression of a forty-year-old smoker who was trying to quit, but who was paid to smoke. “Yes… yes I do. You see, I met this girl, and—“ “Breakfast.” “What?” “Breakfast. I don’t know why, but just remember, breakfast. Tomorrow.” Martin heard the distinct sound of someone taking a drag from a cigarette. Martin stared into blank space. “You there, Mr. Martin?” He quickly hung up the phone. ******** Somewhere in California, a withered old woman hung up the phone, took a drag from her cigarette, and sighed. She wondered where that had come from. Yes, she was a psychic, but the best she could ever do was a few parlor tricks and a palm reading every so often. This, this was something altogether completely new. As if someone was whispering in her ear, telling her exactly what to say. She shuddered at the thought of something actually being out there… a thought she never thought actually possible. ******** The moment after Martin hung up the phone, he decided to sleep. It had been quite a long day, and an even longer, stranger night. He fell into bed and quickly drifted off into a dark and dreamless slumber. The day broke quickly, and the sun rose at exactly the speed it shouldn’t have, which was entirely too fast. Martin woke suddenly. The night had come and gone as if in the blink of an eye; one second, darkness enveloped him, the next, it was dawn. He slowly plodded out of bed, and into the dorm’s shower room. After a nice, hot shower, Martin began to remember something. It crept into his brain, ever so slowly, until it broke through, and he sprinted to the cafeteria. Alicia sat at the table next to the doors, eating her breakfast. She’d elected to go with the grain cereals again today, with the addition of Cinnamon Toast Crunch to her bowl. All at once, the doors flew open. She peered out, but saw no one, and then heard panting from the ground. Looking down, she saw Martin, flat on his face. He looked up at her. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got stuck in bed.” “That’s alright,” said Alicia. “Would you like a pickle?” At this point, Martin decided not to question the motives of Fate—if, for that matter, fate had any motives—and go along with this wonderful trip he had been sent on. For the next half-hour, Martin and Alicia never stopped talking. Neither of them even bothered to pretend to eat. They talked about food items at first, then the conversation turned to other matters—high school, family, pets, cars, and ever other matter that two barely-introduced college students could think of. After about an hour, the two stood, agreed to meet each other at the same place the next day, and went their separate ways. Martin walked out of the doors that he came through in the first place, stepped out onto the street, and was hit by a piano. ************ Looking around briefly, Martin frowned. Hidden memories began streaming back into his head, and they in no way surprised him. At least, not after they had all returned. “I’m dead again, aren’t I,” he said, sighing. “Of course you are, mate,” replied the weary-eyed saint manning the gate. “You were ‘it by a piano. It was actually quite an amusing sight, seeing a grown man fall victim to a classic Bugs Bunny gag.” Peter laughed to himself. “And in case you’re wondering, yes, we’re going to send you back again.” Martin puzzled at this. “I thought you said that if I died twice there weren’t any more chances,” he said. “Not exactly. ‘ad you been ‘it by that same Mercedes, then yes, you’d be dead for good. But as it stands, you are being sent back. You have yet another date with this girl.” Martin considered this for a moment, and decided that if it was good enough for Heaven, it was good enough for him. A question formed in his mind. “Is there any way you can stop all of this dying?” he asked. “Well, yes,” replied Peter, “I was just getting to that. You see, one of the problems around here is that for some reason, your guardian angel…well… he quit.” “Can he do that?” Martin queried, surprised. “Yes. He sighted some good examples—one being that you have, most probably, one of the worst cases of “Bad Luck” in the entire world.” “I see.” “Yes, well, apparently you don’t. You need to start avoiding these situations. The piano, for instance—there were signs everywhere. If you just use a little bit of observation, you could ‘ave a very easy lifestyle. But, since that’s unlikely to happen—due to the fact that you ‘ave a girl on your mind most of the time—I’m assigning you one of our best.” “One of your best what?” asked Martin, who didn’t like the way this stout saint seemed to be insulting him. “One of our best angels, of course. She’s been around ‘ere for a little while, took the position as a temp job, which is actually how just about all of the guardian angels get into the profession. Anyway, she’s mainly been protecting some really important people—Mother Teresa, Walter Matthau—but of course, they’re all dead, meaning that she’s quite free lately. And don’t worry,” he reassured him, “they all died of natural causes. Now, did you catch all that?” Martin dazedly looked at the small man. He hadn’t really caught any of it, due to the heavy accent and the way Peter’s tongue seemed to go much faster than Martin could interpret. “I can see by the stupid expression on your face that you didn’t catch an of it. Oh well,” he said, “Off you go anyway.” He snapped his fingers, and Martin found himself falling once again. As the clouds rushed past his ears, Martin heard the cockney voice once again, loud and clear. “Oh, and lest I forget to tell you, this time you will remember everything, save the exact moment of your death. Don’t want you going on about being hit by pianos or moving vehicles, that’s a pretty traumatic experience. I figure if you know you’ve died twice you might attempt to avoid the situation again.” Martin thought on how a voice in his head could ramble so damn much. And with another sickening lurch, he was back to his body, right inside the doors he had so haplessly rushed out of. He stood still for a moment, and heard a loud crash, followed by several seconds of piano wire popping out of tune. When relative silence returned, he opened the door, stepped over the wreckage, and continued on his way. ********** The sun shined, the birds sang. Small animals were doing whatever small animals did on a regular basis. Martin looked up at the sky; there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. A deep blue shown overhead, no distractions present in it. It was a simple, clear day, and he felt alive. Everything seemed so perfect, so in place, so invigorating. He continued walking. Coming back from the dead will do strange things to a man. To Martin, it created an incredible appreciation for all things living. He had been just outside of Heaven, on the foothills of death, and even though he was thrown rather unceremoniously back into life, he couldn’t help but love every single second of his new existence. He felt rather foolish; the grin on his face was so bright it could have been used to light several dining halls, but he didn’t care. He loved life, he loved existence. Nothing could stop that now. Alexander rushed by again, three-day growth adorning his tired looking face. Martin caught a dangling rope on his bathroom, and he was forced to stop in his tracks, or else fall on the ground. He turned around suddenly, glaring into Martin’s eyes. Then, all at once, annoyance vanished, and something entered his mind that he had never thought would even dare to exist in his general vicinity. Complete amazement. “You look as if you’ve been given the universe,” he said, with great awe.
Copyright © 2001 Charles Cotterman |