Two Fortunes

It came down from the sky and stopped in front of the bay window of my living room. Totally freaked me out. A giant metallic dragonfly melded with a small black helicopter. Aliens had finally invaded. The creature drifted right, out of my field of view. I sat in my chair wondering what to do next.

I check my social feeds -- no frantic messages about sudden invasions.

My phone rings -- the display says 'FLIGHTY DELIVERY'.

I tap the accept button. "Hello?"

"Your order has arrived. Say 'yes' to accept, 'no' to decline, or 'query' to find out more."

I hate surprises, and I especially hate ones that involve immediate decision-making. "Ahm -- query?"

"Your delivery was sent by House of Fong. One order of curried beef and vegetable chow mein, two fortune cookies and assorted gifts."

"Ahh. . . accept," I say to my phone. I'm wary, but starving. Apparently a friendly alien drone has come bearing dinner and delights. I haven't been to House of Fong since long before the pandemics and lockdowns.

I get up and go to the front door. The dragoncopter is still there, landed now, standing on four spindly legs just in front of my porch. Its four blades have stopped spinning but they look dangerous. A black box sits in the drone's middle, wings up top, legs surrounding. Two red lights are on the box's front panel, one is blinking. There's also a camera on top. Is it watching?

As if it's detected me, one of the box lights turns green and the front of the box opens. My phone says, "Please retrieve your parcel. A photo receipt will be sent to your email. Thank you for using Flighty Delivery."

Hoodie on, sunglasses and mask on, I survey the street momentarily and head outside. A neighbor is looking my way -- probably watching as I cautiously remove a warm cardboard box from the dronebug's abdomen. The smell of curry is absolutely intoxicating. I can't actually recall my last meal.

I should wave or say hello to my neighbor, but she's a new move-in or something. Her face doesn't seem right so I pretend I don't see her. But I do notice the SOLD! card has fallen off the FOR SALE sign on the lawn. I pick it up, scowling, put it on top of my drone box delivery, and head inside.

My heart is racing from being outside, so I stand still for a bit, watching the drone float southwest into the heavens. It makes me sad for some reason.

I look down at the stump on the front lawn -- that really makes me miserable. Someone has cut down the old birch tree in the front yard. It was old and sick, but that's no reason to take an axe to the poor thing.

It was probably my ex's doing. I decide to call her to ask about the tree and the FOR SALE! sign. My phone dials the number. She picks up after the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Lou, sorry to bug you but --"

"Sorry, I think you have the wrong number -- nobody named Lou lives here."

"Okay, I know you said not to call unless it was an emergency, but --"

"Sorry -- Lou does not live here. What number did you dial?"

I tell her. The line is quiet for a few seconds, so I say, "Lou? It's me."

"Sorry, I'm not Lou -- please don't call this number again." She hangs up on me.

Lou is not usually a bitch. I wonder what I've said, or what someone else has said, to piss her off. Things are not making much sense today.

Ravenous from the delightful smell of Chinese curry, I pull an empty packing box over to my chair to use as a table. The curried noodles are in one of the old-fashioned white take-out containers, which is slightly odd because House of Fong uses plastic. Maybe they've evolved to an eco-friendly policy.

I enjoy my meal while pondering the 'gift' part of the delivery: another box, wrapped in newsprint. A red flag goes up in my brain, but I don't know why.

Finally giving in to curiosity, I unwrap the package, noting that the covering is the black & white front page of the Boston Globe newspaper. A bit strange. Boston is hundreds of miles away. I was born just outside of Boston -- I think. Yes, Cambridge, a suburb next to the city.

The newspaper isn't current. Must be novelty gift wrap, I decide. The few printed newspapers that still exist use lots of color. I put it up to the light coming in the window. November 3, 1957 is the date. And a huge block headline: DOG ORBITS EARTH IN RUSSIAN SPUTNIK 2.

I always felt bad for her. Laika was her name -- a 2 yr old, 11 lb stray Siberian husky-terrier mix nabbed from a street in Moscow. Kudryavka (her real name) had no idea she would be the first living being to circle the earth -- 'first traveler into the cosmos' said a commemorative matchbox. She had most likely died in terror, totally alone in a cramped, overheated box.

