A Great Next 24 Hours

“Nice seeing you, Joel. Have a great day!”

Joel chuckles, or is that a smirk? Hard to tell. “You too, Albert. Have a great next 24 hours.”

With those words, Joel Amos goes on his way. I walk to my car parked way out in a far corner of the Walmart lot, and think about it. Why did he say, “have a great next 24 hours” instead of “have a great day?” The way he said it unsettles me, like something bad is going to happen—a presage, a premonition.

I chide myself for the absurd thoughts. That’s paranoid. I’m reading too much into it. Just because me and Joel had differences in the past means nothing now.  We made up and agreed to let bygones be bygones, and we’re cordial these days. Words have no inherent power to harm me or predict my future. 

I’m halfway to my car, and it still looks like it’s a mile away. It’s hot today; why do I always park so far out? Because of the exercise, I remind myself. 

Joel is not a seer, psychic, or prophet, although he claims to be one, and he uses his name as proof that he is. “Joel and Amos were two Old Testament prophets,” he says, “and I’m a prophet too.” 

Yeah, sure. By that reasoning, if a name makes you special, then my name makes me a genius, like Albert Einstein. Anyway, I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in curses, omens, and prophecies, especially from a pretentious schmuck like Joel. 

Whoa! Where did that come from? I guess it still rankles me, the way he treated me back then when I called him out on his predictions—prophecies he called them—that didn’t come true. Like when he predicted the election of a certain presidential candidate who lost by seven million votes. Joel excused it as “the devil interfered” or “people didn’t pray hard enough,” and some such, but I didn’t buy it. If you say God told you something will happen, and it doesn’t, then by definition, you’re a false prophet.

I’m melting on the blacktop. How much farther is my car? I shield my eyes against the sun and see I’m maybe three-quarters of the way there. Note to self: Don’t park so far away when it’s a million degrees out. 

Joel was obviously wrong about his “prophecy,” but maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. He resented me holding him to his words, and I was persona non grata until I apologized for being disrespectful or whatever. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do to save a friendship. 

I’m a few feet from my car when I hear screeching tires, and I see a black Corvette speeding across the lot like a bat out of hell, heading straight for me! I leap forward and hit the pavement as the car hurdles past, missing me by inches. What the…?

“Slow down, idiot,” I yell at the fleeing sports car. I hop to my feet, brush off my pants and give the reckless driver a middle-finger salute. A pant leg is ripped, and I feel the sting of a scraped knee. A closer look shows it’s only a small fabric tear and skin abrasion—nothing broken other than my dignity. 

It’s a coincidence; it has nothing to do with what Joel said, just a crazy driver, that’s all. I get in my car, cautiously look both ways, check the rearview mirror for errant drivers, and drive home without incident.

Fifteen minutes later, I unlock the front door of my apartment, and I’m greeted by a rush of water that soaks my feet up to my ankles. At least two inches of water cover the floor, and it floods through the open door onto the sidewalk and lawn. I slosh through the water in the living room and through the hallway to the kitchen, and see a waterfall pouring from the sink base cabinet to the floor. It must be a ruptured pipe. 

I open the cabinet doors under the sink and get soaked up to my waist as I reach in to turn off the shutoff valve. It doesn’t work, and water continues to gush from somewhere below. This is bigger than I can fix. I need to shut off the main and call management. 

I find the main valve outside, twist it closed, and return to my apartment to see the flow of water ebb. I walk through the rest of the house and groan as the water is everywhere—in my bathroom, bedroom, laundry room and closet, and seeping up through the baseboard and walls. This is bad, a disaster scene of near-biblical proportions, and I can’t stay here tonight. 

I call Diane, the apartment manager, and she arrives shortly to survey the damage. She agrees to put me up in a motel for a few days until repairs and restoration are done. 

