Murphy’s Luck

by Benjamin Laskin

  Murphy, dismayed by the high-rise apartment’s immaculate interior, clutched his suitcase to his chest. To Murphy’s mind, the pearly walls, glossy, black leather furniture, chrome-legged, gleaming glass tables, and white plush carpeting, mocked and taunted him. He feared that the apartment was begging for the kind of trouble only his luck could manifest.

  He gazed at a framed photograph on the wall of a bull charging through a crowded street, trampling over one man and tossing another into the air. In Murphy’s active imagination, the bull leaped from the picture and began to rampage through Joy’s apartment like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  Joy said, “What’s the matter, you’ve never been in an apartment before either?”

  Murphy snapped out of his daydream and shook his head, no. He pointed at the picture.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Joy said. “The running of the bulls in Pamplona. My mother took that about twenty-some years ago when my family and I were backpacking in Europe. The man flying through the air is my Dad. The bull gored him right in the butt. He spent two weeks in the hospital.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and well worth it if you ask Dad. He’s gotten a lot of mileage from that story and loves showing people his scar.” She chuckled.

  Murphy gestured towards more framed photographs from other exotic locales—India, Thailand, Japan and Korea, Israel, Egypt, Italy, Greece, and elsewhere.

  “Did your mother take all these pictures too?”

  “Yep,” Joy said proudly.

  “It looks like you had an interesting childhood. What does your father do?”

  “When most of these were taken? Nothing. Long story, but my folks were hippies. Dad figured it was cheaper to live and travel on a shoestring than to try and make it in contemporary American society, so he and mom sold all they had, scraped together what they could, and off we went. I spent my entire childhood in youth hostels, sleeping bags under the stars, and a used VW van. I was a kid and didn’t know any different, so for me it was easy and fun.”

  Murphy gestured to Joy’s apartment and her obvious change of lifestyle. “Then what happened?”

  Joy wandered into the kitchen, and as she spoke went about preparing drinks and snacks for them. “After ten years we returned to the States and settled in LA where my dad got a job working for an alternative newspaper. That led to meeting an old college buddy who saw the future of computers and the Internet. Dad, always a man of passion, dove in head first, learned everything he could, and then the next thing you know he’s a hacker.”

  Joy brought a couple glasses of iced tea and a plate of cheese and crackers to the coffee table.

  “Put down your suitcase and have a seat already, would you?”

  Hesitantly, Murphy set his suitcase by the door, and then walked over and sat on one of the leather recliners.

  “Idealistic as always,” Joy continued, “Dad saw the Internet as a way to free the minds of the world and influence governments and corporations. The federal government didn’t appreciate Dad’s enthusiasm, however. And so after some stern-looking men in black sedans and sunglasses paid him a visit, and then a six-month prison sentence, he and his hacker buddies decided to put their talents elsewhere. They used their expertise to start a company that specialized in creating firewalls and other securities. It was good timing. B2B and e-commerce was in its infancy, and Dad and his friends were at what was then the cutting edge of that technology. Inevitably, a flock of venture capitalists came calling. One IPO later and poof, dad was a multimillionaire.”

  Joy put some cheese spread on a cracker and offered it to Murphy, but he declined.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Lactose intolerant. Sorry, I forgot.”

  Joy went to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of chips and some dip from the fridge. She snuck a glance over her shoulder, and then punched at her cell phone, starting its audio dictation app. She returned to the den, set the chips and dip on the glass coffee table in front of Murphy and casually placed her phone on the table between them to covertly record their conversation.

  “Anyway,” Joy continued, “you can take the hippie out of Woodstock, but you can’t take Woodstock out of the hippie. Dad soon got bored of the corporate world and sold all his shares and walked away just before the dot-com bubble burst. For a guy who never wore a watch, Dad always had a good sense of timing. Now he and Mom are back traveling the world, though this time as a kind of two-man Peace Corps. Mom has a much nicer camera these days too.”

  Joy sipped her drink and eyed Murphy over the rim of the glass. She said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I sincerely doubt that, ma’am.”

  “Yeah, I do. You think I’ve lived a charmed life and that I’m probably a spoiled little brat.”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t think that at all.”

  “Well, everyone else does. But I can’t blame them. It’s true. Compared to most people, I am charmed.”

  Alarmed by Joy’s words and the jinx they contained, Murphy looked desperately for wood to knock on. He saw none. He settled for tapping on a magazine.

  Joy chuckled. “That’s sweet of you. Believe me, I tap wood every day.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yeah. I thank my lucky stars every night before I go to sleep.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I know things could change at any moment. Here today, gone today! In fact, I had quite a close call this evening, didn’t I? So you see…”

  Joy smiled and tapped on a National Geographic coffee table book as if to make her point.

  “I don’t think many people think like you, ma’am.”

  “You’re one to talk! And stop with the ma’am business already. It makes me feel old. I’m Joy, got it? Joy Daley.”

  Murphy nodded. An uncomfortable silence fell over them and Murphy yawned.

  “I’ve bored you, haven’t I?”

  “No, Ma’a—no. Not at all.”

