“Get fucked,” the bartender said in an even monotone.
"Nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-four," I called out.
The man with the silver hair was led out by the sultry woman half his age.
My glass was magically refilled.
"Why not use your ability to fry some bigger fish?"
"Excuse me?" I looked up. I hadn't realized anyone was actually listening. I'd been ranting on about how I missed the simple joys - how it was hard even to laugh at newspaper comics, knowing that half of them would be cancelled midway through important arcs (in one memorable instance due to the cartoonist faking his death to move to Bucharest).
"I mean at some high stakes poker game or something. The races." It was the sultry woman who'd been led out by the dysfunctional man earlier tonight. Or was it some other night? "I mean, you could be rich!"
I grinned. It was about as funny as cancer.
"I don't actually see the exact endings of things, miss," my head was starting to swim but I tipped my glass at the bartender again. He rolled his eyes. "I just have a knack for guessing possible outcomes. Pinball games are the only exception. Even if I go down to a race and think really hard, all I'll get is a brainwave that says some horse will win." I stared moodily into my empty glass. "Even my disease has a sense of humour."
"Don't be ridiculous!" She laid a warm hand on my arm. I looked at it. Then I looked at her. She smiled. "Have you ever thought about why you have this gift?"
"It isn't really a gift," I said. "I don't even think it's all that special. The thing is, everything that begins at a fixed point already has its conclusion nestled away inside. Nothing ever changes. If you really want to know how something ends, you just have to read the beginning closely enough."
"Sure." She hadn't moved her hand.
She wasn't all that pretty - she'd dressed carelessly and the nightlong barhopping had taken its toll - but she had great eyes. I was a sucker for those eyes.
The smile didn't hurt, either.
"I'm going to die around twenty years from now," I said evenly. "It will be sudden and violent. I won't feel any pain. I will die solvent but not rich. Happy but not satisfied. And I will be alone. There is no greatness to hang around for."
"I don't really believe in worrying about the future," she lied. "Plus my place is nearby. Do you wanna continue our little conversation there?"
I nodded. Her smile widened. Her teeth were bright and her hair fell rather fetchingly over her ears. I adjusted for prettiness accordingly.
It was all a sham, of course - she'd been staking me out for over a week. She - and her employers, who I couldn't get a glimpse of yet - were very interested in my ability. I swirled around the last drink I'd be consuming at this particular bar, and then drained it in one gulp.
The thing was, I hadn't started my story a week ago, when she first bumped into me (accidentally, as she assured me then) on my way out. I had realized then how that particular story would go.
No, this was a story spanning the breadth of just one night.
Because I was getting tired and needed somewhere to begin.
I paid for my drink and followed her into the ending I'd been working towards.
I turned 90 in a fluid motion and continued telling my story
to whoever was sitting there now.
“It’s not like I’m inventive or anything,” I said
reasonably. “I know I’m not. I don’t got what it takes to const- constric-
create narratives. It’s just that I can read beginnings and predict endings.”
What do you mean,
I waited for the man with the mousy blonde hair to ask; but he continued to stare miserably into his glass.
"I had to give up on Agatha Christie when I was ten," I confided. "It was a total buzzkill. The basic sort of crap people can't get. And don't even get me started on serialized novels."
The mousy-haired man's lady friend finally came back from the restroom. I could tell by the way she put her hand on his shoulder that they'd end up marrying each other in a couple of months. I also knew that it would be a desperately unhappy marriage - although he wouldn't realize that until just before her untimely death, seven years from now. He'd be convicted. I decided I had to warn him.
"Get away from her, good buddy," I warned him. "Shizz-shisss-she's-"
"Get fucked," the blonde man's lady friend suggested. She slammed a wad of notes on the bar and dragged him away in her wake.
"-not a keeper," I finished my sentence. Then I finished my drink.
"What exactly are we doing here?"
"See that man standing in the corner?"
"The one who is indescribably handsome and yet extrudes an air of silent melancholy?"
"No, to the right."
"The self-assured shark with the silver hair chatting up a sultry woman half his age?"
"No, you idiot. The one next to the pinball machine."
"What, that tall, slouchy man in the crumpled suit who's facing the wrong way?"
"Yeah, that one."
"What the hell is he doing?"
What the hell was I doing?
That was a good question. I had a lot of good questions.
Who introduces new cast members in the second episode instead of the season premiere?
Why insert your writerly persona into a novel when the narrator himself is already a thinly-veiled analogy of you?
When do you realize there is a hole in the lining of the inner pocket of your coat, out of which your little blue pill has fallen fifteen minutes ago, thus rendering your pursuit of the sultry woman half your age redundant?
