Luck

Luck

I wrote this one for my junior mid-term exam. So you'll see some areas where I was stretching for those lit
techniques like metonymy and situational irony that I was testing that semester. That's OK; it wasn't meant to be
too serious anyway.

Luck

It must have been the jolt of impact that awoke him.

Stan opened his eyes, but they were no help.

It was darker than a mine shaft during a black-out during an eclipse in Alaska in the wintertime.

Where was he?

Then his other senses kicked in. Motion: Rocking. Bobbing. Sounds: Water slapping. Seagulls. Smell was no help. His sweat
was all he could smell at the moment, since he hadn't showered in weeks, and his head was wedged against his chest. His
arms and legs were compressed as well. He was able to move his right hand enough to feel the rough surface of the wooden
box in which he was entombed.

The pieces all came together.

He was trapped inside a wooden crate floating in the water. If he had to guess, he figured he was in the ocean off the coast of
New Jersey.

Which meant Lucio had kept his promise.

Shortly after becoming a blackjack dealer in Atlantic City, Stan decided to try his hand at playing on the other side of the
table. He spent every hour off work playing blackjack, craps, roulette, or whatever. Every day he would ditch dinner for dice.
He'd swap a siesta for slots. He didn't want to waste time eating or sleeping. He had it all figured out. Mathematically, if he
played enough, the law of averages guaranteed him he would win eventually. Anyone could eventually be lucky if he played
the odds.

The odds did not like to play with Stan.

He lost his paycheck every week. He lost his apartment. He lost his car. He lost his job.

He just needed one big break. Then everything would fit together again

But the only break the casino operators offered was to break his ribs if he stepped into their casino again. His recent habit of
crying on the floor had been embarrassing and didn't help him at all.

Stan found the racetracks. Sure, horses weren't as fast as the dice, but they would work, and the pay off was really good if he
played the odds.

The odds really hated Stan.

One break. That's all he needed.

Then he found Lucio. Lucio was happy to lend him a few thousand, for a small fee that Stan could easily earn back with just
one spin of the roulette wheel. That move changed his luck.

For the worse.

Stan lost even bigger than before. And Lucio threatened to make Stan swim with the fishes if he didn't come up with the
money.

Now there Stan was. Sinking. The water had already risen past his waist.

Realization hit him like a spotlight on a deer. Stan had no luck. He was the opposite of luck. He was the Anti-luck. He was
not a gambler and had no business with any form of gambling. As the water rapidly swallowed his chest, Stan decided he
would never gamble again. He made a last, desperate shot at salvation. A promise, a plea, a prayer. If he survived this, he
would never make another bet in his life. He was through with big breaks. He just wanted a little chance.

His answer was a hum that grew into a buzz that exploded into a roar of a boat engine. The sound headed toward him. As it
got louder, he knew he was saved!

He tilted his head up to suck at the small remaining pocket of air. The water was closing in on his ears.

The noise grew louder. Hey, he thought, shouldn't the boat be slowing down before it…?

The sound peaked, and Stan waited to be sliced open by the bow or the propeller.
Instead he was magically lifted and moved. He realized the boat's wake must be carrying him. Maybe he could float into
shore.

No such luck. The crate bumped to a halt on something hard. He was still bobbing. But he wasn't sinking. He must be stuck
on a buoy.

Sucking at the air, Stan knew this would be his only chance to live.

He braced his shoulders and pushed with his legs. After some minutes of strain, he felt the nails in the crate give way. A
moment later, he was free.

Clinging to the buoy, he could see the Jersey coastline. He kicked off his shoes, and took off his pants. He inflated his pants
as he had learned in life-saving class when he was a teen.

Stan congratulated himself as he kicked slowly to shore, supported by his buoyant britches. He had escaped death. He had
beaten Lucio. He was the luckiest man who ever lived.

This must be his lucky day. When he reached shore, he would sit on the boardwalk and get a couple bucks from the tourists.
Then he'd get a lottery ticket or two. His big break had come at last.

The odds of being attacked by a shark in the North Atlantic are four to five times less than being hit by lightning.

But the odds really hated Stan.

Copyright 2007 Tony Varrato