Dumb Luck

Can you remember the worst day of your life?  This story is about a guy whose bad day just keeps getting worse.  It’s a bit out there – think Monty Python meets Dave Chappelle – with some pretty black humor.  Enjoy! 

My day from hell began with the elephant man.  He’s the guy who lives above me.  Every weekday he wakes at 5 am and stomps across his apartment floor for some unknown reason.   I don’t even bother to set my alarm.  I’ve started to think he is part of some sinister plot against me, that some enemy of my past has hired him to irritate me as much as possible.  Or, that he works for some sick scientific study, whose goal it is to track sleep deprivation on unsuspecting apartment dwellers.  I imagine a guy in a white lab coat sitting in a blacked-out van in the parking lot, a clipboard in his hands.  He’s waiting for that one moment I charge up the stairs and kick in the guy’s door.   Many times, I’ve fantasized about doing just that, but then the sensible side of me kicks in and I just pray the guy moves sooner than later.

Today was no different, other than I fell back asleep after being woken up.  Last night had been a late one.  A candle I’d lit at the bedside still burned.  The lingering scent of vanilla permeated the pillow next to me as well as my bare chest.  Sabrina.  I remembered getting the text around midnight:  I want to taste you.  Christ.  I worked with her, and we’d been an unofficial item for the past month or so.  Half hour.  Door will be open, I’d texted back, and slipped into the shower to freshen up.

My memory of our romp was foggy.  I’d had a few beers watching the game and was already tired from an active day.  But Sabrina.  Jesus.  Those lips and those hips.  I recalled lying in bed, listening as she let herself into my darkened apartment.  She’d slipped in next to me beneath the covers and for the next hour we’d crashed our bodies together like a human storm.

Now I opened my eyes, curious as to the added light streaming in from the windows.  The ceiling was devoid of stomping, which made me think it was a weekend.  Then I remembered hearing it earlier and pressing the pillow to my face; I must have fallen back asleep.  Horrified, I realized my blunder.   I snatched my phone from the bedside table and confirmed the day and time—Monday, 7:08 am.  I had an important meeting today at the office scheduled for 7:30 sharp.  Clients from out of town.  I was the lead negotiator and recently my boss had entrusted me with this new account.  As I shot to my feet, I realized I’d never get ready and make the twenty-minute ride into work on time.

I took a ten second shower and jumped half-wet into the first suit I saw hanging in the closet.  Grabbing my briefcase and my electric razor, I dove into my car and sped toward the interstate like a bat out of hell.

Zig-zagging through traffic, I actually began to make up time when I saw blue lights in my rear-view mirror.  Shit.  Pulling over, I watched in my side mirror as a hulking figure approached my driver’s door.

“Can I ask why you stopped me, sir?” I asked.  Always question your stop, and don’t wait for them to give you the speech.  It puts them off script and makes it easier for them to give you a warning.

“Excuse me?” the figure said.

I squinted upward and realized my mistake.  The six foot four, two hundred fifty-pound figure standing next to me was no ‘sir’ in the literal sense.

“Er—I meant ma’am.  I’m sorry, I thought—”

“You thought what?” the hulking female cop growled.  Bending at the waist, she removed her mirrored sunglasses and stared at me in a way that told me I was not getting off with a warning.  The morning sun sparkled through the gelled spikes of her close-cut hairdo.  A muscle twitched in her jaw.

“Nothing,” I offered, imagining the hateful look on my boss’s face when I showed up late to my own meeting.

When the cop demanded my license and registration, I realized I’d left my wallet on the nightstand.

Two tickets totaling three hundred dollars and a court date for next month.  The cop scowled as she handed them to me, chiding me against assuming women couldn’t do the job.  “This is 2019,” she said in a hoarse drill instructor voice, before lumbering back toward her cruiser.

