Zarin, the All Seeing

This is a fun little short story previously published on the now-defunct Vinculinc website.)

I used to be happy; had a girl and a life. Sophie was really into the theater and culture: symbolism, mood, music, etiquette, dressing up, hobnobbing. She knew a lot more than I did and would go on and on about it. Made me feel a little stupid in front of her friends more than a few times - not that I want to paint her poorly. She was wonderful to me. Her breath in my ear was worth more than the embarrassment of misunderstanding Shakespeare for a couple hours.

She got us tickets to see an illusionist. 

"I thought 'magician' was in between 'mall Santa' and 'soap 

actor,'" I said. 

"Yeah well," Sophie said, "I'm not thrilled with the other options. Besides, it's something different and he's got a creepy theme to his act and I know you love horror."

"Yeah but I hate when people in masks jump out at me. It's like, dude I know it's all fake. You didn't scare me. You startled me. Reflex. Different."

"I can't promise you that won't happen."

"Ugh."

"But I wouldn't think it’d be frequent, if at all."

"Where is it? The Byham?"

"Uh, no," she said, crinkling her brow at the crinkled flier. "5011 Penn Avenue."

"5011? That's like, in Garfield."

"So?"

"So what's the venue, the basement of some vegan kombucha bar and vape shop? Or worse, the bar area of some vegan kombucha bar and vape shop?"

"Think of it like an adventure," Sophie said as she stroked my jaw and pressed her forehead to mine.

I sighed, took a handful of boob and asked, "When is it?"

"Next weekend."

"Won't work."

"Why?"

"I'll never be able to grow a beard and dreadlocks in time."

She tried to call me an asshole, but I had her pinned to the couch and covered in kisses before she knew what hit her. 

The following Friday. 9 P.M. 5011 Penn Avenue. Art Crawl. Had to park three blocks over and two down. At least it was balmy for October. I didn't dress as nice as I usually do, yet looking around I realized I was still overdressed... and very likely over-aged.

Oh no, there goes someone's dad wearing khakis and a blazer like me… And he's waving at me. Sweet. I'm old now, I guess. Is there like a place on this street where everybody's parents can wait and have a drink? Maybe I'll be more comfortable there. 

"We're surrounded by children, darling," I said. 

"Adventure, baby," Sophie reminded me. "This is where art is born: on the streets. We might see the next Warhol tonight. We've got our finger right on the pulse."

"I'd rather have my finger on--"

"OOOOkay, hey, look, it's right there."

“‘Kim's Secondhand Boutique and Tea Shop.’”

"See? Not a kombucha bar."

"Close enough."

There was so much stuff to look at I didn't know whether to leave immediately or stay forever. There was three-decade old furniture, an old gaming table, orange and avocado everything, and anachronistic art prints including, of course, a framed poster of "La Chat Noir" going for $10 (OBO).

After stalking through the stuff of time like cranes in a marsh, we at last found the source of the smell of incense. Surprise: it was incense burning in a little holder in the middle of a little table occupied by little hipsters drinking little cups of tea. They looked at us like we were their parents barging into their bedroom when they weren't doing anything wrong.

Behind the counter, a little old Korean lady called out, "Help you?"

"Hi," said Sophie digging for the tickets. "We're here for the... show?"

I knew exactly what she was thinking: We're at the address, but there can't possibly be a show here. We've got it wrong. These kids are going to laugh at us as soon as we leave, if not to our faces. 

Korean lady waved us around the counter and lead us to a cellar door. I raised my eyebrows at Sophie to note that I was right about the basement. We padded, hunched, down the narrow, rickety steps. Cobwebs hung from 2x4's which supported nothing. There was no handrail. The plaster wall crumbled under our steadying touch. It smelled like basement. 

"COME INNNNN!!! COME INNNNNN!!!" brayed someone we couldn't make out past the single bare incandescent bulb. "We've been expecting you!"

As our eyes adjusted, we found ourselves face-to-face with a portly man in ringmaster garb: top and tail, round spectacles, ridiculous mustache, cummerbund.

"Hey, that's not magic," I teased. "We've got tickets."

Sophie, still digging in her purse, said, "HAD tickets, anyway."

The strange man pulled two tickets out of his coat and said, "Theeeeeese tickets?"

Sophie looked at them, smirked and said, "Those are raffle tickets."

