What an unlucky day this is. I’m afraid to even catch a cab for fear it will be driven by some terrorist.
He was walking along Bristol Parkway about ten minutes later when he heard the rumble of a big pickup. He turned to see the young guy in the giant red beast, which had crushed his friend's car but merely had a ding, pull over and shout through the open passenger side window, “Hey, Mister, you need a lift? I feel terrible—that shit about the fortune cookie and all. What a bummer. Get in”
Mister? Mister? I’m only—shit, I’m thirty-five, almost dead.
He seems like a nice kid.
“Thanks, man, what’s your name?”
“Name’s Johnny. I know who you are, ‘Ben the Cursed!’ Oh, how about 'Bad Luck Ben,' how does that sound—not so fraught with finality?”
They both laughed heartily as Johnny rolled down the parkway, “Where too, ‘Ben the Curse—sorry, I mean 'Bad Luck Ben?”
“Pinewood Court, three-sixty-two.”
Johnny then cut over the median strip and shouted as he gunned the huge engine, “Then let’s take the shortcut, boss!”
Benjamin held on for dear life and tried to calm himself with some conversation, “You must be doing alright for yourself to afford wheels like this.”
“Johnny shouted over the engine as he gunned it again, passing a minivan full of soccer kids, “I sweep floors and scrub toilets at Save Way Food Market.”
He said this with a sly grin. Benjamin looked at him in disbelief. “And you can afford this on that?”
“Well I sell pot, meth and oxys too!”
Great! Next I get arrested with him. I am cursed.
They were silent now as the beastly truck rumbled on through the suburbs to Benjamin’s nice, quiet neighborhood. Johnny pulled up right on the lawn and turned to Benjamin with a business card in his hand.
“Here, ‘BeBad Luck Ben’, if you find yourself in pain tomorrow, give Johnny a call!”
Benjamin tumbled down out of the giant truck and stood on his front lawn and looked down at the card in his hand, which read ‘Johnny’s Wellness,’ and sported nothing else but a phone number.
Jesus, what a crazy day. I sure am glad it’s over!