Sacrificial Laika became an instant worldwide celebrity. The space engineers who trained her also called her Limonchik and Damka -- Little Lemon, Little Lady. Poor thing, they loved her -- they knew she didn't deserve her fate. But it was the Cold War, and people do nasty things when they fight.

November 3, 1957 is also my birthday. The day Laika departed, I arrived.

The newspaper looks new, just off the press. I idly wondered how far the Globe's presses were from the hospital I was born in. I put the wrapping on the floor, feeling slightly overwhelmed and also a bit irritated. These ETs knew more about me than I preferred.

The gift pack includes two paperbacks, slightly used: The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury and On the Road by Jack Kerouac. One book is about Americans escaping to Mars, the other is about Americans traveling across the country. I opened the Bradbury book. The author had autographed the title page: Mars or Bust! Good luck, R Bradbury

The present also includes three sealed envelopes with instructions on each: 'Open this first', 'Open this second', "Open this third'. I lay everything out on the packing box, considering.

I've not had my fortune cookies so I distract myself with dessert. The first fortune says, How r u doing? U should get out more, maybe take a vacation

With two happy face emojis instead of a period.

I'm not doing that well, I say to the living room, burping curry breath. I should get out more, but there's always a good excuse to stay in. My eyes stray over to the SOLD! sign on the floor, but I ignore the muddle of thought it triggers by concentrating on my second treat. I open the second fortune cookie. The teal-colored slip of paper reads: Call 415-397-3456 for take out.

Should I dial the number? Sure, why not. The line rings a few times, then, "Hi, you want to order, please?" The voice is female, accented.

I think a moment, then say, "Do you have chicken and veggie chow mein?"

"Yes, chicken vegetable noodle -- when to pick up?"

A day pops up in my head. "Tuesday?" I ask. Silence for a moment at the other end of the line, then, "Okay, wait please." The voice says something in another language. I hear a voice in the background answer in quick, clipped sounds. "Tuesday, okay, what time please?"

"Ah -- 3pm?"

"3pm?" She pauses a moment, then, "Okay, you come at 2:50, for 3pm pick-up, okay?"

"Okay," I say. "Thank you, see you then." The line clicks off.

I check the area code of the number. This would be a long-distance pick-up. San Francisco was a couple of thousand miles away. I would need a person-sized drone to get there in time.

I also need some fresh air. And I definitely need a flipping cigarette to go with my fresh air. Downstairs, no smokes. Upstairs, no smokes. And where has all the freakin' furniture gone? Where has EVERYTHING gone? How am I supposed to live in an empty home? I kick the SOLD! sign across the floor and head back to the kitchen.

I open the back porch door and stand in the doorframe. The sun has nearly set, the clouds are getting those nice orangey highlights. Time seems to fly by -- twilight inherits the sky as I stand on my inside-outside boundary. Just above the building next door, a moving star is traveling straight upwards, probably a satellite catching the sun. It starts blinking red and green. Not a satellite then, maybe a plane. Or the ET drone doing another delivery. Seemed too high though. Maybe it was making an orbital delivery.

A high-pitched whistle assaults my right ear. Barking erupts from around the village. The racket is extremely upsetting -- I turn to go back inside just as a small dog races past me, barking like crazy. I follow her, yelling.

"Laika! Laika! Come on back here! She pays me no attention and continues flying up the street. I run after her. "Laika!" She runs across the intersection two blocks up, I hear brakes screech and a super-loud car horn. Thankfully it misses her. The dog turns into somebody's yard, disappearing from view. I stop running, exhausted by the incident. I turn and head back to the house, wondering why I'm running after a dead dog.

Walking down the block I notice that the neighborhood feels a bit off-kilter. I can't quite put my finger on it. One house at the corner doesn't look at all correct. It's a new two-story construction. Didn't an old brick bungalow sit in that lot?

How long had it been since I'd been outside? I looked up -- stars were coming out. I felt infinitesimally small and double-timed it back to the empty house.

