“Why don’t we ever have any luck?”
“Well, we have some luck, occasionally. Not big luck, but we have our little bits of luck.”
“But that’s not what I mean. I mean real luck, the kind of luck that can turn life around.”
“Very few people get that kind of luck. It’s not fair and it’s not right, but it is the way it is.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it any better.”
“You hear a man stumbling down the street, screaming. You can’t place the voice, it’s not on your street. It’s off in the distance, but it’s close at the same time. He sounds like he’s in agony and needs help. You go to the door and listen to try to locate the pain you’re hearing, and as you stick your head out into the night it seems even farther away. You go back to the couch and sit down for a sip of beer. You’re lucky.”
It was quiet on the other end of the line for about a minute.
“Dad, are you drunk?”
“No, only a little buzzed. That was for real, I just heard that here on my street.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I don’t think it can be all that relative, you know? You’re lucky because other people are more unlucky.”
“I’ll bet you’re right, but you know, you can’t place any bets on the kind of luck you mean. Do the best you can at what you do and you have nothing to be ashamed of. Grab your little snatches of happiness.”
The silence on the line lasted even fewer ticks than last time.
“OK Dad, I have to go to the gym, I think I’ll hang up now, OK?”
“OK kiddo, you have a good time, got it?”
“I love you Dad, talk to you tomorrow hopefully.”
I carefully placed the receiver in its cradle and cocked my head to hear the sounds of the night.
It was as quiet as the grave.
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That's what I used to say till all these assholes who are trying to scam me popped up. Die motherfuckers, die.