29. Wrong Forecast
“The only madman is the one whose madness doesn't align with the madness of the majority” – Samuel Beckett.
When I went to work that day, in the tavern next to the building, I heard several entities soaked in homemade liquor, which was doing well, unlike other branches of the economy; they were bitterly discussing current political events. A black and white dog was sitting in front of the entrance to the tavern and was listening to them carefully, wagging its lowered tail on the sidewalk and thus raising clouds of dust that the gentle summer breeze returned to approximately the same spot.
Just like every other time I left the apartment, I took out the trash bag, but as soon as I closed the container lid, I heard it open again and turned around. A man I didn't know came out of the container, followed by several flustered flies; being careful not to dirty his polished shoes, he looked at himself in a puddle of still, muddy water. He adjusted his black and white tie, shook his red jacket, casually brushed his hand over his white trousers, and with his head held high and his hair slicked back over his bald spot, he walked confidently away from the container with a red folder in his hand.
I continued toward the bus stop, with a gait that might have reminded a casual observer of a trotting horse, occasionally interrupted by the worn soles of sneakers covered in grayish dust from the nearby construction site of a building that would gape empty, giving a false impression of Europeanism, like a tattered advertisement or billboard, hiding the robustness of the house made of ancient brick, the square and leaky roofs, the rusty gutters, and the windows covered with years of sediment, transformed by rain and sun into concrete, through which, on stormy afternoons, the yellowed curtains could be seen, and sometimes a wrinkled, contorted face without any expression visible to the human eye, with unnaturally large and dark eyes that sent an inexplicable shiver down my spine and reminded me of two monitors of unequal size connected by cables to control units hidden far away and inaccessible, attached to sources of never-sufficient electricity generated by a mountain river whose banks were overgrown with primroses and daisies woven into wreaths by the thin, calloused hands of perpetually hungry children with unnaturally large and dark eyes altered by prolonged starvation and hidden fear.
From those thoughts, I was jolted awake by the sound of the bus brakes as it arrived already half-full.
—Why does everyone talk about the weather all day long? asks the man sitting next to me on city bus 13 P, Mejdan to Petrićevac.
—And that every day of the year. And what will the weather be like tomorrow, they said it will be like this for next week, and the current temperature is this much, but the subjective feeling is a little different. And how can they possibly know what anyone feels, and how? Subjective feeling, what is that? Isn't every feeling subjective, can a feeling even be objective!? And isn't subjectivity actually a kind of feeling? And who are they? All these so-called meteorologists, climatologists, and other fortune tellers are in the shadows, and no one can hold them accountable if they misjudge. And that happens regularly. They hit the forecast at about the same percentage as if I were to draw slips of paper with phrases from a hat every day: partly cloudy, clear with occasional clouds, possible showers, clearing with rain, cloudy with possible rain and thunder, and so on. All of this is annoying me. He's getting on my nerves more and more. The other day, I accidentally had my blood pressure measured at the pharmacy. It was a nice little device, the ones that measure are always nice. And how high do you think it was?
—Was it atmospheric? I asked absentmindedly, but my interlocutor ignored the attempt at humor and didn't give up.
—Two hundred and twenty by one hundred and fifty! They didn't let me out of the pharmacy until it dropped to one hundred and fifty by one hundred. And all because of the weather. Just before entering the pharmacy, someone asked me what the weekend forecast was like, with a tone as if their life depended on that information, even though I know they're an unemployed pensioner – I see them on public transport almost every day, making the most of the fact that they have a monthly pass. If it hadn't been an older man, and if I hadn't been peaceable by nature, I would have punched him. I don't think there has ever been such an obsession with anything in the history of civilization, especially not something that should be accepted as it is, as a natural course of events. What's happening to us every single day is already starting to resemble mass hysteria, an obsession. As if there's nothing else to talk about, if we must talk at all. How many more beautiful and interesting topics there are to talk about. But that's the whole point. Man cannot bear the fact that he has no idea about anything, that he can know nothing for certain, that he does not understand the essence and meaning of any phenomenon in this world, that everything is relative, that he has no control over anything, not even his own life. And what's the easiest thing? Deceiving oneself with the supposed knowledge of future weather changes. We are empty people, side effects of former real people and real lives, all like copies, there is no more individuality, critical thinking, encyclopedic education, or culture. Everything is ruined. Everything!
—Maybe it's not everything, I say. Here, for example, we're going to work. And it can be rightly assumed that we are doing something useful for society. And that we're not the only ones like this here. The bus driver is obvious proof.
