“Put what you want into the universe. It will come back to you.” Bracelets on both wrists jangled as she touched my nose with her index finger. “Promise.” The smile and her words warmed me. She stood before me, wearing a flowing broom skirt, her sliver-streaked hair touching her shoulders with a sunflower tucked behind her ear.

               I didn’t notice her bare feet, balancing from toe to toe like a ballerina. Not a care in the world. Humming a soft tune to herself, skipping through the grass. For several minutes, I was lamenting getting fired. Standing in the grass holding my socks and shoes, also barefoot, thinking it might help ground me. Did I believe any of it? Any of the hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo stuff about grounding or spiritual practices? Not really. But at this point, it couldn’t hurt, right?

               Sitting down in the dandelion patch seemed the right thing to do. I figured, what could it hurt? If it worked for Milo, Opus, and the entire cast of characters from Bloom County, it wouldn’t hurt me. So I plopped down, letting go of the anxiety and depression of another job. Guess what? It worked. I let go. For the first time in the last hour, I felt better.

               I reframed my thinking – I want a new job. I will get a new job. And I lost track of time until a soccer ball came flying by me. That brought me back to reality.

               “Sorry, dude!” A college-aged guy shouted at me. “Kinda lost control back there.” He ran up to me, bent down, and shook my hand. “All apologies.” Before he ran off again, he looked down at me. “Hey, not a big deal, but I was wondering. What do you do for work?”

               I grinned. Should I tell this kid I got fired? Or just blow it off like it’s not a big deal? “I’m a storyteller.”

               “Woah, that’s cool.” He started to run towards the ball and stopped again, turning to look at me. “You any good?”

               “I did get paid for it, why?”

               “I got this thing going with my dad. We need someone who can tell – I mean, write a good story. We hired the best.” He shrugged. “Supposedly, the best. Dudes with high-level degrees. After reading their stuff, we couldn’t understand the story. Don’t get me wrong,” he sat down with me, “I’m sort of educated, and my dad has an MBA. But the two of us couldn’t figure out what story they were telling.”

               Curious, I asked, “Who is your dad?”

               He smiled. “Dude. You wouldn’t know his name. His company? You’d recognize that. Phunky Pachys.”

               Phunky Pachys (funky pack-ees) was the hottest new bag on the market, surpassing Louis Vuitton, Fendi, and even Gucci. They were everywhere, like Cabbage dolls, TY Beanie Babies, and Stanley cups. Every woman wanted to own at least one and would pay through the nose to get one. I heard that women were known to brawl over the last one on the sales floor at outlets like Saks. They took over as the purse to have in less than three years. Every person in fashion wanted their success. Somehow, this young college guy and his dad made a bag women went gaga for. And now every woman in America wanted one.

               “Come on, dude! Davey! The ball!” The young man’s friends shouted at him.

               “One sec, dude!” He pulled his cell phone out of his shorts pocket. “Name’s David. David Nelson. My dad is Jared.” He held the phone in his palm after punching up a number. We both listened through the speaker to the ring. The number rang a few times before a voice said, “Hi, Davey.” The voice was warm and cozy, like a soft, firm handshake.

               “Dad. I got our guy.”

               “That’s fantastic news, Davey! Who is he?”

               “Well, he’s sitting here with me.”

               “Aren’t you playing soccer with your friends?” Two of Davey’s ran over, kicking the ball past him and me, shaking their heads.

               “Dude. You said no work today,” his friend said, wearing a black pair of workout shorts. His t-shirt was tied around his waist. Davey held up one finger, letting his friend know he’d be there in a minute.

               “Kinda. I met this dude in a dandelion patch. He’s a storyteller.”

               “Hang on a second, Davey.” We both listened. “Yes, thank you, Carol. You can tell them I’ll be with them in five minutes. I’m talking to Davey.” The other end of the line was silent for a minute. “I know they’ve been waiting. They can wait a little longer. It won’t kill them.” More silence. “Thank you, Carol. Davey?”

               “Yeah, Dad?”

               “Bring him up to the office this week. No. Hold on. Wait.” There was a brief pause. “He’s there with you, right?”

               “Yeah, totally,” David grinned.  

               “What’s your name?” Jared asked me.

               “Jonathan Zaro,” I answered.  

               “Zaro.” Jared paused a few seconds.

               “Dad?” David asked.

               “Zaro. You work for one of the local publications, right?”

               “Used to,” I said, unsure about my answer. The truth was my last article was my best, yet the magazine cut it because of my shakey relationship with the editor. She happened to be my now ex-girlfriend. To say that made it hard to work would be an understatement. She was also the reason the magazine existed.   

               “Okay. Davey? Get him here in an hour. That work for you, Jonathan?”

               “Yes,” I replied, in shock. “I can do that.”

               “Great. Davey?”

               “Yeah, Dad?”

               “See you in an hour. I love you, son. Bye.”

                Davey smiled at me. “Best put your shoes on, dude,” he winked, pointing to the socks and shoes lying loose in the grass.  

               I saw her again. The dancing woman wearing the broom skirt. Dancing back in my direction, a smile spread across her lips. She winked. I smiled. “Good things?” she asked, a crinkle forming across her forehead as she raised one eyebrow.

               “Very good things,” I replied, putting on my socks and shoes.