Dear Doc Paranormal:
Sometimes a gift falls into your lap in the strangest of
ways. Whether it was the work of god, fate or spirits from another plane of
existence, I have been so blessed. That’s because I have been taken from
poverty and the edge of despair to prosperity and an extended cab Ford 350
pickup thanks to my nine-month-old grandson.
I live on the coast of Oregon and let me tell you
something—if you think unemployment is bad where you live, move out here where
the good jobs in fishing and timber disappeared decades ago. The only way to
earn money is twisting wax paper wrappers around salt water taffy for the
wealthy whale watchers who come here from all over the world. Call me lazy, but
I’m not doing that, not at age sixty-seven, no sir.
So I was living on disability and odd jobs I could scrounge
up until my grandson was born nine months back. Now “Brad” is a wonderful kid,
already feisty and plump, so it was no problem for me when my son and
daughter-in-law started dropping him off when they had out-of-state business to
attend to.
Anyway, I found that taking care of Brad at home got tired
real quick, so I decided to combine baby-sitting with pleasure and bring him
gambling with me. There are a couple of Indian casinos hereabouts, and I have
been known to attempt to augment my income on the roulette wheel.
One fine evening, I was at such a casino and down in the
dumps. I was losing pretty big and was worried because the $500 I’d lost had
been borrowed from my son’s cookie jar. I decided to take a break from the
misery and look in on lovable little Brad, who was having the time of his life
in the casino day care center.
Well, when I showed up, the day care girl was changing
Brad’s diapers. He had just gone #1. Since my usual roulette system wasn’t
working, I hit on a brainstorm: When Brad went #1, I’d put my chips on red.
When he went #2, I’d play black.
Inspired, I raced back to the roulette wheel and placed my
last nine dollars on red. I won! The hot streak kept going for about six
minutes, at the end of which I was up five hundred and thirty-seven dollars.
At this point I took another break and strutted like a bandy
cock back to the day care center to see if Brad had made another “prediction.”
He hadn’t, so I decided to kick back at the all-you-can-eat popcorn shrimp
buffet. Man, those suckers tasted good dipped in catsup.
After this, I returned to the day care center where blessed
Brad had just gone #2. Electrified with excitement, I ran to the roulette wheel
and won another seven hundred and one dollars playing black. Weirdly, this made
me hungry again, so I splurged on a hot fudge sundae—making sure, of course, to
reward Brad with a heaping spoonful.
To make a long story short, I have since discovered through
trial and error that Brad’s power of prediction is only good for about six or
seven minutes after he does his duty. Why, I don’t know, but beyond that, his
ability fades.
Brad and I are inseparable now. I baby sit him all of the
time. The ladies at the Indian casinos dote on that little boy.
I plan to buy Brad his own F-350 when he gets older. My only
big worry is whether his forecasting ability will continue when he’s out of
diapers and into pants. And how he’ll react when I knock on the stall door when
he goes to the men’s room.
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