Staying behind me the rest of the way, she forced me to do the limit until my exit.  7:27.  Despite my setback, there was still a chance I might actually make it on time.  I took the exit to my office building, parked, and stabbed the elevator button for my floor.  My watch read 7:32 as the elevator doors slid open on my floor, and I fast-walked into the conference room where my boss took one look at me and pulled me to the side.

“Why is only half your face shaved?” he asked through clenched teeth.  “And why is one of your shoes black and the other brown?”

My hand flew to my face.  Shit.  The cop.  I’d been in the process of shaving on the run when I’d been pulled over.  In my haste, I’d forgotten to finish the job.  I offered a lame excuse about my electric razor falling and breaking in the sink, but the look he gave me told me he either didn’t believe me or he thought I was a fool.  As for my mismatched shoes, I blurted the first thing I could think of, that I’d read about the new fashion trend in a men’s magazine.  It sounded pathetic even to me.  But instead of pressing me about it he just sighed and told me to get the meeting started.

I sat and canted my body awkwardly to the left, so that I faced my clients at a forty-five degree angle.  I’m sure it looked weird to them, but I’d rather them think I was weird than unprofessional enough to not complete the basic act of shaving.    Before I started, a secretary entered the room to ask if I still needed several items I’d arranged for the previous day.  Since the door was situated to my right, I was forced to hold my hand against the left side of my face when I turned to answer her.  Instead of leaving right away, she began explaining that one of the air conditioning units was malfunctioning again, asking me if I wanted to use an in-house maintenance man or have her call for an outside quote.  For the entire minute long exchange, I sat there like an idiot, holding my hand to my face like that.  I began to wonder what was worse—looking unprofessional or looking crazy.

Halfway through the meeting I felt my stomach start to bubble.  The Mexican food from last night was coming back to haunt me.  I tried my best to ignore it but as time dragged on the gurgling graduated to severe cramping as my guts roiled more with each passing moment.  Desperate to contain the growing pressure, I shifted uneasily in my seat.  At one point, I considered excusing myself to the men’s room, but the thought of the sudden change of pressure as I stood forced me to remain where I was.

Five minutes later the gurgling became so bad I knew I had to do something.  My clients’ voices became like Charlie Brown’s teacher in my head.  Unable to focus, I offered a meek smile and apologized, saying I had to excuse myself to the restroom.  Clenching as hard as I could, I duck-walked to the men’s room seconds too late.  I won’t mention what happened, other than to say nothing of the sort had happened to me since pre-school.  I felt ashamed.  I felt mortified.  Finding an open stall that had a sink, I peeked inside my underwear and inspected the damage.  It looked like a bomb had gone off in my pants.  Not knowing what else to do, I stepped out of my slacks and peeled my boxer briefs off as carefully as I could.  Balling them up, I wrapped them in toilet paper then stashed the entire mess into the trash receptacle.  Pulling a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, I wetted them down, propped one foot on the sink and began mopping my undercarriage.  I was in this position when I saw a flash of movement in the mirror.  Standing in the open stall doorway was my boss.  In my haste, I must have forgotten to lock the door properly and it had swung fully open behind me.  He stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed, like a man witnessing something beyond reason and comprehension.  I froze.  For several unbearable moments, I actually thought he was going to remain there while I bent and pulled my pants up.  Just put the sword through me, already.  But in the next moment he cleared his throat, peed quickly, then hurried back out the door.  Spared any further indignity, I collected myself and returned to the meeting, where for the next two hours I pulled myself together and hammered home the initial phase of a deal.

I took them to lunch at a casual eatery up the street.  At first, just water for me.  At least until they ordered drinks.  That’s how you do it in business.  If the clients order drinks first, then it’s permissible for you to follow.  Just to be polite, and only one.  I needed it, and as I took a gulp from my gin and tonic I felt the warm liquid coat my throat and sooth my stomach.

