Blind Luck (9 page)

“So nothing good ever happens to you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then maybe it’s the way you look at things. You’ve got to look for opportunities in life. For example, just when I came here, a neighbour of yours was staring at me like he was wondering why I was at your place.”

“Which neighbour?”

“Blond hair, about thirty. The point is, maybe he was watching me like that because he wants to ask you out and he’s trying to figure out if you’re dating anyone. The guy could end up being your husband.”

“Or he could be a stalker.”

“It’s that attitude that has you feeling the way you do. You have a few bad things happen to you and…”

“Four miscarriages are more than a few bad things.”

The flow of energy stopped. Dave felt the weight of his words. He liked talking with her, he didn’t want her to stop, and realizing the insensitivity of his dogma made him feel bad. Not guilty, but bad like he might have made one of those mistakes that you can never correct.

“I didn’t mean to…”

“You
are
special.”

“What?”

“I can feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“When you’ve been cursed as long as I have, you get in touch with rhythms, and yours are definitely special.”

“You really believe that?”

“Absolutely. Will you spend some time with me again?”

Dave sat back down in the chair. “Sure, give me your number and I’ll call…”

“You won’t call me.”

“I’ll call you.”

She reached for a napkin on the coffee table, wrote her number in the centre and passed it to him. “We’ll see.”

Ten

Two weeks after Dave’s sixteenth birthday, his mother threatened his dad in a way that he remembered forever. She gathered up sports papers, betting lines, and every note on odds that she could find and threw them in the fireplace. She found the stacks of betting lines in folders in his briefcase, the notes tacked to his corkboard and the schedules he used as bookmarks in black jack and poker books and burned them all in front of him. Embers sparked and bits of burned paper fell between the logs to the ash. Dave expected his dad to freak out, but the man stood expressionless.

“If you ever bet again,” she said just an arm’s length from the fire, “our marriage is over.”

At such an aggressive act, Dave waited for a flow of pent-up words, but that was all she said. When he reflected on the moment, it made sense. There was nothing else to say. The only question was whether or not it would be possible for his dad to stop.

That Sunday Jack suggested they go to a Super Bowl party.

“You’ve got to be kidding me? After what we spoke about, you want to go to a Super Bowl party?”

“Us. I want us to go to a Super Bowl party.”

“Clearly you don’t care.”

Jack raised a cigarette to his lips as fast as possible, and the other hand lit it in a follow-up motion before he took the type of deep drag he always took when things fell out of rhythm. “Hear me out. Just hear me out, okay? This is always a great party, and the Super Bowl isn’t just about betting, it’s about pizza, a few drinks, seeing people.”

“You should tape yourself.”

“Listen, Mr. Smith throws this party every year, and it’s not going to do me any favours at the office not to show. I figured we’d all go together, turn it into a family thing, a fun thing, and the boss is all smiles next week.”

Ruby looked at her husband like he was a magician. She had never heard anyone speak with as much charisma, and it was that animated charm, so full of promise yet devoid of dogma, that had made him so popular in school, so able to get jobs and opportunities that had nothing to do with merit, and so memorable to everyone who ever met him. She decided to give him a chance. She would go to the party and either enjoy him as the man she loved or catch him in the act of being the man she feared he had become. Besides, after watching him go through seven sales jobs in fifteen years, she was happy to do anything that would keep him employed.

The afternoon of the party, Dave was stressed out, his mother was appropriately suspicious, and his dad pranced around the house as though he were taking them on vacation.

The party was in the back of a pizza shop with open space, the biggest TV. Dave had ever seen and a herd of men in Buffalo Bills and New York Giants jerseys.

The kickoff sent the room into a frenzy. Whistles, cheers and shouts filled the place, one prompting another until everyone had a turn. Jack tapped Dave on the elbow. He gestured with his cigarette to the pock-faced man standing beside him.

“This is Stan Spiegel. Stan, this is my son.”

“Pleasure.” Stan raised his beer.

“You’re looking at the best poker player I’ve ever sat with.”

