Cosmic Joke (1) Cosmic Stand-Up The chair Martin sat on, before his computer, more or less completely failed to be comfortable. It had been a long night already. He had been up searching the Internet for information on a term paper for his English class. He couldn’t even remember what the paper was supposed to be about after close to an hour; however, he had acquired the most astounding amount of information on the mating habits of Canadian Geese. He saved it all to a folder, realized how useless this information would be to a college English professor, and emailed it to the Pentagon. He doubted very much that the Pentagon would be able to use it either, ‘but Hell,’ he thought, ‘One never knows’. Maybe the next big fighter plane will be named “The Goose” just for him. Martin slowly, and deliberately got up from his chair, faced the wall, and somehow managed to get his legs going into a type of walking-stance. He concentrated, left, right, left, right, left, right. The process probably wouldn’t have been nearly as difficult, had it not been for the enormous amount of alcohol his bloodstream had acquired that evening. Not that that was his fault. “Send some more on in!” his liver had enthusiastically cried, right after the first ten Jell-o shooters. He felt more than happy to oblige, because frankly, his liver had never steered him wrong. Martin thought about this for a moment, contemplated whether there was a better word than “Steered”, and then realized that there was not; at least, none that could muscle it’s way into his cranium at the moment. He continued walking, into the communal lavatory, into the third stall from the left. In his head, the steps of early morning inebriation were once again recited. Close door. Face toilet. Rest on knees. Wait. A few moments later, the Jell-o shooters excused themselves from the party in Martin’s stomach, as they had much more important business to attend to in the college plumbing system. The small amount of Vodka he’d had followed the Jell-o shooters, rather reluctantly. The tequila shooters tipped their hats and vacated, taking with them some of the nice brownies they had found. Porcelain God having been thoroughly worshipped, Martin struggled to his feet, and flushed half the bar down the toilet. Not that he was disappointed; this just meant it was finally time for bed. Martin began the slow march back to his dorm room, a nightly ritual that could have easily been achieved by a crawl, if he were so inclined. On this particular occasion, he was not. He looked at his watch. 3:30 A.M. Too late for dinner, not early enough for breakfast. Good thing, too, because Martin’s stomach was still doing flip-flops—the margaritas had decided to stick around tonight. Pulling a bottle of NyQuil out of his pocket, he felt he should be concerned about alcohol poisoning, but it was a far-off and fairly unclear thought. He dismissed it, chugged, and slept. To the uninitiated, NyQuil dreams can be quite frightening. They are vivid, loud, colorful, bright, and about as cool and collected as a monk in a strip joint. Acid has nothing on NyQuil, unless you mixed acid with NyQuil—which, as it stands, would probably warp your brain to the point of incoherency, or, quite possibly, considering a career in politics. On this occasion, Martin dreamt for a very long time about fighter pilots sitting on the heads of Canadian Geese. The next morning (or two-and-a-half hours later, the definition of which may be very different, depending on whether or not you are a drinker) Martin woke with a start. The dreams had come and gone, then come back for a short visit, brought some cousins, and then, left. But not before delivering some very, very disturbing information. Martin could only remember one part of his dream before he woke, and he felt it was a very, very important part. He concentrated, thinking about the last sentence his dream-friend had said to him, and finally, it settled into his head. “Today,” the person had said, “You are going to die.” After rolling this around in his head, Martin decided it was a bit more than discomforting. He had once had a NyQuil dream that he was going to win some money in a sweepstakes. That afternoon, he received twenty dollars from a friend; he had won the football pool. Another decongestant-induced dream had come once, that someone close to him was in a deep depression. That morning, he awoke to find his roommate pretending not to cry. His girlfriend had split up with him the previous night. In yet another dream, a very naked, and very famous model craved an obscene amount of sex from Martin. Unfortunately for him, this was not even close to the events that transpired after he had woken up. He just wasn’t that lucky. But even so, that’s two out of three, he thought. Martin rose from his bed, slipped on some shoes, and walked to the college’s campus cafeteria. Most of the occupants of the cafeteria were used to Martin’s rather eccentric