Grandmother's Predictions

GRANDMOTHER'S PREDICTIONS

By Marty Malin

Noise from a delivery truck dieseling in front of his house dragged Earle out of a recurring erotic dream involving a much older woman with fire-flecked opalescent eyes. He could never remember the details once he reluctantly gave in to wakefulness. The steamy imagery would evaporate, leaving only his rapidly faltering arousal to validate that he had been engaged in something transcendent and possibly illicit.

The noise from the truck was insistent. Earle untangled himself from Brandy and scrambled out of bed. He made his way over to the bedroom window, pulled apart the narrow slats of his blinds, and squinted into the daylight. No mistake. The driver had turned off the engine and was climbing down from the cab.

Earle scrambled to pull on his underpants and drag yesterday’s too-small yellow “Robots Rule, Humans Drool!” tee shirt over his head just seconds before the doorbell rang.

“Back in a jif, Brandykins,” he said, bounding downstairs toward his front door. “Don’t go ‘way.”

He answered the bell as if it were completely unremarkable that he was only half dressed. The driver pretended not to notice.

“I got a 300-pound crate on the truck for an Earle Winston Bradlee the Third. That you?”

“Yep,” Earle replied. “That’s me.”

“Where you want me to put it, buddy?”

“The driveway’s fine,” Earle said.

“By rights we’re not supposed to take it past the curb, but I don’t suppose there’s any harm dropping it in the driveway, just so long as we don’t have to bring it into the house or nothing,” the driver said, trying to keep his eyes on Earle’s face and off his pale, scrawny legs. The tee shirt stopped short of covering his underpants completely.

Earle stood in his bare feet, scratching his backside absentmindedly.

“Thanks,” Earle said.

“Right,” the driver said, holding out a beat-up aluminum clipboard. “You’ll have to sign for it.”

“You guys should get tablets,” Earle said, as he reached for the clipboard.

“I guess it’s coming to that,” the driver grunted. And maybe you should get some pants.

“How’s about I give you fifty bucks to roll it into the garage as long as you got it on the dolly?” said Earle.

“White Glove Service is an extra hundred bucks,” the driver said.

“Well, I’m not exactly asking for White Glove Service. Fifty bucks to just drop it inside the garage instead of the driveway. I’ll unpack it myself.”

“Sure. Fifty bucks. Why not?”

“Okay. I’ll open up. Meet you in the garage.”

Earle closed the front door, took the stairs to the bedroom two at a time and quickly pulled on his jeans and sandals. He hustled back downstairs, out the kitchen door leading to the garage and raised the overhead door. The driver was lowering the lift gate, standing beside the crate already loaded on the hand truck.

“Thanks,” said Earle, handing the driver the cash once the crate was inside the garage.

“No problem. Have a good one,” the driver said, heading towards his truck as Earle lowered the garage door.

Earle went up to the bedroom, ripped off his clothes and crawled back into bed with Brandy.

“The Old Woman has arrived!” he said. He hadn’t been this excited since Brandy was wheeled into his garage three months ago.

“Now don’t be jealous, Brandykins,” he said. “She’s nothing like you. You know you’re my special girl.”

Brandy was indeed special. Earle had specified every detail of her 5’1”, 34-24-35 silicone body. She had fair skin dusted with a smattering of freckles and cranberry-to-tangerine ombre hair.

Earle had sprung for prosthetic-grade green eyes. He had ordered a custom wheeled tripod for storage. Leaving her lying down too long would distort her beautiful curves.

“Well,” he said to Brandy, getting out of bed for the second time this morning, “I can’t just leave the old gal in the garage. Sorry, foxy lady, but you’ll have to excuse me.”

He picked Brandy up, his hands interlocked under her breasts, and positioned her on the tripod next to the bed. Still naked, he padded downstairs through the kitchen into the garage.

A crowbar and mallet made short work of uncrating his new treasure: a life-sized torso in a refrigerator-sized dark oak and glass cabinet trimmed with antique brass.

She was exquisite, despite the fact that her clothes were moth-eaten and her nearly bald head was badly cracked, with a sizeable chunk missing. Still, her elegant Romani face was captivating. Earle was smitten.

