Luck Be a Lady

You’re not sure what to do about the drunk standing by his banged-up truck, his back curved like a C, as he mumbles into his phone, and you think you could turn around, walk another mile or two, enjoy the crisp fall air of Homer in September, maybe spot the moose and her calf that’s been hanging around, all the while hoping the clearly inebriated young man is gone when you return, or you could call your neighbor Candace, ask for a ride in her banged up Subaru with its strapped on bike rack and the bumper sticker that reads: “Alaskan lumberjacks give STIHL one” followed by a line drawing of two fists—one thumb up, the other missing—but you’re a grown-ass woman, a grown-ass post-menopausal woman, what the fuck are you doing letting a fucking punk make you think twice, so you’ll walk right by in your Xtra Tuff boots, your rain jacket zipped tight, one hand on your phone in your pocket and, of course, you’ll prepare yourself for the possibilities, every woman knows to prepare for the possibilities, and you take determined steps, chin forward, shoulders back, and slip within a few feet of him, catch the reek of alcohol, note the pants hanging so low you can see his boxer briefs are emerald green, and his mongrel dog growls and jumps off the truck, runs off, ten feet of rope trailing him, but you keep walking, steady now

and that’s when you hear it, you knew it, the punk calling, “Hey, Lady,” and before you can answer, his hot stanky breath is on your neck, his hands on your arms, your hands stuck in your pockets, the hand on your phone unable to call for help and what were you thinking, and you know where this will end while he’s dragging you to his Ford four-door crew cab the color of malted milk, growling “Let’s go to the Dawg,” and, now, you’re in his beat-up truck that’s seen one too many moose or, maybe, telephone polls after other nights at the Salty Dawg on the Spit where all the fishermen hang out when their ships come in, and you know there’s a bend in the road coming up before the downhill into town, but he sees you eyeing the door handle, and says, “Let’s just have some fun, lady, there’s no harm in having fun,” and you know you will end up in a ditch, no one but him knowing what happened to you, your husband 3,000 miles away while you’re supposed to be in a cabin writing your book, and he’s calling and calling, your phone ringing and ringing, no one answering, and you wish your father hadn’t lived long enough to see his little girl left for dead in the wilds of Alaska, because he always told you to be careful, not to take risks,

but, no, not that, at least, not yet, because you’re still walking, and you hear it again, “Hey, Lady,” he calls, and starts singing, belting, “And luck be a lady tonight,” full-on Frank Sinatra in wintry Alaska, and, thing is, it’s good, his voice, but, of course, he’s not just singing to be singing, because “Lady,” he calls again, and you’re trying to maintain your measured pace all the while keeping an eye on his prowling dog as the punk calls, “Lady,” more and more insistently, and, finally, you turn, still moving away, walking sideways, and he asks, “How do you like my voice?” and you think you can still smell his putrid breath from down the road, and you keep putting distance between you and him like you know you should—and you raise your hands and give him two thumbs up.