Eleven April, Twenty Twenty-One

Feel lucky?

Remington Write
Apr 11 · 3 min read
Photo Credit — AleXander Hirka / Used with permission

Lucky Davis wished people would stop calling him that. He blamed his wife. Darlene, she had a good heart and was a kind neighbor and a great mother but the woman could not keep her mouth shut. So he got out of a speeding ticket the same day that the numbers he’d been playing for eighteen years hit to the tune of $230,000. Yes, lucky. But come on. And his name was Martin, dammit.

That was also the week he lost his job as head of security at the warehouse down by the docks that burned down. The fire was being investigated and three of Martin’s guys were deposed.

It was also the week their youngest quit college and headed to Bali to “find himself”.

“Lucky, darling, could you pop down to the store and get us some nice fresh cod and some new potatoes for dinner?”

“Stop calling me that. My name is Martin.” Martin made no move to put down his newspaper.

“Oh, stop being like that.” Darlene came in and perched on the arm of Martin’s favorite chair. “You’re just an old grouch is what you are. Embrace the Lucky and you’ll feel better.”

Martin ignored that pile of nonsense but did get up, put on his outdoor shoes, found his wallet, and went out to walk down to the market. Darlene had been hounding him for years to sell their apartment and move out to where her sisters lived. Like he was going to sell a home they owned outright and move to some godforsaken suburb where you had to drive everywhere. Screw that.

There was that poor old dim bum, Walt, at the corner. Martin felt around in his pocket and came up with a buck for the bleary-eyed loser.

“Thanks, Lucky.”

“Welcome, Walt.” Martin kept going, keeping his gritted teeth to himself.

“Hey there, Lucky, how’s tricks?” This from that ignorant Gloria who worked at the pharmacy, calling out like a damned siren from across the street.

Martin just nodded and kept moving. Maybe Darlene was right about moving. But if they did Martin was going to get one thing straight before the first box got packed: Darlene was to never call him Lucky again. Never. Not even in the privacy of their bedroom. Especially not there. He would have to give this some serious consideration. With the equity on the apartment, he could probably cover something like half the asking price or better on a small place out there. Small being the objective. When Mr. Starry Eyes got back from Bali he was not moving home with Mom and Dad. That was for sure.

“Lucky! Watch out!”

It all happened so fast. Martin stopped stock still when he heard Walt yell and in that moment the bread truck that got cut off by the motorcycle crashed into the light pole directly behind Martin. And the airborne motorcycle crashed through the plate glass window of the Asian Kobe deli right next to Martin.

In the midst of the screaming and chaos, Martin didn’t move a muscle.

The EMTs arrived on the scene and one gently guided him out of the wreckage. She held his hand, checked his pulse, shined a penlight into his eyes, and asked his name. Martin slowly turned to look at the bread truck halfway up the pole and the crowd peering into the smashed deli where someone was wailing in pain.

“Lucky. I’m…Lucky Davis.”

© Remington Write 2021. All Rights Reserved.

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Remington Write

Written by

Writing because I can’t not write. Twitter: @RemingtonWrite or Email me at: Remington.Write@gmail.com https://remingtonwrite.blogspot.com/

The Shadow

We publish inspiring stories about different topics for a productive and entertaining life

Remington Write

Written by

Writing because I can’t not write. Twitter: @RemingtonWrite or Email me at: Remington.Write@gmail.com https://remingtonwrite.blogspot.com/

The Shadow

We publish inspiring stories about different topics for a productive and entertaining life

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