“You’re
not answering the question Sheila.” said Mr. Ifet. “Did you
call him an a*****e or not?”
They were in a small office,
positioned behind the reception desk. It was a brightly lit room,
sparsely furnished save for a gray desk, a tall metal filing cabinet,
and a yellowing potted cactus that looked to be in dire need of some
water, a testament to the neglect only a stressed small business
owner was capable of. The desk was littered in papers and folders,
and besides the single, ancient looking laptop, the room was
completely bereft of technology. Mr. Ifet appeared to be quite
upset, but this was par for the course.
When Sheila had
returned from outside, she had seen the tall, stringy man known as
'The Monster' exit the office and head towards the wall of lockers
near the bathroom, but it was nearly a full hour before Mr. Ifet
called her in.
“I guess, maybe, I did. But it was completely
by accident.” Sheila said. It was difficult to make eye
contact.
“An accident?” He said flatly. “You
‘accidentally’ yelled a*****e at someone?”
“Yell? I
didn't yell! It was a mumble! I just mumbled it!”
“He told
me you called him an a*****e for ignoring your ‘advances’. Now
what you must underst-”
“Advances?”
She
was visibly aghast. “Advances? That a*****e
threw a cigarette on the ground right in front of me! And I swear i
don't even know how he heard me!”
“Sheila...” He began,
exasperated.
“Does that honestly sound like something I'd
do?”
“Probably not” He admitted, “but this is not the
first time you’ve pissed off customers. Its one thing when its the
bar rats but I can’t have my staff insulting the talent.”
He
had a point. If Sheila excelled at anything, its was saying the
wrong things to the wrong people. A good example of this would be
the time she was in the bar, wiping down the tables, when a man
called her over to a small crowd and asked her to ‘be a dear’ and
grab another round for him and his friends. Whats she meant to say
was “I'm sorry sir, i'm not the waitress, i'm actually the janitor.
Unfortunately, we do not currently have any waitresses on staff, so
if you’d like more drinks you’ll have to ask the bartender.”,
but what she actually said was “do I look
like a waitress to you?” which was fairly confusing, since without
her mop or broom, she did indeed give off a certain waitress-ness.
Unfortunately for her, Mr. Ifet had been nearby and witnessed the
whole proceeding. Sheila was not prone to fits of anger, nor did she
have any fundamental rudeness about her, but rather her poor taste in
tone was due to a lack of improvisational skills and a deficient
amount of experience in dealing with strangers. If speaking was a
muscle, as they say, then hers had atrophied to gangrenous
levels.
“It’s only been a handful of times, and they don't
actually ever complain. I mean, not usually.” She argued.
“You
called a 67 year old woman a b***h. In front of her nephews. On
Christmas eve.”
Mr. Ifet did not wear glasses, but if he did, he would be peering
over them.
“I told her that her fingers were too big to fit in
the ball so she dropped it on my foot! She could’ve broken my
toes! And besides, who takes their kids to a bowling alley for
Christmas eve?”
“Nephews” he corrected, “and that’s
besides the point. Like I said, the customers are one thing but when
you start pissing off the pros, it becomes a completely different
thing entirely, and to be quite frank Sheila, its not worth the
hassle for a janitor. I'm sorry, but you’re fired. Effective
now.” He tossed a small manila envelope across the desk. “This
is this weeks paycheck in cash. I paid you for the full day today.
If you ever need a reference ill help you out, but besides that,
well, there you go.”
Sheilas stomach twisted. She knew this
was coming but had been hoping for some sort of severe warning or
maybe a serious talking-to. She picked up the envelope, and for a
moment considered arguing, but the way Mr. ifet leaned back in his
chair with his arms folded told her she didn't stand a chance. He
probably spent the last hour going over the risk of keeping her on.
As she stood and turned for the door, he gave a cough and said “I
told Gregory that if you wanted a drink to give you one on the house.
Good luck kiddo.”
She removed her apron and put it in the
store room, then considered gathering up the rest of the scattered
supplies but stubbornly rejected the idea. She opened the small
locker and grabbed her purse, and, shoving the envelope inside, made
her way to the exit. She felt miserable. After 6 months, she hadn’t
even passed her longest employed stint. She’d have to tell her
boyfriend that she had lost another job. Her family. She’d have
to tell her friends. God, her friends. It seemed like every day one
of them was getting married, or having kids, or starting their
careers with their bachelor degrees. Poor sheila, they'd say, can’t
even hold a job shoveling s**t.
And her family, with their love and support, of course, but each and
every one of them would have that twang of disappointment in their
voice while they tried to console her. And her boyfriend. Her
boyfriend.