I must have been larger before the wave of lockdowns and quarantines, but it's difficult to remember now. I stay inside except for occasional short tramps into the woods behind the house. I walk for as long as my anxiety allows, then quickly retrace my steps back home. I've definitely become deflated, cut down to a smaller me. Now my house is being taken, the birch tree is gone. Mystery aliens have sent me a final meal that includes a puzzle.

Sitting on the last piece of furniture in the house, I open the first envelope. There's a flat card inside, midnight blue with knock-out white letters: CHECK YOUR EMAIL. On the back side is a grainy picture of a sign that says SEARS, ROEBUCK & CO. The letter font and the sign makes me think of the 1970s. The chain store has been closed for several years.

I open my email. There's a bunch of stuff I don't recognize, but the newest mail says ME. I don't remember sending anything to myself, so I click it.

There's an image of me wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. The picture that the drone took. There's also a receipt from House of Fong. I scroll down to a second image. It's me, but without a greying beard and long white hair. I look nondescript, boring. I haven't had short hair for several years.

I pick up the second envelope and tear it open: Another card, this one has an image of Earth and Mars. On its reverse are several sentences printed in italic type:

Did you know Jack Keroauc published 'On the Road' in 1957? I met him on a bus in 1980 -- he autographed my copy. Weirdest synchronicity ever.

We're on Mars here, but it's a bit of a secret. One of the bases is named Bradbury Station.

You don't have a dog, but I do. You need to bring her with you. Her name is Lemon.

Do you remember me? We almost met once at Sears. I wasn't supposed to be there. I'm not sure you're supposed to be here. So come and find me. I'll meet you at Young's. Best Chinese in the city, am I right? Sending you a ride, I'm sure you'll hear it arrive.

Young's was a great cafe. I used to go there for lunch decades ago.

In the third envelope was a picture of the restaurant. On the back it said, Table for two, 3pm, Tuesday -- I'll pay.

I sat in my chair, in the dark, in a daze. It seemed like I'd been sitting in this house for days. Or was it hours? Or minutes? I stand up and put my hands in my jacket pockets. I feel something -- thank the gods, a freaking cigarette.

Puffing away, it slowly clicks into place after a few minutes. I'd met this person once at a mall in my hometown. My sister even went up to him -- my exact doppelganger.

I was a young teen, shopping in the local Sears store. I was afraid to actually walk up to my alter-ego when I spotted him across an aisle of shirts and pants. After watching my double pick through shirts for a few seconds I ran out of the store and hid in my dad's car. Afraid of what would happen if he saw me, if our eyes met. My sister laughed about the whole thing, but she walked away from him too -- something was weird about the whole thing, she told me later. We never told our folks.

My double had dropped into my universe fifty years ago. And now I'd somehow ended up in his. Made perfect sense, even though it was outrageous. The two universes must be extremely similar -- my phone still works here. I wonder who I spoke to when I called Lou's number. She didn't recognize me, wasn't named Lou. It sure sounded like my ex, though.

And I can still get into my email. I opened it again to have a look -- I didn't recognize most of the senders. They were all sent to the alternate me. Then I saw a name I recognized -- my sister's. My sister had died a year ago in the last Covid variant wave.

Was I ready for this place?

I hear a roaring sound. I step outside again, the night sky is all lit up over the harvested cornfield down at the end of my street. I watch as a stunning 1950s-style rocket ship descends from the night. It lands at the edge of the field, briefly setting some of the cornstalk stubble on fire. A wash of super-heated air flows past me. It smells like smoke and dirt and burnt popcorn. For a moment I feel like I'm standing in an evening desert. The ship is beautiful, silver hull shining in a farmer's field, right out of a Ray Bradbury tale.

It's time to go and meet my other me. What would happen this time? Would we shake hands? Was that even possible?

I look around and call out. "Lemon! Your dad's waiting, come on! Lemon!" I hear barking in the distance and look back toward the downtown. "Come on babygirl, our taxi's here!" I can just make out a small terrier running down the street like a mad thing, happy to be going home.