Destiny Decided by a Dingy Diviner, Dice, and Dad

I am not a very decisive person. Give me an ultimatum between two choices and I will pick option three that you didn’t realise was there - to not decide anything. It could be a blessing in disguise, but I’m pretty sure it is a curse.

I mean that literally.

My dad told me Mum pissed off some palm reader, some divination witch, or crystal ball voodoo crone when she was pregnant with me, looking for a prediction on my fate and destiny in the world. I’ve never understood why she would bother; I could’ve told her my destiny. To be a painfully average human, not excelling in any skill, unimpressive. Is that a talent or a two-for-the-price-of-one bonus of my curse? Perhaps if I could steer my life more, I’d be a more interesting guy. No point dwelling on it; it’s not like I have the power to change it.

I’m not surprised if my mother was rude, by the way; she is a nightmare of a customer no matter what shop she is in. Fair to say, I distanced myself from her pretty quickly once I was old enough to feel embarrassment… that is, when I started primary school.

So the story goes, ye demon Karen who doth complain to yonder hag shalt reap the consequences, if ye open this mysterious box of old. That’s a quote direct from my dad. Unfortunately, ‘twas I who reaped the consequences. My mum took no heed of the creepy warning. For some unknown reason, she threw the mysterious box in a cupboard to be forgotten for eleven years. Fast forward, I was balancing on my ladder, clearing out the cupboards in my room, about to find myself in a trap.

Oh, and what ho? A box? Surprise surprise, I opened it. Surprise surprise, I am cursed.

That’s right. I am cursed to be an indecisive person. Now in my twenties, I can barely remember the last time I decided on something myself. Dice rattle in my pocket every second of the day and a Magic 8 Ball app lives on the home screen of my phone. Literally, random chance has steered every decision over the last fifteen years.

Left or right? Roll the dice.

Curry or burgers for dinner? Roll the dice.

Should I apply for this job? Roll the dice.

Do I have a shower tonight? Roll the dice.

Do I look for the mysterious box in my childhood room again? Roll the dice.

Shock horror, I rolled an even number. Here, an even number meant yes.

My mum thinks I’m nuts for my dice habit. I tried to tell her it is her fault I am cursed, but she scoffed at me and deflected the blame in that artful way she has mastered.

“If she cursed you, then how come you decide to roll your dice a million times a day?” She pushed her chin out at me, proud of her argument.

I shrugged. “That’s just part of the curse.”

She didn’t believe me then, and she doesn’t believe me now. Dad is a little more understanding, or maybe curious is the right word.

Dad stands in the doorway, arms folded, patiently watching me roll my dice on the top of my ladder before I open the third cupboard door. He has done so much frowning in his life that his brow is the most muscular thing on his body. It sits heavily over his eyes, making him look permanently unimpressed, like most dads do.

“When was the last time you tried to make a choice without the dice, James? Maybe the, ah… curse, is already broken and you just don’t realise?”

This suggestion shocks me, completely wiping away my ability to think cohesively. My mind goes blank for a moment before my senses return, and I lean forward over the ladder, grip the handle of the second cupboard door, and pull. The handle falls off in my hand.

I just look at Dad with a straight expression and wide eyes, holding up the broken handle. “See? Cursed.”

His brow furrows deeper. “Maybe that handle was already loose.”

I roll the dice and put the handle down on the top of the ladder before moving back to cupboard number three, rather than keep trying on cupboard two. The dice roll again, clattering on the metal ladder, before I pull out the contents and toss them onto the bed haphazardly.

I pull out my dice again.

“Jesus, we will be here all day,” Dad groans. “James, move the ladder towards me and open the first cupboard.”

Oh, a good idea. I never usually let other people make my decisions for me, in fear of being taken advantage of. Unfortunately, thoughts of how I behave at work now start concerning me. Have I been getting too comfortable following directions from my boss and coworkers? Have they been asking me to do more than I should and I haven’t realised it yet?

“Empty the cupboard and if you don’t find what you are looking for in there, then go to the last cupboard down on the end and do the same thing,” Dad says, clearly losing the patience in his voice.

I don’t need to move to the last cupboard. Nestled in between some old blankets and primary school sporting awards is a small box wrapped in brown paper, torn and ripped from the day I opened it at eleven years old.

“Dad, I found it.”

“Hurry up and bring it down, then.”

I have always imagined that when this box and I reunited, the stars would align and I would feel some kind of magical connection with it. Apparently, curses don’t work that way. When I touch the box, there is no mysterious tingling, no gravity in my chest or butterflies in my stomach. It is just an old, unassuming box that I carry with me carefully down the ladder.

“Alright, let’s open this bad boy up!” Dad grins, rubbing his palms together.

My heart thuds nervously as I peel away the last of the brown wrapping and quickly analyse the box. There are no latches, no cursed Elvish script on the side, no seal on the lid, nothing that would clearly suggest it held a curse (not that I know what a cursed box should really look like).

I gently lift the lid off, flooding the contents of the box with light. For a moment, I am speechless.

“Is that… is that a monkey’s paw?” I ask.

Dad peers into the box and a booming laugh bursts from his chest. “It almost looks like it is flipping you off!”

“The middle digit does look a little raised. Creepy,” I murmur. “Do I… do I touch it?”

“Well, uh,” Dad hesitates, forcing back the smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe it’ll break that curse you’ve been saying you have?”

My dice are burning holes in my pocket, and my fingers are itching to grab them.

“Ah heck, okay, touch it,” Dad says.

I am glad he made the choice on my behalf. What if the dice lead me down a path I didn’t like the destination of? What if the dice told me not to touch the paw, to wrap the box back up and never seek it out again? Too often I have found myself resentful of the resin numbered blocks and eventually the stars (and dice) have aligned to direct me to purchase new dice. This is my 83rd set of decision-makers. I have spent a good few hundred dollars on this curse.

The paw still has a bit of squish to it underneath that leathery exterior, so I can easily massage the rude gesture out of the object and shift the paw into a thumbs-up. I hope this long-dead monkey can appreciate the benefit of having thumbs. With a smile, I shift the lid back onto the box.

“James!” Dad says, wide-eyed. “Do you realise what just happened?”

“We found out that the old fortune teller tried to flip Mum off with a dead monkey’s crooked paw? That she probably has heaps of these lying around to give to her shitty customers as a special ‘I don’t want you to come back here ever again’?”

“You put the lid back on without me telling you to or rolling your dice,” he grins.

“Oh, so I did! And I didn’t break the lid, or drop the box, or get a paper-cut trying!”

The box feels heavy and smoother in my hands now, like my senses are heightened. The creepy monkey paw held my destiny in its palm for so many years, but now I feel a self-awareness like none other, a presentism. This must be what self-control and free-will feel like, and boy, it puts a smile on my face.

I wrap the box up in its brown paper as I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen. For a moment, I pause over the bin before dropping the small container into the wastes, never to be opened again.

While I am there, I throw away my dice.

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