When he first spotted her in an on-line auction, he knew he had to have her: a genuine 1929 “Grandmother’s Predictions” fortune-teller with the original #29 wax head, hand crafted in Dresden, Germany. She was the automaton of his dreams, the original “Cleveland Grandma,” as the cognoscenti called her, built by the now defunct William Gent Vending Company in Cleveland, Ohio.

Over the next few weeks, he restored “Grandmother’s Predictions” to her original splendor in his garage workshop. It had been straightforward enough to repair her mechanical action, turning the odd metal part on his lathe, truing up the supporting rod and escapement, rebuilding the motor and refinishing the cabinetry and fittings.

He had done much more complex restorations at the Musée Mécanique. He had loved working at the museum, near the old Sutro Baths and the Cliff House, with its lovely old San Francisco feel. Yes, it was out of the way and slightly seedy, but the museum’s collections were part of a rundown, slightly seedy past.

Aside from the Musée Mécanique, working for a living had never been one of Earle’s strengths. He had just managed to graduate from high school. College was out of the question. His father tried his best, using his business connections, to help Earle “make something of himself.” Most of his attempts had failed.

Once he had helped Earle land a job at a bicycle repair shop in the Mission. That lasted for almost three months before Earle decided he’d had enough of sprockets and derailleurs. A job at an automotive dealership seemed promising, once Earle moved from the sales floor to the grease racks, but Earle found changing oil filters and rotating tires boring. He soon chucked that job as well.

Earle stumbled into the job at the Musée Mécanique by accident. As a visitor, he had found the automatons fascinating and he had a talent for spotting small mechanical problems with the machines.

This one had a sudden judder that occurred in a predictable pattern. That one squeaked annoyingly or swallowed his token without delivering the promised performance. Such malfunctions annoyed him greatly.

Earle would flag down some hapless employee and direct his attention to the offending machine. He also typically offered his diagnosis and prescribed steps that might be taken to remedy the problem.

Often as not, the response to Earle’s careful analysis was to pull the plug and hang an “Out of Order” sign on the machine. When that happened, Earle would demand to speak with the manager. After a few such encounters, the manager decided the best way to get Earle out of his hair would be to hire him. It was the first job Earle had gotten without his father’s intervention.

Before long, he was helping with minor repairs and one or two of the craftsmen began to share the secrets of their trade with him. Earle soaked it all up.

He was a natural. Soon, he was able to figure out what was ailing the machines and how to fix even the most complex malfunctions. The Musée Mécanique paid Earle only a meager salary but, with a generous subsidy from his father, he moved out of his parents’ house into an apartment in North Beach.

Earle’s star was on the ascendant. Even better news came on his 25th birthday. On that auspicious day, Earl learned from his grandfather’s attorneys that he was a trust fund baby. Earle’s grandfather had made a lot of money in the old San Francisco both he and Earle idolized, and Earle had inherited it all. The money would never run out.

The first thing he did was to buy a house closer to the Musée Mécanique in nearby Sea Cliff. When the Musée Mécanique moved to Fisherman’s Wharf, with its slick facades and hordes of gawking tourists, Earle wanted no part of it. He declared himself to be retired at the age of twenty-six.

Earle began to work full-time acquiring and restoring arcade machines for his own collection, which was rapidly taking over his rec room. “Grandmother’s Predictions” would be the crown jewel of his personal arcade.

Grandmother’s wax head had been the most challenging part to restore. He repaired the crack and replaced the missing piece, building up the wax layers meticulously. He had anchored silvery human hair strand by strand in the wax scalp and swept it back into a bun.

He wanted her clothing to be authentic. It had taken a bit of time to find suitable fabrics from her era. He had hand stitched a pleated, cream silk blouse and trimmed it with fabric-covered buttons. He had appliqued handmade lace at the throat and the sleeves and draped her shoulders with an antique Belgian lace shawl. A marquise-cut amethyst pendant, teardrop pearl earrings and a gold wedding ring set with a circle of diamonds completed her jewelry. Delicate gold wire-rim spectacles accented her fire-flecked opalescent eyes.

When he was finished, he carefully moved her from the garage to a place of honor in his rec room arcade. When he plugged her in, the motor whirred, and the lights came on.

She looked splendid.

