Fortunes by Ken Brosky

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Fortunes

By Ken Brosky

First published in: Shadowland

Larry didn’t take notice when the tall stranger sat in the next available seat at the counter. He was staring into his cup of coffee, decaf, staring at the swirls of half-and-half as they slowly mixed with the black liquid. He thought about the meeting with the managers, his mind working through possible scenarios that may occur.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” the man next to him asked.

Larry’s eyes focused, the meeting in his mind disappearing, and he returned to Ma’s Diner. He looked up to stare at his conversationalist; the man next to him had long white hair, with a hooked nose that kept a pair of small spectacles centered perfectly, distracting the casual viewer from a five o’clock shadow covering most of his jaw.

“I suppose, if you enjoy being inside,” Larry finally said. He saw no point in dragging out casual conversation with a male stranger.

“No, I prefer being outside,” the man said. “There’s something about a cold, rainy day that makes me smile.”

Larry half-expected the man’s face to wrinkle into a joking expression, but only found seriousness mapped across the aged face. He checked his watch and grabbed his coat. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting in an hour that I can’t miss. It was nice talking with you.” He reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill; enough to pay for his coffee, his sandwich, and a reasonable tip for the cute waitress. Always a must.

“You hardly finished your sandwich,” the man said, pointing to the half-eaten tuna melt sitting on the counter in front of Larry’s stool. “Here.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a fortune cookie. “I sell these on the side to keep myself afloat in retirement. The first one is always on me. Just in case you get hungry.”

He handed the fortune cookie to Larry, who took it politely and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He gave the man a wave before heading out the door and getting into the next available taxi.

“1243 Jackson Street.” Larry wrinkled his nose as the heavy aroma of pine trees wafted into his nostrils.

“1243 Jackson Street,” the cabbie repeated. “What is that, one of them big Internet Service Companies, right?”

“That’s right,” Larry said, trying to add a hint of annoyance to his voice.

The cabbie didn’t seem to notice. “What do you do there, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m working on a remote control that allows users to browse through various web pages.” Only, instead of sitting behind his desk working on the remote control, he was on his way to a meeting to try and pitch the idea to the bosses. Larry didn’t pretend to be a marketer, be in marketing, or even have a clue about how to pitch an idea. But his manager was under the assumption that Larry could more than handle the extra workload, and so now an engineer would determine the entire project’s future.

The cabbie nodded and took a bite from a giant sandwich. It smelled and looked great, completely contrasting its devourer. Larry’s stomach churned. The tuna melt he had left behind at the diner sounded pretty tasty, but it was long gone and Larry had no time to stop for something else. He reached into his pockets for anything edible and pulled out the fortune cookie.

Larry broke the cookie in two and pulled out the fortune. He remembered that some Chinese believed their fortunes would only come true if they ate the cookie first. The old man certainly hadn’t looked Chinese, but the cookie looked decent enough to pass for something one would find in a nice Asian buffet. He finished the cookie with two strong bites and felt it crawl down his esophagus and plant itself firmly in his empty stomach. For fun, he unfolded the fortune:

Your inability to handle new tasks is your downfall.

He read it twice more, then laughed out loud. “Hardly a fortune,” he mused.

“What?” The cabbie asked.

Larry shook his head. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

For a moment, his thoughts were on the meeting, and a shiver ran down his spine. No, he couldn’t possibly lose his job over one little project. Never kill the messenger, as the saying went.

“1243 Jackson Street,” the cabbie announced.

Larry stuffed the fortune into his pocket and paid the cabbie ten dollars. No tip.

Rain continued to pound down onto the city as Larry stepped onto the sidewalk. Ten granite stairs ahead stood the glass door that led to the building labeled “1243”. Not wanting to get too wet, he made his way up the stairs in a light jog. It wasn’t until the last instant that Larry found himself falling, the toe of his fine Doc Martin shoe pressing against the last stair, the rest of his body falling forward and slamming into a large puddle of water accumulating in a dip at the top of the stairs.

Larry’s pants were soaked. His feet were soaked. His shirt and jacket were soaked.

“So the user can access the internet much like we access TV now, picking and choosing from various websites, which are chosen according the user’s own interests.” Larry put the lights back on and turned off the projector.

