Down on My Luck

I was jogging in the park, basking in the sun and endorphins of physical exertion when a hawk flew overhead, causing a blur of a bird to poop on my upturned head. My smile turned upside down as I gagged at the wet mass in danger of encroaching past my sweaty hair to my naked scalp. Scrunching my shoulders up and half-tiptoeing, half-running with my hand pressed to my hairline, I sought out the nearest food cart 50 yards away for a generous serving of glorious napkins.

Halfway there, a young person in glasses wearing a black blazer appeared. Long, dark hair whipped behind them, as they ran at top speed. But one does not just run in shiny wingtips as a shoed and bipedaled animal and expect smooth, cross-country travel. Subsequently, their briefcase burst open, sending papers flying into the food cart, and the curious middle-aged man peeked out his cart window.

The fallen person immediately stuffed the papers away haphazardly without zipping up and ran past, only wasting a mere thirty seconds from their fall to continue on their way. I approached the cart, struggling to contain my own problem.

“Ahh!” I exclaim—and my poor scalp has suddenly run out of time and precious personal space.

“You see that?” the cart guy asks, “Where do you think he was running to?” He pointed a thumb in the direction they left in. “He sure can book it for someone who looks like they sit at a computer all day.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms. “Oh yeah, what can I get you?” He stares at me intently.

I point erratically at the mess on my head, grimacing sheepishly. “Can I get some napkins?” I try to keep my head straight so the poop doesn’t drip toward my face or neck.

“You buying anything? Napkins aren’t free.” A shrewd salesman. “Uhhh…” I scrounge in my fanny pack for spare cash with my free hand. I grab a crumpled dollar bill. “A water?” I reach toward the window. “Two bucks for water,” he says simply. “Oh, come on!” I’m desperate as he hands me the napkins and bottle. “Just kidding!” he jokes, with a cheerful chortle, taking my money and putting it in the tip jar. He laughs as I wipe my hair furiously, before opening the bottle and dumping it on my hands.

“Today’s your lucky day, eh?” He leans on his elbows as he looks on, entertained, as he hands me some more napkins to wipe my hands dry. “Lucky day? What do you mean?” I stare at him through slitted eyes. “In Russia, it’s good luck if a bird poops on you!” I’m speechless as he turns to go about cleaning up. I consider his perspective as my eyes land on a little, black notebook on the ground contrasting with the sea of light, dirt brown and grass. It was partially hidden behind a front cart wheel. I look around, noting the absence of passersby and say goodbye to him, book tucked under my arm.

I open, with my elbow, the door lever handle that I leave unlocked when I go for short jogs or errands. As soon as I get home, I run to the sink to scrub my hands with soap before the door closes with its own weight. I plop onto the floor, crossing my legs and pull out the black notebook from my side. I slide the elastic strap of the notebook off and before I have the chance to flip through the pages, I find two neat stacks of hundreds taped down tightly to the inside of the front cover to conceal their thickness, looking like bars of milk chocolate in a fake money wrapper. I turn it over and the back has another two stacks. I frantically flip through the pages, but they are crisply blank. New. I counted them with shaking hands and ever-widening eyes. Twenty thousand dollars…

I want sushi, I want takeout, I want a king-sized bed! I just want even a nice winter jacket or to pay my rent without living paycheck to paycheck. I exhale, wishing that thinking about what I wanted was always this easy.

Maybe now, it can be. At least, for a little while.

The door clicks open, hard, and I instinctively grip the money in my hands, caught red-handed. The person who ran in the front of the cart was now in front of me, panting from the adrenaline, quickly shutting and locking the door behind them. “You can keep the money so long as you let me stay here! I can’t stay at a hotel. I saw you go out for a run and watched you take the book and go home. You have a problem with that?” I shake my head vigorously, beyond relieved. “Phew!” they sigh and pull the black hair off, apparently a wig, and sit heavily on the futon and I wondered if this was the beginning of my luck life…