Strings

How does one define “random?”

The Encarta Dictionary for North American English states the following conditions:

1.       Done, chosen, or occurring without an identifiable pattern, plan, system, or connection.

2.       Statistics relating or belonging to a set in which all the members have the same probability of occurrence.

In a world where the actions of people play off of one another in a cascade of élan vital, the “randomness” that we are witnessing lies only within the realm of cause and effect – not the strings themselves that bind cause and effect together – played upon by the unconscious hands of seven billion cellists.

 

Harper Clarkson muttered to himself in irritation as he walked the four blocks to the nearest gas station.  He was freezing his ass off.

He swore the first thing he did when he got home would be to yank his eighteen-year-old son out of bed and put the fear of God into him.  He told him a million times not to leave the tank on empty.  This time he would lose all rights to drive the car for at least a month, without exception.  Maybe that would finally beat the lesson into Joshua’s thick skull.

Harp sighed, but half smiled to himself.  It was so like Josh to have his head in the clouds, and most of the time, he forgave him for it.  Hell, he could have ended up with a worse kid – like the one who shot up that school in Michigan just a month or two ago.  Still, he had to learn that his actions carried consequences.  It was the job of any father to teach that to their kids, so Harp believed.

Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he rounded the corner to the station and approached the convenience store.  He shivered as he opened the door to walk inside, the electronic tones signaling his entrance.  Nodding to the clerk who was preoccupied with a disheveled homeless gentleman, he searched around for a portable gasoline container.  He didn’t see them right away, so he approached the counter to ask the attendant.

Unfortunately, the attendant seemed to have his hands full.  The disenfranchised individual was flailing his arms, ranting on and on about a piece of paper he found lying on the ground outside.  He thrust it into the attendant’s face.  The paper was crumpled and blank, but that did not apparently alleviate the gentleman’s excitement over the object.

“Don’t you see?!  With this, you could be rich!  We could ALL be rich!”

The clerk sighed, apparently trying desperately to ignore him.  Maybe he thought if he did so, he would simply go away and he wouldn’t have to call the cops, Harp mused.  He imagined there was a ton of paperwork involved whenever the need to call the police arose – incident reports and whatnot, which protected him from liability.  Then, Harp saw him finally turn his attention.

“Yes sir, did you need help with something?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a gas canister.  I left my car about four blocks from here, and I’m out.”

“Oh sure, not a problem.  I keep them in the back.  Give me one second and I’ll grab one for you.”

In the back?  What if it was an emergency and the store was closed at the time?  Oh well.  Maybe they were open 24 hours a day, Harp mused.  He had never been to that station past ten o’clock before.

“We could all be rich!  Richer than Richy Rich!  I’m not lying!  All you have to do is take this, and tape it to the door handle!”  He pointed wildly to the small, unisex bathroom door.

The attendant scowled at him as he moved toward the back room to retrieve the canister.  “Sir.  If you don’t get out of here, I’ll have to call the cops.”  With that, he disappeared in the back.  Harp hoped he wouldn’t be gone for long.  He wasn’t comfortable being left alone with that person.

“You!  You believe me, don’t you?!”

“Hmm?  Oh yeah, sure.”  Lovely.  Okay, keep it brief and distant, he told himself.

The man looked him up and down.  “Are you able to see it too?  Do you have a rock?”

Harp was becoming increasingly nervous.  He wished that attendant would hurry up.  Seriously, how long could it possibly take to retrieve a stupid gas container?

The gentleman squinted his eyes.  “No.  No, you don’t it yet, do you.  Would you like one?”

“Um…no thank you.”  Great.  Now he’s offering me drugs.

The clerk came out from the back room.  “Here we go.  Sorry about that.  Hey, I thought I told you to leave.  I’m not kidding you know.  Get out now, or I’ll have the cops here.  I don’t want you harassing my customers.”

Harp was incredibly thankful, yet he felt sorry for the poor wretch, despite himself.  Clearly there was something wrong with him.  Maybe he wasn’t on drugs.  It could have been a condition.  Whatever his apparent issues were, it was a shame he couldn’t get him the help he needed.  If he wasn’t broke himself, he would have given the guy a couple of bucks at least, even if it meant risking further engagement.

The man was close to tears after that.  “None of you ever listen to me!  Ever!  I’m only trying to help you, but you all just think I’m nuts.  Every fucking time!”

With that, he stormed out of the store.  The clerk cleared his throat.  “I’m really very sorry about that.  This neighborhood,” he sighed.  “I swear, it’s getting worse all the time.  I keep getting more and more people like that hanging around here.  It’s a real problem.”

“It’s okay,” Harp nodded in understanding.  “Times are tough.  It can’t be helped.”

“Anyway, you want me to fill this for you, or you got it yourself?  It’s $53.98 for the container after you fill it up to the top line.”

“I can fill it myself, thanks.  I’ll take it to the top.”

Harp fished his back pocket for his wallet and dug out his credit card, which was the only form of currency it contained at the moment.

“Yeah, times are tough alright,” the clerk continued as he took the card from his hand and swiped it.  “I don’t know what this world’s coming to.  We just had that kid down in Michigan...what was his name?  Dan Ro-something?  Shot up that whole school.  I tell ya, people are going nuts.  Hell, just the other day I had a guy out by the pumps who punched a lady in the face, knocking her down.  Then he just ran off.  Can you believe it?  No reason for it.  None at all.”

“Are you serious?  When was this?”

“It was literally just two days ago, in broad daylight.  I was working the noon shift and was here when it happened.  Had to call the cops.  Luckily, the woman was more confused than she was hurt.  She was bruised up a little, but not too badly.  Still, it makes no damn sense.  She even had her kid sitting in the backseat at the time.  Slept through it all.”

“Jesus,” Harp exclaimed in disbelief.

