World Revolver

by Gina Ranalli

  That incident signified my first ‘private meeting’ with John, all of two weeks ago.

  I’m stunned I’ve lasted as long as I have. I also shocked I haven’t gotten into a fistfight yet, the key word being ‘yet.’

  Working with the public always drives home the knowledge—the indisputable fact—that the human race is nothing more than hate-filled, selfish cock-gobblers and if you weren’t a misanthrope before the job, you’ll certainly be one after the first full day of working. You’ll never feel so blessed as when you clock out after your shift.

  The end of the day is the only thing I think about, which is both bad and good at the same time. Good because it cheers me up somewhat but bad because I keep checking the damn clock, thinking an hour has passed and finding out it’s only been ten minutes.

  I can’t keep up with the dining room floor anymore; people keep throwing wrappers down and crushing French fries into the tile, so fuck it. Besides, it’s hard moving around and the place is so loud it sounds like a packed stadium. Not only do most people love to shove chemicals down their gullets at the rate of five-thousand calories a meal, but they also love the sounds of their own voices. Especially when they’ve found something to be pseudo pissed about. Which everyone in the crowd seems to be.

  From the snatches of conversation I hear, it has something to do with the parade. A pride parade and there’s lots of folks wearing rainbow colors and beads and whatnot, but there’s lots of other people wearing crucifixes and t-shirts with bible quotes on them.

  Here we go, I think, happy to be pushing my mop bucket to the back room. Sadly though, I can’t hide there forever. I know this from experience. Instead, I head to the men’s room, get in a stall and just hang out for a few, reading the new graffiti I’ll undoubtedly be cleaning off later.

  Even the men’s room is crowded. Guys lined up at the urinals like we’re in a wildly popular bar instead of a fast food shithole.

  I’m sitting on the toilet, examining my fingernails and the bathroom is dead quiet except for regular bathroom sounds: flushing, paper towel dispenser, running water. No conversation going on at all. Just as it should be in a men’s restroom.

  Until:

  -Fuck, man. You looking at my junk?

  Someone makes a tsking sound.

  -Don’t flatter yourself, honey.

  More quiet for a moment.

  -Keep it up, fag. I’ll end you.

  This is sigh inducing and I really don’t wanna be around when the fists start flying, so I get up and unlatch the stall’s door.

  The big tough guy is giving seething looks to a skinny dude with a pink Mohawk and a blue t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase ‘this guy loves his boyfriend’ and two thumbs pointing up to his face. The gay guy stares back at the redneck with an almost bored expression.

  I’m trying to get by to get to the door when an older balding guy steps between the two other dudes, facing the gay guy.

  -Have you heard the good news?

  I pause on my way out, looking at them from over my shoulder. Is this shit really gonna happen?

  The gay guy rolls his eyes.

  -I know it by heart, but thanks for asking.

  The redneck tosses his damp paper towel on the floor near the waste basket, drops the f word again and then shoves me aside to get out.

  I bite my tongue. I’m at work after all.

  The religious guy is still staring at the gay guy, smiling, holding out one hand as if he’s gonna ask the dude to dance.

  -Jesus forgives all sins.

  -Good for Jesus.

  Cracking up, I decide I might want to stay for this after all. These two are in the middle of a crowded bathroom, other guys moving around them as if they’re inanimate objects inconveniently placed in the dead center of the room.

  Most of them pretend they don’t know what’s going on but still, they start moving at a more leisurely pace.

  The religious guy meets my gaze.

  -Do you work here?

  I want to say, good deduction, smart guy, the vest give it away? But I just nod.

  He points at me.

  -Tell this man about the righteous path to the Lord.

  I frown.

  -What?

  Still pointing.

  -Your necklace. You’re catholic.

  -Oh.

  I touch the thin gold chain around my neck self-consciously. Hanging from it is a small crucifix.

  -Nah. This was my mom’s.

  -But you’re a believer, yes? You must be if your mother was.

  This assumption is vaguely annoying to me for some reason.

  -Not really. Sorry.

  By now the dude with the Mohawk is going on his way, probably happy the focus has switched to me.

  The balding guy’s smile slips a notch.

  -But this is a Christian establishment.

  -It is?

  -The owners support the bible’s claim that marriage is between one man and one woman. How can you work here and not know that?

  I shrug.

  -Not sure where you’re getting your info but this is the first I’m hearing of it.

  His smile slips even further.

  -Are you of the homosexual persuasion?

  -What?

  I’m quickly losing patience with this dude.

  -Listen, nice chatting with you and all but I gotta get back to work.

  -Does your boss know?

  I take a deep breath and hold it for a couple seconds.

  -Does he know what?

  -About your persuasion. Isn’t that what we’re talking about here?

  -Well, it’s what you’re talking about. A lot. And you know what they say about guys who talk about it a lot.

  This earns me a few snickers from other guys in the john, but the religious dude goes from fake-friendly to pissed off in about half a second flat. I don’t even realize right away that he’s pulled a gun out from inside his jacket. Not until the other guys start shouting and scattering, bashing each other around to get out the door.