Supportive, oh to the very last he’d be supportive. Supportive
and secretly happy.
She
had her hand on the entrance door when she felt a cold air move
through her. She couldn’t face her boyfriend. Not yet, not like
this. She needed time to decompress, time to process, and it’s not
like she had to be
anywhere, right? One free drink, and hey, she had money on her, why
not a few more? Who could blame her? She stepped back from the door
and headed to the bar.
The bar-room had 3 walls, and was open on
the south side, allowing a view of 6 of the 15 lanes that ran down
the building. There were a few T. V.s mounted on the walls, each
varying in quality and age, looking like an electronic version of the
evolution of man.
Each had a different sport being televised, the more popular ones on
the flat screens, the least on the big, heavy looking box sets.
Sheila sat on a wobbly stool and assumed the position of unemployed
bar residents everywhere; forehand in palm. Gregory, a tall, brick
house of a man with squinted eyes that could cut marble with a glare,
brought her her drink.
“Martini with 4 olives. I made it a
double, you know, to save you some money.” He said.
He was a
kind man, and a victim of the poor economy in the area. He was,
Sheila knew from first hand experience, the best bartender in the
state, if not the country. He always knew when he was needed and
when he needed to be in the back doing dishes. He knew how to mix
anything you could think of, and had a few home-made cocktails that
really could knock you off your feet. He could tell a story that
would leave you riveted and could listen to drunken babbling as if he
was at a poetry recital. Despite being over twice her age, he had a
smile that was full of youth, and if you could make him show you it,
it made whatever crappy or embarrassing story you had to tell worth
it.
He had owned a bar downtown that was, for a long time, a pretty
chill place to go and drink. The music was calm and loud enough to
listen to, but not so loud as to make every conversation a test of
ones projecting abilities. But the cost of keeping the place open,
combined with the new clubs popping up all over the metro area,
adding more competition to an already competitive market, proved too
much, and here he was, serving drinks to bowlers and people with bar
tabs open all over the city. But Sheila was grateful, because he
introduced her to the Martini.
Sheila was not a drinker. She
actually had few contemporary vices. But drinking was one that was
essential for girls of her age. She had started out drinking shots
of hard liquor, but the novelty wore out faster than she could
acquire the taste. She tried beer as well, but the carbonation made
her feel bloated and uncomfortable. She’d had a period of ordering
daiquiris and margaritas, but always felt like she was somehow
betraying her sex every time she bought one, obeying some unwritten
rule about drinks, and besides, sweet drinks always made her feel
like she was drinking medicine. She’d conveyed all this to
Gregory, who responded with a glare, a snap of the fingers, a point
directed at her face, and 3 seconds of awkward silence. Then, “Gin
Martini.” And so it was.
She thanked him for the drink and
sipped at it. She didn't feel like having a heart to heart, and
Gregory picked up on it. He walked to the other end of the bar and
busied himself with other duties.
Sheila could feel the
wallowing self-pity building up inside her, but she was buying time
by pretending she didn't care about it. She sighed into her glass,
creating little ripples of dissatisfaction on the oily green surface
of the liquor. She wobbled back and forth on her stool, staring at
nothing and only breaking her silence to mumble certain stand-by
phrases that have proven to help her mental stability such as
"whatever", "i'm sure it'll be okay...", and,
"F**k it."
She looked over her shoulder at the lanes.
The place was starting to fill up now. Say what she will about
bowling, they knew how to pull a crowd, even if the crowd was
composed of other bowlers in varying phases of their career, from
beginners to retired pros. She watched as groups of people gathered
around each lane to support their favorites, or to watch the
performance of certain hot-names, ones most likely to take the gold,
or, in this case, the ones most likely to take the chance to take the
gold. The lane closest to the bar was was occupied by a small group
of young adults, two or 3 of which looked just old enough to drink.
They were giggling and snickering in a way that suggested to
sheila the presence of certain chemicals not obtainable by legal
means in most states. Their body language spoke volumes, which was
fortunate because despite her proximity, the din of the alley made it
impossible to make out their conversation, which may have went
something like this: "I cant believe he's actually doing this."
"I know, Ryan is SO crazy!" "Wouldn't it be funny if
he actually won?" " f**k, pizza sounds so good right
now"
Sheila took notice of another crowd moving towards the
wayward teens, their central focus on none other than The Monster
himself. The followers were likely disciples, or possibly lackeys,
the kind that you would be likely to hear repeat their leaders joke
punchlines out loud and laugh like maniacs. Following closely behind
them was a woman dressed for cable news and a man lugging a large
camera on his shoulder. The teens noticed their approach and very
suddenly became interested in their surroundings, most notably the
ceiling, walls and floor. They dispersed and reformed a safe
distance behind the camera man.
