Blind Luck

by Scott Carter

“And mine’s a drug dealer.”

  The crowd erupted at the end of the first song, and Dave smiled. “We’re still at an MC5 concert. Let’s have a drink and enjoy the moment.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’m never going to a concert again.”

  Fifteen

  The phone woke Dave on the third ring.

  “Hello?” he said, doing his best to hide that he’d been sleeping. He looked at the clock and saw eight forty-five. He’d slept four hours. Regular patterns had eluded him since the accident, so he’ decided to simply sleep whenever exhaustion allowed him.

  “May I Speak with Dave Bolden, please?”

  Dave looked at the rain splashing against his window pane. The voice was too alert for such a dull day. He sat upright.

  “This is Dave Bolden.”

  “Oh hi, Dave, I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s Cheryl Reid from Vatic Media.”

  Dave didn’t respond. Vatic Media had been a client before his place of work was destroyed. The name conjured thoughts of his colleagues’ shattered bodies.

  “Dave?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “We’re sorry about your tragedy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m calling because we want to offer you a job.”

  “A job?”

  “You’ve always done great work for us. I’m hoping you can come in today to discuss things.”

  “What time?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Lunch works for me. Do you know where we’re located?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, I look forward to seeing you.”

  He hung up, surprised by the call. A job. He considered the details: Vatic Media, mid-sized company, growing, and comparable pay to what he’d earned with Richter Accounting. The opportunity should have excited him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the fifteen thousand he’d paid Otto. It would take him three and a half months just to clear fifteen thousand at Vatic Media, let alone have fifteen thousand left over for his dad’s care. Thoughts of sixty-hour work weeks, performance reviews, managers, the hustle for clients, and the wrath of clients left him anxious. In truth, he didn’t want to work any more, not yet anyway. A new feeling washed over him. Part of him wished that Thorrin was right, and he did have the power of luck on his side.

  Dave put a tie around his neck for the first time since the accident. He flipped to channel twenty-six, where two stock ticker tapes ran across the bottom of the screen in opposite directions. Maybe if he hit the library, took out every book on the stock market and obsessed over the business channel, he could get competent enough to have a good run with Thorrin. The thought lasted as long as it took the screen to change to a commercial. Numbers always came easy but the market’s science eluded him. He looked at the screen as though what he saw was in a different language, and the host spoke in a code that made him feel inferior—up, down, street names, warrants, EBITPA, ask and bid, short selling, book value, resistance levels and poison pills.

  Partnering up with a broker that would give him recommendations in return for fifty per cent of Thorrin’s kickbacks was another option.

  But the gains weren’t worth a broker’s risks. Between insider trading and the risk of losing a guy like Thorrin’s money, there was no incentive for a real broker to enter such absurdity.

  The first thing Dave noticed at the interview was that Cheryl Reid looked older than he remembered. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and her lips were locked in a smile so toothy, it looked cartoonish. She hugged him for a three count. “We’re so sorry.”

  Dave wanted to say “Be sorry for my colleagues, they died,” but he managed to squint with his lips raised in a weak smile.

  “Let’s start with a tour.” She led him through a hallway with dull lighting to a cluster of cubicles. “This is the main space.” She knocked on the side of a cubicle, where a woman with short hair faced a computer screen. The name tag read: Ann Hemple. Ann turned her chair to face the knock. “Hi there,” Cheryl waved. “This is Dave Bolden.”

  The two exchanged a quick handshake before respectively wiping their hands. Dave wiped his hands because they were sweaty, and Ann probably wiped hers because she wondered where his hands had been.

  “Ann is doing all the accounts by herself right now, so you’d be working closely with her if you come aboard.”

  Strike one, Dave thought.

  A phone buzzed, and Ann spun towards it as if it couldn’t have rung soon enough. She wore an oversized hunter green suit jacket and slacks, and her eyes looked medicated. Cheryl waved goodbye before continuing the tour.

  The next stop was a kitchenette with a fridge, a microwave and a plate of morning glory muffins. Ann pointed to a calendar marked with yellow happy faces.

  “We have group softball on Tuesdays in the spring and summer, yoga in the fall and winter. And Fridays after work we usually get together at the pub to start the weekend.”

  Dave caught himself staring at a sticky note reminding everyone to ante up for the weekly office lotto tickets. This wasn’t a place he wanted to work. He didn’t want to work anywhere yet, and maybe never in an office again.

  “I’ve got to be honest,” he said, slowing her momentum. “This is all a little much right now. I mean it’s wonderful for you to make this easy for me, and it looks like a great place to work, but I need some time away from the workplace right now.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Well, we respect that, of course, but we need assistance as soon as possible, so I can’t promise you the job will be available at a later date.”

  “I understand.”

  He couldn’t get out of the building fast enough. The overhead lighting, the smells of photocopier fluid and cheap coffee, the constant clicking of keyboards and hustling on phones filled him with the need to see what remained of his former workplace. He’d spent more time at Richter accounting than anywhere, and that reality hit him hard as the cab stopped in front of what was left of the office.

