I recently made a short documentary about a Vancouver writer who’s penned into existence over a thousand short-short stories. A lot of people have been telling me that it’s a dope doc. 
   While I was stitching 1000 Stories together, I thought, “Why don’t I write a short-short story everyday? That’ll put me in the mood – so to speak – to understanding Spenst’s mindset and I’ll make a name for myself as the Marlon Brando of Method Editing.” 
   So anyway here’s today’s short-short story…

Three Minutes of the Future

     Jonathan pushes the red door and steps into the darkness of the Italian restaurant. A large man in a red apron, propped up on a stool at the empty bar, tilts his head to the left. “He’s over there.” Jonathan sits down two stools over from the man.
    “Nice place.”
     “A hundred years old.” The man makes a wincing grimace. Jonathan can make out some kind of faint accent. It must be Italian. 
    “You in charge?”
     He nods. His head is a pile of flesh that tapers up towards a white peak, like wisps of clouds near the top of a mountain. There might be wisdom up there.
    “Well there’s one guy here you should totally fire,” Jonathan continues as his friend swings around from behind a mural of an Italian villa. Trevor spins his serving tray on his finger as if it were a flattened basketball.
    “Jonathan, you meet Luigi?”
     They shake hands.
     “So what do I owe the pleasure?” 
     Jonathan reaches into his jacket but a screaming from behind the Italian villa mural stops him short. 
    “My baby. My baby,” a woman is screaming at a table for four and Trevor goes into action. He sweeps the table clear of three plates of meatballs and spaghetti and he pulls off the checkered table-cloth. He sets the baby down in the middle of the table. Even in the darkness of the restaurant he can see it’s turning blue. “Sterilize this,” he shouts as he tosses a small scalpel to Jonathan who runs into the kitchen.
   “My baby’s pace-maker is not working. We have to get her to a hospital,” the mother shouts. 
   “It’s too late for that. We’ve got to go in now,” Trevor says while staring straight through the chest of the infant. Trevor visualizes the incision that he’ll need to make to kick-start the little device. He’ll give it a low voltage shock. He’s done it a dozen times before. Jonathan tosses him the sterilized scalpel.
   “Are you crazy?” the father shrieks at a volume that breaks from his lungs. 
    “I play Emergency Room all the time,” he says automatically, his thoughts are already deep inside the child.
    “It’s a video game but it’s totally real. You move your hands and everything,” Jonathan adds. “Patients die on my watch all the time. You totally don’t want me in there.”
    The man calms down and says something to his wife in Chinese. 
    Half an hour later the child is giggling and kicking.
     “Free pasta for everyone,” Luigi shouts.
      It’s Tuesday. The slowest night of the week.

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