That is the sound of inevitability ~ Agent Smith
 

   I will always hope that someone might approach me and engage a con-versation. Later on, we’ll go for a drive and talk some more about ourselves and he’d be the cute one, so I wouldn’t want to bore him and  he’ll beg me to go on and tell him everything about me. Then we might go to the rocks alongside Lake Michigan and watch the waves roll in and feel the cool midnight air and then he’d kiss me and we’d stay  there until the sun came up behind us. Then he’d give me his phone  number, or perhaps he’d ask for mine, or maybe I’d just drop him off somewhere and never see him again. But I’d still wait for him there in the café and he’ll still never show up until I’d almost completely forgotten about him. But that whole thing will never happen. No one will ever engage a conversation, so I will sit there at my table and silently cherish my thoughts.

   That particular day will not be a Monday; I’m just going to want a  calm coffee break before I go off to work. I will sit in the café, drinking  a cup, when the pay phone in the corner near the bathroom will ring.  Being in a more relaxed mood, I will not be shy to answer it. I will assume that no one will mind if I did and I‘ll think that perhaps it might be important.

   I’ll stand and look around for anyone who might think it was for them  and no one will return my glance. So I will approach the phone and  pick up the re-ceiver.

   “Operator,” the phone will say.

    “Hello?”

    “What are you doing there?”

    “I’m sorry, I believe you’ve got the wrong number.”

    “No,” the telephone will snap back, “I’m sure I’ve got the right  number. This is Café Express, right?”

    “Yes it is,” I will confirm, “but you’ve called the pay phone. Is there any-one you might be looking for?”

   “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”

    “To me?” I will ask with a startled tone, which will make me glance over to the man with the navy suit, and the overweight man, and the rest of the crowd. I will mentally orate an apology for my loudness.

   The phone will continue.

   “Yes, Prophet. To you.”

    “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Whoever  you’re looking for isn’t here. I’ve got to go to work. Goodbye.”

   “Wait!”

   Too late. I wasn’t going to be late for work because of some random  prank call. I will return to my table and take a sip of my room  temperature cof-fee, then drain the cup in one gulp, and head for my car. I will own a nineteen-eighty-eight Chevy Nova. It will have no  attractive features whatsoever other than an engine and four wheels. I will know nothing about cars, but I will know that it certainly won’t be a Porsche and it certainly won’t be a station wagon. It will be a Nova.

   It will say absolutely nothing about me besides my frugality. Its  condition will reveal age, but no dents or bumps. Its exterior will be of a simple design with an ugly shade of brown. It won’t be an ugly car,  nor will it be attrac-tive. I will give it one decoration, though-- a thin rainbow on the back windshield. People will only really see it if they’re looking specifically for it. Often I will hope that some dream man might notice it and comment at a red light or in a parking lot. “Keep dreaming.”

   I will open the door and wiggle my way inside. I will fumble through the pockets of my suit for my keys but instead, I’ll find an empty package of Wrig-ley’s Spearmint and toss it over to the passenger seat. I will search for a signifi-cant length of time before I can retrieve my keys, and once I do, I will speed off. 

   Work will be a bore. I will be an accountant at a relatively prestigious bank. I will not be happy there, but I will make enough money to keep  myself satisfied everywhere else.

   The day that I receive that phone call at Express will be the day that I  re-ceive a second phone call as I sit at my desk.  I will step calmly toward my desk and sit down in my comfortable chair. I will see a janitor in an orange jumpsuit empty his dustpan into the wastebasket. The phone will ring and I will pick it up after the third ring. It’ll be a habit of mine to ensure that the call is important by letting the caller wait. The phone will speak to me.

   “Operator,” it will say.

   “Hello?”

   “Prophet?”

   “Hello? Who is this?”

   “Is this Prophet?” I will think, no, not him again.

   “No! Who are you? What do you want?” By this time, I will be annoyed and angry.

   “Morpheus, look! I found him,” the phone will say to someone nearby.The voice in the background will be deep and powerful and hard for me to hear. I will strain to make out the words, but the other voice will return.

   “Alright, Prophet, listen to me.”

   I will hesitate and then calmly say, “Alright. I’m listening.”

   “It's Tank. I’m tracing you right now, buddy. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m only calling for confirmation. Now that I know it’s really you, I’m going to hang up and call back. I hope to have the system online by then. This is going to be a shock, but I’m sure you can handle it, okay?”

