Notes of the Otherworldly Man

(Based on real metaphysical events)

“The inevitable never happens. It is the unexpected always” John Maynard Keynes.

I opened the mailbox and an envelope fell at my feet. Inside was a business card from Jade Apple Films and a postcard of a landscape-a turquoise surface of water against the rocky Alps. Lago di Como. Lake Como. I read: “To the one and only” I read on the back. And the signature: “I”.She’s here!

***

Before I was shot by a stray bullet, which, as it later turned out, was not to be meant for me, I never thought I could die. Yes, I knew that “we’ll all be there” and “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away” and all that stuff, but I, like many people, didn’t think I would die personally. Maybe one day, in my old age. And I was also sure that before you dropped dead, you would feel it-see a prophetic dream, get a sign or something like that. Nope!

This story started with “oil” gushing into my apartment. Right out of the kitchen sink. It had been gurgled and bubbling for a month before that. The sink was spitting out brown scraps, and one day a huge fountain of stinking black liquid burst out of the drain. I grabbed a cup from the table, frantically scooped it up, and ran to the toilet with a bucket full. When I got tired of running back and forth, I just plugged the hole and sat down to watch a movie.

All was quiet, but then the rain came pouring down from the kitchen ceiling. It turned out that “oil”, unable to find the usual outlet, was going to the upstairs neighbors. They, confused, did not take act immediately, but only half an hour later. By that time, the oily liquid had already filled the neighbor’s sink and rushed back to me, spilling over the edge and onto the floor.

The guys from emergency service who arrived quickly found the culprit. It was the old man who lived on the top floor. Because of his dementia, he often mistook the sink for a garbage can and threw potato peels into it. As a result, the riser pipe right under my kitchen became clogged, causing a flood. The emergency crew couldn’t understand only one thing: why was the water going to my upstairs neighbors instead of me? I was ashamed to admit that I had plugged the drain with a cork...

When the emergency crew left, I was still crawling on the floor with a rag for a long time, smearing the dirt stuck in the corners. An angry neighbor came from downstairs, wanting to make a scandal, but when she saw the mess the plumbers had made in the kitchen, and me, covered in mud from head to toe, she exclaimed: “Ouch!” and hurriedly closed the door behind her.

I came to the newsroom sleepy, with traces of black spots on my hands. “Have you been mining oil?” Kubyshkin from the utilities department giggled. “Yeah,” I muttered, went to my room, and turned on my computer. Kubyshkin gave me a suspicious look, pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, and hurried into the smoking room to share the news. From there, gossip spread like tobacco smoke throughout the office.

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“What a topic!” the editor was delighted. “Listen to me, Petelin, go to the emergency dispatch service tonight and write a story.” “Why me?” I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. “Kubyshkin is an expert on wet things, so let him write. You won’t send him to exhibitions or the theater.” “Do you think you’re more important than Kubyshkin?” the editor looked at me from under his eyebrows.

“No,” I paused. “It’s just that we have different departments. I’m in charge of culture; he’s in charge of pipes”. “Here it is!” Dubonos shook his outstretched hand tragically in the air. “This is bad! Very bad! A journalist, for your information, Petelin, is a universal soldier who must follow orders, wherever and for whatever reason his homeland sends him.” “Pavel Petrovich, we are not in the Soviet army,” I reminded him (Many years ago, Dubonos served in the road troops in the steppes of Central Asia, where he edited the army combat bulletin “The Tracks”). “Vikenty!” he raised his voice. “Don’t start, okay? Your culture can wait. The neighbors flooded you, not Kubyshkin. But call Proshchelygin first – just in case, arrange it; otherwise you never know what can happen.”

At exactly six in the evening, I stood on the porch under the sign that read “HELL”. The last letter “O” was painstakingly smeared with black paint. Smaller letters were crowded underneath. “Housing and Communal Bureau,” I read. A few letters in the word “bureau” had been corrected by some unknown joker’s hand, so it turned out to be “burglars”.

The head of the emergency dispatch service, Max Proschelygin, a smug guy with curly hair and shifty eyes behind round chameleon glasses, did not greet the reporter very friendly. “What is the purpose of your visit – any complaints from the tenants, or what?” As soon as Proschelygin realized that there were no complaints, but a desire to write an article on a “hot topic”, he relaxed and even allowed himself to loosen the knot of his tie. “Why not?” he smirked. “Go ahead, write it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs under the desk, and began to dictating what he thought I should put in the paper.

Maybe I should have turned and walked away; but I had an editorial assignment, and I knew from experience that it was better not to argue with these guys. I should have played dumb, accepted the rules of the game, penetrated the enemy’s camp, scouted the situation and done things my way. Recently, however, this tactic had begun to fail, because the editor, not wanting to complicate his life and get into trouble with the authorities and advertisers, secretly sent all the articles “up” for proofreading – as he said, to avoid problems.

“Today, in these hard economic times, we have three teams working in shifts”, began the head of the emergency service, “each, according to the schedule, includes two electricians, three plumbers and two UAZ vehicles. Did you write that down?” “Two cars?” I looked up. “I thought I counted four in the yard.” Proschelygin frowned and looked at me sternly: “I said two, so write down two. Why do you care?” “I don’t care,” I turned the page.

“The shift starts at five in the evening and ends at eight in the morning,” Proschelygin droned again. “During the holidays the crews work two shifts; and our priority is to let the citizens know that if we don’t answer the phone for a long time, it means that we have more important things to do.” “Like what?” I asked, taking my eyes off the notebook. Proschelygin shrugged vaguely: “Well, a radiator burst, or a hot water pipe.”

“Or the toilet was clogged,” I prompted. “No-no,” Proshchelygin protested. “We clean the shit last. Even if someone has a problem with poop... o pardon me, sewage, hot water is always a priority, it’s more dangerous. You should know that! Media, damn it! Second oldest profession, eh?”

Very pleased with his joke, he laughed and got up from his desk.“Well, I’ve done my job. You can write the rest yourself, you’re not a kid. Now let’s go to the control room, I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

To be continued