But Dave didn’t look at Stan. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blonde girl standing beside him. There was no way she was Stan’s girlfriend; there was no way she was more than sixteen. Her grey slacks and white buttoned down shirt made him think of Catholic or private schools. He wished she were wearing contacts instead of glasses so he could get a better look at her blue eyes.

Stan noticed Dave staring. “This is my daughter, Amanda.”

Dave wiped his hand on his pants to remove the sweat before shaking her hand, but hers was just as clammy.

“So who do you have money on?” Stan asked.

Dave looked at Stan’s Bill’s jersey and considered saying Buffalo before responding, “I’m not a big NFL guy. I’m more of a baseball fan.”

“The Blue Jays cost me four grand this year.”

Dave looked at his dad for signs that the betting talk might be breaking him down. He watched for an uncomfortable smile, eyes darting to the game, or the way he smoked when he ran odds, but he wasn’t doing any of these things. What he was doing was focussing on the conversation while nodding like he was engaged.

The crowd erupted after a Buffalo sack, and Stan ran around the room offering high fives. Jack leaned into Dave. “I got you a present.”

He passed Dave a ticket worth two grand if the Giants won with the spread. Dave looked for his mother, who sat wedged between two heavy-set men leaning in too close to her for his liking.

“What about Mom?”

“It’s not my ticket. It’s yours, a gift.”

“Mine?”

“Yours.”

Dave looked at the scoreboard to see Buffalo up ten to three.
Now it’s mine,
he thought.

“Maybe you should buy Mom a drink.”

Jack looked over at his wife sitting between the two men. He popped a cigarette in his mouth before pivoting back to Dave. “Don’t lose that ticket.”

Jack led Ruby out of her seat by hand and dropped his lips to her closest ear. “Thank you for coming.”

“I haven’t Seen Mr. Smith yet. Have you?”

“Yeah, I saw him. You know what it’s like, they treat you like you’re just another guest when you show up, and they blast you if you don’t”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“The kitchen. They’ve got an old brick pizza oven you have

Ruby smiled. At least he was willing to leave the game. He’d worked for those smiles ever since they met. Sometimes he tried jokes, other times he spoke with passion and sensitivity, and as long as she smiled, he was happy. They inched their way through the crowd to a hallway beside a kitchen that smelled of fried onions and garlic.

“Are you ready?”

Ruby looked at him like the question was weird. Jack pushed open the door to reveal a candlelit room and a table set for two. He kissed her on the cheek.

“Happy Super Bowl.”

She couldn’t stop smiling as he held out her chair.

“Tony may own a pizza shop, but he’s also one of the best Italian chefs in the city, and tonight he’s going to make you whatever you want.”

He leaned over her to kiss her cheek again, and as he looked at their shadows on the white tablecloth, it felt like they could have been anywhere in the world until a roar from the crowd reminded both of them that they were at a Super Bowl party.

Meanwhile, Dave looked at the ticket as the Giants kicked the extra point to tie the game.

“Is that good?” Amanda asked.

“For New York, yeah. A touchdown is seven points.”

“Cool. Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Will you come outside with me while I smoke?”

Dave nodded. They weren’t a step out the door before she lit her cigarette. Dave expected her to use it as a prop, to puff and blow to look cool, but she smoked like a true addict. She held deep pulls in her lungs for a while before exhaling a cloud.

“I can’t believe my dad dragged me here,” she said, flicking her ash. “I have a chemistry test tomorrow, and I have to spend the night around these pigs.”

“Chemistry?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a full semester. Chem, bio, physics and math.”

“So you like school?”

“Not really, but if I have to be there, I want to do well.”

Dave smiled. He thought of a math test he had the next day, watched her step on what was left of her cigarette, and somehow it made him laugh.

“I should get back to the game.” He motioned to the door.

“Do you want to smoke a joint first?”

“What?”

She pulled a tightly rolled joint from her coat pocket. “A joint.”

“No thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive”

When Scott Norwood’s kick sailed wide right on the last play of the game, the Giants won outright, and while half the room deflated, the other half exploded with the euphoria of victory. Stan Spiegel approached Dave with slow steps. Everything about his posture suggested he wanted to disappear. His shoulders slouched, and his neck drooped as if his head weighed a hundred pounds.

“I need to talk to you,” he slurred.

