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It's in the Cards is a Jay Dubya science fiction short story appearing in the Kindle, Nook and Smashwords e-book First Person Stories (538 pages). Hardcover and paperback editions of First Person Stories will be available in the summer of 2015.
“It’s in the Cards”
Up until most recently, I’ve never even superficially believed in Numerology, the oddball conjecture that a definite relationship exists between a particular number and a personal earthly event. I had always considered the primitive practice of Numerology to be casually classified and conveniently filed-away inside a remote desk drawer along with such other weird pseudo-sciences such as Astrology, Tarot Cards, Palm Reading, Zodiac Horoscopes and Medieval Alchemy.
My skeptical, cynical mind always had regarded the doubting hypothesis that no special “Divine Plan” exists and that unique situations and certain experiences happen to human beings because of the dominant Three C’s: Chance, Circumstance and Coincidence. ‘Placing credence in Providence, in Angels and in Archaic Religious Faith is fundamentally based on ‘mystical superstition’ along with a sprinkling of dreamful human desire in order to satisfy mankind’s abundant hopes, fears, and dreads in addition to our peculiar species’ myriad greedy ambitions,’ I had often reckoned. In terms of “Numerology”, throughout the years I have unmistakably been a professed apostate.
Predictably, being an insomniac, I had awakened quite early on Monday, October 6th, 2014. Joanne would be sleeping until 9 as was my wife’s established habit, so I figured I would amble down the upstairs’ hall into the comfortable computer room, which also served as my “territorial man cave,” the area having a flat screen television and an overused DVR disc player. ‘It’s not my birthday, because my one and only birthday was October 6th, 1942,’ I remember musing as I nonchalantly switched-on the room’s overhead light. ‘Today’s actually my birth date!’
I was a trifle peeved that chilly autumnal morning since two days prior on Saturday, October 4th I had received in the mail an unwelcomed notice for Petit Jury Duty, the setting being thirty miles east in Atlantic City, with my required court-house appearance scheduled for Tuesday, November 18th.
‘I’ve been called for Jury Duty six times in the last eighteen years and have never once been selected from a pool of one hundred registered voters who were commanded to show-up,’ I very negatively pondered. ‘And the court wants me to park my car in a high-rise garage on New York Avenue and then walk three long blocks through unsavory urban neighborhoods to Bacharach and Atlantic Avenues. I could be maliciously mugged in broad daylight while merely attempting to patriotically fulfill my civic duty! Thank goodness I won’t be summoned again. In three years I’ll be seventy-five and my old age will have evolved me out of the jury system!’
Then my annoyed mind reflected upon the frustrating matter a bit more. ‘The last time I had to sit there in the court chamber for four hours while nit-picking lawyers on both sides found fault with and rejected prospective jurors, the fussy attorneys looking for twelve unbiased candidates. Meanwhile during the lengthy fiasco, I had to sit quietly in the ‘cattle corral audience’ knowing full-well that I could not possibly qualify because I had been acquainted with the trial’s plaintiff, a relative of my wife’ cousin, and besides that fact, I socially knew the judge and his wife, and finally, four years ago I had also had a traffic accident at the exact same intersection which was on the court docket currently under intense dispute with the defendant, whose lawyer’s barrister father had once represented me in another complicated legal case that had been conducted way back in the 1970s!’
Feeling rather aggravated from excessive emotional duress, I quickly determined that I should activate my reliable computer and promptly ascend above my mounting indignation by scrupulously viewing the world’s massive relevant problems, which obviously would eclipse and dwarf my own grievance associated with my upcoming Petit Jury Duty assignment. While my desktop Dell was loading (and with my challenged cerebrum in quest of some palpable emotional consolation) I mentally reviewed some of my mediocre life’s highlights so that my slightly beleaguered mind could smoothly shift into a more positive, benign attitude.
‘It’s great being retired after enduring a besieged high school and middle school English teacher career for 34 years,’ I rationally assessed. ‘And then from 1967 to 1881, I had owned Dealers Choice Amusement Arcade on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland, and also during the summer months from 1974-‘81, I also had operated the New Horizon Gift and Beach Shop on the Rehoboth Beach, Delaware Boardwalk. And after eventually retiring from business, for eighteen summers I had been the field manager for Atlantic Blueberry Company, the largest cultivated blueberry farm in the world with thriving divisions in Hammonton and in Mays Landing, New Jersey.’
