Lucky Bastard

by S. G. Browne

  Chalk it up to bad judgment.

  Once I’m taped up, they grab me by the feet and drag me across the floor toward an open door. The sun has almost set and I can see the lights of the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island in the distance.

  This isn’t exactly how I saw things playing out for me long term. I always envisioned poaching enough luck until I could retire and then spend the rest of my life on a tropical island lounging in a hammock between two palm trees, drinking piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Instead I’m beat up, tied up, and gagged while being dragged toward what I can only presume is a plunge into the cold waters of the San Francisco Bay. Plus my shirt is riding up and the concrete is skinning my lower back.

  I’m thinking now is probably too late to start over with a clean slate.

  Tuesday and Scooter Girl drag me out the door and to the end of the pier, which is dark and deserted. Water laps at the pillars below us. From the far end of the building I hear the street noise of the Embarcadero, people and traffic and streetcars. I don’t know which pier this is, but from the view of the Bay Bridge, I’m guessing somewhere just south of Pier 23. Maybe Pier 19 or 17. It doesn’t really matter. I’m about to become what my father always said I was. Deadweight.

  They drag me over to the railing, which I can’t fit through, so they’re going to have to pitch me over. Either that or chop me up into pieces and shove me through the railing. I’m kind of hoping it’s the first option. Not that I’m looking forward to drowning, but I figure I have a better chance of getting out of this if all of my appendages are still attached.

  Tuesday leans over me as Scooter Girl walks around behind me. “Dee thought we should knock you out before we dumped you over the side,” says Tuesday. “But I’d rather you experience the terror of drowning and knowing that your life is going to end. It won’t be as bad as an acetylene torch, but at least you’ll suffer. And that’ll have to be enough.”

  I plead for mercy. I apologize for my sins. I offer to poach them top-grade soft at a discount. But when you’re begging for your life through duct tape, no one really pays attention.

  Scooter Girl grabs me under my arms while Tuesday grabs my ankles. I figure this is my only chance to make an escape, though with my hands and feet zip-tied, my options are pretty limited. But I’ve still got Donna Baker’s good luck flowing through me, so I’m going to trust in that and see what happens.

  Just as they lift me up, I swing up and back with my bound hands and smack Scooter Girl in the face and she lets go, dropping me onto the pier, my head smacking against the wooden planks and briefly knocking me out. When I regain consciousness, my arms are pinned to my sides with duct tape that’s wrapped several times around my chest.

  So much for my escape attempt.

  Scooter Girl once again grabs me under the arms while Tuesday handles my lower extremities, and the two of them are lifting me up to toss me over the side and into the water when I hear footsteps running on the pier, followed by the sound of something hard hitting something soft. There’s a feminine grunt behind me and suddenly Scooter Girl lets go of my arms and falls on top of me, pinning me to the ground like a WWE wrestler.

  With her body draped across my face I can’t see anything and all I hear is Tuesday shouting, “Dee!” and more footsteps. Whose, I don’t know. It sounds like more than one set of feet. Maybe a struggle. Maybe a brief pursuit. Maybe a waltz. There’s breathing and scuffling and the sound of something swishing through the air. Meanwhile, I’m trying to roll over to get Scooter Girl off me, but I can’t get any leverage. However, I have managed to adjust my position so that my face is pressed right between her breasts. They’re not as nice as Tuesday’s and she’s wearing a thick sweatshirt, but any port in a storm.

  Before I can manage to shove Scooter Girl aside, I hear something that sounds like a body slamming up against the railing, followed by flesh hitting flesh, an explosion of air, a grunt of exertion, the sound of fabric tearing, then a brief silence that’s broken by a loud splash. Moments later, Scooter Girl’s breasts are rolled away from my face and I’m staring up into the wide-eyed, adrenaline-pumped face of Doug.

  “Hey, Holmes,” he says, his voice high and shaking, his hands trembling as he reaches down to help me out of the duct tape. “What do you say we bounce out of here?”