Sheila had the feeling that she
was being watched. she turned her head to see the man with the odd
hat sitting two stools away from her, hunched over the bar nursing a
deep red beer.
"Good view, huh?" He asked
"I
suppose." She said, keeping up her reputation as champion
conversation killer.
"I mean, they say that guy is supposed
to be really good." The man said, and chuckled "Wouldn't
it be funny if he lost?"
Sheila nodded and shot a quick
smile and began to turn back, not feeling up to a social engagement
like denying a drunken admirer, but he spoke again before the cold
shoulder was cold enough.
"He ever say anything to you?
You know, about the a*****e thing?"
Sheila was upset and in
a very dark mood. "Nope," she began in a overtly cheery
tone that would send red warning flags to any sober man who heard it
"just got me fired is all, hey thanks for asking though."
"Well
that's too bad. I guess that's how it goes sometimes. But hey, new
opportunities and all that."
Sheila scoffed. "Oh yes,
jumping from minimum wage opportunities can be such an adventure.
Can't wait to see what fate has in store for me next." She
sipped at her drink some more and added, mostly to herself "I
have the worst f*****g luck."
The man laughed and shook his
head "I don't need to know much about you to know that you could
be much worse off, sweetheart. There's a lot of people out there
who'd love to be in your shoes."
Sheila ignored the
'sweetheart'. "Knowing there are people out there worse off
than me doesn't make anything any better. God, I hate when people
say that. Like, yeah, there are people starving in Africa and that's
really f*****g sad, sure, but it's not like that makes s**t better.
Like, am I supposed to feel better that my life is going nowhere
because some kid in Connecticut just watched his parents die or some
s**t? I'm allowed to wish for better."
He nodded in a
placating way and said "Alright sure, but I still take offense
to the luck thing. You can't blame luck. Luck isn't about the
things it helps you get, its the things it helps you avoid. Think of
all the things you want in life that you didn't get. Things you wish
you had. I'll save you some time." he turned more towards her
and held up a hand "One, you wish you had money, like you hit
the lottery or some s**t like that," he raised a finger "Two,
i bet you wished you were hotter or skinnier or had bigger b***s or
something like that, forgive my forwardness," another finger
went up "and three I bet something like smarter friends or a
better boyfriend or whatever."
"Don't forget college."
She was grateful for the liquor protecting her ego.
"Yeah
yeah, that too. You're about that age, sure. Okay, now think about
all the things that you wish wouldn't happen. Like, and these are
just right off the top of my head, You don't want to be robbed, or
mugged, or raped or stabbed or shot. You don't want to get into a
car crash, and hell, you don't want your friends to get in car
crashes, or your mom or dad or brothers and sisters and
what-have-you. You don't want cancer, or some kind of STD. You
don't want to get hit by a bus, or get your brain caved in by a
meteorite, you don't want to fall asleep and never wake up-"
"Jesus
man"
"Point is, the sheer amount of terrible s**t that
can happen is f*****g mind blowing, and most of it is s**t that
happens to people every
day.
Even if you only have like, a .03% chance of having any of that
happen to you on any given day, that s**t adds up. Enough .03's
together and you get a pretty high chance of getting totally fucked,
but yet here you are, 20 something years old and still standing in
defiance, shaking your fist at a universe designed to kill you off.
You, my friend, are a lucky m**********r, if you excuse me saying
so." He tilted his drink at her and punctuated the end of his
diatribe with a smile that crawled up half his face.
Sheila
suddenly noticed that the man was actually very handsome. It was the
smile that did it. It was the kind of smile that must have been
practiced a thousand times in a mirror. It was a smile full of honey
and charm and guile and cunning. She'd seen it used on other girls
before. It was meant to melt a womans icy heart and it almost always
did, and now that she was seeing it used on herself, she knew why.
If there were indeed weapons of the sexes, then this was a
bunker-busting cruise missile.
She sat stunned for a moment but
rallied quickly "Okay, i guess. What makes you such an expert
on luck anyway? You one of those guys who has such a bad life that
when someone else mentions their luck they get personally offended?"
She regretted saying it. despite her bad mood, she didn't want to
be offensive. To her surprised, he just laughed.
"You
couldn't be farther from the truth, sweetheart." he said
jovially , then drank his beer. There was a break in the
conversation. Gregory came by and gave her another drink, which she
was thankful for, and walked back to the end of the bar. She noticed
that he was watching them carefully. If any foul play happened, she
knew Gregory was there to see it before it would get out of
hand.
