Who Believes in Psychics?

Parker’s the name, Parker McCord. I’m chef down at the Brown Berry Restaurant. The tall white hat makes me look especially ridiculous, but old man Powers insists I wear it. They call me Shorty and with good reason. The wife at 5 foot 6 towers over me, and I suppose the kids will out grow their old dad.

I cook, excuse me, "chef" just for the money; my heart’s not in it. I’d like to move on but with a family I’ve got responsibilities. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But, it seems a long way to the door, and when you open it, who knows what’s out there. So I sweat and fry and boil each day hating it a little more.

Time for you to meet Callie, Callie Day. Now she’s a weird one. One of those fortune tellers. No scarf on the head, no crystal ball. She says those are for fakes. Short blond hair, blue eyes, dresses like a housewife or teacher. She tells your fortune, and I think the more you pay the more accurate she tells it.

I stopped by Callie’s place one day, just on the chance I could get some guidance. You can call her Callie, she don’t go for that Madam Day mumbo jumbo. I was greeted with a “Hi Park, have a chair.” I like Callie. She don’t call me Shorty.

When I told her what I wanted, she said, “Relax, that will be only 40 dollars.”

I gulped and she begin exploring my prospects. She put a hand on my forehead, and I thought she was seeing if I had a fever. Then she held my hand.

She said, “I’m reading you sensations.”

I was getting a few sensations of my own, but that’s another story.

Finally after about two minutes of sensation getting she said matter of factly, “There’s poetry in your future.”

“Bull crap!” I said. You could say that to Callie. “My only experience with poetry is violets are blue and a-- roses are red. I’m not going to support my family on that.”

As I left 40 dollars poorer, she called after me, “Remember, Park, look to poetry.”

-------------

A few weeks later old man Powers said the Brown Berry was closing. Needless to say I was badly shaken after 15 years with him. How will I support my family now.

That night I stopped by Callie’s and told her my bad news.

“Park” she said, “check out that poetry thing. I’m seldom wrong.”

“I don’t know zip about poetry for God sake.”

“Check with the library, read some poetry, get a book on writing poetry. How hard can it be. Some guy named Jack Frost made a fortune writing about the Chicago stock yards.

----------------Later

“On strands of gossamer in the meadow of life.
Ta da ta da ta da ta da”

“Oh Christ, what am I doing?”

“Stick with it.” Callie said, “I think your on to something.”

“The treasures of the soul will bond to thee.
Ta da ta da ta da ta da"

---------------

The next morning as I walked down the street, the sun truly shown upon the life of Parker McCord. There on the new building on main street was a giant sign that said,

BIDE A WEE POETRY RESTURANT

And in the window was a small sign saying, “Chef Wanted”

End

Story ID:	4103
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Small Town America
Year:	2008
Person:	Parker McCord