Lady Luck

Never has there been such a moment where country music sounds so damn bad. ‘Give me a break’ I think as I turn the volume down. I look back to the road and catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror. A clown-face stares back; a portrait of stupidity.

Life ain’t all sunshine and roses. For me it’s more ‘Guns n Roses’ since my twin brother just pulled an ‘Axel’; upping and leaving me and our band, for the preference of a life in Hawaii with his fortune-teller girlfriend, whom he just met at the seven eleven whilst buying dog food for my rescue Hank. I can forgive his Carpe Diem attitude but taking all our savings, leaving his goodbye via a sticky note on the fridge and buying the wrong flavour tins for Hank? That’s over the line. I try and recall our conversation when he came back from the store that day; chest all puffed-up with enthusiasm and steamrolling words at me like he was his own hype-man at a rap battle. He said something about ‘destiny’ and ‘true love’. Who meets their true love at a seven eleven? I shake myself back into the present moment as I take a hard right at the lights and pull into a gas station.

I swerve my Dodge to a less than subtle stop. I kill the engine, put a red nose on and grab my gun. I get out of the car, almost instantaneously regretting this outfit choice.

I stuff the gun into my oversize trouser pocket and walk, head down, to the entrance of the gas station.

As I approach the door, I hear a raspy female voice say-

“Excuse me, the door is-”

I ignore her as I try to open the door, which is-

“Locked”. It’s that voice again.

I kick the door; this is poor timing on my part.

“Nice outfit!” I turn around to see a girl watching me as she leans against the wall of the gas station, she takes a long drag of her cigarette. I ask her when this place opens, she responds,

“About the time it takes to finish half a cigarette.”

“You work here?” I ask.

“No, I’m just wearing a check-out girl outfit cos all the clown outfits were sold out. Yes, I work here. I’m on my break…what’s with the clown costume? Are you in a circus or something?”

Now I feel like an idiot, I see that she has a uniform on. I pretend to ignore the fact that my head is screaming at me like I accidentally left ‘Caps lock’ on and I casually answer “yeah”. She continues,

“Cool, which one?”

Why is she so inquisitive? “Fuck!”

“Fuck!? I’ve never heard of that. Is that the ‘fuck’ circus or is ‘fuck’ the name of the town the circus is in?”

I interrupt this unwelcome question-time and ask her to finish the cigarette.

She shoots me down, “No.”

Okay, I play along. “It’s a traveling circus,”

“I see”, she says, “clowns on tour. So, do you juggle? Or do you make people laugh?”

I hit her with some redirection. I tell her she sounds a lot more normal than she looks, which is oddly truthful of me but she does.

She questions me back, “Oh, I don’t look normal?”

I dismissively say, “oh you know what I mean”. She says she doesn’t. And why would she? I’m not sure I even know where I’m going with this. I tell her, “Attractive. You look a lot more attractive than your voice led me to believe you were, you know, when I wasn’t looking at you.”

Her eyes squint in the sun as she looks back to me. “Thank you”. She almost purrs her words. “You know if I close my eyes you sound a lot less crazy than you look”.

God is she flirting with me? Stay on track Billy. I ask her if she’s finished the cigarette?

“Nearly. You got any jokes for me?”

“Jesus,” I say.

She interrupts, “Just tell me a joke!”

“I am it’s a Jesus joke okay…Jesus, that’s how it starts.” I’m improvising. ‘Jesus joke?’ That’s a serious niche. Why did I say that? I never remember jokes and now I’ve pigeon-holed myself to the Christianity sector? She’s looking at me. Eyes wide open full of expectation. Come on Jesus help me out here: the man that can turn water into wine, surely you can bless me in this moment with one joke about yourself. In my head I try and open up some stairway to heaven where some hidden level of genius to my mind may be in residence; trying to channel something, like the monks do. I scratch around in the blankness. Who am I kidding? My efforts are futile, I don’t believe in God and he knows it, so does his son. I stare back at her: an empty-handed prophet. The excitement slides off her face, she looks at me now as most people do: disappointed.

She exhales more smoke and begins talking, “This was all feeling so authentic you know? Us meeting here like this with you dressed like that, and then you turn out to be a clown with no joke…Eurgh. That’s like Bonnie without Clyde; Antony without Cleopatra, Dolly without Kenny-,” she’s waxing lyrical but at my expense,

“A song with no lyrics; a robber without a president mask and a till with no cash in it.”

This last line hits me like a freight train. I’m busted. My heart springs into my chest and I swallow it back down. She continues,

“Are you okay?... ‘Dolly and Kenny’, you know them right? They did that song, ‘Islands in the Stream!?”

She begins to sing at me; I’ve never heard such a cocky rendition,

“Islands in the stream, that is what we are, no one in between, how can we be wrong-”

All I manage to say is: “I gotta go.”

