I stand in front of a slightly run-down house. I don't really want to be here, cleaning out what remains of my dad's old hoard, but I need to sell the house.
It takes a long time to get in. The door is rusty on its hinges, and an avalanche of stuff has wedged it closed. The full-sized dumpster was delivered yesterday. It isn't big enough.
A car door slams behind me as I stand paralyzed before this insurmountable task.
"Jesus! I haven't been here in a decade. I thought it was better than this. There's not even a path!" my brother, Mark, exclaims. I turn and wrap him in a quick hug.
"Yeah, I knew it was bad, but not this bad. Where's Anna? How is she?"
Mark frowns. "No way I bring Anna here to this mess. Especially with the morning sickness. This smell would have her heaving all day."
"No, I totally get that. Should we get started?"
He picks up the closest armful of debris and turns to the dumpster. "This is going to take all week. Let me grab the shovels."
By the end of the week, we have finally made it to the stairs. If we had the money, we would have hired help, but as it stands we don't have the money, and dad asked us not to let anyone in the house after he passed. He wanted the place demolished and burned. We don't have the money for that either, so here we are cleaning out the house and fixing it up for sale.
We should have listened to dad.
"Hey Jim, check this out," Mark calls from the kitchen, " Remember these? It was under the kickboard of a cabinet." He handed me a magic 8 ball as I walked in.
"Dude, I haven't seen one of these since we were teenagers. Let's see if it still works!" I hold the ball looking at the 8. It is a little scuffed up and older than I thought it would be. "Are we going to finish the house this week?" I ask the ball before turning it over.
It takes a moment for the blue triangle answer to appear in the window "It is certain"
"Ha!" Mark says, "It's definitely broken. There is no chance we finish cleaning out the house, get it fixed up, AND get it sold in two days. It took us an entire week for the ground floor. We still need to clean out the upstairs and the basement before we can even begin to clean."
"Yeah, I'll take it out to the trash. " I stick the magic 8 ball in my pocket, pick up the three trash bags and take them to the dumpster.
It isn't until later that night that I realize the magic 8 ball never made it from my pocket to the trash. It was a long day of work, so I just set the magic 8 ball on the cheap motel table and take a long, hot shower. I can throw it out tomorrow. They are changing the dumpster out in the morning, so Mark and I decided to sleep in for once. Six 14 to18-hour days have left us sore, irritable, and exhausted. We need a bit of a break. I don't plan to wake up before noon.
Ring Ring.
9:45. I refuse to answer the phone this early. It goes to voicemail and starts ringing again.
It's Mark. He should be sleeping too. I hope Anne and my soon-to-be niece are okay. I quickly answer the phone.
"Jim, you need to come down to the house now! I just got a call from the waste management company. Something has happened." I have my pants and jacket on before he even gets to the word "now," by the time he is done, I've got the keys in the ignition.
"I'm on my way. Is everything okay?"
"Yes, no, I'll see you in five." he hangs up. I toss the phone on the passenger seat, and drive as fast as I can to the house. It isn't like Mark to panic like that.
An ambulance blares past me on the way. It is coming from the direction of the house. Did he take Anne to the house? Did she get hurt? I hope everything is okay.
I pull round the corner to find a crater where the house should be. It is almost completely demolished, the dumpster sticking up out of the basement like a transformer threw it as a javelin. I pull off to the side of the road, stunned, so stunned I almost forgot to put it in park. Mark runs up to the car and knocks on the window. I open the door, unable to tear my gaze away from the destruction.
"What happened?" Is that my voice? I don't think I've heard it that high since middle school.
"The truck driver who was picking up the dumpster had some sort of seizure or something when he was pulling out of the driveway. It put the truck in reverse, and he slammed through the house with speed. The dumpster was full, and so heavy the ground floor caved in, so now we have a dumpster in the basement."
"Uh… okay… we should call the insurance adjuster?" I'm the older brother. I should have my shit together better than this, but, I mean, who expects a full sized dumpster to torpedo their house?
"Already on their way, and the CEO of the waste management company is already here, along with their compliance team. This looks like a freak accident to them, but they are investigating anyway." Another car pulls up, the person inside seeming just as dumbfounded as I am, "That should be the insurance adjuster now. I'll go see what he needs."
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
It is a long day of meetings. Insurance adjusters, police, waste management big wigs, lawyers, the whole shebang. By the end of the day, we have been approved for the full amount of insurance claim, plus a settlement from the waste management company that both takes the house and land off our hands, but also pays for damages. It is more than four times the money we could have made by selling the property, even in pristine condition. We take the settlement and the deal.
It is almost midnight before I make it back to the motel. After signing all the deals and everything, Mark and I went out for a drink to celebrate. You would think it would have been a bit of a party atmosphere, but we were so exhausted it was really just a beer in the closest, depressing watering hole. I don't even think we said anything the whole time we were there. Just a beer, an "I'll see you tomorrow for brunch" and then a goodbye.
I didn't remember the magic 8 ball, or what I asked it yesterday until I see it sitting there on the motel table. I collapse in a chair next to it. "Did you do that? Did you give the man a seizure so he would destroy our house?" I ask the ball after a brief staring contest.