Just as my computer was developing a screen and displaying my all-too-familiar “Home Page”, my alert senses were suddenly startled when my printer was somehow self-activated, since obviously the device was acting unilaterally without any specific command being initiated by myself. I was indeed very curious about that unexplained, totally bizarre irregularity.
Much to my surprise and befuddlement, a printed letter was being generated, which I swiftly removed from the underneath tray, and my general interest was soon quite astonished to comprehend that the message had originated from my Uncle Henry Mason, who had died of a massive heart attack in Baltimore, Maryland in July of 2014.
My eyes incredulously read the strange missive that apparently had been freshly authored and electronically sent, although no Google logo or Yahoo emblem or standard characteristic time of day identification had been evident anywhere on the extraordinarily transmitted document. The arcane communication read as follows:
Dear Nephew John,
This is your late Uncle Henry writing to you, and yes, I am permanently dead along with my wife, your Aunt Rachel, who as you know had died on September 18th, 2014. Thanks for loyally attending our Baltimore funerals.
Now John, in order for me to secure a better place in the afterlife, I need you to comply with honoring this one urgent request. As you are aware, I truly loved playing poker with my Highlandtown friends down in my club basement on Foster Avenue in East Baltimore. Now here’s precisely what I need for you to do. Find a straight deck of fifty-two cards. Yes, it is ironic that there are coincidentally 52 weeks in a year.
Now then John: it’s necessary that you ascribe numerical values to each level using the accompanying sequence and numerical weight for each set:
Four Aces 1 point each
Four Deuces 2 points each
Four 3’s 3 points each
Four 4’s 4 points each
Four 5’s 5 points each
Four 6’s 6 points each
Four 7’s 7 points each
Four 8’s 8 points each
Four 9’s 9 points each
Four 10’s 10 points each
Four Jacks 11 points each
Four Queens 12 points each
Four Kings 13 points each
Now Nephew, add-up the sum of the numbers, each to be multiplied by the four. For example, Four Jacks will be forty-four and Four Queens will be equivalent to forty-eight. When you add-up all 13 multiplied numbers, then simply write your recorded total on this paper in the remaining allotted space. Don’t forget to add-in “1” at the end for good measure to allow for the small differential in the Earth’s elliptical orbit! And in summary, kindly disregard the false notion that the number 13 is superstitiously feared by neurotic mortals as being an unlucky stereotype.
I clumsily reached for my hand calculator located upon a side table and carefully and industriously added-up the appropriate numbers: 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, 24, 28, 32, 36, 40, 44, 48, 52 and finally “1”. Next I double-checked my answer to ascertain that my first calculation had been correct. I then apprehensively heeded my deceased uncle’s explicit instructions by cautiously jotting-down the number 365 on the bottom of the printed sheet of paper.
‘Yes John, how coincidental!’ the affirmative words amazingly appeared directly below my 365 number. ‘There are 52 cards in a straight poker deck, 52 weeks in a year, and as you’ve accurately verified, 365 days in a year. John, the interpretation of this ethereal experiment is that you have exactly one more year to live!’
I immediately comprehended right after the worrisome typed words had instantaneously materialized upon the formerly blank area. ‘As Heaven is my witness, you will undeniably die on your birth date, October 6th, 2015!’
The extremely shocking final paragraph remained in existence for ten short seconds or so. Then the disturbing prophetic statement faded and next mysteriously and entirely vanished from the ‘other-world’ frightening letter. The only discernible language that was then evident upon the otherwise blank white printer-paper was my hand-written number ‘365.’
I sat motionless at my computer desk with my flashing, itinerant thoughts being burdened with complete awe, my addled brain endeavoring to logically evaluate the supernatural encounter in which I had just inadvertently participated. ‘I won’t disclose this unnerving encounter with Joanne,’ I decided. ‘This whole crazy scenario is absolutely worse than me claiming to have been abducted by cannibalistic space aliens. My wife’s liable to have me permanently committed to nearby Ancora State Mental Hospital.’
