Anton Strout: Dead To Me

It read:

We’re looking for unique individuals for unique growth opportunities!!!

Wanted for detail-oriented, interpersonal casework in a busy office environment. Some travel.

Knowledge of Excel, Front Page, Clairaudience, Clairvoyance, PowerPoint, and Word a must.

Special in-house training program for motivated self-starters. Familiarity with basic armaments a plus.

About our company-Misunderstood but special. About you-Special but misunderstood.

NO Scientologists or actors!Respond Box D3P7-07H3R

I was intrigued. What type of organization would post such a bizarre message-part business, part Amazing Kreskin-that wholly peaked the interest of someone like myself? Clairaudience and Clairvoyance might have turned out to be computer programs, but my gut told me they weren’t. My gut told me reply to the ad.

I left a message the next day, and within a week, I found myself pulled into a world beyond my own personal pains, a world that promised control of what I was and what I could do.

A world, I noted through the crusting liquid film solidifying on my watch, that with only two hours ’til sunrise, was rapidly approaching. I would gladly have traded my powers of psychometry for the ability to turn back time-maybe fly around the world like Superman-all for an extra five hours of blissful sleep.

I mournfully threw my ruined jacket into a basket in the bathroom markedTO BURN. The coat was beyond hope, but maybe I could salvage my dear Ramones tee. I threw it into the bathroom sink to let it soak overnight. Maybe I’d become a trendsetter and soon bootlegGABBA GABBA HE T-shirts would be all the rage.

A shower never felt so good, but it was slow going as my body popped and cracked like that of a ninety-year-old. It took forever to free myself from the street ick I had rolled around in, but eventually time and several shampoos won out. I got out of the shower and toweled off as I ignored a volley of fresh new aches and pains. I gimped myself across the room and collapsed on the lonely expanse of my bed. The Bed That Sex Forgot.

As I drifted off to sleep, I tried with little success to hold back a montage of psychometric flashes of all my old girlfriends having much better and sweatier times in bed with men other than me. Tamara was now part of that list. Some people counted sheep. I counted orgiastic, writhing bodies. I was up to forty-six when calm, dreamless sleep finally engulfed me, and the discomforting sound of Mardi Gras beads rhythmically goingshink shink shink faded from my brain.

I wrestled myself awake a few hours later feeling low on sleep and short on caffeine, but reminding myself that I needed to get back to the office. Although my mind was still on the fiasco with Tamara and last night’s close call in the alley, it was the mountain of paperwork back at the Department of Extraordinary Affairs I was worried about most.

I dressed in minutes and pulled a fresh coat from my closet, this one black leather and knee length. I guess watching all five seasons ofAngel in one sitting had influenced me more than I thought. Thank God New York hadn’t had a vampire sighting in well over two years.

I walked the short distance up Second Avenue toward East Eleventh to my home away from home, the Lovecraft Cafй. The fall weather was being exceedingly generous about not giving way to the chill so I took my time. I walked past the hurrying crowds of NYU students and white-collar drones on their respective ways to classes or skyscrapers. I strolled slowly through Greenwich Village while they fought their way past me like cars passing a granny on the highway. I was too busy marveling, as I always did, at the quirky little shops and old-school architecture of a world gone by. Sadly, I noted that a plague of Gaps, Baby Gaps, and Subways had recently infested the Village, as history gave way to commerce, but I could still find the beauty if I looked hard enough.

When I saw the familiar red-framed windows and enormous oak doors that marked the Lovecraft, I stepped in. The strong, pleasant smell of coffee was mixed with the buttery cinnamon swirl of baked goods and my stomach nearly leapt out of my body in Pavlovian response.

I put my stomach in check and surveyed the main room. Movie posters ran along both exposed brick walls. The dark wooden floors probably hadn’t been touched since the 1800s, creating a cozy, lived-in atmosphere that I loved. The usual mismatch of furniture reflected the mismatch of people that the Lovecraft Cafй attracted. I looked for a seat up front by the television and found one across from a very attractive woman with shoulder-length dark hair seated on a hideous mauve couch. A few scattered patrons filled a plaid couch here and a lemon yellow chair there, but my mentor was nowhere to be seen.

“Connor around?” I called over to the counter. The espresso jockey, a rainbow-mohawked punk whose name escaped me, stopped polishing the wooden counter along the right side of the room and looked up. I wanted to call out his name, but I couldn’t remember it.Was he a Jared or a Jason? I knew he was one of the many Department employees who didn’t actually possess any powers, but that was about it. As far as I recalled, he just served coffee for the Lovecraft’s front operation. The counterman shrugged his shoulders noncommittally and moved off to rearrange a stack of muffins that had gone terribly awry.

“Thanks loads,” I muttered to no one in particular, and sat back in my chair. On the television, David Davidson-the Department’s liaison at the Mayor’s Office-was fending off verbal assaults concerning allegations of paranormal activity in Manhattan. I shook my head with amusement.

“Mr. Davidson! Mr. Davidson!” various members of the crowd shouted. The sunny New York City weather had made it possible for the latest of these press conferences to take place on the steps of City Hall.

Dave Davidson stood before the crowd of reporters and took a moment to smooth his tie into position. He looked out over the sea of people beyond the forest of microphones on the podium and pointed at random.

“Yes? You!” he said. The camera cut to a reporter who scanned his notebook anxiously for the right question to throw out. The camera cut back to Davidson as he waited with a look of serenity.

Cool as a cucumber,I thought.

Finally, the reporter found what he was searching for and looked up.

“Mr. Davidson,” he said. “Can you confirm rumors concerning the use of psychics by the Mayor’s Office to help investigative crime units? Specifically, I’m talking about events that occurred just north of Washington Square at University Place last night.”

David fixed his face with the practiced smile he was famous for. Disarming, jovial, and mixed with a touch of “you must be kidding.” It was his best tool, and I was sure it had helped expedite Davidson’s meteoric rise at the Mayor’s Office of Plausible Deniability.

“First,” he said, holding up one finger, “I’d like to clarify exactly what happened last night. I know several calls came into emergency services as well as to the news stations concerning the report of a ghostly encounter. Apparently, several drivers passing by said they saw something in the area that caused a traffic pile-up. Thankfully, no one was hurt.”

“Does this have anything to do with the legendary spectre that people have been reporting for decades in that area?” the reporter persisted.

I watched Davidson closely and could see he was resisting the urge to laugh. The reporter was more on the money than he could possibly know, but Davidson simply shook his head in response. “No, I’m afraid I can’t give any credence to rumors ofthat type. However, I personally talked with the head of Con Edison this morning and I’m told that this particular ‘ghost’ that people thought they saw was nothing more than wisps of steam coming from a series of pipes that run under that area. Con Ed assured me that they will be fixing those leaks today.”