Until now, his most prized possession had been a triple-monkey barrel organ automaton, featuring a monkey magician and a pair of monkeys playing stringed instruments.

He also had a vintage ESCO “Sex Appeal Meter,” a “Popeye Arm Wrestler,” and a “Zoltan” fortune-teller. Next to Popeye in the arcade was a 1947 D. Gottlieb & Co. “Humpty Dumpty” pinball machine, the first ever to incorporate flippers.

In a nod to modernity, he had acquired an arcade model “Space Harrier” console. It was flanked by some of his oldest and most beautiful machines, hand-cranked clam shell Mutoscopes from the early 1900s with interchangeable peep show reels.

The Mutoscopes featured such titles as “What the Butler Saw,” “After the Bath,” and “Late at Night in the Bedroom,” all with their original faded advertising cards. He had learned how to make far more explicit reels for these old Mutoscopes with the assistance of YouTube instructional videos. He had even cobbled together a passable Philadelphia Toboggan Company “Laffing Sal” from painted, horsehair strengthened papier-mâché and mechanical parts salvaged from non-functioning units.

Earle’s tenure at the Musée Mécanique had served him well. “Grandmother’s Predictions” had shipped with a deck of 30 original fortune cards. More were available on eBay, but for now these would do nicely. He unlocked the cabinet concealing Grandmother’s mechanical innards and stacked the fortune cards neatly in the dispensing mechanism.

He put a nickel in the brass coin slot near the top of the cabinet and Grandmother came to life. Her hand moved left, then right, then left again, back and forth, hovering above a fan of tarot cards on the baize-covered table in front of her.

Her head moved up and down, to one side then the other, fixing Earle with her gaze. Her chest breathed in and out under her silk blouse. And then her hand stopped, hovering above the Queen of Cups. He heard his fortune drop into the brass receptacle with gilt lettering above it announcing “Your Answer Is Here.”

Grandmother’s Predictions

Worry turns the hair gray and breaks down the

health and never yet has done a person any good.

Don’t worry over your money matters, just work,

work, work. Work will keep your mind off your

troubles, make you more cheerful; cheerfulness

brings sunshine; sunshine brings happiness;

happiness brings a clear mind, and a clear mind

brings good work; good work brings good money

and money makes more money.

A bright life is in store for you if you will just work

and work and stop worrying.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

Why not? Earle smiled to himself. He deposited another nickel and Grandmother began to move again. His fortune was delivered below.

Grandmother’s Predictions

Slow methods and hesitant execution of

business affairs will plunge you into deeper

misery if you do not wake up and learn to act

quick. You possess good instinct and fine

business abilities. Beware of people who

approach you with schemes whereby you will

get rich quick.

You are on the road to fame and fortune.

Do not let your opportunity pass you by.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

Earle was beyond happy with his restored automaton. Unlocking the cabinet, he replaced the fortune cards in the dispenser and went up to his bedroom. He peeled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor, lifted Brandy from her tripod and trundled her into his unmade bed.

Unable to sleep, he headed back down the stairs toward the kitchen for a bedtime snack. He polished off a couple of chocolate donuts, grabbed an open carton of milk from the refrigerator and sniffed it. Convinced it had not gone sour, he chugged the dregs straight from the carton, belched, wiped his mouth on the dish towel and went into the arcade.

He cranked one of the Mutoscopes through a homemade porno reel, fondling himself half-heartedly, then giggled good night to “Grandmother’s Predictions.” Back in the bedroom, he crawled in beside Brandy.

“Isn’t she a marvel, Brandykins? Oh, right! You two haven’t met yet. Probably better to keep it that way. But don’t ever forget that you are my special girl.” He gave one breast a desultory squeeze, rolled over and fell asleep.

Earle rarely bothered to get dressed when he got up and the next morning was no exception. He made himself a mug of coffee, which he gulped standing up, playing a round of Humpty Dumpty Pinball.

He went to the kitchen for a second mug and a chocolate doughnut and then went back into the arcade for a serious encounter with “Space Harrier.” He rarely got past Level 16. But this time he made it all the way through Level 18. “Yes!” he whooped, pumping the air with his fist. “That’s how the game is played, right Grandmother? Master of the Universe! Bow down, bitches!”

