The End of the World (6 page)

“Whatever you have – I’ll spin it into gold. Ya see, I have a scheme…well, not a
scheme
as such, more of a…a business plan.”

“What sort of plan?” I asked, wondering why the simple act of eating food had become such a complicated business…or scheme.

Hank scanned the room again in search of those who might be his undoing, then leaned in closer to me, arching his right eyebrow as if to emphasize the secret and serious nature of what he was about to impart.

“Okay, I’m gonna tell you this, but it’s completely confidential, totally off the record, and subject to legal recrimination against not only you, but your family, your friends, and just about anyone you’ve ever known in your entire life, okay?”

“Okay,” I shrugged.

“Okay, here it is: You’re kind of boring, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Not bein’ rude or nothin’, just frank, ya understand – or Hank I guess, ha, ha! – but ya come across to other people – or me, at least – as bein’ a kind of a boring guy to talk to. I mean, all kinda proper and thinkin’ it all through before ya speak – I mean, who has time for that, right?”

“Well, I-I-I…I’m not sure…I mean, I don’t know that that’s entirely…I mean, what does that mean? I mean…in real terms?” I sputtered, completely taken off-guard by his barefaced and very unfair assessment of me.

He raised his head triumphantly. “See, exactly my point – you’re as boring as all get out. Do you see what I’m getting’ at? That stuff what’s comin’ outta your mouth ain’t exactly gonna set the world on fire, is it? That ain’t napalm comin’ outta your lips. It’s dull – it’s indecisive. It’s grey, not black and white. People nowadays, they ain’t got time for thinkin’ and waitin’ and tryin’ to figure out just what the hell it is you’re tryin’ to get at. You gotta get that sound bite in fast or else you’re dead in the water – yesterday’s news. This is a world of snap decisions, snap polls, and snap judgments. Three pauses and, hey buddy, you’re outta here! You see where it is I’m headin’ in all of this?”

“Not really,” I said, rather sulkily. “But nonetheless I still think that no matter what others say of you, you should always–”

He raised the palm of his hand to my face, giving me a close-up view of the serpent’s tail that curled itself insidiously around the base of his little finger. “Stop, stop, stop! Don’t dig yourself in any deeper,” he protested. “Listen to yourself. No, don’t listen to yourself – I need you awake. Look, son, it’s just plain hard to take, so let me just cut right to the chase and tell you what I can do to help. You see, I just happen to have some very powerful connections in the healthcare industry.”

“Healthcare?”

“You heard right – primo connections.”

“But what does that have to do with–”

“Very powerful. Surgeons – expert surgeons. The best there is.”

“That’s nice but I still don’t–”

“Not only that, I have untold influence with some of the biggest players in the information technology field. And I’m talkin’
major
names.”

“I’m sure that’s very wonderful, yet I still–”

“It is. So you see where all this is goin’, right?”

“Not in the slightest,” I sighed.

“Well, okay, I’m just gonna spell it out for ya. I think it’s pretty clear that in this day and age most everyone wants to talk and no one wants to listen – specially if you’re the type to bore the pants off a herd o’ chickens.”

“A what?”

“It’s a basic, fundamental human need to be heard that we all share but no one gives a shit about. Am I right?”

“Evidently so,” I concurred.

“And that’s a demographic – a discontented demographic – and a market share ripe for the pluckin’. Right?”

“Well…yes, I suppose it could be.”

“Right. So here’s the answer. We take people like you – nice enough in themselves, but kinda bland on the whole…and they know it – these are smart, self-aware people, mind you – and we offer them, at an affordable price, the opportunity of having one of our medically certified surgeons – fully indemnified, o’ course – implant a small plasma TV screen into their foreheads that can receive real-time feeds from some of the most popular cable television networks available, right there into that useless empty space above their eyebrows.” He paused for a moment, staring at my forehead. “What do ya think?” he said, distractedly.

“It’s…it’s certainly odd. And yet…oddly interesting. Go on,” I told him, feeling more bewildered than anything else.

“Imagine it. You’re just itchin’ to impart all the tedious details of everything that’s hangin’ heavy on your mind to one of your co-workers at happy hour in the local bar. They’re bracin’ themselves for an hour or two of clenched teeth and thinkin’ to themselves ‘Won’t he ever shut the hell up’ when suddenly, to their great surprise and delight, you produce a convenient palm-sized remote control that gives them the freedom to choose between all the latest news from CNN, up-to-the-minute sports action from ESPN, or a thought-provoking costume drama from your very own BBC, all at the touch of a button.”

“Interesting,” I said, that being the only response I could come up with as I tried very hard to imagine this actually happening in real life.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “you – all too aware of just how disinterested in your petty life concerns your captive audience actually is – can feel free to yak yourself into a frenzy as you bask in the fully-committed, rapt attention of your recipients gaze. It’s a win-win situation,” he said, with a blindingly white smile.

Hank, it appeared to me, was either a brilliant, wildly imaginative entrepreneurial dynamo, or just stark raving mad. This concept of his, though certainly outlandish and bizarre-sounding on first hearing, still seemed to possess its own peculiar logic. After all, just yesterday I’d observed several people wandering the streets with oddly-shaped devices attached to their ears, muttering away to no one in particular. At first I’d assumed them to be psychiatric patients, released back into society on a trial-run basis, who chattered away to themselves incessantly, all the while their movements being carefully monitored by the asylum via their ear tags.  After a while, though, I realised that these people were in fact talking to other people, and that the devices attached to their heads were a form of telecommunication. So perhaps Hank’s so-called business plan wasn’t so strange after all. The only major flaw I could see in it – and a potentially fatal one – was that this wasn’t actually a real form of communication at all, just a way of creating the appearance of one. I decided to challenge him on it.

