The Know-it-All

Ran Dooly didn’t believe in luck so much as chance. Friends tended to roll their eyes when he tried to argue that the former was “dumb” and the latter just opportunity to manipulate so-called luck.

So when the scruffy little man who’d roughly grabbed him by the elbow and steered him into an alley pulled a black notebook and small paper bag...rather than a weapon from his torn, stained overcoat, Dooly was relieved. This? This was a chance to be clever and survive.

It seemed, though, the stranger read Dooly’s mind. “I want nothing from ya’ boy.”

Dooly bristled. It was 2021, but being young, Black and suited still made him a unicorn in some quarters.

“Apologies. You are just a boy compared to me. Also, no punchline, I’m Methuselah.”

The younger man realized that he’d subconsciously moved into a fighter’s stance.

“This a game show or something?”

“Or something. Open it.”

Dooly complied. “It’s blank.”

Methuselah nodded knowingly as if to say, “Oh yeah!”

“Actually, check the bag.”

“Whoah! How much is this and why?”

The older man ignored him. “OK, open the book again.”

This time, there was writing...appearing in real-time as Dooly read.

“Is this serious? I won’t even ask how. But seriously, if so, again, why me?”

Methuselah ignored the first part of the question. “Ever been sued?”

Dooly shook his head and shrugged sheepishly. “But I have watched every episode of Law & Order.”

“Uh, that’s impressive, son. But what I was getting at is that accepting that book was like someone on your TV show being served a subpoena. They may not like it, but they’ve gotta lump it! And you? Call it a gift.”

With that, Methuselah tipped his stingy brim and walked away.

“Wait! What do I do?”

“You’ve accepted service, son. ‘Do’ accordingly.”

“Damn. Old guy vanished like Batman,” Dooly muttered before re-opening the book.

“6” appeared promptly. He blinked. “5:59:45.”

His heart raced as script began to appear on the next line.

An eternity passed before he saw, “McGillycuddy’s,” a bar nine blocks north.

“You know this could go faster if you didn’t spell ‘em like Wheel of Fortune. Could you maybe cut to the chase?”

“No! Tick tock!”

A smart-ass diary. Lovely.

With no cabs in sight, the nearest rideshare showing twenty minutes, and a light drizzle beginning, he jogged.

The book read “5:52:31” by the time he arrived.

“Play. Lose. Pay.”

Three pool tables lined a rear wall of the nearly empty tavern. One shadowy figure chalked a cue - shadowy not because he looked mysterious but because the lighting was for shit.

Dooly paused at the bar for a watery light beer and approached the tables confidently.

“What’s crackin’, shark? And What’s a game worth to you?”

It was forward, like proposing marriage on a first date. But it worked. One crowned tooth glinted as the man smiled back, adjusted his beanie and rubbed a tattooed arm.

“Ain’t many around here at my level. You want to play with me the privilege alone is gonna cost. Fifteen.”

Dooly resisted the urge to roll his eyes and kneecap the guy and fished in his wallet for fifteen dollars, but Beanie Man shook his head.

“Short two zeros. That’s fifteen hundred.”

Any other time, he might have laughed and walked away. But a taunting book with a countdown clock required humility. He reached into the bag and placed the money on the corner of the table.

The game was eightball - first to sink balls one to seven or nine to fifteen plus the eightball wins.

Five shots in, Dooly was up, and Beanie Man swore and grumbled about off-balance tables, poor lighting and a sweaty push-hand.

Dooly loosened his tie. He felt good. He felt—buzzing and reached up for his cell phone before remembering it was in a hip pocket.

“Lose already!”

Damn! Methuselah should have warned him the book hated fun.

A few intentionally bad shots, including a couple pushed with his weak hand and Dooly watched Beanie Man end things with a call of, “Eightball, side pocket.”

“Sorry, youngblood! I ain’t easy to beat.”

Dooly wanted to retort, “You look my age, and you are easy to beat,” but he just nodded and played along.

“Listen,” Beanie said, “I know I seem cool, but I had a problem once. I feel like you might too; no sane person drops that kind of cash for fun. Know what I mean? So, anyway, think about a program. Helped me.”

Dooly couldn’t bite his tongue again.

"You just took me for a grand-and-a-half!”

Beanie Man grinned. “Oh, that? Sorry, bro; my rent is due!”

“4:59:59.”

***

Dooly read as he stalked toward the door.

“Listen to hat guy. Little Chapel of Blessed Baby Jesus.”

“I don’t need—”

“Church!”

Whatever had clogged the rideshare pipeline was over, because this time his app showed five minutes...but another thirty to Little Chapel.

“Welcome, brother! Surely the good book brought you to the house of the Lord this evening!”

Dooly smiled at the woman dressed in head-to-toe white, with a lace-front hat and Hush Puppies loafers like an old-school nurse might wear. She reminded him of his late grandmother who’d never missed a religious service.

She returned the smile and motioned for him to sit.

But that good, good book.

“Feed the plate!”

He was only confused for a minute before the minister, another woman wearing traditional priest’s robes, grabbed a handful of singles from a copper-colored plate and tossed them up.

Wait - was she making it rain?

Nope, apparently mimicking the late Rev. Ike, whom legend says used to fling cash skyward and tell congregants, “What goes up is the Lord’s, and what comes down is mine!”

Gravity being, well, gravity, Ike got all that cash.

