Judy says we’re lucky. And we are, but it bugs me how much she says it. Two years ago, I was standing outside the grocery store, holding a cardboard sign, wondering why I’d hitchhiked to Florida with Danny. It was definitely lucky that I met Judy, and her offer of a place to stay when Danny took off was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
But still, Judy talks about how lucky we are too much. Sure, finding a quarter on the ground, a two-for-one deal on bread at the Naples super Walmart, and Henry, who lives two trailers over, offering to fix the flat tire on her bike for free can all be seen as lucky. But how can she not look around her every single day and see the “luck” that everyone else seems to have? Their luck flies them into the tiny airport across from the trailer park on their private planes. Their luck gives them huge houses with screened-in pools, and cars they happily park with the top down, as if they’d never be so unlucky to have a bird shit on the upholstery. Or if it did, they’d have it cleaned and not care what it cost. If I were a bird, I’d shit on every fancy convertible I saw.
I imagine this sometimes on my thirty-minute walk to work. The golf club where I wash dishes would be the first place I’d fly over to shit on cars if I could. Not that the place is that horrible. Not that I really hate it; the job is fine. In a few months I should get bumped up to $9.75 an hour. Most days I enjoy the walk to work, but in the summer—when it’s hotter and more humid than I ever thought possible—I have to bring a full change of clothes in a plastic bag in case I get caught in the daily thunderstorm. I always hope that after a storm passes, the air won’t continue to press on me like a heavy blanket I can’t throw off, but I’m always disappointed.
I wouldn’t want Judy to think I’m not grateful, but sometimes I want to ask her if she ever feels like one of the scrub jays that are always hopping around the picnic table next to the trailer, seemingly thrilled to find a single bread crumb in the dirt? While all around, people are driving past us or flying over us, seeming to have their arms bursting with huge loaves of bread. Late one Saturday night in July, tired at the end of a long shift, I slide the last tray into the dish machine and lower the doors on both sides. I take a rag and wipe down the counters, careful to catch all the crumbs in my hand.
Kim Venkataraman's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amarillo Bay, Blue Lake Review, BoomerLitMag, Carbon Culture Review, Desert Voices, East Jasmine Review, Entropy Magazine, Evening Street Review, Forge, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Licking River Review, The MacGuffin, Midway Journal, Nassau Review, Nebu Review, Penmen Review, Perceptions Magazine, Poydras Review, Redivider, Riverwind, Spout Magazine, Talking River, Valparaiso Fiction Review, Whistling Shade, and Willow Review. She lives in Boston, and spends time during the summer in Maine where she grew up.