  I see it just as my left shoulder explodes and the things that flash through my brain are startling.

  I think about the headline: gun violence.

  I think: thank Jesus I’m wearing my lucky underwear.

  I think: hasn’t this happened to me before? Was I shot? Or stabbed? What was it?

  Then I hit the floor and I’m getting trampled underfoot and I think: how fucking random. Figures this would happen to me.

  I see the balding guy moving with the crowd, having dropped the gun, stepping over me.

  Courteous, I think.

  But seriously, hasn’t this happened before? You’d assume I’d remember for sure something like this, but it’s just not there in the front of my brain. So strange.

  For the first time since the gun went off, all of fifteen seconds ago, I feel pain and with it comes a certainty. This has definitely happened before.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN—The Junkie (8)

  The four poster bed is such a cliché. I’m lying on a cloud. It’s that comfortable.

  I’m alone in the room but I can see beyond the windows that night has fallen once again and a mysterious someone has built a fire in the fireplace. A caring house elf perhaps?

  Under the sheets, I’ve been stripped down to my underwear, which makes me wonder doubly who was in here but also makes me flash back to the spin.

  He—I—had a pretty serious case of déjà vu right at the end there and it confuses me because I have the same sense. I’ve been shot before. Or stabbed, just like he thought.

  Haven’t I?

  The bedroom door swings open and Luna enters carrying a tray. When she sees I’m awake, she looks startled but quickly recovers. She’s good, this one.

  -I brought you tea.

  Sitting up on my elbows, I see she has. In a white china teapot decorated with little blue flowers with a matching cup and saucer.

  -Tea? Really?

  She sets the tray down on one of the
nightstands.

  -What’s so strange about tea?

  -Well, nothing, except that I haven’t had it since I was about five years old and my grandmother made it for me. I thought it was impossible to get these days.

  -Pretty close, but not quite impossible.

  She sits on the red loveseat and crosses her legs. There’s an awkward moment when we just stare at each other. I struggle to come up with something to say.

  -So…uh…so much for your two hour theory, huh?

  -It was just a theory. Evidently, your brain is more susceptible to Satellite than most.

  -What does that mean?

  -You spin more frequently and, correct me if I’m wrong, you also have a stronger connection with the alternate versions of yourself.

  -Stronger? How would I know that? I have nothing to compare it to.

  -Granted. But we know that even if you don’t.

  -Then why did you say ‘correct me if I’m wrong’?

  -I assume your connections are growing stronger with each spin. Is that true?

  I shrug.

  -I have no idea. Maybe. But Atropos said they’ll be stronger anyway, depending on the closeness of the other dimension.

  -That’s true. But it also depends on the strength of your brain activity.

  Completely lost, I just look at her.

  She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again. She thinks for a moment, maybe choosing her words carefully.

  -You know how in old science fiction people were able to travel between dimensions by folding time and space, bringing the dimensions closer to each other so the journey would be shorter?

  Now I really have no idea what she’s talking about. I shake my head, afraid speaking will clue her in on my absolute ignorance of all things science related.

  She continues, undeterred.

  -Essentially, that’s what happens in our brains. Because, you see, our minds are infinite, just as the universe is infinite. Basically, we’ve discovered our minds are the universe. It’s all the same thing. What’s out there and what’s in here.

  She taps her temple with an elegant finger.

  All at once it dawns on me that she, and possibly everyone in this house, could very well be crazy. What if they’re just drug addicts who have finally fried their brains beyond all hope of repair? What if I’ve been inadvertently recruited into some bizarre drug cult? Maybe the spins are just what Harvey said they were: really intense trips caused by a new, extremely powerful hallucinogenic?

  -You look worried.

  I snap back to attention.

  -Oh. No. I was just thinking about…umm…tea.

  She cocks a thick blonde eyebrow at me.

  -Tea?

  -I’m really dying to try this tea. It smells…delicious.

  Her expression becomes somewhat perplexed.

  -I’m sure you can manage to pour yourself a cup.

  -Oh…yeah. Yeah, of course I can.

  I proceed to do just that, double checking that the covers don’t fall below my waist in the process.

  The tea is hot and good. Better than I remember. I take my time with multiple sips, smiling at Luna over the rim of the cup.

  -Good.

  -I’m glad you like it.

  Unable to think of a response, I busy myself with downing the rest of the cup and pouring another.

  Luna shifts her position.

  -Do you want to talk about this later?

  I’m stumped. Would it be rude to say I’d rather not talk about it at all? Of course it would, but that’s the truth.

  -Umm…do you know who…uh…undressed me?

  -Circe.

  Something like realization dawns on her face.

  -I’m sorry. Are you uncomfortable? I can leave.

  -Well, I was thinking…now that I’ve met Atropos, maybe I could go home. I’d really like a bath and a change of clothes and to, you know, brush my teeth. All that.

  -I don’t think—

  A knock at the door interrupts her.

  Now what? I think.

  -Come in.

