The 11th hour
A red dragon china teapot lay upon it, with a matching cup, a red candle and an incense holder with a burning stick.
High from the joint he’d had that morning, Noah pushed the door into the second hand shop of 11 Sorcerer Lane, to the sound of a click and a ding-a-ling. He tripped on the few steps down into a small area packed tight with musty goodies. He hadn’t been there before but as John Lennon said, “Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.” Just in front of him was a Gothic arch with steps down. Down appealed, the dingier the better. His tall scrawny frame crumpled, adjusting to the steep and narrow steps. Eleven in total.
The dark basement was greedy in its hoard of eclectic stash. In particular, he was drawn to multiple paintings, in different sizes, of the same Asian God reclining on a mouldy wall. The god looked more Chinese than Indian to his ignorant eye.
A thin wispy line of smoke from a half open black door in the far corner, weaved its way around the den, dancing to the faint Asian music which played.
“Come, come.”
Noah jumped and checked his pocket to see if he had smoked two joints that morning or just one.
“Come. Sit,” a whisper said. Behind the black door a tiny Asian man with thick grey hair squatted behind a bamboo mat. A red dragon china teapot lay upon it, with a matching cup, a red candle and an incense holder with a burning stick.
“Sit.”
“Er…” Noah blushed, “I…”
“Time for Tea,” said the old man.
“Tea?”
“11 o’clock. Tea-leaf reading,” the old man said
“Reading?”
“Fortune tell.”
Noah sniggered.
The old man motioned for him to sit and poured tea into the delicate cup, “dink.”
Noah smirked.
“You lucky. Time choose you.”
Noah took the cup; wasting time drinking tea was fine by him. He swilled the tea and put his nose to its brim. He inhaled a waft of green tea bitterness, entwined with a hint of rose or jasmine or what? He didn’t know but it was flowery and he downed it, its taste sweeter than expected. The old man tilted the cup left, then right and rotated it clockwise.
“You, decision?” he said.
Noah shrugged.
“Wrong decision. You regret.” Noah frowned.
“Know decision?” the old man said.
“No.”
“Know? Good.”
“No. Like, NO!” Noah shook his head, slow and precise, using the age old remedy of resorting to exaggerated gestures to assist in times of misunderstandings.
The old man poured more tea in the cup, swilled it, “dink.”
Once again, he rotated the cup. “Decision tomorrow. 11 o’clock.”
Noah laughed, “I don’t do decisions,” and said. “I smoke, play guitar, while away the time.”
“You go out. 11 o’clock you out.”
“Out?”
The old man opened his arms out wide. “Anywhere, where no matter.”
The air was thick with incense and Noah’s eyes watered as he listened to the old man continue. “Want see result of decision?”
He retrieved an old, half empty bottle of snake wine from a glass cabinet, “Rice wine. Magic,” he said. “Left hand.”
He tipped a drop onto the palm of Noah’s left hand, rubbed it in and then mixed a shot in the tea leaves and said “Dink. Close eyes,” and blew out the candle.
“Look hand,”
“I can’t see anything, it’s dark,” Noah said,
“Look”
Noah stared at his hand “It’s fuzzy and -”
Three images appeared, one by one. An old barn surrounded by fields. A double bed on top of which lay an indistinguishable girl on her side, his guitar, scribbled song lyrics, and a recording contract. Last, a ginger cat, half hidden under a pink silk scarf, spooned around a trophy.
“That’s one decision. Right hand.”
“I don’t know what it meant,” Noah said
The old man repeated the ritual with Noah’s right hand. This time, one after another, Noah saw; his name on an official list. A government building and his studio flat without furniture in darkness.
“Reading finish.”
“But-”
“One decision you regret.”
“But how-”
“You feel.” The old man pressed his hand upon his heart.
Noah didn’t remember saying goodbye or leaving the shop as he walked the five minutes it took to get home, woozy from the rice wine, musky incense and aromatic tea. He slouched on his unmade bed and lit a half smoked joint and polished it off. He was holding the business card of the shop, ‘11th Hour’ but he didn’t remember taking it. On the back, written in the old man’s scrawl was, ‘11 o’clock out decision regret.’ One couldn’t accuse him of being verbose, he thought.
Noah awoke at five to eleven the next day. Groggy, he looked for his weed but the first thing he saw was the card. He looked at his watch and a rave of butterflies on speed churned in his stomach. It didn’t matter he told himself, it didn’t, but he jumped up. He had been given direction; given a purpose. He had purpose, he told himself, he was free, so why did having somewhere to be feel good?