Before our entrees arrived, I felt something hard strike the back of my head.  I looked down and spied a metal spoon lying on my bench seat.  In the booth behind my seat, a middle-aged mother chatted on her cell phone while her toddler—whose seat adjoined mine–stood facing the back of my head.  I picked up the spoon, turned and wagged a finger at the tyke, hoping my silent admonishment would serve the kid and notify his mother.  She didn’t seem to notice, as she continued to gab into her cell phone.  My clients, two men and a woman, laughed good-naturedly at me.  I felt compelled to laugh along with them before turning back to our conversation.

Not long after, I was mid-way into a story about my recent vacation when something else hit the back of my head.  This time, a butter knife.  My clients roared laughter.  I cringed, forcing a smile while wagging a more forceful finger at the little devil.  When I did, he scowled and crossed his chubby little arms.  It probably didn’t help my cause when my female client made a little finger wave at the kid, which I’m sure only made him think it was all a game.  Why not just reward him with some candy, for Cripes sake?

When the kid sneezed on the back of my neck, I’d had enough.  Wiping away the mess with a napkin, I smiled through barred teeth as my group cried laughter.  Ha-ha.  Very funny.  I paid the check with the company card and we returned to the office.  Three hours later, much to my relief, I finished the deal.

“Decent job,” my boss offered as I left.  Decent?  I’d just saved our company boucoup dollars and all I got was the proverbial pat on the back?  Maybe it was my tardiness, or the awkward bathroom thing.  Either way, I needed to get out of there and all I could think about was cracking open a beer and falling back onto my couch.  As I drove toward home, I became stuck in a terrible traffic jam.  I switched to another road but that one was even worse.  My usual half-hour drive took over an hour, and as I finally neared my apartment complex I was shocked to see fire engines.  Smoke billowed from one of the buildings, and as I swung into the parking lot, I realized it was mine.  Throwing the car in park, I ran up to a fireman, a burly man sporting an old-fashioned curly mustache.

“What happened?” I screamed.

“There was a fire,” he deadpanned.

“I live in that building,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he responded, matter of fact.

He went on to say the entire building was a complete loss.  What were the odds, I asked him, that out of thirty buildings in the complex, mine had burned down?  “About one hundred percent,” he said, spitting onto the ground.  Forty-five minutes later a pair of firemen emerged from the smoldering building and handed me my burnt wallet—the only property they could salvage.  I opened it and saw my half-melted license.  Two charred twenties fluttered to the ground.  Apparently, an unattended candle had started the blaze.  Fuck.  I called my insurance agent, who told me my renter’s insurance had expired the week before.  Of course.  I thought of my six expensive suits and priceless sports memorabilia that had literally gone up in smoke.  I needed a drink bad, so I drove to a buddy’s house nearby.  Half an hour later and having recounted my day to him, I suddenly remembered I had a date with a girl I’d met recently at a bar.  Not wanting to cancel due to my already terrible day, I confirmed with her the when and where and used my buddy’s sink to clean myself up the best I could.  He wore shoes a size larger than me, but I gladly kicked off my black shoe in favor of a borrowed brown one to make the match.

Aimee arrived at the bar ten minutes late, but she looked even better than I remembered so I didn’t mind.   Half- Italian, half-French.  My mind spun with the possibilities.  She had beautiful, almond-shaped eyes, and curves in all the right places.  Even her laugh was sexy.  Over the next hour, the conversation flowed smoothly and my day from hell faded from my memory.  I liked Aimee right away, and not just in a primal, sexual way.  She seemed different from most of the girls I met.  She liked to read, had a penchant for baking cookies on the weekends, and could name every starter on our hometown football team.  I felt my pulse quickening as we talked.   Every once in a while, she twirled a lock of hair with her finger, and twice she touched my arm as we spoke.  I felt like a teen-ager.  I could feel my face glow as I looked into her sparkling brown eyes.  She volunteered the fact that she lived alone in an apartment six blocks from the bar.  I sipped my drink.  She sipped hers.  I was falling already.

