The Prediction

AND THE METS WIN THE WORLD SERIES! 

I swear the bar is shaking, beer is triumphantly bouncing from bottles, and most of it lands on the ground. Pandemonium is unfolding around me but I'm frozen in something more curious than the long-awaited title. As a 35-year-old, lifelong Mets fan, I often imagined the bliss that would wash over me, bringing with it a tidal wave of euphoria, yet, I could only think of an old college friend, Jordan Katz. 

I know how strange that sounds, and trust me it's only going to get weirder. See, Jordan was my roommate throughout college, although, I never considered him a great friend. I hate to use the word sidekick, but that's what he was to me. He'd pick me up from parties so I didn't have to take a taxi, he'd always buy our groceries, and rarely ask to be paid back. He was an amazingly reliable guy, and that's what made him such a quality roommate. This is going to sound conceited, but I was very popular in those days. Class president for two years, I would have won a third term, but I needed to focus on landing a job. My friends were high achievers, they wanted to be lawyers or hedge-fund managers. My circle was competitive, and cutthroat at times, I was no exception. I lost friends in both school elections because I was willing to do whatever it took to win. Looking back, I hardly recognize myself. I wish I'd kept some of those friends, and occasionally I feel sadness for losing them. Anyway, Jordan wasn't like most of those guys, he wanted nothing to do with grabbing power, but he liked having friends in high places. He relished the role of sidekick. 

We rarely went to the same parties, but there were a few occasions when we would invite people over to our dorm, or in later years our house. This might sound irrelevant but there's a specific reason he is looming so large in my mind. And no, he's not a Mets fan, he actually didn't care for sports. Which makes this story even stranger.

It was 16 years ago, I'd had a few beers but I wasn't a huge drinker, the same could not be said for Jordan. At minimum, he'd consumed twice as much as I had, and I outweighed him by 60 pounds. He was slouched clumsily on our disturbingly stained blue couch (if that thing could talk ...), I was fairly positive he'd be spending the night there. Our guests were beginning to depart, the exodus started after Jordan said something to a girl I didn't recognize and she stormed out. Soon after, it was only the two of us, and Jordan's friend, Mark Lynch. Mark and I were friendly enough, we were shooting the breeze, when out of nowhere, Jordan starts hysterically laughing, like he was being tickled with a giant cartoon feather. His face is as red as an apple, and he says, "2036. Mets 4. Twins 2." Then he passes out. 

It is now 2036 and the Mets just defeated the Twins 4-2 to win the World Series. Not only was the final score of the last game 4-2, but they won the series in 6, meaning the series score was also 4-2. I leave the bar and head home. I have to find Jordan. 

A quick Google search reveals that Jordan is still in the city, he works for a brokerage firm, A.L.F. He's a low-level associate, which is confusing since his LinkedIn says he's been with the company for seven years. On the other hand, Jordan wasn't a finance major, so it's a miracle that he has a job at a successful firm. 

I contemplate sending him a message on LinkedIn, but I decide against it. Instead, I plan to drop in on him at his office tomorrow. I head to bed, the situation has my mind buzzing, sleep is going to be a challenge. Outside, a nocturnal group of Mets fans is screaming, and that doesn't help either. My thoughts wander, what will I say to him? Why am I so desperate to find him? A voice thunders, "Let's goooooooooooo!" I try to ignore it. I want to know how he did it. How could he do that with such specificity? And truthfully, more than anything, I want to know if he can do it again. 

The glaring sun forces my eyes open, I'm not sure when I fell asleep. I check my watch, it's 11:00 A.M. Shoot, I overslept. I cobble my things together and make my way downtown to Jordan's building. It's one of those new-aged skyscrapers, with sparkling windows, and an atmosphere of self-importance. My first job out of school was in a building like this, a big accounting firm. The mere thought of that job makes me shiver. The long thankless hours, the demanding bosses who never said good job or thank you. A year of that was more than enough. 

I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the windows, I wish I hadn't overslept, I could have fixed myself up a bit, but I'm not here to win a beauty pageant. 

The lobby is gigantic, there are at least 20 companies in the building, I need to find my way to A.L.F. Straight ahead there's an elevator bank, each goes to a different set of floors, I have no way of knowing which one I need. A flare of pain rudely announces itself, pinching my temples, this is what I get for not sleeping. I rub my eyes, trying to stall the headache, then I hear, "excuse me, sir, do you work in this building?" It's a large bald man, with a salt-and-pepper scruff, his tone isn't inviting. Trying to hide my agitation, I reply, "I'm meeting a friend, he works for A.L.F." He crosses his bulky arms as I continue, "could you point me in the right direction?"

