Fortune’s Cookie

The bike glided through the desert heat when the sky suddenly contracted like a sponge and began pouring rain. The kid on the bike, dressed in pleated chinos and a tucked-in button-down shirt, raced for cover. He found shelter beneath the awning of a strip mall, but not before his foot slipped off the pedal, catching his pants against the gear sprocket, which caused a greasy streak to ride up his leg. He was wet too, completely soaked to the bone. When this happened, his dark hair flattened and frizzed, and the peach button-down sucked up against his bony frame.

Mid-afternoon traffic came to a standstill. Streetlights went through the motions and a number of car horns started to bleat like sheep. A few savvy drivers took a U-turn and detoured down side streets. The kid took a moment to collect himself.

Still braced upon his bike frame, he waddled closer to the window of the neighborhood chop suey joint, Ming La’s, and went about rearranging his mess of hair in the faint reflection laced with Chinese symbols he didn’t understand and listed business hours from eleven to ten. Take-out orders welcome. The kid’s focus deepened and he could see a girl about his age huddled up on the counter between the register and a jar of fortune cookies watching either him with a look of pity or the downpour with a look of casual disinterest.

The kid took out his phone and checked the time. 3:30. He still had thirty minutes and three miles to go before his scheduled interview at the restaurant. Just not this restaurant. He leaned his bike against the building and checked the western skies. They seemed to be clearing. He hoped he would still be able to make it in time.

The kid scratched his cheek and thought about the ten dollars in his pocket his stepfather had given him the day before. The old man did that from time to time, providing pathetic tokens of care and affection in five-dollar increments. The kid normally stashed them away, trying to save up for his first car. But considering the present circumstances he felt they could be put to equally good use in another way.

He opened the door to Ming La’s and stepped inside. A chill swept over him. The girl hopped down from the counter and smiled. There was a commotion in the kitchen behind her, sounds and smells of frying rice and vegetables, a sweet and sour aroma of marinated chicken tickled his nose. Through the gossamer curtain, the kid saw the outline of a little girl running towards a seated grandmotherly figure. The older girl at the counter cocked her head slightly to the side as the kid approached.

“Hi, can I help you?” She had no discernable accent. They were probably in the same grade at school. She could be Chinese, he thought, maybe Korean, or even Filipino. The kid had some difficult telling them apart, no matter how many movies he watched. He didn’t know any better.

“Umm, yeah. Could I have a small Mountain Dew and a fortune cookie, please?”

“Sure.” Her fingers flew over the register keys, ringing up a total. After she had given him his change, she poured his drink at the soda fountain, capping it with a plastic lid and straw and then removed the glass lid of the cookie jar. Rather than grabbing one within, she leaned the jar towards him, shook it twice, and said, “No peaking!”

The kid pushed up the damp sleeve of his shirt, closed his eyes, and fished within for the future. He grasped the fifth cookie his fingers touched and removed it from the jar.

“Thanks,” he said, and started to turn away.

“You aren’t going to open it now? It’s bad luck to delay opening your fortune, you know.”

“Really?” the kid stopped in his tracks and faced the girl again.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it sounded good, right? Besides, I think with the weather outside being as it is, you could stand to use a little good luck right now.”

Maybe she’s right, he thought, and took another step closer to the counter. He set his beverage down and held the cookie cupped in his open hand. The girl slapped her elbows on the counter and leaned forward with interest. Trace amounts of glitter flickered on her eyelids.

The kid cracked the cookie in half and withdrew his fortune. It was written in red ink on a rectangular sheet of paper. On one side, a few more Chinese symbols he didn’t understand were written above a series of lucky numbers; the other side said, “Open eyes will not see whole picture.”

“Gee, that’s sure helpful.”

“Let me see.” She snatched the paper from him. Her cheeks flushed somewhat as she read. The kid examined his shoes, spit-polished for the occasion, almost sure they went to school together.

“How ominous.” She handed it back to him.

“How vague. These fortune cookies are always full of it.”

“Yep, a great American tradition.”

“He-he. Ah well, thanks anyway. Have a nice day.”

“You too. Good luck.”

He swallowed one half of the cookie, grabbed his soda, and headed out the door. The clouds had moved on towards the mountains and the sky was again bright, though the sun was still nowhere to be found. A muggy heaviness had taken its socks off and put its feet on the table. The kid rolled up his sleeves and pedaled on towards his destination.

There it was, just off Sahara Avenue, a few blocks away from the golf course and country club — Raphaelo’s Ristorante. The kid checked his phone. Made it with five minutes to spare. He rolled down his sleeves, chained his bike to a nearby signpost, and went inside.

He made his way to the hostess, looked at her with a nervous gaze and said, “Hello, my name is Rory Wiggins and I have an interview scheduled at four.”

Thanks for reading!