  The door opens and a female guard pops her head in and addresses Luna.

  -Atropos is asking for you.

  Without hesitation, Luna rises from the sofa.

  I sit up straighter in the bed.

  -Wait. What about me?

  Both women turn their attention to me as though I’m an afterthought.

  -I’m sorry but you can’t leave, Eon.

  Luna doesn’t seem sorry. At all.

  -What do you mean? Like, ever?

  -Not until you have your meeting with Atropos.

  -I thought that already happened. Earlier.

  Or was it yesterday? I can’t be sure anymore. Time is all scrambled in my mind.

  -Did she teach you how to control spinning?

  -Uh…no? You were there, weren’t you? She didn’t teach me anything.

  -She will.

  -She will?

  Luna nods.

  -She taught me.

  -Really?

  The guard says Luna’s name.

  -I’ll be back soon, Eon. In the meantime, the door to the right of the fireplace is a bathroom. You’ll find everything you need in there.

  -Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks.

  I feel like an idiot. I’d assumed it was a closet.

  -But still, this whole ‘I can’t leave’ thing—

  -Please, Eon. We’ll talk about it later.

  Both women start to leave but I have one more question.

  -But what if I…uh…spin again while you’re gone?

  -You’ve survived it on your own so far and unless I’m back in about…

  She checks her watch.

  -Ten minutes, I think it’s a guarantee you will.

  -Jesus!

  -All the more reason for you to stick around and listen to what Atropos has to tell you.

  She follows the guard out of the room and closes the door. I’m alone, my Adam’s apple bobbing.

  -Oh, crap.

  Flipping the covers off myself, I jump out of bed and head to the bathroom, which makes me briefly flash on the last spin. The me who worked—works?—at a shitty Scrummy Burger.

  I shove the memory out of my head. That part I’m getting pretty good at. I guess since the murder of my sister, I’ve become pretty fucking good at shoving things away that I don’t want to think about, don’t want to consider for even a single moment.

  The bathroom, as expected, is amazing. The tub could probably fit four people comfortably. There are two sinks with large oval mirrors above them and everything is black marble and chrome. I touch the thickest, softest towel of my whole life and what’s more is there’s eight of them, not to mention matching wash cloths.

  I could live in this bathroom with no complaints.

  Remarkably, I decide to take a bath, though if you’d asked me yesterday, I would have sworn a nice hot shower would be enough for me to live happily ever after, considering my place in the city only has a tub and it basically sucks.

  But now, as I watch this massive black bathtub fill with steaming water, I’m ready to dive in before it’s a quarter full.

  I strip out of my boxers and do just that, snatching up a bar of soap in the shape of a leaf and damned if it doesn’t smell like a wild old forest. Or at least, what I imagine a wild old forest would smell like.

  Noticing a bottle of bubble bath on a little shelf by the tub, I dump some into the water, giggling like a little kid.

  Relaxing, the cool marble against my back a nice contrast to the hot water filling up around me, I can only think, holy fuck, this is nice.

  I scrub myself, taking my time, playing with the fragrant bubbles and I develop a sense of satisfaction when it occurs to me that I’ve surely been in here much longer than ten minutes. So Luna was wrong.

  The thought makes me chuckle. She strikes me as a woman who is seldom wrong and probably loathes it when she is.

  My leisurely bath is so soothing I almost fa
ll asleep but since I’ve always been paranoid about drowning in a tub, I force myself to get out when the water begins to grow tepid.

  Another quick glance through the shelves by the sinks and I find everything I need to shave, which I take advantage of as well.

  When I’m finished, I wrap a towel around my waist and return to the bedroom in search of my clothes.

  No clothes. Not in the dresser, not in the closet. Knowing these people, they’re probably being washed. That’s what rich people do for guests all the time in movies. Take their clothes away without asking and wash them.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, debating on what I should do next. Go in search of someone or just wait? I was under the impression Luna would be back in just a few minutes and now it’s got to be closer to an hour. Maybe longer.

  I find myself wishing I had a watch but I don’t. Never have. Who needs a watch when you don’t even have a job?

  Getting up from the bed, I go and poke at the fire, which is dying down now. With amusement, I wonder if there’s a little bell I can ring for room service.

  I imagine Circe dressed as my own personal butler and calling him Alfred. And naturally in my fantasy he calls me Master Eon.

  Snickering, I sit down on the loveseat and then something tremendously bizarre happens:

  I feel myself fall into a spin.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN—The Rat

  Dancing on a street corner wearing a rat costume isn’t exactly my favorite way to spend a Friday morning, but what the hell. The money’s not bad and it beats doing actual manual labor. Plus, the soda I bought from Scrummy Burger is laced with bourbon and it’s sitting on the ground next to the sign which reads A-Tat-Tat Extermination Services and the phone number. The drink helps keep me motivated and I’m pretty sure it makes me a better dancer too.

  I hop and spin and wiggle my hips, making punching motions with my arms, kicking out my legs and sometimes, for my own amusement, breaking into the chicken dance now and then.