Life's Golden Ticket (15 page)

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well, whatever might have started it isn't important. And you know from your earlier experiences here at the park that you can't blame your dad for the momentum you've picked up on this cycle. You've chosen not to express yourself. You've chosen to remain silent. You've chosen the path of least resistance. Do you agree?”

“I guess.”

“No guessing here,” Crank said firmly. “In life, the path of least resistance is always silence. If you don't express your feelings and thoughts to others, you don't have to deal with their reactions to it. You don't have to feel vulnerable. You don't risk rejection. But I'll tell you what: the path of least resistance leads exactly where that ride leads to.” He pointed again to the carts looping around the track. “Nowhere.”

He grabbed my shoulder and kept pointing at the carts whirring around the circle. “Let me ask you something. Aren't you
tired
of that ride? Aren't you
tired
of feeling numb and queasy?”

“I am.”

“Then you've got to stop the cycle. You can't keep giving this behavior energy. You've got to
refuse
the path of least resistance. You've got to put the brakes on this behavior, or your same story of suffering will just keep looping over and over. It's time you start expressing how you feel and what you want. That will start a new cycle for you. And you can't just express yourself now and then. You've
got to do it from now on. You've got to start building momentum—then you'll be unstoppable. Just break the cycle of silence and suffering. Start a new cycle of strength by expressing to the world how you feel and what you want. It's the only way you'll ever live the life you want. Got it?”

“But what if I don't know what I want?”

Crank stood. “Well, then, ever wonder what you're going to get?”

C
rank led me past the bumper boats and back toward the animal cages and the Big Tent. I noticed that the crowds of people were thinning. “Where is everyone?” I asked him.

He motioned toward the Big Tent. “The night's main attraction starts in about two hours. They're probably up on the midway getting some food. They'll want to be early in line for the big show.”

As we neared the animal cages, I saw Henry talking with Gus.

“Hey, Henry!” I said from afar. I felt a sense of comfort in seeing him again.

Henry nodded, turned to Gus, and gave him a hug, then approached us with a smile.

“How are you?” he asked me warmly.

I almost couldn't answer. Henry's face was paler than before. His eyes were still vibrant, but he looked exhausted.

“I'm . . . I'm good, Henry. How about you? You don't look so good.”

Henry beamed a wide smile. “Well that's a lovely thing to say!” He chuckled, then coughed. “I'm good. Don't worry about this old man. Crank, where were you headed?”

Crank replied, “I was taking him to see Meg.”

“Oh, Meg!” Henry said, looking at Crank with surprise. “Well, I hope she behaves. You know how she can be.”

He turned to me. “Listen, after you see Meg, meet me over at the entrance to the Big Tent, okay?”

“Sure. Who's Meg? Where are you going?”

“You'll meet Meg soon enough. I'm off to handle a few things. You go ahead now. See you at the Big Tent.”

C
rank and I walked past the animal cages and turned left. The back of the Big Tent was now on our left, and a long row of smaller tents stood on our right. Crank guided me to a tent in the middle of the row where a makeshift sign hung outside:
KNOW YOUR FUTURE NOW, $
1.

“Not a bad deal,” I said, chuckling.

“Glad you think so.”

Crank glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the Big Tent. “Remember to meet Henry on the other side once you're done. Don't stray. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Thanks, Crank. You too. I really appreciate what you told me.”

“Good. Take care.” He motioned for me to enter the small tent, then walked back toward the animal cages.

I
nside the tent the air was heavy with incense. A half-dozen lit candles sat on a small black coffee table directly in front of me. Next to the table stood a single chair, and a few feet past it hung a heavy red velvet curtain.

“Sit down,” a frail voice called from behind the curtain. “I'll be with you shortly.”

I sat. A few minutes passed; I heard weeping.

The curtain opened, and Harsh the Hypnotist emerged. He stared at me in surprise, then fixed me with an ominous look. He walked to the tent exit. “You better be worth it, kid.”

As the tent flap closed behind him the voice behind the curtain called again. “Come on in. We haven't got all night.”

Pushing back the curtain, I saw a woman wrapped in a tattered purple robe, sitting behind a small round table. Her face was leathery with age; her gray hair was wrapped in a faded red bandanna, and silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. On the center of the table in front of her sat a crystal ball. A haze of incense smoke lingered above us.

“Sit,” she said, looking me up and down. “I'm Meg. And you're the one causing all the talk.”

“All the talk?” I repeated.

She looked at me expectantly and held out her hand. “Sorry, this old gal only barks for a buck.”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. I fished in my pocket for a dollar. “Here you go.”

She snatched the dollar from my hand and put it in a little pouch hanging from her neck. Satisfied, she said, “Now, what do you want to know?”

“You said I'm the one ‘causing all the talk.' What talk is that?”

“I'm a fortune-teller, not a gossip,” she said, suddenly testy. She stood up and relit an incense stick.

“Okay,” I said, confused. “So what are we supposed to do here? Look into the crystal ball and see my future?”

“No,” she scoffed. “You watch too many movies.”

She sat back down and pointed toward the crystal ball. “I got that dumb thing for two dollars at the flea market. It's a fishbowl turned upside down.”

She saw the look on my face and broke into laughter. “Boy, you're just like Harsh—way too serious!”

I remembered what I'd heard in the waiting area. “Harsh . . . I heard him crying while I was waiting. I guess he must have found out some bad news, huh?”