  “Really, I’m not usually such a flibbertigibbet, it’s just that, well, there’s something about you. I feel like I can talk to you about anything.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I do. Most people don’t listen; they just sit in judgment. Everything you say must first pass through all these opinion filters they have in their heads, you know?

  “I think so.”

  “See! With you I don’t feel I have to preface everything I want to say with a detailed explanation. I don’t have to say why I think this or that, and I don’t have to demonstrate any proofs for it. I can think aloud. And let me tell you, it’s refreshing.”

  “Conversation is that complicated?” Murphy asked artlessly.

  Joy laughed. “Are you going to tell me now that you’ve never been in a conversation before either?”

  “Nothing like this one, no.”

  Joy rejoined coyly, “Are you flirting with me, Murphy?”

  Murphy flushed crimson and leaped to his feet. “No ma’am—Joy! … Ma’am!”

  Joy laughed harder. “Sit down, Murphy Drummer-boy. I’m just teasing you!”

  Murphy sat back down. He chuckled nervously.

  Joy said, “You are a trip.”

  “Trip?”

  “Yes. What planet are you from?”

  “Kansas?”

  Joy laughed again.

  “Kansas is funny?” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry. But that does explain a few things.”

  “It does?”

  “I just have this image, Wizard of Oz and all that, you know?”

  “Wizard? I don’t—”

  “Get out of here,” Joy said. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve never watched TV either.”

  “But I haven’t,” Murphy said. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Really? Come on, get out of here!”

  Puzzled, Murphy said. “Why do you always tell me to go and then insist I stay?”

  “Why do you insist on playing naive? Come on, Drummer-boy, I know that behind your utterly biz
arre behavior lurks a compelling intelligence. What gives?”

  “I’m sorry. This is all very new to me.”

  Joy glanced furtively at her phone to make sure that it was still recording their conversation.

  “You really don’t get out much, do you?”

  “I don’t get out at all, Joy-ma’am.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Got a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Got any friends?”

  “Pets.”

  Joy said teasingly, “Is that where the rabbit’s foot came from, you monster?”

  Murphy gasped. “Oh, no! I’d never…I love animals! I love everything and everyone. Or try to,” he added softly.

  Joy, touched by his ingenuous sincerity, leaned back and considered Murphy.

  “No parents, no lady, no friends… You aren’t making some sicko pity-play thing here, are you? ‘Cuz you were doing just fine without anything so wimpy.”

  Murphy blinked in incomprehension. After a long hesitation he said, “I have a friend.”

  “Tell me about him,” Joy said.

  “Her.”

  “Oh…okay, tell me about her.”

  “Well, she’s a very unique person.”

  “How so?”

  “The things she says, the things she thinks. My friend, you see, believes in the miracle-making dreams of the human heart.”

  Moved by Murphy’s words, Joy leaned forward, intrigued and attentive. “Go on,” she said.

  “In the regenerating power of kindness, and in the indestructible magic of love. In these she believes. But, at night, she often cries.”

  “Why does she cry, Murphy?”

  “She knows she shouldn’t cry with so much wonder and beauty around, but knowing so doesn’t seem to help.”

  “But why?”

  “She wishes people were happy, but they seem intent on being unhappy, and it confuses her. She’s sad because other people don’t see what she sees and don’t feel what she feels. She turns on the news and all is chaos and cruelty. She walks down the street and everyone is a stranger. She asks questions that have no answers, and she questions answers that make no sense.”

  Joy said, “She’s too sensitive, Murphy. She should know that such things are not within her will. She should ignore them.”

  “Oh, but you see, then she would be no better than those whose insensitivity and blindness make them the zombies that she dislikes so much to see.”

  Joy leaned in closer. “Tell me more about your friend.”

  “Well, she loves animals, especially dogs. Their wet noses make her giggle, and the way their legs pedal in the air when she scratches their tummies makes her laugh until her jaw hurts.”

  Joy stared at Murphy in wonder.

  “And she likes poetry, especially Walt Whitman because he embraces everything and everyone, and he never makes excuses for the universe, bragging and boasting of it like a child for his beloved father.” Murphy chuckled. “She likes to say the line, ‘I sound my barbaric yawp.’”

  Joy gazed at Murphy as if in a trance.

  Murphy continued. “She likes falafel, silver better than gold, the color turquoise, and the sound of wind chimes and crunching carrots. Her favorite thinker is Ralph Waldo Emerson, and her favorite number is two because, she says, two makes a couple and everything good comes coupled—up and down, in and out, left and right, cuff links, shoes, morning and night, a boy and a girl, and love…”

  Joy couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “And she never-ever misses a full moon, because she believes she can transmit her thoughts to all her friends by bouncing them off its gleaming surface.”

  Joy asked, “Is she pretty, Murphy?”

  “Oh, I-I think she is very pretty. I think that she is a hundred shades of pretty, as light is a hundred shades of brilliance.”

  Joy’s eyes misted. She said, “Do you love this woman, Murphy?”

  Murphy hitched a shoulder, embarrassed. “She’s just a friend.”

  “Does she know how you feel about her?”

  “No!”

  Joy said, “I think you should tell her.”

  “I could never…we’ve never… We’re just friends. Can I go to sleep now?”

