INITIUM NOVUM: Part 1 (3 page)

With the train speeding through the tunnel,
she takes the time to check her appearance. Using the reflection on
the dark windows of the train door, she fixes her hair, puckers her
lips, and applies a layer of gloss with her middle finger. She
would fix her breast, but one quick glance at them and she can
easily tell that they’re fine the way they are. Readjusting the bad
boys, as she sometimes refers to them, would only draw unwanted
attention to their superb quality. Having had already surveyed the
train scene upon entering, she knows there is no one riding which
she would even give a second thought about placing her “bad boys”
on display for. The only exception would be for a young,
flat-chested teen; and best believe that the sole purpose for this
would be to stir envy.

Suddenly a thought crosses her mind. She opens
her purse and retrieves a stack of business cards from it. She
shuffles through the card looking for one in particular. After
she’s scanned the small deck three times, she accepts the fact that
the specific card she searches for is missing, but gone it is not.
It only takes a few moments for her to realize where the card had
made it off to. The fault for its misplacement belongs to her. Just
minutes ago, she had given her business card out. Unfortunately,
she had given out the wrong one. The one she had lost was a very
special and expensive prototype of sorts.

She should be more concerned. Yet she’s
relaxed and at ease. There exists not a single doubt in her mind
that she’ll have the special business card back in her possession
soon enough and, with it, a bonus for her business. Not that the
present is the appropriate time for a side venture. But since
everything today is going according to her plans, and she’s running
early, she figures, why not. What could possibly go
wrong?

No more than ten feet away, a young boy, about
thirteen years of age, watches the woman. He is awe-struck,
completely consumed by her beauty. Also, as all boys his age, he is
inexplicably horny for no particularly good reason. It is a good
thing that he only sees her reflection, as he might not be able to
handle her beauty face to face. Still facing her own reflection in
the dark window, she puckers slightly so as to accentuate her full
lips more so than the gloss currently does. Her gesture, done
without knowing that a youngster was looking on, adds a sultry
expression to her already remarkable gorgeousness. The simple act
is enough to get the boy hot and bothered. She takes notice of his
fidgeting and looks away from her own reflection and towards him.
He blushes as soon as their eyes meet. A bulge begins developing in
his trousers which he attempts to conceal by crossing his legs and
folding his hands over his lap. However, he takes action a bit too
late and his erection is seen, in the briefest of glimpses by the
lady’s inexplicably trained sight. She rolls her eyes and chuckles,
turning back to window. It’s humorous to her, but not the least bit
flattering. She couldn’t care less that this pre-teen boy finds her
hot enough that a slight lip puckering induces an instant woody.
Her narcissism rationalizes that the boy would have to be a little
fruitcake to not have an erection at the sight of her.

“I’d have a hard-on for me if I were a
pre-teen too. Hell, I’d have a hard-on for me if I was thirty,” she
thinks to herself, still watching her dark reflection in the faux
mirror of the train’s window. Finally, she decides to do it. She
fixes her tits, cupping the “bad boys” and pushing them together
inside her blazer.

“A bit of spanking material for the horny
lad,” she says to herself as she turns her head to the boy and
winks.

If she can be asked who she most likely
resembles, she’d say Marilyn Monroe. Truthfully, she only resembles
someone trying to impersonate Marilyn Monroe. Not that the young
boy has enough blood left in his brain to give thought to who or
what she’s thinks she resembles.

The train enters the station and her
reflection in the dark window becomes the subway platform before
her. Oddly enough, even without her reflection in the glass, she
can still see herself in the scene just outside of the train doors;
she only needs to close her eyes and picture it.

Now, if Laura Cohen can find all the
information she needs concerning an injured, elderly woman, she’ll
be well on her way to retrieving the one business card she should
not have given out.

CHAPTER 3:

Go to her.

Since the voice has yet to let him down, he
follows through and walks up to the gypsy-looking young lady
inside. Despite her weird, other-worldly style, the lady is a
looker; long, curly, black hair, and cold blue eyes.

“How can I help you?” The girl asks with a
smile, leaning her weight on her elbows over the newsstand
counter.

“I’m here for the interview,” he says, his
response sounding more like a question than a statement.

She looks at him, her head tilted, her face
nearly resting on her shoulder. He smiles because she looks cute to
him, like a sad puppy. When she straightens her head, a smile
crosses her face too.

“What’s your name?” Her smile widens even more
so when she sees the blank look on his face. “No. Of course you
don’t know.”

She is dead-on, as correct as correct gets.
This surprises the young man.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “How do you
know?”

“I’ve gotten good at predicting things, you
know?”

“Like a psychic?”

“Like, but not exactly,” she says, staring
into him so deeply he recoils in discomfort.

He stares at the ground as he contemplates her
statement. “Was I drugged?”

“You’ve never taken a drug in your
life?”

“I’ve taken drugs. I know what drugs feel
like. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have a reference point.”

“You have knowledge of it. But you have never
done any before. You haven’t done anything before today. Anything.
Ever.”

“What are you talking about?” He asks as
mentally numb as ever.

“Give me your wallet,” she says.

He complies. She takes it, opens it, and
retrieves his photo I.D. After examining it, she places it face up
on the counter and slides it to him. He picks it up and examines it
as well. Everything on the card seems normal except for there being
no name on it.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “What’s happening?
Am I being erased by the government or something?”

“No, sweetie, not erased, written. The exact
opposite is happening to you. You are brand new. The universe is
catching up and you can’t know who you are until the course is set.
But, you’ve already messed up, haven’t you?”

“How?”

“The old lady, hot coffee, hard floor,” she
answers.

“How did you know that?”

“This interview, this is meant as a briefing
of sorts. To tell you what the universe wants from you.” She says
this in a serious tone.

