I Should Be So Lucky

Once, I had this lucky bracelet. It was a small fabric cuff I bought years ago at Urban Outfitters, and I loved it dearly. My lucky bracelet was on my wrist throughout cancer treatment, was used as a costume piece in my first movie, and joined me on my first trip to Europe. I loved that damn bracelet. Last fall, I left it in the bedroom of a one-night stand. I didn’t have a phone number for the guy, and despite all my best efforts, I never got it back. My friends told me there was a life lesson to extract, something about letting go and that accessories cannot really bring you luck. But it’s hard to ignore the evidence: It’s been six months since I lost that bracelet, and I still don’t have a boyfriend. Coincidence? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Last week, I was at a bar with George and Slutty Mandy, celebrating the birthday of a mutual friend. The revelry was in full swing, and everyone present had reached that point of inebriation where every exchange, even with strangers, begins with, "I just...love you...so much."
My buzz, however, was about to come to an abrupt end.

As I scanned the room for any interesting possibilities, my gaze landed on a fella standing by himself, apparently three sheets to the proverbial wind himself. In an instant, I felt stone sober. I nudged my companions.
"Topher, I just... love you..." Mandy began.
"I love you too," I said. "Now, look over there, by the stairs."
They followed my glare.
"Go for it," said George. "You could have him."
"That’s just it," I said. "I’ve had him. That’s motherfucking Bracelet Guy."
"You’re kidding me," said Mandy, getting up. "Okay, I’m settling this shit once and for all."
"No no no," I pleaded, blocking her path. "If you scare him off, I’ll never get it back."
"And then we’ll hear about that damn bracelet for the rest of our lives," said George.
"Exactly," I said. "I’ll handle this. All I need is an invite back to his place, and I can get it back."
"Wait," said Mandy. "You’ll sleep with him again just to get the bracelet?"
"I don’t have to actually sleep with him, he just has to think I will."
"And then what? You’ll escape?"
"If possible, yes."
"You know, Topher," said Mandy. "Sometimes it’s like you live a really gay episode of I Love Lucy."
"Here’s a thought," interjected George. "He might not have it anymore. What then?"
"Then I will steal his cat."
And with that, I let my hair down, picked up my drink, and crossed the room, boosted by slurred cheers of encouragement.

A week later, I’m out at my regular haunt, but without George, who’s at home, knocked flat by "a thing". It’s some sort of wretched virus, or food poisoning, or something. When you don’t have health insurance, every illness is a mystery. You just have "a thing" until you don’t anymore.
A dark-haired stranger sits down next to me. We strike up a conversation. He’s actually doing most of the talking, because I’m too busy staring at his biceps to pay close attention. This guy has the arms of a superhero. And come to think of it, he looks a little like Clark Kent. Quickly, I envision a half-dozen scenarios where he has to rescue me from peril- I’m trapped in a burning building... I’m walking through Piedmont Park, and a tree falls on me... A robot monster is destroying Midtown... When I return from my reverie, I notice he’s having trouble lighting his cigarette.
"Cheap lighter," says Superhero. "Only works half the time."
I take it from his hand and give it a try, producing a flame on the first attempt.
"How ‘bout that," he says. "You must be good luck."
"Better keep me around, then," I say.
"For my own protection," he agrees.
I look down to my wrist, at the frayed brown fabric cuff that has returned to its rightful home. Damn if it ain’t working already.