Dumb Luck

Such luck, I think—driving to work, wheels skidding                  to a hard stop when a chipmunk darts in front of my car,

pauses, then scurries back into the browning shrubs.         Motionless in that moment, the possibility of one

outcome gives way to another. Then breath, then the voices         on the radio, then they're saying my name—no, the name

of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, who has entered the Senate Chamber,         taken a seat. I look around at the empty street, press the pedal.

In exaggerated whispers, the reporters blithely describe her, surprised         she's not a "surfer girl," as a woman "under a lot of pressure."

I'm late for work, unusual for me, but earlier this morning         had heard from a friend about another friend, that her husband

has left her, just months after their marriage and announced pregnancy.         What terrible luck, I said, then wanted to take back, not sure if "luck"

was the right word. This news, and the news on the radio, skirt         each other in my mind, strike sparks when they get close.

Then this: in college, I waitressed at a Korean-owned sushi restaurant         in an unassuming strip mall where I would arrive straight

from class, apply lipstick and eyeliner using a simmering pot         of miso soup as a mirror next to the chefs knifing clean the fish,

sloughed scales sharp and translucent like chips of glass.         It was luck that had gotten me the job, or so I believed—

over eighteen and authentically Japanese (half, anyway)         and enough comprehension of Korean (the other half) to get by

in the kitchen. Korean enough to not question tossing salt         on the front stoop to chase away bad luck,

like that night a man walked into the restaurant,         lifted his hoodie just enough to reveal the triangle butt

of a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans,         then walked out with our fishbowl of dollar tips.

My boss's mother, the cook, ran from the kitchen hurling         fistfuls of salt, cursing the gods, her son, and me.

I admit I was distracted by the greasy swastika inked         across the man's throat, can still see the wound's wet.

Then, not so much bad luck but still rude, one time an ahjumma         from my boss's gye group tossed a crumpled napkin at me,

which hit my chest before landing on a tray I was carrying.         And many customers would, at some point as we ferried

platters of raw fish to their tables ask us         where we were from, where we learned to speak

English. Once, a table of white men asks to make me         a deal: they'll bring me a pie if I say, "Me love you long time."

They're older than me, but not by much; they wear trucker-style caps         backwards, the mesh pressing into their pale, fleshy foreheads.

I remember then the sound of their laughter, then their faces reddening,         then the odor of sweat and hormones and stale beer, and the words

spilling out my mouth before I had full comprehension:         "What kind of pie?" It was a joke, I thought, or think I thought,

but their howls sent a phantom finger down my spine.         After my shift, my boss handed me a wad of cash,

said the group had "tipped big," to buy myself a hamburger         on the drive home. I counted the bills in my car, under a streetlamp

in the parking lot, all those soy sauce-stained one-dollar bills.         I think of myself then, nineteen years old, alone in a dark parking lot,

money fanned across my lap. Nothing but unearned luck has kept me         safe and alive these thirty-three years, a dumb, gift-luck

whose mouth I pry open every morning for inspection.         But not this morning. Through the radio speakers

I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant,         also on her way to work, how she'll twist a ring off her swollen finger.

I think of the tattooed man's eyes—what I thought was desperation         but maybe was not, was maybe hate, or...