Not With a Bang, But a Whimper

I was minding my own business at the pathetic little outdoor cafe table hard by the drycleaner, judging the passersby quietly to myself (negatively) when an odd-looking sort walked up to me with a latte and a clipboard. I feared him instinctively as a do-gooder with a petition (see earlier post on fear).

"May I have a word with you?" he asked politely in hushed tones.

"No," I answered politely in hushed tones.

Ignoring me skillfully, he sat opposite me and got right to the point.

"I sense that I can confide in you, unlike the others" he said, looking around nervously.

"You're wrong. You can't trust me," I said politely in hushed tones.

"You should know that I am from Mars," he said.

"Oh, really?" I replied. "Which exit?"

"Only a select few have been chosen to receive this message," he said.

"What's the minimum donation?" I asked hoping to skip the mishegos and get the pain over with.

He leaned over the table and looked right through me, sort of the way courtroom clerks do. "The date has been chosen," he whispered.

"Ok," I whispered back. "I hope that you and whatshername are very happy together. Where are you registered -- Bed and Bath?"

"March 26, 2012 in your calendar," he said.

"Aren't you going to drink that latte?" I asked. "Maybe it's getting cold." He didn't respond. "Ok, I'll take the bait. What's March 26, 2012?"

"That's the date the earth will begin anew," he said.

"Oh, I see," I said. You mean that's when the world ends?"

"Begins anew," he repeated.

"Ok, great. Begins anew. I'll be sure to put a reminder on my laptop. Of course, it will crash long before then, but whatever. Why are you telling me, anyway? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You will be contacted with more information," he said. "You have been selected."

"Hey, are you from Publisher's Clearinghouse?" I asked. "What gives with the clipboard?"

"When you are contacted, you will know," he said standing up and looking vacantly into the distance.

"Yes, well it's much better that way," I said. "If I'm contacted and I don't even know it, the whole thing's kind of a waste. That would suck ever so much."

"Only the selected will be brought out," he said, looking straight ahead.

"If you're talking about the Rapture, I'm pretty sure I don't qualify," I said.

"You have been selected," he repeated. Then he vanished. I didn't see where he went. I wasn't sure how he disappeared, but he did.

In a few moments a young man wearing an apron and an obligatory lip piercing stepped out of the cafe, walked up to my table, and pointed in the direction of the trajectory that the Martian had presumably taken. Because of the apron, I took him for the barista, but I suppose he could just as easily have been a guy with a big hole in his pants trying to make it through the day.

"That guy said you'd pay for his latte," he said holding out a cupped hand.

I should have trusted my instinct about fearing clipboards.