While the unwanted accidental conversationalist taps on their phone, just waiting for me to finish so they can, after a short pause, continue on their own, I take advantage of the welcome break and indulge in observing the outside world. Due to the traffic congestion, we were moving at a relatively low speed. The driver braked frequently, then accelerated, and braked again. During those stops and starts, every time one of the standing pensioners would lurch forward or backward, even though they could have sat down because the bus was only half full. It's probably one of those people who have been someone's victim their whole lives and are used to suffering and enduring, so it's become a habit. A cloud on the right side of our direction of travel was dispersing into several smaller ones, and they were moving away from each other forever. It was obviously windy up there, and the leaves on the trees riddled with obituaries didn't tremble. A woman, yelling incomprehensibly, carries a piece of cardboard on her chest with her justice scrawled across it; no one notices her, or at least doesn't show it. The driver slammed on the brakes, cursing, and a man who wasn't a pensioner because they say pensioners know how to take care of themselves flew toward the middle doors and fell, groaning. As he groaned and rose, the other passengers frowned at their mobile phones, scrolling through the screens with their fingers. We crossed a sunlit part of the road, the wet pavement reflecting the sun's rays right into our eyes: an old woman woke up sleepily smacking her dentures and looking around in confusion.
—What is time anyway?! my interlocutor brings me back from my daze. When I say time, I don't mean the profane, meteorological meaning of that term. I'm talking about the scientific-philosophical understanding and interpretation of the phenomenon of time!
Here, he raised his head, straightened up with his arms outstretched, and looked at the heavens, the bus ceiling, as if announcing some news or discovery of general importance. When he came out of the trance, he turned to me, his eyes blurred. Since he looked at me questioningly, I shrugged. He must have misinterpreted my desperate gestures, because he continued with even greater zeal.
—Theoretical physicists say there are seven possible different interpretations of time, these are the so-called seven arrows of time, such as the thermodynamic or entropic arrow of time. However, I have come to the conclusion that there is only my time. And that is only mine, no one can take it away from me or change it.
We were stuck in traffic, it was raining, the number of cars and nervous drivers in them who were late for work was increasing, there was nowhere to go.
—Yes, and my time doesn't depend on anyone else's time, nor on any other interpretation, nor on any clock. After all, Einstein proved that the passage of time slows down with increasing speed and stronger gravity. So, if this bus were to go faster, time would pass slower, and therefore we would reach our destination sooner. Here's concrete proof in practice.
As the speaker was already passionately raising the tone of his presentation, some of the remaining passengers who hadn't gotten off at the intermediate stops began to look at each other pale and bewildered.
—Or, if he were driving a much larger bus, just imagine how this poor little cart would be struggling in front of it. Logically, that larger bus would also have a greater mass, and greater mass produces greater gravity, which in turn slows down time. So, even in that larger bus, we would arrive at our destination faster, because we still have the same distance to cover, but now our time is passing slower than the time of someone waiting for us at that destination.
We passed an old tree whose branches had been stripped by the changing seasons; a few remaining leaves were falling in the wind: someone up there was preparing a storm for us down below. A black and white bag fluttered at the top of the highest branch like a long-forgotten flag hanging there since ancient times. Passersby increased their speed of movement, reducing the aggregate population density per square kilometer.
—Are you listening to me?
—I'm listening.
—Okay, because it seemed to me that you had wandered off, so I wouldn't be talking to the wind. I don't like to talk in vain. Words are too precious.
—No, absolutely not, please feel free to continue. I overslept a little, I didn't sleep a wink last night.
—Why, you're young, you should be sleeping like a log!
—I'm having nightmares about work.
—Oh, I understand. While I was employed at the company, I once didn't sleep for five nights in a row. What can you do, fear of making mistakes. I remember it like it was yesterday: the three of us went out for a break and started drinking. One by one, it will take a long time. We see, it's almost the end of working hours. And what should be done? We get on the train, heading straight for Zagreb. We return from Zagreb after five days, when we spent all the money we had. And they even went into debt for the tickets.
—It wasn't easy for you. Although that was also an experience.
—How easy? When we got back to work, no one even noticed we were gone! Otherwise, how far are you going?
—To Medical Electronics. You?
—I'm going to the Government building. They just won't approve my suicide request.
—Why, what's the problem?
