Bob Shemeligian: Mystic turns columnist into sandal-mongerer

Tuesday, June 18, 1996 | 11:59 a.m.

IT STARTED as a routine work assignment. But it ended in a tortuous journey through shoe-department hell.

"Bob, we need a story for the business section on the opening of Caesars Magical Empire," the editor told me.

At Caesars I was handed a press kit and was treated like a Roman emperor during my tour of the dining-and-magic oasis.

Everything was fine -- until I met Octavious, the soothsayer.

I asked him a few simple questions about his job, complimented him on his bejeweled necklace and gold-lame-applique stole.

"Ask me for a prediction," Octavious said as I busily jotted notes on the different artifacts and designs that surrounded me.

"What?" I asked, a bit startled.

When Octavious again offered a prediction, I thought for a moment, and then I said, "I'm playing in a poker tournament tonight. How will I do?"

The soothsayer stroked his black goatee and told me that if I were to play cautiously, I would win.

"Yeah, and I'll buy you a new pair of sandals," I replied with a laugh.

"My size is 12D," Octavious replied.

I didn't think anything of it -- until, of course, I was at the final table of the weekly Texas hold 'em tournament at the Gold Coast that night -- and in position to win.

It wasn't that I won the tournament that scared me, it was the way I did it. Each time I thought I was in trouble, I made a miracle draw and was saved.

It was as though the cards were magically willed to help me and hurt the other players.

When it was over I was $400 richer, but troubled.

What if it wasn't just coincidence?

What if I didn't buy a pair of sandals for Octavious? Hell, I might never win a hand of poker for the rest of my life.

I spent two days hunting for 12D sandals in 100-degree temperatures.

They were nowhere to be found.

"We have a 12 medium," a salesman told me. "How about a size 11. They stretch," another salesman lied.

And finally: "All our styles run a little differently when it comes to size. You'll have to try them on."

How could I tell them the sandals weren't for me? They're for a soothsayer named Octavious, whom I met in the magical kingdom, and he's cast a spell on me making me a lucky poker player and unless I find a pair of sandals with 12D on the soles, I'll be banished to Bad Beat Poker Hell forever.

No, I couldn't tell them that.

After two days, I stopped at a casino coffee shop for a cold glass of lemonade.

Next to me was a disheveled old man in worn clothing, scaping together some change to pay his bill.

I asked the waitress for the old guy's tab.

"I can tell you're a young man of special gifts," the waitress said to me. Then I looked at her name tag: "Supernatural Selena."

"Don't start with me," I warned her before asking the busboy for directions to the nearest Birkenstock store.

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