  “Huh? Oh, um, yeah sure… I’ll go get you a blanket.”

  “Thank you…Joy.”

  Lost in thought, Joy disappeared around the corner and entered her bedroom.

  Murphy looked suspiciously about the room, his senses combing for trouble. Everything was…okay? He closed his eyes and smiled in blessed relief.

  Joy’s spacious bedroom reflected the same clean, bright decor as the rest of her apartment. She opened the closet and retrieved some bedding. Her eyes fell on a shelf holding up a row of shoeboxes. Across the front of each box was marked a year, beginning with 1995. More shoeboxes were stacked on the floor below the shelf—2005, 2006…until the present. Joy snorted in incredulity. “Yeah, right,” she said.

  Horsefeathers

  Detective Blake Johnson might have been the best-dressed man at the racetrack with his white shirt and red tie under his black woolen duster jacket, but his smart attire wasn’t rubbing off on his luck. It was the last race of the evening, and although work caused him to arrive late and miss most of the races, he was down 310 bucks. He cursed his recent run of lousy luck and unconsciously rubbed his quinella ticket like it was a rabbit’s foot.

  Last month Johnson finished up 130 dollars, so he took some consolation in that. He didn’t dare tally up the year so far, however. He knew he was down, but he didn’t care to know just how far.

  Quinella betting required selecting the first two finishers in a race in either order. For this final race, Johnson bet on horses #1 and #3, also known as ‘Star Thrower’ and ‘Bucking Thunder.’ He had studied the horses well, made his calculations, and saw grit and determination in their respective names. But what sealed the deal for him was seeing that the two horses were the only ones to take both a mighty piss and a substantial dump while being shown off by their jockeys. Johnson felt emboldened. He hurried to the betting cage and placed his $300 bet.

  As he waited for the race to begin, he enjoyed that rare high that followed after placing a bet that his gut found promising. It was a little rush that came with the expectation that in his hand was a winning ticket. Johnson scanned the vicinity to get a reading of what his fellow racing fans and humanity were feeling. He assumed that, like him, they were all wondering if this next race was going to be the one they’d be sharing around the water cooler at work, with their softball team, or maybe even their grandkids someday; if the bet was big enough, or the dark horse dark enough, or the long shot long enough.

  That was not such a good idea, for apart from the usual burned-out drunks and gambling addicts, Johnson noted that most persons were, unlike him, not alone. Everyone else seemed to have one or more friends to share in the thrill. Couples, buddies, small groups of friends out for some excitement, winners and losers among them, but generally, all having a good time.

  Johnson didn’t have a friend or lover that enjoyed horse racing. His partner, Parker, was not a betting man, and he compared horse racing to lottery tickets. Parker would ask Johnson how he did if he learned his partner had recently been to the races, but Johnson knew that Brock was only feigning interest. Johnson didn’t take it personally, but it brought home the fact that his enthusiasm for horses and racing was one that none of his friends shared, and that he’d forever have to enjoy the sport alone.

  And just like that, Johnson fell into a mild melancholy. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—admit it to himself, but he felt lonely a good part of each week. If it weren’t for work and the societal interplay it afforded him, he’d be miserable. He had dates, and women thought him particularly attractive, but he always found a reason not to get involved with this or that lady. It wasn’t that they weren’t pretty—they all were—or smart, or witty, or charming. He had gone ou
t with a few that possessed all of these qualities, but he’d inevitably find a way to sabotage the budding relationship and move on to the next.

  To his left was a couple, a husband and wife, older, but not aged. They both clearly shared a passion for horse racing, and although their luck was no better than Johnson’s that evening, they seemed to be having a terrific time nonetheless.

  In front of him were two guys, buddies, joking it up as they sipped their beers from their plastic cups and ribbed one another over each man’s disastrous picks. Their bets had been small, and so their losses had caused them no great regret. They were just there to get away from their nagging wives, bratty kids, and to have some fun.

  To Johnson’s right was a couple, who, to Johnson’s trained eyes and ears, was on a date; their third or fourth, he guessed. It was the woman’s first time to the track, and the man, about the same age as Johnson, took great pleasure in teaching her the basics. As was so often the case, the woman had beginner’s luck, and she had actually won a couple of races with bets on horses to place and to show. The odds and amount bet had won her little money, but that didn’t dampen her excitement one bit.

  Johnson envied the man. The lucky guy had been able to find someone with whom to share his hobby. Hardly shy, Johnson considered striking up a conversation with the couple to learn where they had met one another.

  Hell, Johnson thought, if this guy could find someone, why not me? Maybe he should get out a little more; be more adventuresome in his social experiences and expand his comfort zone, as people liked to say. But he didn’t launch a conversation with any of the gregarious faces around him; instead, he sulked in silence. Johnson was about to ponder why this was, but he was saved from the lugubrious train of thought by the bell that signaled the starting of the race, and the speaker blasting, “And they’re off…!”

  Johnson clenched his ticket and cheered along with the rest of the grandstand, everyone yelling encouragement to his or her chosen horses and jockeys. The thrill never got old for Johnson, and knowing that every race kicked up some gold dust for some lucky spectators always kept hope alive.