dressing habits. The fact that he wore pajama pants and an old “Live Aid” t-shirt, a relic from his father’s past, didn’t escape most of the student body. But they were college students. Most of them didn’t care. He stood in line, and filled his bowl with a mixture of Froot-Loops, Trix, and Apple Jacks. His cup was filled with milk, and he had a couple of pieces of cinnamon toast folded around bacon. An eclectic menu, to say the least. Not only did he have Dairy and Meat groups, however, he also had his froots. As he walked along the buffet, he was aware of someone chewing something very loudly, and almost in his ear. The faint smell of pickles hit his nostrils, and, oddly enough, enticed him into turning around. Behind him stood the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was tall and slim, with nearly ice-blue eyes, and fair skin. Her lips were a pale red, full and smiling. He could see her jaw moving, chewing the pickle. He looked her over briefly. Her blue pajama pants and red t-shirt were impeccably mismatched, and her tousled hair topped one half of her head perfectly. The other half was done up in a half-hearted pigtail, that she had apparently gotten tired of in the middle of arranging it. She wore no makeup apart from the smear of mascara across her cheek, acquired from rolling around on her face while she slept. She swallowed the bite of bitter snack and looked at his tray. “I’m impressed,” she said. “All four food groups, plus cinnamon.” Martin, was, needless to say, speechless. He looked down at her tray. Her bowl was filled with all 3 kinds of Cheerios, as well as two kinds of Chex and Frosted Mini-Wheats. She had a glass of juice, and one of milk, and her bacon was in between two pancakes, which were covered in syrup. “Fruit groups easier in liquid form. Leaves more room for grains. Plus, you have to remember the Salts and Fats group, which I see you left out.” She handed him a pickle. “If you eat it on the way to the cash register, they don’t notice and hardly ever charge you.” Martin continued with his attempt and getting out of shock; unfortunately, it wasn’t really in his control at the moment. They walked the rest of the way up to the register, gave the required payment (minus the pickle charge) and went on their own ways. Martin turned to see the girl walk away. On the back of her t-shirt, rubbery letters were ironed on. Sadly, only a few of these letters were hanging on. The back of the shirt said “Alici.” “Alicia!” he called, desperately hoping that the letters that fell off matched his assumption. She turned around. “Meet me here tomorrow, we’ll talk, but I have class now,” she called, over the heads of other students, who made no notice whatsoever. “Wear that t-shirt again, and I’ll wear some pony pajamas!” She smiled and turned away, presumably walking to her next class. Martin sat down at the nearest empty table he could find, never once taking his eyes off of the door, for fear she would peek her head in and then out, just to make sure he was watching or something. He ate everything as fast as he could, and walked out the door onto the side-road that ran next to the building. He looked up and down the road, hoping to spot her aforementioned red-and-blue ensemble. After realizing she wasn’t there, he thought to himself for a moment. ‘That’, he thought, ‘was the most perfect woman I have ever seen.’ He worried about seeing her again, worried about whether or not she had liked him, worried about his breath, his hair, his looks, everything. Luckily, a Mercedes came along at that moment, and pretty much took the worry, and life, right out of him. At least for the moment. Martin stood before a very short, and very impatient looking man. “’ere now, you’re dead, don’t look so surprised,” said the small, white robed man. Martin blinked. “Dead?” “Yes, yes, dead as a doornail. Name?” “Martin,” said Martin, after a few moments of taking everything in. “’s a good thing you’re the only Martin coming through for this hour.” His cockney accent made him seem more rushed than he possibly could have been, seeing as Martin, looking behind himself, saw no line, meaning there was no one waiting for whatever this strange little man was giving. He did see clouds, lots and lots of clouds. It wasn’t until realizing that he was standing on a cloud, and, turning back around, looking at gigantic, white and gold gates, that it all sunk in. The aforementioned gates shown with an impossible brilliance, and stretched miles up, into yet more clouds. Delicately ornate carvings covered most of the gate, though some was blank. When Martin looked closer, he found that the carvings were growing, tiny bit by tiny bit, engraving themselves in the precious metal. “’uman ‘istory, all drawn out on these ‘ere gates,” said the man. “Why is it still filling in?” asked Martin, still watching intricate drawings form themselves. “Well ‘istory didn’t stop just because you kicked th’ bucket, mate,” said