I left to take a leak and while I waited in line, I texted my best friend Bobby about my day.  Told him what an asshole my boss was.  When the response came, Bring your office keys and all your client files with you tomorrow, I frowned.  Then it hit me.  In my rush, I’d selected the wrong contact.  Boss, not Bobby.  As I stared at the response, knowing what it meant, a urinal became available.  Unbuckling my belt, I accidentally dropped my phone into the yellowish water.  The screen went white, then the phone went to wherever phones go when they die.  I did my business, flushed, then left it right where it was.

Leaving the men’s room, I stopped dead in my tracks.  Facing the bar, just a few feet from Aimee, stood Sabrina.  Knowing I had to get out of there fast, I turned to leave a second too late.   Aimee saw me and smiled.  Shit.  Thinking quick, I waved her over to me.  She started my way, her pouty lips parting slightly.  She was an angel floating across the floor.  Everything else around her seemed like an unfocused backdrop.  When she was half-way to me, her feet became tangled and she pitched face-first toward the floor.  Instinctively, before my mind even registered what my body was doing, I leaped forward and caught her in my arms.  Jesus, I thought.  That was close.  Aimee looked up to me and batted her eyelashes.  We could have been characters in a movie, one with sappy music playing along as she told me what a hero I was.  As I bent in that half-dip pose, I wondered if that was one of those moments in a man’s life when he realizes he is looking into the eyes of his future wife.  And then Aimee was thrusting her lips toward me, her warm tongue darting past my lips and tasting like apples.  We kissed with eyes wide open, without a care in the world.  Time stood still.  The thumping music seemed born just for us, a soundtrack of our budding story of love.  We were a cheesy harlequin book cover, but damn it was hot.

As I brought Aimee to her feet, I made eye contact with Sabrina.  At first, she seemed amused, as if watching two strangers embrace with such awkwardness had been a welcome distraction to the usual humdrum of the bar setting.  But then her expression darkened as full recognition set in.

Aimee collected herself and slipped her arm around my waist.  She rested her head against my chest, a damsel saved by her prince.  I watched with growing dread as Sabrina marched toward us.  My mouth turned to sand.

“So nice to see you,” Sabrina yelled above the music.  The sarcasm in her voice was palpable.  She stood close enough for me to smell her vanilla perfume, and instantly I was brought back to the night before.  I wished like anything I’d never answered her text, but it was too late.  There was no time machine to save me.  I could tell by the way she cemented her gaze onto Aimee then back to me what was coming next.

“And who might this be?”

Aimee lifted her head from my shoulder, and I could see the wanderlust smile that had played about her lips for the past hour slip away.   I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eye.

“Look,” I said to Sabrina, palms outward.  “I’d rather not cause a—“

And then Sabrina threw her drink in my face.  Amaretto and lemon juice.  The skinny black straw landed on my forehead and stuck there for a moment before falling away.  An ice cube slid down the front of my shirt and hit the floor.  The music pumped on, but I barely heard it over my own heartbeat.

“He didn’t even make me come,” Sabrina said to Aimee, then stormed off, her head raised in triumph.  I didn’t know which insult stung worse–the drink in my face or the implication that I wasn’t good in bed.

I knew what Aimee was going to say before she said it.  It’s always that way with bad things.

“Look–obviously you have some other things going on already.  I don’t want to complicate things for you.  Thanks for the conversation and everything.”

A wan smile came to her lips and her bare arms folded themselves across her chest.  I’d been in this position before, and I felt like a fool for repeating it.  Before I could utter a word, Aimee turned and walked away toward the other end of the bar where she saw a group of girls she recognized.

I left the bar, not bothering to wipe away the sticky mess from my face.  I felt like an asshole.    When I got back to my car, I noticed my right front tire was flat.  Of course, I thought, what else could go wrong?  I removed the spare from the trunk and noticed it was flat too.

Fuck it, I said to no one, and walked up the block toward a bank of waiting cabs.   On the way, a bum sitting against a storefront asked me for a dollar.  Said he was down on his luck.

He didn’t know the half of it.