“He sure did,” she said flatly.

I cocked my head. “Well, can I ask what the bad news was? Or would that be gossiping?”

“Of course you can ask. It has to do with your future. Harsh was asking about it.”

“Harsh was asking about my future?” I asked. “Why?”

“He was wondering if you would change in the future. He said you were full of excuses. He was worried you wouldn't.”

The image of Harsh towering over me flashed in my mind, and I felt a flare of anger. “What does he care whether or not I change?”

“Oh!” Meg said, raising her hands to her cheeks and feigning surprise at my anger. “Don't get so worked up, dearie. I don't think he really
does
care about you that much. He cares about Henry, though—that's why he was weeping.”

“The bad news was about Henry?”

“Yes. About Henry . . . and you.”

“Bad news about both of us? What is it?”

Meg leaned forward and put her elbows on the table, then said matter-of-factly, “The bad news for both of you is that you don't change.”

“What? I don't change?” I thought about all that had happened to me in the park so far. “I don't believe it.”

Meg looked at me dispassionately. “It doesn't matter whether you believe it. It is so. And that's bad news for both of you. That's why Harsh was weeping: because he heard the bad news about Henry.”

“I don't understand. Why is it bad news for Henry?”

“Because, of course, Henry wants to see you change. He sacrificed to get you in and wants to see you succeed.”

“What do you mean, ‘he sacrificed'? What sacrifice?”

“I'm afraid that's not for me to say. Henry will tell you in time, I imagine. Unless Harsh tells him the bad news first.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘not changing'? Listen, lady, you got it wrong. I
have
changed already. I
am
changing my life the second I get home—you don't have to worry about that. Neither does Henry.”

Meg raised an eyebrow and nodded as if impressed. “Oh, good for you, dear.” Then she sat silently and just stared at me.

An awkward few moments passed.

“So,” I said, feeling a bit rattled, “you don't think I change?”

“I know you don't,” she said.

“How do you know? Why don't I change?”

“Let me see your hands,” she said.

She examined my palms closely for several moments, then looked up at me sadly and squeezed my hands. “Yep, I was right—bad news.”

“What? What can you tell from my hands? What can you see?”

“See for yourself,” she said, and slapped my hands onto the crystal ball.

A searing bolt of electricity shot through my body. My eyes felt as if they were on fire, and the hair on my neck stood up. I felt my muscles spasm as a deafening roar filled my ears.

A vast white space filled my vision, and suddenly I seemed to be falling at a tremendous speed. The space changed colors: green . . . falling faster . . . yellow . . . faster . . . orange . . . faster . . . black . . . a sudden stop.

A flash of white.

My body feels as if it is floating. I open my eyes. I'm in a church. I can see everything around me. I sense that I'm hovering over the parish, but I have no sense of my physical body. I see a handful of people crying, then a man speaking behind the altar. Then I see myself—lying in a casket.

Another bolt of electricity.

Hovering above my office now, I see myself sitting and staring numbly out the window. I'm older; my sideburns are graying. Wrinkles line my face. The scene fast-forwards, and I walk down the hall past co-workers without saying a word. I go to meetings about things I don't care about. . . . I answer e-mails . . . drive home . . . watch TV . . . drink beer. I'm alone.

Another surge.

I'm back in the church, hovering above the pews, looking down at myself in the casket. At the altar, a stranger stands behind the podium. “He was a good man. I recently just met him. He'd worked at our company for thirty-five years. He was loyal and he kept to himself,
but those who knew him seemed to like him.” A church woman sitting a few rows back whispers to another, “Poor man died alone.” The pastor stands behind the podium. “Would anyone like to say a few words?” No one rises.

My eyes start burning, and scenes from my life flash by: a gasping last breath in bed . . . a Christmas by myself . . . a bland day at work . . . a night at a hospital bed with Mary . . . a night on my porch . . . a horse ride in an open field . . . an aquarium full of clothes hangers.

Zap!
—I'm hovering in a room. Mary stands silently. I see myself standing not far away in the kitchen. Mary has tears in her eyes. She looks at me seriously. She is saying, “I think I need to go away for the weekend. I was going to ask you to come with me, but I don't think you're ready.”

I hear myself ask a question, but I can see only her face. “Where are you going? I'm not ready for what?”

She says, “You're not ready for change,” and walks out the door.

I feel myself screaming, “
Nooo!
”

My hands burn . . . another bolt of electricity . . . a fantastic flash of white.

I felt myself slam into the back of my chair.

I opened my eyes to see Meg, sitting impassively across the little round table. The crystal ball was glowing a deep bluish-purple.

“Jesus!” I screamed out, waving my hands frantically in the air, trying to cool them.

“No, just Meg,” she said matter-of-factly and stood up. “I'll be back in a few minutes.” She pushed aside the red velvet curtain behind me and walked out.

B
y the time Meg came back, my hands felt numb, as if I had dipped them in snow and then entered a warm room.

“I don't believe it,” I said emphatically as she sat back down. “I won't let my life turn out like that. I don't believe what I saw.”

She shook her head. “You're just like Mary—you don't believe what you see with your own soul.”

“What?” I said in surprise. “Mary? You met Mary?”

“Of course.”

My heart jumped. “Here?”

Meg parted her lips and furrowed her brow as if to say,
Yeah, what are you, stupid?

“What happened? Why was she here? What did you say to her? Do you know what happened to her?” The questions spilled out so fast that they blurred together.