Resolute Manifestation

“Do you have any idea what two raccoons fucking sounds like?”

“No, I cannot say.”

“It’s like a mix of the crinkling noise when the vacuum hits the right spot and raw, primal passion. Shit, one was bleeding last time."

Rob tried to cover his judging smile with a yawn, nodding along, “Oh really! That-that sounds like something….”

“Robo if I gotta give any advice: Never fall asleep with the window open and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich left out. That shit is like caviar to them.” 

“Wait so that’s how they got in your room?”

“Yeah, weren’t you listening?”

“No, no yeah, I meant that like in disbelief,” Rob yawned again. 

“So now they are squatting in my attic I think. I think it’s a baby daddy situation ‘cause only one is still there.”

“They are still in your room?”

“Well, I had to get to work!”

“Jesus Christ, Manny!”

“Now you know how I’m spending my New Year. Wiping up raccoon cum and shit….”

Rob shook his head while gazing through the window. His feet below were suffocated with empty Red Bull cans, Dorito chip bags, and playboy magazines. The sun is about to revolve for the 2023rd time and Manny still pleased himself with two-dimensional pornos. What a waste of paper and time. But who was Rob to judge?

Manny changed the conversation, “Robo have I told you about these dope baseball cards I got?”

“No.”

“Oh let me tell you something. I was in my Mom’s basement the other day cleaning out shit. Little do I know that I stumbled upon a vintage card collection my big man had. I mean seriously, this is like the equivalent to a Saudi finding oil or-or-or a pilgrim at the gold rush.”

“No, kidding!” went along Rob.

“Not in the slightest. So I was looking through…”

As Manny rambled on, Rob wondered if he was a good actor. Does Manny really think raccoon sex or his worthless card collection was interesting? There have been so many nonsensical analogies made in the front of this truck that Rob assumed Manny had CTE or some cognitive degradation. 

“Finding a PSA 10 Joe DiMaggio is like waking up not tired. It never happens…” 

Rob shrugged, that one was not too bad. Nonetheless, Rob had cause for concern for his co-worker Manny. On the outside, the man has to be depressed or sad or not in the right mental state. A patchy head with a double-chin and balance-ball gut, Manny, between 40 and 50 years old, has been hopping job-to-job for the past five years. Every time Rob returns from school for some short-term work, Manny always has a new plot or scheme to get his life back. None of it ever works, or otherwise, he wouldn’t be cleaning the Crown Point police station with a degenerate 22-year-old on New Years' Eve. For a time Manny resold sneakers but then got into Cryptocurrencies which then evolved into multi-level marketing. 

“What am I doing with my life?” Rob reflected. With the holiday in mind, he went on his phone and checked his notes from 1/1/22.

• Learn Spanish
• Read a book 
• Write a book 
• Become a billionaire 
• Change the world 

“My brother is a bit of a cock but I think he’ll invest. It’s all about the smooth talk Robo.”

“Invest?”

“In my new currency. Everyone’s doing it. Weren’t you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah,” sighed Rob, “Just this car ride.”

“Ah for sure for sure. Well, lucky we are back home — You doing anything tonight?”

Rob clicked his tongue, “Ah… well — I’m not sure. I might be going to a friend’s or the city. It’s all just so expensive to see the time change.”

“The Uber with the cover, and not to mention the drinks itself — Oh yeah it’s all marked-up like stadium waters.”

“Sure… how about you?”

“Ayo um I don’t know either. I might just smoke a bowl and turn on the TV. There’s usually a Bowl game or something to fall asleep to.”

Those words held Rob up. As Manny turned off Exit 27A and babbled on about buffalo wings, Rob’s throat tightened and his heart dropped. Twiddling his hands together he decided it was time to get on those resolutions. 

--------------------------

Rob’s bedroom mirror displayed an unquestionable realization, “Who the hell am I?” Then he slapped himself, punishing such a cliche, and took 15 more milligrams of Adderall. Rob transferred his resolutions to paper. Their physical appearance made them even more intimidating, as though he spoke a demon into existence. 