He strutted over to the ESCO Sex Appeal Meter, dropped a penny from the cup he kept on top of the machine into the slot, squeezed the handle and let go. The dial spun around to“Overrated.”

“What?” he shrieked in mock horror. A second penny produced an even worse result. “Ice Box? No effing way!

“You see, Grandmother,” he said, moving in front of his prized automaton, “I get no respect around here.

“Brandy,” he yelled toward the stairs, “you hear what they’re saying about me? ‘Ice Box?’ Time to seriously buff up.”

Buffing up entailed the most vigorous physical exercise he planned on getting that day, an all-out competition against Popeye’s mechanical arm.

“C’mon, Popeye, old man,” he said. “Let’s wrestle.” A quarter produced a scratchy rendition of “Popeye the Sailor Man (Toot Toot).”

“I ain’t no ‘Spinach Eater’ or no ‘Bluto Beater,’” he said to the assembled machines, those being Popeye’s two most difficult levels. “How’s about a ‘Muscel Man’ or a ‘Spiflicator?’ he mused, considering less difficult levels he knew he was not up to.

“Probably not,” he concluded. “Come on, sailor man. You want a piece of me? Here comes ‘Sardine’ or maybe even ‘Junior Popeye.’”

Reluctantly, Popeye gave up “Sardine.” Earle scowled and inserted another quarter. The outcome was even worse. “Not even ‘Sardine’ this time? Shit! None of the above? Not wasting any more quarters on you, Sailor Man.

“I definitely need more power credits,” he said, heading for the kitchen to refill his coffee.

“What? No spinach? Well, okay then. Another chocolate doughnut if you insist!

“Now then, Grandmother,” he said returning to his arcade. “What you got to say for yourself this morning, you gorgeous old woman you?” He dropped a nickel in the slot.

“Grandmother’s Predictions” moved through her elegant routine, pausing her hand over the King of Pentacles. His fortune dropped into the “Your Answer Is Here” slot.

Grandmother’s Predictions

A wise old owl sat on an oak

The more he sat the less he spoke

The less he spoke the more he heard

Why can’t you be like this wise old Bird?

Yes, my friend your greatest fault

is that you talk too much. Learn to

keep a secret. A friend will urge you to

take a trip. Don’t do it. Your best

interest lies in staying at home.

I’m depending upon your good sense

to lead you on the right path.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

“Grandmother, Old Girl, you’re going to bankrupt me with all these nickels,” Earle chuckled. He couldn’t resist another go.

Grandmother’s Predictions

Oh speed on. Speed on my little dove.

Carry a message to the one I love.

Tho a cruel fate has us two parted

I know that the future has in store

Greater happiness forever more.

You are an imaginative person given

to exclaim in ecstasy if things please you.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

“Wise Old Owls? Little Doves? Brandykins, I think Grandmother’s flipping me the bird.”

He chuckled at his own wit, making his way upstairs to his bedroom.

“She’s right about that last thing, though. I’m definitely ready to exclaim in ecstasy if things please me. Ecstasy, here I come! I hope you’re ready to please me, Brandy. You just put me to sleep last night, you naughty girl,” he giggled.

Earle crawled into bed with Brandy. She did everything he wanted. That’s one of the things he liked most about her. And when he was finished, he fell headlong into post-coital dreamland, despite the sugar-bomb chocolate doughnuts plus three mugs of coffee.

When he crawled out of bed it was approaching noon. He remembered he had promised to meet Noah Meltnick for lunch. Noah was a colleague who still worked at Musée Mécanique and was one of the few remaining people in Earle’s life, now that he was retired.

He hung Brandy up on the tripod, pulled on some clothes and requested an Uber on his cell phone. A few minutes later, he met Noah at “The Dancing Crab” on Pier 45.

“You’re serious?” Noah said, looking up from his Crab Louis when Earle told him the news. “An authentic 1929 ‘Cleveland Grandma’?”

“The original item, restored by yours truly, complete with a deck of old-timey fortunes,” said Earle. “Wanna come over and meet her?”

Noah glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to work. I’m closing up tonight, but I could be at your place after that, say 9:00 or 9:30?”

“Works for me,” Earle said.

