The Fortune
by Darlene Holt
“It might not look like much, but they have some killer Kung Pao,” says Maria as she exits her Prius, her heels clacking tastefully on the asphalt.
Stepping out of my own car, I’m careful not to hit the black Volvo parked crookedly in the spot next to me as my gaze drifts to the peeling paint and tilted letters of the restaurant’s signage. “Wok Away,” I read out loud. “I think it’s trying to tell us something.”
“You expect five-star dining in this market? Maybe when houses start selling again and we’re back to making the big bucks.” Maria gives an exaggerated wink as she smooths out her Versace pantsuit. Slate gray and wrinkle-free, as always. “Besides, these holes-in-the-wall are always gems, Mal.”
We enter the tiny establishment, and I survey the “gem” of a restaurant in all of its glorious mediocrity—the brown quarry tile, the dull hum of fluorescent lights—nothing like the Carrara Italian marble or recessed halogen lighting in my model homes. As we step up to order, we’re greeted by an elderly Asian man. His pointed eyebrows are sparse and sprinkled with gray, as is the tiny patch of hair beneath his lip.
“This your first time in restaurant?” he asks after I finish ordering. His speech is slow—deliberate—as he tiptoes across his words with a thick Chinese accent. He smiles politely and waits for my response.
“Oh. Yes.” I want to add: “And probably my last,” but don’t.
“Oh!” he exclaims, reaching under the counter. His hands rummage below and return a moment later with two fortune cookies. “For you and your friend,” he says with a smile. “Enjoy.”
I thank him and grab a seat in a flimsy plastic chair across from Maria. “Here,” I say, chucking a cookie at her. We both laugh. “And next time, we’re opting for sushi.”
During our meal, we talk business for a bit, about how we both desperately need a vacation, and how the lo mein could have used a little less oil.
“Geez, it’s already quarter-to-one,” I say with a glance at my watch. “I gotta get ready for the open house.” With a final bite of my egg roll, I grab my car keys and stand up to leave.
“Wait!” Maria tugs my wrist. “Our cookies!” She gives a cutesy smile and opens the packaging.
“Eh, why not?” I sit back down and follow suit. “I need a little luck in my life.”
Maria cracks hers open and pulls out the tiny slip of paper. “Please be lotto numbers, please be lotto numbers,” she chants as she smooths it out before reading. “‘A small fortune will come your way today.’ Wow. Could these things be any more generic?” She lobs half the cookie in her mouth.
“So, what?” she says in between crunches. “Am I gonna find a quarter on the street or something?” I laugh.
“Alright, whatcha got?” asks Maria, tossing the other half into her mouth.
I break my cookie in two. “Fingers crossed!” I pull out the slip and hold it out in front of me as I read to myself: Today, you will lock eyes with death. Huh? I feel my face contort in confusion as I read it again. Lock eyes with death? What the hell kind of fortune is this? My eyes dart toward the front counter. The old man is still standing there, smiling.
“Well, are you inheriting an island in Bermuda or what?”
I give a half-hearted chuckle as I focus back on Maria, trying to mask my sudden apprehension about the tiny piece of paper. “Uh, great things will come your way if . . . you believe in yourself,” I lie.
“Wow,” she says, stone-faced. “Enlightening.”
I feign a laugh and pocket the fortune as we both get up from the table.
“Oh, Mal, I forgot. I have a meeting in Belmont today, but I’ll see you at the open house, yeah?”
I nod, and with a jesting pageant-girl wave, she clacks her way back outside and drives away. I walk back to the counter where we ordered earlier, but the old man is no longer there.
“Um, excuse me?” I call out, pulling the paper slip from the pocket of my blazer. “Sir?” I tap my heel impatiently and glance over my shoulder, searching for an explanation to the man’s whereabouts.
“Hello! May I start an order for you?”
My head snaps forward. The old man’s suddenly standing in front of me with his resilient smile. “What? No, I already—my friend and I were just—” I take a breath and regain my composure. “What is this?” I say, handing him the fortune as if it were my business card.
“Oh, yes, yes! We have very true fortune here!” He nods agreeably before handing it back to me.
“This isn’t funny. What, you hand these out to random people, telling them they’re gonna die?” I snatch the piece of paper from his hand and tear it up, throwing the remnants on the counter. And yet, despite my showmanship, that stupid smile is still plastered on his face.
“May I start an order for you?”
Okay. These types of things don’t usually upset me—I don’t even believe in the stupid piece of paper. But at this point, it’s the principle. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy? “Well, you, sir, just lost yourself a customer,” I say coolly, re-situating my purse strap on my shoulder.
The man merely stares, his smile unfaltering.