Unreadable faces were spread across the room. He noticed that no one had touched the box of doughnuts sitting in the middle of the fine-crafted mahogany table.

“It sounds interesting,” one woman finally said, “but the system requirements seem a little steep. It also seems like a complicated device that would need software to accompany it. I’m not sure how you could finish this with the budget you have.”

“Well,” Larry began, his mind stumbling over a hundred different legitimate rebuttals.

“How long have you been working on this project?” one of the fastidiously dressed men asked. He wore a novelty “Peanuts” tie. It looked so tacky that Larry wanted to rip it off and jam it in the paper shredder in the hallway.

Larry adjusted his own moist tie. “About six months now.”

Glares, grunts, conversing amongst each other. The head of the department finally announced the meeting was over and shook hands with Larry, ushering him out without even a word.

His cell phone rang thirty minutes later.

“Larry,” his manager—Mike—began, “what the hell happened in there? The head honchos weren’t all that impressed.”

“I –”

“The project is canceled. It was a good idea on paper, but that’s probably where it should have stayed.” There was no remorse in his voice.

“Well—”

“I have to cut out funding so we can work with what’s left. I’m going to have to let you go, Larry. I’m sorry. I’ll have your things sent to you first thing tomorrow morning.”

You shouldn’t have relied on me, Larry wanted to say. You shouldn’t have pushed it all on me, you fat lazy pile of shit. I’m not a marketer, I’m an engineer. A damn fine engineer.

“But don’t hesitate to put me down as a reference,” he added before hanging up.

The taxi was pulled over to the side of the road.

“This isn’t my stop,” Larry said quietly.

“I know that,” the cabbie snapped. “I’m pickin’ up someone else that’s going the same way. That okay with you?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. I’d like to go home.”

“Yeah, well too bad.”

Larry moved his briefcase when the door opened and slid over to the side window. His seat shifted slightly as the man sat down.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” The man said. The cabbie snorted and pulled into traffic. “Did you enjoy the fortune cookie, Larry?”

Larry turned his head only to face the very same ugly man he met in the diner. His spectacles were unmoved on his hooked nose, his white hair wet from the rain outside. He smiled devilishly.

“The fortune cookie,” Larry repeated.

“Pray tell, what did it say?” the man asked, bemused.

Larry handed him the crumpled fortune. The man glanced at it over his spectacles. “Well, that’s a shame. I guess there’s really just a fifty-fifty chance that they’ll be good. Then again, I suppose there’s also a fifty-fifty chance that they’ll be bad, too.”

Larry remained silent.

“I have more, if you’re interested. Larry? Larry, not all fortunes are bad.”

“What’s in it for you?”

The man laughed. “Money! Like I said before, the first one is free. The price grows exponentially from here on out.”

“How much?”

“I could let the next one go for as little as a hundred dollars.”

“What? For one cookie? I could buy fifty boxes of fortunes cookies for that price!” Larry exclaimed.

“And how many would come true, Larry?” He pulled out a box that read “Fortunes,” with a large picture of a fortune cookie on it. “I’ll make you a deal, because I’m in a good mood today: two cookies for one hundred and fifty dollars.”

Larry looked at his briefcase. He could probably sell it for about two hundred dollars. He wouldn’t need it anymore, anyways.

The last fortune had come true. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he was talking to a scam artist, and that tomorrow his boss would call him up and tell him that he wasn’t fired, that some guy had paid him a couple bucks to say that for a joke, and that the remote control project had been green lighted after all.

Larry reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. “Okay,” he said.

The man smiled and took the money, putting two fortune cookies in Larry’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you again, Larry. If you ever want anymore . . .well, I’ll know I suppose. Be a sport and pay my fare, won’t you?”

The taxi pulled over, and Larry impatiently waved him out of the taxi, which had parked in front of an old apartment building. He ripped open the first cookie and stuffed the edible contents into his mouth before unfolding the fortune.

Things seem bleak, but only for now. They will die and you will prosper.

Larry looked at the fortune again before rolling down the cab window. “Wait!” he called out to the man with white hair, already making his way down the street. “Who dies? Tell me!”

