Ante Up
Now, dear friends, you might find yourself wondering how our fair-haired friend came to possess such an unusual amphibian. Let us turn back the pages of time, just a week before this fateful poker night...
“How could you be so careless?” his wife's voice echoed in his mind, her warnings now a haunting refrain.
“You never listen,” his brother Doyle had said, over the phone. “You need professional help.”
Years of poor financial judgment and risky purchases had snowballed, leaving him with mounting debt and no retirement savings. To escape the aftermath of this financial catastrophe and his wife's fury, he took off in his 2007 Yugo, a purchase he soon referred to as a 'no-go.' He jumped on the interstate, seeking relief from the oppressive heat and humidity that clung to him like a second skin. He stared at the road ahead, feeling the weight of his failures pressing down on him. “How did I let it come to this?” he thought. Memories of his wife's tearful eyes and his brother's disappointed voice played over in his head. Every mile he drove felt like a futile attempt to outrun his own mistakes. “Maybe they're right,” he mused, “maybe I do need help. But where do I even start? Can I even fix this mess?”
In addition to his money hardships, he was now facing the annoyances of mid-life, with “the prostate” frequently demanding his attention. Recalling a gas station off the next exit, he steered off the highway, desperate for a break.
Pulling in, he thought, “If only my investments were as reliable as my bladder.”
He nodded to the cashier and made his way to the air-conditioned restroom, where among the usual advertisements above the urinal, an ad for “The Mystic Trading Post” caught his attention. With Cassadaga's reputation for psychics and peculiarities nearby, he decided to check it out, hoping for a distraction.
After grabbing an obligatory bottle of Mountain Dew, he approached the counter. The cashier, a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache and wild, white, frizzy hair under a frayed Marlins cap, offered a sympathetic smile. His faded name tag read ‘Jack.’ A worn leather patch covered his left eye, giving him the look of a retired pirate who had traded the high seas for the treacherous waters of convenience store management. The patch seemed to whisper secrets of its own, hinting at adventures and battles long past.
“Rough day?” Jack, the cashier, asked, his good eye hinting of mischief.
“You have no idea,” the man replied, shaking his head. “Just trying to clear my head.”
Jack nodded knowingly; his uncovered eye peered right through the man. “Cassadaga's not too far from here. Some folks find what they're looking for there. Others find things they never knew they needed.”
Feeling a strange sense of fate, the man thanked Jack and headed to The Mystic Trading Post. He pulled into the crammed parking lot just as a car backed out from a spot near the entrance—another lucky draw. The marketplace, housed in a nondescript strip mall, appeared ordinary at first glance. The tinted glass windows hinted at hidden treasures inside. His eyes widened as he crossed the threshold, his mouth parted slightly in awe. It was another world—a sensory feast with stalls teeming with vibrant colors, handmade crafts, and peculiar trinkets that shone under the warm glow of hanging lanterns. The scents of exotic spices, candles, and incense filled the air. Just beyond the entrance, a sign for psychic readings caught his eye. A silver-haired woman with piercing blue eyes sat behind a plum velvet-draped table, beckoning to the passersby with a soft invitation to discover what the future held.
Children darted between the tables, their laughter mingling with the melodious calls of vendors hawking their eclectic treasures—crystal pendants, aromatic teas, and ancient artifacts.
He was in sensory overload amidst this lively scene and instinctively turned full circle only to come face to face with an elderly dark-haired vendor. Her face, etched by time, had black eyes that gleamed like polished onyx resting on a large bulbous nose, the skin tinged with red and uneven from years of hard living.
Startled, he jumped back. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, feeling a chill run down his spine. “Can she see right through me?” he wondered. “What stories could she tell?”
Her stall commanded attention, brimming with oddities and relics that seemed to whisper stories of distant lands and forgotten days. He examined a collection of delicate, timeworn objects, feeling the cool, smooth surface of an ancient coin and the rough texture of a carved wooden idol. The dark-haired woman radiated an aura of mystery, perhaps holding secrets like a gypsy with a crystal ball. She motioned him closer and pointed to a small ornate box.
The masterpiece of craftsmanship box was made of rich dark mahogany and adorned with intricate carvings of a thunderbolt, a majestic eagle, and a towering mountain. Its surface gleamed under the soft light, and delicate mother-of-pearl inlays shimmered with an ethereal glow. The hinges and clasp were fashioned from aged brass, each etched with oak trees and bulls hinting at ancient secrets.
“Care to see something extraordinary?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of mystery.
Intrigued, he leaned in. “What is it?” he asked, curiosity piqued. He thought to himself, “Whatever it is, it must be truly amazing to be housed in a box like this.”
The vendor lifted the lid of the box, and at that moment, a melodic ribbit emanated from within, catching his attention. It was a frog, but no common amphibian. Its eyes shone like blue sapphires, catching the light and casting an almost magical glow.
“Whoa! Well, I never!” he exclaimed, chuckling. His curiosity was piqued.
He reached out tentatively, feeling the frog's cool, slightly moist skin against his fingers—a surprising contrast to the warmth of the day.
"This is no ordinary frog," she explained. "This frog is a mirror for the soul. The kinder you are, the more fortune it brings."
He snorted, entertained by the whimsical tale. “Good fortune, huh? I could use some of that right now.”
“Then this frog is meant for you,” she said with a knowing smile.
He couldn't shake the sense of fascination the frog evoked. With the weight of his recent misfortunes still heavy on his mind, he decided to go all-in and buy it, envisioning it as an intriguing conversation starter and perhaps a wild card to turn his luck around.
As he cradled the frog, memories flooded back. He was a child again, feet sinking into cool creek mud, the air alive with fireflies. Laughter echoed as he and his brother Doyle waded through the water, mason jars in hand. For a moment, he was that wide-eyed boy again, chasing polliwogs with cupped hands, his heart full of innocence and his mind open to the world's magic.
As the vision faded, a familiar voice spoke: “Remember, be gentle,” his young mother's voice echoed from the past. “All life is precious.”
He looked down at the frog in his hands, its sapphire eyes seeming to hold all the wonder of that long-ago summer night. A lump formed in his throat as he realized how much he longed for that feeling of enchantment, that belief in a life where anything was possible.
The memory vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him with a bittersweet ache. When had life become so complicated? When had he lost that childlike enchantment and respect for the small miracles of nature?
“This is ridiculous,” he thought, “buying a frog to change my luck. But what do I have to lose?” He looked into the frog's sapphire eyes, feeling a strange sense of connection. “Maybe this little guy is exactly what I need,” he mused. “Something to believe in, something to distract me from all this chaos.”
“I'll take it!” he announced.
After all, what could go wrong?