Fortune's Fool

Well dear readers, once again I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. It has been a hell of a month. My DVR isn’t working on the weekends now, of course, but other than that my humble abode is doing ok. Oh wait, there is that whole broken window thing. (Another story, another time.)

Today’s blog is a little more personal than most, so if you’re in the mood for a glimpse of the inner workings of Shawn read on. If not, see you next time around. And those of you who keep nagging about the length of my blogs, no one said you had to read it all at once, but there is a certain flow to my stories and I don’t think you really get the full effect unless you commit to reading the whole thing. Just my two cents. And I’ll try to keep em shorter, ok?
Off we go.

Picture it. New York. 2000. Your beloved writer is living in Brooklyn, and had recently broken up with a boyfriend who he had also dated in college. For some reason, I invite this ex – we’ll call him Hank – to come visit me in New York. And for some reason, Hank decided (and I let him) bring the boy he’s seeing at the time, some nubile singer/actor type. Yes, there seem to be a few trends at work here, but I was not entirely over Hank at the time and while I should have never agreed to let twink come to New York, I did because I wanted Hank to be happy.

You can imagine my angst. Here I am longing for Hank, while the hottie boyfriend gets to cuddle with him and make obnoxious lovey dovey noises and all of that crap. In fact, I actually walked in on twink performing an unmentionable act on Hank. (It’s unmentionable because twink’s mouth was full at the time.) That was awkward.

Well, needless to say I was an emotional wreck, and to my friends’ credit they rallied around me in my hour of need so that I wouldn’t have to endure the new lovers’ bliss on my own.

On the final night of Hank’s visit, we all decided to go to a famous Chinese restaurant in the Village. All of my friends volunteered to go with me and support me in my hour of need, so we were a table of ten. I was surrounded by people who loved me, people who I loved and a person who I wanted to love, and it was a beautiful portrait of the infinite varieties of how we can be intertwined with the most amazing of people in the most random of ways.

Everyone but Hank and his twink knew what I was suffering through, so there were constant pats on the my knee, winks and smiles to comfort me, and I felt very touched. Still, I had an absolute volatile pounding in my heart and I had to make frequent bathroom trips to mute the tears (and of course pee.)

The meal came and went, delicious I might add, and along came the standard fortune cookies. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason (I’m thinking the free wine), the cookies became the most important thing in the world to me. I was convinced that my cookie would contain the answers to my questions about Hank, about how we should be together, and about how we could grow to live in gorgeous harmonic bliss for years to come. (Apparently I was anticipating a novel in my cookie.)

The tray with the cookies was set down in front of us, and I eyed each one carefully, hoping to receive a message or vibe from a specific cookie, saying “I’m the one, pick me.” I decided on the one that spoke to me the most, and my compatriots and I reached in and the unwrapping began.

The usual pithy fortunes ensued. “Love thyself and others will love you,” or “One’s neighbors are not always ones friends,” and so on. I paraphrase of course, but it seemed that night that everyone’s fortune were strangely in sync with where the readers happened to be in their lives. Everyone’s, even Hank’s, whose fortune said “Love blossoms in the most usual of places,” seemed dead on.

I was therefore convinced that my cookie held my entire future in its crispy golden goodness, that the core of my existence was printed on a crappy piece of paper baked into a cookie. It would tell me how to proceed, how to start our lives over, fresh and new, and how to finally move on.

I trembled as I picked it up and slowly tore open the cellophane wrapper. Careful not to break the cookie, I tugged at the seam of the wrapper until it popped open. I held it in my hand, caressing it for a moment longer than what would be considered normal, and thought about what I was holding, what the rest of my life would be like. That cookie contained my destiny and I wanted to cherish the moment. Everyone stared at me as I held my cookie, clearly wondering what the hell I was doing.

“All right,” I thought, “here we go.” I cracked open the cookie, slowly like Charlie with his Wonka Bar, and as it snapped in half I was holding my breath, anxiously awaiting the words that would put me on the path to peace.

The cookie, however, had altogether other plans. Dear readers, the cookie, that tasty treat I had entrusted my future to, was empty. No fortune whatsoever. No words of wisdom, no advice, no answers to anything, not even some lousy lottery numbers.

And suddenly it was clear to me; that WAS my future. Empty.

I excused myself to the restroom and cried and cried and cried. I was so confused and lost and frightened and I had put all my faith in that damn cookie. My friend Beth knocked on the door, clearly clued in to the fact that something was going on, and talked me down from my ridiculous precipice. It didn’t take her too long to convince me that the whole thing was completely, freakishly random, and I went back to that table with my head held high as I possibly could.

Hank and I are still great friends, I’ve gotten some fabulous fortune cookies since then, and I know that I will still be able to approach every table with my head held proudly high, ready to once again rip open that fortune cookie with abandon, no matter what the results may be.

I hope you all internet denizens are well.