The waiting audience tittered.

"Hu-theeeeeeese tickets?" asked the ringmaster. 

More laughter, even from Sophie who said, "Those are parking tickets."

He took off his hat and reached into the lining with a not-so-goofy, "How about these?"

Sure enough, they were. Sophie stood there agape. The audience of about 15 erupted. I gave a polite clap as I tried to figure out at what point Sophie's pocket must have been picked. 

PT Barnum ushered us to the remaining two folding chairs which, despite not being pushed together, were still close enough to put me elbow-to-elbow with a sweaty man whose own aroma was winning the wrestling match with his deodorant. Ahead of us were two rows of five and a basement corner made up like a stage. In lieu of a spotlight, a cheap work light with red plastic over it hung from a support beam. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," said top hat as he took the so-called stage, "there are things in this world that defy imagination, expectation, and your wildest machinations! I've never been the kind of person who could simply walk through life turning the same screw, collecting the same paycheck... kissing the same wife every day."

The crowd chuckled. 

He continued, "I love a good mystery. I love unraveling it. I love putting together puzzles and taking apart watches. So the day I got a clue that there was more to this world than meets the eye, you can bet I started digging. And it's amazing, you know, how deep it all goes--how much you start to see when you just... open your eyes... start looking. 

“You sir, what do you do? Nevermindshutupdon'ttellme." Top hat pointed at the person he was addressing and said certainly, "Barista."

The man laughed, shrugged, and applauded with everyone else. I assumed that if he wasn’t in on it, there had to be a tell. He had coffee grounds under his nails or he was still wearing his damn name tag. Maybe his ponytail gave it away. 

"And you’re one of those that does little designs in the latte foam, too, aren't you?" said top hat. The man nodded. Top hat said, "And when you're notmaking coffee, when you're watching TV or walking down the street, you notice things you can turn into coffee foam, don't you?"

The man nodded. 

"And that's what I mean. THAT'S what I'm talking about. Only I don't look for coffee art. I look for gaps..." he ran his hand along the ruffles of the scarlet curtain behind him, "...in the curtain... of the perceptible world in which we live. And my dear ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that as surely as there's shit in the sewers (try saying that 5 times fast) - as sure as there's shit in the sewers, there's a side of this world you've never seen and wouldn't likely care to. It's where the monsters live.

“The monsters under the bed and in the closet are most assuredly real. They're all behind the curtain. Everything you are and were sticks to you like your shadow from behind the curtain. (That's how I knew your business, sir.) Everything we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, to quote Poe. And he could not have been more right. We are spirits in a material world, to quote Sting. We exist here, limited by these eyes and ears and fingertips. But we exist..." he stroked the curtain again, "boundless. Limitless. Ethereal. Behind the curtain. In the sewers. Whether or not we are meant to look is a matter of a debate you did not pay to have.
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Zarin, the All-Seeing and I welcome you to this lesson.”

Applause.

"Before we begin, it'll be helpful to remove as much doubt as possible, so..." he pointed at each person individually and called out facts he couldn't have possibly known about each of them, astounding each person in turn. "Cell phone rep," he pointed to me. "You think your girlfriend is too good for you sometimes. Makes you insecure, but not debilitatingly so. You shot a cat with a .22 rifle when you were 12. Felt terrible after. Never told a soul."

...

Get the fuck out of here. 

He pointed to Sophie and said, "Accountant for PNC. You think you’re worth more than they're paying you, but afraid to ask for a raise. You think your boyfriend treats you better than you deserve. When you were 16 you bullied someone you'd been friends with since grade school because the popular girls liked you, but not her."

Sophie's face fell. 

"And you'd almost forgotten about it too. Sorry to bring it up. You've been a pretty good girl since though. And your old friend is happy enough these days.

“Anyway, now that you're all primed, my first trick."

He placed his hat upside down on a little table and produced, from inside the hat, a dove. A couple people clapped. Zarin raised a finger and laughed, saying, "That's not the trick. Anybody can hide and reveal a material object, but not everyone can reveal a soul. Now I need you all to watch very closely. Look here just above the bird. That's where it's soul will appear briefly before dissipating. You're looking for a sort of grayish ether." He waved a free hand over the dove, then raised the hand up and away. 

