I am beginning to suspect Mystic Malcolm has a second vocation. He asks a young lady to choose a number between one and ninety. The lady chooses number four, he closes his eyes places his fingers on his temples, then like a pantomime dame delivering the punchline projects “someone will knock on your door”. His waning audience groans, after an awkward pause he adds “and change your life forever”.
Four in numerology represents stability it’s often seen as the Builder. I know this because Auntie Clara has bells to cleanse the air. She also thought the world was going to descend into chaos at the millennium and stocked up on the Jolly Green Giant and socks. Right up until 2015 I got a tin of green beans in a sock for Christmas and birthdays.
Mystic Malcolm at the club
“Someone in here is thinking of something green. Put your hand up if you were thinking of something green”.
No one puts their hands up.
“Get on with it mate”, someone shouts.
“Who would like to come up on stage and have a reading. Come on don’t be shy. I need someone with hairy legs. I can predict your future by reading a Veet wax strip”.
Now I can’t possibly turn that down. My hand shoots up.
“The gentleman with his hand up. Come and join me on stage.”
I make my way up to the foot high stage. A traffic cone sits bang in the middle of it to mark the splintered hole where Big Benny from the Abba tribute band Flabba put his foot through it last Saturday night.
“Peel, put it on your leg, press it down, leave for a few seconds, pull, scream and pass it to me.”
I do as I’m told.
“Did you know the origin of auspicious, ladies and gentlemen is from a Latin word meaning divination by the flight of birds…”
“Ahhh.”
“An augur was a Roman priest who studied bird behaviour to predict the favourable or unfavourable. The future is written in everything. We can use literally anything to predict the future. Fairy liquid bubbles on plate. Clouds in the sky. Tea leaves. A cat litter tray. A pizza topping anything ladies and gentlemen.”
He examines the wax strip. I’ve given him plenty to work with. The stickiness of the strip is defeating him. It clings to his fingers, sleeve, and then attaches itself to the microphone. He leaves it there humping away at the mic.
“Your life is going to change almost as soon as you leave here tonight. Don’t be afraid. Embrace anything that happens later.”
What a load of poppycock.
“Oh and I know it was you who was thinking of something green”, he whispers.
WTF.
“Is that it mate, tell us something useful like the lottery numbers”, shouts a heckler.
Chants of “get him off, get him off” resonate around the club. He puts his hand up in surrender and walks away. If you last more than ten minutes you get paid. I think Mystic Malcolm just made it.
I wonder if I should make a wish. I’ve got nothing to lose. I wish I’m offered the part of Rat-Man in the next Marvel franchise. I’m not sure what Rat-Man does, runs up drainpipes maybe. Perhaps I should have given my wish more thought.
I sit by myself and mull things over. It’s a con. Half the Working Men’s club must’ve been thinking of something green. Gonorrhea, grass, St Patrick’s day, England this green and pleasant land, trees. A green giant, hands on hips, wearing a skimpy tunic made from green leaves, looking smug on a tin of green beans.
Going home
There is trepidation in my stomach when I leave the club. I check left and right and then up just in case. The coast is clear I step out onto the pavement and jump up and down a few times to check if it’s still solid something Big Benny should have done or maybe did. Even if my life is going to change, he said I should embrace it. Haven’t I already decided it is a con anyway. The only thing that’s changed is I have a bald patch on my right leg that’s now sticking to my trousers.
I keep an eagle eye out for Hollywood directors as I walk down Haltwhistle high street and practise talking like a rat. My rat is too Joe Pasquale. Ant-Man doesn’t talk like an ant. Spider-Man doesn’t talk like a spider. Neither talk like Joe Pasquale.
My trousers are still sticking to my leg. I stop and pull up my trouser leg. My leg hair has been replaced by blue fluff. Wasn’t Remy Ratatouille blue?
A wind gets up out of nowhere. Leaves swirl around in mini tornados. Everything starts to squeak, creek or clatter. A rat runs across the road as a shadow grows on the wall in front of me. I scream for the second time that night and hammer on the nearest door. It’s opened by a familiar face. I can’t place her.
“I’m sorry can I come in I think the Jolly Green Giant is trying to kill me”.
“No you sound crazy.”
“Do I know you?”
“We were both at Mystic Malcolm at the club. Someone is supposed to knock on my door that changes my life forever.”
“According to my leg hair, my life is supposed to change tonight too. I was hoping I’d get the part of Rat-Man… I like drainpipes.”
“I was hoping Harry Styles was going to knock.”
“I can sing the song about watermelons for you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I’ll just go. Are you doing anything next Saturday. There’s a magician on at the club The Magnificent Clive.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“I’m offering to change your life forever.”
I cringe at my own line. I’m surprised when she says yes before closing the door. As I turn around a dark figure doffs his cap in the distance.
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