When the check came, Noah took out his phone and punched up his Venmo app. “I got it,” Earle said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. No worries. Grandfather’s money.”

“Okay. I’ll bring over a bottle of something tonight. I still can’t believe it. An original ‘Cleveland Grandma.’ You’re one lucky bastard,” he said.

“Ain’t it the truth?” Earle said. “See ya later.”

Noah was at Earle’s door at nine o’clock sharp carrying a bottle of Old Grand-Dad 100.

“Old Grand-Dad for the Cleveland Grandma,” he said when Earle opened the door. It was just the sort of wit he thought Earle would appreciate.

Sure enough, Earle grabbed the bottle and cradled it in his arms, waltzing around the arcade as if it were his dance partner. He presented it with an elaborate flourish to “Grandmother’s Predictions.”

“Grandmother,” he intoned with mock solemnity, “may I present Old Grand-Dad.”

“How do you do, Mr. Grand-Dad,” he replied in an exaggerated falsetto.

“And Grand-Dad,” he changed voices again, “may I introduce the lovely ‘Grandmother’s Predictions’ who, rumor has it, hails from the William Gent Vending Company in Cleveland, Ohio. Born sometime in 1929, although as a well-bred lady she would never discuss her age.”

“She’s a stunner,” said Noah with genuine admiration. “The restoration is exquisite. I love the clothing and the jewelry.”

“Here,” Earle said, setting the bottle down. “Take a little peek under her skirt if you’d like.” He opened the service panel on the cabinet exposing the automaton’s machinery.

“You two get acquainted,” he said. “I’ll get us some glasses. I gotta pee first, though.”

Noah had always been envious of Earle’s collection and the inherited wealth that permitted him to acquire these rare pieces. He loved his work at the Musée Mécanique but he was pushing sixty and there was scant chance he would be retiring any time soon.

Noah examined the automaton’s mechanisms. They had been as carefully restored as the Grandmother mannequin herself. Noah had taught Earle a lot about these old machines and Earle had been an apt pupil.

He looked around the arcade and at the machines Earle had so expertly restored. Like Noah, Earle understood exactly what they needed to keep them humming. But Earle seemed to be connected to them, and their makers, on some deeper level than most of his colleagues.

Noah had been sorry to see Earle leave Musée Mécanique. Most of Earle’s colleagues had not. They found Earle crude, insensitive, and largely devoid of social graces. His hygiene was less than stellar, and he had virtually no ability to empathize with anyone. Still, Noah found Earle intriguing.

He continued to poke around the arcade, waiting for Earle to return. The clamshell Mutoscopes, with their ornately painted and gilded cast iron housings, were Noah’s favorites. He dreamed of owning one, but the last time he checked online, Mutoscopes like Earle’s went for north of $20,000.

Of course, it was the reels with their window into the past that made the Mutoscopes so enticing. Vintage Babe Ruth and Charlie Chaplin or flickers of the great 1906 San Francisco Earthquake were guaranteed to entertain.

But the Mutoscopes really existed to display naughty peeps. The old peeps still had a certain charm. The naked ladies in “Women’s Night in the Harem” or the “Artist and Model” might have been racy enough to get your grandfather’s motor revving, but by today’s standards they were tame. The models looked demure, almost innocent.

Noah wasn’t exactly shocked when he turned the crank on one of the cast iron beauties and encountered one of Earle’s more modern home-made porn reels. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would go to all the work of converting a run-of-the mill money shot downloaded from PornHub into a Mutoscope reel.

Then again, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about Earle, including why he chose to share his bed with a hyper-realistic sex doll rather than a warm cuddly girlfriend.

Earle returned to the arcade with a couple of glasses and some ice. “Here’s to Old Grand-Dad and the Cleveland Grandma,” he said, pouring three fingers into his own glass and handing the bottle to Noah.

“A toast to two legends in their own time,” said Noah. “Cheers!”

Old Grand-Dad 100 is not one of those Kentucky bourbons for the faint of heart. But tonight, Earle and Noah were neither faint-hearted nor solicitous of their livers. The bottle was two-thirds gone by midnight when Noah phoned up an Uber, finally making good on his promise to head home after finishing one last drink.