The pianist and drummer followed with marching music, and everyone stood single file to make their way to the alter. One by one they dropped singles, fives, tens, twenties, and a few sealed envelopes marked “Tithes and Offerings.”

“$8,500.”

“What?!?”

The music didn’t stop. But he could feel appalled eyes boring through him.

“Sorry everyone! Just got emotional. Carry on!”

Dooly slid eighty-five hundreds out of the bag as quickly as he could have shuffled a deck of cards and slipped the currency into one of the white donation sleeves.

Dropping the money into the plate was anticlimactic, and he started to return to his seat but his breast pocket vibrated again.

“Leave during the prayer. You’re hungry. Also, 3:51:39.”

This was annoying. Whatever the game, it was approaching midnight, and Dooly had no answers and “just” ten thousand dollars left.

He heard another shout as he slipped out and figured someone else must’ve gotten a burning bush message to give away the farm, until the minister yelped, “People, to the dollar, our roof repair fund is complete!”

***

Goosechase or not, though, he was actually hungry, and luckily his favorite fastfood pizza joint was lit up on the corner with little lobby traffic.

He stepped that way, only to feel it again. “No, The Ralph. Great pulled pork...Don’t just stand there! Closes in 45 mins.”

Dooly pushed through the revolving door of the bodega and immediately felt like he’d won a sweepstakes prize. Bright lights glared, and Tierra Caliente music blared. The elderly woman behind the cash register smiled and blew him a kiss. A passing shelf stocker patted him on the back and laughed after a football-worthy feint with a carton of eggs. And the young woman at the grill looked up and smiled too, shaking her head and mouthing an apology for the levity.

“What can I do you for, my man? You look like you’re starving.”

“Uh, pulled pork?”

“You asking or telling me?”

Dooly blushed, but she grinned. She was ribbing him. He liked that.

“Hang tight. I got you.”

Five minutes and twelve dollars later, and he was on his way toward the door, regretting that he hadn’t asked the cook for her name or phone number.

He turned for one last glimpse, and—

Crash!

The book hadn’t said anything about subtlety. And that was good since Dooly had just walked at a pretty fast clip through a pyramid display of wine bottles.

He was soaked. And embarrassed. And if he hadn’t smelled the booze, he might have assumed he was near death, given the gallons of red now staining his heather suit.

If the bodega workers were angry, they didn’t show it, just shock and concern.

He wanted to stay, to help clean up, but there it was.

“$2,500. Plenty. Cleanup and inventory. Those bottles are cheap. College kid cheap.”

Without looking back again, Dooly limped to the checkout and slid twenty-five hundred dollar notes to the old woman. She patted his hand with an empathetic smile. “You come back anytime, dear.”

He believed her. And if they ever discovered a cure for humiliation, he might take her up on that invitation.

For now, though Dooly wanted to crawl under a rock. But since he didn't see any quite big enough he strode to the alley next to the store.

“I just need to get my bearings, that’s all.”

He pressed both hands to his knees and leaned over, trying desperately not to hyperventilate. And then it hit him.

Later he would describe “it” as a truck...or the Incredible Hulk. It was actually a brick.

His eyes slowly came into focus.

“You follow me?”

"Wh—, what?”

“You were at the church, homie. You followed me!”

“Man, I swear I didn’t even see you there. I was only there a few minutes!”

The alley was dark, but Dooly could make out a pair of inquisitive eyes. The man didn’t believe him.

His vision cleared a little more. Twenty feet ahead was an idling car, the trunk popped, a duffle on the ground like road trip preparations had been interrupted.

Then he saw it. Saw them. The hand, the blade.

A rustle, a startled shout, and Dooly realized that the standoff had in a flash gone from him and the madman about to stab him to them plus two more men who looked like they ate knives for breakfast.

“What’s up,” one of them asked casually. A strange tone, considering Dooly lay bleeding with a knife poised above his chest.

“This guy! He—”

The second man shushed him. “He fuckin’ wit' you? We can fuck him up. But…”

The buzz.

“Spend the rest. Now!”

“There’s $7,500 in my pocket! Take it and grab that mother fucker!”

***

When he awakened nineteen hours later after passing paramedics' concussion protocol and going home, Dooly had eighty-two voicemails - thirty from his mother, the rest from journalists and talk show hosts begging for interviews. They all wanted to know how he’d rescued the kidnapped girl from that alley.

The truth is he’d seen her hand over the edge of the trunk, and after his new security crew began stomping the hell out the other guy in the alley, Dooly dialed 911. Just that simple.

He stretched, grimaced, and marveled that everything had happened in just over twenty-four hours when his doorbell rang.

“How are you, my boy?”

“Methuselah! You clean up well.”

The old man, now in a tailored suit, smiled and complied as Dooly waved him in.

“I can’t stay, but this is yours.”

Twenty thousand more in crisp hundreds.

“No thanks! I—”

“No strings, son. It’s yours. Just yours. You earned it.”

He turned to leave.

“That’s it?”

He’d never admit it, but there was a hint of disappointment in Dooly’s voice. He’d hoped the little man would push back. Plead with him. Something.

Methuselah interrupted his thoughts. “That’s it, Ran. Well, that and her name is Maria. And she’s single. But, if you’re bored, there’s always this.” And he was gone.

Dooly threw his head back and laughed before gently stroking the little black book’s cover. “Great to see you, friend.”