The Merchants of Zion (8 page)

“Is it something funny?”

“Just promise.”

“I promise.”

“I'm psychic,” she said defiantly, daring me to disbelieve.

“Um...” I stammered. Was this some sort of a joke? God, you're gullible. Hardy-har. Her face was dour, but her eyes were worried, and I think she would've been hurt if I'd scoffed outright. I'd been expecting her to tell me she had cancer, or maybe an STD. I didn't know why she'd think I'd laugh at either of those, but it's always best to go straight to the worst possible scenario.

This, however, was pure silliness. It occurred to me I would've reacted differently had James told me the same thing. I would've laughed in his face and called him an idiot.

“All right,” I said. I didn't feel like laughing, but a lecture about the rational nature of reality was in order. Although I doubted she'd appreciate that response any more. “Before I start grilling you... why did you feel the need to tell me that? It seems like something to keep to yourself. Especially around someone you just met.”

By the time the sentences were out of my mouth I understood her intent, and felt foolish for not seeing it earlier. She was trying to scare me away, to keep me from calling her. And I was a dope who thought we'd been having a great time. Maybe she had a boyfriend.

“Don't worry,” she said, and laughed. “You think I don't like you. That's too cute,” she said, which only deepened my embarrassment. Her face became somber. “I told you because... because... well I don't really know why. I just had a feeling I should.”

“So it was, like, a psychic thing?”

“Exactly.” She smiled as I worked through a puzzle that to her was both obvious and simple. “Do you have any, uh... playing cards, or something?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Those'll work.” She pointed at a pile of junk mail and unpaid bills poking out of the half-closed drawer of my nightstand. The utility bills James couldn't pay, student loan and credit card bills that I took care of online, and a cable subscription in the name of my cousin that I couldn't cancel because I didn't have his Social Security Number. The worst economy in a hundred years couldn't kill these behemoths—their inefficiencies and debts continued piling up while the companies rotted on the inside.

A baker's dozen all told, some unopened, others with their contents stuffed back inside. She grabbed them and turned them face-down on the bed.

“I've never seen tarot done like this.”

“It's a conduit, nothing more. The cards aren't magic or anything.”

“What about astrology?”

“It's garbage.” She rearranged them into a circle, each one corresponding to a different hour on a clock. The thirteenth she discarded. It was the electricity bill James couldn't help out with.

“It's convenient there are twelve, don't you think?” she said. "One for each hour of the day."

“But there were thirteen,” I said. She rolled her eyes.

“Pick one.”

I pointed at the envelope positioned at twelve o'clock. “Seems good as any.”

“You have to keep an open mind about this. Otherwise it's not going to work,” Mary said, but turned over the envelope anyway. It was an unopened cable bill.

“So what does that tell you?” I asked.

“Shut up. Pick another one. And don't cloud the room with your negative energy.”

I looked over the bills, took a deep breath, and tried to let in whatever psychic forces she thought were present. I didn't feel anything, except silly for going along with this charade.

“Two o'clock,” I said. That's what time it would be in a few minutes. Seemed logical.

She flipped it over. Another cable bill. “Are you doing that on purpose? Picking out the envelopes you know?” she asked.

“I'm not. I swear.” She allowed me to pick another.

The upturned envelopes collected in front of me, and Mary's frustration mounted as whatever sign she sought failed to appear. Five bills, then seven, and after nine she looked ready to cry. She had her head cocked to one side, like she was trying to identify a song being played in another room. I believed she believed she was psychic, and for a second after I picked the tenth envelope—last month's internet bill—I believed she was as well. A look flashed across her face like she'd learned a secret, and a deep chill spread throughout my body. The patterns were there, but a unifying thread was beyond her reach. She threw up her hands and gave up.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought this was going to work. Otherwise I wouldn't have told you about it. You must think I'm so stupid.”

“There are still two left,” I said. “Don't give up yet.”

“Fine, take one,” she said, picking at her fingernails. I chose an envelope, trying to will it to be meaningful. A student loan. I'd been enjoying myself—even if her psychic abilities were a sham—and wanted her to have a good time too. But she didn't even look to see my choice.

“And the final card in the clock?” I asked.

She peeked at it like a poker playing checking her cards, and flipped it. Another cable bill.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Nothing. God this is dumb.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “It was fun.” I touched her face. The room was flush with energy, but it was anything but paranormal. Her eyes, blurry behind held back tears, met mine.

“I'm standing on a live wire,” she said. I kissed her ear.

We slept together for the first, maybe second time. I hadn't had sex sober in years. It was okay, but a letdown from the euphoric high of the second before. I don't think she came, but I didn't ask.

She fell asleep with her head against my chest. Through the window, I watched a tree sway. It was a scrawny thing, a product of the first stimulus following the Panic, an effort which one prominent economist had compared to “trying to dam a river equipped with a single shovel." The current had washed away the money but my tree remained, a monument to more hopeful days.

City workers had planted sixteen chestnuts on my block, eight on each side of the street. They'd been genetically modified to be resistant to the blight which had driven the species to the brink of extinction, but that hadn't helped when the delicate saplings were immediately abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Mine alone survived longer than a year, and every winter I was certain the cold and the neglect would finish it off, but each spring it sprouted a pitiful collection of buds—just enough to stay alive.

I bought an ax the spring after it was planted, intending to chop it down out of a mixture annoyance and mercy. But when I was confronted with its pathetic, half-bare branches and its scrappy will to live I couldn't bring myself to do the deed. Treating it like an unwanted child, I left it to nature to do as she pleased. She allowed it to live, and now its branches wove through sagging power lines.