Sheila looked back at the bowlers. The tournament was
under way, and 'The Monster' was the first up. "Take that guy
for example."
Sheila turned back to see he had moved to the
stool next to her, and was leaning close, like he was about to
discuss with her some conspiracy that they were both in on. "That
guy's a pro bowler, right? Its what he does... I'm not boring you,
am I?" He said suddenly.
"Oh uh.. no, no. Go ahead."
Despite her desire to be kept alone with her self-contempt, Sheila
found it hard to deny a conversation in faux philosophy. No matter
your intelligence, it was easy to to 'fauxlosophise' on how the world
works, and usually, if you had the proper vocabulary, you could sell
it to people too.
"Alright, yeah, so he's a pro bowler. So
he obviously wants to win. But more than that, he wants to win with
a perfect game. Every time he puts a ball in his hand, that's his
goal. Winning is secondary to winning perfectly.
So when he throws his ball he wants to hit all 10 pins. not 1 or 2
or 3-4-5-6-7-8 or 9. All ten. But with 10 pins, that's only a 1
in-"
"Wait wait wait," Sheila interrupted. She
knew where he was about to go with this. "You can't use
percentages to predict bowling. I mean sure it sounds good at first,
but if you could, then all sports would be... would be..." She
was unsure how to finish this line of reasoning, so she changed
gears. "Look, its like this. Not everything is decided by
probability because there are lots of outside influences for
everything. Like, in this case," she stifled a burp. "in
this case, his skill skews the percentages and s**t, cause like,
skill can't be measured in percentages, so there's this outside
factor that can't be measured."
"Ah yes, but no amount
of skill can change fate, and even as you said, it only skews the
percentages in his favor, and sometimes a 3% chance of something
happening is just as likely as a 90% chance. The unlikely happens
every day. If you had to say what his chances were to win, without
factoring in skill, what would you say? 50/50? just as likely to
win as to lose? You can even go smaller than that, say a 1-in-10...
er, 1-in-11 chance of knocking down zero to 10 pins each turn? The
smaller the scale, the less likely it is each thing will happen, but
me and you know that there's only two real outcomes that matter, in
the end. Win, or lose. Even factoring in skill, logic dictates that
he must succumb to the overwhelming odds that he will hit a
not-perfect amount of pins."
Sheila stared blankly at him.
She was following him up until now, but the barrage of numbers and
faulty math had scrambled her already eggy brain. He seemed to
notice this, and waved his hand dismissively.
"Forget all that,
bunch of bullshit anyways." They sipped at their drinks.
Sheila found herself waiting for him to say something else. He was
distracting her from herself quite well. After a few minutes of
silence, he spoke again.
"Hey, want to see a magic
trick?"
Any headway the man had gained up until that point
was immediately dismissed. The only thing worse than having a drunk,
cocky ladies man hit on you on a night like this was having a drunk,
cocky ladies man hit on you with what amounted to a extended,
pre-rehearsed pick up line.
"nah, actually i think i'm going
to go. Thanks anywa-"
"Oh come on, it'll only take a
few minutes. Tell you what, if you aren't impressed by it, ill pay
your tab and you'll never have to see me again."
She was
only up to 1 drink that she had to pay for so far, but she figured he
didn't know that, and if he was willing to bet money that she'd be
impressed, it may be worth watching. Besides, she lost her only
source of income. One less drink to pay for would be that much more
money in her pocket. She agreed, hesitantly, but with a certain
sense of anticipation.
"Okay, place your eyes on our topic
of conversation here, Mr. Got-You-Fired. We've established there's a
1-in-11 chance of hitting any given number of pins, right? It gets a
little more complicated when you take into account how bowling works,
two frames each turn , you know, you work here, I don't have to
explain that, and as you pointed out earlier, the skill factor is
impossible to put into numbers in any coherent sense, so lets just
be satisfied that the equation used to predict what number of pins
will fall on each frame is sufficiently impossible for our drunken
minds to understand. That being said, I bet you that I can predict
how many pins both players hit on each turn, each frame. I see the
look of disbelief in your eyes, but behold my ability!" He was
smiling and waving his hands around like he was in a play. Sheila
couldn't help but smile. It was, if nothing else, entertaining.
"He
is going to get a strike. That's all 10 pins." He said, one
hand on the side of his head and another stretched out towards the
bowlers in a mock mind reading pose. The Monster stepped up, did a
small dance towards the lane in the style of a father of a modern
stone-age family, and let loose a ball in what Sheila begrudgingly
recognized as a perfect arc. The ball half rolled and half slid down
the lane and with a thunderous explosion, demolished all ten
pins.
