Fortune Cookie

Just to be clear, I don’t believe in numerology. I mean, who would really think that adding up the digits of your birthday and squashing them down over and over until you reach a single digit will tell you anything about who you are. There are only ten digits, after all. That would mean there are really only ten types of people. I’ve personally met at least twelve.

Yet every time I go to Tinko’s, that tiny little hole in the wall down by the ocean, I get the stupid fortune cookies. I usually buy a lottery ticket at the gas station across the street right after, because they give you the numbers right there in the cookie. I don’t want to be the idiot that ignores my numbers and looses out on millions of dollars. I don’t think the numbers control my future, though.

Really I get the cookies for the fortunes inside. They are usually strange, weird, and sometimes hilarious. I have one in my wallet that says “About time I got out of that cookie.” Sometimes they are oddly deep. Like last weeks. “He who throws mud loses ground.”

I don’t think they’re actually meaningful, or anything. They’re just for fun. I like that they play with words, but don’t use big words that people wouldn’t know. I’ve never had to look anything up in a dictionary to get it.

Today I order my usual orange chicken. I sit in the booth by the front window so I can watch people as they pass Tinko’s. They have no idea I’m behind the tinted glass, so I get to see all kinds of things. I dump extra red chili flakes on my chicken, because I’m in the mood for spicy. Unfortunately, nothing spicy happens outside.

And then I get my cookie. I crack it open and drop the cookie and wrapper into the garbage can at the hostess stand. I never actually eat the cookies. They look like wax, or something.

It’s all about the little slip of paper inside. Today it says “You will soon discover your hidden talent.”

I stop on the sidewalk, disappointed. I already know my hidden talent. I’m an amazing singer. Someday the whole world will know, and then it won’t be hidden.

I consider dropping the fortune slip into the green bin outside the gas station to be recycled after I buy my ticket. I don’t because it might be a funny thing to show people later on, when I’m a star. It’ll be like the cookie made it happen.

So I tuck the little white paper into the tiny pocket at my hip and head down the sidewalk toward home. It’s sunset already. I spent a lot longer in Tinko’s than I meant to. The sky is red tonight, painting the concrete under my feet so it looks like faded brick. I keep my head down as I hurry for home, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the weirdos who come out at night.

I am thankfully alone on a quickly darkening block when the car backfires in the distance. I jump, twitch, really, and then I’m falling. As I fall I see the concrete pass in front of me, seemingly through me. Then I realize I can’t see me. I’m invisible. And I’m falling through the sidewalk.

I land with a splash and a wash of aromas I could have done without. I can see myself again, the splashes of brown crap against the blue denim of my jeans. The ground is once again solid under my feet.

I stand in the slowly streaming sewer, glad it only reaches to my knees, and consider what just happened. I was scared, startled, and I disappeared, became invisible and very unsolid.

I have hidden powers. I am a superhero.

I am a superhero who is standing in a sewer with a power that is unlikely to save anyone. Except maybe me, in the right circumstances.

I sigh and roll my eyes. This is the worst origin story ever. I start walking, looking for my way out of the sewer and back into the normal world.

Man, I hope those numbers bring me some money. I’m going to need a new pair of shoes.