Authors: S. G. Browne

Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction

Fated (7 page)

BOOK: Fated

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Secrecy was the only one I could call without wondering if anyone else would ever find out. Problem is, even though her silence doesn’t have to be bought, it still comes with a price.

“Thanks,” I say. “What do I owe you?”

In addition to the sewing service, I couldn’t pay for the room, since my credit card had vanished along with the rest of my wallet, so Secrecy took care of it. Paid in cash, of course.

But money isn’t what’s at stake here.

Secrecy puts an index finger to her pursed lips and says, “Hmm.”

I can tell from her expression she’s just doing that for effect. She knows exactly what she wants. But Secrecy isn’t into material things or otherworldly goods. She’s not that interested in sex, though she has had passionate love affairs with Integrity and Ambition. She doesn’t care for reprisals and she’s not into embarrassing anyone. The only things she’s interested in are commodities of secrecy.

Humans who are fated to divulge their secrets.

Tattletales.

“I want the Roswell Incident.”

“The Roswell Incident?” I say.

I thought she was going to ask for the JFK assassination or the death of Marilyn Monroe or what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. Hell, I’d be willing to give up the Freemasons, even the Holy Grail. But the Roswell Incident?

“And Area 51,” she says.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is expecting me to keep your little man-suit malfunction a secret,” she says.

I don’t have an argument. Still, giving up Roswell
and
Area 51 just kills me. If the full story of those two secrets were to finally come out, it would be so much fun to see the human race react and how it would impact their fates. Nothing like having your lifelong beliefs challenged to throw a little chaos into the equation.

And man, is Chaos going to be pissed. He’s been looking forward to that moment more than I have.

“All right,” I say. “You can have them both.”

Secrecy smiles in triumph and gets off the bed, then gives me a look that resembles Mischief.

“There’s one other thing,” she says.

“What?” I ask, starting to button up my shirt.

“Close your eyes,” she says, her voice soft and seductive.

I look at her and wonder if I was wrong about her wanting sex for payment. “Why?”

“Just close them,” she says, starting to unbutton her own shirt.

So I close my eyes and imagine Secrecy shedding her clothes, stripping down to her underwear, then slipping out of those and standing next to me, naked. I unbutton my own shirt and slip out of my own pants in anticipation and recline back on the bed, my man suit prickling with excitement.

After what feels like too long, I finally open my eyes to discover I’m the only one in the room who thinks I’m going to have sex.

Secrecy is gone.

CHAPTER 9

“R-thirty-six, please go
to window number thirteen.”

I’m at the New York Department of Motor Vehicles in Upper Manhattan, just a race riot away from the East River.

I’ve been sitting at the DMV for nearly thirty minutes already, waiting to turn in the paperwork for my stolen ID. You can’t apply for a new ID card by mail. You have to go into an office and apply in person.

If I had a New York State driver’s license, I could have applied online. But Jerry doesn’t want us driving after what happened to James Dean. It was kind of a knee-jerk reaction, considering none of us are as foolhardy as Reckless, but sometimes you just have to follow orders. Besides, who needs a driver’s license when you can travel at the speed of light?

It’s times like this when you fully appreciate the ability to go invisible.

Of course, I can’t do that here. But after more than two hundred and fifty thousand years, you tend to take some things for granted.

I already put a call in to cancel my universal Visa, which has the best customer care in the universe. Literally. I can use my Visa on any planet with intelligent life and a merchant services agreement. And if my card is lost or stolen and any unauthorized charges appear on my statement, I’ll get reimbursed. Even if the purchases were made on one of Jupiter’s moons.

“R-thirty-seven, please go to window number five.”

Window number five is off to my left, where the clerk, who’ll still be working here when he’s fifty and on his way to a heart attack, waits with zero expectancy for his next appointment. I’m watching him with the same level of disinterest when the new tenant who moved into my apartment building walks up to his window.

Sara Griffen is wearing a black pantsuit with a pair of sensible shoes. Her hair is pinned up and I can see the nape of her neck, pale and covered with a soft, downy coat.

The thing about Sara Griffen is that she’s a mystery.

I’ve encountered Sara leaving our apartment building on a couple of occasions and followed her around, trying to find out why I’m compelled by her, why she’s different from the future pedophile in apartment 502 or the woman in 1216 who’s going to spend the rest of her life discovering that plastic surgery can’t buy happiness. So far, all I can tell about Sara is that she likes to jog in Central Park, she eats a lot of take-out, and she can’t stand the sound of screaming babies.

I’ve also discovered that she definitely has an effect on people.

I watch the DMV agent at the window, watch him watching Sara, and I notice that rather than the surly countenance he displayed moments earlier, he’s more engaged. There’s a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before. An animation in his manner that is spirited. A smile that isn’t forced.

Maybe it’s because he’s desperate to get laid and he hopes Sara will find him attractive. Maybe it’s because he just enjoys flirting with women. Or maybe it’s because there’s something about Sara that just makes him happier.

What would make
me
happier is if I didn’t have to spend half my morning at the DMV.

“D-fifty-one, please go to window number two.”

As I watch her, I wonder again why Sara Griffen is on the Path of Destiny, what it is she has that makes her different from the soon-to-be-unemployed video game addict on my left and the seventeen-year-old future adulteress sitting to my right.