"Yes, definitely" the little blue triangle says.
"This is crazy," I say, shoving the ball away from me. It falls off the table. I don't see it respond "Very doubtful."
I never should have asked that ball a question. I pick it up from the floor, throw it in the trash, and take the trash out to the dumpster behind the motel. If it did somehow cause this, well it won't be able to do it again from the dump.
The net few days are a blur. I hang out with family, we celebrate our good fortune, divide the money as it comes in, pay off debts, and then all drive home. We both live a few states away, so it was nice to have the time together.
I go back to work, things get back to normal. Routine. Except I keep seeing magic 8 balls in the corner of my eye. Like it's following me.
I know I threw it out, it must be gone!
It isn't. I close the fridge door one day, to find it sitting on my kitchen counter as if it has been there all along. I wish I was surprised.
I start to say something, but stop myself. The urge to ask it something is strong. I walk away. It doesn't help.
Over the course of the next few days, I find the magic 8 ball everywhere, even when I don't remember moving it. It greets me from the sink when I step out of the shower, appears on my nightstand when I'm sleeping, and joins me for every meal. I never touch it and the urge to ask it questions gets stronger every day. I oscillate between questions I want to ask it. The last question resulted in a windfall, but ultimately cost someone their life.
Do I win the lottery?
Will I get the promotion at work?
Will my niece be born healthy and on time?
It takes a week before I break down and ask it another question. The question takes me by surprise.
"Will I fall in love?"
"Outlook good"
Okay then.
----------------------------------------
Her name is Brittney. I run into her at lunch.
Litterally.
I spill my coke all down my shirt, forever thankful that she doesn't get a single drop on her crisp white blouse or black pencil skirt. She is gorgeous, talking on her phone with a coworker about fixing some account.
I am a buffoon, clearly unable to hold a simple conversation. She gives me her number anyway. I text her before the end of the workday, "wanna catch dinner"
"sure, you know the Chinese place on 5th"
"Yeah"
"Awesome, see you at 7"
I arrive at 6:30, she is already there, working on a laptop and drinking water. The date never ends. We spend the whole weekend together, wearing each other's clothes, going from one apartment to the other. I meet her friends; she meets mine.
By the end of the week, I ask her to marry me. She says yes! It is the best day of my life! This is awesome!
Unfortunately, she does have to go to work, big presentation today. She turns back towards her office after a kiss that is too long to be proper in public.
I spend all morning smiling— until the building rocks and my boss starts yelling.
"A plane just hit the world trade center! I saw it out my window! Turn on the news!"
I run to my boss's window. There is a hole in one of the towers, luckily not the one Brittney works in. I sigh, relieved, but stay watching. Another plane comes, it hits the tower, the exact floor I know she works on, and I can see her blown through the glass. I feel like our eyes connect when she falls, but she is too far away for me to be certain of anything other than she is dead.
The love of my life is dead.
It is the magic 8 ball's fault.
----------------------------------------
I spend a month trying to destroy it.
I bake it in my grill for a full 24 hours. Take a chain saw to it. Throw it in the Hudson. Put it in a locked, weighted cage and throw it in the Hudson again. I dump it in liquid nitrogen and shatter it. Bury it in wet concrete. Take a jack hammer to it. Dump it in acid.
Every morning I wake up to it back on my nightstand, with, at most, a new scuff.
It can't be destroyed.
I start ignoring it, but the pressure to ask it a question builds, just like before.
I understand now why dad hoarded himself in, why he stopped talking, why he wanted the house destroyed. I'm impressed by his stamina. The urge to ask a question after only two months is oppressive. How many questions did dad ask? How many were forced out of him? What did he accidentally cause?
I sign up for yoga and meditation. Only speak at work. Learn to not ask any question that could be interpreted as a yes or no question.
Some days, the urge is so strong that I don't speak at all.
The years pass. My niece is born nice and strong. She grows, and I love her more than life itself.
I pay for her to go to a private friends school. They go on mission tips every year, and she grows up kind and compassionate.
This year, she is going to the Philippines to build houses after that horrible typhoon.
I see another storm brewing. I know it is going to hit while she is there. Typhoon Haguipt, they call it. She can't get a plane out.
I know I shouldn't I know the death toll I'm courting if I do. But the Magic 8 ball could keep her safe.
I can't do this again. Can't take the guilt. If I do this, it will be my last question.
I take the magic 8 ball to my favorite cafe. The news shows the storm getting worse, it has turned towards the Philippines. I finish my coffee and favorite cupcake, pick up the ball and ask.
"Will my niece be okay?"
"It is certain"
It is certain. She is safe. Millions will die, but she will be safe.
I cross the street; the truck came out of nowhere. The ball drops.
As it rolls away, the black bleeds to a reddish-brown and the 8 transforms to a 7. It rolls to a stop in front of a little girl, who picks it up. "Mommy, look!" she holds it up, but her mom is focused on not letting her see the man dying behind them. She doesn't even notice the strange magic 7 ball in her daughter's hands.