Lucky Man

I never would have done it if I wasn’t starving. I was down about twenty pounds from my fighting weight. I used the cord off an old appliance and used it to tie my jeans around my waist. I couldn't keep them up, my leather belt worn through until the buckle had fallen off. It's not like I had electricity anyway, that was cut off months ago. Thank God for the free heat in my building, and the fact that the absentee owner hadn't tracked me down yet for the rent that I didn't have. I searched the apartment for food, any food, but I'd repeated this process many times and knew it would be fruitless, no pun intended. My stomach growled inconsolably, but my pride made me wait until darkness fell. I drained off the leftover, boiled-down coffee in the saucepan. The taste was rancid, but at least it put something in my stomach. I lit a candle and carried it into the kitchen to brush my teeth.

I had a tiny mirror attached to the inside of a kitchen cabinet of my tiny efficiency apartment. The face I see in the mirror is gaunt. Hell, I looked the like the hero in the Edvard Munch paintings. I considered shaving off my four-day growth, but thought to myself, what's the point? I brushed my teeth and savored the flavor of the generic toothpaste. You know you're desperate when your toothpaste begins to taste like food. I search through my apartment until I found my black tee shirt. It was stiff with accumulated dirt and sweat. The odor was heady, so much so that I almost regurgitated the meager contents of my stomach. I put the shirt on and my skin crawled in its filth. I found a couple of half inch butts in the ashtray and lit one, the smoke abating the stench. I looked out into the hallway to see if any of my neighbors is lurking about. I hated them, didn’t even like passing them in the staircase. Who would knowingly choose to live in this building? I slipped out the door, pausing to lock both of the deadbolts.

Good luck, Johnny.

Johnny, hell of a name for a forty-five year-old man.

My name is Johnny Luckman. You can imagine the kind of shit I took for that as a kid. Mommy's little lucky man. I was a dot.com millionaire back in the nineties. In 2002 when that market went bust I began the slow downward spiral that landed me in this dump of an apartment in one of Brooklyn's most dicey neighborhoods. It's a far cry from my old place on Central Park West. Looking back, that was probably the beginning of my end, the arrogance of spending millions on a thousand square feet of New York's most expensive real estate. It seemed like the cash was a waterfall, and I was taking a never-ending shower. Suffice it to say, the shower ended and the money dried up.

I walked quickly from the building to the street corner, crossed to the other side of the street so that she won't see me. Before I navigate the three lanes of traffic, I look over, and sure enough, she's working. Sandra. Sandy on her nametag, but Sandra in my heart. The dot.com crash spiraled her too, but hers was much gentler, though it probably didn't seem so. Sandra was a waitress in my favorite restaurant in Midtown. I'd always carried a torch for her, but she'd always been looking for the next big thing. You see, Sandra was an actress. She'd filmed a pilot that almost got picked up by the networks. It all went to shit when the producer of her show got popped in the same bubble that popped me. Her dreams went up in a puff of cyber-smoke, and she was forced to leave Oz for the hinterlands. If Manhattan is Oz, I guess that makes Brooklyn the hinterlands. It took me a while to find her, but love conquered reason and I followed her out to the sticks. That's how I came to be living in this nightmarish perversion of the Big Apple.

I crossed Washington Ave and cut down the alley that runs behind the storefronts that adorn said street. The alley is squalid and barren, save for a few rats that flit between the upended trashcans. The rats were my enemy, tonight and always. I settled into a dark doorway to wait, checking the time on my old Timex. A little past eight. Shouldn't be too long until the cook from Phil's Famous Pizza comes out to deposit tonight's dinner in the dumpster. Then it was just a matter of beating the rats to the prize. Dumpster diving. I would have never done it if I wasn’t starving. Sure, I could go to the soup kitchen and stand in line with the rest of the losers, but that would be admitting defeat. I was a winner. I was the lucky man.

I heard the familiar sound of the creaky back door of Phil's and I peeked around the corner to get my eyes on the prize. Instead, two men emerged from the door and began arguing. I was far enough away that I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized the turgid tone of the argument. These were men who truly hated each other. I ducked back in my cubbyhole. Shit, there goes dinner. My mind was already thinking of contingency plans. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of dumpsters in Brooklyn, but Phil made a damn fine pizza.
The conversation across the way escalated. The violence in the air was palpable. I feel myself shrinking in the darkness. No reason to think that I would become the object of their discontent, but I was fearful nonetheless. Even my friends the rats became silent and unmoving. The confrontation seemed to come to a head.