—Okay, in short... This year my number is three thousand three hundred and twenty-eight, although I arrived early on 2 January because the first was a non-working day, thinking like the three thousand three hundred and twenty-seven candidates for suicide consideration that no one is crazy enough or such a worthy early bird or so desperate that they submit their application at the very beginning of the year, and yet I was wrong. If I had submitted my application on, say, 30 December, I would have had a better chance of being considered by perhaps being included in the accelerated mass suicide procedure. But as it is, my case will be buried under a mountain of blue and red folders in the next few days (mine was black and white, perhaps that's significant, it's worth considering), and one of the assistant suicide administrators must have forgotten that the most important part of his boring job is to flip the stack of folders every morning before starting his workday. Otherwise, mass suicides are organized every year on 1 January, Suicide Day. Once, until about seven or eight years ago when the government changed, Suicide Day was a floating holiday, changing its date every year. Its exact date was calculated using complex calculations and formulas where the parameters were mostly statistical in nature: the number of resolved applications from the previous year, the number of applications carried over to the current year, the number of different types of suicides individually, the ratio of successful, unsuccessful, partially successful, and partially unsuccessful suicides, the number of suicide-murders (suicides with accidental collateral victims, mostly self-detonation with a bomb), the weather forecast (weather conditions and difficulties, depression, and suicidal thoughts were closely related), the arrangement of planets and constellations in relation to the increase or decrease in suicide requests by day, the value of the consumer basket, and many other parameters, constants, and factors, and their mutual relationships. At the core of its essence, no one in the Ministry of Suicide, not even the minister himself, knows the complete formula, nor has they ever seen it in its entirety: different parameters and parts of the formula are distributed across various departments, sectors, and directorates of the Ministry, and when the calculated values are collected, they are forwarded under heavy security to a special department called Suicide Condemned to Life, which is located in the Central Correctional Facility. Here, the most serious offenders and criminals are locked up for long periods, those who dared to illegally seize their freedom to attempt to take their own lives in an unorganized manner, without the help of the state, calculating the exact date of Suicide Day. Although I know the system well, have connections in the Ministry, and have money to grease the wheels where necessary, I don't believe I'll get my turn this year either.
The bus bounced: it was a pothole in the road. Then the interlocutor fell silent as well. I was going over in my head what to expect at work today, there were some unresolved tasks and open questions. Yes, it's easy to talk about suicide when you're unemployed. We who work don't have time for that.
Finally, we reached the Government building.
—I'll be getting off soon, said the fellow passenger, looking out the window as if checking if he was in the right place.
—Looks like I'm not going out after all, he said almost at the same time and went back to his seat.
And indeed, in front of the entrance to the Government building, there was a large billboard on which "Notice!" was hand-written in red paint. The government has been temporarily moved to its old location! For any potential urgent matters, citizens can contact the phone number posted online!
—I just have no luck, my travel companion lamented. I spent my last money on a bus ticket, and now I have to walk back. And where is the old location of the government building anyway?
—It depends on which ministry you need to go to, a man who was sitting behind us joined the conversation.
—Ministry of Suicides.
—Is there such a thing? I've never heard of that. How quickly do they resolve cases on average? Can I come with you too?
—Of course. Even better if I don't go alone. Just until we find out where he is.
Since we were still moving relatively slowly, I thot I could read a few lines from the book I had bought on sale the previous day. Although the people present who noticed me taking a book out of my pocket at the same moment unanimously began to express amazement, disgust, and whisper to each other, since I was used to such scenes, I started reading it anyway. It was called How to Become a Heavy Alcoholic in 21 Days in 50 Lessons and was enriched with vivid illustrations.
After the third lesson, I looked out the window and realized that we had started moving backward, at a barely noticeable speed, even though we were close to the bus stop where most of us usually get off, and that we would never reach our destination this way, no matter how close it was. I wanted to draw the speaker's attention to that, but he was fast asleep, just like all the other passengers on the bus. The driver was also asleep: the bus was moving on its own, gliding along the wet pavement slowly and silently, like a snail. Suddenly unbearably dazed by the absence of any movement or sound in the surroundings, infected by the general silence, stillness, and drowsiness, incapable of any thought or movement: my hand collapsed, dropping the book, and my head slowly fell, and I sank into a shared sleep.
Duško Mrđa is electrical engineer and writer from Banja Luka. He is employed at Joint Stock Company Mtel a.d. Banja Luka. He writes and publishes poetry, short stories and essays. He is currently working on his first novel, and first play.