The man continued to walk, slowly fading into the crowd of pedestrians as the cab pulled into traffic and continued down the street. Larry rested his head against the back of the seat and shut his eyes.

“Hey, you getting out or what?” The cabbie asked a few moments later.

Larry looked out the open window and saw his rusty old apartment standing next to the cab, staring at him through two eyes shaped as windows. “Yeah, I’m going. How much do I owe you?”

“Fifteen bucks.”

Larry opened his wallet and found only one twenty dollar-bill. He handed it to the cabbie and went into his apartment.

The first thing he did when he got into his room was turn on the TV.

“. . . of Davis technologies are dead, two in critical condition and not expected to survive the night. Again, the details remain sketchy at this point, but the wet conditions are suspected to have played a key role in the accident. Again, the names are Mike Jameson, Tim Davis, Sherry Travis, and George Sterling. The New York Safety commission stresses once again the importance of driving safely while under hazardous conditions, especially freezing rain.”

Larry stared at the news report, unbelieving. He pulled out the fortune from his wallet.

Things seem bleak, but only for now. They will die and you will prosper.

Larry laughed. The four dying in the same car was no coincidence: they were all a part of the same carpool; an enforced policy created to receive corporation tax breaks from the State. All four, living close together in their fancy suburbs, taking the same fancy car to and from work.

Larry got out of his damp clothes and lay on his flimsy bed, wondering who would take over at his old company, who would take over as the new manager of Larry’s old division. He fell asleep almost immediately.

The phone rang early in the morning. Larry opened his crusted eyes and slowly reached for the cordless phone on the nightstand. “Hello?” he asked.

“Larry?”

Larry blinked hard. “Sam? Sam from my old division?” Larry smiled. “Sam, the bastard who didn’t even call me last night to offer his condolences for my new position of unemployment?”

“Larry, I’ve got some good news for you, and I’ve got some greater news. You’ve probably heard by now, eh?”

Larry smiled. “Yes I have, Sam.”

“Helluva problem, three board members dying in a carpool accident, not to mention our manager Mike kicking the bucket.”

“He was notorious for his bad driving,” Larry admitted. “Can’t say I’m really feeling any remorse right now.”

“Well, I have just officially received a fax from headquarters stating that I am Davis Technologies’ newest Engineering Manager. I’m moving my shit into Mike’s old office right now. The greater news is that I need someone to fill my old position.”

“Holy shit, Sam!” Larry sat up in his bed. “You didn’t! You did!”

“You’re going to have to work under me for a change, but I think you can handle it.”

“Thanks, Sam. This is some of the best news I’ve heard in awhile.”

“I know how Mike screwed you over at the sales meeting. None of us could have sold that dead-end project to the board. But I have every bit of confidence in you, pal. Now, I took a sick day for you today, but you better get in here tomorrow at normal time.”

“Count on it, Sammy. Thanks again.” Larry hung up and rushed to his closet. He needed a new suit coat to start his second chance right.

Larry remembered the second fortune cookie. It sat on top of his dresser, taken out of his wet pants the day before—still undamaged and dry. Larry snatched it up and placed it in his pocket before leaving his apartment.

He found the man with white hair waiting outside, leaning against a light pole, smiling his ridiculous smile. His white locks were wet from a downpour that must have occurred just moments ago. He always looked wet, Larry thought.

“You seem awfully cheery this afternoon,” the man with white hair said. “I take it the cookie was good? Or have you finally found beauty in rainy days like me?”

“The cookie is never good. They all taste like shit,” Larry said, walking hurriedly down the street. “The fortune was good.”

The man walked with him, limping on his left foot. “Have you opened the second cookie? I suppose not. You really should, you know.”

“Why?” Larry asked. “Everything is back to normal now. It’s probably bad news anyways, and I’m not totally convinced you’re not just scamming me. This could all still be coincidence.”

The man laughed. “For one fortune to come true, perhaps I could see that. But for two to come true . . . you have to admit that the odds are with me. Besides, you’ve already paid for it. I can’t give refunds, you know.”

Larry continued walking. “And if it’s bad?”

The man shrugged. “You can always buy more.”

“Yeah, right.” Larry spoke the words even as he pulled out the cookie, tore it apart, ate it, and unfolded the fortune. He saw himself doing this in his mind’s eye, and before he could stop himself, he was reading the piece of paper.