My phone jingles, so I reach into my bag, happy to turn my back to the man. “Mallory Devlin,” I answer.
“OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod.”
“Maria?”
“Mal, the deal! The Manchester house—the deal went through! It freakin’ sold!”
“Oh my God,” I echo.
“Exactly! They just called me. Eleven months on the market, and I finally closed the damn thing!”
“That’s amazing, Maria. Really. Congrats!”
“Thanks, Mal! Now just sell the Clover Street house, and we’ll both be sittin’ pretty. C’mon, let’s celebrate. Drinks tonight, yes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Despite the pressure of the upcoming open house, I start feeling better about the whole death-cookie situation; that is, until Maria adds, “Guess that fortune cookie was right, eh?”
My heart sinks. I stand quietly with the phone still pressed against my ear. It’s only a crazy coincidence, that’s all. These fortunes—they mean nothing. They’re just pieces of paper, for Christ’s sake. Today, you will lock eyes with death. With death. Who the hell would write such a thing? I have to focus on the open house. I shake my head, as if that would bring some blood back to my brain.
“Mal? Mal, you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Um, yes on the drinks. I’ll see ya later. Congrats again.” I hang up and turn around to find Smiley McGee is gone. Who is this guy, Houdini? Whatever. I have more important things to worry about.
The drive to the open house is a long one. The fortune echoes in my brain as I come across a sea of brake lights on the 101 north. Death. Lock eyes with death. I’m being ridiculous, mulling over this thing like it’s a puzzle. I shake my head and stare out the window at the station wagon next to me. A mother is yelling at her two boys who are throwing tantrums in the backseat. Her hair is tousled with stress as she slicks it back in frustration. I watch them for maybe a minute, her turning around to them, shaking her fist, until she turns to me. We lock eyes, and I quickly avert my gaze to the car in front of me. Lock eyes with death, my brain echoes again. So, what? This lady is going to take out her anger on me in the middle of a traffic jam? Kill me with her piercing glare? I laugh at the sheer absurdity of it.
As the cars slowly begin moving, I spot the source of stopped traffic: a motorcyclist lying on his back on the shoulder of the freeway. Paramedics arrive and load him onto a stretcher. He looks at me helplessly as they lift him up, as if his eyes are pouring into me, begging me to take his pain away.
HONNNNK!
I cut the wheel as I start to swerve in front of a semi. “Jesus!” I yell. The driver gives me the finger as he speeds up next to me, his eyes dark and menacing.
“Watch it, lady, or you’ll get yourself killed!” he shouts as he slowly passes me. I take a deep breath. Lock eyes with death. “Stop!” I cry out to myself.
“It’s not real. That was a stupid coincidence. Everything is fine.”
Continuing my self-talk for the remainder of the ride, I finally reach my destination: 613 Clover Street. “Okay,” I say, getting out of my car. “Time for business.” I walk across the street to my latest project: a pale-yellow California bungalow, completely remodeled with a front bay window and wrap-around porch. I’m just hoping the last five months of blood, sweat, and money that went into this place is worth it.
As I approach the driveway, a redheaded boy around seven or eight is biking down the sidewalk. I stop to let him pass, but instead of riding by, he stops as well. He stares at me . . . and stares . . . and stares . . . and here I am, having a staring contest with a freakin’ child, neither of us backing down.
“Okay, kid, what’s this all about?”
He looks at me through dark green eyes for several more seconds until he begins pedaling again, as if the last minute between us never even occurred. Seriously, what the hell? The stupid fortune pops up in my head again, so I try to stifle it with nonsensical humming as I continue up the driveway and unlock the front door. “Stupid kid,” I say, closing it behind me.
By 4:00 PM, the house is bustling with potential clients. I find myself answering a hundred questions a minute, but the thoughts of the fortune still plague me. “Why, yes, there is central air and heating.” Today . . . lock eyes. “This room could easily be converted into a spare bedroom.” Lock eyes with death. “These countertops? Travertine, of course!” Death . . . today. As I begin to feel overwhelmed by the watchful eyes of the onlookers, Maria arrives, and I’m relieved to see a familiar face.
“Am I trippin’ out, or is everyone here looking at me weird?” I ask her as I restock pricing pamphlets on the front porch.
“C’mon, Mal, you’re running around like a madwoman. Take a breather.”
“Despite the chaos of everything, the thoughts of that stupid fortune aren’t going away. Everyone’s eyes seem to pierce into me, and I can’t help but think––”
“Oh, great,” says Maria. “This lady thinks she’s gonna take her dog on our marble floors? I don’t think so.”