Boom! Boom!

The unmistakable sound of gunfire, followed closely by the sound of two bodies falling to the pavement. The sound was so startling that it made my bowels leak. If I thought I smelled bad before, imagine what I smelled like then. When the echoes dissipated, the night became eerily quiet. I found myself shivering in my hiding place. Fifteen minutes past, twenty. The only sounds in the alley are the ones of locks being thrown, windows being shuttered. Involvement is a crime on these streets.

After a half hour of torturous waiting, I crept from my spot. To my dismay, I had to pass the bodies in order to get out of the alley. I tried not to look, but I was drawn like a rubber-necker to a traffic mishap. One of the men, a dapper dressed man of East Indian decent, is dead, a viscous worm of blood squiggled through the blow hole in the center of his forehead. The other man lay twitching, his breath frothy with the remnants of his wound. I tried to hurry past him, but the pistol on the ground next to him stopped me dead in my tracks. In spite of myself I pick it up, marveling at the heft and the matte black finish. It had to be worth something to me, a meal, some groceries. Wait a second. There were two shots fired. I walked back to where the Indian guy lay and sure enough, he's holding a shiny silver pistol in his hand. I tucked the first weapon the back of my pants and had to stop to tighten the cord around my waist. The fingers that I pried from the pistol were cool and waxen, much like I'd imagine on a sculpture at Madame Tussaud's museum. As an afterthought, I reached into the man's back pocket and pulled out a fat wallet roughly as thick as a baseball. The thick sheath of bills inside made my mouth start salivating. Dinnertime. I raced over to the other man and searched him, finally finding his wallet in his breast pocket, and pulled it out. As I opened it, I saw the badge and dropped it like it was a live hand grenade. I picked it up, checked both ends of the alley, and walked as fast I could to the nearest exit.

2
As soon as I got home I stripped off my foul clothes, showered and shaved. Pretty much everything that I owned was dirty, but I found an old pair of suit pants that fit me like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. I went commando rather than put a dirty pair of boxers next to my clean skin. On top of that I found an old Polo dress shirt from my days as a corporate fat cat. The lack of a belt was problematic, so I threw on my old windbreaker from my high school baseball days. Almost three decades old and now the sucker fit again. My scuffed beat shoes completed my ensemble. I took a handful of bills from the big fat wallet and shoved them into my empty money clip. I had to fight the urge to take one of my new weapons with me. The rest I shoved into the rip underneath the cushion of my ratty couch. I bagged up my dirty clothes and deposited them in the garbage on my way out of the building.

When I got to the end of my street I cursed myself, why did you have to take so damn long? The coffee shop where Sandra worked was closed for the night. Instead of crossing Washington I walked down a few blocks and cut over to Flatbush. With any luck I would never see that alley again. My head was spinning with the sights and the smells of Flatbush Ave. What should I buy with my newfound prosperity? Italian? Greek? Anything that didn't appear on the McDonald's value menu. I walked into an Italian restaurant and immediately felt stupid and exposed in my nylon windbreaker amongst all the designer suits and dresses. To the maitre de's credit, he didn't immediately show me the door, but took me to a darkened corner where I would be less exposed to ridicule. After I sat down he looked at me expectantly. It took a few seconds but I figured out what he wanted. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wad. His eyes registered the twenty-dollar bills and he was satisfied. I ordered the veal piccata with a carafe of Chianti and proceeded to gorge my empty stomach on the free garlic bread and salad that came with the meal. I managed my third bite of veal before I raced to the conveniently located restroom gave it all back to the establishment. The meal might have been a treat but for the fact that I hadn't had a real meal in at least four months. I settled my bill and walked out the door before the nice maitre de figured out how badly I'd befouled his beautiful facilities.

A few doors down from the restaurant was a Duane Reade drugstore that was open all night. I went in and bought fresh underwear, socks, a pack of smokes, a bath towel, and a full compliment of name brand toiletries. I was carrying the huge shopping bag and planning on going home when I spotted a movie marquee. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End was the feature. I seemed to remember hearing something about this movie so I walked up and bought a ticket. Inside the theater the huge display of concessions dazzled me. I stepped up and bought twenty-five dollars worth of Jujyfruits and popcorn, nachos and a beer. The young girl behind the counter looked at me in disbelief and then resignation. I guess it was that obvious that I was starving. I shoveled the large popcorn down as fast as I could chew it, and drained the beer before the movie started and was fast asleep by the time the opening credits rolled.

