The Fate Merchant

Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

     The projection booth at The Revival House was barely large enough to fit two projectors, a long table stacked with film canisters, and a tattered and duct taped couch that consistently flouted the laws of physics by not collapsing when sat upon.  The booth was where Jasper did his best thinking.  There were too many distractions at his apartment, too many channels to surf, too many cockroaches to squash, but here, alone in the dark, a guy could really solve some life problems.  He also found comfort in the steady flutter of the film as it sped through the projectors at twenty-four frames per second.  The heat emitted by the projectors was the only downside.  When the projectors were running, the temperature in the booth reached a level of discomfort that only an egg on a first date with a skillet could truly appreciate.

     The trick was to adapt to the environment.  A good fan was a must, as were shorts.  If shorts weren’t available, he worked in his underwear.  The lack of a dress code was one of the great benefits to working at The Revival House.   

     It was here, thirteen-years ago during his second week on the job, that he arrived at three conclusions: a) he was failing his community college courses and there was no way he was going to salvage his year; b) his decision to sell his textbooks to a Guatemalan student named Esteban and spend the money on DVD’s hadn’t been the most responsible decision he could’ve made; and c) he didn’t care.

     Community college, in his opinion, was just like high school, only with more homework, so what the hell was he doing jumping back into that particular prison when he’d only just been released -- with a solid C- average, thank you very much.

     He’d take a year, have some fun, and then go back.  Or maybe two years: one year to have some fun, a second year to figure out what he wanted to do with his life.  Yes.  Definitely two years.  No more than three.

     It was also here that he’d realized that thirteen years had passed, he’d never gone back to college, and maybe he’d better start thinking about his future.  And then Hackford’s camera had entered his life, and it was here that he’d decided to go into the fate business.

     Jasper stretched out on the couch and rehearsed his plea to Roy Harper.  “Mr. Harper, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but at some point in the future, you’re going to try to kill Frank Sullivan.  I was wondering if you could not do that.”

     He shook his head; he could almost hear Roy Harper’s front door slamming in his face.

     “Mr. Harper, don’t ask me how I know this, but…”

     Slam!

     “Hi, Roy…”

     Slam!

     “Mr. Harper, this is a picture of you holding an axe.  I took it with this camera.”

     Slam! 

     Jasper sat up, took a swig of Mountain Dew, and thought: Maybe I’ll just send him an email.

     “Holy crap it’s hot in here.  Please tell me that’s why you’re not wearing pants.”

     Jasper jumped at the sound of Callie’s voice and added a splash of Mountain Dew to the couch’s impressive collection of stains -- an irregular pattern of blobs and blotches that, when viewed from a particular angle under the right lighting conditions, easily caused the couch to be mistaken for an overweight and deformed leopard.

     “I didn’t hear you knock,” Jasper said, seeing Callie standing in the doorway. 

     “I didn’t.  Pants?”