A Study of Judgement

Image Credit: Ex3me via DeviantArt

A Study of Judgement

Mr. Jenson ate lunch at his usual spot by the window in De’Lass Cafe. He had a turkey sandwich on dry wheat bread, a small bowl of fruit and a pickle. He read the local newspaper and watched rain trickle down the smudged glass panes and thought generally about nothing.

He didn’t look when the bell announced another patron.

“Is this seat taken?”

Mr. Jenson looked up slowly, his lips pursed in preemptive annoyance.

“Yes”, he said.

The man was dressed in a yellow track suit. He had cornrowed hair, gold chain and sunglasses with yellow rims. He pointed at the vacant chair.

“It looks empty.”

“I’m expecting someone.”

The man in the yellow track suit smiled. His two front teeth were gold.

“Good,” he said. He swaggered over to an empty booth and sat down heavily. He leaned against the wall, letting his boots hang off the side and fished out a toothpick. He sucked on it noisily.

Mr. Jenson went back to his paper. He thought about nothing in particular.

The bell chimed again.

“Is this seat taken?”

The woman was stunning. She had long blond hair curled slightly at the tips. She had beautiful eyes, a wide smile and wore a flattering if practical blue skirt and jacket.

“Would you mind if I sat here for a while?”

Mr. Jenson blinked.

“I’m terribly sorry, but this seat is taken. There’s a nice table available over there if it’s the window you’d like.”

The woman stared at him, a soft smile started playing at the edge of her lips.

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

Mr. Jenson nodded. He looked out the window. “I am expecting someone.”

The man in yellow and the woman stood next to him.

“Who?” They asked in unison.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Jenson said softly.

The woman leaned over and whispered, “Perhaps your company waits to be invited.”

Mr. Jenson turned slowly to look at her. The air was dense; the cafe empty of sound. When he spoke, the words pounded hard against his heart.

“Join me, then”, he said.

The two sat in the chair. Except there wasn’t two, there was one. Then there were many and they all smiled, enough smiles to fill the room from floor to ceiling and he closed his eyes and Breathed.

He thought about nothing.

“Ahh,” they said. And then there was only one. He sat in his chair, balding, of short stature and wearing a tweed jacket and a goatee. His irises were the fluidic color of soap bubbles.

“Hello Mr. Jenson.”

Mr. Jenson nodded, once.

“Let’s get down to business, yes? You do not know who I am. You do not know what I am. Yes? I will tell you this, I am many thing to many beings, but today I am one thing to one person and that person is you. Please look at me Mr. Jenson.”

Mr. Jenson looked at him.

“Do you see my eyes? I keep them that way so you will not delude yourself into thinking this is mundane. This is not normal. What is happening to you is not explainable.”

He shifted and he held up a box.

“Mr. Jenson, I come to you with a gift.”

“No, thank you” Mr. Jenson said quietly. He looked out the window, the rain was coming down very hard now.

“No one chosen wants the gift. This is an attribute of a person chosen. But it is a gift, Mr. Jenson. That is indisputable.”

“And if I do not accept?”

“I am truly sorry, but the gift has been given. You can choose to do nothing with the gift. You can choose to do everything with the gift. Do you understand, Mr. Jenson?”

Mr. Jenson looked down. He held the gift in his hands.

“Do you know why you were chosen, Mr. Jenson. You are neither hot nor cold. You are not proud nor happy nor sorrowful. You do not fight injustice, yet you do not relish the pain of others. In short, you are lukewarm, Mr. Jenson. You, and others before you, are born to be a litmus for humanity.”

“Yes, I see you understand. You have felt this calling but did not know how to answer.”

He tapped the box. “Ring, ring, Mr. Jenson.”

The man sighed and placed his finger on the glass of the window. The street traffic had slowed to a halt; horns blared against a car stalled in the intersection.

“You all are like poorly raised children, and I never understood the nature of your appeal; but I am only a single cell in the bloodstream of life, carried along in my faithful duties.”

He nodded towards the box. “Do open it.”

Mr. Jenson lifted the lid.

It was a butterfly, alive, pinned in four corners to a small styrofoam block.

“Do you understand Mr. Jenson?”

His hands trembled slightly. “No.”

“I believe you do, Mr. Jenson. But I will explain it anyway. You have heard of the chaos theory butterfly, yes? It is the theory where the actions of an insignificant creature can have worldwide consequences.”

He touched the rim of the box. “You are that insignificant creature, Mr. Jenson.”

The butterfly struggled briefly, a horror of minute squeaks pressing against the styrofoam.

Mr. Jenson breathed. “ I am to be pinned, trapped like this poor creature?”

“There will be agents at play to aid you, Mr. Jenson. If it is intelligence you wish, you will find a way to increase it. If it is wealth, you will acquire it. Companionship, love, power, status… for you, all doors will open.”

“It is a gift. Anything you so desire here”, he touched his heart, “or here”, he touched his forehead. “Your will, your choices, will be a reckoning force. Nothing you do will be inconsequential, ever again.”

Mr. Jenson held his gift in his cupped hands. His lips were dry and cracked. He watched the butterfly struggle.

“Consider it a study of judgement.”

“So all of humanity is to be judged by the choices of one man? What happens if I choose wrong?”

“You are not the first to be so tested, Mr. Jenson.”

Mr. Jenson did not seem to hear. He was enraptured by the struggling of the butterfly and the slow snick, snick noise it made against the styrofoam.

The man stood. “And now I must take my leave. Do finish your pickle, Mr. Jenson.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside the cafe, the man in yellow and the woman with the wide smile talked to the man with the soap bubble eyes.

“What do you think of this one?”

“It is possible he will pass. But it worries me…” he looked up towards the glass window where Mr. Jenson could still be seen staring into his hands.

“It worries me because usually the good ones unpinned the butterfly by now.”

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