“No one says I have to do this,” he admits, “But….”

Last week he watched Interstellar for the first time and cried, as anyone would’ve. What stuck out to him more than any physics class was Matthew McConaughey’s explanation of Murphy’s Law: Anything that can happen, will happen. 

Google was no help, only pointing out the ever-obvious. Rob didn’t have time to invent an app or initiate a pyramid scheme. For about 20 minutes, he did open an ETrade account only to learn it takes three to five days for deposits to transfer. 

His phone rang. A text from his good friend Sam read: U going out tonight? 

It was 6:11 pm and he was wired to the gills. Even before the Adderall, Rob had no inclination to go out. The bars that were free entry less than a day prior are now $100 to get in line, and an extra $50 to skip the said line. Not to mention there was no “holiday discount” on drinks. Take a taxi, take an Uber, go swim down the river for Christ’s sake, none of that will cheapen an already overpriced-capitalistic-orgy of consumerism. New Year's Eve to Rob was a euphemism for National Rich Person Day —

Bell tower’s chime dinged, “I’m going to the Ritz Carlton.”

Cars in colors outside the spectrum lined up and down the tight Chicago oneway. Ladies impressed in classy cream dresses while men of high status guided them in sharp haircuts and distinguished colognes. Rob, in his Macy’s Memorial day savings suit, idled on the corner across. The idea was obvious: the Ritz is the Mecca of rich people. Maybe he could bump into someone, crack a joke, and Mr. Bezos writes a check for $1 billion. Or he can pickpocket everyone and settle for a million. That alone would reach the news. The catch was he still needed to learn Spanish. 

“My book,” he reminded himself, digging at folded papers inside his coat. Between the time Rob put on his suit and exit the BNSF train at union station, he wrote a book… a rough draft at least… it was more of an outline. Either way, he read the rough draft so one resolution was resolved. 

The question floated in his mind, yet again, “Why am I doing this?” Then he slapped himself.

“Posture,” he mumbled, rolling his shoulders back and walking with certainty at every step. An elderly man smiled at him and opened the door, “Welcome.”

“Too easy.”

Yet, his morphing excitement was quickly hushed. Rich people didn’t just let anyone in their parties. The lobby split into two: the right was for people staying at the hotel itself, and the left was for the party. At the entrance, guarded two genetically modified men of great size verifying paper invitations. 

“Oh fuck me — no,” he slapped himself, “Murphy’s Law. I —”

“Are you okay?” asked a partygoer. 

“Excuse me?”

“Drunk already,” she giggled, “Believe I’ve tried that trick before and all I got was a bruised thigh.”

“Thigh?”

She inhaled, “Eye. Sorry, I’m too a little,” and she gestured a hand to her lips. Even with the faint scent of gin, no miasma could mask her gorgeousness. In a loose, silky red dress, a young woman stood before Rob. 

The words just fought out of his mouth, “Ar-are you going to the party?”

“I am,” she said in excitement, “I love watching people spend more money than they should just to see a clock hand move.”

“Me too!”

“Not to mention we get look damn good doing it!”

“I must say — it’s a sin if I don’t — you look downright stunning.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled and her nose snickered, “Thank you! How kind of you to say.”

Rob extended his hand, “I’m Rob, Rob… Carlton.”

“Like this place?”

“Long-lost cousin, twice removed,” he flirted. 

She understood, “I’m Belle, Belle Vasquez.” They shook hands.

“Is that Spanish?”

“Yes!”

“You know I’ve been trying to learn Spanish.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Not well. And I only got about four hours to learn or I fail my old year resolution — hey would you be able to teach me?”

“I can try,” she winked, “When do you want to start?”

“How about inside after a drink?”

“Sounds lovely.”

Rob held out his arm and the two walked together to the ballroom’s entrance. It was at this moment, Rob began to sweat out his earlier confidence. Belle fished in her purse and pulled out the crimson-red invitation. She noticed his empty hands and giggled. 

