The Last Arranger

So, now I am only able to focus on one part of our conversation; the part where Doug said the first time we met is when he came to the airport on an errand for Mr. Talbert. It suddenly doesn’t sound much like a chance meeting, but more like something arranged. Doug and I finish breakfast, returning to small talk about the news and weather. But after this conversation, my determination is made to visit Mr. Talbert again.
Leaving the diner, I make a quick drive to the warehouse. Turning into the gravel parking lot, my evaluation of the old Ford tells me Mr. Talbert is here. I almost jump out my truck and spring for the front door. I open it wide to find old Talbert standing there looking like he is expecting me. I realize my thinking has evolved from amazing disbelief to plain skepticism of this man. I’m not surprised to find him here, standing almost in the doorway, as if to greet me before my arrival with a good hand shake and smile; all rehearsed of course.
Ok, let’s talk about this situation,” I announce without any greeting.
“Situation; what situation?” Talbert asks, sounding like no conversation has taken place between us. No exchange about life’s mysteries or celestial outlook; nothing but the sound of innocence in his voice.
“I have several questions,” I say firmly. “I got a phone call from Sam the same day we last talked, asking me to come over the next day. By coincidence he made reference to some of the same things in conversation that you and I had discussed. And Sam is not the only person in this town who carries your echo. I also know the day Doug and I first met at the airport he was on an errand for you. These coincidences are looking more like a plan of some kind. It looks like more people are involved than just you and I.”
“Yes, more are involved than just you and I, as a matter of fact much more,” says Talbert as he turns, walking back down the hall toward his office. Shrugging his shoulders and throwing both hands into the air he sarcastically continues, “I would like to tell you more, but I must know the extent of your decision.”
“Yeah, that’s just it; my decision is all that matters to you,” I return with the same sharp tongue. I make a few steps closer to him and continue. “Ok, let’s talk about my decision. I don’t know all the facts. You’re holding a bag and want me to guess what’s in it? You’ve talked about motions of the universe and setting things in order. What I want to know is how does all this affect me; why am I involved in your verdict of the world’s mortality?”
“Mortality?” interrupts Mr. Talbert, ‘do you know the meaning of mortality and how it relates to your life, or any other for that matter? Do you know how old you will be when you die? Do you know the date, or how you will die? You only know what science and reports have told you to expect, and all the while gambling on statistics. Really, mortality? You ask questions for which you could hardly understand the answer if I did tell you. Mortality is as real as the choices you make on any day. It’s evident you have given some thought to our previous conversations. Wouldn’t you like to know more? Do you really think you are prepared?”
“Of course I would like to know more,” I counter. “But you are insisting on some kind of commitment from me, and I will not commit to some unknown belief from someone I barely know.”
"Ok, come this way,” Mr. Talbert motions. “I will show you a few things and you will know what I tell you is reality. Remember,” he warns, “both of us are at risk now.”