They Say Page 2
“Since when is ‘13’ a lucky number? Is that supposed to be funny?”
“You’re dyslexic aren’t you,” he said matter-of-factly, “Look again. Slowly.” He did the finger trick to enlarge the text.
I glared a “so” at him before studying the threesome again. OK, so I’d been mistaken; it was a “31.” I looked back to my phone, about to dismiss the bride again, “Hey, that first part is my birthday, except it’s got the day and month reversed, mine’s…”
“It will be your birthday; the 22nd of November, 2031. You write it differently, that’s all. But,” he put his hand out towards my phone, “I wouldn’t take that call if I were you…”
“But you’re not.” That felt good. Presumptuous bastard. And pretentious. A different way to do dates? And telling me not to do something? Ha! I punched Talk, said “Hello,” and waited. “What do you mean you’re on the plane? Still? You…” She cut me off.
“Slow down,” I said, “you’re breaking up…” Completely sober and still I failed to make sense of what she said. Something about, ‘I wasn’t a loser,’ and ‘Don’t fall for any wild schemes.’ Simultaneously I wondered why she hadn’t been back home with hubby-to-be for a couple of hours by now.
A voice on her plane’s intercom drowned her out, announced they should have long since shut off their phones. Uh, hell, yea-uh.
“Sorry,” I said to Pretentious, only half meaning it, “my girlfriend. Getting in trouble for using a phone on an airplane.” I went back to listening. “Three numbers? You and an old lady got three lucky numbers?” He suddenly looked at me kinda scary. “Me too…but how’d--” Now she was talking about other bartenders but an identical game.
“Both knew,” he leaned in, interupting, “all of them knew not to talk…even you didn’t object to my policy,” we locked eyes, “which is the same as agreeing.”
Now he thinks he can tell people he doesn’t even know when to talk and what they’ve ‘agreed’ to? What I agreed to? Covering the mouthpiece I spat, “Take your damn money and numbers. I’m done with this…What?” I shouted at the phone. The bride-to-be was now shrill. She was telling about three lucky numbers she’d gotten the year before in Vegas: “16-6-13? What do you mean, the old lady’s are almost the same, they either are or aren’t--”
The bartender leaned closer, “Oh, now they are. 16…6…13, rather than the ‘31’ I originally gave that already-old hag. That’d be today, ‘sweetie,’” he mocked a warbley, high-pitched grannie kind of voice, then continued normally, “right now, actually…so tell your girlfriend she just finessed a two-fer for me.”
He smiled and somehow, simultaneously, glared daggers.
I almost said, Scary, dude. But then, not only did I realize he’d known my friend’s numbers but he was acting even crazier than he was talking. Cocking his head this way and that like that Basset Hound might’ve. Then he stopped, pivoted towards the ceiling tile he’d apparently sought-then-found and did some psycho-magician hand movements.
What the…
In my ear pandemonium sounded on board the plane. I yanked it away at the ear-piercing screams followed by harsh static. Before I knew it, that all ended; gave way to dead silence. Frantically I redialed but, of course, got no connection.
“They knew the policy,” the so-called bartender whispered.
I looked at him, trying to think of something flippant or clever or threatening, but truthfully I was scared. For my friend and for me. I needed to get away from this weirdo and back to my hotel to get my stuff. Maybe at the airport I could find out what had just happened.
“Leaving so soon?” psycho-bartender practically cooed, “I understand. They are looking at us kinda strange now.”
“’They?’ I don’t give a flip about ‘them,’ whoever they are...and there’s no ‘us,’ there never was,” I said. I’d peeled off and was gripping $28 from the wad of winnings I’d barely been able to wrestle out of my bag’s inside pocket. I thrust the remainder towards him, “Here, I’m giving you back all your ‘luck,’ and now I’m leaving. Thanks, but no thanks.” I turned and looked for the nearest exit which, in Vegas, was always a trick. Clearly this isn’t going to be as smooth as I’d like. But I’d been in worse jams, I reasoned, so I started walking confidently.
The bartender called after me, “No you haven’t, Miss.” I stopped and turned and he added, “But I like your spirit anyway.”
“I haven’t what?” I said, shaking.
“‘Ever been in a worse jam before.’ Nothing you can do about your friend, now, anyway. Besides, you’ll want to see your adjusted numbers,” he said, extending the tablet.
He pressed a button, and an ominous gash split the dull screen. A paper strip snaked out. The numerals were old-school script and glittered with fiery golden sparks like the onscreen depiction of Tolkien’s enchanted ring. 22 dash 11 dash 31. He wrenched the paper free and waited.
I stopped breathing. Had a sick feeling I knew where this was going. It sure wasn’t to a happy place. Now I held perfectly still and watched: the numerals “31” darkened, as if cooling. They separated; then slid back towards and past one another to trade places. They halted.
I hated to acknowledge that this “bartender” was no mere Vegas trickster, so did it only begrudgingly, and then, only deep down. In what must have certainly been my soul.
As if to insure proper interpretation this time, the 1-3 on the narrow paper scroll expanded. All by itself. And again glowed, hotly…“13.”
The 22nd of November, 2013.
Suddenly I realized what had happened to the bride-to-be. Psycho-demon, from way-past-bad-dreams, all-the-way-to-the-inner-circles-of-Hell, “bartender,” that’s what. And on my next birthday? He was going to happen to me.
Like you, probably, I didn’t believe anything “they” said, either, back before that “lucky” trip. Turns out my deal - and my girlfriend’s, too - was with the Devil. Or rather, one of his many minions. Anyway, they always said not to do that and now I realize they were right - at least that once. So like I said, I’ll never know just how cool my 40’s would have been...
Here’s hoping I’ve sufficient time left to at least help a few others.
Please pass this message around.
---THE END---
About the Author
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