“Invitations,” shotgunned a deep brass voice. 

Belle handed over her’s and before Rob could say something stupid she spoke up, “Excuse my date here – he doesn’t speak any English – he’s from Spain, and during his travels lost his invitations.”

The Stonehenge of a man turned to Rob squarely, “You don’t have an invitation?” 

Rob shook his head and mustard a recollection of sophomore year Spanish class, “No hablo ingles.”

The man turned back to Belle, “I’m sorry but no invitation means no entry —”

She smiled, “I thought might say that,” then pulled out her ID, “I’m hoping he can be my plus one.”

The man’s eyes cracked open, “Oh my apologies Ms. Vasquez. Of course!”

The two entered with ordinary ease and Rob decided to officially believe in God. Inside, the spectacle fell nothing short of The Great Gatsby. Food from cheeseburgers to rare amphibian delicacies laid artistically spread out over rows of tables. Waiters in white coats carried glasses of wine and champagne in a perfectly elegant manner, while people danced and cursed off the balcony above. In the center stood a circular stage with a tall clock tower. Rob understood then why people get rich. 

Belle led him to the bar, “They don’t serve Miller Lite just for reference.”

Rob couldn’t tell if it was his discounted suit or Belle that drew all the attention. The open bar gifted two gin and tonics with limes before the two took a table.

“Okay,” started Rob, “Who are you?”

“So direct…” her glossy red lips sucked on the lime, nearly sending him into shock, “Well as I said, I’m Belle, Belle Vasquez.”

“Oh, so we are still doing mind games?”

She placed the lime down, “Well, as a Carlton, you should know that the Vasquez family married into the Marriots just recently.”

“Obviously, as a sophisticated man, I read the Wall Street Journal.” 

“Ah, so you know with the help of my brother’s dick, we now hold a share in the ownership of Marriot International.”

“Which owns the Ritz-Carlton franchise.”

“Yes!” she sang, “Very good! You can put two and two together!”

“So you are extremely wealthy — like Saudi money wealthy.”

“Okay, not that rich – at least not me. But my family has a couple of tires to spare.” 

“Enough to give me one tire?”

Belle nearly spat out her drink, “Now is that why you are here?”

Rob twiddled his fingers, “Yes but in a metaphorical sense. I made a resolution that I would become a Spanish-speaking billionaire author that would change the world.” 

“Super practical, especially at your age. Why you must barely be 21.”

“22 actually.”

“Oof, we could’ve been in the same graduating class.”

“I take it college was unnecessary for you?”

“I’m more of a rogue experiential learner.”

“Should I be scared of you? — given your family.”

“You’re lucky, I’m the nice one who just likes to have fun.”

Rob scoffed, “There’s more to you than that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What’s your game, your motive here? There’s no way you just brought me in here as your donkey to heighten your looks.”

“You think I’m pretty,” she pouted. 

“I think you are trying something?”

Belle dropped her head in a mischievous fashion, “I need a motive? Why can’t people just be nice?”

“Rich people don’t play nice, especially with the common folk.” 

“Well, maybe I’m just bored.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Rich people are boring. They are routine for me. And it’s not routine to see an out-of-place man thrifting his way into an elitist party. I want to see what you’ll do. What you are trying.”

“Is that a challenge?”

She stroked his hand and felt her way to his shoulder, then neck, pausing in his gaze, “It’s anything you want it to be.”

After readjusting his pants, Rob stood up, “Would like to introduce me to any of your friends? I have a billion-dollar idea to pitch.”

“How about a dance first?”

Rob peered at the clock which read just past 11:40, “One dance.”

As the band finished their rendition of “Rockin’ on Top of the World, Belle whispered into the lead singer’s ear who gave a slick nod of approval. The drum began a quick beat while the electric keyboard sounded away up and down its scale. Everyone shifted to soft head bumps and shoulder sways. 

The singer snapped his fingers, belting out in glorious Stardust-fashion, “Ooh baby… I feel right… Music sounds better with you!” 

