Free Lucky Bastard by S G Browne

does the trick. I don’t know why, since I never got better than a C in chemistry, but it’s what’s worked for generations. My great-grandma washed down rock candy with straight vodka, while Grandpa swore by powdered doughnuts and Budweiser. For me, it’s cappuccinos or mochas and apple fritters. Beer just makes me sleepy.
    And I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking a Budweiser.
    Drinking my mocha, I walk up Polk Street, looking for potential marks, but all I see are homeless people trying to sell copies of the Street Sheet and minimum-wage employees standing outside taking a smoke break.
    Not exactly the best options for good luck.
    Trolling for luck out in the open like this isn’t the smartest idea. First of all, you have to deal with the problem of personal hygiene. Second, without research, you never know what you’re getting.
    But sometimes you’re forced to take your chances.
    If you’re going to poach luck off the streets or door-to-door in San Francisco, your best bets are Nob Hill, Pacific Heights, and the Marina District. With multimillion-dollar homes and their central location to tourist attractions and shops, they offer the best combination of wealth and accessibility.No one looks twice at you walking around those neighborhoods. Your chances of walking away with some medium-grade good luck are decent enough to make it worth considering.
    Instead of mansions and manicured gardens and beauty salons, I’m walking past the Red Coach Motor Lodge and graffiti-covered awnings and the Shine Day Spa Massage Parlor. I don’t know if Tommy’s getting a cut of their business, but when I look around at the people in this neighborhood, I’m guessing most of them aren’t getting any happy endings.
    Why some people are born with good luck and others aren’t, I don’t have an answer. Maybe it has something to do with karma, if you believe in that sort of thing. A reward for making the right decisions or doing the right thing in a past life. Or maybe it’s the reverse. People who had a hard life last time around get a spiritual hall pass to help balance things out.
    Or maybe it’s just random chance.
    As for luck poachers, I don’t know why we can do what we do. How we were chosen. Why we were born this way. Maybe we are mutants or aliens.
    Outside of my family, I’ve never met another luck poacher. Because of our limited numbers, we don’t tend to cross paths all that often. It’s not like we have our own version of Hogwarts to teach us the art and rules and etiquette of stealing luck. And we don’t exactly have support groups to help us understand who we are and what we do.Everything I know about luck poaching I learned from Grandpa. And other than Grandpa, Mom, and Mandy, I’ve never known anyone else I could count on. Anyone who would understand me. Which is another reason why it’s a bad idea to develop relationships: You never know whom you can trust.
    So for the most part, it’s just been me, myself, and I.
    When I was a kid, I had to learn how to make my own fun. I played in my room, made up games, and poached from other kids. Sometimes I’d hang out with Grandpa or Mandy, but otherwise I spent a lot of time by myself.
    In the past two decades, not much has changed.

O nce I get my apple fritter from Bob’s, I continue along Polk Street into Russian Hill, keeping my eyes open for potential marks. It’s not easy spotting them and there aren’t any guarantees, but you find someone wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex or stopping just in time to avoid getting hit by a bus and at least you’ve got someplace to start.
    What I really need is a residential street with some homeowners out in their gardens or washing their cars. At least that way I’d know where they live. I’m much more likely to poach from someone who owns a three-story Victorian in Pacific Heights than I am from someone who rents a one-bedroom apartment in Russian Hill. But wealth is only one part of the package. When you’re