Handing his card back to him, the clerk continued.  “Yeah.  The world’s turning into a real nuthouse I tell you.  Heh.  I wish that bum was right and I could tape a piece of paper the bathroom door and become a billionaire.”

“Oh yeah?  What would you do with all that money?”

The clerk thought for a moment.  “Hmm.  You know what?  I’m thinking I could do some real good with it, you know?  There’s a recession going on, and a lot of people are hurting.  Hell, that’s probably why so many are going nuts.  I don’t know, maybe I could help some folks out with it or something.  Anything would be better than standing behind a counter selling lottery tickets and cigarettes.”

Harp smiled.  “It’s nice to meet someone who feels that way.  I was expecting you to say you would buy a mansion or something.”

“You know, it’s funny.  A few years ago, I would have.  But after working here for so long and seeing so many miserable people come in…well…it gets you thinking, ya know?”

Harp smiled again.  “Well I’ll tell you what.  If you ever do make it big, keep me in mind, will you?  My eighteen-year-old is eating me out of house and home, and I could use a few bucks,” he chuckled.  He reached for the attendants hand to shake and stated “I’m Harper Clarkson – ‘Harp’ to my friends.  Don’t forget that when you make your billions,” he grinned.

“Roger Ford,” the clerk grinned back, shaking his hand amiably.  “In the meantime, stay safe out there on the way back to your car.  I’d offer you a ride, but I can’t leave the store.  Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

“Nah, but that’s okay.  I don’t mind the walk, and I don’t expect to get mugged for a can of gas.”

“You’d be surprised, Harp.  Anyway, take care of yourself.  Don’t be a stranger.”

He waved goodbye to Roger as he walked out the station door.  It was already starting to get dark out, and he wanted to hurry back down the four blocks to his car before it became difficult to see.  He filled up the canister and sealed it when the pump shut off.

It was snowing this time of year in Vermont, and the flakes were just beginning to fall.  The roads were well cleared on the way up, but Harp knew they wouldn’t stay that way for long now.  He started grumbling to himself about Joshua again, wondering why the kid had been so bloody absent minded lately.  It seriously felt like he was on another planet sometimes.

About ten minutes into his trek, he heard a commotion that was becoming louder as he neared the intersection.  Horns were beeping frantically, and then he saw an emergency vehicle rush past.

Good thing I’m not driving right now, he thought to himself.

As he got closer to the traffic lights, he saw a whole line of cars on the other side.  An ambulance, a fire truck, and two police cruisers had blocked off the entire section on that end.  He wondered if someone had been hurt.  Maybe a car lost control on an icy patch.

His car was on the side of the road just a block further, past the line of cars on that same street.  Checking carefully from side to side, he crossed the intersection towards the ensuing chaos.  Fortunately, that road had a sidewalk, so he wasn’t too concerned that an impatient driver would run him down.  As he made his way across however, a police officer flagged him down.

Raising a questioning eyebrow, he walked over to the cop.

“Um…sorry, did you want me?”

“Where are you coming from, sir?”

“The gas station just up that way.  Why?”

The officer scratched his head, looking him up and down.  “Are you…Harper Clarkson by any chance?”

A feeling of dread overpowered Harp.  Was his son hurt?  No, that didn’t make sense.  Why would he be out here?

“Y-yes, I am.  What’s this all about?”

“Well…it’s a bit strange, to be honest.  There’s been an accident over here involving an older gentleman.  We were unable to find any identification on him, but we were hoping you would be able to ID him.”

Wait, older gentleman?  Harp was somewhat relieved, but still bewildered.  “Me?  Why me?”

“Like I said, it’s strange.  We assumed he’s related to you somehow because of the note.  We found it in his jacket pocket, and it’s apparently addressed to you.  We were hoping you could make sense of it.  In the meantime though, would you be willing to make the ID for us?”

Harp was feeling incredibly anxious.  While it may not have been his son who was involved, one way or another he apparently knew the person whom was now concealed in a black leather bag just up ahead.  Another officer was unzipping it when they arrived.  Harp looked down and his trepidation abated slightly, but he was more confused now than ever.

“That…that’s the homeless man who was at the gas station.”

“So you have seen him before?”

“Yes…only less than an hour ago in fact.  I don’t know who he is.  He was harassing the gas attendant when I got there.”

“So wait.  You’re claiming that you’ve never met him before today?”  The officer was incredulous.

“That’s what I’m claiming, yes.  It’s the truth.  Why, what’s going on?  What happened?”

“Well apparently the gentleman decided to run out into the middle of traffic.  The driver who hit him said he was just standing there, almost waiting to be run over.  Other witnesses say they saw the same thing.  The driver couldn’t stop in time because of the slick road, and skidded into him.  By the time we arrived, it was already too late.  We searched him for any sort of ID, but all we found was this note…addressed to you.”

The officer handed it to Harp.  “Can you please explain this note, Mr. Clarkson?”

Harp looked at it, curiously.  The handwriting was badly scrawled, and he could barely make sense of it – even less so, once he actually read it.

 

If anyone finds this, please make sure it goes to Harper Clarkson.  He should be walking down this way from the gas station at about 5:20 PM.  He will be wearing a light blue winter coat, brown pants, and black shoes.

Hi Harp!  I’m pretty sure that’s you now.  I saw you before but didn’t recognize you in the station.

The rock makes you crazy when you use it for a very long time.  Makes other people think you’re crazy, too.  Be careful.  It’s worth it though.  You can fix things with it.  It won’t look like you’re fixing things, but you are.  Just don’t go too crazy before you do.  I was getting crazy, so I had to finish it.  You can have it now.  It says it’s your turn anyway.

Be careful with it!  It’s a big job!  BIG job!  Too big…

Anyway.  Time to go!

 

Harp turned the note over and over again in his hand.  Then, he looked up at the police officer.  “I…I’m sorry.  I wish I could explain this, but…I really can’t.  Honest to God, I never met this guy until just a short while ago.  I don’t even know how he could have gotten my name.”