I fell in love that afternoon, faster and harder than ever before. The unsatisfying sex was its own melodramatic coda, the remnants of a supernova that had flashed bright and disappeared in a hardscrabble and unforgiving universe. The debris left behind hinted at an original glory impossible to recreate.

Mary slept for about thirty minutes. When she woke up, she pointed at the journal on my nightstand and asked “Is that yours?”

“Who else's would it be?”

“Can I read it?”

“There's no one on the planet I would let read it.” I said, not wanting her to think I was being coy.

“Let me write you a message. In the back, that way I won't accidentally see anything embarrassing.”

I handed it to her, along with a pen. “Which is the end?” she asked.

“This side.” She paused for a second, biting at the end of the pen. “Aha,” she said, and scribbled her note.

“Okay. You can't read it until I'm gone.” I took the journal from her. “You have any roommates?” She absentmindedly curled one of my nipple hairs around her fingertip.

“Yeah. Two, sort of. One lives here, the other's crashing on the couch until he gets his shit together.”

“Am I going to meet them?”

“Sure. Ouch, that hurt,” I said. She had plucked the hair.

“It's so long.” She straightened it out against the bedspread.

“Yeah, I hate them.” I used to clip them regularly, but gave up when unexpected bedmates came to seem as remote as Tuva.

“I think they're adorable,” she said, blowing it off her finger.

“You'll meet my roommates if you aren't afraid of traveling to Brooklyn every once and a while. Dimitri—he's a sort of math genius. He just sits in his room all day...”

“I see. I see.”

“The guy on my couch, his name is James. He's going to try to steal you, and when he fails—which he'd better, by the way,” I said, with affected sternness, “he'll come up with some bullshit excuse like he's looking out for me. He wouldn't want me to date the wrong type of girl.”

“Sounds like it. So do you think—”

“He's not actually a bastard though. Like I'll think he's the most selfish person on the planet, and then he'll do something that destroys my entire conception of him.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I plowed on. “Once we were out and this girl—she was wasted, could hardly remember her own name—was wandering around outside a bar looking for her friends. I ignored her, but James flagged a taxi and paid the driver to take her home. But then later the exact same thing happened—with another girl, that is—and he tries to convince her to come over to his place. Her friends stopped him, and then there was a lot of screaming. I can't figure him out. It's like he has a formula for viewing the world that's different from any sane person's, and when he acts thoughtful you can't attribute it to decency—it's just his alien worldview. I really can't explain it. Does that make any sense?”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah, you'll see.” I propped myself up on my elbow and looked into her eyes. “So, beautiful, tell me about your dreams for life. Or your roommates, if they're more interesting than mine.”

She smiled, but it was forced. My skin tingled with embarrassment for boring her, and I wanted to dash out of the room and hide in the pantry until she left. But I stayed, my cowardice kept in check by pride and horniness. The homeostasis of my flaws allowed me to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

“Well—” she began, but was interrupted by a muffled pounding at the door downstairs. I assured her one of my roommates would get it. The pounding continued, with an uptick in volume. When it became clear no one else would be opening the door I threw on a shirt and shorts.

“It'll only be a second,” I said.

“Hurry back.”

“Coming,” I shouted.

Downstairs, James was gone. The tablet he'd slept with was on the table, next to an empty mug and a crumb-filled plate. I assumed he'd gone out to grab a six pack from the store and had once again forgotten his keys, and I looked forward to chewing his ass off for interrupting my pillow-talk.

Opening that door presented me with my third surprise of the day, more unexpected than waking up next to a girl ripped from my fantasies, more shocking than falling in love. Standing at the door was a tan, Asian woman my age (older than me by exactly six months and a five days, I knew) wearing sunglasses that obscured most of her face. Her hair was brown, and if she flipped her head I knew I'd see a flash of violet. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.

“Hi Cliff. I hope you've been well.” She gave me a hug, then pushed past me and into my life.

Storebrand Tomato Soup

Ingredients:
 

2 (15 oz) containers of Storebrand chicken broth.

1 (28 oz) can Storebrand crushed tomatoes.

4 tbsp Storebrand butter (salted or unsalted)

1 Storebrand red onion

Storebrand Salt and Storebrand Pepper to taste

Directions:
 Melt butter in 1 ½ quart Storebrand sauce pan. Add onion: cook on medium-high heat until tender. Using a Storebrand slotted spoon, stir in broth and tomatoes. Reduce heat and simmer for 25 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

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5. The Arrival of Ruth, Part 2

“Who told you where I lived?” I already knew the answer.

“Is James around?” she asked with feigned innocence. “I came to see him.”

She inspected my house like a landlord inspecting the damage done by her tenant. I wished I'd moved somewhere far, far from this city. Somewhere a pushy New Yorker who'd never set foot outside of the city would think twice before entering. Somewhere like Biloxi, Mississippi.

“He's not here,” I said, moving to block her from entering further.

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“No. I'll tell him you came by.”

“I don't mind waiting. My afternoon is free.” She plopped down on the couch and pulled out her phone, an expensive model released less than a month ago, and tapped away.

“I don't remember inviting you in.”

“I know. You're so rude.” She laughed and pushed up her sunglasses.

“Look, I have company—” Upstairs, a door opened and closed, followed by a pattering down the steps. I hoped it was Dimitri, but he walked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. This gait was light and playful, the way my dream girl would walk.

Mary came down the stairs. When she saw Ruth her face darkened for a split-second, but she recovered, smiled, and linked her arm around mine.

“Mary, this is Ruth. She's a friend of James. Ruth, this is Mary.” They waved at each other and said hi.

“So, I've got to get going," Mary began. "My roommate broke up with her boyfriend and needs some company. Would you wait for with me until the car gets here?”

“Sure. Ruth, I'll be right back.”