Mandelbaum the Astrologer

[Another bit of quirky flash fiction—284 words.]

At forty-two, Izzy Mandelbaum spent his days pouring over zodiacal charts, correlating his findings with eclipses and conjunctions and planetary alignments. He sometimes gazed into tea leaves for extra inspiration. He even wore a tall, conical hat emblazoned with moons and stars—with Pisces, Capricorn, Libra—plus his lucky two-dollar bill and various political campaign buttons. He could afford to endlessly gaze into the heavens after inheriting a family fortune built on the manufacture of feather dusters. It was on a warm April evening when Izzy gazed at his detailed star maps and leaned back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. He was horrified to learn that Jupiter’s position relative to Orion meant that he had died five years earlier.

“If I am dead, I shall go forth from my apartment and walk the streets until I gradually dissolve into the ether of the cosmos,” he mumbled. “The universe will surely correct its mistake.”

On his second day of aimless wandering, Izzy entered the Museum of Natural History and stared at the beautiful young woman reflecting on the Cretaceous period. She was a vision of soft skin and dark, shiny hair more lustrous than the Pleiades. Izzy approached her and made small talk. He was powerless as he stood in the gravitational field of this newly discovered star.

That night, Izzy and his star woman danced and laughed and drank wine. He kissed her hair and lips as she nibbled Izzy’s ear and stroked his cheek. Somewhere in the solar system, Jupiter edged away from Orion by a few degrees, not daring to spoil the resurrection of Izzy Mandelbaum. Sometimes, celestial mechanics has a heart.

Picture: Public Doman