Fated (20 page)
Authors: S. G. Browne
Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
I nod again.
“Good,” says Jerry. “Now get the hell out of here. I have a universe to run.”
CHAPTER 29
Over the past
few months I’ve discovered how much work it is to try to help humans rather than just allow them to screw up their lives. I suppose this is kind of what it’s like to be a parent, but since I’ve never taken care of anything other than a couple of woolly mammoths and a python that disappeared down the toilet back in the 1970s, I never realized how rewarding parenting can be. Or how difficult it is to stand by and watch your children make mistakes when your guidance could save them a lot of heartache and disappointment.
few months I’ve discovered how much work it is to try to help humans rather than just allow them to screw up their lives. I suppose this is kind of what it’s like to be a parent, but since I’ve never taken care of anything other than a couple of woolly mammoths and a python that disappeared down the toilet back in the 1970s, I never realized how rewarding parenting can be. Or how difficult it is to stand by and watch your children make mistakes when your guidance could save them a lot of heartache and disappointment.
Technically, Jerry never told me to stop getting involved in the fates of my mortals. He just told me I should know better and that I had to think about the consequences of my actions. While that argument might hold up in the terrestrial world, Jerry tends to get a little pissy when you misinterpret his decrees. And disobeying a direct order from Jerry isn’t exactly the best way to stay on his good side. Just ask Satan.
Of course, he did threaten me with punitive action. But then, Jerry’s always threatening someone. And though his bark can often be worse than his bite, Jerry doesn’t tend to make idle threats. So while it’s unlikely I’ll get banished to the underworld, Jerry could suspend me without powers. And when you can’t transport or go invisible, it kind of takes the shine off of being immortal.
But getting my powers suspended isn’t the worst that can happen. If Jerry really gets pissed, he could strip me of my immortality. Which would suck. I’d have to get a job, a new place to live, and my man suit would eventually wear out. And when my man suit wears out, so will I.
Not exactly how I want to celebrate my 257,981st birthday.
So if I want to be able to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, I’m going to have to give up my newfound purpose and allow my humans to continue to make the wrong choices.
This has been harder to accept than I expected, which has made for a sullen Fabio. Sara has tried to cheer me up by actually cooking a meal for me instead of reheating leftovers and by cleaning my apartment in a French maid’s outfit, but when I’m depressed, I just want to lie on the couch and eat some Ben & Jerry’s and watch reruns of
Seinfeld
.
Seinfeld
.
So I decide I need a change of scenery. I need to go someplace tropical. Someplace relaxing. Someplace where I can get away from it all.
“Come on, Shadow Fury!”
I’m at the Daytona Beach Dog Track in Florida, watching the sixth race at the Wednesday matinee. I’ve already hit the daily double and one exacta. When Shadow Fury crosses the finish line first, that’ll give me the winner in five out of six races. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Lady Luck is helping me place my bets.
“Come on, Shadow Fury!” she screams out, a half-finished cranberry and vodka in one hand and her race ticket in the other. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she had no idea our dog was going to win.
We have to make a pretense of being excited; otherwise we’re likely to draw more attention to ourselves than we already are. Which is why we had to throw the third race.
I know it’s not exactly sporting. And watching enslaved animals chase a mechanical rabbit around a racetrack for the gambling and entertainment desires of humans makes me feel like I need to take a hot shower. But when you’ve been around for more than a quarter million years running day care for billions of inferior life-forms and their creator has just told you to stay out of their business, sometimes you need to enjoy the perks of your semiomniscient abilities.
“Hallelujah!” shouts Lady Luck in delight as Shadow Fury wins the race, finishing almost a full body length ahead of the other greyhounds. “Praise Jerry.”
“Jerry?” says a disgruntled gambler sitting behind us. “Who the hell is Jerry?”
“The dog’s trainer,” I say, taking Lady Luck and heading over to the window to cash in our tickets.
“Oh, Fabio,” she says. “Thank you for talking me into this. I haven’t had this much fun since the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team.”
After we cash in our tickets, we finish off our drinks, then give all our day’s winnings to an old-timer who’s had a hard day at the track. I let Lady Luck do it. That way, I’m not technically getting involved. And besides, it’s what she does.
“Well, Fabio, it’s been a real hoot,” she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “But I think it’s time I get back to work.”
Indeed. While we were raking it in, a lot of the other patrons at the Daytona racetrack weren’t as fortunate. I watch Lady Luck skip away, her gold lamé dress shimmering in the Florida heat as she brushes past men and women whose luck will immediately take a turn for the better.
One of those Lady Luck misses is Cliff Brooks, a career underachiever trying to parlay the hundred bucks he came here with into enough so he can afford to take his girlfriend out for a nice birthday dinner. Maybe Hooters or Robbie O’Connell’s Pub. But after six races, all Cliff has to show for his efforts is one dog that placed and fifty bucks that went to the house.
If I don’t do anything, Cliff is going to spend the rest of his life unfulfilled by his work, earning money for the sake of earning money, and failing to discover his optimal path. I know I should just turn around and transport out of there, go find a nice group of Buddhist monks or maybe hang out with the Dalai Lama, but after more than a week of not getting involved, I’m going through pathetic-human withdrawals. Jonesing for a crack addict or a homeless person or a criminal defense lawyer. And Cliff Brooks is the fix I need.
I know Jerry told me not to get involved, but it’s just one little human. One pathetic soul. One mortal who has made a lifetime of wrong choices.
But today, he’s got something going for him he isn’t expecting. A bit of good fortune he won’t be receiving from Lady Luck. Cliff Brooks is about to get a visit from (drumroll please) . . . Captain Fate.
Guardian of the destiny-challenged.
Defender of human ineptitudes.
Champion of uninspired futures.
