Free Blind Luck by Scott Carter

poet,” he said. He held his hand up limply at the wrist. “All wrist.”
    Dave smiled. “I could take you back to the home if you’d like that better.”
    “My son could show you something about pitching. He had the best curveball in the city for a kid so lazy.”
    “I am your son, Pop.”
    Dave fired another pitch, and his plant leg exploded so hard that it caused a cloud of dust to rise from the asphalt. His dad looked unimpressed.
    “Keep your head up, for chrissake.”
    Dave grabbed another ball. “Do you ever remember me being particularly lucky?”
    His dad stared at the baseball he clutched. “I hear something funny.”
    “What?”
    “I hear something funny.”
    “It’s probably your oxygen tank.”
    “I hear something.”
    “I know, but I’m asking you something. Do you ever remember me being lucky?”
    “You’re a bookie, luck’s your pimp.”
    Dave took the baseball from his dad’s hand, which secured his attention. “I’m your son, Dave. Do you ever remember Dave being lucky?”
    “If I was pitching, I’d keep my head up.”
    “I’m sure you would, Pop, but I’m not asking you that, I’m asking you if you remember your son, Dave, me, as lucky?”
    “I’m his father, aren’t I?”
    Dave nodded and couldn’t help but smile at the wit. “Yeah, yeah, you are. And that’s definitely lucky, but what about in other ways?”
    “I wouldn’t know. You’ve got to take chances to test luck, and I never saw him do that.”
    Dave stared at him. It was the first honest exchange they’d had in years, and the words made his question seem completely insignificant.
    “Pitch another ball, would you? It’s not like I can do it for myself.”
    Dave looked over at his dad for a moment before pivoting to fire another fastball at the plywood. “We’ve got to get going, Pop. I have a meeting I need to go to.”
    His dad cocked his head, and his lips formed a mischievous grin. “Why don’t you just say it?”
    “Say what?”
    “You have a meeting with a woman.”
    Dave began pushing the wheelchair. “It’s not like that.”
    “Sure it is. If it wasn’t like that, you would’ve just said it’s time to go like you do every week. You mentioned it for a reason.”
    “I haven’t even met the woman, it’s business.”
    “Liar.”
    The word choice amused Dave during the cab ride to his destination. For a man who’d spent his life in denial, a life layered with lies, the word came off his father’s tongue surprisingly easily. The irony made Dave think of all the times he had heard problem drinkers call people at parties drunks.
    He stepped out of the cab and walked up the front steps of a duplex with the address Grayson had given him in hand. He wished it were a date—someone he’d met at a bar, a friend of a friend, or a prostitute. The specifics didn’t matter to him. What he needed was someone to invoke a passion that would help him forget. Instead he waited to be presented as a good luck charm, and the absurdity made the truck crashing through his work window more real than the moment it’d happened.
    A blond man watched Dave as he approached the address Grayson had given him. The man pretended to stretch, but Dave felt his watching eyes. With a creaseless track suit and shoes that looked brand new, he was the type that spent more time shopping for a gym outfit than actually exercising. Dave guessed they were about the same age.
    He turned to the man to catch him staring, before glancing down at a piece of paper with the address to double check that he was at the right door. He rang the bell once with a heavy finger. Grayson opened the door a moment later.
    “Good, welcome. Come in,” he said, nodding approvingly.
    While Grayson talked, Dave noticed Amy sitting on a couch across the room.
    She looked to be in her early thirties and was naturally beautiful, except for pained eyes that were red around the rims, and dark bags that weighed on her face. A blue knit sweater hung baggily