Dave thought of the way Amanda smoked, of their going outside together and her joint and waited to be punched.

“How much is that ticket your dad gave you worth?”

Dave heard the question, but the relief of not having to deal with an enraged father slowed his response.

“How much?” Stan asked again.

“What ticket?”

“The ticket your dad gave you when New York was losing ten to three. The ticket that ended up winning outright once he gave it to you. How much is it worth?”

“Two thousand.”

“I need you to give me the ticket.”

“I can’t do that.”

Stan let out a sigh that exposed his wheezing lungs. He ran a hand down his face, partly to wipe the sweat, but probably because touch reminded him that this was real, and that this wasn’t some alcohol-induced nightmare.

“I just lost five thousand dollars,” he said, spit flying from his lips. “Five grand to people I already owe five grand to.” He leaned in closer, and his voice was the type of shaky no adult’s should be. “They’ll take my car. I can’t get to work without my car. And I can’t pay my bills for a week without my job. Please.”

Dave scanned the room for his dad before responding. “Look, my dad gave me the ticket. I think you should talk to him, but you can’t do it now, because he’s with my mom, and she’s not a fan of betting. Maybe tomorrow.

“I need it
now.
He gave it to you, and I need it. Do you know how many times I’ve spotted your dad? How many times I’ve bailed him out of trouble?”

“So tell him.”

For a moment Stan looked like he was going to leap forward with a head butt, but fear coaxed him into a few deep breaths before he said, “I’ll give you Amanda for the night.”

“What?”

“My daughter. I saw the two of you together, I saw you go outside. Give me the ticket, and she’s yours for the night.”

Dave didn’t know what to say. It was as if this were a movie, and someone had hit pause. Stan kept speaking, but Dave didn’t hear a word. He never got past the offer of Amanda for money. He turned around and walked to the exit. Stan grabbed at his shoulders and arms, but he shrugged the man off and kept walking past the people in Giants jerseys buying rounds, past the Bills fans sitting dejected and past Amanda, who sat stoned in front of a video game in the far corner. He wasn’t fully outside the bar before he started to rip up the ticket.

He never thought about the fact that New York had been down 10-3 until his dad gave him the ticket, he only thought of destroying it, because he would rather have paid two grand not to see the look of stress on his mother’s face, not to spend three hours in a room filled with greed and desperation, and not to hear a man try to trade his daughter for his debt than endure all of that, and leave with a ticket proclaiming him a winner, when for the first time in his life, he felt like a loser.

Eleven

Dave wasn't all the way down the front steps from Amy’s apartment when Grayson honked to remind him that he was parked across the street. He ducked into the car, wondering whether or not to just tell Grayson what he wanted to hear; to tell him that she looked better simply by being around him, but pride wouldn’t allow him to lie.

“How did it go?”

“She’s different.”

“Certainly is. Did she talk at all or just sit there?”

“She talked a lot.”

“Then you’re further ahead than me.” Grayson started the car, and the Japanese lessons played so loud, he turned down the volume. He mouthed the words for ‘Would you like to have dinner?’ and glanced over at Dave. “Mr. Thorrin wants to meet with you.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

Grayson swerved to avoid a delivery truck that made an aggressive lane pass.

“No,” Dave said. He shifted his weight to face Grayson’s profile. “No way. I picked a stock for him just like he asked. I’m done.”

“That’s what he wants to talk to you about. You picked a winner.”

A primal tingle rippled through Dave, as though he had been injected with the unease he’d felt as a four-year-old on the first day of kindergarten. They didn’t speak the rest of the drive.

Grayson made his way through mid-day traffic with efficiency while Dave wondered how they planned to con him, how they’d managed to fix a stock increase, and what they stood to gain from convincing him he was lucky. Grayson turned up his Japanese lessons, and they didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

Thorrin sat in the luxury booth of Mango, a posh uptown lounge with a reputation among the corporate elite for the best steak sandwiches in the city. Grayson and Dave sat in the two chairs across from the padded bench Thorrin sat on. Everything about him was loose. Eyes that sparkled with mischief replaced the look of intensity he’d worn at the office, and a black button-down had replaced his designer suit.