I turn my attention down the street to an older woman whose face is just as scrunched as the pug she’s walking. “The customer’s always right,” I say to Maria, trying to compose myself. I exhale, then greet the woman and offer to watch her dog outside while Maria shows her the house. The two of them enter, and I’m left outside with—I bend to look at the dog’s tag--Lucky. Of course.
Standing on the porch, I tug Lucky’s leash as he pulls toward a stray cat lurking across the street. “Stop pulling, dog.” The cat’s golden eyes glow in the shade of a large oak—fixated on me. Judging me. I swiftly shift my focus from the demon cat to the surrounding neighborhood. It seems to have quieted down now that many of the people are leaving, but something suddenly catches my eye. I watch as a Volvo, raven black, creeps along the road up the street. It comes to a stop a few houses away, but I can still hear the whisper of the engine. It’s getting later now, and the nearby trees have casted eerie shadows over the car as the sun retreats behind the hillside. The headlights flash—once, twice, three times—in the looming darkness. I wait anxiously, but the silhouetted figure of the man inside the car merely sits there.
“Don’t freak out, don’t freak out. It’s just a strange man . . . sitting in his car . . . looking this way.” The pug looks up at me with bulging eyes and an ugly overbite. Today, you will lock eyes with death. Lock eyes with death. Today. “No!” I shout as a couple walks out of the house toward their car. They stare at me with alarmed expressions. “Don’t look at me!” I yell, averting my eyes. I’m overreacting. Everything is fine, I try to tell myself. But that man is still there. He’s still sitting. He must be staring. I can’t lock eyes with him.
“Mallory?” comes Maria’s voice. “Is that you yelling?”
She pokes her head out the door and locks eyes with me. She locks eyes with me! I can’t take it. Against my will, I look into her eyes as she approaches, and I see myself reflected back—miniature, distorted, crazed. Death. Lock eyes with death. “Don’t look at me!” I shriek. I release the dog’s leash to cover my eyes. The dog jets towards the cat across the street, and I run out after it. Death. Today. Lock eyes with death. “Stop!” I cry, more to myself than the dog. I reach for Lucky’s leash in the middle of the road, but the headlights come too quickly. Maria’s piercing scream feels distant—muffled—and I lock eyes with him . . . the man in the black car. The man with the resilient smile.
Stepping out of my own car, I’m careful not to hit the black Volvo parked crookedly in the spot next to me as my gaze drifts to the peeling paint and tilted letters of the restaurant’s signage. “Wok Away,” I read out loud. “I think it’s trying to tell us something.”
“You expect five-star dining in this market? Maybe when houses start selling again and we’re back to making the big bucks.” Maria gives an exaggerated wink as she smooths out her Versace pantsuit. Slate gray and wrinkle-free, as always. “Besides, these holes-in-the-wall are always gems, Mal.”
We enter the tiny establishment, and I survey the “gem” of a restaurant in all of its glorious mediocrity—the brown quarry tile, the dull hum of fluorescent lights—nothing like the Carrara Italian marble or recessed halogen lighting in my model homes. As we step up to order, we’re greeted by an elderly Asian man. His pointed eyebrows are sparse and sprinkled with gray, as is the tiny patch of hair beneath his lip.
“This your first time in restaurant?” he asks after I finish ordering. His speech is slow—deliberate—as he tiptoes across his words with a thick Chinese accent. He smiles politely and waits for my response.
“Oh. Yes.” I want to add: “And probably my last,” but don’t.
“Oh!” he exclaims, reaching under the counter. His hands rummage below and return a moment later with two fortune cookies. “For you and your friend,” he says with a smile. “Enjoy.”
I thank him and grab a seat in a flimsy plastic chair across from Maria. “Here,” I say, chucking a cookie at her. We both laugh. “And next time, we’re opting for sushi.”
During our meal, we talk business for a bit, about how we both desperately need a vacation, and how the lo mein could have used a little less oil.
“Geez, it’s already quarter-to-one,” I say with a glance at my watch. “I gotta get ready for the open house.” With a final bite of my egg roll, I grab my car keys and stand up to leave.
“Wait!” Maria tugs my wrist. “Our cookies!” She gives a cutesy smile and opens the packaging.
“Eh, why not?” I sit back down and follow suit. “I need a little luck in my life.”
Maria cracks hers open and pulls out the tiny slip of paper. “Please be lotto numbers, please be lotto numbers,” she chants as she smooths it out before reading. “‘A small fortune will come your way today.’ Wow. Could these things be any more generic?” She lobs half the cookie in her mouth.
“So, what?” she says in between crunches. “Am I gonna find a quarter on the street or something?” I laugh.
“Alright, whatcha got?” asks Maria, tossing the other half into her mouth.
