Good Advice
What is it about the number thirteen makes it so threatening and, since when is Friday a day of bad fortune? What is it about the combination of the two, the infamous Friday the thirteenth, that makes every slightly superstitious person expect the worse? Why is "Friday the Thirteenth" any different from Tuesday the Seventh? Superstition is not for me. I willingly open dry umbrellas indoors, I believe that breaking a mirror is simply an accident, I don’t have a problem walking under ladders, in my opinion, black cats are beautiful and I certainly won’t cringe at these three words. By relaying to you my tale, please don’t assume that I’m connecting this incident with the ridiculous concept of "a day of bad luck". This happened coincidently on Friday the Thirteenth but it does not, in any way, make the day supernatural.
Very late, on the night of Wednesday the Eleventh, or, very early on the morning of Thursday the Twelfth, depending on how you look at it, I had a dream. Now, it’s important that you know, lately, I hadn’t been feeling well. I’d been having premonitions of something terrible happening and no matter what I did, the feeling of foreboding did not relent. For weeks, I hadn’t been able to sleep. My family told me it was all in my head but the longer this went on, the more convinced I was that this was real. I became obsessed and paranoid. With every jingle of the doorbell or ring of the telephone, I imagined a police officer coming to notify my parents that something terrible had
happened. I didn’t know what this bad news was going to be or how to stop it, but I did know something was coming.
Back to the night of the eleventh, or the morning of the twelfth, depending on how you look at it, I caught a cold and fell ill. Although it wasn’t life threatening, energy was drained and I slept, a lot. Throughout the day, I drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time I fell into a deep enough sleep, I dreamt a soundless, cloudy dream. I wasn’t really a dream, for there was no plot and none of it pertained to my life. It was more like, a vision. In it, an empty room with nothing but a square green poker table and four figures. On the north end of this table, sat an old childhood friend that suffered of kidney failure over a decade ago. Across from her sat my great grandmother who died of lung cancer and next to my grandmother, sat my former Pomeranian who was hit by a car when I was nine. On the fourth side of the table, however, stood a man. Maybe this signified the fact that the man wasn’t familiar. Over the course of the day, I came in and out of this vision. Each time, the man took a step closer to me. I wasn’t afraid, only impatient that he could never reach me before I, once again, came to, sat up to glance at my clock and settle back in to fall asleep. At one point I remember the alarm clock to my left saying 6 AM. It was Friday morning and I had to be up for work in three hours. I considered going and although I was feeling a little better, I wasn’t positive that my stomach could handle the smell of gas, carbon monoxide, and old hotdogs. For the millionth time in 24 hours, I fell back to sleep. The image of the four people filled my head. This time, the man stood right in front of me. He looked into my eyes and spoke with a heavy Italian accent.
"I know that lately you have been filled with a dread of something terrible that you aren’t certain of. You aren’t wrong to feel this way. Stay at home today, you will be met with devastation should you go to your job. It’s important you do not wave me off as a dream or coincidence. You must hear me and do as I say."
I woke with a start and sat up, breathing heavily. I looked to my left at the clock radio. Nine o’clock. I wasn’t tired nor did I feel sick but I didn’t dare step a foot off my bed. I sat in my room all day watching old Audrey Hepburn movies and doing my best to convince my mother that I didn’t go into work today because I was still feeling like complete crap. I sat there until the phone rang. I remember everything about that moment. How my heart began pounding resolutely in my chest and how my stomach, butterflies and all, leaped into my throat. It was 2:36 PM, and I knew the call wasn’t a casual one.
My mother reached the phone first. I heard her pick it up and exchange a few words with whoever was chosen to make this unfortunate call. A gasp and a clatter later, my mother was knocking on my door. I slid down in my bed and began the fake cough routine I’d been using all day.
"Come in," I whispered hoarsely. She came in and sat on the edge of my bed. I waited there silently as she explained. At the gas station I work at, there’d been an armed robbery. Everyone in the convenience store, where, right now, I’d normally be working the cash register, at the time of the robbery was killed in a shootout. I nodded as the stomach that had so willingly sat right below my throat, making it almost impossible to swallow and even breathe, slowly sank. I was taken aback, but not surprised. My mother looked at me in concern as she silently left me alone and I let the tears roll. I felt lucky for this Italian guardian angel, but my manager and co-workers, my friends, were all gone.
Not too many weeks after this unfortunate "Friday the Thirteenth", I was at my grandparents house, helping clean out the garage when an old picture of my grandfather and a now, familiar old man caught my eye. I lifted the photo out of the box and looked up at my grandfather.
"Papa, who’s the man in this picture?" My grandfather took the picture from my hand and let out a deep, surprising bolt of laughter.
"That’s my old friend. When we were young, we grew up together in Naples. We were friends all the way through high school and he came to America only four months after I did because he missed me! He died the year before you were born in a department store shooting, so, sadly you never were able to meet him. But, he always gave the best advice."
"You’re wrong Papa," I smiled, "I did meet him. And, he does give great advice."
Good luck if you actually read all that and sorry if some of it doesn't make sense because livejournal is gay and cut some of it up. Enjoy...and you really don't have to tell me what you think.
Actually, I'm not sure why I posted that on here. No! Don't read it you loser. Look away...look away