Though my
bouts of good luck were balanced by the bad—I actually charted them on a
spreadsheet to an error rate of +/- 2%—I still viewed my luck as a curse. It
didn’t matter that my favorite bar had put up a plaque declaring “Don Iverson,
Luckiest man in Belport,” the luck was still a curse. It was the knowing.
Knowing that the other side of Fortune’s Wheel lay in my future.
Sure, a lot
could be said of taking the optimistic approach. That for every instance of bad
luck, good luck was going to come of it. But I still wished for something more
normal. The kind of luck most people had where the outrageous was rare instead
of commonplace.
It didn’t
matter how careful I was, either. Like last night when I went for Chinese
takeout. What was supposed to be an ordinary task nearly cost me my life.
I had the
takeout in hand, smelling the goodness of my sesame chicken as I passed an alley
when a thick, foil-wrapped brick landed at my feet, distinctly smeared in red
liquid. I hadn’t even raised my head up to see the source when I heard “Get
him!”
Quick
thinking and lots of practice with bad luck had given me razor-sharp reflexes,
so I was already moving. I heard the gunfire, but fortunately never felt it. I
pumped my arms for as much as I was worth as I drove my feet to take short
leaps forward. I was in the rough part of town, so no one paid any attention
that I was being followed by half a dozen people. In fact, they made way, not
wanting to get involved.
I zigged
and zagged, hoping the gang members wouldn’t want to risk hitting bystanders,
not because they cared, but because it would make things much messier for them
to get away. I lost my grip on my takeout, and it sailed into the air ahead of
me before crashing in a mess on the sidewalk.
I hopped
over the mess and spotted the open bus door just around the corner, so I
swerved for it.
“Hold the
door!” I yelled.
And, for a
wonder, the driver held the door. I zipped in, swiped my bus pass, and moved
into the bus. I heard a curse before the door closed and saw two of the gang
slip on my takeout.
Winded,
pumped with adrenaline, and hungry, I settled into the back of the bus, shaking.
The man
next to me said, “He held the door. Wasn’t that lucky?”
I wanted to
punch him.