Earle locked up behind Noah and shucked off his clothes in the arcade, leaving them on the floor where they landed.

“So, Grandmother, some party, hey?” he slurred. He was still just coordinated enough to put a nickel in the slot.

Grandmother obliged in her usual fashion. She looked straight at Earle as her hand came to rest over the Devil card.

Somehow, though, her eyes looked different. More earnest. Perhaps even a little put out. The fortune dropped into the slot.

Grandmother’s Predictions

“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb,” said

the Prophet Job, “ and naked shall I return thither.”

Grandmother cradled you lovingly when you emerged

naked into the world and instructed you as a growing boy

in the display of proper modesty. When Grandmother

discovered you swimming naked in the pond with

the neighbor’s daughter did she not guide you swiftly

back to the narrow path? Now that you are a man you have

lost all sense of propriety. You commit the sin of Onan

in Grandmother’s presence as if you were a

naughty child. Grandmother grieves for the children

that will not be born from the seed you spill with a

lifeless mannequin.

Cease this Devilish behavior and turn towards the Light.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I will Tell You More

“What the fuck?” said Earle. “What kind of sick shit is this! This has to be Noah’s doing. There’s no other explanation. Noah must have done this while I was in the bathroom.”

Actually, once you get over the shock, it’s really pretty funny, Earle thought. I wonder what else he sneaked in there. He fumbled with the key, opened the cabinet, and removed the stack of fortunes from the dispenser flipping through them one by one.

There was nothing new, just the original fortunes that came with "Grandmother's Predictions." Earle replaced the cards and closed the cabinet door.

“Brandy,” he shouted, leaving the arcade and weaving his way toward the stairs, “Did you catch all of that? Fucking Noah! What an asshole!”

A mechanical whirring from the arcade stopped Earle dead in his tracks. He turned around, went back into the arcade and stood transfixed by “Grandmother’s Predictions.”

Grandmother was not finished with him, nickel be damned.

She was moving her head up and down, from side to side, her chest breathing in and out, her hand moving back and forth over the cards.

Grandmother’s hand hovered over the Judgment card and stopped. She fixed Earle in her beseeching gaze. Another fortune dropped into the slot. Earl hesitated for a moment, then retrieved the card.

Grandmother’s Predictions

“What do you think?” asks Saint Matthew.

If a man owns a hundred sheep and one

wanders away will he not leave the ninety

and nine on the hills to look for the one

that is lost? Poor lost lamb! Why do you

stray so far from the flock? You are

enslaved by unholy passions. Your idleness

and perverted lust will not bring

Grandmother more lambs.

Turn, turn away from your selfish wandering,

lost lamb, and hasten back to the fold.

Drop Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

Earle was mute with terror. He dropped the fortune on the floor and yanked Grandmother’s power cord from its wall socket. He stood there, cord in hand, staring bleary-eyed at the unplugged automaton, trying to understand the madness engulfing him.

This could not be happening. “Grandmother’s Predictions”was a machine. If there was anything Earle understood it was machines and he did not understand this.

Grandmother jumped back to life, her head and chest moving as before, her hand stopping above the Hanged Man card. She looked at Earle, her eyes compassionate. Earle looked at the plug he was holding. The fortune dropped into the slot.

Earle stood frozen to the floor, unable to retrieve the fortune. No matter. Grandmother was speaking it aloud, her quiet cadences measured and pedagogical, her inflections tuned for the ears of a small child, one for whom she had long been accustomed to providing patient instruction and correction.

Grandmother’s Predictions

Oh Dear! The Hanged Man is a very complicated

card but Grandmother will explain.

You know you must move on, but you can’t.

You are upside down, running in molasses.

The way you see the world and yourself

has been all wrong. The trick is to right yourself.

Your heart and your feet are as heavy as lead.

You want to run away but you can scarcely

move. Where would you go? It is pointless to

struggle. You might as well be an insect stuck to flypaper.

Help is in sight if only you will take it.

A close relative may be of assistance.

Put Another Nickel in the Slot and I Will Tell You More

Earle’s flesh crawled. He was trapped. Fortune cards shot wildly from the “Your Answer Is Here” slot. Grandmother’s eyes were turned to Heaven; she warbled a reedy, nasal hymn of supplication,

“Rock of Aaaages, Cleft for Meeeee!” The other machines piled on. The triple-monkey barrel organ tootled a spirited rendition of “Give Me That Old Time Religion.” Space Harrier’s synthesizer belted out “A-wop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-wop-bam-boom.”