I break my cookie in two. “Fingers crossed!” I pull out the slip and hold it out in front of me as I read to myself: Today, you will lock eyes with death. Huh? I feel my face contort in confusion as I read it again. Lock eyes with death? What the hell kind of fortune is this? My eyes dart toward the front counter. The old man is still standing there, smiling.
“Well, are you inheriting an island in Bermuda or what?”
I give a half-hearted chuckle as I focus back on Maria, trying to mask my sudden apprehension about the tiny piece of paper. “Uh, great things will come your way if . . . you believe in yourself,” I lie.
“Wow,” she says, stone-faced. “Enlightening.”
I feign a laugh and pocket the fortune as we both get up from the table.
“Oh, Mal, I forgot. I have a meeting in Belmont today, but I’ll see you at the open house, yeah?”
I nod, and with a jesting pageant-girl wave, she clacks her way back outside and drives away. I walk back to the counter where we ordered earlier, but the old man is no longer there.
“Um, excuse me?” I call out, pulling the paper slip from the pocket of my blazer. “Sir?” I tap my heel impatiently and glance over my shoulder, searching for an explanation to the man’s whereabouts.
“Hello! May I start an order for you?”
My head snaps forward. The old man’s suddenly standing in front of me with his resilient smile. “What? No, I already—my friend and I were just—” I take a breath and regain my composure. “What is this?” I say, handing him the fortune as if it were my business card.
“Oh, yes, yes! We have very true fortune here!” He nods agreeably before handing it back to me.
“This isn’t funny. What, you hand these out to random people, telling them they’re gonna die?” I snatch the piece of paper from his hand and tear it up, throwing the remnants on the counter. And yet, despite my showmanship, that stupid smile is still plastered on his face.
“May I start an order for you?”
Okay. These types of things don’t usually upset me—I don’t even believe in the stupid piece of paper. But at this point, it’s the principle. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy? “Well, you, sir, just lost yourself a customer,” I say coolly, re-situating my purse strap on my shoulder.
The man merely stares, his smile unfaltering.
My phone jingles, so I reach into my bag, happy to turn my back to the man. “Mallory Devlin,” I answer.
“OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod.”
“Maria?”
“Mal, the deal! The Manchester house—the deal went through! It freakin’ sold!”
“Oh my God,” I echo.
“Exactly! They just called me. Eleven months on the market, and I finally closed the damn thing!”
“That’s amazing, Maria. Really. Congrats!”
“Thanks, Mal! Now just sell the Clover Street house, and we’ll both be sittin’ pretty. C’mon, let’s celebrate. Drinks tonight, yes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Despite the pressure of the upcoming open house, I start feeling better about the whole death-cookie situation; that is, until Maria adds, “Guess that fortune cookie was right, eh?”
My heart sinks. I stand quietly with the phone still pressed against my ear. It’s only a crazy coincidence, that’s all. These fortunes—they mean nothing. They’re just pieces of paper, for Christ’s sake. Today, you will lock eyes with death. With death. Who the hell would write such a thing? I have to focus on the open house. I shake my head, as if that would bring some blood back to my brain.
“Mal? Mal, you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Um, yes on the drinks. I’ll see ya later. Congrats again.” I hang up and turn around to find Smiley McGee is gone. Who is this guy, Houdini? Whatever. I have more important things to worry about.
The drive to the open house is a long one. The fortune echoes in my brain as I come across a sea of brake lights on the 101 north. Death. Lock eyes with death. I’m being ridiculous, mulling over this thing like it’s a puzzle. I shake my head and stare out the window at the station wagon next to me. A mother is yelling at her two boys who are throwing tantrums in the backseat. Her hair is tousled with stress as she slicks it back in frustration. I watch them for maybe a minute, her turning around to them, shaking her fist, until she turns to me. We lock eyes, and I quickly avert my gaze to the car in front of me. Lock eyes with death, my brain echoes again. So, what? This lady is going to take out her anger on me in the middle of a traffic jam? Kill me with her piercing glare? I laugh at the sheer absurdity of it.
As the cars slowly begin moving, I spot the source of stopped traffic: a motorcyclist lying on his back on the shoulder of the freeway. Paramedics arrive and load him onto a stretcher. He looks at me helplessly as they lift him up, as if his eyes are pouring into me, begging me to take his pain away.
HONNNNK!
I cut the wheel as I start to swerve in front of a semi. “Jesus!” I yell. The driver gives me the finger as he speeds up next to me, his eyes dark and menacing.
“Watch it, lady, or you’ll get yourself killed!” he shouts as he slowly passes me. I take a deep breath. Lock eyes with death. “Stop!” I cry out to myself.