“The universe wants something from me?” He
repeats with an air of derision in his tone, as he stares blankly
at her, not quite following what she’s saying anymore.

“The coffee incident,” she reminds him. “An
old lady is just now arriving at Beth Israel Medical Center. Her
condition is serious.” This quickly offends him. He does not feel
it was his fault. He never wanted of it to happen.

“Bitch, what the fuck could I have done? I
tried not to burn her face with the fucking latte. You tell me.
What could I have done? Nothing. Besides, what does that even have
to do with this interview anyway? Fuck that, yo. I didn’t do shit.”
He fires quips rapidly and with much anger, one after another,
before stopping to think about something other than himself. “Fuck…
Do you know if she’s going to be okay?”

“Oh, it’s done for her. You saw how old she
was. And call me a bitch again, this conversation will be over.
I’ll make you go at this alone, and I won’t help you with anything.
Remember, I have a name. If anyone’s the bitch, it’s
you.”

He smiles at her. She doesn’t
reciprocate.

“Can you at least tell me why my ID is blank?
At least,” he pleads.

“Your ID is not blank. The information will
materialize soon enough.” Her response is cryptic but direct enough
to understand. Nonetheless, the gypsy looking girl’s words are lost
on the confused, man.

“I don’t understand,” he admits.

“That’s fine. You needn’t understand all this
right now, nor can you. We can – well, you can – proceed with your
life despite your lack of comprehension. The problem is that the
interview was supposed to help you understand where you are headed
before you remember yourself. Once you do, fate is set.”

“But I still don’t remember
myself.”

“You will. Soon.”

“How did I mess up?” He presses.

“You weren’t supposed to involve yourself in
such a situation. The path has been complicated once
again.”

“Once again?” He repeats questioningly but she
ignores him, proceeding with her explanation.

“Actions determine where you’re headed. And
you, well, you’re headed somewhere dark, down a road that you’re
not going to want to travel. Or you can choose to be started from
scratch, which is usually your last option.”

The nonchalance with which she states this
offends the young man. He does not feel himself to be a person of
simple intellect but the gypsy makes him feel ashamed that he
cannot make sense of the situation she is trying to explain to
him.

“Don’t feel ashamed. You’re not dumb. Your
situation is unique, totally messed up, but unique.”

“I’m not ashamed,” he says, lying to her with
the straightest face he can muster.

“Don’t lie to me. You can’t even if you wanted
to,” she says. “I can read you. Literally, read you.” She smiles at
him, but there a hint of sadness in her eyes, in the way they look
pained by the words, almost like a wince.

“Why don’t you get out of my head?” He snaps,
now fully annoyed by the preciseness of her brand of
divination.

“I don’t need to be in your head. You haven’t
done anything new and I’ve read all this before. That’s what I’m
here for, to read you. And I’ve already passed this chapter more
times than I care for. So, if you don’t mind, let’s get on with
it.”

“On with what?” He questions, but is once
again disregarded.

The gypsy pulls a pack of cigarettes from her
purse and offers him one. He declines the smoke, which she knew
he’d do, and instead watches on as she lights one up. With the fag
in her mouth, she strikes a match and places it at the tip of the
cigarette. She waves away the flame and inhales the smoke streams
rising from the tip of the match. Drawing from the stogie a long,
thick stream of smoke, she either relishes the feeling of the
nicotine entering her bloodstream or the scent of the dead match.
While she’s enjoying her smoke, he stares at her, finding her habit
very unbecoming. He doesn’t say anything about it this time though,
and she appreciates that.

“Get on with what?” He asks again, more
assertively this time around.

“On with what is supposed to be your life,”
she says growing frustrated. “Whatever and with whoever it happens
with.” The sad glimmer in her eyes return as she smokes her
cig.

“Can you stop?” He asks, staring at the
cigarette in her hand.

“Stop what?” She asks him in a patronizing
tone. She already knows the answer to this.

“You’re the psychic; go ahead and read me,
bitch.”

“Wow, you are either ballsy or stupid. Is this
how you would really like to begin life?” She shakes her head in
disbelief, finding it increasingly difficult to tolerate his
presence.

“Begin life? I’m in my late twenties,” he goes
on.

“And yet, still a boy. Never once having felt
the warmth of a woman,” she retorts.

“I’m not a virgin,” he scoffs defensively. I
know what vagina feels like. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a
reference point. Ha.”

“You are not anything,” she corrects
him.

“You just want to hurt my feelings, don’t you?
You are just the worst kind of person,” he says jokingly and with a
smile, but meaning every word of it. This makes the gypsy
laugh.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says looking
up at the dark, cloudy sky. She notices a formation of three weird
clouds but is distracted when her phone begins to ring. She looks
down at it, then back up at the man. For a brief second, his eyes
follow her eyes and land on the phone. The contact image on the
caller I.D. is a picture of the gypsy and another female. It
flashes brightly, capturing the attention of the noisy, unnamed
male before her. She sees him looking at her phone and moves it
away. “Nor do I have the patience,” continues as she flicks her
cigarette butt onto the sidewalk.

“You plan to pick that up?” he
asks.

“The phone or the cigarette butt?” She
retorts.

The cigarette lands at an angle, cherry first,
and explodes into dozens of scattering embers. At that very moment,
the phone stops ringing and the gypsy’s eyes dart to it. Her mouth
begins to move and she begins singing, “Make Your Own Kind of
Music” as sung by Mama Cass Elliot. Weirdly enough, she sounds
exactly like the singer. It’s almost as if her mouth is
transmitting the vocals from somewhere else. It’s so precise that
he swears he hears the sound of instruments coming from
somewhere.