Popeye’s arm swung menacingly to the strains of “Run for Your Life” and the flippers on the pinball machine launched ball bearings at bumpers and bells. Laffing Sal overlaid the chaos with full-throated, diabolical cackling.

Earle, drenched in cold sweat, naked as the day he came into the world, tore out of his house and ran down the block, laughing hysterically, stopping under a street light, hugging the post for support.

A neighbor leaned out an upstairs window and invited him to “shut the fuck up,” muttering something about “fucking crackheads,” and threatening to call the police as he slammed the window shut.

Earle staggered back to his house, too terrified to go back inside, and slumped down on the sidewalk outside his front door, shaking uncontrollably, his deranged laughter interspersed with wracking sobs.

It was there Officers Ravi Gupta and Mariposa Flores found him when they rolled up to his house. A few cautious onlookers had gathered.

“What’s going on, sir?” asked Officer Gupta. No response from Earle.

“Have you been drinking, sir? Can you tell me your name?”

Earle was of no help.

“Anyone inside the house, sir?”

Officer Flores retrieved a blanket from the cruiser. “Anybody know what’s going on with this gentleman?” she asked nobody in particular. Nobody did. “Okay then, we’d appreciate it if you would all disperse while we get him some help.”

The onlookers retreated a decent interval, but it was all too exciting to go very far. Things like this didn’t happen very often in Sea Cliff.

The officers covered Earle with the blanket and Officer Gupta called for an ambulance. Officer Flores knocked on the open door of Earle’s house.

“SFPD,” she announced. “If anybody’s in the house, identify yourself.” No reply. She went inside to have a look around, flashlight in hand.

“You won’t believe that place,” she said a few minutes later when she came back outside.

“He obviously lives alone. There’s a dozen or so old arcade machines in there, some of them creepy but nothing illegal. It’s all neat and clean. There’s an open bottle of booze on a coffee table, pretty much dead, with a couple of used glasses.

“Looks like he’s been drinking, but no sign of a drinking buddy or anybody else inside. I didn’t see any drugs lying around. Probably all inside him by now.”

“Can we ID him?” officer Gupta asked.

“His wallet was on the kitchen table with his keys. CDL says he’s Earle Winston Bradlee III. His DOB makes him twenty-seven. I’ll run him for priors and warrants,” she said reaching for her radio.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, turning back to her partner. “There’s a really fancy sex doll up in the bedroom that must have set him back a few grand, not that I know all that much about that kind of thing. Thought for a minute we had a body when my light hit it. Hanging up on a stand, right next to the bed.”

Officer Gupta laughed.

“Not funny, Gupta,” Officer Flores said. “Seems like everyone’s some kind of pervert these days.”

The ambulance arrived and a paramedic gave Earle a once over. She didn’t find anything that particularly alarmed her.

“No obvious injuries but his pressure’s through the roof. He’s pretty hammered, but it looks like more going on than just that,” she said.

“You think?” Officer Flores said.

“Looks like a customer for the Psych Emergency Team at the General,” the paramedic said. “You write a 5150?”

“Here you go,” said Officer Flores. “One Earle Winston Bradlee III, age twenty-seven,” she said. “Apparently lives here alone. Nobody else inside. Didn’t see any drugs. Dispatch says he’s clean. We’re not charging him.”

Officers Gupta and Flores coaxed Earle onto a gurney and the paramedic strapped him in for the ride to San Francisco General Hospital.

“We secured the property,” Officer Flores told the paramedic. “Here’s his keys and wallet.”

“I guess he won’t be needing his rubber girlfriend tonight,” Officer Gupta snickered. Officer Flores shot him one of her looks. The paramedic looked puzzled.

“He’s got a sex doll upstairs in the bedroom,” Officer Flores said.

The paramedic shrugged. “Takes all kinds, Officers,” she said.

“We got all kinds,” Officer Flores replied.

When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Earle was still babbling incoherently. Medical staff drew a tox screen and helped him into a gown. They gave him some Ativan and placed him on ten-checks.