   I’m going to hang up the phone and look around to be sure than no one will be staring at me. I will see a janitor in an orange jumpsuit empty his dustpan into the wastebasket. Deja vu. A man in a dark suit with sunglasses will take broad steps into the building. He will absorb his surroundings in search of something or someone. I will notice his thin, manicured hand moving to his ear and tapping the tiny earphone.

   I will notice the wire leading from the earphone to the inside of his suit coat. I will hear my telephone ring and I will see his face turn toward my own across the room. The telephone will ring a second time, his free hand will reach inside his pocket, and his fingers will catch hold of some-thing. His arm will smoothly pull the object from the inside of his coat and his hand will turn with clenched fingers toward me. His wrist will remain stiff and strong and his arm will extend perfectly into my line of vision. I will immediately identify the object in his grasp as a lethal weapon. The phone will ring again and I will reach to answer it. The man will have the gun pointed directly at my head and as words form over the line, the man’s finger will firmly depress the trigger. A deadly piece of lead will travel toward my skull with unseen speed and accuracy. Once it reaches its destination, all will fade to black.

   I open my eyes in terror. Blood runs freely from my nose and I cough and convulse. After a time, the heaves cease and I regain enough composure to look down at the small puddle of blood at my knees and the crimson stains down my shirt. My eyes ache and sharp pain rings through my head. I stand up and the pain in my legs forces me to crawl down again. I hold a hand to my lips and feel the red liquid begin to dry. A salty, bitter taste is in my mouth and I lick my lips until it subsides. I stay on the floor for many minutes in a daze, unable to move my arms or legs or neck. Finally, when I have gathered enough strength, I stand unsure on the ground and inspect my surroundings.

   I see a massive computer terminal with thick wires and flashing lights and five or six screens with strange graphs and charts. I see many wires connected to a chair behind me where a single wire runs toward my head. I reach around my neck and feel a heavy piece of machinery attached to the base of my skull. I inspect my body, and find a simple IV attached to my left arm. I feel my heart race and I begin to breathe more heavily. I sit for a long time and stare at the pool of blood on the cold tiled floor before me. When my eyes finally grow ac-customed to the light, I inhale deeply and attempt to let out a plea for help. It goes unheard and I call out again. I cry out louder and louder until my voice is strained and my throat is coarse. Eventually, someone comes for me.

   I lie on the floor beside the red stain and my breathing is still labored. I am too weak to cry anymore and in too much pain to keep my eyes open. A dark skinned and heavyset woman comes to me. She grasps at the device at my head and slowly pulls it from me. An unusual and sickening feeling washes over me as a long metal spike is removed from my head. She slides the IV needle from my arm and pulls me to my feet and removes me from the cold and strange room.

   She drags me down hallways and the voices of uncountable unfamiliar onlookers blare at both of us. I do not answer but she speaks for me; and what she says, I do not understand. She brings me to a cozy room with a soft bed, a move my arms or legs or neck. Finally, when I have gathered enough strength, I stand unsure on the ground and inspect my surroundings.

    I see a massive computer terminal with thick wires and flashing lights and five or six screens with strange graphs and charts. I see many wires connected to a chair behind me where a single wire runs toward my head. I reach around my neck and feel a heavy piece of machinery attached to the base of my skull. I inspect my body, and find a simple IV attached to my left arm. I feel my heart race and I begin to breathe more heavily. I sit for a long time and stare at the pool of blood on the cold tiled floor before me. When my eyes finally grow ac-customed to the light, I inhale deeply and attempt to let out a plea for help. It goes unheard and I call out again. I cry out louder and louder until my voice is strained and my throat is coarse. Eventually, someone comes for me.

   I lie on the floor beside the red stain and my breathing is still labored. I am too weak to cry anymore and in too much pain to keep my eyes open. A dark skinned and heavyset woman comes to me. She grasps at the device at my head and slowly pulls it from me. An unusual and sickening feeling washes over me as a long metal spike is removed from my head. She slides the IV needle from my arm and pulls me to my feet and removes me from the cold and strange room.

   She drags me down hallways and the voices of uncountable unfamiliar onlookers blare at both of us. I do not answer but she speaks for me; and what she says, I do not understand. She brings me to a cozy room with a soft bed, a mirror, a lamp, and nothing more. She lies me down on the bed and tells me that she will return for me in the morning. She leaves me there.