I also wonder how I ended up with a lineup of underachievers and mediocre talents and marginal leaders while Destiny gets the Michael Jordans and the John Lennons and the Winston Churchills of the world. You’d think I’d remember something like that, but it’s kind of hard to recall the moments immediately after your creation. That’s when Jerry christened us with our job titles. Didn’t really give us a choice, which I think was by design. When you’ve just emerged out of the cosmic goo, blinking your eyes and wondering what the hell happened, the last thing you’re concerned about is how you’re going to earn a living. Still, it would have been nice to at least fill out an application.

In spite of the fact that I can’t stand Destiny and I covet her client list, I also realize we need each other. And humans need us. Without Fate and Destiny, there would be no purpose for humans. No path to follow. No reason to exist.

Think unnecessary.

Think pointless.

Think any
Matrix
sequel.

So in essence, Destiny and I maintain the cosmic balance of human life on the planet.

But I still can’t get a table on a Friday night at Elaine’s. And when it comes to speedy customer service at the DMV, they’re not exactly showering me with any perks.

“R-thirty-eight, please go to window number eleven.”

Ten minutes later, I’m still waiting for them to call my number when Sara Griffen walks out the door.

I see her again a few days later in Central Park.

I’m watching a four-year-old kid screaming at his mother to get him a strawberry-shortcake Good Humor ice-cream bar from an ice-cream cart when Sara comes jogging past in running shorts, a T-shirt, and a New York Mets baseball cap.

For a moment I completely forget about the mother and her brat and watch Sara run past, singing silently along to whatever song is playing on the headphones of her iPod. And I’m not the only one who notices.

The ice-cream-cart vendor looks up and follows Sara’s progress. A seventy-two-year-old man who’ll be dead before he’s seventy-five perks up as she passes. An eleven-year-old boy who has “college dropout” written all over him walks into a garbage can.

Sure. It could just be that she has a really nice ass and a pair of legs that you’d beg to shave. Except women notice her as well. Young women. Old women. Married and single women. Future flight attendants and strippers and surgeons who’ll get sued for malpractice. They all notice Sara as she momentarily disturbs the air around them. And then, when she’s gone, whatever it was they felt is gone, too, and they resume whatever they were doing.

I continue to watch Sara until she disappears around a bend; then I turn back to the screaming monster who’ll be raped in prison when he’s twenty-four.

Less than a week later, I encounter Sara again on the subway.

I’m heading uptown from Houston Street when she walks into my car and sits down directly across from me.

The subway is one of the few places where I don’t go invisible. Just because no one can see me doesn’t mean they can’t sit on me or bump into me or notice when I experience uncontrollable flatulence.

It happens.

Sure, I could just transport back to my apartment and avoid the whole scene, but the point of observing humans is to observe. I can’t very well do that by avoiding them. Besides, the subway is a great place to reassign fates.

So I just stay visible and hope some crack addict doesn’t pass out on the seat next to me and drool on my man suit.

It’s a little awkward sitting across from Sara like this. I can’t watch her the way I have before or watch the way others react to her without coming across as a little creepy. But unlike the other humans sharing the subway car with us, she’s the only one I can’t read.

The thing about Sara Griffen is that she’s pretty, but not drop-dead gorgeous.

I look away, trying to appear nonchalant, but I feel like I’m acting too casual. When I look back, she’s looking at me. I cross my legs, then uncross them. I clear my throat. I pretend to look at something very interesting on the floor between my feet. Then I look up and she’s still looking at me.

I wonder if I should introduce myself. Or get off at the next stop. Or tell her she’s sitting next to a woman who’s going to contract genital herpes.

Instead, I just smile.

She smiles back.

I’m not exactly sure what it is about Sara Griffen that fascinates me. Maybe it’s the way she seems so at peace whenever I see her. Maybe it’s the effect she seems to have on others. Or maybe it’s because when she smiles, it makes me smile.

We ride this way in silence, watching each other across the three feet of space between us, smiling as if sharing some secret joke. When the train reaches Times Square, Sara gets off, but not without a final glance cast my way. Then the doors shut and I’m left with a bunch of fetishists, philanderers, and telemarketers on their way to the Upper West Side.

The rest of the train ride, I keep thinking about destiny and fate and the number of people on this subway train who need some serious counseling. But mostly I keep thinking about Sara and the places in Manhattan our paths have crossed lately.

The DMV.

Central Park.

The subway.

In a city with more than eight million human inhabitants, I randomly run into the same woman three different times in three different locations in barely more than a week.

I’d say fate was trying to tell me something if I didn’t know better.

CHAPTER 10

During the next
couple of weeks, I see Sara again at the Guggenheim, the Central Park Zoo, Le Figaro Café in Greenwich Village, at a Yankees game, and sunbathing on the roof of our building.

Okay, maybe the last one was more like stalking than a chance encounter.

I know she’s really none of my concern and that I should be spending my time taking care of the humans on my own path, but after running into her so many times, I can’t help but be intrigued.

So over the next few weeks, I follow her.

To her job at Halstead Property on Third Avenue, where she brokers condominiums and homes that typically run in the seven figures.

To Central Park, where she eats her lunch at the Bethesda Fountain, then buys a couple of sandwiches from a New York Picnic Company cart and gives them to a homeless couple.

To a pet-friendly, two-bedroom condo in Gramercy Park that she sells to a young stockbroker for $1.995 million.

To the Downtown Athletic Club, where she swims twenty laps in the seventy-five-foot heated pool and then gets a forty-five-minute massage.

BOOK: Fated

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