Lucky

I crank the shower knob to the coldest setting and step in. The frigid stream makes me spew out several curses, but this is how I start my day. Why? Because an ice-cold shower is one of the few things that makes me feel alive anymore. Yes it makes my family jewels shrivel up and retreat into my body, but so does my job. 

After the shower, I glare at the poor bastard in the mirror, trying to recall the last time I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I had dreams once, but life has a funny way of crapping all over you, and then flushing you down the toilet. 

I try to picture the old me. The wide-eyed young man with the world at his feet. He may as well be dead. Killed by this haggard fatso with a beer belly. I jiggle said belly for good measure and grab a razor. 

My job mandates me to be clean-shaven. It’s such a stupid rule, but whatever. It’s the price I have to pay for working in an assembly line. Every day is the same: wake up, work for ten hours, come home, drink about twelve Budweisers in a row until I pass out on the couch. I have nothing to come home to, except my TV. Gotta watch Love is Blind (my guilty pleasure). 

With a towel, I wipe off the excess cream then get ready for work. After a thirty minute drive, I swipe my badge, dawn my hard hat and latex gloves, and stand before the conveyor belt. The Hostess snacks roll steadily towards me on the belt. With deft hands, I line seven snacks up and slide them into a box. This is what I’ll do until my break in two hours. I’m on the verge of zoning out when someone clears their throat obnoxiously loud behind me. 

I swivel my head to meet Gilbert’s eyes. My manager wears a perpetual scowl on his face. I guess that’s what working thirty years in this factory will do to you.

His enormous nose reminds me of Grandma's parrot growing up. It’s fitting, because I hated that damn bird. Cosmo liked to nip at my fingers. One time he took a crap on my shoulder. 

I hate Gilbert too. If he weren’t my manager I’d shove one of these Twinkies up his nose. 

“What is it?” I demand gruffly.

“Good morning, Jeff,” he says flatly. I grunt as I return my attention back to the line. I hate small talk—manager be damn. He needs to go bother someone else. “I’d like to speak to you in my office,” he presses.

“With all due respect, if you’ve got something to say, you can tell me while I work.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Just spit it out. Would you?”

“Fine. We’re letting you go.”

My body stiffens. Without realizing it, my hand crushes a Twinkie. “Excuse me?” I whirl around to face him, stepping into his personal space. To his credit, he doesn’t deflate or panic. Just fixes me with a level stare.

“You can’t just let me go,” I declare in a low voice. We were so close that our noses nearly touch. The heat of my breath fogs his glasses. 

He steps back. Wipes the fog away with his shirt. “Listen, you’re not the only one losing a job today. It hasn’t been easy deciding who’s going to get laid off, but it's what’s best for the company…” he kept talking, but I stopped listening. I rip open the wrapper of the crushed Twinkie and shove it up Gilbert’s right nostril. I stomp to the exit, flashing him the bird on my way out. 

I’m fuming on my drive home. I’m so mad that my knuckles turn white gripping the wheel. Too many questions race through my mind like, what the hell am I supposed to do for money?

In my rearview, I see a case of Budweiser laying on my back seat. I reach back. Try to swipe the case closer. It takes a few tries until my fingertips land on the box.

“Gotcha!” I say triumphantly as I glance back at the road. Out of nowhere, a dog trots into my lane. “Shit!” I swerve my truck straight into a streetlight. The piece of shit vehicle is so old that my airbags don’t deploy. My forehead connects with the wheel. Blood oozes down into my eyeballs and my vision blurs. 

I clutch the gash of my head with one hand while my other hand fumbles for the door handle. I stumble out to assess the damage. It’s worse than I imagined. The hood and bumper are fucked, just like my life. “This day can’t possibly get any worse,” I say to no one as I sink down onto the curb. 

The dog—a goddamn golden retriever—came trotting up with his tail wagging. The mutt is clueless. He licks my bloody face as if I am made of peanut butter.

“Get off me!” I shoo him away. “You’ve caused enough trouble.” Instead of running off, the damn dog plops down by my side. I cradle my head in my hands because I have nothing better to do.

A car screeches to a stop. “Jeff! You okay?” The driver asks.

I meet Marge’s concerned brown eyes. We were co-workers, but I didn’t think she knew my name. “Fine, Marge.” Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her at the factory in a while.

“Need me to call an ambulance?”

“Just a tow truck, thanks.” Marge climbs back into her pickup and parks down the street. She returns with a small first aid kit in tow. She hands me a faded Hostess t-shirt. 

