The Coming Drought

by Lazarus Gray

The gypsy caravan in the park seemed like an amusing diversion.

The teller of fortunes shuffled the tarot cards on her tablet screen and looked deeply into my eyes as she selected five and laid them out. The dim lighting in the tent shadowed the hollows of her face, rendering her expression unreadable. Not my type, anyway. I just wanted her to confirm my bright future

“I see... I see the ocean, receding, leaving only flopping fish and decayed shipwrecks. The water drains away, and the sun beats down, drying everything in the world. I see your quest, laid before you... The search for a source of water shall soon begin...”

I figured having my fortune told would go something like this – some vague metaphor that was supposed to have deeper meaning. I snorted and let her go on.

“Another scene appears... Behold! A circle of gold, symbolising eternity, rebirth and... something unexpected. Your quest will end where it begins. You will find your water source at the end of the golden circle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s the point?”

“I see no more. Ten dollars, please.”

I went home disappointed. The hot date I had planned that night soon improved my mood. An intimate restaurant, the latest Broadway show – whatever that happened to be – and a Hansom cab ride back to my apartment-with-a-view on W72nd Street.

The model was from some god-forsaken country in Eastern Europe. I’d met her over lunch the day before. She’d come to Wall Street on assignment – some magazine with a fancy name I’d never heard of. Barely spoke a word of English, but she was smoking hot. I figured the challenge would be good exercise – Wall Street gives you a taste for extremes.

Like many that came before me, my extremes involved women, drugs and wild sex.

The concierge out front of her swank hotel smiled and opened the door ahead of me. He sensed I was New York royalty by the cut of my Armani jacket. I wore a world-class, three-hundred-dollar haircut and expensive slacks with loafers that said I didn’t need to care how much comfort, elegance and style cost.

The elevator ride up to her room was the first sign that things might not go well. A pair of twenty-something babes got in the elevator with me, and I waited for the look that said they’d fuck me in a second if I showed interest. Instead, they ignored me and stood in the opposite corner. They got off the floor before mine without a glance. Millennials. No taste.

Valentina or Veronika opens the door when I knock. She looks me up and down, confused for a moment.

“Ah, friend from Wall Street, no? But I did not thinking you were serious about date?”

“Well, I thought I was...” She didn’t invite me in.

“Nyet. You are... in Russian could be harasho, or maybe klasna. Nice, good person, cool but... more friend. Come another time, friend – I take bath now.”

She slammed the door in my face.

Some might find that sort of rejection easy, but I’m used to getting my way. It wasn’t over... for the next two weeks, I was friendzoned by everything in a skirt that came anywhere near me.

In desperation I drove to a brothel in the unofficial red-light district a few burroughs away. The whores took one look at me and called their pimp. He told me to quit bothering his eye candy. I showed him a wad of cash and he stuck his thumb over his shoulder. The sign behind the counter warned that anyone could be refused service for any reason.

Three brothels later, the response was still the same. I pinned the pimp down this time, made him give me a reason my money was no good there. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear that the girls said it would feel like fucking their brother. Creepy.

So today it was back to the park. The caravan was packing up to leave. She waited in her cheap cotton dress and scuffed leather sandals, and smiled, as if she’d been expecting me.

“Hello, beloved.”

I obviously looked confused. She was still a gangly teenager – she’d looked fully grown in the dark tent.

“Poppa says my Friendzone Syndrome spell worked, but he thinks I’m too young. We’ll be back this way in two years when I’m eighteen. Then we can get married! Don’t worry, until then you will have many friends...”