The Source

Christopher Greene never enters a room with his left foot first. When the forecast calls for thunderstorms, he will not be dressed in red. If you clink a glass with him in celebration, you can be sure of two things. One, he is not drinking water. And two, he will, without a doubt, look you in the eyes as you toast.

Today he is headed to the Wishbone Diner to enjoy breakfast with a friend. It's a short walk from his tiny apartment, though it's often made longer due to the effort it takes to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. Christopher loves his mother dearly.

It's just before 11 o'clock. Today he has knocked on wood 253 times.

He steps right-foot-first into the diner and finds Leah instantly. She has entered her third trimester and that obvious fact combined with a beaming smile known only to mothers-to-be make her impossible to miss. She wore her springy black curls loose and high. She waves Christopher over to the booth and sets her leather bag on the floor by her feet. Christopher grimaces. He wonders if she knows what this could mean for her finances.

Leah is Christopher's closest friend. The combination of being the same age, working in the same office, and sitting in adjacent cubicles could spark a friendship in almost any pair. Leah's genuine warmth fueled the spark even more.

"You wanted pancakes, right?" Leah asked.

Chris nodded. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't take his eyes off the twisted piece of bacon Leah was bringing to her mouth. It resembled a gnarled finger.

"You know," he started, "there's a superstition that says eating ugly foods will give you an ugly baby."

Leah sighed. "Chris, it's a burnt piece of bacon. It will never be the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel."

A frown marked his face. He stared silently at his plate of perfectly symmetrical pancakes. Not the Sistine Chapel, he thought, but still a pleasant sight.

"Ahh, don't get gloomy," Leah said. "Besides I'm treating you! We both know what's coming up next week. Happy birt-"

"Don't say it!" he whispered frantically. "It's bad luck to say it early!"

Leah found herself somewhere between frustration and concern. She looked at her friend, halfway out of his seat with arms extended, gesturing in every way for her not to finish that sentence. His eyes somehow pleading more loudly than his lips.

Leah could almost recall a man more concerned with punchlines than premonitions. Suddenly he had altered every aspect of his routine in an effort to avoid anything that could potentially bring misfortune. No haircuts on Tuesdays. No sitting at the corner of a table. No whistling indoors.

Leah stared at him. He looked much older than his 32 years.

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Two tables down, a woman opened a book. It was old, yet the binding was intact and the pages hadn't yellowed. This small, black notebook sat unflawed upon the greasy tabletop.

At an adjacent booth, a woman lept from her seat and threw an assortment of bills on the table.

"Matt, keep the change!" she called out.

The woman with the book glanced at her watch. Right on time, she thought. She produced a pen from her sleeve and went to work.

The pen drifted over the paper as if the two were made for one another. The black ink stood out strongly against the soft white page.

LINDA KING, it read.

CATCH EVERY GREEN LIGHT, it followed.

Linda was on her way to the hospital. Her mother had recently taken ill and after 92 years of beautiful life, it was her time.

Linda would undoubtedly make it to the hospital with ample time to say everything that was on her heart, and it was all because of Luck.

Luck isn't knocking on wood. Luck isn't crossing your fingers. Luck is seated here at the Wishbone Diner with a notebook before her.

"Whenever you're ready, miss!" The server moved like liquid, one motion flowing into the next. She set the black leather check presenter on the table and vanished. Luck placed a bill inside. She sighed contentedly and closed her book, then her eyes. She found that it was easier to be creative that way.

With eyes closed, she could sense the server pass once more to retrieve the payment. Luck was impressed with her speed.

What's next, she wondered. She could guide a teenager toward the perfect scholarship. She could lead a talent scout down the street where several supremely gifted boys play basketball. She could cause an afternoon meeting to wrap up early so a single father could meet his other half at happy hour.

The sun was shining, which meant that it was perfectly acceptable to work outside for the rest of the day. Luck slid her belongings into her bag and left.

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“You're all set! Have a great day!” The rapid speech of the server indicated that the lunchtime rush was here.

Leah was returning from the restroom. “Alright, Chris. I’m going to take off. I’ll see you Monday. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Christopher smiled. Her friendship made him feel lucky. He grabbed the leather check presenter to retrieve his change and - - oh?

This wasn’t the check presenter. It was a small, black notebook. He checked the inside cover for a name.

PEN A NAME, THEN PEN A COURSE;

IF YOU SEEK LUCK, THIS IS THE SOURCE.

Poetic, Christopher thought. He flipped through the pages, looking for one name and found hundreds. Adjacent to each name was a fortunate event. There were promotions, good grades, and chance reunions. He skimmed the pages and stopped suddenly.

LEAH LEWIS; SUCCESSFUL IN VITRO FERTILIZATION (A BABY GIRL)

Christopher sprang from the booth and rushed out of the diner. What was this? Who did it belong to? How did they know Leah, and how did they know this about her?

