KATACLYSM: A Space-Time Comedy (3 page)

“Uh-huh.  OK.  Well it’s clear that you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”  Jude rolled his eyes.  “And if it makes you feel better, I’m sorry.  Now can we please just…”

“You don’t get it buddy, do you?  You know there was a time, not too long ago, when little girls lay in their beds dreaming that one day they would have the opportunity to go into the hole, that one day they would have all of the responsibility and prestige that came with being a city worker.  Imagine how devastating it was for them when people like you pointed at the hole and said ‘no sweetie, you can’t go in there, that’s a manhole’.”  Clearly Jude had inadvertently touched a nerve, albeit a bizarre, improbable nerve.  The day had already gotten off to a creepy start, so Jude was truly in no mood for this.  He tuned out most of the rest of what Pete had to say and was instead surveying the rest of the construction site.

“It occurs to me, Pete,” Jude said, interrupting the construction worker who had been ranting along happily, “that there isn’t a single woman working here anywhere.  Don’t you find that odd?”  Pete stopped and looked around as though he hadn’t considered this.

“So?” the man said slowly.

“So…there are female lawyers and doctors and accountants.  If so many women are dreaming of working in…personholes…then why aren’t there any here?”

Pete’s unibrow underwent a marvelous contortion.

“I’m telling you dude, it’s all about the word manhole.  Those other professions just don’t have the same kind of insidious linguistic gender stigma.”

Jude was in the process of formulating a profanity-laced rebuttal when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the gorgeous woman, to whom he had earlier donated his house keys, was again walking on the other side of the street.  One of the workers, Ernie, let out a whistle of appreciation.  Pete jerked his head around.

“Please tell me I didn’t just hear what I think I heard.  Don’t tell me you’re objectifying women again Ernie!  If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times…”  Jude abandoned the idea of recovering his planner and ran to catch up with the girl.

“Hi there,” Jude said as though to an old friend as he began to walk in stride with the woman.

“Oh…hello again.”  She flashed him another smile, this time just a short one.  It suddenly dawned on Jude that he had once again failed to plan what he was going to say in advance.  This time he was undeterred.

“My name is Jude.”

“That’s nice,” said the woman absently as though she were on some far off planet.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh…it’s uh…it’s Flower.”

“You mean like the stuff you bake with or like the plant?” asked Jude awkwardly, immediately annoyed with himself for asking such a stupid and useless question. But he was flustered because she appeared to be paying less and less attention to him.

“Like a flower,” she said unhelpfully.  Flower seemed highly preoccupied and was constantly glancing at her watch.  Jude took a breath and launched in.

“Look, I was wondering if you would be interested in going out for coffee with me.  I know this is a bit awkward, but I think there is at least a small chance that the two of us may be soul mates and it would be a true shame if we didn’t explore that possibility together at your favorite coffee shop.  My treat?”  He searched her face for some kind of acknowledgement.  It was apparent that Flower hadn’t really been listening to him.  Jude began to consider the idea of cutting his losses and seeing if he could retrieve his keys from Flower.  He tried to think of the most diplomatic and face-saving way of accomplishing this.  Just then, Flower stopped dead and abruptly turned towards him.

“I’m sorry Jude, but I have an appointment that I really need to be on time for.  I don’t mean to be rude.”  Jude was crestfallen.  Flower clearly saw the dejection in his face, because she bit her lip and looked at him apologetically with her beautiful eyes.  She thought for a second, apparently searching for something to say that would make Jude feel better.

“Listen, thank you again so much for finding my keys.”  And with that, she walked off leaving Jude speechless for the second time in an hour.

Flower Pierce arrived for her appointment three minutes late without any idea that she was in mortal danger.  At the moment, her mind was on her shoes.  As she entered the rundown building just south of Boston’s financial district, she gripped the banister on the wall with two hands and began a wobbly journey up the old metal staircase.  Each time she came to Madame Sfortunata, she swore that she would never return wearing stilettos but somehow always seemed to forget.  As Flower climbed, she detected the faint but distinct odor of marijuana.  When she reached the top, she stepped over a broken wine bottle and made the now-familiar walk to apartment 210.  Opening the outer shutter door, she noticed that the wooden door to the apartment was ajar.  She peaked her head in.

“Madame Sfortunata?  It’s me.  Flower,” she called.

The aging psychic was sitting on a tattered sofa entranced by her television set.  When she heard Flower’s voice she immediately perked up.  “Come in, dear.  I’ve been expecting you.”

Psychics have always been a curiosity to the people of Earth.  Are they for real?  Can they really see the future and talk to the dead?  Well in many cases the answer is yes and, as a result, psychics are known to the inhabitants of the afterlife as a positive nuisance.  On occasion, people use these clairvoyants to send profound and meaningful messages to their loved ones in the world beyond.  However, in the vast number of cases, psychics provide a medium that only serves to harass the dearly departed with a kind of bizarre trivia game.  It generally follows the same pattern:

Fiona visits her local mystic to see if she can get in touch with her dead husband Angelo but she is skeptical.  She asks a question that only Angelo would know.  The mystic contacts Robert who runs one of the switchboards in the afterlife.  Robert runs a search because there are far too many souls for the psychic to sort through by him or herself.  The following conversation ensues:

“Hang on, I’ll see if I can reach him,” says Robert.  Seconds later.  “OK.  I’ve got him on.  What do you need?”

