Carlos stood staring down at the potato he had just pulled from the bag as though he had never seen such a thing before. Turning it around in his hands, he examined it from all angles, carefully counting the tiny yellowish nubs protruding from the skin.

“This potato has six eyes almost perfectly aligned in a row down its side,” he announced, completing his examination. “We can’t use this one.”

“What the hell do you mean we can’t use it?” Tim bellowed, snatching the spud from Carlos’ hand. “Those things cost money! What’s wrong with it?”

“It is a portent of death,” Carlos responded, shaking his head solemnly. “Get rid of it.”

Tim sneered and tossed the potato to the young man leaning on a broom on the other side of the prep table.

“You’re on fry duty, Clay,” he announced. “Carlos, you’re on floors. I have a restaurant to run. I don’t have time for this voodoo crap.”

“It’s not voodoo,” Carlos objected. “It’s Santeria. My grandmother taught me to read the signs.”

“Hopefully, she taught you how to sweep floors, or you’ll be out of a job,” Tim said before storming off.

Carlos watched as Clay peeled the skin from the potato, chopped it up into strips, and dropped them into the clear plastic lug next to the cutting board.

“You really believe that crap, or are you just yanking the old man’s chain?” Clay asked, pulling another potato from the sack. “I bet you just wanted to get out of cutting the fries.”

“It’s true,” Carlos replied. “My grandmother once found a dollar with “65” written on it in red ink. She said it meant we would be getting $65, and the next day, my father won a raffle at work.  After that, I asked her to teach me to read the signs. I have never been wrong since.”

“Too bad you didn’t consult your signs before applying here, huh? Tim is a slave driver. Most places I’ve worked, they just bought their fries already cut up. Nobody knows the difference. Tim is a headcase.”

The next day, Clay showed up for work to find the closed sign still on the door. Through the window, he could see Danny, the morning shift runner, coming out of the cooler. He tapped on the glass with his car keys until Danny finally wandered over and unlocked the door.

“We’re not opening up today,” Danny said, sticking his head out the door. “Tim had a heart attack last night. I just came in to switch the meat we prepped yesterday to fresh lugs so it wouldn’t go sour.”

“Damn!” Clay responded. “He gonna be alright?”

“He didn’t make it,” Danny replied. “His wife wants me to run the place once we get going again, but it might take a few days for me to get it together. I’ll call you to let you know your schedule.”

Rushing back to his car, Clay took out his phone, scrolled down until he found Carlos’ name in his list of contacts, and pushed the button beside the name.

“Stay put. I’m on my way over,” Clay said, as soon as Carlos picked up. “We need to have a chat.”

Carlos didn’t seem too happy to see Clay. Not scheduled to work until second shift, he had still been in bed when Clay called, and was still in his robe and pajamas as Clay barged into his apartment and plopped down on his couch.

“Whatever it is you want is going to have to wait until I’ve had my coffee,” Carlos said defiantly, knocking Clay’s feet off of the table in front of the couch before heading off toward the kitchen.

“Tim’s dead,” Clay announced, stopping Carlos in his tracks.

“How?”

“Heart attack,” replied Clay. “But nobody gives a shit about that. The thing is, you were right. You knew somebody was going to die. You can see the future.”

“I only see what the signs tell me,” Carlos said, sitting down in the recliner. “I didn’t know it would be Tim.”

“But you knew somebody would die. We could make some serious money with that shit if you could figure out how to focus it.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Carlos asserted. “I can’t just see the winning lottery numbers or visualize a map of where all the gold is buried. It only works when I’m presented with an omen, and even then, I can’t say exactly how it will happen.”

“So we find you some more of these omens,” Clay said. “We set you down in front of a pot of chicken bones or something, and you can see if we place a bet that day. You say we win, it doesn’t matter who we pick. We are going to win.”

“You can’t just manufacture an omen,” Carlos said, disgusted. “If it worked like that, I wouldn’t be peeling potatoes for a living.”

“Okay, but what if we could convince people we could? You make a few predictions that come true, and people will be lining up to throw money at you. All we have to do is wait for you to see one of these signs of yours, and then make sure people know about it.”