I’m thinking I need to get myself a theme song. Maybe something like the opening title sequence of
Star Wars
or “The Peter Gunn Theme.” Or maybe something original. I’d ask Beethoven or Tchaikovsky to write me something snappy, but, well, they’re dead.
Star Wars
or “The Peter Gunn Theme.” Or maybe something original. I’d ask Beethoven or Tchaikovsky to write me something snappy, but, well, they’re dead.
The problem with defending the fate of Cliff Brooks, other than the fact that it could cost me my immortality, is I’m visible. I could sneak into the bathroom or find a phone booth somewhere and remedy that situation so I could help him without his knowing it, but if he goes to lay any more money on the dogs before I can get to him, well, then, all bets are off, so to speak. So just as Cliff finishes reading the program for the next race and is getting in line to place his next doomed bet, I sidle up next to him and take him by the arm.
“You don’t want to do that,” I say.
“Do what?” he asks, making no attempt to remove my hand from his arm.
“Make that bet,” I say, leading him away from the betting queues.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because Shoot the Moon isn’t going to win,” I say.
“How did you know what dog I was betting on?” he asks as I lead him past the concession stands.
“Let’s just say I’m psychic.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, leading him out the back entrance. He’s so acquiescent. I could be a thief. I could be a paroled sex offender. I could be a serial killer and this guy would let me lead him to a soundproof room with meat hooks and utility saws.
“So you can read my future?”
“More or less,” I say.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Well, for starters,” I say, “you might want to reconsider your choices for your girlfriend’s birthday dinner. Taking her to Hooters isn’t exactly going to get you laid.”
“Wow,” he says as I lead him to a bench and sit him down. “You
are
psychic.”
are
psychic.”
Yeah, well, it doesn’t take an immortal entity of predestination to know that treating your girlfriend to Hooters for her birthday isn’t the path to sexual gratification.
“What else?” he asks, looking at me with complete trust.
Humans are so simple. Especially human men. Tell them how to avoid spending their nights masturbating and they’ll follow you anywhere. The only real difference between male humans and male dogs is that the humans generally won’t try to hump your leg.
“Your name is Clifford Brooks,” I say, sitting down next to him and telling him all about himself—where he lives (Ormond Beach), what he does for a living (stockperson), how many times a month he has sex (0.37), and what he had for dinner last night (Kraft macaroni and cheese).
“I also know that you’re not on your assigned path,” I say. “You’re not doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“What am I supposed to be doing?” he asks.
From the eagerness in his eyes and the expression of worship on his face, I could give him a cup of Kool-Aid laced with cyanide and he’d ask for more.
What am I supposed to be doing?
Human beings have this innate desire to allow someone else to direct their own lives instead of figuring things out for themselves. It’s like they don’t want the responsibility of screwing things up, so they can feel free to blame someone else.
Their parents.
Their therapist.
Jerry.
So instead of spending some quality time alone and figuring out what they really want, they distract themselves with television and video games and pornography.
What am I supposed to be doing?
What Cliff Brooks is supposed to be doing is working as a financial manager at a bank and earning enough money to support his wife and daughter. But he dropped out of college after one year to pursue an acting career that peaked when he wore the Goofy costume for one summer at Disney World.
“Go back to college and get your degree,” I say.
And quick as a flash, he’s a twenty-seven-year-old fraternity pledge with a minor in alcoholism.
So I try again.
“Get married and raise a family.”
He’s an abusive father with a future in restraining orders.
For some reason I think of Nicolas Jansen and figure, if it worked for him . . .
“Join a monastery.”
He’s a wanted pedophile being extradited from Caracas, Venezuela.
This is more difficult than I thought it would be.
All the other humans I’ve tried to help have responded to my guidance with improved fates. Maybe not always ideal. I mean, who aspires to pump out portable toilets for a living? But at least it’s an improvement over smoking crack cocaine or joining a religious cult.
Cliff Brooks, on the other hand, presents more of a challenge. No matter what I come up with, I keep shooting blanks. So I just have to keep trying until I find a chamber that fires.
It’s kind of like playing Russian roulette, only with fates instead of bullets.
“Start your own business.”
Click.
“Enlist in the armed forces.”
Click.
“Start a volunteer organization.”
Bang!
According to the reading I get, Cliff Brooks is going to become a champion for the cause of animal rights and for abolishing greyhound racing in the state of Florida.
Uh-oh.
Not only is this a complete departure from his current path, but it’s a significant improvement over the path he was assigned at birth. Sure, he was going to be a successful finance manager and a serviceable husband and father, but this new and improved fate goes beyond the parameters of his potential.
From what I can see, he’s going to develop quite a following, even garner national attention, and will have a great deal of success for the foreseeable future. And by “foreseeable,” I don’t mean very long. Not that he’s going to burn out or suffer a heart attack or get whacked by the greyhound Mafia. It’s just that I can’t see clearly past the next few years. It’s literally blurred, as if a heavy fog has rolled in off the cosmic shore and obscured my vision.
I shake my head in an attempt to clear it, because I can’t possibly be seeing what I think I’m seeing, but when I take another look, I still can’t clearly see the fate of Cliff Brooks.
He’s not quite there yet, but I’ll be damned if he’s not on his way to the Path of Destiny.
CHAPTER 30
“Another one of
these,” says Karma, waving his empty bottle of Kingfisher Lager at a passing waiter.
these,” says Karma, waving his empty bottle of Kingfisher Lager at a passing waiter.
We’re upstairs at Curry in a Hurry on Lexington and East 28th in Manhattan, which is packed with the weekday lunchtime crowd. Hanging plants and watercolor paintings of snake charmers and Indian romance adorn the walls. In the back, next to the bathrooms, a flat-screen television plays something from Bollywood.
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