“Thanks.” I take the shirt and press it over the wound on my head. Marge cleans the cut on my head, finishing the job with a few bandages.

“That oughta do. Tow company should be here in ten.” She pats the dog on the head. “Want a ride home?’

“That’d be great. Probably the only thing that’s going right in my life today.”

She extends her hand to help me up. Unlike my rough hand, her’s is soft. I grunt as I stand and we lock eyes for a moment. The morning sun makes her hair and eyes look like molten honey. Funny how I never noticed how beautiful she was. I guess no one looks very flattering under the fluorescent lights of a crummy factory. 

“Come on,” she smiles. “And bring your friend.” Her chin motions to the cause of my wreck. 

“He’s not mine,” I protest. 

The dog’s droopy face became even droopier. “Looks like he likes you.” Marge squeezes my arm. “And I for one take a dog’s opinion very seriously.”

“Fine,” I groan. “The three of us pile into her truck. She didn’t have a backseat, so I have to sit next to my new mutt. He was pants heavily as he waits for me to climb in. And boy, did he need of a bath. I told Marge where I live. Just like that, we take off.

I shoot Marge a sidelong glance. “They fire you too?” I ask. The dog takes me opening my mouth as an invitation to lick my face. I shove his head away. “Not now!”

The corners of Marge’s mouth form a slow smile. “Sure did. They let me go last month, actually.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. I’ve been wallowing in a deep pool of self-pity lately that I didn’t even notice she had left. I run a hand through my hair. “You don’t seem too upset about it.”

She shrugs. “It was the best thing that happened to me, honestly. For years I told myself I was gonna quit and start a business. Never got around to it. But getting fired gave me the push I needed. Kind of a do-or-die kinda situation. Sure, I’ve had my ups and downs with my business, but it’s mine.”

“Huh,” is all I can say. 

“I’m actually glad I ran into you,” she continues. “ I wish it could have been under better circumstances, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeat. “Whaddya need?”

“Do ya still have some of your old woodworking tools? I need an archway built for my sister’s wedding. She’ll pay you for it. They looked at other custom arches, but places were charging a ton. When she told me, I remembered you had built our mom that garden bench in high school.”

I readjust in my seat. “Well, I haven’t touched my tools in over ten years.”

“But you do have them?”

“Well…yeah.” 

The truck came to a stop on my driveway. Marge took out her cell phone and I punch in my number. “Great! Just build the damn thing, Jeff. I’ll pay you for the labor, and who knows, maybe you can rent it out once the wedding’s over. It’s not like I’ll have space for a big ass archway in my tiny apartment.”

“I’ll think about it,” I groan.

“I hope to hear from you, Jeff.” She gave the dog one last head scratch. “You and—uh—whatcha gonna call this guy?”

“Roadkill.”

She smacks my arm. “Jeff!”

“What?” I chuckle then pause, trying to remember the last time I’ve laughed.

“I think you should call him Lucky. It’s a good name for a dog. Plus, you’re lucky to have found him.”

“Mmm,” is all I say. 

“See ya, Jeff.” She races off. The smog from her exhaust makes me cough. 

Instead of going into my house, I walk to the back of my property. Roadk—Lucky—trails after me as if we’d done this a million times. I come to an abrupt halt in front of my old shed. There are tons of cobwebs and it needs a fresh coat of paint, but other than that, it’s in pretty good shape. Lucky wanders the rest of the yard while I stand there and stare. 

“Couldn’t hurt to see if my tools are still in good shape,” I tell the dog. He barks in understanding. Great, now I’m talking to dogs. 

Two months later

“Attaboy!” I say to Lucky as we return from our morning walk. I hang up his leash as my phone buzzes in my back pocket. My stomach does a little flip when I see that it’s a FaceTime call from Marge. I check my reflection in my entryway mirror. 

Nothing in my beard. Check. No crusties in my eyes. Check. 

Running a hand through my hair, I hit the answer button. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” I say in greeting. 

“Why good morning to you too, Jeff,” the corners of her eyes crinkle. “You’re looking great by the way.”

“Thanks,” I try to hide my blush. “I’ve lost a few pounds walking Lucky every morning.” The dog barks.

“I really need to join you more on those walks. And good morning to you, Lucky,” says Marge.

“I’d like that,” I wink. “Now, are you calling cuz you missed me or is it cuz you have an order for me?”

“Both,” she chuckles. “I miss you and I have a lovely couple who requested a farmhouse table made by Lucky Beards Woodworking. They said they want it for their wedding reception and then they’re gonna put it in their new home.”

I flash a wide grin. “Great idea. I can’t wait to get to work.”