"Hey buddy, you can't sleep here."

"Wha, what?"

"I said you can't sleep here. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"I'm watching the movie."

"The movie's over, bub. Now you gots to go."

"Okay, No problem." As I stepped out into the neon-splashed of Flatbush from the darkness of the theater, my eyes were blinded in the contrast. I was disoriented and it took me a minute to figure out which way I was going. The huge LED clock outside of a Bank of America told me that it was almost midnight and forty-seven degrees. I shivered uncontrollably. It hadn't seemed that cold before. I hoped that I wouldn't have a seizure. I walked down a few blocks and then started to walk over to Washington.

"Hi, honey, you looking for a date?"

"What? No!" The hooker startled the shit out of me. So much for the city being cleaned up.
"Why not, sugar? I'll be real good for you."

She looked good, real good, like that chick from that group, Destiny's Child. "I can't."

"You can't? Honey, I can make a dead man hard."

She touched the side of my face and stared into my bloodshot eyes. I did feel a little twitch down there. "It's not that."

"What you don't wanna?" She gave me a smile that would melt chocolate. "What you got in the bag?"

"Toiletries." I felt stupid as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"Toiletries? Well whoop de do. Ain't that some shit?"

Damn, I've got sixty bucks left in my pocket; I wonder how much she wants. I found myself staring into an expanse of goose-bumped brown cleavage. "How much?"

"You aren't a cop are you? No, cops eat a meal once in a while. A hundy to start, after that, 'pends on what you want."

I've got another seven hundred back at my apartment. I can't take her back there. I've got no electricity, and she'll probably rob me. "Sorry honey. I can't afford you tonight. Maybe next time."

"Yeah, maybe next time." She reached inside her top and exposed a breast. Rolling her perfect dark nipple between her thumb and forefinger, she grinned. "Tastes just like Hershey's kiss." It looked like one too. Then she disappeared into the shadows where she came from.

3

Muted light greeted me when I woke the next morning. The Puerto Ricans in the apartment next door were arguing again. Normally it wouldn't bother me, but my head felt like a Halloween pumpkin after it was smashed in the street. I'd slept badly, my dreams filled with dead men with bloody worms coming out of their heads and SWAT teams breaking down my door. I scrambled to the toilet and tried to contort my morning boner to hit the target. Then I walked to the sofa to check my stash. I carefully counted the twenties and then recounted. Enough to pay to have the electric turned back on, but not nearly enough for the rent. Get the phone back on, get cleaned up, get a job, and the rent takes care of itself. Sounds so easy.
I piled up all of my dirty clothes and forced them into my laundry bag. I felt a little bit like Santa Claus hoisting the bag on my shoulder and going down the steps. As I cross the street to go to the cleaners, I look through the window and see Sandra's brown hair bobbing as she talks to a customer. Her smile warmed me up. I hefted the bag onto the counter and the lady hung it on a hook over the scales.

"Twenty-five pounds. Name?"

"Luckman."

"Ah. Lucky Man. You have bag back here. You want now?'

"Sure." I wondered where half my clothes disappeared to.

"Nineteen-fifty."

I handed her a twenty. "Keep the change."

I walked back to my apartment building. When I got to the top of the stairwell, I was huffing mightily. Once inside I ripped open the bag and took out some clean clothes. Taking out a pair of jeans and a Radiohead tee shirt, I quickly changed and headed back out. My heart was pounding as I walked up to the door of the Washington Diner. Entering, I stood next to the Please Wait To Be Seated sign. Sandra walked up with a smile.

"Hi, honey. By yourself today?"

"Yes."

"Window seat okay?"

"I'll sit at the counter."

"Okay. No need to wait here if you want to sit at the counter." The tone of her voice suggested that she was talking to a small child. We walked parallel to each other on out respective sides of the counter. I pick a short stool and she looks down at me. "You need a menu?'

"No thanks. I'll take the usual."

She sharpened her glance at me. "You're going to have to help me out, sweetie."

Shit, she didn't recognize me. Must be the weight loss. "Greek omelet, hash browns, rye, and coffee."

