Playing Dice With The Universe

By JT Arant

What if you met a stranger, who knew everything there was to know ... about you?

What if that stranger told you he was ... God?

What if God told you that you would be given a choice and that your decision would change the world?

What would you do?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JT Arant
• Release date: Jul 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465971036

JT Arant

My Top 10 Jeopardy Categories Would Be:Chinese Folk LegendsAdelaide, Gateway To The OutbackThe Sandlapper StateOMG!Ubuntu!21st Century PiratesGridiron GreatsNerdismThe Lost GenerationAt The MoviesConspiracy Theories

Book preview

PLAYING DICE WITH THE UNIVERSE

a

novel

by

JT Arant

Copyright 2011 JT Arant

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for reading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form and you attribute it to the original author. If you enjoyed this book, please go to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

The author can be contacted at: [e-mail]

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual

events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

forces

PLAYING DICE WITH THE UNIVERSE

Candles hide a secret, you know.

Reluctantly, I pry my eyes away from the misshapen candle, away from its oddly hypnotic flicker, and force myself back into the moment. I'm not normally the kind of person who easily succumbs to deeply profound thoughts or weird lost-in-the-moment situations, it’s all too new-age for my tastes, but this time I actually find it hard to stop looking at that happy, little flame. I have found a serene sense of belonging and comfort in its spastic dance. Two feelings that I haven't experienced in a very long time and I hate to lose them now.

I look up and see an old man, a complete stranger, hovering over me.

The old stands out just as much as the stranger, if not more so, but his actual age is hard to discern. If I had to guess, and I suppose I do, I would say that he is about seventy. Or maybe seventy-five? I don't know. Sixty maybe? I don't have the first clue, really. He could be eighty-eight, for all I know. Whatever his age, he isn't young. I know that much. He's got the hair, the wrinkles, even that sad little look that old people always seem to have. The one that hints at a million different stories without ever actually telling a single one.

He is an unknown, a potential interloper come to rob me of my precious seclusion and, as such, I am instinctively filled with suspicion, but at the same time there is something oddly familiar about him. Like I've seen him some place before, but can't quite remember where or when it was.

I'd make a terrible witness.

It's true, the old man continues. They struggle hard to keep it to themselves, that great little secret of theirs, but eventually the pressure gets to be too much for 'em. And when that happens, as it always does, as it always must, they sputter and cry till there's nothin' left for them to do but shed tears of melting wax.

I have no idea what the old codger is on about, and I don't care. I really don't. So I ignore him. I don't look at him, I don't say anything to him, I don't do anything that might encourage him in any way. But he continues his story, undeterred:

Those tears, you see, they crawl away like the fat, hungry veins that twist down a junkie's arm, slowly drainin' the life right out of it, allowin' that precious little secret to escape on a quiet breeze and a wisp of smoke.

I hear what he's saying, but it doesn't really register. The ideas are lost on me, like shadows on a cloudy day, and, in the end, all I'm left with are the words. And words I can easily ignore.

Except, of course, that I can't.

Not so much because of what he is saying but, rather, because of the way he is saying it. There is something about the old man, something about the way he speaks, that intrigues me. His voice is raspy, belying his advanced age, but it is also deep and reassuring. It echoes. Not in the room, mind you. Not like a half-time speech from an angry coach in a tile-intensive locker-room. No, this echo is different. This echo is in my ears, bouncing off my eardrums and clinging like dew to the walls of my middle ear. It is the kind of voice that you can't escape.

And that's just his voice.

The rhyme and rhythm of his speech is equally unnerving. It has this odd, yet unmistakable singsong cadence to it. A bit like the fast-paced dialogues in those old 1950's movies, though not quite so stilted. I think he might be Irish, but it's hard to tell because his accent is thick with variation. He has that infamous Irish lilt, but there's also a hint of the gentle rolling of the R's that the Scots are so famous for. I can also hear the rounded vowels of Australia and there is definitely a subtle South Carolina twang clinging to his words like a thick fog. There's something else, as well, something I can't quite define: an ethereal quality that weaves its way through his sentences, wrapping itself around his words.

