The St. Petersburg Syndrome

A humorous imagining of a supernatural moment.

And, of course, quite very fictional.

Copyright reserved

     Mick, the aging rock star looked pensively out the window to the roads and fields below. He took a drag from his near-spent Marlboro and flicked ashes casually, uncaring as to their landing. Landing, yes, he was deep in thought as to how to handle his meeting once he landed. The last time he visited Mahone Bay was during better times. The Learjet had been his first and most satisfying. Recently he had purchased a Vision jet but it lacked the sparkle which had been the Learjet, much like his aging self. He carried with him the tortured knowledge that the ignorance of youth was much more exciting than the wisdom of age. And yet it was the wisdom that he now had with which to negotiate. What was he to do? How would he handle this meeting?

    Arriving from the jet to Mahone Bay, the rock star exited the inconspicuous cab with a sense of self-absorbed conceit and narcissism that would cause envy to Satan himself.

     As he reached the steps to the pub two young, blond-haired and smiling women with unearthly attributes of twin similarity opened the doors greeting him. “Welcome Sir”, referring to his Knighted status rather than the gentlemanly. It was obvious to these cover-girl blonds, that he was the ultimate manifestation of wealth and taste. “Nice teeth” was his only verbal response to the blonds which he accompanied with a wide smile that seemed to indicate his sense of total and unchallenged control.

    While incognito to the outside world, the pub staff recognized him immediately, and with the butt-kiss humility he had grown to expect. One of those nice-toothed blonds, Barbara, seated him in an inconspicuous corner of the pub at an insignificant wooden table, scratched and worn. Upon this insignificant table rested a pack of his favorite Marlboro, hard pack, an ash tray, and a bottle of Glen Breton Whiskey, beside two very recently pressed shot glasses, still warm. Mick lit the cigarette with a match, his preferred method.

    He blew smoke rings as he watched the two blond-haired women close and lock the doors. They turned the “open” signs around such that they read “closed” to the outside world. Blond Millicent ceremoniously placed coins in a seriously ancient juke box. The vocal sounds of Muddy Waters accentuated a blues guitar, bursting forth from the musical artifact into an equally old pub. The sound and the surroundings comforted Mick.

Pulling his attention back to the table he noticed his guest had quietly, inconspicuously arrived.

    It had been aboard his Vision Jet that he had received a text message on his smart phone which was dedicated to this one, very special business associate. Only this associate had the number to this particular phone.

“Greetings Sir”, again the Knighted status.

“Have a drink.” Replied the rock star, flatly. Mick waited for his guest to continue.

The guest hesitantly reached for the shot glass, poured the whiskey, a bit of tremble to his hand, and also in his voice as he asked “May I have one?”, referring to the cigarettes.

With the same nod Mick signaled his permission and also prompted the guest’s awkward explanation. A tremble still in his voice, the guest began and then fell silent as if to reconsider within himself how to begin.

“Obviously the task is beyond your skills.” offered Mick.

“I need more time” as the guest poured another shot.

The cigarette dangling from his lips seemed to tremble with even greater frequency than did his syllables.

“You’ve had thousands of years.” replied Mick.

“I” began the guest.

“Be careful. Use all your well-learned politesse.” teased Mick.

The guest defended his failures. “I tempted him in the wilderness. I buddied up with Judas, I have confused generations of people with misinformation. But His presence seems to linger, unaffected.”

“You’ve failed me, Satan. I’m getting someone else to give it a try.”

     As Mick completed his judgment he snuffed out his cigarette, the smoke overwhelmed the dim light of the inconspicuous corner of the pub. Satan evaporated as if he had never existed.

    As the smoke of this supernatural session dissipated, the dim light revealed a woman sitting beside Mick. She was adorned in the richest black hair ever that graced the planet. Her jewelry was worthy of queens and pharaohs. Mick turned toward her and affectionately spoke “Cleopatra, my dear. It’s been a while.”

“I thought you’d never get rid of him. Never liked him, a bumbler without any redeeming charm. Who will you get to replace him?”

“I’ve been thinking Cleo, ever since I slithered out of the Garden of Eden and into your bedchamber…”

“Where I petitioned the gods to give you this form.” she interrupted.

“Yes, thank you.” Mick continued… “Anyway, maybe its time to take a break, after all, it is the Age of Aquarius; rather, it is just the dawning of the age. Let these simple creatures live in peace for a while.”

“Getting too old to strut your stuff on the stage of chaos, Mick?”

“It’s the St. Petersburg syndrome. I see its time for a change. I want to relax for a while. I say, you and me, let’s find that spot around here where we saw the total eclipse back in…” his voice trailed off as he tried to remember the year.

“Nineteen seventy, or thereabouts.” offered Cleopatra.

“Yeh, thereabouts. Let’s take a bottle, wear our bright clothes. Let’s forget all this “practicing the art of deception”. It has gotten old.”

    Mick and Cleopatra sat comfortably aboard the Vision. Having taken a shot of whiskey and puff of cigarette Cleopatra looked at Mick and declared pointedly”I miss the Learjet. It was the only chariot that ever satisfied me.”

With a mischievous smile, confident and narcissistic, Mick replied in a faux tone of ego-damage “I thought I was the only chariot that satisfied you!”

Cleopatra leaned forward. Affectionately touching her forehead to his, she blew smoke into his face.