   I will be sitting in a café, drinking a cup of coffee. The guy with the navy suit and gray felt hat, the overweight fellow facing the opposite  wall, the slew of teenagers with nowhere else to smoke, and, of course, the beat poets and sketch artists will all be there. I will sit there with them: just another guy in the crowd. I will sit, and sip my coffee, and smile.

    I will daydream that someone might approach me and engage a conver-sation. We would go for a drive and I’d let him talk about himself because I was too shy to tell him about me. Then we might go to the rocks alongside Lake Michigan and watch the waves roll in and feel the cool midnight air and then we’d kiss and stay there until the sun came up behind us. Then he’d give me his phone number, or perhaps he’d ask for mine, or maybe I’d just drop him off somewhere and never see him again. But no one will ever engage a conversa-tion, so I will sit there at my table and silently cherish my thoughts.

   I will sit in the café, drinking a cup, when the pay phone in the corner, near the bathroom will ring. I will stand to answer it and it will say to me, “Prophet?” And I will hang up and turn around silently. Behind me, at a dis-tance, a man in a dark suit will point a gun at my head and  pull the trigger. And then I will wake up.

    The woman closes the door behind her as she enters my room. I have been crying and my eyes adjust to take in the vision before me. The woman sits knowingly beside me on the bed and looks down into my watery eyes. She presses a motherly finger to her lips and quietly tells me to hush.

   “Good Morning, Prophet,” she says to me, “I see that you slept well. You’ve been gone a very long time, you know. Of course you know. Your cards have all fallen into place. However, I must remind you that the war is not over. For now, you are safe in Zion and Neo has come. It will be a happy time here and you will be free soon. We will all be free.”

   “Please. Where am I?” I ask.

   “Prophet, can’t you hear?” she says. ” We are in Zion.”

   “Is this heaven?”

   “Yes, child. As close to it as we can get.”

   I take her hand and try to exercise my atrophied muscles. We walk down the noisy hallways to the medical center where I get strong again and the plug in my arm is removed. I am also treated for malnutrition and bed sores and head trauma from an imaginary bullet laceration.

   When I recover, I try to make some sense of this weird dream. Every time I sleep, I return to the café, but every time I wake, I am in Zion. Its atmosphere is warm, yet spiritless, without calm and peace.  There is no modern electricity save light bulbs. The buildings seem archaic and ugly and the people, undernourished. Though they seem frail to me, they are strong of spirit and sound of mind, full of hope and passion. They all speak of “the one,” Neo. “He will rebuild Zion,” they say. “He will save the world,” they say. “You were the prophet,” they say.

   I speak to the oracle. She tells me that I have lost all the knowledge. I agree with her and tell her that I am confused.  She nods and tells me, “Try to relax, Sugar. It’ll be all right.”

    “Oracle,” I ask her, “Please send me home.” Her ancient mouth forms a pitiful thin line. “I miss my life,” I say with tired and worn lungs. “I miss my fam-ily, and my cat. I’ve been asleep here for so long. Am I in a coma? Will I ever wake up? Please tell me. Help me. Wake me up. Please,” I cry. I tell her that I do not like this dream, that it’s too real and lonely. She holds my hand and tells me that she’s sorry.

   I do not sleep for long hours. I sluggishly walk down the corridors and watch them twist and expand and collapse before me. I see the wires and tubing running along the walls and I see them turn into snakes and worms and I see them attack me and bite me and I fall and scream in terror. I shake and cry as the snakes and worms stare at me and encircle me. My face becomes tense and my eyes tear. I hold my hands to my head and dig my nails into my bare scalp. My chest feels sharp and I gasp for air and choke. Then the oracle is there and she picks me up and takes me to my room. She looks down at me and firmly holds my arms calling out the name she and everyone else has adopted for me.

   “Prophet! Prophet, get a hold of yourself! Please quiet yourself, relax. Relax. It’s okay. Everything will be okay. Just calm yourself down. Calm down. Relax. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I’m right here, child. Breathe. Please, Prophet, breathe!”

   I choke and the muscles in my body threaten to break away from me. They violently tense and tremor. My spine curves under the pressure and my eyes roll into my head. I stop breathing and soon thereafter, all goes black again.

   I will be lying on the floor at the café, and the man in the dark suit will stand above me; he will be holding a smoking gun. He will turn away and walk out of the café, seemingly unnoticed.