Who introduces new cast members in the second episode instead of the season premiere?
Why insert your writerly persona into a novel when the narrator himself is already a thinly-veiled analogy of you?
When do you realize there is a hole in the lining of the inner pocket of your coat, out of which your little blue pill has fallen fifteen minutes ago, thus rendering your pursuit of the sultry woman half your age redundant?
And while we were at it, where were the Snowdens of yesteryear?
I realized I was on a roll.
I also realized I was slightly drunk.
What I was doing was this:
I was standing next to the pinball table, facing the wrong way. I would stand there until the next contestant came up, shoved a quarter in, and started his game. I would stand in the same position, not looking at the person or the table, listening to the sound effects and nursing a drink. As soon as the last ball fell through (which seldom took long - most people who stepped up to the pinball table at twelve fifteen on a weekday night were too drunk to tell the difference between the fruit machine and a urinal), I would finish whatever was left of my drink and announce their exact score without turning around. Then the loser would pay for the winner's next drink.
I hadn't lost even once. People assumed I was winning by listening to the sound effects and calculating. If they found out the scores were popping unbidden into my head there would probably be a riot.
I realized I was on a roll.
I also realized I was slightly drunk.
What I was doing was this:
I was standing next to the pinball table, facing the wrong way. I would stand there until the next contestant came up, shoved a quarter in, and started his game. I would stand in the same position, not looking at the person or the table, listening to the sound effects and nursing a drink. As soon as the last ball fell through (which seldom took long - most people who stepped up to the pinball table at twelve fifteen on a weekday night were too drunk to tell the difference between the fruit machine and a urinal), I would finish whatever was left of my drink and announce their exact score without turning around. Then the loser would pay for the winner's next drink.
I hadn't lost even once. People assumed I was winning by listening to the sound effects and calculating. If they found out the scores were popping unbidden into my head there would probably be a riot.
"Nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-four," I called out.
The man with the silver hair was led out by the sultry woman half his age.
My glass was magically refilled.
"Why not use your ability to fry some bigger fish?"
"Excuse me?" I looked up. I hadn't realized anyone was actually listening. I'd been ranting on about how I missed the simple joys - how it was hard even to laugh at newspaper comics, knowing that half of them would be cancelled midway through important arcs (in one memorable instance due to the cartoonist faking his death to move to Bucharest).
"I mean at some high stakes poker game or something. The races." It was the sultry woman who'd been led out by the dysfunctional man earlier tonight. Or was it some other night? "I mean, you could be rich!"
I grinned. It was about as funny as cancer.
"I don't actually see the exact endings of things, miss," my head was starting to swim but I tipped my glass at the bartender again. He rolled his eyes. "I just have a knack for guessing possible outcomes. Pinball games are the only exception. Even if I go down to a race and think really hard, all I'll get is a brainwave that says some horse will win." I stared moodily into my empty glass. "Even my disease has a sense of humour."
"Don't be ridiculous!" She laid a warm hand on my arm. I looked at it. Then I looked at her. She smiled. "Have you ever thought about why you have this gift?"
"It isn't really a gift," I said. "I don't even think it's all that special. The thing is, everything that begins at a fixed point already has its conclusion nestled away inside. Nothing ever changes. If you really want to know how something ends, you just have to read the beginning closely enough."
"Sure." She hadn't moved her hand.
She wasn't all that pretty - she'd dressed carelessly and the nightlong barhopping had taken its toll - but she had great eyes. I was a sucker for those eyes.
The smile didn't hurt, either.
"I'm going to die around twenty years from now," I said evenly. "It will be sudden and violent. I won't feel any pain. I will die solvent but not rich. Happy but not satisfied. And I will be alone. There is no greatness to hang around for."
"I don't really believe in worrying about the future," she lied. "Plus my place is nearby. Do you wanna continue our little conversation there?"
I nodded. Her smile widened. Her teeth were bright and her hair fell rather fetchingly over her ears. I adjusted for prettiness accordingly.
It was all a sham, of course - she'd been staking me out for over a week. She - and her employers, who I couldn't get a glimpse of yet - were very interested in my ability. I swirled around the last drink I'd be consuming at this particular bar, and then drained it in one gulp.
The thing was, I hadn't started my story a week ago, when she first bumped into me (accidentally, as she assured me then) on my way out. I had realized then how that particular story would go.
No, this was a story spanning the breadth of just one night.
Because I was getting tired and needed somewhere to begin.
I paid for my drink and followed her into the ending I'd been working towards.
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