  We’re driving down Market Street to my office in Doug’s lemon-yellow Prius. People keep trying to flag us down, thinking we’re a cab, as Doug explains how he ended up at the warehouse on the pier.

  “After I dropped you off, I was pretty upset,” he says, his head nodding to the thumping bass line coming out of the speakers. “All the stuff you said really hurt my feelings, Holmes. But then I figured you didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  “I’m sorry, Bow Wow.”

  “It’s all good. Anyway, I figured you were on a case so I decided I should stick around, make sure you had everything under control.”

  Which I didn’t.

  “When I saw you come out of the bar with that hot number, I figured you was just out tapping the talent. So I decided to cruise. Then I saw you get taken down by those two bitches and I followed you out to the piers.”

  “Thanks, Bow Wow. I owe you one.”

  “I told you I got your back. Bow Wow is on the case!” Apparently, the initial shock of battle has given way to a postcombat testosterone rush. “I almost left. You’re lucky I didn’t leave, Holmes.”

  Lucky. Yes. Definitely.

  Color me leprechaun green.

  I’m a regular human rabbit’s foot.

  “That one I laid out,” he says. “She drove off in the cab right after they got there, then came back on her scooter. Cracked that bitch a good one!”

  I think Doug’s been listening to too much rap.

  Before we left, I checked on Scooter Girl to make sure she was still breathing, then I found the keys to her scooter and tossed them into the bay. The metal flashlight Doug used to knock her out with was on the ground a few feet away, next to what turned out to be Tuesday’s black sweater, which was torn down the side.

  “I tried to grab her when she started to go over the railing,” says Doug. “But all I got was her sweater and a handful of one of her breasts.”

  Some guys have all the luck.

  Apparently Fake Tuesday was still conscious when she went into the water, but neither of us heard her moving around below us and we didn’t exactly stick around to help her out.

  I’m just happy to be alive, though my balls are still throbbing and my head is filled with cement that someone is trying to break up with a jackhammer. I feel like I’ve been kicked and beaten and dragged around, which I pretty much have. I’d like to think I could have avoided all of this had I not allowed myself to get so distracted by the charms of two women that I failed to realize they were planning to kill me.

  These are the kind of details you’d think I’d notice.

  Grandpa always told me I needed to learn how to read people, to see through to their true intentions. A good poacher nurtures his intuition, he used to say. A bad poacher nurtures his desires. Eventually, they both end up nurturing the soil, but the bad poacher gets there first.

  Had it not been for Donna Baker’s good luck, Doug wouldn’t have shown up in time and I’d be dead. You’d think that having her luck would have prevented me from being in that situation in the first place. But good luck doesn’t affect your decision-making. It just helps to save your ass when you make bad choices.

  When we reach my office, I thank Doug again for coming to my rescue. “And sorry about the whole dissing of your lifestyle. My bad.”

  “No worries, Holmes. We’re cool.”

  I reach out with my left hand and put it on his shoulder, a small display of man affection that won’t pose any risk of my poaching Doug’s luck, since all I’m touching is his New York Jets throwback jersey. That’s when Doug’s facade crumbles a little and I see the emotion of what we’ve been through building up in his eyes. He’s about
to cry and I don’t know what to do.

  Before I realize what’s happening or have a chance to react, Doug reaches out and grabs my right hand with his in a soul handshake and gives me a bro hug, pulling me close. I try to pull back and let go, to stop things before it’s too late, but as soon as our palms touch, Doug’s luck is suddenly flowing into me through our clasped hands.

  I’ve never mingled luck before. It’s not good practice as it tends to dilute the value of each score. Especially when you’re dealing with different grades. Mixing top-grade soft with low-quality good luck would be like mixing a hundred-dollar bottle of merlot with a twenty-dollar bottle of chardonnay and expecting it to taste like sangria. Or like mixing LSD with crystal methamphetamine.

  You never know how the two are going to interact.

  But Doug’s luck is higher quality than I thought—not top-grade like Donna Baker’s but still pretty good. And because Doug is so emotional, his luck surges into me with the force of an ocean wave crashing to the shore.

  I nearly gasp as I pull my hand away, hoping that somehow by letting go I can stop the flow of luck. But it’s too late. The damage has been done and there’s no way for me to give Doug’s luck back to him.

  “You okay, Holmes?” he asks, sitting there looking hurt and confused.

  “Yeah. I’m just a little weird about touching people, you know?”

  “You mean like OCD and shit?”

  “Something like that.”

  I sit there with Doug’s luck pulsing through me, mixing with Donna Baker’s top-grade soft, filling me with adrenaline, cranking my perceptions up to eleven.

  I smell beer and sweat.

  I see the whiskers on Doug’s chin and I hear his heart thumping.

  I taste the garlic hummus falafel he had for lunch.

  I feel strong and fragile. I feel elated and subdued. I feel hungry and satiated.

  I feel more alert and attuned than I’ve ever felt before.

  And for the first time in my life, I feel dirty. For the first time in my life, I wish I didn’t have this ability.

  I should have warned him. I should have told him the truth so he knew not to grab my hand. I should have worn gloves. I should have done something to prevent this from happening. Instead, I’ve stolen the luck from the only person I consider a friend.

  Except who am I kidding? I don’t have any friends. No one I hang out with or call up to grab lunch or to catch a movie. All I have are acquaintances. And distant ones, at that. I don’t even have a relationship with my sister or my nieces.

  I don’t know if Doug is a friend or just a temporary acquaintance, but he deserves better than this. Especially after saving my life.

  “I’m sorry, Bow Wow.”

  “Sorry for what, Holmes?”

  “For getting you involved in this. For . . . for . . .” I almost say, For poaching your luck, but I’m too much of a coward to admit to that. “For making a mess of things.”

  “Ain’t no mess, Holmes. It’s cool. It’s all good.”

  I only wish it were.

  I’m trying to think how I can fix this. How I can put things back the way they were. But Doug’s like Humpty Dumpty and I’m all the king’s men. I don’t know about the king’s horses. How they would be able to work a jigsaw puzzle is beyond me.

  “Look,” I say. “You need to do me a favor.”

  “Anything, Holmes. Just name it.”

  I know he means it. It’s not just hyperbole. I could ask him to hit me. I could ask him to loan me his car. I could ask him to sing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor while wearing a feather boa. He’d do it.

  This realization doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “I need you to go home,” I say. “I need you to get someplace safe, preferably away from any electrical wires or sharp objects.”

  “I don’t understand, Holmes. I thought we were a team.”

  “We are.”

  “Then let me help, Holmes. Let me be your Watson.”

  Which is sweet, in a weird, male-bonding kind of way.

  Doug isn’t making this any easier for me.

  Problem is, I can’t let him stay in the city or be anywhere around me, not if there’s a chance he could get hurt. And since I don’t think Doug would understand why I would want him to drink my urine, this is the only way to keep him out of danger.

  “Just do it for me, okay?”

  “Okay, Holmes,” he says, obviously disappointed. “Whatever you say.”

  I feel like an ungrateful bastard, sending Doug away as a reward for saving my life, but I’ll feel a lot better knowing he’s off the streets.

  I get out of the car and then lean back in to apologize again. Maybe even tell him the truth so he knows why I’m doing this. What comes out of my mouth instead is “And no speeding, okay? Pay attention at intersections. And no talking on your cell phone while you’re driving. And keep your eyes on the road.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “I just want to make sure you get home safe.”

  “You want me to call you when I get home, too?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He shakes his head in disgust and drapes one arm over the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.

  “And, Bow Wow?”

  He looks at me with the exasperation of a put-upon twenty-one-year-old who doesn’t want to be bothered with my point of view. “What?”

  “Thanks. I owe you. More than you can imagine.”

  Then I close the door and watch him drive off toward Chinatown before he hangs a right on Bush, his lemon-yellow Prius disappearing around the corner.

  I stand there pulsing with the high-grade luck of two different people, hearing couples argue and homeless people mutter, feeling heat release from the asphalt and car exhaust permeate my skin, smelling cheap perfume and stale urine.

  Sometimes poaching luck isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not when you can smell and hear and feel things you’d rather not experience.

  I’m wishing I had someone I could talk to about this. Someone who would listen to me and nod in all the right places and offer me comfort and let me know that they understand. But even if you get married, unless it’s to another poacher, your partner is never going to really know you or comprehend you or be able to help you make sense out of what and who you are. So inevitably, you’re left with just yourself and your isolation and the knowledge that everything you do and experience is yours and yours alone.

  You are a rock. You are an island.

  Orson Welles once said that we’re born alone, we live alone, and we die alone. And that only through love and friendship do we create the illusion that we’re not alone.

  I don’t have any love or friendship in my life. I can’t share this with anyone. No one who will understand what I’m experiencing. And I’m thinking of another quote, this one by Mark Twain:

  Grief can take care of itself. But to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with.

  I want someone to divide this with—the grief and the joy, the pain and the pleasure, the valleys and the peaks. Even if it is just an illusion. I’d rather have the illusion than the reality. But I’m stuck on this island of solitude, surrounded by this ocean of emptiness that stretches to the horizon in all directions, and I don’t even have a volleyball to talk to.

  As I’m standing there feeling marooned and morose, a homeless woman walks up to me singing “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” which she stops singing long enough to ask me if I can spare any change for some food. Even though I know she’ll probably just use it for booze, I give her one of the few hundreds left in my wallet, hoping in some way it will help with her own illusions.

  “Thanks, Jack,” she says with a smile in need of a toothbrush, then she walks away singing, “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water . . .”

  I watch her go, the nursery rhyme trailing behind her, and I find myself thinking about Jack and his ill-fated trip up that hill. True,
even though he fell down and broke his crown, Jill came tumbling after, so he didn’t have to suffer alone. Another Jack, Jack Sprat, he couldn’t eat any fat but at least he had his wife to share his meals with and even things out. And Humpty Dumpty, the clumsy oaf, he had all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, even if, in the end, their efforts were futile.

  But no one’s tumbling after me. No one’s helping me lick my platter clean. No one’s coming to put me back together.

  Mary had a little lamb, the dish ran away with the spoon, the farmer took a wife.

  And I, like the cheese, stand alone.

  I’m standing outside the front door of 636 O’Farrell with an old, dirty backpack over my shoulder, holding a large mocha from Peet’s in one hand and the business card Barry Manilow gave me in the other. I’m hoping this won’t take long. And that I don’t end up drugged or tied up or kicked in the nuts.

  It’s the little things in life that make me happy.

  How I got here is in a cab, which is waiting for me across the street, the meter running with the promise of an additional hundred bucks if he’s still waiting for me when I come out. The last thing I want is to be walking around the Tenderloin at night, trying to flag down a cab while carrying two ounces of low-grade hard.

  How I ended up with the backpack and the mocha from Peet’s is a little more involved.

  Knowing I’d need something to carry the bad luck with and not having a spare backpack in my office or the time to go shopping at North Face, I offered a hundred bucks to a homeless guy on Sutter Street, who would only part with his beat-up backpack for two hundred bucks and a large mocha from Peet’s. While I didn’t have a problem parting with the extra C-note, I tried to talk him into a venti mocha from Starbucks, which was right up the street on Kearny, less than a block away. But that only sent him into a schizophrenic rant on grandes and ventis and talls.

  Since he refused to give me the backpack if I went to Starbucks and since I didn’t have any other options available, I went to the Peet’s on Montgomery and Bush. While I was there, I got a second mocha for me, along with a phone number from a cute little redhead with blue eyes and dimples. Then I grabbed the other thousand bucks out of my filing cabinet and flagged down a cab.