Some people gasped. Some oohed and ahhed. Sophie and I squinted. We saw something, but that far away, it was tough to tell. The dove fell limp.

"I think I saw it," she whispered to me. 

"Yeah, and you can buy smoke packets at any cheap magic store," I said. 

"Questions?" Zarin inquired of us. 

"Is it dead?" Sophie asked. 

"Depends on your definition of ‘dead,’" he said. 

"Is its heart still beating?"

"For now."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've liberated its soul. This dove is now an idling car with no driver. A useless shell. Eventually, it will run out of gas and stop."

"So it's brain dead."

"Not technically, no. I think that would imply brain damage. This is still a perfectly drivable car until it starves to death."

"Then are you going to put the soul back in?"

"'Fraid the whole soul liberation thing is a one-way ticket, my dear. For the lesser beasts, anyway."

"What do you--?"

"I know, I know, what do I mean? People and people-type spirits are complex and resilient. They can hang around and even come back. Animals with simple natures, like birds, are weak-spirited and, as such, dissipate back into the ether once released."

A roomy silence gave us all a chance to decide where we stood on the ethics of the situation, assuming we weren't being had. Before anyone could decide, though, Zarin put the bird aside, clapped his hands and said, "So! Who wants a look behind the curtain of life?"

Three people, including the barista, raised their hands. 

Zarin put his hands on the man's head and said, "Close your eyes and relax. You're safe with me. Just whatever you do, keep contact with your body. Foot, hand, whatever. You don't want to get lost or have anything take your place here."

The man went limp in his chair for about five seconds, then bolted upright and shivered like he just came out of the ocean. 

"There were..." he said, "I saw... so much--many... and you... you..."

"Who's next?" asked Zarin. 

Everyone's hand but mine shot up. I wasn’t sold. Even by the time he got around to me, I left room for the possibility that everyone here was a plant, or an imbecile, or there was something funny in that incense upstairs. 

Zarin placed his hands on my head then immediately took them off, saying, "You must be receptive. Believing me a con shuts your mind off to what I do."

"And giving a con the benefit of the doubt allows him to con me more easily," I said. 

Sophie gave my arm a whack as if to tell me not to pooh-pooh the man's profession. 

"It's yourticket," said Zarin, who then moved on to Sophie. 

He placed his hands on her head and she went limp. After five seconds... she was still limp. I looked up at Zarin, who cracked an eye to see if I was looking at him. After ten seconds, a bead of sweat rolled out from under his top hat. 

"Everything okay there, Siegfried?" I asked. 

"Sophie," he said gently. "Sophie, come back. You're not listening." His face turned red and veins began to bulge.

20 seconds. 

"Sophie," he said a little louder. "My voice only, Sophie."

30 seconds. 

"Sophie! Stay away from them! You come back! Hey!" He was screaming, scaring everybody. Even me. 

45 seconds. 

"You get your god damn hands off her! She doesn't belong to you! Sophie! Get away and get back to me! Get back here now!"

One minute. 

"Come on. You can do it. There you go. There you go. Quick. Before they come back. Hurry. Hurry! Don't look back! SOPHIE!"

Sophie shot up in her chair and filled her lungs with a noisy gasp. The scream that followed was like nothing I've ever heard or want to hear again. It welled like an approaching train horn. First silence, then a hiss, a low moan that rose in pitch, capitulated by the ear-splitting modulation of a scream of pure terror. 

Zarin and I both restrained her as she worked out her terror by kicking and clawing at us.

Barista shook his head and said, "She must have let go."

Others nodded. 

Eventually, Sophie calmed down enough to shiver and cry. 

"What happened?" I asked Zarin. 

"She let go," he said. 

"What's that mean?"

"Thank you all for coming. I truly hope you've enjoyed yourselves."

"Are you serious right now?"

The people quietly filed out. Zarin went behind his curtain. 

I ran to it and flung it open to reveal nothing but a crumbly plaster wall. 

Sophie was never the same. She wouldn't tell me what had happened. All she ever said was, "I was there for days." 

She folded in on herself. Wouldn't let me touch her. Stopped going to work.

I tried for a long time. Tried until my savings ran low. Gave her so much time, but I couldn't support the two of us on what I made. She was no better when I left. Sophie--mySophie--was gone. Behind the wheel, but no longer able to drive.