A Postcard from Luck

Luck. I hate the word. I can’t get it out of my mouth. It sticks in the throat like a furball, with all the other ‘uck’ words. Yuck. Muck. Fuck. Truck.

Some people sit around for years trying to define it, name it, shape it. They wrestle with its slipperiness. These are the kind of people who spend their Sunday mornings at church. Or the casino.

I don’t roll dice. There’s no praying on my part, no sinking bottles of scotch and jumping in pools for a swim. We try to keep out of each other’s way, luck an…