Luck Is a Four-Letter Word

Today is my lucky, lucky day.

It didn’t start out that way. But after thirteen bad things, my luck has finally changed.

I woke up stranded on a curb in the middle of a dead end street (1). Something smelled rank (2). I looked up at the sign above me and wondered if my eyes were playing tricks. You could tell the sign was old because it was faded to the color of raw meat. I think it was supposed to say Sunny Motel, but the way the cursive “U” almost formed a circle and the “N”s were tilted and angular, it looked more like Sorry Motel.

That isn’t the kind of thing you want to see after being dumped on a curb in the Tenderloin (3) by your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.

Yeah, he dumped me last night (4). All because he wanted to sleep alone. Can you believe that? A guy refusing free sex? And it’s not like I’m chopped liver. I mean, he was the one who picked me up 49 days ago. That’s how long we’ve been together. And do you know what four plus nine equals? Lucky thirteen, baby.

So there I was, outside the Sorry Motel on a Friday morning. I had a wave of déjà vu coupled with a tinge of throw-up (5). Oh yeah, last night I parked my car somewhere near the Carrion Bar. That can’t be right. Maybe it was Caravan or Carousal. It was the kind of night that I don’t remember so well. There was an owl on the sign and the bartender made me some special—what’d he call them? Con-cock-shuns. So that must’ve been why Barn dropped me there on the curb somewhere near my car. I knew he wasn’t completely heartless. In fact, I knew he had a large, rich heart pumping with golden love. I just had to find a way to get at it.

I’d called him from the bar and he picked me up and we went to Honeymilk. That’s what I call his place. The first time I went there he gave me a sweet creamy drink and even though I blacked out, I had such a warm feeling for him.

But he seemed different last night. His hair was greasy and his car smelled like fake fruit (6). When we got inside Honeymilk, he went straight to the bathroom (7) and left me alone on the couch twiddling my thumbs. I sifted through his wallet. Loaded. I flipped through his phone. There were four voicemails, so I listened. All girls (8). Fuck. Do you know that the number four is considered evil in some Asian countries? It means death.

Once he came out of the bathroom, I pounced on him. I didn’t want to give him the chance to slip away. But he shook me off and said he was tired.

“The hell you are. What were you snorting in there? Without me?” It’s not that I like drugs. I just want to be included. “Why’d you invite me over if you just want to crash?”

“I changed my mind,” he said, and slammed the bedroom door in my face (9).

This rich prick had some nerve.

There was someone else in the bedroom with him. There was shuffling, mumbling, then music. I banged the door.

“You want to join us?” said a naked woman with stars for nipples and a heart-shaped patch down below. I couldn’t compete.

I turned around to leave, but then Barn said, “Yeah, bring her in. I changed my mind again.”

I remember being stripped and the music getting louder and the lights flickering and more drinks and then I’m in a car with a rancid stench and all the city lights are tricking me. There’s a garage up ahead, its giant arrow blinks toward the underground, but the “G” and “A” are gone so all I see is “RAGE” blazing in red neon letters. He said something about not seeing me again. Ever. We pass by the bar we met at with the winking owl eye. It’s like being in one of those old movies where the signs fly behind you, showing all the places you’ve gone. Only there I was, back at square one, dropped on a curb outside the Sorry Motel trying to get the smell of rotten meat out of my nose.

In the morning, I found my car and puttered out of the city, over the bridge, where everything is flat and beige and safe. Even though it was my day off, I drove to the Superstore. But when I got to the parking lot, not only were all the spaces taken, but they were taken in ways that were wrong (10). Motorcycles parked in spaces reserved for compact cars. An SUV was parked smack in the middle where two lines intersected, taking up all four spaces. It was outrageous. But I was in no mood to be outraged. I parked in the handicapped space up front and took my chances.

In the store, I went straight for aisle thirteen, grabbed the first box I saw, and checked out at register seven. I knew some of the people working, but dodged them in the crowd.

There was some sort of event going on. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Not only was there a two-for-one sale on ground beef, but they were giving out free foam fingers like the kind fans wear at the ballpark. But instead of holding out its pointer finger bragging “We’re #1,” it held its thumb in tight while the rest of the palm spread out and read, “We’re #4.” Supposedly the message was that by being fourth in the nation, the Superstore could keep prices even lower than its competitors. I didn’t follow the math. And there was that deathly number again, haunting me.

