Guttersnipe

The only thing better than true happiness is absolutely not giving a shit. This truth we, the nihilist association of something or other, hold to be self-evident. In perhaps a similar vein, the only thing better than luck is dumb luck.

Dumb luck has served me well. Rather than the fortune some profess must be engendered through hard work and preparation, I prefer the variety that can only be bestowed upon a man when he falls into it ass-backwards.

My cushy job was not attained through hard work and dedication to a trade or craft about which I am passionate. None of the four or five universities and colleges I briefly attended would ever think of giving me a qualification of any kind bearing their mark. No, I landed in it out of the sheer chance that the guy who hired me to do construction one year would be married to a woman who needed to fill a job at a local utility company the next summer. Not only was it well-paid it consisted mainly of walking around neighbourhoods, invading peoples’ private property at will, petting their dogs, and punching numbers into what amounted to a giant game boy. By now I’ve tumbled rearwards and akimbo to the cusp of my incompetence working in the offices of that same outfit. Vacation, benefits, pension — all more than I have earned and I can retire at the ripe age of 53 to enjoy seven full years of compensated sloth before my inevitable demise due to several alcohol- and inactivity-related ailments.

At this past week’s bowling night, dumb luck reared its cartoonish, bobbling head once again.

This was the first game with my new ball, cradled gently in my new bag. Oh, yessiree they once belonged to another but tonight that well-worn ball and bag became one with my right hand.

I was throwing rocks right out of the gate with a game-high 143 to lead our group to an opening match win. Where before I was forced to muscle a 13-pound house ball down the lane in a lame attempt to topple the wooden foes assembled at the end, now my 16-pound new best friend did all the work for me. A gentle cradling of the weighty beast and a rhythmic stroke allowed me to simply follow through and watch the marauding orb obliterate all in its path. Oh! What glorious aural delights a strike sets upon one’s senses. It was a sign of good things to come.

In the second set, while my 118 was second-highest on our side, I was bested by three of our opponents. Regardless, we took the overall game by a mere 6 points. This may have been due to the broken toe one of theirs was sporting, leaving her struggling just to get it down the lane let alone live up to her average.

In the third go I was cruising along merrily, halfway through ten frames and leading both sides once again when my focus was shattered like the innocence of a young child waking at the sound of Santa Claus arriving late on Christmas Eve only to stumble upon the jolly fat man himself porking their drunken mother over a toppled milk glass and the remnants of home-baked cookies, crumbled alongside their chance of ever welcoming the tooth fairy through an open window.

Riding high after yet another clean frame I returned to the table to find a lovely six-foot-tall Jamaican woman chatting with my teammates. She was on vacation visiting family in town and, while the hosts worked, had been rolling a quick game to pass time before a movie.

We talked between my turns at the line and, quite clearly owing solely to dumb luck as charm and looks were off the table, she was quite interested in my vintage bowling equipment.

After the game concluded with a third-straight victory, my teammate Lily Liver suggested I go find her at the cinema. It not being my style to follow lone women into dark theatres without their express bidding and since my ass was already sore from the game, I declined. Nevertheless, we went out for drinks and hot wings the next night and a couple times more before she had to leave and she was not only a delight but also a chef who cooked multiple meals for me — I had my first taste of curried chicken foot — and even put them in those little takeout containers for later enjoyment.

It was a far greater fortune than I expected at league night and certainly more than I should receive. No matter. The most important thing about lady luck is to take what she’s got for you whenever she wants to give it, wherever she wants to put it, and not to ask a bunch of jackassy questions afterwards. Thanks to what can only be the sweet touch of Gefion, I have a third straight win, a spring in my step, and this thanksgiving weekend I not only ate my fill of turkey but of Jamaican, too.