“That’s all very well, but…well, it’s an illusion, isn’t it?” I said.

“Damn right it is!” he countered. “The truth is, the truth ain’t pretty – illusion is. People like it. It’s the first of all pleasures.”

“Didn’t Oscar Wilde say that?”

“So sue me. Look, all I need to know is are you in or are you out?”

Still on the fence about parting with what little money I had left, I decided to try and buy a minute or two by saying something vague and noncommittal. “Well, it…it certainly is unique and would appear, at least at face value, to have some potential,” I said, as enthusiastically as I could.

“That’s it!” Hank cried out with unfettered excitement.

“What is?” I asked, taken aback by his sudden outburst.

“The slogan! The pitch! ‘We Add Face Value!’ I love it! ‘Increase Your Face Value Today!’ Holy shit, boy, your personality may be a dud but you’re a marketing director’s dream come true.”

“Oh…thank you…I think.”

“‘Take Me at Face Value – And Enjoy Every Second!’ You’re brilliant!”

I could feel my face reddening with embarrassment. “Well, I…”

“So are you in?”

I wasn’t sure if it was his flattery or his fevered sloganeering that tipped the scale, but either way it worked. “Um…yes. Yes, all right then,” I said.

“Great. Smart move. So hand it over,” he said, commandingly.

“Sorry?”

“The cash.”

I reached into my wallet and took out what was left of the stipend my parents had provided me with, trying to convince myself, not altogether successfully, of the wisdom of what I was doing.

“Yes, well as I mentioned, it’s not a lot,” I said, sheepishly.

“Every bit helps, sonny. Capitalise, capitalise.”

“I only wish I had more.”

“Don’t we all? But it’s seed money, see? It grows,” he said, stuffing the money into the front pocket of his denim jeans, the yellow gold serpent’s mouth hissing sparkling red beams at me as he did so. It was then that I noticed his belt buckle. It was the most enormous one I’d ever seen, oval-shaped and made of brass that had tarnished to a dull greenish-brown patina. A smiling woman’s face had been etched into the center of it, Asian-looking in appearance, and while it could have been the representation of any number of women, it struck me as having an uncanny resemblance to former U.S. figure skating champion Michelle Kwan.

“You’re gonna remember this moment for a long time to come – trust me on this,” he proclaimed, slapping me on the back a little too enthusiastically for comfort.

“Oh, I do trust you,” I said, hollowly.

“Beautiful!” he bellowed, slapping me again. He then raised his huge, hulking frame from the chair, his terrifying belly now expanding menacingly towards me, restrained only by the radiant smile of Michelle Kwan. “Now I gotta run – gotta keep the ball rollin’.”

“Yes, yes of course.”

Hank swaggered back towards the refrigerator, emitting a large belch that not only sounded loud in the confines of the kitchen, but also seemed to reverberate around the entire house, growing in volume as it did so. I covered my ears until the roar had subsided.

“What happens next?” I inquired, following him over to the refrigerator.

“Next? Well, if all goes well it’ll be next stop Fat City for you and me,” he said, climbing back inside, the bright lights once again dazzling my eyes and forcing me to squint.

“Wonderful. It sounds like a very nice place. And how will I reach you?”

“You won’t need to – I’ll reach you,” he said, reassuringly, then added with a sly wink, “I guarantee it.”

As I was about to ask when the likelihood of that might be, he brusquely slammed the refrigerator door in on himself and was gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Monsignor Dave

I
wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. It all seemed reasonably logical at the time – actually rather exciting in a way – but now that he’d gone I began to feel a gnawing sense of unease. On the one hand, I was now a partner in a cutting-edge business venture that had every chance of securing my financial future for the rest of my natural life. On the other hand, I was now completely penniless, having given what little I had left to a complete stranger who inhabited a refrigerator. Somehow it wasn’t adding up. One thing I did realise, though: the world revolved much faster than I had been led to believe it did. This place was strange – definitely out of the ordinary. God only knows what would come next, I thought to myself. And just as I did so, a man wearing a clerical collar suddenly emerged, waist-high, from the kitchen sink.

“Yes, he does,” the man affirmed, with a warm smile.

I jumped back, panicked, and let out an involuntary scream.

“He knows everything. It’s all preordained.”

“Who…who are you?” I demanded, simultaneously feeling terror and something close to outrage.

“I’m Monsignor Dave, Valentine,” he said, his voice calm and oddly soothing. “I’m your spiritual guide.”

“I…I wasn’t aware that I had one. Or needed one.”

“Oh, but you do. We all do. How else could you find your way to Him?”

“Him?”

“Our Lord in Heaven.”

“Oh, him.”

“There is no other.”

As I started to become more accustomed to the Monsignor’s unexpected presence, as well as the fact that his torso had just sprung up from inside the sink, I also began to feel more irritated at his soft-spoken sermonising. I decided to stand my ground.

“I don’t believe in organised religion,” I said, indifferently. “I never have. It’s how I was brought up.”