It really isn't

It really isn't surprising that Max found the answer in the intersection of Hollywood and Vine.  Not that Hollywood and Vine is a glamorous spot.  It isn't.  It is just another non-descript junction in a large city.  Starlets act out blow jobs in another part of town, movie moguls aren't looking for the next Marilyn Monroe there, and Elvis can't be found on its corners.  None the less it does draw tourists due to the notoriety of song and dance.

Max had been pondering the primitive notion of predestination as opposed to fate simply being the predictability of the overwhelming number of variables that lead to little option in outcome.  All that is to say Max was doing what Max does, not much.  It wasn't that Max thought that he had no influence on his life. It was more that he wasn't really sure of the value of it all, like socks in slippers.

Da de da, he mused as he stepped off the curb, is my life some pre-written book or just the result of some inference formulas..."Inferring what?"...la de da he giggled at his own joke.  Obviously, life must be accident, wasn't it accident that brought him here?  Falling asleep on the lethargic Caltrans bus in Pasadena...no great god would bother to write that story.  

Norwegian? He looked across the intersection.  "I think that lady is screaming in Norwegian", it struck him.

Madeline on the other hand didn't concern herself with this stuff.  She was sure that her life was extremely valuable.  Indeed, she, as the leader of a Linux division of a major seller of computer services, was absolutely positive that all aspects of her life were within her control.  She had a day planner to prove it and a cell phone in hand to keep rule from car or desk or beach blanket.  And her eyes!  Oh that wonderful sparkle of assurance.

If she could view herself she would see a religious fanatic.  A Dervish of free choice as she twirled amidst the Linus followers to prevent some cyber-Satan from soul snatching. Purpose and order, purpose and order, her mantra.  Ask any of her ex-husbands, day or night. She would often say, "Why?".

The influence of Oslo in all things both metaphysical and theosophical is not generally known.  That a young Norwegian tourist should happen to be on a corner in Hollywood at a moment of confluence is, actually, beyond ken.  

Hanna spying the demented man in the cross-walk and the white, she thought, Japanese SUV, quickly approaching, screamed at the fellow to get out of the way.  Though she spoke perfect English, in the heat of the emotion only Norwegian came out, as often occurs with even the most intelligent of young ladies. She could not tell the police if the man had been crossing against the signal.

Madeline, naturally, missed her appointment.  In fact, was rather seriously injured, even physically. Though, those scars would heal.  

Max, being a fairly large fellow, received the initial impact below the knees which fully flipped him, causing him to be literally eye to eye with Madeline, though inverted, as his head penetrated her shield.  His crushed head in her lap, and her view blocked by his lower body, she careened into a slow moving Caltrans bus headed to Pasadena.

In later years, at innumerable Christian prayer meetings, Madeline would often recount her perception of her epiphany. She was sure the man at the instant of his demise had seen God, so she testified.  The peace in his eyes, she witnessed, could only be explained by it.

And it was true, in a way.  Max had found his answer, his peace.  There was really no pain or even realization of that last little event he was within. 

Truth is, Norwegian sounds like English played backward.