Irony is a double-edged sword. You will make money.

“Wait, this doesn’t make sense at all,” Larry said, turning back to the man with white hair. “I don’t—”

Everything went black.

When Larry opened his eyes, he could feel a sharp pain in his hip. He lightly touched at the metal clamp holding his leg together. Something ground against his hip bone when he shifted weight. He was confined to a hospital bed, laying in a small recovery room with a tiny TV hanging overhead and just enough extra room to squeeze in a small bathroom in the corner with a ridiculously high toilet.

“How ya doing, sport?” Sam stood over Larry, smiling remorsefully. He wore a nice suit, and for a moment, Larry wondered if perhaps he had dreamed everything and had just fallen asleep at work. No, he wasn’t lying across his desk. He was in a hospital bed.

“What the Hell happened, Sam?” Larry asked, trying to sit up further and falling back against the pillows almost immediately as an intense pain ripped through his lower body.

Sam shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose it was the slick concrete from all the freezing rain we’ve been getting. Of course, you probably shouldn’t have been crossing the road, according to witnesses.”

“Crossing the road?” Larry asked, trying to remember the last time he had crossed a road.

“Either way, the car hit you pretty good. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“The car? What car?”

Sam seemed to ignore him. “I talked to a lawyer for you. The driver’s insurance company is willing to settle out of court for twenty thousand dollars. That’ll cover most of the hospital bills. I talked with your insurance company, but they won’t pay a cent because you were jaywalking. Luckily, the driver blew a point-one-four, or you wouldn’t have gotten anything.”

“What car?”

“You’re just lucky she didn’t hit you face-on.”

“What fuck car, Sam!”

Sam stopped smiling. “You were hit by a car, Larry. You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

Lucky, Sam kept repeating. Lucky. “I don’t understand,” Larry admitted. Clutching his head. “What about company insurance?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry, pal. You’ve been out for a week. I needed to replace you. I needed to, man.”

“No,” Larry said weakly. “Sam, I—”

Sam put on his jacket. “I did my best, pal. I did my best.”

Larry tried to sit up again, and again felt the intense pain scream through his lower body. He couldn’t take the pain again, feeling his head slowly black out.

When he came to, Sam was gone and a much older face was stared down at him.

“How are you feeling?” the man with white hair asked kindly. His hair was wet, dripping onto Larry’s white bed sheet.

“Fuck you,” Larry murmured.

The man laughed. “What’s wrong, Larry? You made money! Twenty thousand dollars!”

“You know that won’t amount to shit when it’s all said and done.”

The man sighed and sat down on a chair beside the bed and rubbed his knees. “It’s been such a busy day today . . .”

“I want another cookie,” Larry demanded. He tried to lean over the bed, but his hip wouldn’t allow for it. A flash of pain spread across his body and he winced.

“. . . Luckily for you,” the man continued, “I have three left.” He revealed the fortune cookie box from beneath his coat and pulled out the last cookies. “Unfortunately, these will be costly. Twenty thousand.”

Larry rested his head against his pillow. “I can’t afford that. I just . . . I can’t.”

The man stared at him coldly. “What do you have to lose, Larry?” He pulled out a slip of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket. “Sign your settlement over to me.”

Larry nodded, grabbing the wet pen from the man’s hand. He quickly signed it and snatched the cookies.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Larry,” the man said with a smile. He left quietly without saying another word.

Larry tore open the first cookie and shoved it into his mouth. He unfolded the piece of paper.

You will die.

“No!” Larry screamed, chunks of cookie flying out of the corners of his mouth. He cracked open the second one and shoved the pieces of cookie into his mouth, unfolding the fortune.

You will die.

“No! Dammit, no!” He swallowed hard, a chunk of half-eaten cookie lodging itself in his throat. He cracked open the third one and felt his face burning with pressure to breathe. The last one had to fix everything, he decided. The third one would save him. He unfolded the piece of paper and his eyes rolled back into his head. His lungs collapsed from the pressure, and his heart could take no more. The paper fell to the floor face-up, even as his throat began convulsing, his diaphragm trying in vain to push up the chunks of cookie.

You’re dead.