  “They should put a pizza place here,” the driver said with a gesture at the hollowed-out front. “The neighbourhood needs a pizza place.”

  Time seemed to slow as Dave stepped out of the cab. People passed him in both directions, but none of them did more than glance at the broken storefront. He inspected the orange plastic fence someone had unravelled over the perimeter. The sagging in the middle proved the fence hadn’t done its job. He imagined squatters smoking around the rubble that had once been his office or teenagers smashing whatever they could find that wasn’t already destroyed. Other than dust and dirt, the front door looked like it had the last time he’d walked through, which surprised him considering the devastation just a foot away.

  A car honking pulled his attention to the road, where a minivan almost pulled into a Lexus SUV. For the first time, he noticed a man watching him from three storefronts down the street. The man didn’t smoke or take it all in while he waited for someone, he just stared at Dave.

  Dave looked at the man long enough to notice his black bubble vest, jeans and Maple Leafs hat. The stare made him uncomfortable, but the office’s shell drew his eyes back to its frame. What if it became a pizza shop like the cabbie wanted? The thought frustrated him. People would remember the space for pizza, and his place of work, the place where four of his friends had been killed, would disappear except from his memory. No one else had survived. No one else knew the place for what it was, so while the family members of his dead colleagues might remember their loved ones’ stories of the office, he was the only one left who’d known the place intimately.

  He glanced down the street again to see that the staring man was now closer.

  With his feet planted, legs stiff and a newspaper rolled up in one hand, he didn’t hide his gaze either. Dave sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for the city’
s unpredictable; he was in the mood for a beer.

  The Saunders pub had hosted many a Friday liquid lunch for Dave, so when he entered, Frank Saunders limped his way out from behind the bar and hugged him tightly.

  “What took you so long? We were on pins and needles here, you bastard.”

  Frank smelled like he’d had a few beers himself, but it was his style to talk to the customers, drink with the customers, and listen to the customers. He ran his hands through the sides of his thick, white hair while exhaling. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, no talking today then. But know this, you don’t pay for another drink here as long as you live.”

  “Frank…”

  “You hear me? Not as long as you live. Now go take a seat, and I’ll get you a pint.”

  Dave avoided the front booths where he’d often taken clients for lunch, walked past the two-seaters where he’d had after-work drinks with Shannon and slipped into a back booth. Frank couldn’t have served the pint fast enough.

  “Bless you,” Dave said as he lifted the pint to his lips.

  “My pleasure. When it settles down, I’ll join you for a drink.”

  Dave raised his pint.

  A part of him wanted to spend every night in a bar, where music underscored every moment, until the beers slowed time, and he entered a world that just happened. A world where conversations started with ease, witty replies flowed off his tongue, and all he had to do was sip at a beer.

  Another mouthful was slipping down his throat when he looked up to see the man who’d stared at him outside walking towards his booth. His stomach tingled in anticipation of the worst. Perhaps he was somebody Thorrin had sent, or maybe this guy had mistaken him for the man cheating with his wife or a guy who owed him money. He didn’t get to the next set of possibilities before the man sat down.

  “Do I know you?” Dave said.

  “No.” Weary eyes dominated the man’s face. He spread large hands on the table and leaned on his forearms. “But I’ve been waiting for you to come back to the crash site.”

  “For me?”

  “Every day.”

  The man wasn’t polished enough to be associated with Thorrin.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you survived.”

  Dave sat back in his seat. The words made him uncomfortable and unsure of what might happen next, so he locked eyes with the man and searched for any clues about who he was sitting with. The man’s face was drained, and his eyelids were a sore pink.

  “Are you a journalist?”

  “No.” The man slid both his lips into his mouth and bit down on them for a moment before continuing. “I’m the driver of the truck.”

  Dave saw a flash of steam rising from the truck’s grill and replayed the broken bodies of his colleagues. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I saw you when they were putting me into the ambulance,” the man said. The words raced from his mouth as if he couldn’t say them fast enough. “But they were asking me so many questions, there was no time.”

  “You don’t need to do this.”

  “I disagree. I have to do this. Don’t you want to know how it happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s the only thing that matters. I’ve barely slept since the crash. I get these pains in my head like it’s going to implode. I need to tell you. You survived, you deserve to know.”

  Another flash of the truck filling the office space forced Dave to close his eyes for a second before he reopened them. “It won’t change anything.”

  “I need to tell you.”

  Dave shifted his weight. The muscles in his forearms flexed, and his eyes narrowed. “Do you really think that if I know you swerved to avoid a kid or blew a tire that it’ll make this any better? It doesn’t matter to me how it happened.”

  “I’m not doing this for you.”

  They stared at each without saying anything. Dave had lied to the man. Seeing the driver changed everything. The truck had a face in the flashes now. Dave envisioned the man slumped over the wheel as he stepped over broken glass and debris.

