Lucky Day
David Henson
Just as Russ Hingleman got to the elevator in his building, the doors opened, and Mrs. Jenkins stepped out with her snippy Yorky, BitsyLou. The dog seemed to think the man’s ankles were rawhide chews. He braced himself for a barrage of barks and snarls, but instead BitsyLou sat up and pumped her front paws at him. He was tempted to give her a pat, but the doors started to close so he sidestepped in.
The elevator cruised the six levels to the garage. Then, not a single red light as he drove to the office. This was shaping up to be a lucky day, he thought. But not for his SOB boss, Lucas Stanmeijer.
~ ~ ~
Hingleman had barely sat down when Stanmeijer headed toward his cubicle. Hingleman had turned in a sales analysis the day before. Most likely Stanmeijer was going to say it was inadequate and to redo it before going home. Hingleman pulled his briefcase onto his lap as Stanmeijer stepped to his desk.
“Hingleman, this report” — he held it up by a corner as if it were a dead mouse — “is excellent. Good work.”
What a shock, Hingleman thought. Still, it didn’t make up for all the late nights in the office Stanmeijer had loaded onto him. Late nights Hingleman blamed for wrecking his marriage. No, this little attaboy didn’t come close to squaring things. He should do it now. Hingleman’s thumbs twitched on the clasps. Then the room began to spin, and he closed his eyes. “Thank you, boss.”
As Stanmeijer walked back to his office, Ed Lidman’s head appeared above the wall that separated the two worker bees’ padded cells. “He’s tough, but fair,” Lidman said.
“Yeah, right.” Hingleman wiped his forehead with his sleeve and went to the bathroom.
Hingleman splashed cold water on his face, patted his cheeks with a paper towel and took several deep breaths. It’s time, he told himself. He charged out of the bathroom and bumped into a small, jaunty-looking fellow with a red beard and bright green jacket.
“Lovely morning for a walk, don’t you think?” the little man said. Hingleman noticed he had a pink carnation in his lapel.
“I’ve got something to do,” Hingleman gruffed. He took a few steps down the hallway, but with each one his resolve wilted like a flower in sweltering heat, and he began panting for breath.
“Big decisions are best made after a brisk promenade, I always find,” the man said. Hingleman turned toward him. The man tipped an imaginary cap. “I’m Mr. Luck. Join me,” he said and strode off whistling.
Hingleman decided some fresh air might brace him. He wondered if he should go lock his briefcase first, but decided it was secure enough in his cubicle. He almost had to run to catch up to Mr. Luck, who moved surprisingly fast for such a small fellow.
The pair turned west on Adams then made a right on Main. Mr. Luck walked up to the old Trub’s Drug Store, which, like many of the buildings downtown, had been vacant for years. “That’ll be locked,” Hingleman called out. His mouth dropped open when Mr. Luck pulled open the door and disappeared inside. Hingleman wasn’t about to follow. The place was likely infested with rats or worse. He hung around a few minutes and was about to leave when out came Luck munching from a bag of popcorn. He approached Hingleman and held out the bag. “Have some? Fresh and buttery.”
Hingleman stepped back. “Where’d you get that?”
“It’s a lucky day.” He began whistling again and sauntered off. Hingleman had to almost jog to keep pace alongside him. “If you don’t want any popcorn, how about some ice cream?” Mr. Luck said.
“I’m always in the mood for ice cream, but there’s no place nearby to-”
“Get your ice cream here,” said a woman with a push cart.
“Where did you come from?” Hingleman said.
The woman shrugged. “What’ll you have?”
... It was the best ice cream Hingleman had ever eaten. Dark creamy chocolate and big chunks of real peanut butter. Mr. Luck got strawberry in a sugar cone. It seemed to Hingleman that the more Luck licked the ice cream, the bigger the scoop grew. After several minutes, Hingleman became impatient. “Look, Mr. Luck, this has been pleasant, but I have to get back to the office now.”
“Let me coax you into one more stop. I’ll show you where I got this.” Mr. Luck touched the pink carnation in his lapel. “A beautiful flower garden just around the corner.”
As far as Hingleman knew, there was nothing but a junk yard around the corner. He was tempted for a moment to continue on with Mr. Luck, but couldn’t put off what had to be done any longer.
~ ~ ~
Hingleman charged down the hallway to his cubicle and grabbed his briefcase. “Stanmeijer was looking for you again.” Hingleman looked up to see Lidman’s head above the partition.
Probably decided he didn’t like the sales report after all, Hingleman thought. Good. Just the motivation he needed. He flung open his briefcase and reached inside and grabbed ... a handful of carnations? “That’s not possible,” he screamed and smashed the case against his cubicle, knocking over the partition and sending Lidman diving for cover.
Hingleman grabbed a heavy, crystal paperweight his then-wife had given him for their third anniversary. He rushed toward Stanmeijer’s office, shouting “You looking for me, Stanmeijer? You looking for me?” Halfway there, Hingleman tripped over something and sprawled on the floor.
Mr. Luck rose from his kneeling position. “Darn shoelace keeps coming loose.”
Hingleman stood slowly, his right ankle shrieking.
Stanmeijer stepped from his office. “What’s going on out here?”
Lidman called Security.
Mr. Luck tipped an imaginary cap toward Stanmeijer. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, then skipped down the hallway.
