Luck Rhymes With…

I’m lying in my dentist’s chair, and from my lofty vinyl seat Hollywood’s hills look like the rolling green of a miniature golf course–until my eyes slide wide shut to soft black, and my mouth opens to take in The Doctor’s hands. He numbs the bottom half of my face so it’s virtually paralyzed, while my mind frolics free.

I dream up a bow-shaped fanny pack that can fit an iPhone and keys and a book, maybe The Great American Novel I must birth, whose theme might be luck, same as my conversation with The Boy last night:

“I’m getting my gums done tomorrow,” I said. “My entire front lower mouth. So I’ll be living off soy lattes for a couple weeks, and no blow jobs for a few days.”

“I guess I’ll be busy for a few days,” said The Boy.

I echo his laughter with a giggle only interrupted by The Boy’s crackling voice:

“Fuck,” he said. “I want a streak of good luck.”

“Everything in life is in your control,” I singsong, my mantra.

“I used to think like you,” he said, “but I’ve realized lately how important luck is. Half of success in life is control, is your preparation, is your work, and the other half is pure fucking luck.”

“Hmmm,” I chant in reply, disbelieving in any second cousins of fate, with no faith in letting go my control. “I suppose half of life is simply a motherfucker named luck.”

“You only suppose?” asked The Boy.

I twist last night’s chat ’round my mind, observing it from all angles, safely day dreaming in the firm cushions of my chair, in the Beverly Hills sky-rise office I chose, home to one of the best gum surgeons, who I hired. The Doctor earned his degree from USC, he has the most competent help, he–

Just lost his electricity.

I delight in the break from Carrie Mandy Underwood Moore’s bullshit bubble gum rolling through the office speakers, but then I blink open my eyes to sunlight filtering dim through the blinds. The Doctor’s hands hover above my mouth. “Kristopher, it’s okay, the part of the surgery that I really needed electricity for is over.” I sit back, relaxed. The Doctor is in control, The Doctor knows–

“The whole block has lost power,” calls his secretary, from the hall.

“What luck,” I mumble, the cotton balls soaking up my words.

“Please get the flashlight,” The Doctor orders his assistant. “And try not to drop it on Kristopher’s head.”

I giggle, wanting to control my mouth from moving, but it’s fat and unfeeling and beyond my will–

Like I suppose luck might be.

I hold back another laugh, and The Doctor dives back into his work. I melt into my seat, calm with the rest of the office. My peace is only broken by light flashing through my closed eyelids.

“Thank god,” says The Doctor, as the room’s equipment begins to buzz. “No matter–”

“–what,” I remember saying to The Boy last night, “Luck or not, you always have a fucking choice how you react to whatever comes your way.”

“Yeah,” agreed The Boy. “So how are you going to react to not being able to blow me?”

“Good question,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for me to get lucky.”

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