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
My bleary eyes were now focused upon the two decks of cards I had gingerly removed from the “man cave’s” bottom desk drawer: the already examined straight poker deck and the other one being a seldom-used pinochle pack. I sat almost-petrified in my gray leather captain’s chair, my confused psyche still-stunned by the disappearing nomenclature that had seemingly evaporated from Uncle Henry Mason’s ‘dire letter of prognostication.’ Random stored ideas liberally swarmed-around inside my rattled consciousness.
‘Aunt Rachel loved playing pinochle with her lady friends in the club basement of the always-popular Foster Avenue home,’ I sentimentally recollected. ‘All the neighbors were really proud of their front white marble steps leading into the well-maintained row-houses, the steps being a matter of joy that were diligently washed regularly by the homeowners several times a week.
‘And when my family drove down to East Baltimore from New Jersey in the 1950s and ‘60s to visit Uncle Henry and Aunt Rachel, if the weather was accommodating, we all would merrily walk five blocks across Fleet Street (which paralleled Foster Avenue) to famous Haussner’s Restaurant at 3244 Eastern Avenue,’ I fondly recalled. ‘The place had delicious food and especially featured a totally spectacular hundred-item art and statue collection. Enthralled diners would sit and eat their wonderful meals while strategically positioned among the various wall and floor treasures, the appreciative patrons seemingly consuming perfectly delectable meals at tables and booths cleverly situated inside what seemed to be a very fabulous art museum.’
Then, like a hostile foreign invader, a rather disturbing numerical consideration dramatically haunted my nostalgic remembrance. ‘I’ve read on the Internet where Haussner’s had opened in 1926 just before the Great Depression. The prestigious eatery had prospered as an ongoing enterprise for 76 years, and finally Haussner’s closed (ironically and coincidentally) for good on Wednesday, October 6th, 1999, exactly on my 57th birth date,’ I considered. ‘And the fantastic art collection on exhibit was later successfully sold by Sotheby’s Auctions of New York City for a remarkable ten million dollars.’
During my melancholy meditation my stressed thought processes were still engaged in contemplating a serious quandary. My somber introspection was soon interrupted when ‘the phenomenal occult computer printer’ again implausibly self-activated, and very conspicuously, the ‘demonized machine’ began systematically producing a second piece of startling ‘Afterlife Correspondence’, but this time the eerie source was being delivered by my father’s recently deceased sister, Aunt Rachel Mason.
Dear Nephew,
Thank you for taking the time traveling to East Baltimore to attend my viewing and funeral. It was certainly kind for you to remember me since our families have drifted apart after your father’s unexpected death in September of 1974. Now John, I truly need your help so that Uncle Henry and I can mutually ascend to a higher eternal echelon, so to speak.
As you can recall, I positively loved playing pinochle with my closest Foster Avenue neighbors who incidentally almost-daily frequented the family club basement. Now John, here is an easy numerical problem you must solve while utilizing a standard pinochle deck of 48 cards.
First, multiple the given number of cards (8) of each value or kind with the number appearing on each separate card of diamonds, hearts, spades and clubs. For example, multiply 8 X 9 and then 8 X 10 and then after you are through working with all six represented denominations, add the sum of the acquired numbers together to arrive at the desired answer. Please remember that each card will have two copies (2 nine of spades, two nine of clubs, etc.).
8 cards of 9’s (equals 9 each)
8 cards of 10’s (equals 10 each)
8 cards of Jacks (equals 11 each)
8 cards of Queens (equals 12 each)
8 cards of Kings (equals 13 each)
8 cards of Aces (equals 14 each)
John, when you have finished with your elementary arithmetic total, write-down on the bottom space of this paper your’ grand total.
Worried about being smitten with some evil, omnipotent supernatural punishment or potential dangerous consequence, I obediently performed the rudimentary methodology described in Aunt Rachel’s ominous directions. 8 times 9 is 72, 8 times 10 is 80, 8 times 11 is 88, 8 X 12 is 96, 8 times 13 is 104 and finally, 8 X 14 amounts to 112.
Then after twice anxiously adding together the sums of 72, 80, 88, 96, 104 and 112, I very slowly and quite deliberately wrote the number 552 on the prescribed open area.
‘What does the obscure number 552 mean?’ I curiously wondered. ‘Of what significance is it to anything?’
My random speculation was immediately rewarded and enlightened. The printer again self-activated, resulting in a series of new words enigmatically appearing on a newly printed page.