I bolted out the store and found my car had been towed (11). Since my phone was dead (12), I couldn’t figure out who to call. Luckily I already had Barn’s number memorized. It was easy: 707-1313.

“Barnaby Briggs,” he said. He always sounded so official, like every call was business.

I didn’t have to tell him who it was. He knew.

“You again. I thought I told you not to call. We’re through.”

“I’m stranded.”

“You’re a broken record.”

“This is serious. They towed my car and—” I couldn’t say it. I didn’t know for sure.

He sighed and muffled the phone and then said, “This is the last time I bail you out.”

While waiting for Barn to come, I went to the store’s restroom where I took out the pregnancy test I’d just bought and cracked open the package. It gave me a paper cut (13) that stung like the devil. I didn’t bother to read the directions. I peed on the stick and waited, flicking the thing in the air like an instamatic picture. The minus sign changed to a plus sign. You might think this was part of my bad luck, but that’s where you’re wrong. This is the start of my lucky, lucky day.

My luck changed at 1:07 PM on Friday the 13th. Do you know what this means? It’s 1307 in military time. 13 and 7 are two of the luckiest numbers in the world. And it’s the time I found out that I’m going to be a mother. A mother to a child whose father may be a touch schizophrenic and could possibly, probably, be addicted to some sort of prescription pills, and maybe has a secretive or violent streak here or there, but nevertheless is a loving person who happens to have very wealthy parents. Now that’s luck.

Another reason I know my luck has changed is because as I sat on the bench outside the Superstore waiting for my ride, I counted all the items of bad luck I’d had recently. They added up to thirteen. There is no way a person can have more than thirteen items of bad luck in a row before the spell breaks and the luck changes. That would just be wrong.

And he is Mister Right. He’s right here, pulling up to fetch me.

I climb inside and immediately roll down the tinted windows.

“Why does your car always reek?”

“That’s what you have to say to me after I do you this favor?” He peels out and heads down the road to the freeway.

“You’re right,” I say. “That wasn’t much of a ‘hello.’ Let me try again.” I lean over and kiss him on the check and say, “Good afternoon, love. Are you wearing a new cologne? I’m not sure it agrees with me, but don’t be bothered, it’s probably just the hormones. Strong odors can send pregnant women over the edge.”

He doesn’t say anything for the longest time. He gets on the freeway and speeds up. “What are you saying?”

“There’s a little Barn owl in this nest.”

“You’re mistaken.”

I take out the proof positive and place it in his lap. He glances down, then out the window.

“That means nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something. It’s more than something. It’s a cross. It’s me plus one. It’s a commitment.”

“It could be anyone’s.”

“But it’s not.”

He pulls over to the side of the freeway with the fast lane to our right.

I say, “This lane is for emergency use only.”

“This is an emergency.”

He parks the car and pops the trunk and tells me to get out. There’s still plenty of daylight left, but it’s windy and cold and with each car that whizzes by I get a sinking feeling. But how could this be? My luck is on the upswing!

“This is what’s going to happen,” he says with the wind cutting his words to pieces. He lifts the trunk open and pulls out a bowling ball bag and lays it on the side of the road. Then he pulls out three more. He looks me straight in the eyes. “You are going to stay here until some kind stranger comes to your aid and picks you up. That’s not going to be me. I’m through with that. I’m going to get back in this car and drive away and we will never see or hear from one another again. You got that? All ties are severed. I don’t know you. You’ve never heard of me. End of story.”

I shake my head. What kind of ending is this? “What about these bags?”

“Best keep quite about those,” he says, and slides into the car. “You know how I know you can keep a secret?”

I wrack my pea brain but shoot him blanks.

“Because you’re too goddamned superstitious.” He waves a voodoo doll at me and peels out into the roaring traffic.

I’m stranded in the middle of a freeway with four mystery bags by my feet, laughing at me. One of them seems to be oozing a brownish liquid. I’m stranded in the middle of a road for the second time in one day. I’m stranded without a soul to call. But that’s where things have changed. I do have a soul to call my own. Growing by the heartbeat, linked to mine, and I’m never letting go.

It takes two hours before someone finally stops. I climb in his car and roll the window up.

“What about your baggage?” He tilts his head toward the bowling balls.

“Leave it,” I say, and notice the fuzzy dice hanging from his mirror. He wears a gold medallion around his neck with the number twenty-one.

Today is my lucky, lucky day.