"Oh come on, of course he's going to get a strike, he
does this for a living." Sheila said, unsatisfied.
"Okay
then. This time... how about five?" His attitude had lost some
steam but he still seemed jovial and excited.
The monster
collected his ball, did his dance and let loose another perfect
throw. The ball rolled but turned too little, hitting the side of the
pins and leaving five standing.
"Alright, that was cool."
She conceded. She was not yet ready to declare herself
impressed.
"Okay, now the kid is up. 1-in-11 chance... lets
say another strike."
The well baked and extremely regretful
teen lifted a ball sheila recognized as being too heavy for him, took
3 long, awkward strides and lobbed his ball into the air. With a
loud, toe crushing slam, it landed on the waxed and polished wood
surface and slid, unrolling, down the lane. The bull struck the pins
and, slowly and laboriously, they each tumbled down. There was an
explosion of laughter and cheering from the other teens.
"Luck.
Simply luck" Sheila said.
"Yes,
exactly." The man said simply then added "Another
strike."
The kid, all aflutter with nervousness, threw his
ball inexpertly again. There was another disbelieving cheer.
"Oh
I get it. That kid is some unknown pro, right? And you came here
knowing who he is. You're just betting on his skill."
The
man had lost almost all of his animation now, he simply stared into
his beer with a vacant look on his eyes, smiling, and said
"Three."
The teen, having hit 2 strikes in his last two
frames was awarded with a 3rd frame. He threw his ball and clipped
the side of the pin triangle. Three pins dropped.
Sheila
furrowed her brow. She considered herself fairly intelligent, and
what she lacked in deductive abilities she made up for an raw
cynicism. She found herself determined to find the invisible strings
holding up this facade, but with each passing turn her reasonings
melted away, as the man continued staring straight ahead, calling out
numbers in descending volume. By the last few frames, he had dropped
his voice so low that she had to lean in to hear him. When the final
frame came, the game was, in compliance with the laws of suspense,
tied. The Monster had a frantic look about him, and the teenagers
had laughed and cheered themselves sober. They all had that look on
their faces that every kid who had accidentally bested their elders
took, that face that says 'i don't think we did anything wrong but
were probably going to get in trouble'. Over the course of the game
the crowd had grown larger, pulling spectators from the other lanes
to watch the legend fail and the newcomer rising.
"By the
way," the man said, turning to Sheila for the first time since
beginning his predictions. "you never answered my
question."
"Question? I don't remember..."
"I
asked you, 'wouldn't it be funny if he lost?'" He paused and
looked at Sheilas perplexed expression. "Well? i'm asking you.
Would it be funnier if The Monster won, or lost?" He leaned in
closer and launched another incendiary smirk at Sheila's heart, his
voice suddenly full of sobriety. "Go ahead. You can tell me.
Who do you want to win, or more importantly, to lose?" Sheila
felt nervous and confused, but she couldn't figure out why. This was
all silly. She opened her mouth and the words came out without her
realizing what she was saying.
"I want The Monster to lose.
Make him lose."
The man stared into her eyes for a moment
filled with suspense. She noticed he had very beautiful green eyes.
She'd never seen green eyes before.
The man leaned back so
suddenly that it broke the spell completely. He reached into his
jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He
placed one in his mouth and said "So whats your
name?"
"Sheila." She said, and felt for some
reason that it may have been the wrong answer. The man nodded as he
finished lighting up.
"You'll forgive me for waiting so long
to introduce myself. I find that a touch of theatrics before hand
makes this next bit more believable. First impressions are a pretty
big deal. They go a long way of establishing who you are to someone.
By the way, its going to be a gutter ball." Sheila could tell
by the cheers and jeers of the crowd that The Monster had just thrown
his ball into the gutter. "I can't promise any of this is going
to make any sense, at least not at first. But have patience and pay
attention and everything will become clear. Keep an open mind and
you'll probably learn something. Also, another gutter ball."
He kept his eyes on her face for a few awkward moments while he took
a drag off his cigarette. "So? I think there is something you
want to ask me?"
"Oh. Uhm. What... er... who are
you?" It wasn't a question, it was a guess. Behind her there
was another wave of cheering and booing.
"My name, miss
Sheila, is Luck. And if you'll excuse my reaching for some low
hanging fruit, today is your lucky day." He raised a single
finger. Sheila heard the thump of another inexpert ball being lobbed
onto wood, the dim rolling, and the single crack of a pin shooting
outwards. There was an explosion of cheers as the man known as Luck
puffed quietly at his cigarette.
prev chapter
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing