More than an Omen to me

Darvid awoke to the distinct sound of someone feverishly scribbling pen to paper. For a brief moment, Darvid questioned if he was physically hearing his own thoughts. It was as if they were expanding audibly out of his mind, across his head and back into his ears in an infinite feedback loop. He had a new poem in his mind for months and had not yet managed to get it down in ink - could this be it?

Shifting his lean body towards his office, he half expected to see his finished poem published, bound and sitting on his desk. This vision of success was nothing more than a passing thought as he jumped at the sight of a shadow, could someone be in his house? He didn’t have time for further pondering as his employer, TBC Enterprises would be seriously mad if he was late for work again.

Darvid was by no means a social man, for the best part of his long and somewhat exhausting life he had kept mostly to himself - trusting very few people and working for the Government, behind old manilla files, expired voucher dockets and his more confident, extroverted colleagues. His position at TBC Enterprises was both vague enough to be disenchanting and specific enough to keep his eager boss close on his heels. He had an easy day ahead of him, some simple enough data entry and transcribing audio recordings of early Congress meetings.

The Unclassified Ads Section in the Arundel Post usually wouldn't pique Darvid’s interest, but that morning during morning-tea and as he sipped on a cold cup of Molasses he couldn’t help but worry about how he would cover his horses' extortionate bills this month. A sketch in the paper grabbed his attention, what lay before him appeared to be one assertive looking man looking for a new home. Renting out his spare room was a quick cash-grab, sure. Darvid had never believed that anything came easy, he grinded every day like it was his last. There was something about this face that made him wonder if perhaps, he could learn to live life in a slower lane. Then again, if anyone was to be trusted in Arundel it was not the local cartoonist.

Darvid thought about making contact with this mystery home-seeker, but the Libra in him felt compelled to keep things fair and equal. Since he was only a little boy he had been drawn to “balancing the books”. It was an unfortunate personality trait that had led to him being ostracised by his older brothers and even kicked out of his family home at the age of only 15. To soothe his worried mind he decided that he would host an ‘Open Home Day’ to serve as an opportunity for strangers and friends to look inside his house. He drew up a poster of his humble two-bedder, offering tea, coffee and even a book-swap. Hell, the message even reached the local congregation that Sunday, the sleepy hollow hadn’t had an event like this outside of the Parish for nearly a decade. Darvid felt that he was doing good for Arundel, even if it was fruitless, at least his stories of his time in the navy could inspire and soothe.

Darvid awoke to faint chatter on the Big Day and felt grateful for his reliable body clock. The voices got louder and his instinct pulled him over to the front door to check the street for clues. In the distance, he saw a figure dressed in black traversing one of the adjacent roads. A few black crows flew overhead, and he chose to ignore this omen. Back to the bookshelf he went, a little anxious about the prospect of his habitat being penetrated for the first time since his 30th. When he sat down, he noted the urgent need to wash the cushion cover. In a fight with anxiety, reason piped up and reminded him that this was going to be good. He could practise his storytelling, and maybe even get his hands on the latest Cormac McCarthy novel in the book-swap. He had several Orwellian classics he could part with without a thought.

An Old Crow Medicine show song and the scent of stale salami preceded the first knock on the door. Darvid swanned over to the door, stopping first at the hatstand to put on his old cheese-cutter and check his reflection. In the harsh post-industrial climate, first impressions were not to be taken lightly. The two young women who stood in front of him were brazen and both very clearly burnt-out. Darvid didn’t want to waste anyone's time but there’s no way he would consider renting to two people. “Greetings, would you like to come in. I can offer you a seat and a refreshment?” he said, a little afraid of the possibility of them taking him up on this empty offer.

The girls had clearly taken to his house, his insecurities melted away as these enchanting girls made themselves far too comfortable in his dining room. The scrape of a dining chair rang out as the smaller of the two girls propelled herself backwards, heading straight in the direction of his cherry liqueur. “Mind if I crack this?” she asked. Who was he to deny anyone a drop of liquor, especially at this trying time? “Go on then love,” he said while shooting straight for the dusty scotch glasses he’d picked up at a car boot sale in Alabama. Truth be told, Darvid was no stranger to a morning tipple.

He balanced the red liquid in three short glasses as he walked back over, stopping on his way back to notice a small black notebook with the inscription “ATLAS SIMMONS” which was now sitting propped up against his bookshelf. This was new to him. The girls were deep in what debatably could be called a conversation and evidently had no idea that there might be another entity in the house. “Hello, Darvid Jack?” Turning around in confusion, Darvid saw the shady figure from earlier that day. He felt a sense of nostalgia, it could have been the sandalwood or the fact he had felt this man's aura through the crows that morning.

“I’m A. Simmons, internationally known as Young Son. I’m an actor from the Castle Guild, you may recognise me as the Executioner on Sundays. I also sell local mead at the Arundel Market for Men” He was intensely juggling three balls with one hand and didn’t break eye contact once. Albeit his laser focussed erraticism, this man seemed to know where he was and what he was doing and Darvid felt unusually excited.

“Do you want to see a trick?” he asked. Darvid’s mind's-eye sparked up like a fresh BIC lighter. “Of course!” he proclaimed, a little out of character for this usually placid man. It really was unusual for the man to be so unmeasured. Any thought of how the hell did this Young Son even get inside had left him. The Son started off his performance with a harmonica reminiscent of early Bob Dylan, snatching the drinks from Darvid’s hands and charmingly offering them to the girls after doing a full pirouette. They looked at each other with glee, these girls were not spiritual, but they knew chemistry when it hit them in the face.

The taller girl walked over to the kitchen and opened the fridge, “do you have any wine or any ant-acids?” She was disappointed to find nothing but bottles of milk and what seemed to be some bags of portioned home-killed chicken. “Easy does it girls, I can offer you a shot of Tennessee whiskey and that’s about it, I have been trying to stay off the bottle” Darvid replied. “Sign me up!!!” Simmons said, his hair slicked back from removing his pork-pie hat. He grabbed the bottle of Jack from the top of the fridge and topped everyone up with a generous free-pour, much to the obvious discomfort of Darvid. “Alright alright alright, I’ve just come into some unexpected money, let’s all go for a meal?” The short girl said with a sly look on her face. “What’s the go around here?” Darvid handed her a pamphlet on Arundel, neatly opened to the ‘Drinking and Dining’ section. There wasn’t a lot to work with, to be honest, but there was enough. She quickly settled on the “Espresso Junction”, noting its reputation for a good steak and Guinness pie.

After what could only be described as a success of a night and the bill had been settled in full, the group made moves back to the suburbs. The girls had their TV shows to watch, so went straight to their car and settled into the driver and passenger seats for the evening. The boys on the other hand headed out to the Arundel Tavern for a nightcap and a punt on the horses. An associate of The Young Son was doing an open mic standup improvisation performance, which he would like to avoid but at the least, he could try to be cordial. A couple more sidecars and maybe a drop of something Scottish served neat would warm him up to a conversation with someone he didn’t particularly respect. Darvid on the other hand was marvelling at this Young man's ability to read a room and work it. He was inspiring, he knew what he had, and how to use it. Darvid welled up slightly at the fact that he knew he could never be so free.

Darvid could never imagine someone so liberal, stylish and confident could ever be keen to kick on through the night with him. He hadn’t kicked on like this since his army days. He was a different man then. “So my new comrade, this room you have, I am good for the money... So my question is to you when’s the move-in date?” he whispered to Darvid, slipping him a small bag from inside his trench coat.

Darvid jumped back, utterly confused and thrilled that this funky young adult would want to be his friend. He peered inside the bag and saw wads of cash, a lot of it. Darvid went white with shock as he stood up and scanned the room for some sort of sign that this wasn’t divine intervention. The colour returned to his face as he said “I think we have a misunderstanding, the rent is 200 euros weekly”.

“Where I come from we pay yearly, you seem like a force for good in my life and this house is close to my work at TBC enterprises. There’s $20,000 there, the lot. Take your horses to the vet so you can refocus on your poetry. I didn’t tell you but I knew your name from the Poem of the Day in the Arundel Post”.

Darvid smiled. He had never been so lucky. A fan, a friend and a flatmate.