“I see.  Did you leave anything behind he might have picked up?”

“Not at all.  In fact he left before I did.  That’s why you saw me coming just now.  I wonder if maybe he heard me tell my name to the gas attendant.”

“So the attendant would be able to vouch your story then?”

“Definitely.  The man was there when I got there, made a bit of a scene, left, and then I was there a bit longer, chatting with the attendant.  Um…what was his name…?  Roger Ford.  That was the clerk.”

“Okay Mr. Clarkson.  It sounds pretty cut and dry.  He must have overheard your conversation.  The fact is, we get stuff like this all the time.  Just to be safe though, do me a favor and give me your contact information, in case we need to ask you anymore questions.  Do you mind?”

“Yeah sure, no problem,” Harp said nervously.  The officer handed him a form, where Harp wrote his name, address, phone number, and a brief description of his encounter.  When he handed it back, the cop looked it over and nodded.

“Okay Mr. Clarkson, thanks again.  Do you need a lift back to your car?”  He indicated to the gas canister Harp had placed on the ground between his legs when he filled out the report.

“No thank you, Officer.  My car is on the side of the road, just past this line of other cars.  Luckily, I’m headed in the opposite direction.”

“Alright then.  Take care of yourself, and sorry for the frayed nerves.  There’s a lot of nut jobs out there these days.  Oh, and I’m going to need that note back for evidence.”

Won’t my finger prints be on it now, he wondered to himself as he handed it back to the cop.  Gotta love small towns.

Even as he began making his way past the cars, they were starting to move again.  They were still being waved through by hand, but it didn’t take long for only a single cruiser to remain.  By the time he reached his own vehicle, even the cruiser had left, and it seemed things were back to normal.

Rubbing his hands briskly for warmth, he opened the fuel hatch on his Buick Regal.  He then opened up the trunk, rummaging around for a funnel.  When he found one, he closed the trunk.

And then he opened it again.

What the heck was that doing in the trunk?

A smooth, round stone was lying next to where the funnel had been.  It was glowing a soft, red color.

What in the world?

Without thinking, he reached out with his hand to palm it.  As soon as he made contact, he jerked back, falling to the wet snow behind him.  His butt was numb from the cold as he was overcome by a series of images.  He began to sneeze profusely, but not from the cold.  It was uncontrollable, and somehow related to the massive headache he was suddenly experiencing.

The stone continued to glow and pulse inside  his mind.

He saw people.  Places.  Events past, present, and possible.

He sneezed.

 

*****

 

Dan Romano sneezed.  He saw what he had to do, and it nearly made him shit himself.  For days he cried until it felt like his eyes were going to bleed.  As far as he could tell though, there just wasn’t any other way.  That was the problem with the damn thing.  It showed you a few choices you could make, but ultimately it rested with the person to make the decision.  And the damnedest thing of all was, he probably wouldn’t even have any memory of it once the deed was done.

It was sick.  Meaning would eventually be ascribed to the action, as if what he did was somehow validated.  But people needed to have meaning now, and there was no way he could ever give it to them.  Any attempt to state reasons – by anyone – would only be seen as tremendously poor in taste at best.

He saw how his life brought him to this point, and it disgusted him.  He understood why he was in the place he was in now.  Every past decision, every memory, every experience – all leading to the formation of the person he was today:

Sick and twisted.

And it couldn’t be any other way.

He saw what the future would bring. 

Without the debate on gun control happing this year, there would be a mugging on January 8^th, 2019, at 7:52 PM.  A woman will have been shot.  Said woman would have otherwise given birth to a college instructor.  The instructor would get married, and have two children – a boy and a girl.  The girl would follow in her father’s footsteps and become a school teacher.  The boy would become an accountant.

In 2041, a new disease will emerge, threatening the entire planet.  In 2039, the school teacher will have made a passing comment to George, the janitor, about how protein affects muscle growth.  That same day, George will order a shipment of one-hundred protein bars to his house, hoping to benefit.  After seeing very little result, he will write a letter of complaint to the company who sold him the merchandise.  The complaint is a common one, with George’s in particular making national attention.  This will eventually lead to shutting down the company that produced the protein bar.  Four years later, another upstart company will take out a loan to start a similar business.  In order to avoid the same mistakes, research will be done to find out where the last version of the supposed muscle builder went wrong.

While researching protein bars, a cure for the disease will accidentally be discovered.  The world is saved.

But then it isn’t.  Because in 2019, a woman is shot.

So many images.  So many events swirled around Dan’s head like a cyclone.  He sneezed again.  This time there was blood in the mucus.

He knew it was time.  He saw each thread.  He knew there was only one he could pull on to keep it all from unraveling.

Picking up his gun, he cried again as he made his way to the school in Michigan.  At some point, the stone must have fallen out of his pocket.  He was thinking much more clearly then.  Not remembering why he was about to do what he was, he felt almost calm.

All he knew was that he had to do it.  His course was set, and he followed it with a crazed serenity.

 

*****

 

The first thing Salty Jake had to do was get the rock to the kid.  It was time to get it passed on again, and he had to hurry if he was going to make it to the scene.  He still had time though.  There was a guy who worked the pumps.  If anyone should benefit, it ought to be him.  In fact…

Jake squinted.  The images hurt his head, but he held onto them.

Yeah.  That was it!  The clerk!

He hurried to the gas station.  He figured he could get there in about a day or so on foot.  By that time though, the stone had already left him.  He had long since forgotten about it – let alone where it was going.  When he arrived at the station, he could barely remember what he was doing there.  He knew he had to do something with that blank piece of paper he was holding in his hand.

That’s right!  The clerk!  If he puts it on the bathroom door, that would change everything!