Carlos jumped up out of his chair, and pointed to the door.

“You think my religion is some kind of scam?” he shouted. I think you need to go find somebody else to help you with your con games!”

Clay reluctantly got up and was pushed out into the hall. As the door slammed behind him, he turned and gave it a kick.

“You’ll be sorry, Carlos!” he shouted. “You’re passing up a fortune!”

After that, Clay haunted Carlos, even going so far as to get a job in the kitchen of the same hotel Carlos started working for after Tim’s wife decided to close the restaurant. No matter where Carlos went, Clay was there, waiting for him to use his magic.

One day, while Clay was looking over his shoulder, Carlos let out a loud sigh and backed away from the pot of stew he was stirring.

“What’s up?” demanded Clay. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Carlos replied, picking the wooden spoon back up and swishing it around in the pot.”

“Don’t try to pull that on me!” Clay shouted. “You saw something.”

“There is going to be another death,” Carlos said, turning to look Clay in the face. “You will be dead by 3PM.”

Clay stumbled back, staring at the clock on the wall behind Carlos.

“It’s almost noon now!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” Carlos told him, unable to look Clay in the eyes.

Clay tore off his apron and rushed from the building, not bothering to clock out. Three hours to live, he thought as he rushed through the streets toward his apartment. Just three hours! Back in his apartment, Clay ran through all the possibilities. As far as he knew he was healthy, though he did have that pain in his lower back a few weeks ago. As long as he stayed in his apartment he couldn’t get mugged or hit by a car, but what if the building caught on fire? What if there was some kind of gas leak, or the ceiling caved in? He plunged his hand into the bag of chips on the counter and was about to stuff the contents into his mouth when he paused. What if he choked to death? The bag of chips went into the trash, along with the box of cookies beside it.

By the time 2:30 arrived, he had been sitting on the couch, mindful of every movement, for two hours. Fearing some freak electrical accident, he had refrained from turning on the television, and had even made sure his phone was nowhere in the vicinity. Hadn’t people been killed by exploding phones? He was sure he had read about that happening. As 3PM approached, he was still sitting in the same spot, nervously tapping on the couch cushions, his attention focused on the wall clock. Just a few more minutes, he thought. If I make it past three, I’m in the clear. He was starting to think he might have a chance. Hadn’t Carlos told him the predictions weren’t normally that specific? Maybe someone else was going to die that day.

Then, at three minutes before the hour, someone rang his doorbell.

The sound of the buzzer nearly caused him to fall off the couch. He sat there, clinging to the arm rest, his fingers digging into the fabric, his breath bottled up in his lungs. The buzzer sounded again, this time longer, more insistent. It even seemed to grow louder as whoever was behind the door continued to lean on the button.

The buzzing stopped, replaced by the sound of the deadbolt sliding back as a key was turned in the lock. Slowly, the door creaked open and a man appeared. He was saying something, but Clay couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat. As the man entered, Clay managed to free himself from his paralysis and rushed at him. Both men tumbled out into the hall as Clay threw his full weight against the man, forcing him back against the wall. Striking his head, the man slid down the wall to the floor, and Clay fell on top of him, pressing his knees into the man’s chest as he tried to pin down his arms. The man, who was considerably larger than Clay, regained his senses and resisted, breaking Clay’s grip on his wrist long enough to grab the wrench hanging from his belt and slam it hard against the side of Clay’s skull. It was three o’clock, and Clay was dead.

“The guy must have been on dope,” said the man as Clay disappeared into a black bag and was lifted onto a gurney. “I just stopped by to fix a leaky pipe, and he attacked me. I swear he was trying to kill me.”

Over at the hotel, Carlos sat before a pile of onions, dreading the smell that would come as he cut into them. He hated chopping onions almost as much as he hated cleaning potatoes. At least he had managed to get rid of Clay, he mused. He couldn’t believe anyone could be that stupid.

“You haven’t started on those onions yet?” he heard his manager ask from over his shoulder.

“We can’t use these,” Carlos responded, holding up one of the onions. “These markings are a portent of doom.”