Authors: Scott Carter
Blind Luck
LUCK
Scott Carter
Text © 2010 Scott Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover design by Emma Dolan
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.
Darkstart Fiction
an imprint of Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.napoleonandcompany.com
Printed in Canada
14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Carter, Scott, 1975-
Blind luck / Scott Carter.
ISBN 978-1-926607-00-9
I. Title.
PS8605.A7779B55 2010 C813’.6 C2010-900891-X
to Keri and Harlow
One
When Dave Bolden’s eyes finally opened that morning, it took him a moment to remember the night before. He had eaten a sushi dinner, drunk tequila, played pool, had more tequila, and kissed a redhead with high cheekbones and a perfect smile. He worked past the dull ache pulsating up his neck, through his brain and into his eyes, which felt so dehydrated, they hurt until his memory admitted it: a redhead with jowls and crooked teeth. The cab ride home was even less reliable. He remembered the smell of coffee, the glowing ember of a cigarette, swearing, small talk, honking and a driver named Jim, James or Ju Hee. All the names seemed possible, and whatever his name was, the driver hadn’t looked anything like the identification mug shot of the cab owner on the back of the headrest that framed him as a fifty-something black man with receding hair and dark eyes that belonged in Hollywood. Or was that someone at a booth in the bar who’d drunk wine with a plate of mussels? Mornings were like that for Dave. He struggled to assemble a series of moments memorable enough to create a spark, but with details as elusive as a dream.
This was the true punishment of too much booze. Left with a body that begged for rest and a mind forced to stay awake, it was as if his brain had decided that if he did this voluntarily, then he was too stupid to deserve the peace of rest. He ran his swollen tongue across the roof of his mouth as he turned his head towards the clock to see that it was eight fifteen.
Eight fifteen?
Adrenaline shot through his system and forced him upright. I
slept through the alarm. Did
I
set the alarm?
The cold floor on his bare feet helped to pull him out of the world of sleep.
He grabbed a towel from the back of the door and was on his way to the bathroom when his right baby toe smashed into the wooden leg of a cabinet.
A burning sensation ran up his leg, harsh enough that his neck reared back and his eyes winced in pain. The blow stopped him. He didn’t hop, scream or swear. He just wondered whether or not the toe was broken, until the fear of showing up late for work forced him into the shower. He turned both water handles to see a drizzle that meant one of the downstairs neighbours was also in the shower. His fingers tested the water, but the cool result just heightened his frustration, so he turned the handles off and-on three times between prayers that each twist would result in a surge of water pressure.
He was about to give up when the pipes hissed and released a steady stream of warm water. Unfortunately, there was no time to enjoy. A quick scrub under each arm, a soapy water wipe of the groin” and he reached for a towel. He thought of the look of disappointment Mr. Richter would wear if he showed up late. It wasn’t Richter’s style to grandstand or yell. The look was more than enough, the one that proved you should know better, work harder, and embrace the opportunity to be employed there.
Dave had pressed the elevator button five times, as though that would make it come faster, when he realized he’d left his wallet on his dresser. It was tempting to just press on, but he needed money for a cab, so as the elevator doors opened, he pivoted hard on the carpet. He forgot things most mornings. Some days he forgot his cell phone and others his wallet. He’d tried a lot of things, but nothing seemed to help. Leaving sticky notes didn’t work, leaving messages on the inside of the front door had proved futile, and leaving himself messages on his voicemail just annoyed him. Mornings were simply forgettable for Dave.
With his wallet in one hand, he adjusted his tie with the other while doing his best not to focus on the drained reflection looking back at him in the elevator mirror.
He knew no morning should start like this, but no one should drink six pints and three tequila shots on a work night either. He never planned to stay out late; some nights he just felt compelled to go out, and whether he had a meeting the next day or a routine nine to six, he would leave his apartment and deal with the next day when it came.
The cool air helped his head, so he took a series of deep breaths through his nose. He hadn’t reached the corner of his street when he heard someone say his name.
“Dave Bolden?”
He looked up to see a face that registered in his memory, although not strong enough to produce a full name. Grade Eleven math, or was it geography? He was an annoying kid who always asked about parties. Jimmy something.
“Jimmy Kerrigan, man. You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Sure I do. My mind was just on something else:’ Dave extended his hand while his eyes scanned for a cab. “How are you?”
“Good. I’m good Jeez, I haven’t seen you in years, Bolden.”
Years weren’t long enough for Dave. Jimmy was the kind of guy you never want to see after high school. A vivid reminder of a time when going to the right party formed the pillars of self-esteem, he was desperate and awkward.
“So what are you doing with yourself these days? Where are you working?”
Dave’s eyes dropped to his watch. “I’m an accountant.”
“An accountant? You’re kidding me?”
“No.”
“I never would have guessed that, man. What with all the ... “ Jimmy’s fingers rose to his lips in an exaggerated joint-smoking gesture.
“Well, that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah. Good times though, right?”
Dave couldn’t even feign a smile.
“I’m working security right now. The hours are great, and I’m pretty much my own boss.”
“Sounds good. Listen, I’d love to talk, but I’ve got to get to work:’
“Okay. We should get together for a drink some time.”
“Sure.”
“Are you on Facebook?”
Dave nodded, even though he wasn’t.
“Cool. I’ll let you know when I’m going out.”
Dave gave Jimmy’s hand a quick shake, walked to the corner and hustled across the street to face traffic. He stepped out to hail down a cab, but it already had a passenger. The urge to swear forced him to squeeze the handle of his workbag. He didn’t want other people to hear his frustration or how angry he was with himself. Two more cabs passed. He wasn’t the only one cutting it close, but he felt like the only one not making forward progress. The urge to keep moving led him a few blocks down the street. Every couple of steps, he swivelled his neck to check for an oncoming cab, until one finally pulled over.
“Thank you so much:’ Dave said, dropping into the back seat.
“You must be late:’ the driver smiled. He spoke with a cigarette gripped tight in the left corner of his mouth and talk radio ranting about housing prices loud enough to be noticed.
“Dufferin and Dundas, please.”
“No problem.”
The stress intensified Dave’s headache, which now felt like someone was tugging on his brain from a rope attached to the core with fishhooks. The smoke made him nauseous, so he rolled down the window to let in a blast of cool air.
“Smoke bothering you?” the driver asked.
“I’m a little hung over.”
“Fair enough.” The driver dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and crushed it with a large finger. “You’re not going to barf in the cab, are you?”
Dave shook his head. “It’s not that bad:’
“You look like it is. You should have called in sick.”
Just hearing the words bothered Dave. He’d watched his father call in sick too often growing up, and listening to the obvious lies and watching the look of guilt on the man’s face had made him swear never to take a sick day. You take a few cough drops, hug a box of tissue and throw up in a wastebasket if you have to, but you do it at work.
He arched his neck on the headrest to look out the rear window and into the blue sky.
Thirty-five-year-aids should be married. Thirty-five-year-olds should make breakfast for their families and drop their children off at daycare. Thirty-five-year-olds should not be scrambling to get to work with one of the worst hangovers in history.
“Right here is fine:’ Dave gestured to a newspaper box on the corner across the street from his work. The clock on the dash read eight fifty-six, but his watch read eight fifty-seven. “Thanks again, you saved me.” He passed the driver a twenty.
“Thank you for holding your stomach in my car.”