The clerk wasn’t believing him though.  Damnit.  He forgot.  Robert Ford wasn’t where he was supposed to be yet.  And Jake was running out of time for the girl!

But that’s when he came in!  The strings!  That’s right! The strings on the Harp!

Damnit, he thinks I’m crazy too.  None of you ever listen to me!  Ever!  I’m only trying to help you, but you all just think I’m nuts.  Every fucking time!

Whatever.  There wasn’t enough time right now.  He had to get to the intersection, quickly!  But wait…what if he left a note?  Of course!  That’s how the harp gets the notes!  He laughed wildly as he scrawled the message on the paper as quickly as he could.  It wasn’t easy.  His hands were shaking the entire time.

He shoved it into his coat pocket, and finally made it to the intersection.  Out of breath, he smiled, and walked out into the road.  He closed his eyes.

Finally…he thought to himself.  And then the car hit him.

 

****

 

Seven cars down the line, a mother inside a minivan was upset.  She was late bringing her daughter to her soccer game.  Police had the traffic at a dead stop, and she should have already been on the highway by now.  It’s good that she wasn’t, because there was no way the weight distribution of the van would have been able to keep the vehicle stable during the swerve when a merging semi-truck would have forced them off the road, killing them both.  Everything Dan Romano did two months ago would have been for nothing, if Soccer Girl didn’t make it to 2019.

A different cop was on the scene than the one that responded to the incident at the gas station two days ago.  That was good.  The one who responded to the assault on the customer would not have given Harper Clarkson the note left by Jake.  Fortunately, the incident had disgusted him enough to call in sick that day.

 

******

Joshua Clarkson had been very absent minded lately.  He wasn’t sure why.  He was sneezing a lot, and began to wonder if maybe he was catching a cold.  He remembered taking his dad’s car out somewhere.  At some point, he opened the trunk and put something into it.  Later that day he wondered if he remembered to fill up the gas.  The last thing he needed was another lecture from his father about responsibility and consequence.

*****

Harp slowly stood up from the ground.  The back of his pants were completely soaked, and his entire backside was numb with cold.  He looked in wonder at the stone in the trunk, and began to understand.  He wasn’t sure he liked where things were going, but he knew it was ultimately for the best.  In the meantime though, there was something simple he could do.  And it was something he was actually looking forward to.

Taking the stone and placing it in his pocket, he finished filling up his tank, and then got behind the wheel.  He started the ignition, turned the car around, and headed back to the gas station.

 

“Hello again, Roger.”

“Back already?  What happened?”

“Sad news I’m afraid.  You remember that guy who was in here earlier?”

“The homeless guy?  What about him?”

“Turns out he was just hit by a car a short time ago.  He didn’t make it.”

Roger Ford gasped.  “Jesus.  Are you serious?”

“Yeah.  Cops made me ID him.  I’m surprised they haven’t been by here, actually.”

“Well…” Roger sighed.  “The truth is, they probably won’t follow it any further than that.  He was homeless so…yeah.  They probably figure he’s just some nobody.  Nobody important, you know?”

“That’s…not a fair thing to say about anyone.”

“Yeah, I know.  I don’t like that either.”

Harp paused for a minute, then began.  “Hey listen.  I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you remember how he was going on about putting a piece of paper on your bathroom door or something?  Well I was thinking maybe you could put one up there.  As like a sort of memorial, you know?”

“Heh.  Sounds silly, but that’s not a bad idea.  If anything maybe it would give the poor bugger some peace.”

“And who knows?  Maybe it would make you rich someday,” Harp grinned.

Roger chuckled.  “Wouldn’t that just beat all?  If it does, I’ll definitely split it with you.”

 

*****

In 2043, Jonathan Clarkson, son of Joshua and Elizabeth, will use a portion of his family’s vast wealth to start up a business.  He had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend that there was money to be made in protein bars.



Copyright 2014
Michael F. Mercurio

This Hallowed Orange

By Michael F. Mercurio



Trevor Malthow hated going to the supermarket.  The refrigerator sitting at home in his studio apartment which consisted of little more than a box of baking soda and an ice cube tray was a testament to that fact.  His complete lack of even the most basic sundry items was the only event that ever prompted him to go.

It was something about being in crowded buildings.  Then again, open spaces bothered him too.  Either scenario was apt to trigger an episode which his logical mind simply had no explanation for.  He would become dizzy.  He would feel short of breath.  His heart would race.

He had seen numerous doctors about the condition, and the majority of them offered him the same diagnosis – that he had an anxiety disorder.  There was that one other “specialist” who said otherwise, but he came off as a total quack to Trevor.  He had sounded more like some kind of new age guru rather than a practitioner of medicine.  So, by rule of numbers and probability, Trevor was resigned to start taking medication.  It had been a month, but his condition hadn’t changed.

And thus, here he was, in a supermarket, inspecting various grapefruit as he desperately tried to ignore the spinning sensation he exhibited in the produce section.  A woman bagging oranges next to him smiled at him, which only made him more nervous - which of course made him dizzier.  He vaguely remembered one of the doctors mentioning social angst to be a possible trigger.  Then he wondered if he would still have been affected by the smiling girl had the doctor not mentioned it.

Actually, he probably would have.  Dating had never been much of an option in his life.  He was barely making it as a sculptor as he hadn’t had many orders lately.  His tiny, box-like apartment in the upper west side of Boston, cluttered with newspaper, bits of unused clay, and an ancient kiln that most likely violated his building’s health code – would that his building followed such codes anyway - was sure to drive away any potential prospects.  His sanctuary from the world definitely lacked a woman’s touch, and would surely remain that way if the roaches had any say in the matter.