  “The crash was my fault,” the man said.

  Dave didn’t respond. He was doing his best to ignore the flashes and stay focussed on the driver. “I’ve been double shifting the past two months. I hadn’t slept in three days. I didn’t eat that morning, and the next thing I know, I’m in an ambulance. The doctor said it was a seizure. Said it was brought on by exhaustion, but she’s not sure.”

  “That’s not your fault.”

  “People died because I passed out.”

  “You could have just as easily passed out at home.”

  “I shouldn’t have been driving.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Dave thought of the man having a seizure. It could have happened anywhere, but it hadn’t. He could have died, but he hadn’t. He finished the last of his pint before setting it back on the table and spinning the glass with his closest hand. “Do you think maybe we lived for a reason?”

  “How so?”

  “You could have easily died in the crash, and if you’d crashed just a couple of minutes later, maybe hit a few more red lights before you reached my office, I’d be dead too.”

  The man adjusted his hat. “Are you asking if I believe in a higher power?”

  “I’m asking if you believe in luck.”

  “Luck?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with this. The truck crashed because I had a seizure.”

  The tone shook Dave enough that he shifted his weight again. “It’s hard to make sense of this.”

  “I’d settle for making peace with it.” The man stood up. His body moved slow, as though it hurt his back and legs to straighten. “You take care.”

  They shook hands, and Dave was surprised to find the man’s hand so cold. He watched the driver leave the pub and wondered what would become of him. Would he live the rest of his life plagued by the belief he that he’d been responsible for ending four lives? Knowing how it happened didn’t make Dave feel better about surviving. All the knowledge did was emphasize the variables that had worked in tandem to allow him to stay alive.

  Sixteen

  Dave entered his dad’s room with a bouquet of daisies. “Afternoon, sir, I brought you something to help with that smell that’s been bothering you.”

  “The cleaning products?”

  “Yeah, I thought some flowers might freshen things up.”

  “Good for you.”

  His dad lay stiff in bed with a newspaper folded by his side. He had yet to turn his head towards his son.

  “Okay,” Dave said as he set the flowers down on a dresser. “You want to be like that, then we’ll just get to the problem. Where is it?”

  Jack didn’t respond.

  “Do you understand they’re going kick you out of here if this continues?”

  “They stole from me.”

  “They didn’t steal from you. They warned you that gambling wasn’t allowed here. Now where’s the money?”

  Jack pushed himself to a sitting position, and his feet swung to the ground with a loud thump.

  “Where are you going to live if they kick you out?”

  “I’ll be at the cottage.”

  “The cottage? I’m sure you’d love that, and I’d love a million dollars right now, but neither of those things are going to happen. Do you know what I have to do every month to keep you here?”

  Jack turned his head to the window, and Dave couldn’t help but notice how awkward his dad’s profile looked. With a curved back, matted hair and heavy eyelids, there was no denying he was a shell of the man Dave remembered. Dave grounded himself in a chair and pulled it nearer his dad.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to put that on you, but I need you to tell me where the money is. If we give it back to everyone that placed a bet
, I can probably straighten this out.”

  As if someone had plugged him in, Jack snapped forward. “You’d have to be a bloody fool to take the Jets by two touchdowns. They got what they deserved.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is you promised not to bet in here, yet you encouraged and organized people to bet then took their money.”

  A rattle in Jack’s breathing warned that the conversation was too intense, so he waved a hand across the room. “It’s under the dresser.”

  Dave thought of the summer before his first year at university. His dad had made him promise not to tell anyone, including his mother, what he was about to show him. What Dave perceived as melodrama made him laugh until Jack flashed him a look that made him feel uncomfortable, even at eighteen.

  “You think money’s funny?” Dave didn’t respond. “Is it funny to you that you don’t have money for tuition? Is it funny that you’re planning on taking a loan that’ll eat into your pay cheques long after you’ve graduated?”

  Dave wiped at an eyebrow. The high stress of gambling had hardened his dad over the years, and he’d become prone to these types of dogmatic rants. It saddened Dave to see him that way, but it made him angry that his father was right.

  “Now, do you promise?” Jack asked, lighting a cigarette.

  Dave managed a weak nod.

  “Say it.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good man,” Jack said, pointing at Dave with his smoking hand. He hunched at the base of the dresser like a baseball catcher with his fingers clasped. His eyes burned with intensity. “I keep a stash of money here, taped underneath my sock drawer. Now, I’m telling you this for two reasons.” A sigh of frustration escaped his lips as he reached beneath the dresser. The strain on his face demonstrated that removing the money was more effort than he had expected, before he revealed the thickest roll of money Dave had ever seen. “The first reason I’m telling you this is because I’m paying for your tuition.”

  The words filled Dave with a sense of relief he had never before experienced and a sense of appreciation he would never forget. His facial muscles locked in a youthful smile. “How?”

  “You mean thank you,” Jack said, blowing out some smoke.