the man, chuckling to himself. Though you’d be surprised ‘ow many ‘ave thought it should. Louis the fourteenth mucked up the line for weeks.” Martin blinked. “I’m dead,” Martin stated, more for himself than anyone else. “You,” said the man, “are an astoundin’ example of the college folk of society today. Oh, and so you know, you can call me Peter.” “Saint Peter?” Martin queried. Things weren’t working well in his head. He felt like his mind was swimming through peanut butter. “No, Queen Peter. Wot the ‘ell do you think? ‘ere I am, signin’ you into Heaven—“ he pronounced the H in Heaven slowly, purposely drawing it out—“Who, do you think, could I be? Rosie O’ Flippin’ Donnel?” “Sorry I asked,” Martin sheepishly replied. “You weren’t th’ first, you won’t be the last,” muttered the disgruntled Saint. “Just don’t ask me where my wings are.” Martin shut his mouth, forcing himself to swallow that very question. “Martin, Martin, ‘ere we are,” he said, returning to his cockney speech. His eyes flickered with something Martin could not discern. “Oh, Shit,” said Peter, in a manner unbecoming of most Saints. “Well, Marty,” he sighed, “appears you ain’t dead after all.” “No, I’m pretty sure I’m dead,” Martin objected, feeling he was finally on familiar, and easily won ground with this argument. “Nope, sorry mate, you ain’t. You see,” Peter rushed, “up ‘ere, we’ve a few guidelines to work with in death. When a person dies, either that was ‘is or ‘er destiny, or they ran clean out of destiny period. In your case, ‘owever, Fate sent you that girl—canceling out your death and giving you a ‘ole new destiny.” Peter paused, then mumbled. “Probably to keep me on my toes.” Martin, stunned into silence, could again do nothing but blink. Saint Peter decided he should probably speak very slowly, and very clearly. “You… Have… A… Date.” Martin nodded. “Being dead, you can not make this date.” Martin shook his head. “So we are going to send you back to your body, roughly ten seconds before your meeting with the grille of a very expensive luxury automobile. Not only will you be better off, but your accidental killer won’t have to pay very large repair bills. From there, it’s up to you. If you die twice in the same situation, there’s no coming back—you’re out of luck. Give me your ‘and.” Martin just stared, so Peter snatched his hand and wrote something on it. “Two last things. One, as soon as you look at your ‘and, what is written will disappear. So don’t look at it until you get back, because the second thing is that you won’t remember any of this when you leave.” “But what about—“ Martin began to say, but suddenly everything became very white, and very windy. He looked down at his feet, and a ludicrous amount of clouds seemed to be flying up past his head. After a moment, he worked this out, figured he was falling, and started screaming. The ground came into view, and it rushed up to him like a hungry dog greeting his master. However, the fear that Martin encountered was that of a man who looked up and saw a cow about to fall on his head. He was about to give up and enjoy the freefall when with a sickening, sudden lurch, he found himself restored to life. He looked up and down the road, hoping to spot her aforementioned red-and-blue ensemble. After realizing she wasn’t there, he noticed something on his hand. “Step backward,” it read, “and have fun on your date.” Martin stepped a few steps backward, and a Mercedes flew right in front of his face, missing him by inches. The car didn’t really unnerve Martin. He was usually not too good in physical situations; in short, he was a klutz. And it wasn’t because he had a lot on his mind—it was, in fact, the exact opposite—he just never paid attention to his surroundings. Martin had a pleasant feeling about him, he wasn’t really sure why. It was if he had slept for days, and the sun hit him in a new angle that morning. He was glad to be alive. Alexander Hoffberg swept by him quickly, without another thought as to his friend. He looked considerably more disheveled than Martin, but this was not because he just woke up; it was, in fact, because he hadn’t slept at all. Not for the last three days, anyway. He sported a three-day stubble, black hair, and a pair of unobtrusive glasses donned his face. They hung halfway off of his nose. Under his dark blue full-length bathrobe, he wore an R.E.M. t-shirt, black sweat pants and slippers. He shuffled across the thoroughfare, head down, eyes wild, and the strap on his bathrobe hit Martin. “Alexander!” called Martin. Alexander looked up from his daze, and his wild eyes didn’t so much soften, as reduce in the crazy shiftiness that had accompanied them a minute before. It was a shiftiness that gave you the impression that most sentences he uttered weren’t finished, and kind of trailed off into nothingness. “Hello,” he said simply. “Alexander, I met the girl of my dreams. She eats pickles for breakfast.” Martin felt it necessary to be very blunt, as Alexander was not one for small talk. “Sounds like your kind of woman,” replied Alexander. “but if she’s the girl of your dreams, I don’t want any part of meeting her. As I recall, most of your dreams are flashback-induced.” He attempted to continue walking, but Martin stopped him. “She wants to see me tomorrow,” and his eyes gained the wildness that Alexander’s had just so recently lost. “Food,” said Alexander, “Helps greatly with the acquiring of energy. If I’m going to listen, I’ll need some of it. Follow me.” As it happens, Alexander was an ex-seminary student. He tried his best in the profession, he really did, but for one reason or another (or several others—no one could ever really get a full explanation out of him) he quit, and came to Martin’s current place of education, the illustrious College of Saint James. He figured he could still stay close to God—the college was, after all, named after a Saint—and he moved. Rumors flew all around campus about Alexander. First of all, Alexander was his name, and no one was to call him Alex. If someone were to make this blunder, something unspeakable may happen. Fortunately, no one had ever made this mistake, and so, no one ever found out what unspeakable deed would be set upon them. The next rumor was that his lineage went clear back to the German ruler Bismark, which failed to put fear into the hearts of anyone except history majors, who knew, unlike most of the general population, that this particular German ruler had a reputation for being very angry. The third, and least verifiable rumor, was that Alexander never slept. Ever. He was seen walking at all hours of the night, but at the same time, he would disappear for hours at a time during random parts of the day, and appear as he had before. This particular day, the bathrobe suggested that he had, after all, been sleeping, and after purchasing Alexander’s food, Martin asked him if he had just awakened. “No,” replied Alexander. “So you mean to tell me you’re still asleep?” Martin reasoned. “No,” Alexander responded. “It means I haven’t slept for three days. And before that, I’d slept to no great length for a week.” “Amazing,” said Martin, who could only shake his head. “You know they say that kind of thing could drive a man insane?” “I’ve kind of figured that. But,” said Alexander simply, “I don’t think I mind. When I do sleep, you should hear about the dreams I have…” “Really? What kind of dreams?” “Oh, quite interesting things… better than NyQuil. I once had a dream I died and went to Heaven, and Saint Peter had an English Accent.” He took a bite of his pancakes. Martin didn’t quite approve of the breakfast; too much starch, not enough sugars or bacon. And, he thought to himself, no pickle. He smiled to himself at the thought. “So stop smiling to yourself about what’s going on in your head and say it out loud,” said Alexander. Martin wasn’t really surprised by this; Alexander had a keen sense of when he was being left out of something. “This girl,” said Martin. That was all he said for quite some time, and he started staring off into space, as if something very important were going on just above and to the left of Alexander’s head, on the ceiling. Alexander quickly grew tired of this, and stopped chewing. He slowly leaned forward, put his hands in front of Martin’s face, and clapped as loud as he could. Martin nearly had a heart attack. “What about her?” asked Alexander, after he had resumed his chewing and swallowed. “Is something wrong with her?” “I sure as hell hope not,” Martin answered. “I don’t think I could be very upset if there was, though.” He continued to stare into emptiness, doe-eyed and calm. “I must tell you,” said Alexander, “That you look very, very stupid with that expression on your face.” “Sorry,” replied Martin, who clearly wasn’t. Alexander thought about giving up on the conversation at this point, going to his room and having a drink, and that’s just what he decided to do. Unfortunately for him, Martin decided to follow. Alexander walked, and Martin floated behind, until they reached the Eliot P. Snuckle memorial dormitory. Eliot P. Snuckle had been a student at the college at one point or another, and they built a dormitory in his honor after he died. He had taken an overdose of sidewalk, below his six-story dorm window, after a long night of drinking. Alexander picked the lock of his room—he had lost the key long ago, and didn’t feel like paying for the replacement—and went in. For someone who always looked very messy, his room was immaculately clean. This was mainly because the only reason he ever came to it was to sleep, which he (apparently) rarely did, and to talk to people for more than two minutes, which he (most definitely) seldom accomplished. He sat down on a chair, and Martin sat on Alexander’s bed, which was covered in a thin layer of dust. He folded his hands and looked over his glasses.
Copyright © 2001 Charles Cotterman |