Before I know it, I'm outside the building. The meathead tossed me out, he said they don't take unannounced guests. My skull is pounding, and I collapse onto a park bench, near the building. I have no choice but to wait. A vendor is kind enough to offer me a water bottle free of charge, I insist on paying but he waives me off. This gives me hope that my luck is turning, plus the water thwarts my headache. 

A group of men in expertly tailored black suits walks by, I try to ignore the stares, they must have seen me get tossed from the building. One of them breaks off from the pack, he's headed towards me and I notice he's rather disheveled compared to the rest, perhaps he's the assistant. He's a few feet from me, and he's eyeing me with a level of interest I don't like, "Is that really you?" I feel vulnerable on the bench, so I stand, "It's Jordan! Jordan Katz! Wow, it is you! I can't believe it."

Of course, I recognize him now, in my defense it had been a while, and he doesn't look anything like his profile. He went for a hug and I extended a handshake, so we land on an awkward fist bump. He offers to take me to lunch, and I accept. 

We take an outside table at a nearby sandwich shop, he swears its good. We spend a few minutes catching up, he's married with two kids, and living just outside the city. Once the requisite niceties pass I make my move, "Can you believe the Mets?" I say casually, paying close attention to his reaction, nothing. 

He says "I know folks around here were happy," but he doesn't seem to care. I have to push, just as I'm going to try, our food arrives. He scarfs down his B.L.T., while I take my time with a tuna melt. "I have to get back to the office, it was great catching up with you man." He gets up, I start to panic, he slaps a fifty on the table, "take care man." 

"How'd you do it?" The words fall out of my mouth. I walk with him toward his office, "how'd you know the Mets would win?" He shakes his head, "I have no idea what you're talking about." We're twenty feet from his building, so I quickly recap the story. He shakes his head, and tells me he doesn't remember that at all. The group of men from before are back, he tells me to take care and follows them in. For a second my feet are plastered to the sidewalk, then I come to my senses and follow him. He's heading towards the farthest elevator, I shout, "Jordan! Please." The whole group looks at me, except him. Five seconds later, they've disappeared. 

I decide to leave, regroup, and try again tomorrow, but before I can, the same bald guard stops me. I assure him I'm leaving, but he shakes his head. "You had a warning, you're coming with me." He grabs my arm before I can flee, and he violently pulls me through the lobby, to a small conference room, with a large table, he points to a chair, and I sit. To my surprise, he walks out. Am I a prisoner? Couldn't I just go? Was that all to teach me a lesson? 

I think about leaving but I pause, what if he's right outside? I'm standing between the door and the chair, should I stay or go? The door swings open and a familiar face enters, but not the one I was hoping to see. 

"Mark?" He hasn't aged a day since school. He smiles and apologies for the guard then offers me a seat. There's an uneasy feeling that I can't shake, but I play along. He asks, "how long has it been?" 

I reply, "At least 15 years." 

He laughs and asks where the time has gone. I nod politely, the uneasy feeling is getting stronger, I eye the door, "I actually have to get going." He puts a hand up, his tone becomes serious and he says, " I know why you're here." I don't say anything, "That night. The Mets. It's amazing huh?" 

I decide to play dumb, "I don't know what you're talking about ..." He doesn't buy it. He stands over me, hand still out, keeping me down and he reveals the truth, 

"That was the first night I'd seen him do it, but it wasn't about the Mets. I'm sure you don't remember Jessica Bauer, but that night, after his 11th or so shot, he tells her that her boyfriend is cheating on her. She knows he's had a crush on her for years, and as far as anyone knows her boyfriend is an honorable guy, so she gets really pissed and storms out. Well, she gets back to her suite and what do you know, her man is there, playing tonsil hockey with one of her roommates. Her name is Jessica Katz now by the way, but that's beside the point. He had a gift, but it only came out when he was inebriated. At first, it was random things, he'd know that a professor would be out next Tuesday, or that a store would be robbed, and so on. But I knew I'd found a gold mine, and in time I figured out how to use it properly. I could get him to reveal useful tidbits, like what companies will be under by next year, or what start-up will be worth 100 million in a month."

My jaw was on the floor, then it struck me, A.F.L. The L is for Lynch, Jordan works for his company. "You've kept him around all this time? He doesn't have any clue, does he?" I ask. 

He shakes his head, "Nobody does, ah it feels nice to get this off my chest. And even if you could get close to him, which my guards will prevent, he wouldn't believe you in a million years. I mean look at yourself. What street do you live on these days?" 

His words eat at me, they're cruel but I can't deny their truth. At last, I'm back outside. I can't go back, not yet. I was making the mistake I always do, chasing the big payday, it's what's cost me every opportunity I've ever had. I make a vow to myself, to get my life together, and come back, not to use Jordan to win a bet, no. I will help him. I owe him that, I took advantage of him, just as Mark is doing now. I walk away, but I will be back.