The Fate Merchant

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

     Frank Sullivan wouldn’t have noticed the man with the camera if he hadn’t been sitting next to him on the park bench.  The man suffered from an unfortunate blandness, as though he’d been genetically engineered to fade into the background.  Skinny and in his early to mid-thirties, he wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t handsome.  His faded jeans and grey T-shirt had the appearance of being designed by someone whose affinity for rainy days and sad music informed their work; the eye skipped over them in search of something more interesting to look at.  Hanging from his neck was the man’s one defining characteristic: a camera, which he brought to his eye and pointed in the general direction of Frank’s head.

     Frank did his best to ignore him. 

     The camera beeped and clicked.

     Frank did his best not to rip it from his hands.

     At one point in his life, a grey-haired judge had expressed some concern that Frank might have a problem controlling his anger.  Frank disagreed with him by hurling a coffee pot at a window.

     A warm breeze rustled Frank’s newspaper, bringing with it the smell of freshly cut grass.  It was a good smell.  Calming.  He focused on it and breathed deeply, resisting the urge to use the man as a human javelin. 

     “Something I can help you with?” Frank grumbled, not looking up from his newspaper.

     “Actually, I might be able to help you.”

     “What’s with the camera?”

     “Good question.”  The man slid closer to Frank.  “Do you believe in fate?”

     Frank realized that he had two choices: he could roll up his newspaper and whack the man across the face, or he could walk away.  He chose to walk away -- imagining his anger management councilor patting him on the back, imagining his ex-wife removing the restraining order.

     The man hurried after Frank.  “Just give me five minutes.”

     Frank called over his shoulder:  “Go away.”

     “What would you say if I told you that the picture I just took isn’t like any picture you’ve ever seen.”

     “I’d say you’ve got a bit of an ego.”

     The man ran past him, stopped short and held out his hand.  Frank nearly ran into him.  He could feel the old rage returning, bubbling to the surface.

      “Get out of my way.”     

     “This isn’t about ego.  This is about opportunity.”

      The rage briefly possessed Frank’s right hand.  It grasped the front of the man’s shirt and introduced him to the patch of grass directly under their feet.    

     “I’m not interested,” Frank said through gritted teeth.  The sole of his shoe pressed against the man’s cheek.  “Got it?

     “Umph.”  The man squirmed and moved his head in a way that was almost, but not quite, a nod.

     “Stop following me.” 

     “Umph.”

     Frank released him and stormed off.  He didn’t see the man get to his feet and brush himself off, didn’t see him pick the grass from his hair and wipe the dirt from his cheek.  But what he heard stopped him in his tracks.