Little Miss Dumb Luck

**This fictional story contains themes of substance use and strong language**

At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me…

Ah screw it. I take the left, my lemon of a car screeching loudly in its effort to make the turn. Gotta remember to replace the power steering fluid that always finds a way to leak out. I roll my window down, letting the fresh air whip a few locs free from my messy bun. A random song starts playing from my earphones and I let myself enter that space where you zone out but are on autopilot at the same time, my favorite space to occupy lately. My thoughts drift around, speeding up, slowing down, bouncing off each other. I start thinking about the shit show of a morning I’ve had. The spilled kitty litter all over the bathroom floor, the new oil stain on my freshly ironed interview shirt, the elevator being out of service forcing me to walk up several flights of stairs to get to an interview that wasn’t even scheduled for this week.

And of course, coming back to my car to find it covered in fresh bird shit. Mm, maybe let’s switch gears a bit here, I sound like a drag and not in the fun way. My inner voice intervenes to scold me whenever I start playing the small violin for myself. It was a shitty start to the day though. However, once again my inner voice is correct. The more I practice gratitude, the more good things happen. Gratitude is the proven method for turning a shitshow into a show tune, guaranteed. Or at least that’s what I’m working on convincing myself of. Come on, what else is there? Since I ended with the car on a funky note, I’ll start with the car on a good note. At least my car is running. Great, what else? Okay move on from the car, what about your day? Well, I’m enjoying the drive of my spontaneous decision to turn left, even though I don’t know where I am.

I rumble up to a crossroads, letting my arm dangle out of the window to feel the warm spring breeze. The street seems a little old, with just a faded red stop sign to mark it. I put my car in neutral so I can dig around in my bag and bring out my Dragon Pen for a quick hit. A motorcycle pulls up beside me, the driver tips his helmet to me and I nod back whilst also spilling the contents of my bag all over the passenger seat. The biker waves at me and I notice his visor is up as he sparks a joint. I can’t see much of his features because of the helmet, but even if he weren’t in the nice biker jacket, black cargos and combat boots, I can tell I’d find him attractive by his deep set brown eyes and long curled lashes I could see even from this distance. Always been a sucker for the eyes and lashes combo. I must’ve been staring too long though because he wiggled his eyebrows up and down at me in a “are you good?” kind of way. Awkward. I feel heat rush to my face. With an embarrassingly girly giggle, and a nod of approval I turn back to my passenger seat for my own vice, ignoring the mess and finally finding my pen. As fate would have it, it’s completely dead. Perfect.

I drag my hands down my face and take a deep breath, going over more little things to be grateful for. The breeze feels nice. The street is void of passing cars. The handsome stranger is leaning closer to me. Wait, what?

The biker reaches his hand out to me, the joint he just lit loosely held between gloved fingers. “I know you don’t know me but I can recognize someone who could use a pick me up when I see ‘em. I haven’t used this one yet if you want to take a hit.”. The sound of his voice was barely audible thanks to “Mama Mia” by ABBA blaring from my earphones. I take them out and ask him to repeat himself.

“I just thought maybe you’d want a hit of mine, unless that pen isn’t what I thought it was, in which case this will be awkward.” He said this with his hand still outstretched, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from the burnt tip. I stare at it and then at him.

Well, this is an interesting development. Dare I accept?

Eh, screw it. It’s that kind of day. I reach over to take it, having to lean out of the window to close the gap, and nearly shit my pants at the sound of a loud and sudden car horn. I apparently put too much weight on my steering wheel when leaning over and honked my horn on accident. The biker recovered quicker than I did and threw his head back with a rich and hearty laughter that sounded like it belonged to someone who could easily find a silver lining in a pile of shit. What is it with you and shit today?

I start wondering if maybe my honking the horn is my sign to just move on and I get confirmation of this two minutes later when an SUV pulls up behind me. I completely forgot I was technically mid-drive. The biker pulls in front of me and makes a right turn on a side street just ahead of the light. At that precise moment, my car stalls, and the stranger behind me honks. I’m frantically trying to wiggle the gear shift into position with no success, the ancient thing has been needing to be replaced and I’ve been putting it off, simply praying to whatever deity or demon is in charge of dumb luck to keep it running until I could afford to deal with it. After another prayer and the third attempt, I pump the clutch and finally hear the familiar sound of the shifter sliding into 1st gear. I make it approximately 3 feet before I hear something pop and see smoke billowing out from under the hood. By this time, the car behind me angrily pulls around and speeds away.

Wonderful, just wonderful. At this point I’m ready to just walk away, not that I really have a choice given the state of my sunken sour chariot. Maybe the biker will whisk me away on his steel steed. Hah, fat chance though it’s a nice thought. I’m such a sap. I unbuckle my seatbelt and start gathering up my things in my bag. After cranking up my windows and double checking I have my meager valuables, I flip on my hazard lights and step out of the car. I’m not even gonna bother with checking the hood, I’ll just have to call a tow. The lady on the phone is talking me through the process while I move to stand on the sidewalk.

I hear the sound of a motorcycle engine rev. The handsome biker from earlier had just put his kickstand down, behind my car might I add, and began removing his gloves and helmet.

Did I say handsome? I’m sorry, I meant sexy. Extremely sexy. First off, a face card that could get Michelin star meals at a 5 star A-list hotel without even smiling. I’m talking tall, tanned and criminally good looking. Nose, chin, jawline — fierce. Hair? Trimmed and braided, fresh from the barber shop by the looks of it. Build? Whew! Wipe your mouth, girl. Wow. I tried to subtly wipe the drop of drool from my mouth. I can add that to today's list of things to crawl into a hole over. I continued to watch this living artwork unzip the sleek black biker jacket to reveal a plain white T-shirt and a simple silver chain.

“Ma’am, are you still there?” The dispatcher's nasally voice in my ear broke me out of a trance.

She confirmed my information and gave me an ETA that I couldn’t remember if my life depended on it. I was too focused on how freakishly tall the guy walking up to me was. He finally stood before me, one large hand outstretched in greeting while the other held a freshly rolled joint and a lighter.

“Hi, how bout that smoke?” He said.