And yet the woman bagging oranges continued to smile at him.  Said smile turned into a furrowed show of concern however, when Trevor appeared he was having some difficulty standing.  Rather than silently excusing herself and quickly walking away like most pretty girls would have when a random stranger standing a few feet next to them begins to exhibit signs of potential drug use, she addressed him by putting a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Embarrassed, he stammered in reply.  “Y-yes, I’ll be okay.  Sorry.  I um…I know I must sound pretty silly, but I just sort of get like this in super markets sometimes.”

She arched her eyebrows in question.

“It’s um…well, I don’t really know.  Maybe it’s the lighting or something, but I get sort of dizzy.  My doctors say it’s an anxiety thing.”  Before he even finished the sentence, he mentally chastised himself for that.  Why the hell would he mention doctors to a random stranger in a supermarket?  As if he wasn’t weird enough in public.  Now he had to list his mental deficiencies to a woman shopping for oranges.  In mid abasement, he also wondered if he should add that the oranges she was bagging was also freaking him out for no particular reason.  Something about the oranges was setting him off more than the supermarket itself.  Should he have mentioned that as well?  And why the oranges in particular?  Why not his own grapefruit that he himself was bagging?  Perhaps he should have interrogated her about it.  That was sure to go over well – a stranger you just met ranting about your oranges.

The logical part of his brain screamed at him to stop.  It also yelled, “Stop staring at her, you basket-cased freak,” which in turn led him to look at his feet instead.

And yet she still didn’t run away in fear for her life.  Her hand was still on his shoulder, and she nodded almost in understanding.  That freaked him out too, but in more of an embarrassing way, laced with a touch of unwanted and unwarranted heart-flutter.

“It’s okay,” she reassured him.  “I think I get it.”

Huh?  He blinked in confusion.  “You…you do?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Well, um…that certainly makes one of us then,” he forcibly chuckled, which somehow lightened the atmosphere a little.

But then she inquired, “It was the oranges, wasn’t it?”

His atmosphere did a complete 180 and was now in the negatives, with the surrealism of the question now threatening to invade what little sanity his fragile mind clung to.

“W-what did you say?”

“The oranges I was bagging.  They made you nervous, right?”

She asked it innocently enough.  She took her hand away and inspected one in her bag.  How does a person answer a question like that?  How do you tell a random girl you just met that you’re scared of oranges?  How do you explain to her the oranges remind you of something no sane person should be terrified of?  And how long would it be until that fear spreads to your grapefruit?  Or your apples?  Or any and all remaining produce you once favored?

She held an orange in her hand, looking down at it, pondering.  “You…mentioned something about doctors?”

Trevor shifted uncomfortably, desperately wanting to leave the store.  He was glad that, at least, there was no one else shopping for produce at that particular table.  Although he did jump nearly an inch off the ground when another woman came up and loudly tore a plastic bag from its stand.  Why the hell couldn’t she use the bags at her own table?  Were they out?  He looked at the adjacent produce stands, confirming that every one of them had a full roll of plastic.  What in blazes did that woman need with “their” roll then?  Was she eavesdropping?  Was she judging whether or not she should call the cops on this strange man who was clearly harassing the pretty girl who was bagging oranges - shaking her down for money so he could get his next high?

Cut it out…his brain warned him again, raising an imaginary hand to strike him with should the need arise.  He cowered in fear of it and behaved.

“Um…what?  Oh yes.  Doctors.  Like I said, um…they seem to think I have anxiety.  I don’t do so well in public settings.  Which…uh…is why I kind of come off like a weirdo right now.”  He rapidly added “Which I’m really sorry about by the way!  Normally by now someone like you would have run away in terror.  I know I would!”  He then began to laugh.  He was laughing way too loud.

Tone it down, his brain with the raised hand firmly told him through gritted teeth.  He then pictured a brain with teeth, and that image frightened him as well.

She responded with an uncertainty not pertaining to his aberrant social behavior.  “But…the oranges in particular?”

He laughed nervously again, but at a more calculated and controlled volume than before.  “Y-yes…I know it’s completely ridiculous.  You must think I’m a total nutter.”

“Well…no.  Not exactly.  I mean I get why it should be a little strange, but…” she trailed off, looking at the orange in her hand.

After a few silent moments, with Trevor shifting uncomfortably, she finally continued.  “Listen.  I want to show you something.  I know what I’m going to do is weird, but I’d like you to tell me if it means anything to you.”

Something in the back of his mind was pounding in fear – fear that he was losing his grip on reality.  There was absolutely no possible way she could do what he thought she was about to do.  The odds were insurmountable – too coincidental.  They-

She reached into her purse in the seat of her shopping cart, and took out a nail file.  Then, discretely, she began to cut away a piece of the skin, leaving a large, uncovered patch in the middle of the fruit.  She then held the damaged sphere up to him.

“Do you…recognize this?”

The room began to spin frantically.  For a moment, he had no idea where he was.  Panic was crashing against his chest and he had a great deal of difficulty breathing.  His mind flashed back to the quack - the one doctor out of the five that he had been to.

The one that told him he wasn’t crazy.

 

“It’s very common, Trevor.  More common than they would like you to believe.”

“’They’ doctor?  Um…no offense, but that sort of sounds like something someone like me would say.”

“Trevor, what you need to understand, first and foremost, is that there is nothing wrong with you – not chemically, and not mentally.  What you are experiencing is…well…people like us call it a ‘sensitivity.’  What you are feeling is actually perfectly normal, and should in fact, be expected.  But the social norms of today demand that the status quo should be kept forcefully intact at all times.  Thus, we are given labels that write us off as being neurologically unbalanced.  What you are exhibiting however, is not an imbalance of any kind.  In this case, it is quite literally the rest of the world that is unbalanced.”

Trevor retained only a segment of that.  “Wait…so…you’re saying there’s nothing wrong with me?  Because the other doctors…they-“

“Trevor,” he interrupted, “most doctors do not hold the sensitivity that you and I do.  Unfortunately, they are unwittingly part of a system that maintains business as usual.  As someone who knows what it is you’re actually sensing, I’m telling you, no – it’s not you.  You are fine.”