My mind flashes back to Joel’s parting words: “have a great next 24 hours.” It’s been less than an hour, and already it hasn’t been great. I remind myself that I don’t believe in his mumbo-jumbo, jive-talking nonsense. I don’t believe anyone has special powers to predict the future or place a curse. Things don’t “happen for a reason,” there is no greater plan, or predetermined purpose, and the universe holds no cosmic sway over my life. Things happen by chance, coincidence, human agency, and the laws of nature. I believe in science, empirical evidence, and critical thinking. 

An hour later, I check into my motel room with a couple of bags of clothing and necessities. It’s basic economy lodging, but there’s a pool, hot tub and free breakfast, so it will do. I throw the bags on the chair, flop on the bed and groan. Ugh, what a day! I close my eyes and fall asleep…

I awake to a buzzing sound, and I see the phone light up with an incoming call. How long did I sleep? I check the caller ID. Uh-oh, it’s Karen. I forgot to call her before I crashed. The phone shows 7:33 pm, so I’ve been asleep for a while. 

I pick up the phone to answer, and raise the volume, which is at zero. We’ve been going steady for a few months, but lately things have felt strained, and she seems distant. But as the old song goes, it’s probably just my imagination running away with me.

“Hi babe,” I say, “I was just going to call you.”  

“What’s going on, Albert? Are you ignoring me? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. You need to answer the phone when I call.” 

“I’m sorry babe, my ringer was down and I didn’t hear it. I had a rough day today. I nearly got hit by a car, and my place is completely flooded from a broken pipe. I’m at the Dew Drop Inn for a few days until they get it fixed.”  

“Uh-huh,” she says.

“I’m in Room 13. Come on over with your swimsuit, and we’ll go to the hot tub. And bring some beer and snacks; we’ll order pizza later.” I roll my eyes as I realize the implication of being in Room 13. It’s weird, given what’s  happened today, but just another coincidence. 

She is silent. “Are you okay?” I ask. 

“Uh…yeah…about that…” she says, “I don’t think so tonight.” 

“Oh, come on, baby,” don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. Come over, and we can have some fun.   

“Uh yeah, no…it’s not that…” she says, her voice trailing off. “I, uh…I called to tell you…”

My stomach churns. I don’t like the sound of this. “Go on,” I say. 

“I’m breaking up with you, Albert.” 

I feel like throwing up. “No, babe,” I plead, “don’t break up with me, please. I don’t know what happened, but let’s give it another chance, please. We’re good together. I want to be with you.”  

“And…” I take a deep breath and say it for the first time. “I love you.”

I hear a sniffle, and a sigh. “I’m sorry, but I don’t love you. We are done. I’ve made up my mind.”  

“I respect that,” I say, “but why? What did I do? Is it me? Did you find someone else? It’s only right that you tell me. 

“It’s not you.” You’re a nice guy, but not the right guy. I met someone else.” 

“Who?” I demand. 

She hesitates for the longest time, a near eternity, seconds that feel like forever.  

“Joel Amos,” she says. “I’m sorry Albert. Goodbye.” 

I can’t breathe. This can’t be happening. Dumped without warning by my girlfriend, for my nemesis, Joel Amos. Flooded out of my apartment for a week. Nearly hit by a reckless driver. All within a few hours, with more hours in the day. 

That scoundrel. He knew what was going to happen today, at least the part about Karen breaking up with me, and that’s why he wished me a great next 24 hours. When he smirked, I knew there was something off. But he couldn’t have known about the other things that would happen to me; surely they were a coincidence, right? 

I scoff at the ridiculous notion. Nah, no way. He’s a fraud, and a girlfriend thief.

I’m suddenly hungry, and I try to order a meal from Door Dash, but my credit card is declined. Great, just great. Luckily, I have a granola bar and a bag of peanuts in my backpack, which I eat for dinner. What more can go wrong today? I’m not superstitious, but I don’t really want to know. 

I’m going to take a sleeping pill to knock myself out before something else bad happens. I’ve already slept and I’m not that tired, but for now, I prefer the unconscious to the unknown. 

I put on my pj’s, brush my teeth, and swallow a Zolpidem. As I drift off to sleep, I wonder if Joel Amos—the namesake of a prophet—is maybe a prophet after all.