Short Story: Karma

Short Story: Karma

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Often when I’m sitting in some greasy spoon first thing in the morning, clogging my arteries and staining my teeth, I get a pang of jealousy for the people I see going to work in their uniforms in and shiny shoes. They can chuck it all in whenever they like. They could call in sick and go on a road trip out to the backwaters of Europe, fall in love with someone and start their own video rental store in Minsk, if they wanted.

Not me though. I can’t do any of that. If you defy your line manager at a supermarket or in an office somewhere there are relatively few consequences; defy the will of the universe, however, and the shit really hits the fan.

I know, I know, “the will of the universe”- sounds like I’m being overly dramatic, right? Wrong. You see, as improbable as it sounds, I’m kind of the arm of the universe, I’m its arbiter of justice. To put it a less haughty way: I give karma a punt in the right direction. I am rarely seen but always felt. Maybe you’ve had a feeling that there’s someone else in the room- that you’re being watched- when your eyes tell you there’s nobody else in the room. That’s probably me. Sorry. But it’s all part of the job, and hopefully you see that the job isn’t really something you just walk away from.

So does this mean I know about whether or not there’s a God? I hate to burst the collective bubble of the religiously inclined right now, but I don’t know if there is. If there is, he’s never bothered to call me up and tell me what a good job I’m doing, or bought a crate of beer one Friday afternoon- but then most C.E.O.s do that, and nobody thinks it’s because they don’t exist, right?

I have a wife and a daughter. Kind of. I can’t talk to them anymore. Well, I talk and they don’t hear. It’s fair to say I had a life before I took this job. I had furry dice in my car (a red Fiat Punto, no less) and cold beer in my fridge, and microwavable slippers that my wife bought me one Christmas, and all that shit. The point is, I was someone. See, this job- this fucking job- doesn’t so much erase you from the universe as shunt you into the background, like the untalented kid at school who plays the back end of a camel or a quiet shrub.

(For the record, that never happened to me. Promise.)

I’ve stood in front of them before and told them I loved them and they just stare at me blankly. I wish I knew what they saw and heard. I touched Gail’s cheek once and she didn’t flinch; didn’t even realise I’d done it. That’s the way I goes, I guess. That’s the way the universe works.

I could make it so they become incredibly rich and powerful but karma, as they say, is a bitch. Someone would have to pay. How would you feel if you were the one who had to foot the cost of my preferential treatment? All I can do is throw them a few scraps of happiness now and then. Maybe Sofia finds five quid on the ground during lunch at school. Maybe Gail kicks the washing machine and it starts working again, good as new.

Hey, it’s not much, I know, but it’s better than nothing. For those little gifts someone somewhere stubs a toe, or catches a door handle in their pocket. I can live with that.

Let me fill you in on this karma scam. There are debts and there are rebates. It’s like the Inland Revenue of the cosmos. Terrifying prospect, right? You’re right to be terrified. It’s slow, lumbering and horribly invasive. Debtors get what’s coming to them; those due a rebate are rewarded. Eventually. I’ve never filled out any paperwork, but maybe someone somewhere does that, in an airy marble office somewhere in the ether. Basically, it’s a simple system and at least my job has that going for it.

My main interest lies with sorting out the loved and the unlovable. I think it’s because, when it comes down to it, I’m a bit of a diehard romantic. I have firsthand experience of the ins and outs of this universe and now I can kind of look at us as a species from a removed position and say: we’re fucking awful. The only thing that brings out the best in us is love, whether that love be familial, platonic or romantic.

That’s why I’m in another greasy spoon, clogging these arteries and staining these teeth.

You’d think being an arbiter of karma that I’d have some degree of autonomy, but you’d be sadly mistaken. I just kind of get a gut feeling about where I’m supposed to go next- no memos, no lists, none of that. I’m like a divining rod. I’d followed my gut to this small cafe, not knowing who I’m waiting for or how long I’ll be here, and now I eat and drink not because I need to, but just so I can pretend I’m a part of society. Of course, one side effect of being part of the scenery is that people tend not to notice you until they’re almost standing on your face. They apologise sheepishly (well, the polite ones do, and I remember that) and forget it ever happened. Same goes for shops and the like. I’ve been buying my pack of fags from the same woman in the same shop for years and yet there’s not so much as a flicker of recognition.

I should probably state, just for the record or whatever, that cigarettes for me are like food and drink- totally unnecessary. However, I still smoke because:

a) I like the feel of a cigarette in my hand.

b) It makes me feel human again.

I digress. (I do that a lot. The first time was in 1973...)

You know those sped up videos you see in films and on TV from time to time? That’s sort of what happens to me when I’m working. Car headlights become sweeping rails of light, traffic lights pulse and seas of people lap against the sides of skyscrapers. When it first happened I was overcome with awe, but like any Hollywood effect, it quickly grows old. That’s tragic, huh?