He continued, “I’m going to show you something.”  He reached into his desk drawer, and took from his bagged lunch an orange.  Holding it up to Trevor, he continued.  “Okay.  Let us say this orange represents our planet.”

“O-…okay…”  Why was this therapist talking about planets and equating them to fruit?  Should Trevor have also equated his therapist to a fruit?

“Now.  As you no doubt already know, the planet is always spinning.”  He turned the orange around and around in his hand to demonstrate the obvious.  “The gravitational force of the sun, combined with that of our  system’s other planets and moons,” he said with the orange revolving around his fist as though his fist was the center of the solar system, ”can be expressed in a mathematical formula.  This formula is a constant.  Never changing.  Are you with me so far?”

Trevor stammered.  “Y-yes…but um…doctor?  What does this have to do with psychiatry?”

“It has nothing to do with psychiatry.  That’s what I’m trying to get at, if you’ll let me.”  He put the orange down on his desk.  He then reached back into his drawer and took out a paring knife.  Trevor vaguely wondered if he was going to stab him with it for interrupting his lecture.  Instead, he began to make an incision, and cut a small section from the skin of the orange.  After a chunk had been removed, he put the knife down, and held the fruit up to Trevor once again.

“Okay.  What do you suppose happens now?”

“P-pardon?”

“Well, that mathematical formula that I mentioned?  I said it was a constant, remember?  But look at the orange.  Something’s changed.”

“You mean where you cut it?”

“Yes.  What do you think happens to the math behind it though?”

“I’m not sure what you-“

He placed the fruit on his desk, and made it spin.  Within moments, it spun off the desk, rolling onto the floor.

Both of them remained quiet for awhile.  Trevor was baffled at what any of this had to do with anything, as intriguing as the therapist’s demonstration was.  He stared at the orange on the floor as the doctor continued.

“What I am trying to impress upon you is that what you are feeling is a direct result of that.”  He pointed to the orange.  He went on.  “We have had some very serious, man-made environmental issues over the last few years.  A lot of it has to do with global warming emissions, but there’s another aspect many people have failed to consider.” 

He paused, then continued.

“We have been drilling.  For a long time.  Very long.  We poke holes in the ground, trying to get at those precious fossil fuels.  But it’s more than just the fuels themselves that are dangerous.  Sure, a bit of carving here and there wouldn’t be nearly enough to affect the gravity formula.  But massive drilling?  For almost two hundred years?”  He lowered his voice, looking directly at Trevor.  “What do you suppose happens to the mathematical equation when just one of those numbers is changed?”

“Um…what number?”

“In this case, it’s the mass of the earth itself.  Our mass is lower now.”

“So…that changes the equation or whatever?”

“If the equation defines our planet’s orbit, and the equation is changed…what do you suppose happens then?”

“I guess our orbit would change too then, right?”

The doctor motioned to the stray orange on the floor.

“Wait, are you saying we’re spinning out of control?”

“I am.  And what’s more, you’re actually feeling it.  That is why you’re scared all the time.  And why you have your dizzy spells.  You - and a large percentage of others who either don’t come forward about their symptoms to anyone, or are ‘treated’ and swept under the carpet of ‘disorder’ – are feeling the physical prelude to our planet’s eventual destruction.”

Trevor couldn’t believe his ears.  He was dumfounded.  Clearly, this guy had had one too many nut jobs in his office, and they finally started to rub off onto him.  Maybe his last weirdo was an ex-physics professor who went on a mass shooting spree after discovering life on Earth was pointless and mathematically redundant.

“Um…okay.  Doctor.  No offense, but uh…I came here because of anxiety.  The pills I’m taking haven’t been working, and I was hoping you would write me a different prescription or something.  But…instead you’re talking about the world ending and stuff.  That’s not helping me!  It’s making it worse!”

He stood up abruptly, visibly shaking with anger.  On his hand, he began ticking off his issues on each finger as he paced.

“Going outside my house scares the crap out of me, and when I do stay home, I’m afraid the ceiling is going to cave in for no reason!  I can’t sleep!  I can’t socialize, because I think people are looking at me funny every time I feel like I’m about to faint - as though somehow my falling over would threaten them…them!  I feel like they’re judging me, silently calling me a freak!  I can’t connect to anyone or anything - not even my art anymore!  It’s interfering with my life, and I want it fixed!  But here you are, instead, telling me the world is literally spinning out of control?  What the hell kind of a doctor are you?”

The doctor took a breath and tried to respond.  “Trevor, I know it’s difficult to accept, but-“

Trevor stood up abruptly.  “Sir.  No offense.  But I think YOU need help.”  And with that, he stormed out of the office.

Back in the supermarket, the girl was still holding up the orange.  The store was still spinning.  So too was the fruit, allegedly - albeit erratically.

Trevor tried to catch his breath as he responded.  “D-did…you have the same nut job doctor or something?”

“You recognize this then?”

“The…the planet, right?”

“Yeah.  I didn’t have a doctor tell me about it, but it was something I read online.  I was having dizzy spells.  Kinda like you, only not as bad.” 

She laughed as she lowered the orange to her hip, casually running her thumb across it.  “I can’t tell you how many diseases the self-diagnosing sites convinced me I had.  And that only made it worse!”

Her light-hearted manner helped to calm him down a little, as well as the familiarity of her experience.

“Yeah…I um…kinda learned the hard way not to read too many of those.”

“I know, right?  At the end of the day, you think you’re dying of prostate cancer or something.  Which is kinda hard to do if you’re a girl.”  She gasped but laughed at her own joke.  “I can’t believe I just said that!”

For the first time in a very long time, Trevor let out a genuine chuckle.  It felt good.  The damaged orange in her hand still made him nervous though.

“So…you…believe in that stuff?  About the planet being like an orange and whatnot?”