“It’s not real. That was a stupid coincidence. Everything is fine.”
Continuing my self-talk for the remainder of the ride, I finally reach my destination: 613 Clover Street. “Okay,” I say, getting out of my car. “Time for business.” I walk across the street to my latest project: a pale-yellow California bungalow, completely remodeled with a front bay window and wrap-around porch. I’m just hoping the last five months of blood, sweat, and money that went into this place is worth it.
As I approach the driveway, a redheaded boy around seven or eight is biking down the sidewalk. I stop to let him pass, but instead of riding by, he stops as well. He stares at me . . . and stares . . . and stares . . . and here I am, having a staring contest with a freakin’ child, neither of us backing down.
“Okay, kid, what’s this all about?”
He looks at me through dark green eyes for several more seconds until he begins pedaling again, as if the last minute between us never even occurred. Seriously, what the hell? The stupid fortune pops up in my head again, so I try to stifle it with nonsensical humming as I continue up the driveway and unlock the front door. “Stupid kid,” I say, closing it behind me.
By 4:00 PM, the house is bustling with potential clients. I find myself answering a hundred questions a minute, but the thoughts of the fortune still plague me. “Why, yes, there is central air and heating.” Today . . . lock eyes. “This room could easily be converted into a spare bedroom.” Lock eyes with death. “These countertops? Travertine, of course!” Death . . . today. As I begin to feel overwhelmed by the watchful eyes of the onlookers, Maria arrives, and I’m relieved to see a familiar face.
“Am I trippin’ out, or is everyone here looking at me weird?” I ask her as I restock pricing pamphlets on the front porch.
“C’mon, Mal, you’re running around like a madwoman. Take a breather.”
“Despite the chaos of everything, the thoughts of that stupid fortune aren’t going away. Everyone’s eyes seem to pierce into me, and I can’t help but think––”
“Oh, great,” says Maria. “This lady thinks she’s gonna take her dog on our marble floors? I don’t think so.”
I turn my attention down the street to an older woman whose face is just as scrunched as the pug she’s walking. “The customer’s always right,” I say to Maria, trying to compose myself. I exhale, then greet the woman and offer to watch her dog outside while Maria shows her the house. The two of them enter, and I’m left outside with—I bend to look at the dog’s tag--Lucky. Of course.
Standing on the porch, I tug Lucky’s leash as he pulls toward a stray cat lurking across the street. “Stop pulling, dog.” The cat’s golden eyes glow in the shade of a large oak—fixated on me. Judging me. I swiftly shift my focus from the demon cat to the surrounding neighborhood. It seems to have quieted down now that many of the people are leaving, but something suddenly catches my eye. I watch as a Volvo, raven black, creeps along the road up the street. It comes to a stop a few houses away, but I can still hear the whisper of the engine. It’s getting later now, and the nearby trees have casted eerie shadows over the car as the sun retreats behind the hillside. The headlights flash—once, twice, three times—in the looming darkness. I wait anxiously, but the silhouetted figure of the man inside the car merely sits there.
“Don’t freak out, don’t freak out. It’s just a strange man . . . sitting in his car . . . looking this way.” The pug looks up at me with bulging eyes and an ugly overbite. Today, you will lock eyes with death. Lock eyes with death. Today. “No!” I shout as a couple walks out of the house toward their car. They stare at me with alarmed expressions. “Don’t look at me!” I yell, averting my eyes. I’m overreacting. Everything is fine, I try to tell myself. But that man is still there. He’s still sitting. He must be staring. I can’t lock eyes with him.
“Mallory?” comes Maria’s voice. “Is that you yelling?”
She pokes her head out the door and locks eyes with me. She locks eyes with me! I can’t take it. Against my will, I look into her eyes as she approaches, and I see myself reflected back—miniature, distorted, crazed. Death. Lock eyes with death. “Don’t look at me!” I shriek. I release the dog’s leash to cover my eyes. The dog jets towards the cat across the street, and I run out after it. Death. Today. Lock eyes with death. “Stop!” I cry, more to myself than the dog. I reach for Lucky’s leash in the middle of the road, but the headlights come too quickly. Maria’s piercing scream feels distant—muffled—and I lock eyes with him . . . the man in the black car. The man with the resilient smile.
Darlene Holt graduated from California State University, San Bernardino, with her B.A. in English and later obtained her M.A. in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Her fictional work and poetry have been published in The Penmen Review, The Drabble, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. She has also presented her non-fictional work as a winner of Chaffey College’s One Book, One College competition. She currently resides in San Diego, California, where she enjoys soaking up the sun and spending time with her fiancé and three cats.