"You got it. Anything else?" Not even a flicker of recognition.

"Nope." I watched her as she bustled around the restaurant. Her skirt was short and I imagined what it was like to be those panty hose. I was shaken out of my reverie by something she said to another diner at the counter.

"The cops were in this morning, guess a couple of guys got shot in the alley across the way. One of 'em was a detective." I ears perked up like a dog.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Behind Phil's Famous."

"Damn."

"They're canvassing the neighborhood today. Gave me a card to call if I hear anything. I think maybe he was flirting. He was kind of cute in a cop sort of way."

She put my plate down in front of me. Suddenly I was not so hungry. I just wanted to get out of there. She refilled my coffee three times with an amused look on her face. When I draped the napkin over my, plate she came over to sweep it away. "For a skinny guy you eat like a horse."
"Sorry, just in a bit of a hurry. Can I get a to-go cup?"

"No need to be sorry. You make Rose feel good when you eat her food like that." We shared a smile and I handed her fifteen bucks. "How much change you need, honey?"

"I think we're good. Yeah, we're good." We'd danced this same dance at least fifty times before and she doesn't play her part. She still didn't remember me.

"Thank you, sir, That's very generous." I scuttle out thinking, this is the last time I waste my time with her. I grabbed Daily News from the newsstand and headed back to my apartment.

4

By the time I got back to my penthouse apartment on top of the Shithole Tower, the arguing next door had been replaced by a throbbing hip-hop beat. The walls were shaking and one of my paintings threatened to relocate to the floor. Even though I knew it was useless, I banged on the wall. I once again pulled my stash from the sofa and carried and the two pistols to the kitchen. In the daylight I could see the weapons much better, A Glock 17 and a Smith & Wesson 1911. Two beautiful handguns. I knew that I needed to get rid of the Glock. No one was going to pay good money for a cop's gun. The 1911 though, I had high hopes for that sucker. Looking up, I saw one of the college girls that lived across the breezeway standing at the sink in her bra. Always running around half naked. She looked up and we made eye contact. She flipped me the bird and ripped her curtains shut. Bitch! She's too fat for me anyway. Damn freshman fifteen.
I went back out and sat on the couch and sipped my coffee. The heat of the liquid found its way into the cavity in the back of my jaw that I'd been meaning to get fixed. Just as soon as I paid off all the other shit that was on the top of the list. The Daily News had a small blurb about my two dead guys. A cop and a successful businessman. What the hell were they doing busting caps into each other? No suspects found. Suspects? These two geniuses offed each other. That should have been pretty obvious. That's right, I took the fucking weapons. It probably did look like somebody killed both of them.

I was getting to the story of the Giants losing to the Packers when there was a light knocking on my door. I looked out the peephole and couldn't see anybody.

"Who is it?"

"It's the police, Mister, err... Luckman."

"What do you want?"

"We're canvassing the neighborhood about the shooting last night."

"I didn't see anything."

"Can you open the door, sir? We need to get a signature on this witness sheet and then we'll leave you alone."

I undid the two deadbolts and opened the door about six inches, looking for the clipboard. Both the men were empty handed. "Where do I sign?"

"Can we come in, Mister Luckman?"

"Can I see some badges?"

"Sure." They both flashed their tin.

"I really need to use the head, Mister Luckman." The big blonde Hitler Youth looking dude pushed past me before I realized what he was doing.

"Wait."

"Don't worry, I'll flush." He walked past me and I followed. His partner grabbed me and steered me to the sofa. He was small, dark and scrappy. A uni-brow accented his forehead.

"Whoa." I knew what the Aryan had found in my kitchen. The whole nine yards.

"I can explain that."

"Explain what, Mister Luckman?" said Detective Scrappy.

"The stuff in the kitchen."

"I'd like to see you try that." Said Detective Hitler. I turned and saw him coming out of the kitchen with the Glock in his latex-gloved hand. He walked over and placed the pistol at my temple.

"Noooo..." He adjusted the angle to simulate a self-inflicted wound. I barely heard the shot over the Puerto Rican hip hop. Voices swirled in my head like radio static.

“Tastes just like a Hershey's kiss. He was kind of cute in a cop sort of way. Damn freshman fifteen. Mommy's little lucky man. Ah. Lucky Man. You have bag back here. Hey buddy, you can't sleep here. I never would have done it if I weren’t starving.”