I take myself rapidly back to my car. As I drive away, I hear her shouting out to me,

“Why? Is circus school calling?”

I try to ignore the vocal tornado swirling around my head, the word ‘loser’ seems to be the prevailing wind of thought. I need to gather myself. I pull up by a coffee shop. If in doubt, caffeinate. It helps me think. I quickly pull off my outfit and rub as much of this makeup from my face. I wear normal clothes underneath but the clown persona has stuck.

I walk into this coffee joint and take a table near the window. As I sit down the chair moves beneath me; one leg slightly shorter than the other creates an unwelcome rocking chair. I shift about trying to get the chair to play ball like it’s some kind of wild horse that needs breaking in. I look around, the other customers sit well-balanced, sipping their coffees. They appear regal in comparison. I feel as if this chair has been placed here to mock me.

I look around again, this time to order my coffee; a dejection latte for my last supper. I see a waitress - she doesn’t see me. She’s chatting animatedly to the good-looking barista, God this man has good hair. That’s irritating. His youth and happiness lacquer’s on another layer of darkness to my ill-mood. I wave my hand in the air, the waitress half-looks my way. I’ll take that as an acknowledgement of my presence.

I sit back in my wobbly chair. As I look ahead of me, I see the customer on the opposite table. I don’t mean to look at him but he falls in my eyeline. He’s dressed like one of those poker players that wears a bandana, cap and sunglasses. I always think if you doubt your poker-face that much then perhaps cards ain’t the hobby for you. I laugh to myself: even at my lowliest I manage to criticise another human being.

I briefly catch his eyes from underneath his glasses. He quickly looks back down to his table. This makes me feel paranoid; maybe he’s a cop? A mind-reading one. Calm down Billy, you didn’t actually do anything. Maybe my brother’s new girlfriend wants me dead? Maybe he’s a hitman? Have I been watching too many movies? The waitress interrupts me from my thoughts, I order my latte. I check my pockets - a twenty note. When I look back up the man opposite has gone. He's left behind some kind of small black notebook. I quickly scan the room then walk over to do my own detective work on the man potentially doing the same to me.

I open the book…sketches. A sketch-book! Oh, the relief. So, he’s not some underworld character sent to kill me but an artsy-shy type. I take a seat; this is a welcome distraction and the pictures aren’t bad. I flip the page over, it’s a sketch of me. I look moody, somewhat bigger and more muscular and I’m happy with that. He’s drawn a little mouse straining with all his might to hold the shorter chair leg above his head to keep the balance even. The mouse has a tip jar next to him with a label on it saying ‘cheese’. A few meters away sits his mouse buddy in the opening of a hole in the skirting board. He holds a small saw and has a neatly sawn piece of wood next to him. He looks over to his buddy to make sure he’s playing his part. I almost want to look down at my seat to see if this mouse mafia is real. In the drawing I’m handing a piece of cheese from a sandwich down to the mouse. I laugh, this artist has an imagination that’s for sure. He thinks he has my number, the wise-guy. But he doesn’t. I’m no fool, I recognise a scam when I see one. As I study the page, I find myself thinking there is something familiar about this sketch, other than the fact that I’m in it.

I turn to the next page which reads:

‘Thanks for the lunch, sorry I forgot my wallet...Banksy.’

I re-read that word…Banksy. My head feels like it just spun round three times and I swear I can hear the sound of coins raining out of a Vegas slot machine and a church choir singing ‘Hallelujah’. I snatch myself back and contain my joy. I look around; no one has noticed. The waitress still chats to the barista; suddenly I love this man. I check Banksy’s bill and pull out the twenty from my pocket. Thank God Banksy doesn’t have a big appetite, the twenty just covers his lunch, plus my coffee. I leave the note on his table and take the book for myself. I think he’d approve I mean, hey, it’s nothing the mice wouldn’t do.

I get in my car. As I drive away the radio plays. I turn it up, and sing along to the lyrics, “sail away with me, to another world…” Wait. ‘Island’s in the Stream?’…What are the chances? As I cruise down the road imagining the sale of this notepad at Bonham’s; with a big neon $20,000 sign flashing in my minds’ eye, I see a Mexican-standoff situation playing out at a gas station…the gas station I was just at. Four cops stand with their guns drawn yelling at a girl to drop her weapon. She obliges and is immediately slammed onto the bonnet of a cop-car. I drive by slowly with a gormless expression on me, completely transfixed by this action. That could have been me!

Then it hits me, it’s the check-out girl.

As her face is pressed against the bonnet, she looks up to me. We stare at each other for a while. Who is this woman? She had me fooled. I’m in awe, I’m in love. She winks at me. Who knew a guardian angel could wear such a mask? The song still plays on the radio, I sing out loud to her: “And we’ll rely on each other, ah ha.” I smile, never has there been such a moment where country music sounds so damn good.