Whatever it is, his voice is positively magnetic. It is amusing, inspiring and intimidating all at the same time. It reminds me, in fact, of something from my childhood. Some memory that formed long before I was ever actually capable of remembering anything.

Burn bright, die young … the stuff dreams are made of, he continues.

The guy is fascinating, charming even, there's no doubt about that, but I have my own problems to occupy my thoughts today and, honestly, I am not looking for company. I open my mouth to politely suggest that he find someone else to share his wisdom with, but the words slip off my tongue when he drops his army-green rucksack to the floor and sits down. Just like that. He breathed deep the bittersweet smell of caffeine and sat down at my booth as though he belonged here.

Clearly, a scene needs to be made. I should say something along the lines of, 'Just what the hell do you think you're doing?' But, for some reason (some reason I can't easily explain and won't bother to try), I don't. I don't say anything at all. I don't do anything at all. I just sit quietly, like an unwanted toy.

I wonder why he chose to sit with me? Why, out of all the places and all the moments in the universe, did this crazy old man decide that he needed to stop and talk to me?

Especially now. A day earlier, a couple of hours earlier even, and I would have been amused. I probably would have even enjoyed the distraction. But not right now. Not at this particular moment. Doesn't he know that?

He looks me straight in the eyes, smiles and says, You know I'm just joshin', don'cha?

Excuse me?

What man, other than a real wanker, or maybe some guy stoned off his arse, would actually talk about candle wax as though it were anything other than candle wax?

Confused, I do what anyone would do in this situation … I look around for help. I wonder if maybe the old man is perhaps senile, if maybe he hasn't sat down at my table, the wrong table, by mistake. It is mid-afternoon, the scratchy side of a cat's tongue, and the café is mostly empty. A few hours ago, the place had been packed, filled with jabbering patrons and eager bloggers taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi, but now there are only a few lost souls left to sip their coffee and wait out the rain.

In the middle of the room, three would-be hippies are eating mixed salads and looking through a travel guidebook of some sort. I used to admire people like that, people who have places to go and things to see, people who are seemingly immune to the vulgarities of social restraint; free-wheeling, free-loving, dope-smoking, fashion-illiterates who do whatever they want because it happens to feel good. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't admire that? These days, though, I just can't be bothered to give them a second thought.

An attractive redhead (kryptonite for the Average Joe) is sitting at the bar and another woman, a Young Republican type (prim and proper and decidedly uninspired), is sitting alone near the bandstand in the far corner, shrouded in shadow. They are both far too engrossed in their own lives to show any interest in the old man sitting at my booth.

In fact, the only people who even bother to look in our direction are two curiously misplaced punk rockers with bleach-blonde hair and matching nose rings. It is clear that they don't know the guy, but that doesn't stop them from tossing angry looks in our direction. Not that the old man cares. He just kicks his frayed rucksack under the table and bellows, Garçon! as if we are the only people in the room.

The waiter, a lanky hipster wearing rose-colored specs and a black skullcap, is perched at the bar near the pretty redhead. He looks up slowly, sighs the sigh of a man stuck in a dead-end job, and grabs his notebook. He strokes his neatly trimmed goatee as he walks over to the booth, my booth, and I get the distinct feeling that he couldn't care less about me. I'm just another guy in a coffee-house, after all. One of many. But he eyes the old man with great suspicion.

(Maybe suspicion isn't the best word? Maybe approbation would be more accurate? I don't know. Words are tricky little bastards, as dangerous as maneuvering through faith.)

He notices the old man's homemade sandals straight away. Nice skids.

The geezer looks at the waiter, smiles a weird knowing smile and says, Thanks. Make 'em myself. Better than buyin' new ones all the time, he says with a wink. Especially when you do as much walkin' as I do. Yessiree!

His eyes are sparkling like dying stars and his voice booms through the café, swallowing it up and giving it life.

The key, he continues, is to replace the soles every few thousand miles. You gotta resole 'em before they get thin. A little preventative maintenance goes a long way. Yep, that's the ticket.

He leans forward and examines the waiter's black canvas sneakers.

Hell's bells, man, I didn't even know they still made those things.

The waiter looks down at his own shoes and says, with no shortage of delight, Aw yeah, man. I used to get these on the cheap, back when they were just shoes and not some silly fashion accessory, like they are now. Me, I've been wearing skids like these since I was ten years old. That used to set me apart, used to make me a real oddball, and it was great, but these days, man, these days it seems like everybody wants a pair. They're entirely too hip to be....

The old man interrupts him, though, before the words can begin gathering any real momentum. Yep, they sure are. Sure they are. But I tell ya what, sonny boy, what I want right now, right this very instant, is a hot cup of joe. Can ya do that for me?

Sure. How ya want it? the waiter asks as he writes furiously in his little notebook.

Black. Black as the night I was born.

The old man turns to me and says, You'd be surprised how hard it is get a plain, old-fashioned cup of coffee these days.

Actually, I am not surprised at all. I've been drinking coffee my whole life. (Diner coffee, to be exact.) Hell, I pretty much grew up on the stuff, started drinking it when I was only thirteen years old, when my dad put a cup of coffee in front of me and said, 'Now that you're a man, you ought to start drinking like a man.'

I hated it, at first. Which is only to be expected ... I mean, seriously, who gives coffee to a thirteen-year-old kid? It was bitter and confronting, and I always burned my tongue. Always. But, like most things, it grew on me over time. I had always loved the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, even before I actually started drinking it, and I knew there was no turning back when I developed a taste for it as well. It has gotten to the point now where I like it so much that I can't even go an entire day without it. It's not that I'm addicted, mind you. I just need a taste … just a little something to get me going in the morning.

Or in the afternoon.

And sometimes in the evening as well.

But I'm not addicted. It's just, hey, everyone's got vices. Coffee just happens to be one of mine. Not the only one, of course, but it is a big one. Bigger than most, I'd say.

And as far as I'm concerned, there is no better coffee in the world than the simple made-in-a-pot variety, flavored with milk and sugar, the kind of sugar that comes in individual paper packets, and nothing else.

(And it should always be served by a somewhat seedy looking middle-aged woman named Marge.)

Modern day coffee-houses, those obnoxious cookie-cutter monstrosities, they have hundreds, maybe even thousands, of variations on coffee. They have espressos, lattes and cappuccinos, they even have some ridiculous contraption called a 'Frappuccino', but the one thing they don't seem to have is actual coffee. They say they do, but they don't. Not really.

(And they never ever have a waitress named Marge.)

The old man grins, as though some private joke has suddenly flittered through his thoughts, and then turns his attention back to the waiter. My young friend here, he likes his coffee with milk and sugar, but me, I like it black … pure and simple. And I like it strong! As strong as my pappy was when the two of us climbed up to the top of Mount Olympus, by god! We were lookin' out over the whole damn world and pappy let fly a scream of defiance so loud it can still be heard today … if ya listen hard enough, that is.

The last bit is clearly being directed towards me, but I still do nothing to acknowledge his presence. I don't agree with him, or disagree. I don't even nod. I just remain quiet, dumbstruck in the deep recesses of my booth, trying to disappear.

I'm good at that.

For some time now, I have been haunted by this feeling that I'm missing something. Something big. And I just know that it is right there in front of me, waiting to be found, but I can't see it. I can't find it.

Of course, that may be because I'm too afraid to actually go out and look for it.

The waiter doesn't care about my missed opportunities, though. He just lets fly an excited Yass! and struts confidently