When he woke up the next evening, Earle was vaguely aware that someone, a nurse perhaps, was checking his vitals. He had no idea why.

“They found you naked in your front yard last night, Mr. Bradlee, laughing and rocking back and forth,” the nurse said. “They brought you here so we could take care of you.”

“Where’s here?” asked a still groggy Earle, propped up in a hospital bed, starring at the wall.

“San Francisco General Hospital, Mr. Bradlee. You’re in the Mental Health Unit under a 72-hour hold for psychiatric evaluation, but the doctor can tell you more about that in the morning.”

Earle didn’t respond.

“Meanwhile, let’s get you cleaned up a bit,” she said untying his gown. “Are you hungry? Need to pee?” The questions didn’t make any sense to Earle.

“Let’s just get rid of this,” she said sweetly, covering him with a sheet and removing his gown.

She handed him a warm washcloth. Earle had no idea what to do with it.

She took it from him and began washing his face and neck gently. “Does it hurt anywhere?” she asked.

Earle turned and looked at her for the first time. He jumped out of bed screaming in terror and bolted for the door only to be intercepted in the hallway by a Psych Tech twice his size.

“Easy now, Mr. Bradlee,” the Psych Tech said. “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

He restrained Earle gently but securely and maneuvered him back into his room and into bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe of Ativan, rolled Earle up on his side, and had the calming injection in Earle’s butt before he knew what was happening.

“That should help you relax, Mr. Bradlee,” the Psych Tech said, gradually releasing his hold.

“You just try and take some deep breaths, Mr. Bradlee,” the nurse said. “You need to lie here now and not try to get up because that shot will make you woozy and you might fall. We’re going to take good care of you.

“Come on, now. Lie back and try to relax. You’ll feel much better in a little bit,” she said, guiding him onto his back and covering him with the sheet once again. “That’s it. Easy does it,” she said. She pulled up the side rails. The Psych Tech went on his way.

Earle was spinning. He gripped the mattress and closed his eyes tightly.

“That’s better. Deep breaths. Everything’s fine, Mr. Bradlee,” she said, covering his right hand with hers.

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. My name is Mary. I’m the Nursing Assistant who will be taking care of you tonight. Most everybody here calls me Grandmother. Maybe it’s because I fuss over the patients a little more than they think I ought to,” she said with a lilt in her voice, “or maybe it’s just the glasses.

“I really am a Grandmother, you know,” she said, making idle conversation to soothe him, “although I’m not as old as all that despite my hair. It’s been silver for as long as I can remember, though it was a shade darker before I moved here from Cleveland to go to nursing school back in the day.”

She continued his bed bath as she talked. She’d already wiped down both arms and was working her way down his chest.

Earle was staring at the ceiling, eyes glassed over.

“Grandmother predicts everything will be just fine in a few days, Mr. Bradlee. You’ll be back in the game before you know it,” she said as she lowered the sheet below his navel and washed his belly.

“Now don’t be shy,” she said, wringing out the warm washcloth again and offering it to him. “Do you want to wash yourself down there or do you need Grandmother’s help?”

Earle was catatonic.

“It’s okay, you poor lost lamb!” she said lowering the sheet further.

“Nothing to be shy about. As they say, ‘We’re all naked when we come into the world and naked we shall be when we leave.’ Not that you’re going anywhere just yet.”

Earle had already left the world as he previously knew it.

She pulled the sheet up to his neck, covering his chest and abdomen, and continued on her southward journey with the washcloth. Grandmother had the situation firmly in hand.

“Now you need to get some sleep,” the nurse said, helping him into a fresh gown and covering him with a clean sheet and a light blanket.

“All better now,” she said. “You just rest now, and I’ll sit with you for a little while. Nothing to worry about. Grandmother’s here if you need her.”

Earle juddered, not unlike one of the malfunctioning automatons at the Musée Mécanique, waiting for an attendant to unplug him and post an out of order sign.

Copyright © 2020. Harold Martin Malin, Jr. All Rights Reserved.

"Grandmother's Predictions" was originally published in the collection Grandmother's Devil & Other Tempting Tales available at Amazon or your favorite independent book seller.