   I wake up and my whole body is sore. I stand and immediately fall from dizziness. I have a harsh fever; my throat is warm and dry, my palms are damp, and all my joints ache. I lie there in a miserable pile for a long time before I muster the strength to rise and return to the bed. There I stay until Oracle re-turns to treat me. She talks to me quietly with a quiver in her voice. She is frightened for my health and safety and she cries over me. I stay there, almost unconscious for many days but I never sleep soundly. The man is always there behind my eyes. My fever slowly decreases. Eventually, I am well again.

    When I am nearly recovered, a man comes to see me. I am able to faintly recall his face and features from dreams of long ago, but I do not know him. He sits at my side and takes gentle hold of my hand. He looks into my eyes while he speaks and he tells me how much he  missed me and that he loves me. I smell his dirty shirts and faintly recall the smell.

    “I know you,” I say, “but I can’t remember where we’ve met before. I just have the strangest feeling.”

    He seems to be taken aback. He turns his head to face the oracle and I can see that his eyebrows slowly lower and begin to shake.

   “Oracle, is he alright? What’s happened?” He asks.

   “He has forgotten.”

   The man turns his head toward me by obvious means of will power and his eyes meet my own. He looks at me with a nervous forced smile and he is unable to speak. He stands there in uncomfortable silence for a while and soon Oracle asks him to get up and join her outside. The two exit and after some time I hear the man sobbing outside of my door. A warm tear runs from my eye and down onto my lips. I think of him often as I ponder the dreams.

   I wait there in my room for the oracle to return. I look at her and my eyes tell her of my sorrowful confusion. She returns my expression with wise old eyes and she apologizes.

    “That man, “ she says, “is your husband. We rescued both of you when you were just infants and took care of you until you were grown men. The two of you grew up together. You used to be best friends.”

   She tells me about how his parents died and he had moved in with me. She tells about when we both knew we were in love. She tells me that once we were more mature and had made the decision to devote our lives to each other, we were legally wed. Our sisters and brothers were at the ceremony. The best man had been Tank, a mutual friend. She mentions that Tank’s brother, Dozer, had been murdered a year ago, while I was absent. She tells me that my hus-band, whose name is Michael, went off to fight with Neo, Morpheus, Tank, and my sister.

   Some time after Michael left; I began showing signs of depression. One day, I simply chose to leave and shut myself off, giving strict orders that no one should attempt to bring me back. If Michael did not return safely, my life would go on without the knowledge of the real world’s existence. I would be content. Now that Michael has returned, she tells me, I can return as well.

   “It’s all just a dream,” I say to myself more than to her. I tell her to wake me up. She tells me that I am awake, that this is all real, but I cannot believe her. I tell her to let me alone. I will wake up soon enough, and when I do, none of this will have happened. She tells me again that she is sorry, and that what’s done has been done. She tells me that I knew all along what was going to hap-pen, that I am blessed with foresight and that I knew that it was inevitable, that I am the prophet, that I predicted my own fate. She leaves me and wishes me a good night.

    The man in the dark suit and sunglasses will be standing over me and he will start to walk away. I will get up and pull a gun from my own suit coat and I will point it at him and pull the trigger. He will stand untouched and unmoved. He will take a step toward me and I will pull the trigger again. He will dodge my shot, as the bullet whizzes past him. I will fire again, and again, and again, and again: six times. I will have no bullets left and he will reach out his arm and take hold of my neck. He will then choke the life out of me and I will fall. Then I will wake up.

   The oracle is gone and there is no sound. I get myself out of bed and I open my door and enter the dark and winding concourse. I walk slowly and qui-etly, listening carefully for the sound of anyone nearby. I get lost a few times before I finally reach that cold little room where the dreams began. The wires and tubes that line the walls no longer look  like snakes or worms, and I am not afraid. I find the chair and I stand at the computer terminal. I examine the five or six screens and I read the charts and graphs. I see a couple of the monitors streaming encrypted code. I do not know what any of it means. I know, how-ever, what I am about to do.

   I look at the smaller monitor, the one in dull black and white, and I see a picture of my own home. I see my bed and my alarm clock and my bathroom with my own toothbrush. I stare at the image for long moments. I then go to the chair and make myself comfortable. I find the odd contraption connected to a mesh of wires and tubes. I touch the large metal spike at the end of it and trace it to its tip. I reach around to the back of my head and run my fingers over the metal plate at the base of my skull. I firmly grasp the odd contraption and I place the spike up against the small hole in the plate. I gather my courage and calm my heart, and then I quickly shove the spike into my brain again.