So a few hours rush by and suddenly everything’s settling back in to a steady pace and in walks this girl and I just know she’s the one I’m looking for. I don’t know yet if she’s a debtor or due a rebate, so I sit tight and wait for the universe to show me. She’s got puffy red eyes, like she spent most the night crying, and as she reaches out to pay the cashier I can see her hands shaking. Poor girl. If I had to guess, I’d say I was dealing with a rebate, but you never know. I will say this about the job: it’s certainly varied.

I know she’ll sit down next to me. I know this. Once they’re within a certain radius there’s no way they can leave without letting me peer inside. I got gravitational pull.

She’s looking for a seat and I just stare straight ahead. I know. She keeps her head low (not wanting everyone to see the puffy eyes, I guess) and walks slowly towards my table, blowing on her black coffee. Her hands still aren’t steady though- she spills a bit down the ridge of her knuckles and down one of her thighs. She puts her cup down right in front of me and spills a bit more. Good thing I’m wearing dark coloured clothing.

She slides onto the chair in front of me and our eyes meet.

I’m ashamed to say I can’t explain exactly what happens when our eyes meet. It’s like the lights go down in some cosmic movie theatre and an old reel starts up, showing me every second of their lives. Sounds like it would take ages, but I don’t really notice it. I guess Time is different for me. After I’m done seeing all their most embarrassing moments, (seriously guys- everyone picks their nose. Why the taboo?) I extrapolate their karmic alignment and – boom – justice is done and everyone in the universe sleeps a little more soundly, whether or not they know it.

I don’t have a Data Protection Policy. I’ll get that out there right now. I’m sorry. I can recall absolutely everything about any person I’ve ever encountered like this. It’s all sharp and clear, like it happened this morning. So it’s not going anywhere. Sometimes that’s great... other times it’s horrific.

So. Emma here grew up in West Yorkshire. Her Dad (Graeme, compulsive gambler) left on the third of April nineteen-eighty-eight, but her Mum (Tina, manic depressive) didn’t tell her till the twenty-seventh of June, fifteen days after she got her first ten-out-of-ten in spelling.

Do you see? Every mundane detail is indelibly etched in my mind. I have a library of lives; some funny, some tragic, all meaningful in some way. It’s kind of overwhelming sometimes.

So what’s Emma done? Not a lot. She accidentally didn’t pay for a tomato in a Tesco in Huddersfield in twenty-oh-seven. She got really drunk and cheated on her second boyfriend Dean (her first real love) with Richie (shoe fetishist) at a party in Bradford in nineteen-ninety-eight. She felt awful for weeks. He never forgave her. She’s never cheated since, or stolen another tomato. Her life has had more downs than ups, and I’m always sorry to see that. If I can squeeze out an extra helping of good karma for these people, then I’ll do it, because Lord knows I’ve been there.

Emma is owed a little good fortune and I breathe a sigh of relief. One less person to put through the mangle.

She’s been up all night crying because she found out her boyfriend (Will, dickhead) has been cheating on her with another girl for the last few months. She’s unsteady because she’s still a little drunk. Right now she genuinely feels like she’s looking into the void. But just watch this.

A young man enters. He’s got a yellow scarf on, and has windswept dirty blonde hair that bounces of its own accord. His eyes are weirdly close together. He goes to the counter and while he’s doing that I slip out of my seat and stand a little back, just so’s it’s all cinematic-like. He buys his coffee and- would you believe it- there’s only one table left, and it’s Emma’s. He approaches cautiously without his coffee, scarf clutched between his interwoven fingers as he beseeches her with every fibre of his being to do him the kindness of tolerating his presence. He’s terribly polite, I’ll give him that. She rubs her eyes self-consciously and tells him to go ahead.

They make the usual small talk to begin with, and the conversation falls into an awkward silence, and I’m starting to worry that this is going to be a wasted opportunity... right until a moment of inspiration.

She likes his scarf. She thinks it’s because it kind of reminds her of Rupert the Bear. He laughs and says he is in fact Rupert the Bear. Seizing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she asks him probing questions, to which he gamely responds. Having quenched her thirst for Rupert the Bear-related trivia, she asks for his autograph. He obliges, and throws in his number as well, ‘cause why the hell not?

She smiles; he drains his coffee and they say goodbye, and she says she might give him a call if any more questions pop into her head. He says he hopes she does, flashes a brilliant smile and strides out of the cafe- possibly the only man to have ever used Rupert the Bear to pull.

I usually get a bit self-satisfied at this juncture. It’s hard not to. I just made something amazing happen. I don’t know what the future holds for them but that was some palpable fucking chemistry right there. I’d be surprised if they didn’t give the whole ‘long term relationship’ thing a fair whack. Good for them. The more love, the better, that’s what I say.