Hey Mama, Just My Luck

It's time for a workshop prompt - "a time I got lucky" and just to prove Mama Kat wrong, I'm NOT going to recount a story about my skanky sexy times... for now. Sorry.

The summer between University and my post-graduate studies, I landed a job bartending at the 4-star restaurant just around the corner from my house – great score! On my first night, I was out having a smoke on my break and one of thee hottest guys I have ever met came to join me, and he was friendly.

Right then, I really, really, really liked my new job.

He was like a version of Ray Liotta with his piercing blue eyes, but with softer features, better skin and a whole lot of sex appeal permeating out of his every pore. Even MY MOTHER had a hard time sucking back her drool when she came into the restaurant one day and met him.

Yes... he was THAT hot.

In my usual fashion, Carter and I hit it off right away and we even started spending time together outside of work. I dropped shameless hints about my true feelings and he never responded. I kept hanging out with him for a while but it was difficult to not come off as ‘stalkerish’; he was like a drug and I constantly wanted a fix. Just being in his presence made me wet my panties.

Surprisingly, this story isn’t actually about him, but I had to set the scene. Ahem.

We had been working together for about 3 months at this point, and there was a summer-end staff party at one of the employee’s farm. It wasn’t a huge gathering – maybe 20 people at the most – and the handful of us "herbal enthusiasts" easily found each other as we gravitated to this fantastically quaint twin hammock set that were hung between 3 trees. I had brought my lucky Zippo with me (as it had been everywhere else with me for the better part of a decade), and rested nicely in my back pocket.

Carter and I cozily shared one of the hammocks like 2 stoned peas in a pod. Guuuusssshh. Others came and went, but the two of us stayed there for a long while, together. In my fantasy universe, it was actually a pretty romantic setting and all it needed to be complete was for him to lean in and plant a big juicy one on me – but of course that didn’t happen.

When I got home I realized that my Zippo was gone. SHIT! I really loved it. It had a magic mushroom on one side and my name was even engraved on the back. Yes, I was THAT pretentious smoker. Shut it.

It must have fallen out of my back pocket when we were on the hammock. I quickly called the host of the party the next day and I was slightly taken aback as he was able to complete my sentences.
“Did you happen to find a Zippo by th...”
“By the hammocks? YES! And I’m afraid that I ran over it with my ride along lawnmower and gave me quite the fright!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! By any chance did it happen to survive the lawn...”
“The lawnmower? Are you kidding? It’s in about 4 mangled pieces.”
“And just to make sure that it’s mine, can you make out what was on it?”
“Yes, it looks like it used to be a mushroom of some sort. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Thanks anyway. You can just throw it out if you haven’t already.”

I was dejected; it was one of the few objects of mine that I truly loved and felt a genuinely strong owner-to-object bond with it. I didn’t want to buy a new one; my Zippo days were now done. I needed to quit smoking anyway. Pssfft.

About 6 months had past and I was going through my ‘junk drawer’. I rarely went through it – it was like all the crap that I didn’t use but still didn’t want to throw out just yet. I can’t even remember what I was doing in there to begin with, but while I was sifting through it I found an old blue bandanna – I hadn’t worn it in a few years and it was tucked away in the back. Underneath the bandanna WAS MY ZIPPO – completely intact and as shiny as the day I bought it. I have absolutely no reasonable explanation as to what happened. It really freaked me out but I still believe to this day that it truly was my lucky Zippo.

Duh. Duh. Da–Duhhhhhhh....

I never used it again.

The Ballerina

Some people will call me a hopeless romantic and that my head is always in the clouds. I get far too emotionally involved with movies and TV shows that are about a love story, whether it's love lost or love found. And it's true. I shovel that gooey crap up with a giant shovel. If I could fling it all into a pile, I'd likely roll around and bask in it like a pig. A love pig. That's me, and today, I will explain why.

This is the story of my Oma

It was the summer of 1940 in Estonia. There was a young girl, not quite 16, and she had two dreams. One was to become a ballerina and the other was to marry the boy to whom she loved. They had grown up as neighbors in their small village, and she had already loved him for many years.

She would often practice ballet in the tiny backyard of her family's house that she shared with her parents and younger brother. Her love would often see her there and watch in silence. Not leering. She knew he was there, and he knew that she was aware of him. No words ever needed to be spoken during these beautiful, unspoken moments shared between just the two of them... and all the while, the rest of the world was screaming.

When they were together, it felt so natural. So safe. So loving. They both knew they were meant to be together. It was understood but never spoken.

One morning, in the early summer mist, soldiers approached their village. They could hear the stomping of their feet following along in time with their hearts pounding. The clanking of their arsenal was sharp. Piercing and approaching.

They were coming.
They were coming for the men. And the boys.

New soldiers for the Soviet Army or death, if you were of age... or close enough to it. Her love was 17 and they both knew what was going to happen. The entire village was crying. Hiding was too late of an option and there was no running. Mothers saying horror-filled goodbyes to their husbands and sons, knowing it was likely the last time they would embrace.

Panic had seeped in to the people. There was screaming, struggling, fighting and running. The ballerina was holding tightly to her love, as tightly as she possibly could, gaining strength she never knew she possessed. They were both terrified and she had begun to openly weep as she could see the soldiers had spotted her love. He kissed the side of her tear soaked face. Then one tender kiss on her forehead as he let the soldiers pull him away, although his body was riddled with tension, anger and hesitation.

She took one last lunge towards his body, clawing at the dirt beneath her, screaming, "NO!"

An officer stood over her and slapped her across the face, Hard. Then he dragged her back inside her home. Her love's anger raged at this offense and he attempted to escape. There was a struggle.

Doors slammed.

Shots fired.

And then silence.

Soon after, she knew she could not stay there. She had knowledge of an acquaintance's brother who escaped to Canada and he needed a wife. Thinking that her love was dead, she escaped and was married the next spring. She was a good wife; a grateful wife. An obedient wife, but she never danced again.

They had a daughter some years later.
Decades had come and gone and then she became a grandmother.
How quickly life can melt away.
One day, her husband became ill and passed.

She was 76 and had not once been back to Estonia since that summer in 1940. With her child grown and her husband gone, she felt it was time to return.

Of course, the reunions shared many tales of family and loss. So much catching up with old friends and family and yet she never once felt tired or old. How much had changed in 60 years and also things that had stayed the same. Then 'her love' had come up in a conversation.

"Oh yes, he is doing just fine. He is a widower now. Lives just down the street."

Her heart raced as if she were to pass out, "HE IS ALIVE?"

"Of course he is alive, and well. He thought YOU were killed, didn't you know... all those years ago?"

"I thought HE was killed! HE IS ALIVE??" She repeated again through tears of excitement and disbelief.

As quickly as her body would take her, she got up, threw a pale blue shawl around her neck and shuffled out the door. She went to his house, trying to make herself presentable along the way. She took out a pocket mirror, looked at her reflection and saw the ballerina shining back at her. He answered the door and it only took one shared look to see, to know, to feel that they would indeed never be separated again.