Congratulations John. Your mathematics happens to be impeccable! If you’ll recall, on August 16th, 1977, the same day that Elvis Presley had died, your Uncle Ed and Aunt Jenny were killed in a horrible automobile accident in Virginia while driving to their river home on the Potomac. As you know, your Uncle Ed Garrison had owned several prominent fur stores on Grace Street in Richmond when mink coats and stoles were the fashion vogue, several decades before the emergence of P.E.T.A.
Anyway John, your Uncle Henry and I had visited Ed and Jenny in their Richmond mansion the week before the terrible car/tractor-trailer head-on collision. Your other uncle informed Uncle Henry and me that he was planning to include you in his will, which already had listed us as the chief beneficiaries, that is, after your father’s sister, your Aunt Jenny Garrison’s death.
Since your Aunt Jenny had unfortunately also died in the horrid highway accident, my husband and I had become the exclusive beneficiaries in your Uncle Ed’s will. In effect John, we had cheated you out of your intended inheritance, which has over the years accumulated to the respectable sum of $552,000.00.
Please have the distinct courtesy to forgive your Uncle Henry and me for wickedly swindling the 552 thousand dollars from you. Naturally, we have to now make requisite amends to adequately atone for our avaricious, conniving, immoral selfishness.
Your’ Uncle Henry and I have also just communicated this important information with our sons Robert and William, who will within the next week transfer two checks, one each from their individual UBS Account Management stock portfolios totally in the amount of 552 thousand dollars to fully satisfy our guilty debt to you.
Again John, please forgive us for the mortal sin that your penitent Uncle Henry and I are conscientiously working to erase from our immortal souls.
Sincerely,
Aunt Rachel Mason
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
No sooner had I thoroughly read and fathomed those rather incredible words that sensationally, everything observable magically and astoundingly disappeared from the three sheets of computer paper with the exception of the number 365 on sheet #1 and the number 552 scribbled upon sheet #2. Momentarily, my perplexed mind was rapidly drowning in a state of temporary paralysis. A minute later I was finally able to think more objectively and then effectively recognize all aspects of reality much more perceptively.
Now, feeling inspired, I was able to competently piece and tether together the several remaining jigsaw puzzle elements to this fully intriguing Numerology conundrum.
Aunt Jenny had been first married to Uncle Jim Shire, who had suffered with cancer and had passed-away at a young age in 1954. The couple had one son, my cousin Melvin, who had become a heroic B-17 bombardier during World War II. After surviving many perilous missions over Germany, upon returning to Baltimore, Melvin had experienced a severe mental breakdown, and in 1956 the decorated military veteran died from a variety of emotional and physical maladies. Thus, disconsolate Aunt Jenny married Uncle Ed Garrison five years later, but the Richmond, Virginia pair never had any children that would ever become prospective heirs.
As for myself, I definitely could have used the five hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars back in 1977, but Joanne and I now have more-than-enough income in 2014 to live comfortable lives from our combined pensions, social security checks and assorted stock and property investments.
I’ve presently determined that I’ll place the anticipated five hundred and fifty two thousand dollar bonanza in separate trusts for my three deserving sons. I’ve vowed that I’ll never tell my spouse about the substantial October 6th, 2014 windfall and how it had ultimately been obtained because I don’t want Joanne to learn (while I’m still breathing) that I had had several actively nefarious characters in my family whom my innocent wife had always considered (Uncle Henry and Aunt Rachel) as being eccentric-but-reputable individuals.
And as far as my remaining one-year tenure upon this wonderful Earth is concerned, I plan to live life to the hilt as long as my health warrants. Next month I’ll be treating Joanne to a much-discussed vacation to Taormina, Sicily where we will eagerly visit the nearby mountain towns of Gesso and Calvaruso, the geographic origins of our maternal grandparents before our ambitious ancestors had emigrated to America via Ellis Island in the early 1900s. If (as the esoteric poker deck had secretly divulged) I have only one more year to live, I indeed intend to make the coming duration the most memorable and glorious 365 days possible.
Jay Dubya
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I have a couple of wealthy deceased and still alive uncles and great uncles and aunts. Hopefully I will get a mysterious message on the printer next to me telling me that, if I solve a number puzzle, and write it down, I'll learn about a long-lost inheritance… And my coming death. I'm waiting…
Ron