“Well sure.  I mean…it makes sense, right?  I was getting scared and everything like you were, and I had no idea why.  But then I read that, and it all clicked.  I think…maybe deep down we all know what’s happening.  Like on a subconscious level, you know?  I think we try so hard to ignore it that it keeps coming back to haunt us and make us crazy.”

Trevor blinked.  “So there really are other people out there who agree with this…this thing?”

“Oh yeah!” she exclaimed.  “Lots of people!  It’s actually pretty funny.  The whole orange thing has kinda become this big internet meme now.  There’s this entire community out there that shares pictures of carved oranges.  Some of them are incredibly artistic!  I saw one that this one girl made, where she carved a picture of what looked like a bustling city into the orange.  I laughed out loud when I saw it, but at the same time I was really moved by it.  It’s almost like she was saying, ‘even though the planet is dying, there’s still so much life here.’  Ever since I saw that one orange carving, I haven’t really been scared anymore.  It was so beautiful, and it made me feel so much better.”

And then she added, “…or maybe it was another orange that had a picture of a Satanic cat carved into it.  Either or.  I know at least ONE of them made me feel better!”

Both of them started laughing.  Trevor had tears streaming down his face from the sheer relief of it.  Other people in the store began looking at them funny, and for the first time in his life, Trevor didn’t notice them looking.  Judging.  Spinning.

He bought oranges instead of clay.




Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio

Good Punishment

By Michael F. Mercurio



“So?  Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to actually drink it?”

Tom looked down at his larger, sighed, and lifted the glass to his lips.

“Atta boy,” his friend of fifteen years told him.  Jack was his only friend, in fact.

“You’ve been spending way too much time at home, you know.  Hell, I hardly see you anymore.  And it’s not like you’re working or anything.”

“Yeah…I know,” Tom replied meekly.

“So are you gonna tell me why you haven’t returned any of my calls?  Or do we need to get you liquored up some more first?”

“It’s…like I said in the car.  I’ve just been kinda…I don’t know.  Not myself lately.  Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been worried about you ya know.  The least you could have done was drop me a line or something.”

“What are you, my fucking wife?”

“Man, if you had a wife who looked half as good as me, then I could forgive you for never leaving the house.”

“Funny,” Tom said, taking another sip.  Jack chucked the rest of his beer, then grabbed the pitcher to pour himself another mug.

“Seriously though, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  I just haven’t been feeling well.”
“Yeah, right.  Come on Tom, I’ve known you almost your whole damn adult life.  Stop insulting my intelligence and spill your guts already.”

Jack was always pushy like that.  He meant well, but sometimes he could really get under your skin.  Tom often wondered if it was that very tenacity that was the only thing that kept him around.  Anyone else would have gotten sick of Tom a long time ago – and in fact had.  But whenever Tom got into his depressing, reclusive moods, Jack was the only one who just rode with it.

“Look, I honestly...don’t know.  I’ve just been having one of those weeks, you know?  I guess I don’t really have a reason for it.”

“Yeah, well, if there’s no reason for it, then you should probably just quit your whining and drink your drink with me when I get my days off.  Right?”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sure, after I twisted your arm.”

The two men sat in silence for awhile, with Jack taking more enthusiastic swigs from his mug.  Finally, he piped in again.

“So.  You wanna talk about it?”

Tom shrugged.  “Like I said, I don’t really know what to talk about.  I don’t know why I get like this.  It just…you know, happens.”

“Ever think about going to a doctor for it?”

“What good would that do me?  He’ll ask me to talk, then I’ll say the same damn things I say to him that I say to you.  He’ll say ‘So!  Why do you think you feel this way?’  Then I’ll say ‘Gee doc, I really don’t know.  It just happens.’  Then he’ll ask me about my mother and father, and when we still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, he’ll give me some pills that turn me into a zombie.  So yeah.  No thanks.”

“I see,” Jack said while stroking his goatee.  “Very interesting.  And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tom sighed.

“Heh.  I could totally be a shrink, you know.”

“Yeah, right.  I can just see you offering ‘advice’ to underage teen girls telling them how they should dump their thirty-year-old boyfriends while you stick your business card down their bra.”

“Hey hey!  Why all the hostility?  Besides, it’s not my fault they were damaged.  It’s kinda like when you go food shopping and you get the dented cans, you know?  Discounts man, discounts!”

“You’re a sick man, Jack.”

“To each his own, my friend,” he replied, lifting his glass in toast, then downing the rest.

“What’s even sicker is sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

“Hey man, that’s just normal.  Everyone wants to be me.”

“At least if I had your delusions, I’d be happier.”

“Huh.  Well if it’s delusions you want Tommy boy, I can totally help you with that.”

“What do you mean?”

And with that, Jack was gone.

 

In his place, sitting in the chair directly across the small table from Tom, was a creature the likes of which he had never seen.  Its skin was crimson red, and had festering boils.  It was bald, with small lumps and pronounced ridges on each side of its skull.  And it had wings that were folded in, presumably because it was sitting in a chair.

Tom blinked several times.  He shut his eyes tight, rubbed them, kept them closed, and took a long swift drink of his larger.  When he finally opened them, the creature was still there.  He looked around the bar at the other patrons, but no one else seemed to notice the thing sitting in Jack’s chair.  In fact, the waitress even came by to refill their chip bowl, said nothing, and walked away.

“What-…what the…HUH?!”

In a rasping voice that sounded somewhat like Jack’s, the creature spoke after a small fit of laughter.

“Woa woa now, calm down there Tommy boy.  Heh heh just calm right the fuck down.  Ain’t gonna do you no good to get bent out of shame just now.  Besides, it’s not like you’re gonna remember any of this anyway.”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Tom demanded.  A few customers turned to look at him, but then returned to their patronage.

“Relax Tom, just relax.  It’s still me.  It’s always been me.”

