Business with the Pope

The warm sun was high and eager in the sky. He looked up at it and felt its light heat his face. It was pleasant, a momentary release from the world. Is this how the rest of existence experiences the sun? A lovely, consistent warmth? Are we just too distracted? His thoughts carried him off, and he turned back to face ahead. He walked.

As he did, the sun became obscured by a fracture of clouds that were wispy on the edges and more voluptuous at their centers. The wind picked up as his thoughts began to race. There was much to do and much to see.

Beyond the nearby parking lot was a solitary door attached to the ground but nothing else. It had no building, and it looked like a meadow was behind it. The door was teal and enclosed in a wooden frame. He looked around suspiciously and approached the door. Three knocks rang out from the opposite side. He stopped just before it and stared. Three more knocks, this time with more urgency. Unfazed, he reached out and grabbed the cold doorknob and began to turn it. The knocks became nonstop and frenzied as he turned. As soon as the knob clicked, the knocks stopped, and he slowly swung the door open.

As he suspected, the meadow behind the door greeted him from the other side. The wind blew the grasses in a dramatic sway. He stood and waited. After a moment, there was a pop above the door, and small pieces of rainbow-colored confetti began to rain down just on the other side of the door. Red ribbons streaked across the expanse of the doorway and joyously fluttered in the wind. Bodiless laughter drifted towards him that eventually turned into a multitude of voices all speaking unison. “Why do you come?” the voices asked.

“I have business with the Pope,” he said.

“He has no business with you,” they replied. He was running out of time. His patience began to wear thin.

“He invited me here to discuss the situation with the Hanged Man.”

“We care not for the trouble the Hanged Man currently finds himself in. That is his own doing; he knew not to approach us.”

“So you hanged him on the tree?” he asked.

“He hanged himself through his actions. He grew stuck and needed a shift in perspective.” The voices sounded amused.

“But he’s been suspended since the deck was created. He is uncomfortable and wishes to be released.”

“Does Prometheus desire to be released? Does Sisyphus? Of course they do. They are but archetypes. They are forever cast to endure their fates. It is simply how the game works,” they explained in an acerbic tone.

“Not forever. Someone just needs to change the stories.”

“You think this will be you?” The laughter returned. “These stories have persisted for a reason. The man who is hanged is just another version of the same tale.”

“Fetch me the Pope,” he said.

“Watch your tongue, boy. We are not to be ordered.”

“Fetch me the Pope,” he demanded. The voices shrieked together, and the door slammed shut. He reached out to open it again, but the doorknob burned his hand. He stepped back with a sigh and moved his fingers to work through the pain. It quickly subsided, and he reached into his bag to pull out a large black marker. He drew a large X across the entire door, and he turned away.

The parking lot behind him sat before a lonely Starbucks. There was one large semi truck nearby and one or two other cars. Otherwise, it was sparse, and the Starbucks was quiet. As he walked past, he noticed an older man and woman smiling inside and holding hands together in front of their coffees. He dropped one of his Lovers cards from his bag in acknowledgement of their tender moment. Once it reached the asphalt, it slowly turned magenta and fizzled into the ground. Their smiles deepened, and he walked further.

His watch tapped him on his wrist. He raised it to check the notification, and the face of the White Rabbit greeted him. “It’s much too late,” said the watch. “You’re late; we’re late.”

“I know,” he said. “Blame the Voices.”

“You’re late; we’re late,” repeated the rabbit.

He turned to look at the door one last time and thought about just forcing his way through. “Dammit,” he said and shook his head. He turned away and walked towards the now setting-sun. It was a deep orange and the sky was streaked with purples and pinks.

The Voices tend to distort Time. Are they Saturnian? He wasn’t sure. They are certainly ascetic teachers. Almost like nuns who have a fascination with rulers and knuckles. There was too much exuberance, though: the teal door, the confetti, the ribbons. Had there been a bowl of cold oatmeal on the other side of the door, he might’ve felt more confident in his assumption. Nevertheless, their time-bending abilities were disconcerting.

His watch tapped his wrist again, but he chose to ignore it. He took a deep breath in and centered himself hoping to find another door nearby. He bent down and tapped the ground three times before exhaling. His breath turned to mist as if the temperature had just dropped above freezing. The icy breath curled and rose into the air for a moment before vanishing.

“Well that’s not good,” he said to no one. The watch tapped him again, and he kept walking.