He hadn’t undressed the night before so he was quick. He pulled his fingers through this hair, shoved his shoes on, grabbed his jacket, stuffed a chewing gum in his mouth and flew out the door.
On the top step, right outside his studio, he bumped into a young woman, “Hi, do you live here?”
“That’s me,” he said pointing to the door behind him,
“Sorry to disturb, but I’ve lost my cat,” she said,
“Haven’t seen him,” said Noah and leapt down the stairs.
He was out. He didn’t know whether to stay where he was or walk somewhere. In theory he was out. He crossed the grey street to the town square and checked the time, 11.03am. Typical, he wasn’t good at showing up. He slumped, round shouldered on a bench and spat out the gum. He fiddled in his jacket pocket for his lighter and lit a crumpled fag. This is why he never did anything; he wasn’t a player. He pulled hard on the fag, a deep intake of guilt; guilt that only the privileged can feel. He didn’t have a terrible tale to tell. He just couldn’t do it; the drudgery. He broke bonds with disappointed others. Their judgement hard to bear, questioning his choice to live off benefits and play music. The drudgery messed with his wasted time. Wasted time made his music.
He inhaled sharply and noticed a little girl, about six years old, crying. She started to flap her arms about and then abruptly cried out, “Mummy!” He flicked his fag on the ground and moseyed over to her, kneeling down to her level.
“Have you lost your mum?”
Panting in desperate, miniature breaths she nodded with a sweetness that broke him. He held out his right hand to her, and said, “Let’s find her.”
They hadn’t gone far when a woman, laden down with shopping came running towards them. As she got closer Noah’s chest tightened; her expression was inhuman in its ferocity.
“Mummy!” cried the girl. In an instant Noah had the most peculiar feeling. He snatched his hand away from the little girl’s, and looked at his burning palm and clenched his teeth. The result of the decision he’d had a glimpse of with the old man played out. The government building was a police station; he was held for six hours and put on a potential offenders list. His dealer appeared with something new. The vision faded with him unconscious with a needle next to him on the floor of his empty studio. This would be his regret.
He ducked and ran. His chest tightened, squeezed by a public constrictor. He gasped, flailing, prey to societies injustices. He shot up the stairs to his studio, unaware he was counting them as he went, and landed on the last step, the eleventh. Panting, it suddenly came to him. His exchange with the girl who’d lost her cat had been at 11.00am on the dot. On the eleventh step! Eleven’s everywhere. Signs everywhere! He should have helped her look for her cat. He tumbled back down the stairs to the floor below. There were two flats, eleven and twelve. He knocked on the door of flat eleven. He knocked louder, called out, and banged. The door to flat twelve opened.
“You looking for Harry?” the girl said.
“Dunno, she was looking for her cat this morning? I live upstairs and -”
“Oh was she?” she said.
“Did she find her cat?” Noah said,
“I expect so. Blackie’s a little minx.”
Noah nodded, “Right.”
“Did you say you live upstairs?”
“Yep, number 14.”
“You’re above me then.” She opened the door a little more and leaned on one leg and untied the pink scarf from around her head. “Do you play the guitar?”
“Yep. Can you tell her I’m sorry about this morning?”
“Sure,” she said, twiddling with her hair, “I hope you don’t mind me saying but I love listening to you play. Do you write your own songs?”
“Er…” Noah drummed his hand on the side of his leg. “Yep,” he coughed, “I mean, yes, yes, I do.”
She smiled and Noah smiled back and nodded. He wasn’t sure whose turn it was to speak so he blurted, “Er… Can you tell her I was looking for her?”
“Yeh, sure,” A ginger cat slid up to the girl and rubbed against her leg, “Aw, you hungry?” she said and closed the door with a warm smile. “Bye.”
Noah, stood in front of his studio door frowning, chasing a thought he hadn’t yet had. Then it hit him. “Idiot!” He smacked the palm of his hand on his forehead. “Such an idiot!”
The feeling came, clear as the lyrics of his next song. He looked at his left palm and the vision bloomed. They fell in love, he cleaned up and they moved to the country. He wrote songs, recorded an album and they lived an extraordinary life of love and dreams fulfilled. His first hit was called “The 11 o’clock decision.”
As the vision ended he fell to sitting on the top step. Wide eyed, a cheeky grin, curved up to light his once deadened eyes. He didn’t dare to question the truth of the old man’s sorcery but just bathed, for a second, in its hope. His thoughts turned to the girl at number twelve. He opened his door, grabbed his guitar and descended down the stairs.