“Angelo’s wife Fiona wants to know the colour of her favorite underwear when they were first married,” relays the psychic.

“OK, just a sec…Angelo?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife wants to know what the colour of her favorite pair of underwear was after you got married.”

“Ugh,” says Angelo irritated.  He had figured that he wouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing now that he was dead.  “How am I supposed to remember?  Can she call back some other time?”

“Listen, Angelo.  I’ve done this a few times and I don’t think you want to do that,” replies Robert who wonders how he got stuck doing this job yet again.

“Ok, ok…uh…I don’t know,” says Angelo shaking his leg nervously.  “Uh, she had lots of pairs you know…it was a long time ago…hmmm…ok,” exasperated “let’s take a shot and say…black.  Can I go now?”

“He thinks they were black,” says Robert uncertainly to the psychic.

“Black,” says the psychic matter-of-factly to Fiona.

“It’s him!” cries Fiona.  “Oh sweet Jesus it’s him.”

Fiona collapses on the floor, hyperventilating with tears in her eyes.  “My Angelo, it’s really you.  It’s really you!  My poor Angelo…”

Fiona’s sister who has accompanied her takes her by the arm and tells her that she’s had enough for today.

Back in the afterlife Angelo speaks to Robert. “So?  Anything else for me?”

“Nope.”

“OK, thanks for the help Robert.”

“Sure thing.”

Madame Sfortunata did not communicate with the dead.  She preferred to make predictions about the future and that was fine with Flower.  Flower didn’t really know why she went to a psychic.  She wasn’t particularly worried about the future and there were no questions that were bothering her.  She was quite a cheerful twenty-six year old who had just moved to Boston from London.  The daughter of wealthy parents, she had grown up in Hampstead until the tragic car crash that made her an orphan at sixteen.  Since then she had lived in a modest flat just off of Piccadilly Circus.  Her favorite pastime had been to walk over to Trafalgar Square in the morning, climb up beneath one of the massive lion statues overlooking the fountains and curl up with a good book.  Having no aspiration to amass objects or titles, Flower’s goal was simply to be, to live and to experience the world as happily as she could.  While she did still love London, she had grown bored of it.  So one day, she decided that it might be fun to live in America.  Within forty-eight hours, she was on a plane.  When Flower arrived in the United States three months ago, she became friendly with a model named Julia who lived in her apartment building.  Julia swore by Madame S as she was often called by her patrons.  Normally Flower would never have gone to a psychic but, she decided, when in Rome…

Madame S was peculiar even for a psychic, at least as far as Flower was concerned.  She didn’t so much predict the future as provide a kind of heads up for bargain hunters.  Flower recalled her first session when she had arrived with no idea what to say.

“What can you tell me?” she had asked the psychic hesitantly.

Madame S closed her eyes and tilted her head back as though delving into the recesses of the spirit world.  Her voluminous lips moved slowly uttering several words that were inaudible, and then suddenly she sat up in her chair, making a booming prediction.

“The Marshalls on Boylston Street is going to have a surprise two-day sale on slacks starting next Thursday.” 

Flower didn’t quite know how to react to this news and there was an uneasy silence at first as the prediction set in.

“Pardon me?”

Madame S reached out with her frail, bony hand and gripped Flower tightly by the forearm.  Leaning towards her she spoke again, this time in a whisper.

“Listen dear, don’t go on Thursday though.  You won’t be able to get hold of a salesgirl and you’ll only find one good pair of capris in an ugly khaki.”

She leaned closer.

“What you do is go Friday afternoon around three thirty and find Sheryl…Sheryl, ok?  She’s nice, middle aged with hair dyed fire engine red.  Most of the good pants will be gone but if you go to the back of the ladies’ department away from the fitting rooms and near the bathrooms you’ll find some nice stuff.  Trust me.”

Madame S patted Flower’s arm and withdrew the hand giving her a wry wink.  Clearly, Madame S’s was a niche market.

Originally, Flower suspected that Madame S was having her on, that she simply had friends that worked for the local department stores.  But the predictions were always right and the details eerily precise.  On her third visit, Madame S counseled Flower on how to pay for a satin negligée.

“When you get to the checkout line, watch out for the woman lining up in front of you.  She’ll be chewing gum impatiently with her mouth open.  What manners! And sipping on a Snapple through a straw.  Her two boys will be running around wildly like animals through the clothing racks.  When one of them comes by she’ll lunge out to grab him and the Snapple will splash out towards you.  If you’re standing too close, it will ruin the negligée and it’s the last one they have in stock.”

Sure enough, Flower was in the line and it all happened exactly as Madame S described it.  Of course, Flower was in the awkward position of having to pay Madame S at least double the money that she saved using any of her tips.  In the end, though, she went to Madame Sfortunata for the amusement more than anything else.  The motivation to buy some nice clothes didn’t hurt either and there was no doubt that this psychic had an eye for clothing.