   I will wake up abruptly. My alarm will read 9:47 AM. I will curse undermy breath. “What a weird dream,” I will announce. I will yawn and stretch and crack my back. I will pull the covers off myself and I will move into my bathroom. There, I will brush my teeth and make use of the toilet. I will take a hot shower and I will think of breakfast and of work and I will decide to go to Café Express for a relaxing cup of black coffee before work.

   I will be sitting in a café, drinking a cup of coffee. I will see that guy with the navy suit and gray felt hat, and that overweight fellow facing the opposite wall, the slew of teenagers with nowhere else to smoke, and, of course, the beat poets and sketch artists. I will sit there with them: just another guy in the crowd. I will sit, and sip my coffee, and smile.

   I’ll meditate over my dream with the handsome man and for some odd reason, I will resolve to calling him Michael. I’ll know it will be a great dream, but very unreal. I’ll revert to just sitting there at my table and silently cherishing my thoughts.

   I will sit in the café, drinking a cup, when the pay phone in the corner near the bathroom will ring. I will look around for anyone who might think it's for them. No one will return my glance. So I will approach the phone and pick up the re-ceiver.

   “Operator,” the phone will say.

   “Hello?”

   “What are you doing there?”

   “I’m sorry. I believe you’ve got the wrong number.”

   “No,” the telephone will snap back, “I’m sure I’ve got the right number. This is Café Express, right?”

   “Yes it is,” I will confirm, “but you’ve called the pay phone. Is there any-one you might be looking for?”

   “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”

   “To me?” I will glance over to the man with the navy suit, and the over-weight man, and the rest of the crowd. The phone will continue.

   “Yes, Prophet. To you.”

   “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Whoever you’re looking for isn’t here. I’ve got to go to work. Goodbye.”

   “Wait!”

   Too late. I will look at my watch and decide to head to work. I will return to my table, finish my coffee, and head for my nineteen-eighty-eight Chevy Nova.

   I will open the door and wiggle my way inside. I will fumble through the pockets of my suit for my keys. I will find an empty package of Wrigley’s Spear-mint and toss it over to the passengers seat. When I find my keys I’ll speed off.

   Once at work, I’ll go to my desk and sit down in my chair. I will see a janitor in an orange jumpsuit empty his dustpan into the wastebasket. My tele-phone will ring and I will pick it up after the third ring. The phone will speak to me.

   “Operator,” it will say.

   “Hello?”

   “Prophet?”

   “Hello? Who is this?”

   “Is this Prophet?”

   “No! Who are you? What do you want?”

   “Morpheus, look! I found him,” the phone will say to someone nearby.

    “Alright, Prophet, listen to me.”

   “Alright. I’m listening.”

   “It's Tank. I’m tracing you right now, buddy. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m only calling for confirmation. Now that I know it’s really you, I’m going to hang up and call back. I hope to have the system online by then. This is going to be a shock, but I’m sure you can handle it, okay?”

   I’m going to hang up the phone and look. I will see a janitor in an orange jumpsuit empty his dustpan into the wastebasket. Deja vu. A man in a dark suit with sunglasses will take broad steps into the building. I will notice his thin, manicured hand moving to his ear and tapping the tiny earphone. From it, a wire will lead to the inside of his suit coat. My telephone will ring and I will see his face turn toward my own across the room. The telephone will ring twice. His arm will smoothly pull an object from the inside of his coat and his hand will turn toward me. His wrist will remain stiff and strong and his arm will extend perfectly into my line of vision. I will clearly see his gun. The phone will ring again and I will reach to answer it. The man will have the weapon pointed directly at my head and he will pull the trigger. A deadly piece of lead will travel toward my skull with unseen speed and accuracy. It will clearly sail from the barrel of his weapon and on toward my head. Faint pictures of a man I once knew or per-haps loved; the man in my dreams-- Michael; will cloud my eyes and I will see his face held dimly in trembling hands. Once the bullet reaches its destination, the picture will fade to black. I will lie on the floor and a pool of my own blood will form around me. Everything will become silent except for the sound of an old friend on the telephone saying,

    “Operator . . . 

     Operator . . . 

     Prophet?”