Penny Prophet

Eddie Winston wasn’t the kind of man who went looking for signs from the universe. He was the kind who ignored them until they tripped him flat on his face.

So when he and his new bride, Marjorie, found themselves stranded in Virginia City, Nevada, with a busted radiator and a week’s worth of honeymoon enthusiasm wilting under the desert sun, he figured it was just bad luck. Marjorie, ever the optimist, called it “an unexpected adventure.”

They ducked into the Silver Spur Diner, a place that looked like it hadn’t changed since Eisenhower was in office. Red vinyl booths, a pie case that hummed louder than the jukebox, and a waitress named Lou who could balance three plates and a conversation at once.

And there, tucked into the end booth like a forgotten relic, sat the Penny Prophet, a fortune-telling machine with a carved wooden face and a look that suggested he’d seen a few things.

“Hey, it’s Zoltar, from the movie Big!” Eddie said, already fishing in his pocket for change.

Marjorie groaned. “Please don’t start talking to machines, Ed. I just want a sandwich.”

But Eddie was on a mission. He slid a penny in, leaned close, and asked, “Are we gonna make it to Vegas before our car gives up for good?”

The machine whirred, clanked, and spat out a yellowed slip of paper:
“YOUR FORTUNE: YOUR JOURNEY IS NOT YET OVER. PATIENCE WILL REWARD YOU.”

“Well, there you have it,” Eddie said, waving the slip like a winning lottery ticket. “Patience. We’re gonna be fine.”

Marjorie gave him that look, half amusement, half “what have I gotten myself into?”

But then something strange happened. Not ten minutes later, Lou walked over with the check and mentioned that the mechanic down the street had just received a shipment of parts, including radiators.

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up like a man who’d just found religion.

“See? The machine knew!”

By the time their sandwiches were gone, Eddie had asked three more questions. Each answer seemed vague enough to fit anything, but that didn’t stop him from connecting dots only he could see.

When a pickup truck backfired outside at three o’clock, the same time the Penny Prophet had warned to “beware the noise of travel, ”Marjorie nearly lost her patience along with her coffee.

“Eddie,” she said firmly, “you said three o’clock, not the machine. You’re making this all up.”

He frowned, studying the carved face as though it might blink. “What if it’s trying to tell us something?”

“What it’s telling you,” Marjorie said, “is that you can’t live your life one penny at a time.”

For a long moment, Eddie just stared at the machine. Then he took her hand, slow and sheepish.

“You’re right. I guess I’d rather bet on us than on a box of gears.”

They paid the bill, left a generous tip that made Lou smile, and stepped out into the warm Nevada afternoon. The mechanic was already rolling their car out front, radiator gleaming.

As they drove off, Eddie glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the diner window, another couple slid into the booth beside the Penny Prophet, their faces drawn and tired. The man reached for his pocket, and the woman sighed.

Eddie smiled. “Guess we got out just in time.”

Marjorie squeezed his hand. “Patience rewarded, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. And I didn’t even need a penny for that one.”