Our Chests Consistently Splendid
Today my luck did a 180, and the cotton in which I am shitting is really super tall.
Because this morning as I was headed down the front stairs to run to the BART station, I felt something cold fall down my collar, and then I discovered that a key had dropped into my shirt. Thinking maybe someone on a higher landing had dropped it, I examined the space above me, but all I saw was the clapboard ceiling, a cobwebby light fixture.
With the key in my palm I pushed through the front gate and down to the street, where someone had parked a midnight blue Jaguar with a black leather interior. No one was watching, and wanting to get a closer look at the seats, I went over to the driver's side window. The windows were shiny, I could see myself in the paint, and even the door handles were like something you'd find in a velvet-lined box. I traced my finger along a handle, and just wanting to test it out, I realized that the car was unlocked, so I slid in behind the wheel. Ahhh, leather seats!
I have no idea what compelled me to try it, but I felt the key all warm in my palm and I slid it into the ignition. The engine ingited, which much have tripped some hidden wire because the glovebox yawned like an oyster opening up to reveal a pearl. Inside, on a silver plate, sat a delicious jelly donut. Looking carefully over my shoulder I backed out of the parking spot. Then I heard this sharp little yelp, and backing up further, I realized I'd just run over my neighbor's barky little beagle.
Free donuts. A new Jaguar. My neighbor's dog is dead. Today has to be the luckiest day of my life so far!
I don't really believe in luck. Not good luck, anyway. With the bad kind, though, the safest thing is to believe in it, a little bit, just in case. Because it might get really pissed if it finds out that not only are you fun to fuck with, you're also a nonbeliever. Maybe bad luck is a diva bitch who won't be ignored, sort of like Ann Margret in Tommy when she finally smashes the mirror and Tommy regains his sight.
I watched Tommy on Monday with Matty, and the movie gave me some much-needed perspective. At least I am not blind, deaf, and dumb because after my father died, my mother slept with another man. Nor did I receive injections from The Acid Queen's deadly robot-casket. My cousin didn't iron my back, and I never got lost in a junkyard while chasing my ideal self. I didn't pass through my Oedipal stage only to become a semi-dictatorial messiah standing on a ball that's been spray painted silver. Not once have I been mutinied by the masses of rebellious teens who once worshipped me, confusing the entire plot.
Things aren't all that bad, and they tend to get better. Like Roger Daltrey, perhaps we will all someday fly our own hang gliders to the ocean, where we will rip off Ann Margret's fake nails and jewels, then we'll swim around in our tight jeans, our hair sometimes dry and fluffy, sometimes wet, our chests consistently splendid. Perhaps one day each of us will stand like Tommy, on the crest of a hill, backlit by a blazing sunset sky.