Still, Madame S had her downside.  Since she was a psychic, she refused to write down her appointments in a daytime planner.  She insisted that she could “sense when her clients were nearby and in need of assistance…besides, those planners are lost so easily, dear.”  Strangely enough, however, Flower frequently arrived only to discover that Madame S was nowhere to be found.  This was even known to happen on occasions when she had called and warned the psychic an hour in advance.  Today, Flower was simply happy to find her in.  When she entered the apartment she was hit unexpectedly by the overpowering smell of smoke.

“Madame S, is something burning?”

The psychic’s previous, grandmotherly smile was replaced with a look of puzzlement.

“Burning, dear?  No.  Why?  Do you smell something?”

“Of course.  Don’t you?  I can even see that it’s coming from the kitchen,”

Flower gestured towards the smoke that was rising from the kitchen door.

“The kitchen, dear?”  She looked over.  “Oh, my goodness, the cookies!”  Madame S leapt from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.

A minute later she reemerged carrying a dish towel and fanning herself from the heat.  Flower had already made herself comfortable in her usual chair.

“Sorry dear, I must have forgotten.  Don’t worry.  No harm done and I’ve started another batch for us.  Now as soon as I find my glasses...”  She began patting her hand along the armoire in the corner of the room.

“Madame S?” called Flower.

“Yes dear?”

“They’re in your hair.”

Madame S felt around on top of her head for a moment, quickly locating her glasses.  “Quite right, my dear, quite right.”  How she reminded Flower of her Gran.  The psychic slowly made her way to the couch and sat down facing Flower.  Then, closing her eyes she began to hum.  She often acted this way during her sessions with Flower who figured the sound and facial expressions were done for the added suspense.  This time, however, Madame S’s eyes were squeezed tighter than usual and her forehead was scrunched up hard.  She maintained this pose for a full five minutes and when the trance was broken, sweat dripped from her temples.

“Something most terrible has happened,” she declared out of breath.

Flower nodded completely unfazed.  Madame S had a flare for melodrama.  “What is it?  Have they decided to close the Macy’s on Washington Street?  Maybe they’ll have a liquidation sale.”

Madame S shook her head.

“No dear, it’s far more serious than that.  Last night this city was visited by a foreign being.  Someone not of this Earth.  He has set into motion a most extraordinary sequence of events.”

“Brilliant!  What’s going to happen?” said Flower who was delighted at the unexpected change of pace.

“He has left his mark at Massachusetts General Hospital,” continued Madame S, “and before 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday night when it will disappear forever, three things will happen.  One, a Messiah will visit this world.”

“Who? Jesus?”  Flower snapped.  She wasn’t a particularly religious woman and was nervous about the direction that this prediction was headed.

“No dear.  There are other Messiahs.”

“Fair enough.  So what’s going to happen to me when this fellow shows up?”

“Nothing, my dear,” replied Madame S with a blank look in her eyes.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Well why not?”  Flower’s initial excitement had given way to a desire to get back to fashion tips.

“Because, my dear, you will not exist,” said Madame S without the slightest bit of emotion.

“What?  You mean I’m going to pop off on Tuesday night?”

“No dear.”

Flower was becoming slightly anxious and frustrated.

“So what do you mean I’m not going to exist?” she pressed angrily.

“I mean,” Madame S continued in a perfectly measured tone, “that sometime between now and Tuesday, all evidence and memory of your existence will be completely erased.”

Silence followed and the two women stared at one another without blinking for several moments.  Then, still keeping her eyes fixed, Madame S leaned towards Flower and lowered her voice as she often did when dispensing advice on the latest bargain.

“Your past, present and future will all be wiped out dear,” she whispered solemnly.  Then she sniffed the air in the apartment and sat up abruptly.   “Oh, I nearly forgot. The cookies!”

Once more the psychic leapt out of her seat, this time returning from the kitchen moments later with a pan of fresh tea biscuits.  She sat down again and began to munch on one.  Madame S eyed Flower carefully watching her slowly assimilate the information she had been given.  Clearly, Flower was skeptical but unnerved nonetheless.

“I think I have to go,” she said standing up.  Flower fished around in her purse to find thirty dollars which she set neatly on Madame S’s coffee table.  As she began to walk to the door she hesitated and turned around for a moment.

“Madame S?”

“Yes dear?”

“You said that three things are going to happen.  But you only mentioned two,” said Flower holding up two fingers.  “That I’m going to die…”

“Cease to exist, dear!” corrected Madame S emphatically, spraying some of her mouthful of biscuits.

“Fine, cease to exist and you also said a Messiah is going to appear.  But what’s the third thing?” she asked with a puzzled look.

“Oh thank you for reminding me dear…”

Madame S finished chewing and without a hint of insincerity uttered the strangest phrase that Flower had ever heard.

“Before nightfall this Tuesday, the president of the National Rifle Association is going to turn into an African Hedgehog.”