“There’s no such thing as luck anymore,” he says, “just be grateful.” He shuts the door of his mid-90’s Jeep and I can see the red “NRA” symbol on his tee shirt emerging from his flannel. He has a big, hole-punched smile and he shimmies his wide body back under the rear of the car to work on the muffler, sliding his back on the slushy gray snow. The glittery river isn’t such a bad view for the woman in the passenger seat, waiting to get this thing going.
“Just be grateful,” I want to scoff and reply with a snide, pessimistic remark. What did I do to deserve having my well-wishes and moderately sincere empathy met with such a tauntingly idealistic demand? “Be grateful.” I wonder if the mantra makes his shirt dry or her fingers warm.
I leave the gratitude that never sank past my skin there in the empty parking lot on the trail. But the thought of luck being anachronism follows me home through the snow and sits in my mind. Has luck really left us? Or have we simply done away with ascribing coincidental good fortune to a metaphysical fountain which demands loose change as offerings? It seems in river towns, people know better now.
We lose the trail in the woods and find our way back through well-marked private property; lest we climb down and out the slippery ravine to the right. Stepping back on the correct route, a man shouts out of the second story window of the aged stucco-faced house.
“Why are you trespassing?,” his question was practiced.
“We got lost, sorry!”
He mumbles at full volume, “That’s no reason… trespassing… self-entitled…”
“Have a good day!,” I don’t turn to bid him goodbye, my gaze stays on the treelines running parallel to my pace.
I remember the NRA logo. I remember how many signs I’ve seen in this town, on the many walks I might not come back from, displaying sketched revolvers with sayings like “nothing here worth dying for,” and “we don’t call 911 around here.” There’s no such thing as luck anymore, only mercy. Be grateful. I like to think I know this town by now, but this town does not know me; self-entitled, fence hopping, suburban transplant.
If luck has left us, I wonder when it last showed its face here. The industrial boom of the 19th century that brought a wave of new locals and erected massive brick warehouses and factories returned to rubble decades ago. Buildings sit empty or sell antiques to visitors with bigger pockets, from bigger towns, where luck may still reside.
Maybe luck and the All-American individualism that is so popular these days don’t coexist as they once did. It wouldn’t be such a stretch to picture that when one loses faith in the grander workings supporting our wellbeing; in the institutions serving us; and our means of getting by, that we take complete responsibility for all outcomes and circumstances in our lives. No more luck, so we tell ourselves.
This loss of faith is not unique to river towns decorated with the ruins of industry-past. It is not unique to those who remember what it was like to live side-by-side with luck or to those who were born after its departure. It is a bi-partisan attitude these days. All can agree that the institutions and grander design that once worked for so many, do not anymore. The disagreement comes when we consider fault and we are tasked with finding someone to re-install this faith. But even so, we often agree that this effort is a lost cause at the end of the day; when we have done our protesting and voting.
Now the loss of luck may be equally as disheartening and empowering. While it is deflating to know that serendipitous flukes will never come to one’s aid again, the space luck once occupied in our belief system can be easily filled by hard work, good choices, and right action. All of which we can take personal credit for, our elbow grease and education. This substitution can inspire our ingenuity and ambition. But just as easily, it can inspire ego.
When we succeed, we believe it is our own competence and strength that awards us the lives we deserve. We look at the position of others and feel superior for having done all the right things; forgetting all the choices we never had to make or were made for us. Ego replaces luck. Gratitude being the only safeguard from this demise. For without luck, all good things have a human root; a back to pat, someone to thank, someone to show gratitude. So, “...be grateful.”
Would an older, more observant person than I suggest that the modern world is more saturated by ego when comparing it to the past? A time where luck existed. I have my feelings, but I will not comment as a generally pessimistic 27 year old who is often nostalgic for a time I did not live through, a world I have no memory of. There are better judges of modern ego than me. What would those judges say of the belief in luck and rise of ego here in Columbia? Maybe here we are only grateful, and ego has not found its way into the void luck left behind.
I realize that I have taken the makeshift mechanic’s words down my own rabbit hole. The way they struck me begged me to consider them further, ad nauseam perhaps, to consider what might facilitate the loss of luck and what might follow. I’ll leave it up to the individual to determine whether this is a good use of anyone’s time or if I’m any good at it. I am positive he did not intend for it to strike me with such contemplation, I doubt he thought much about the words that escaped him without hesitation.
Returning to the question of what might facilitate the loss of luck; because the belief in luck is ultimately a superstition or even a spiritual inclination, an abandonment of that belief may appear as loss of faith. Could it be that, out of necessity, we let go of luck, of faith, to cope with our decaying quality of life and sense of stability? In welcoming the weight of complete responsibility for our circumstances, we take control of our lives and our surroundings. At least we try to rid our lives of the uncertainty that comes with such nebulus credences like luck and faith; the insecure attachment to systems meant to keep us safe, fed, housed, healthy, happy, educated, and above water.
When we make ourselves liable for everything we do and do not experience, we attempt to forge a sense of authority over our lives; taking it from the hands of those politicians and bureaucrats which have failed to keep river towns like this from sliding into unemployment, addiction, and violence. In a sense, doing away with luck is then a form of psychological rebellion against those institutions. It is a declaration of independence from their inconsistent and inequitable services.
But this rebellion, this rejection of luck, has little effect on the institutions themselves. For decades already, we have been getting by independent of these services; as their efficacy constitutes little more than neglect when every benefit that they exist to provide must be begged for, waited for, tested for, argued for. Then, after we’ve bled from our knees and glued our hands together in prayer, the services rendered make so little difference to the few that receive them, that many feel they are not worth the blood stains. To renounce luck in rebellion does nothing to degrade the systems that provoked the repudiation. But it is a small comfort to the deserted masses. We give ourselves permission to let go of the anxiety and desperation that comes from putting faith in the crumbling pillars of communal well being. No more false hope.
Luck lives in towns where all buildings are occupied; where the pursuit of cheap labor did not leave industrial ruins, broken and boarded windows, shelter for stray cats, and antique stores in its wake. It lives in towns where everyone walking down main street has a pair of sturdy shoes and a weather-appropriate jacket. It lives in towns where there are more med-spas and vegan restaurants than free clinics and shelters; where there isn’t much need for after-school off-the-streets programs; where that sound was definitely a firework; where you are simply lucky to not worry about these things and have no personal responsibility to prevent them.
Here, there is no luck, only narcan, bad aim, church-run food banks, merciful yet watchful property owners, and the ability to fix your own muffler. All of which, we are very grateful for.
Elizabeth Amoriello (she/her) found writing out of necessity. The need for creative expression and a way to frame her inner world led Amoriello to begin writing as a young teen. Over a decade later, she has amassed a large collection of semi-autobiographical poetry, personal essays, and creative non-fiction through which readers can watch her grow from a child into her mid-twenties. Amoriello feels that many of her pieces write themselves. Coming from some external well of words, they simply use her hands as a conduit to make themselves a reality. Her style can range from confessional to surrealist, romantic to modernist, touching on themes of love, trauma, mental health, politics, and the natural world among others. Influences include Anne Sexton, Pablo Neruda, Joan Didion, William Styron, and Dorothy Allison.