He read the instructions again. PEN A NAME, THEN PEN A COURSE. He stepped inside a corner store to reach for the pen in his pocket. He turned to an empty page.

CHRISTOPHER GREENE; ONE MIL-

He crossed it out. If he suddenly became a millionaire, people were going to ask questions. It must be something more believable.

He looked to the lottery ticket machine by the entrance. One ticket boasted a grand prize of $20,000. He writes.

CHRISTOPHER GREENE; $20,000

He steps towards the lottery machine. Suddenly the shop radio buzzes to life.

“HEEEY! It’s DJ Rockin’ Rodney! We’re celebrating 50 years of being the most successful rock radio station on air. We’re giving away $20,000 to our 50th caller! Just be ready to answer a trivia question. Get out those phones and start dialing! 1-800-FZK-ROCK!”

Christopher pulls out his phone. He waits, then dials the number.

“CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE OUR 50TH CALLER! YOU’VE GOT ONE QUESTION BETWEEN YOU AND $20,000. READY? WHY IS IT CONSIDERED BAD LUCK TO SPILL SALT ON THE TABLE?”

Without missing a beat, Christopher answers.

“It’s believed that Judas spilled salt at the Last Supper. In Da Vinci’s painting, you can see an overturned salt cellar near his arm.”

“YOU GOT IT!!! YOU ARE OUR $20,000 WINNER! HOW DO YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW!?”

“Like… like I can do anything.”

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It didn’t take long for Luck to track down the book. Just follow the trail of windfalls until you get to the person clasping the book in jewel-covered fingers.

One person in town won three beach vacations, two brand new cars, and sweepstake victories totaling $350,000. Nothing but her book could explain this. After a bit of investigating, Luck tracked the address and knocked on the door.

A woman with springy black curls opened the door. She wasn’t covered in designer garb or jewels. She simply stood before Luck with a polite smile. “Hello, may I help you?”

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A knock startled Christopher. A look through the peephole revealed that a woman was there. Strange, he thought. He didn’t remember dropping a fork today. He opened the door.

“So you have my book. Why didn’t I see your face on the news for mysteriously coming into a ton of cash?” Luck asked.

Any other day, this would be a bizarre greeting. “Oh? My $20,000 prize from the radio contest didn’t make the news?”

“It must have been overshadowed by the absolute fortune that found your friend Leah.”

“I only gave her what she deserves.”

“That's fair. And what about you? I never imagined that the person to find my book would stop after one entry.”

Christopher looked down at his feet. It never got easier.

“I don’t want good luck. I want answers for the bad luck. I must have read thousands of entries and I haven’t come across one misfortune. How is that possible? Where’s the record of mine?”

Luck looked at him as he leafed through the pages. A lifetime wasn’t long enough to look through every entry.

“It isn’t in there, Christopher. What happened to her… it wasn’t something that good luck could prevent, and it wasn’t something that bad luck caused.”

Christopher’s hands stopped. He spoke softly, the hurt creeping back up as if it were fresh. It did that every time. “I broke her mirror. This tiny little compact mirror with pastel-colored stars. I stepped on it, and I didn’t think anything of it. It was bad luck and it took her away from me.”

“Christopher, there isn’t a single record of bad luck in that book, and death will never be recorded in its pages. Do you know why that is?”

He looked at her through tears. He had no answer.

"We get no say in the bad things that happen to the ones we love. I have nothing to make that truth less painful. If I did, the book would have twice the number of pages.

You are not responsible for your daughter's death. Luck doesn't work that way. It's kind, it's random, and it doesn't seek to punish you for the way you walk or where you sit at the dinner table or the trinkets you break because you're only human.

You can't fill your memory with every superstition it can hold. It will distract you from the memory of her death, but it will also distract you from the memory of her life. And I know you don't want that."

Christopher looked at the book in his hands then back to the embodiment of the concept that had ruled his life ever since the accident. "I'm not sure I remember how I lived before."

Luck touched his hand. "I'll remind you."

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Christopher Greene entered the apartment unit behind the landlord. "The building is a short walk to the park and each unit has a stunning view of the river.” She parted the blinds to reveal a windowed wall with a view straight out of a postcard. The bridge that stretched across the river lit up at night, and the reflected lights seemed to dance on the surface of the river. Christopher was sold on the view alone.

The apartment was everything he could have wanted. A short walk to work and a short drive to see Leah, Daryl, and their sweet baby girl, Jade. Christopher could run and bike outside or he could read and watch movies in the comfort of this new home. He would find his happiness again, and it wouldn’t be possible without the photos of Olivia that he planned to decorate along the east wall in the living room. She would be a part of that happiness, always.

The landlord stepped towards Christopher. “You seem to be quite fond of this unit. It’s yours if you’d like. How do you like the sound of unit 13?”

Christopher looked at her and smiled. “That sounds perfect.”