Euphoria ran high as dogs knowing they are about to go on a walk. The people erupted in dry-humping rhythm to a 90’s classic. While jovial drunks stretched and tossed muscles they haven’t used in years, Rob and Belle closed in on each other. Not a magazine nor even a razor blade could fit between the young pairs’ bodies. A shared cosmetic energy surged from Rob’s course palm to Belle’s delicate fingertips. Everything outside their three feet of space became nothing. Jupiter could’ve sent a meter bigger than the White House on that dancefloor, and the only worry would be if the song would finish in time. 

Rob rubbed his nose against hers, entering into her emerald green eyes. The second split into three while the two overthought what they both knew and wanted. Meeting at the lips, their two heads leaned into one. 

“Love might… Bring us back together — Ooh baby.”

“ — WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” Blasted a ravenous yell. 

Rob acted as though the six-foot hunk of male perfection staring directly at him was talking to the band. 

“Yes you,” he sneered, “Who the fuck else?”

What got Rob this far was confidence, so it was the only play, “No hablo ingles?”

“Perfecto. Yo hablo espanol.” 

A lava-hot warmth flooded Rob’s cheeks.

The man, so close now that Rob had to see pearl-white teeth and lazer-clean shave, “Como te llamas?”

“Me-mi-mi ammo Roberto.”

“Ah okay,” the man gestured air-quotations, “Roberto. Porque tu eres con mi hermana.”

Rob looked to Belle, whispering in her ear, “You have a boyfriend —” 

The man clenched Rob by the throat, “Don’t you fucking dare! —” 

“Leave him alone Alex!” ordered Belle. 

“Who is this man and why are you with him? He smells of Axe deodorant and poverty.”

“His name is Rob and he’s going to change the world.”

“Is that so?”

Rob nodded in vigorous agreement.

Alex released his grip, “Enlighten me then, Rob.”

The entire dancefloor continued grinding on each other while Rob gasped for air, accepting that his future is on the line. A family of this status can get people killed. One command from Alex and Rob would be a pig’s dinner on a farm upstate. 

In his right-side jacket pocket, Rob used his last life, “Here,” pointing to scribble on five sheets of loose leaf. 

Alex didn’t even look at it, “What’s this?”

“The greatest story ever told.” 

Those words directed Alex to the papers. His eyes, like a tennis match, bounced back and forth down the sheets. There were times his mouth opened, ready to comment, but then shut, leaving either a sigh or cough. Belle clandestinely intertwined her hand with Rob’s, holding it ever so tight. Finally, after a performance of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” Alex held up the papers. His dimples mixed with a scrunched nose and twisted eyebrows. 

“This is just fucking Interstellar! The Christopher Nolan film?”

“Yes” admitted Rob, “But… as my notes show, this is more of a prequel — no an expansion upon the theories they explored in Interstellar — if this was Interstellar but the title clearly shows it is not.”

“What!”

“Think about it. What if in this universe, instead of bending time like they did, they create their own timeline, their own dimension — ultimately creating their own universe and/or reality —”

“SECURITY!” 

“Oh no….”

Two Redwood tree bodyguards appeared with a barrage of punches and iron-clad grips. The music, the dancing, and Belle’s beautifully heartbroken face stewed a blurry transition so fast Rob blinked and found himself on the curb, bloody, cold, and alone. 

The clock must have struck 12 for an array of fireworks ignited over the city’s skyline. In the midst of bangs and flashes, he imagined Manny stoned and comfy in his squirrel-infested apartment. He pondered the night’s driving question, “Why did I even do this?”

He listed off his resolutions and then thought of Murphy’s Law, this time in its actual definition. It proved him wrong, “Everything that can go wrong will go wrong….”

“Not everything,” injected a passionate voice.

Of course, it was Belle shivering in the spectacularly rainbow light. She sat next to him and leaned on his shoulder. Rob put his arm around her, sparking a warmth only love could kindle, “I’d pay a billion dollars for this moment in any timeline.”

“And I think you alone hold a story set to change my world.”