David Henson
Just as Russ Hingleman got to the elevator in his building, the doors opened, and Mrs. Jenkins stepped out with her snippy Yorky, BitsyLou. The dog seemed to think the man’s ankles were rawhide chews. He braced himself for a barrage of barks and snarls, but instead BitsyLou sat up and pumped her front paws at him. He was tempted to give her a pat, but the doors started to close so he sidestepped in.
The elevator cruised the six levels to the garage. Then, not a single red light as he drove to the office. This was shaping up to be a lucky day, he thought. But not for his SOB boss, Lucas Stanmeijer.
~ ~ ~
Hingleman had barely sat down when Stanmeijer headed toward his cubicle. Hingleman had turned in a sales analysis the day before. Most likely Stanmeijer was going to say it was inadequate and to redo it before going home. Hingleman pulled his briefcase onto his lap as Stanmeijer stepped to his desk.
“Hingleman, this report” — he held it up by a corner as if it were a dead mouse — “is excellent. Good work.”
What a shock, Hingleman thought. Still, it didn’t make up for all the late nights in the office Stanmeijer had loaded onto him. Late nights Hingleman blamed for wrecking his marriage. No, this little attaboy didn’t come close to squaring things. He should do it now. Hingleman’s thumbs twitched on the clasps. Then the room began to spin, and he closed his eyes. “Thank you, boss.”
As Stanmeijer walked back to his office, Ed Lidman’s head appeared above the wall that separated the two worker bees’ padded cells. “He’s tough, but fair,” Lidman said.
“Yeah, right.” Hingleman wiped his forehead with his sleeve and went to the bathroom.
Hingleman splashed cold water on his face, patted his cheeks with a paper towel and took several deep breaths. It’s time, he told himself. He charged out of the bathroom and bumped into a small, jaunty-looking fellow with a red beard and bright green jacket.
“Lovely morning for a walk, don’t you think?” the little man said. Hingleman noticed he had a pink carnation in his lapel.
“I’ve got something to do,” Hingleman gruffed. He took a few steps down the hallway, but with each one his resolve wilted like a flower in sweltering heat, and he began panting for breath.
“Big decisions are best made after a brisk promenade, I always find,” the man said. Hingleman turned toward him. The man tipped an imaginary cap. “I’m Mr. Luck. Join me,” he said and strode off whistling.
Hingleman decided some fresh air might brace him. He wondered if he should go lock his briefcase first, but decided it was secure enough in his cubicle. He almost had to run to catch up to Mr. Luck, who moved surprisingly fast for such a small fellow.
The pair turned west on Adams then made a right on Main. Mr. Luck walked up to the old Trub’s Drug Store, which, like many of the buildings downtown, had been vacant for years. “That’ll be locked,” Hingleman called out. His mouth dropped open when Mr. Luck pulled open the door and disappeared inside. Hingleman wasn’t about to follow. The place was likely infested with rats or worse. He hung around a few minutes and was about to leave when out came Luck munching from a bag of popcorn. He approached Hingleman and held out the bag. “Have some? Fresh and buttery.”
Hingleman stepped back. “Where’d you get that?”
“It’s a lucky day.” He began whistling again and sauntered off. Hingleman had to almost jog to keep pace alongside him. “If you don’t want any popcorn, how about some ice cream?” Mr. Luck said.
“I’m always in the mood for ice cream, but there’s no place nearby to-”
“Get your ice cream here,” said a woman with a push cart.
“Where did you come from?” Hingleman said.
The woman shrugged. “What’ll you have?”
... It was the best ice cream Hingleman had ever eaten. Dark creamy chocolate and big chunks of real peanut butter. Mr. Luck got strawberry in a sugar cone. It seemed to Hingleman that the more Luck licked the ice cream, the bigger the scoop grew. After several minutes, Hingleman became impatient. “Look, Mr. Luck, this has been pleasant, but I have to get back to the office now.”
“Let me coax you into one more stop. I’ll show you where I got this.” Mr. Luck touched the pink carnation in his lapel. “A beautiful flower garden just around the corner.”
As far as Hingleman knew, there was nothing but a junk yard around the corner. He was tempted for a moment to continue on with Mr. Luck, but couldn’t put off what had to be done any longer.
~ ~ ~
Hingleman charged down the hallway to his cubicle and grabbed his briefcase. “Stanmeijer was looking for you again.” Hingleman looked up to see Lidman’s head above the partition.
Probably decided he didn’t like the sales report after all, Hingleman thought. Good. Just the motivation he needed. He flung open his briefcase and reached inside and grabbed ... a handful of carnations? “That’s not possible,” he screamed and smashed the case against his cubicle, knocking over the partition and sending Lidman diving for cover.
Hingleman grabbed a heavy, crystal paperweight his then-wife had given him for their third anniversary. He rushed toward Stanmeijer’s office, shouting “You looking for me, Stanmeijer? You looking for me?” Halfway there, Hingleman tripped over something and sprawled on the floor.
Mr. Luck rose from his kneeling position. “Darn shoelace keeps coming loose.”
Hingleman stood slowly, his right ankle shrieking.
Stanmeijer stepped from his office. “What’s going on out here?”
Lidman called Security.
Mr. Luck tipped an imaginary cap toward Stanmeijer. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, then skipped down the hallway.