Tom looked at the creature in disbelieve.  “….J-…Jack?!”

“In the flesh!  Well…so to speak.”

“What the…how…”

“Look, just shut up for a bit, will you?  God, your whining is so annoying sometimes.  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap all the time, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“Yeah, well, I figured what the hell.  I may as well tell you again.  It’s been awhile since I had any real fun with you anyway.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t, Tom.  You’re not supposed to.  That’s part of how it goes.  But we’ll get to that.”

“This…this can’t be happening.”  He bolted up and rubbed his eyes fiercely.

“Will you sit the fuck down?  You’re making a scene here, and I don’t want to get yelled at by the others for having a little fun.”

Dumfounded, and completely drained mentally, Tom slumped back into his seat.

“Okay then.  Where were we?  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap, right?  Why even the most mundane things in your life never seem to go your way?”

“Um…uh…yeah…?”

“Well Tom, let me start by asking you a question.  You’ve always tried to do the ‘right thing’, right?  Hell, you’re a regular boyscout.  Ain’t that right?”

“Um…I…guess?”

“Sure you are, sure.  You help old ladies cross the street, you don’t cheat on your taxes, hell, you even go to church once in awhile,” the creature sneered.

“Well…yeah…I guess I do...”

“Okay then Tommy boy….all kidding aside, let me ask you a really serious question.”  The Jack-creature looked him squarely in the eye.  Tom shuddered when he saw its eyes were a solid black.  “What do you know about Hell?”

Tom gasped.  “Are you a demon?!”

“Give the man another drink for figuring out the obvious.  Of course I’m a demon, you ninny.  I thought the wings were a freaking giveaway.  But answer the question already.”

Tom studdered.  “Um…uh…well…I was always taught that Hell is where you go to be punished for doing bad things.  Uh…that’s what everyone’s taught, really.  But…wait…why are you…you know…’here’?  And not…’there’”?

The Jack-creature ignored his question.  “Okay Tommy boy…let me ask you another million-dollar question.  Let’s say someone did something wrong.  Something really bad.  What would the best way be to punish them?”

“Um…send them to Hell?”

The Jack-creature sighed.  “Of course send them to Hell, you idiot.  What I’m asking is, how would they be punished in Hell?”

“Uh…well…everyone usually says it’s all about fire and torture and stuff.”

Jack-creature grinned at that.  “That’s where you’re dead-wrong, Tommy boy.  And now…we get to the fun part.”

The creature held out his hand, and in his palm, appeared what looked like a small action figure.  It stood in silent demand of further explanation.

“I’m gonna show you this little guy as an example.  We’ll call this one Little Ricky.  Now then.  Ricky here is an axe murderer.  He raped and killed…oh, I don’t know.  Let’s say one hundred children and fifty small puppies.”  At that, the face on the action figure turned into an evil grin.  Blood dripped from the palm of Jack-creature’s hand and trickled onto the table.

“Now.  The best way to punish someone like this isn’t with eternal hellfire and all that nonsense.  No, see, guys like this thrive on pain.  That’s just no good.  Not much of a punishment if they’re twisted enough to get off on it.  So!  What we do is…this!”

Suddenly, Little Ricky transformed into a small doll of a nun.

“Um…are you saying that nuns are actually axe murderers?  Er…rehabilitated, I mean,” he quickly corrected.

“No you idiot.  You’re not getting it.  See, everyone has their own separate hell.  You follow me so far?”

“O…kay?”

“Like I said, the best way to punish someone isn’t with fire.  What you do is, you wipe their memory completely.  Think about it!  They would never even know that they’re in Hell!  Then…oh!  Here’s the best part!”  Jack-creature began to laugh uncontrollably.  “Oho, it’s so rich.  Then!  You make them think…are you ready?  You make them think they’re……a good person!”  He began screeching with laughter, pounding his hand on the table.  The nun-doll shattered in his palm as he struck, emitting a blood-curdling shriek of agony.

Tom was a bit slow on the uptake.  He was too distracted by the screaming nun-doll.

“Come on Tommy, keep up with me here!  Don’t you see?  Part of the punishment of being in Hell is not even knowing that you’re already there!  What better way to punish someone than to turn them into someone who is constantly punishing themselves, convinced that they actually still have a shot of getting into Heaven?  They try so damn hard to be ‘good’, when it’s already too late!  It’s pure genius!  Only the Master Himself could have designed it!”

The demon continued.  “As the fool tries his whole ‘life’ to be all good and proper, we keep sending more shit his way.  The better a person he tries to be, the more we knock him around.  And because they’re constantly programmed - by us - to do ‘good’, they keep coming back for more.  Finally, they snap, go crazy, maybe kill themselves.  Then we start the whole thing all over again!  Now THAT is eternal damnation, my friend!”

Tom’s mouth was open as the reality slowly dawned on him.

“You wanted to know why things are always turning to shit on you, Tommy boy?  Well, that’s an easy one!  We turned you into ‘Tom.’  Before you came to us…your name was ‘Rick.’  Is your memory starting to come back to you yet Little Ricky?  No?  Of course not.  It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it did, now would it?”  The demon cackled.

Tom bolted out of his chair, screaming.  “Shut up!  Shut the fuck up!  You lying piece of shit!  I’m a good person!  I’m good!  I’m good!”  He strangled the demon, and the other patrons looked over in alarm.  Even as some of the more burley customers ran to him trying to pry his hands loose, Tom refused to let go.  Finally, he heard a loud snap, as the demon gurgled its last breath.  They pulled him off, but the creature was dead.

Tom looked around at the customers who held him tightly, looking at him with disgust and disbelieve.  “I’m a good person,” he ranted.  “I’m a good person.”

Then, he looked across the table, and saw the lifeless body of Jack – his only friend.

“I’m a good person…” he sobbed.

 

Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio