Blind Luck (8 page)

Nine

Dave checked his voicemail for the first time in days to find a reminder about overdue movies he’d rented, two pre-recorded sales pitches for a chance to win a cruise, and a message that actually caught his attention.
Hello, I’m calling for Dave Bolden. My name is Phil Bryer. I’m Mr. Richter’s attorney. Please call me at your earliest convenience. My number is…

Dave didn’t listen past “attorney”. Attorney meant an insurance claim or a lawsuit, and he didn’t want any part of having to rehash the details of that morning. What he wanted was to visit Otto and use his new-found money to put a dent in the money he owed the man for payments on Twenty-Nine Palson. Otto expected an installment at the end of the month, and it felt good to know that now he could pay the debt outright.

Dave had first met Otto Anderson in the second grade. Even at that age, Otto was bigger than everyone else. The two of them had become friends when their mothers started working together. Otto’s mother brought him to the Boldens’ during her visits, and Dave had introduced him to most of the kids on the street. The better friends their mothers became, the more they saw of each other. Otto’s mother talked openly about how she wanted him to be more like Dave. She wanted Otto to be more presentable, more respectful and more responsible. She even signed Otto up for Dave’s baseball team, where he was an all- star catcher until the seventh grade, when playing video games and smoking cigarettes took precedence over athletics.

Otto didn’t suit being a kid anyway. A part of him had seemed grown-up to Dave since the day they’d met. He was taller than everyone, the first to kiss a girl, the first to smoke; he’d fought a high school kid when he was in Grade Seven. He was out of high school and working full time by sixteen, and he’d slept with a thirty-year-old woman when he was seventeen. Moments blended into each other like that for Otto.

He didn’t see another day every morning when his eyes opened, he saw an opportunity, which is why while most of the guys he’d grown up with sat through math lessons dry enough to make their eyes bleed, he cleared three hundred a week bussing tables.

Dave hadn’t seen Otto as much as they’d gotten older, but they shared the two most important building blocks of any friendship—mutual respect and a shared history. Both of their mothers had developed cancer around the same time, and they’d spent a period drinking beer together. Long after everyone else at the party or bar went home, they still drank and talked about what the hell their mothers had done to deserve cancer. The more they drank, the more they hated the doctors for not curing their mothers. Otto’s had died six weeks after Dave’s mom was deemed cancer-free. Dave didn’t see Otto for a long time after that. Dave got deeper into his university studies, and Otto got deeper into being Otto, until one night while Dave was cramming for a mid-term, there was a frantic knock at the door.

“I need five hundred dollars,” Otto said with bugged eyes. “Don’t ask me why, just tell me whether you can do it or not, and I promise I’ll pay you back.”

Dave gave him the money, folly expecting never to see it again. Two weeks later, Otto returned to give Dave two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. Now you don’t give someone twenty hundred dollar bills unless you’re trying to make a statement, and Otto’s was that he wasn’t the borrower any more.

The night Dave had found out his dad needed to be in a nursing home, he’d immediately thought of Otto. He needed access to monthly money he didn’t have, and there was simply nowhere else to go. Otto gave him the first six thousand interest-free, and the next day Dave put first and last down on 29 Palson Avenue.

Since the day Jack had moved into Palson Avenue, Dave had taken him to a baseball diamond a block over from home at least once a week, and the outings proved even more important to his dad than bringing the sports section.

Dave reared back and fired a fastball at a piece of plywood substituting for a catcher. He was bending down to pick up another ball from a bagful at his feet when his dad extended one from a pile in his lap. Jack sat in his wheelchair a few feet to Dave’s right with a baseball gripped tight in his hand and an oxygen mask dangling from his neck.

“You pitch like a poet,” he said. He held his hand up limply at the wrist. “All wrist.”

Dave smiled. “I could take you back to the home if you’d like that better.”

“My son could show you something about pitching. He had the best curveball in the city for a kid so lazy.”

“I am your son, Pop.”

Dave fired another pitch, and his plant leg exploded so hard that it caused a cloud of dust to rise from the asphalt. His dad looked unimpressed.

“Keep your head up, for chrissake.”

Dave grabbed another ball. “Do you ever remember me being particularly lucky?”

His dad stared at the baseball he clutched. “I hear something funny.”

“What?”

“I hear something funny.”

“It’s probably your oxygen tank.”

“I hear something.”

“I know, but I’m asking you something. Do you ever remember me being lucky?”

“You’re a bookie, luck’s your pimp.”

Dave took the baseball from his dad’s hand, which secured his attention. “I’m your son, Dave. Do you ever remember Dave being lucky?”

“If I was pitching, I’d keep my head up.”

“I’m sure you would, Pop, but I’m not asking you that, I’m asking you if you remember your son, Dave, me, as lucky?”

“I’m his father, aren’t I?”

Dave nodded and couldn’t help but smile at the wit. “Yeah, yeah, you are. And that’s definitely lucky, but what about in other ways?”

“I wouldn’t know. You’ve got to take chances to test luck, and I never saw him do that.”

Dave stared at him. It was the first honest exchange they’d had in years, and the words made his question seem completely insignificant.

“Pitch another ball, would you? It’s not like I can do it for myself.”

Dave looked over at his dad for a moment before pivoting to fire another fastball at the plywood. “We’ve got to get going, Pop. I have a meeting I need to go to.”

His dad cocked his head, and his lips formed a mischievous grin. “Why don’t you just say it?”

“Say what?”

“You have a meeting with a woman.”

Dave began pushing the wheelchair. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it is. If it wasn’t like that, you would’ve just said it’s time to go like you do every week. You mentioned it for a reason.”

“I haven’t even met the woman, it’s business.”

“Liar.”

The word choice amused Dave during the cab ride to his destination. For a man who’d spent his life in denial, a life layered with lies, the word came off his father’s tongue surprisingly easily. The irony made Dave think of all the times he had heard problem drinkers call people at parties drunks.

He stepped out of the cab and walked up the front steps of a duplex with the address Grayson had given him in hand. He wished it were a date—someone he’d met at a bar, a friend of a friend, or a prostitute. The specifics didn’t matter to him. What he needed was someone to invoke a passion that would help him forget. Instead he waited to be presented as a good luck charm, and the absurdity made the truck crashing through his work window more real than the moment it’d happened.

A blond man watched Dave as he approached the address Grayson had given him. The man pretended to stretch, but Dave felt his watching eyes. With a creaseless track suit and shoes that looked brand new, he was the type that spent more time shopping for a gym outfit than actually exercising. Dave guessed they were about the same age.

He turned to the man to catch him staring, before glancing down at a piece of paper with the address to double check that he was at the right door. He rang the bell once with a heavy finger. Grayson opened the door a moment later.

“Good, welcome. Come in,” he said, nodding approvingly.

While Grayson talked, Dave noticed Amy sitting on a couch across the room.

She looked to be in her early thirties and was naturally beautiful, except for pained eyes that were red around the rims, and dark bags that weighed on her face. A blue knit sweater hung baggily on her frame, as did a pair of khakis at least a size too big. Press-wood tables, a bland navy blue sofa too skinny to be comfortable, and aqua light stands made her apartment a B-version of generic IKEA.

Grayson handed Dave an envelope, which he slid into the closest jacket pocket. Grayson broke the seal on a bottle of scotch he’d brought over.

“Can I make you a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Grayson poured himself a shot and drank it before leading Dave into the living room. Amy stood, and her arms went from her sides to crossed and back to her sides. Grayson rubbed her closest shoulder.

“Dave, this is my sister, Amy.”

Dave extended his hand, and Amy moved forward until Grayson stepped between them. He grabbed Dave’s arm with a firm grip.

“Forget hand-shaking, hug.”

Amy pivoted towards him, with a look that only a sister can give her brother and whispered, “Grayson.” She shook Dave’s now limp hand to be polite. “I’m sorry my brother made you come.”

“He didn’t make me come.”

“Then I’m sorry he bought you.”

Grayson put his coat on by the door. “I’m going to leave now.”

Amy turned to him, and her eyes looked defeated, like a kid being left at a new school for the first time. “What?”

Grayson ignored her in favour of addressing Dave. “I’ll see you outside when you two are done.” He buttoned the top button on his coat and walked out the door.

Amy flushed. She scratched at a red blotch on the side of her neck while pacing a small runway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was going to leave.”

“Neither did I.”

She sat on the couch, and Dave chose a wooden chair to the side. They sat in silence for a moment while Dave tried to think of something to say and Amy struggled to stay still, until the agony of two strangers’ silence compelled her to straighten an armchair cover that was already in place.

Dave walked over to a series of bookshelves that had been adjusted to fit records. He guessed that there were a thousand records on the shelves. He removed an album randomly and flipped it over to see that it was The Kensington Market. He had never heard of the band, and the ignorance left him with a curious combination of admiration and jealousy.

“This is a serious collection,” he said, holding up the record.

“I have over five thousand. I’d fill a house with them if I could spare the space, but most of them are in storage.”

“I’ve got about three hundred in storage myself.” His eyes locked on a Crowbar twelve-inch, ‘Too True Mama’. My mother used to play that song all the time. I haven’t been able to find this anywhere. Where did you get it?”

“Grayson bought it a few years back. He gets me a lot of my records.”

“Play something for me.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“I want it to be your choice.”

She walked to the shelf closest to the window, pulled a record from the second shelf and turned to a vintage Garrard RC1 player.

Dave took a seat in the armchair. “If you play the Monkees, we’re going to have a problem.”

She set the needle on the record, and it popped twice before finding the groove. Raw vocals growled through the speakers, setting off an explosion of pre-punk-fuelled guitar as “Kick Out the Jams” filled the room.

Dave’s eyes widened. “The MC5? You could have given me a hundred guesses about what you were going to play, and I wouldn’t have been close.”

“Best band ever. And underappreciated.”

“And crazy. They used to play with rifles onstage, and they were part of that day-long concert at the Democratic convention, the one where all the violence broke out.”

“Not part of, they
were
the concert. Most of the other artists didn’t even show up because of the chaos. Neil Young was there, but his people wouldn’t let him play, so the MC5 played for over eight hours.
That
is backing what you believe in.”

Dave smiled. “That’s a great story. I take it you know a lot about music.”

“My life’s goal is to be a walking encyclopaedia of songs.”

“That’s a big statement.”

“It keeps my mind busy.” The song ended, and she lifted the needle from the record before turning back to Dave. “Grayson told me what you survived.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded.

“Did he tell you why he asked me to meet you?”

She nodded again.

“And how do you feel about that?”

She straightened her back against the couch. “Pretty stupid, but I’m willing to try anything.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m unlucky.”

“What do you mean unlucky?”

She answered without hesitation. She’d thought about answering the question so often that the words flowed. “I mean, I don’t eat peanuts because I’d choke, I don’t live in a place with stairs because I’d fall, and if I prepared food with a knife, I’d have no fingers left.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

She looked at him like she’d expected a more engaged response. “You survived, didn’t you?”

The words pricked him. “Survive” rolled too easily off peoples’ tongues. Her tone bothered him so much that he had to stand up and move a little to get his response right. “I came to work late because I had a hangover, and I went straight to the bathroom to pull myself together. Do you really believe this luck you and your brother believe in rewards irresponsibility and kills responsible people?”

“It has nothing to do with morals.”

“But this idea that there’s a force punishing and rewarding, it’s ridiculous.”

“If you were me, you wouldn’t say that.”

“Do you really think what’s happened in your life is a result of luck?”

She looked at him full on for the first time. He had never seen eyes so tired, yet even in their drained state, their sky blue made him want to keep looking. “I’ve charted it.”

“Charted it?”

“Yeah, I’m negatively synchronized.” Dave looked at her like she was crazy, but he didn’t want her to stop speaking. “I’m in tune with the wrong rhythms.”