"Good Luck"
by Michael Dell

It probably should have been one of those moments that changed my life. Made me look at things differently. Like the sky would open and angels and light and the sound of trumpets would bathe me with enlightenment. Blinded by the light. None of that happened. All it did was leave me numb. So, yeah, nothing changed.

It was early May. I was driving home from school. It was my first semester since the "event" and I knew the homecoming would be much anticipated. There had been talk before of not letting me take my car back to school. Someone would have driven me the three hours. But then they decided things had to return to normal. If I was well enough to return to school I was well enough to drive myself.

The semester went well. Or as well as could be expected. I didn't socialize much. I never was one to go out. Tommy tried to get me involved in some stuff but I always begged off. I was happier being left alone. Alone is where the heart is.

Naturally my parents phoned often. It was every day at first. They wanted me to call them but they knew I never would. So they rang each evening around seven. I always answered. Why waste the worry? We talked for a couple minutes. I never had much to say. They'd ask how I was doing. I'd say fine. They'd want to know how the classes were going. I'd say fine. They'd tell me news from home, like there could possibly be any in the course of twenty-four hours, and then they'd always get to the point of the call. Yes, I had been taking the pills. Just as the doctor prescribed. Once in the morning and once at night. Oh, I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night. Da-da-da, da-da-da, da da da da da.

And I did take the pills. Each morning I'd wake and pour myself a big glass of water. I'd pop the purple and yellow capsule from its foil pack and take it directly to the window where I tossed it to freedom for all the little sparrows to enjoy. I chased it with the water so the wee ones wouldn't choke. If by doing so I saved one young bird from the onset of depression, well, then it was all worth it.

I actually used to take the pills. That was when I was still home. I think I took them for three days. I did it to please my parents. Watch the good boy take his medicine. I never felt any different. I probably didn't give them enough time. More days were needed before they could get their claws into me. It wouldn't matter. I could take an endless stream of pills and they wouldn't make me feel any different. I don't want to feel any different. And I certainly don't want chemicals running amok in my system trying to soften my brain. I need to be sharp. Always sharp. Leave the dull to the dull. I want my mind to be mine and mine only.

Pills, pills, pills. They were his idea. What did he ever do for me? Those appointments. Once a week. Complete waste of time. I did it to for the same reason as the pills. Showing up at his little three-roomed office. Waiting room. That's all you could do. Wait. Would it have killed him to have some good magazines? The receptionist. Was there a receptionist? Or was that a plant? I can't even remember. There had to be a receptionist. There didn't have to a be plant. No, it was a plant. I remember now. He made the appointments himself. The waiting room was just for waiting.

Sometimes I'd get there a early and someone would be sitting there counting minutes. I'd sit in one of the chairs opposite, smiling, and wonder to myself why they were there. Did they try to open their wrists? Did they think dogs talked to them? Did they have issues with their mother? Or did they just like the magazines? I hoped it was the dogs. They should have someone to talk to.

There was always a little table set up in the corner with coffee and sometimes even doughnuts. I don't drink coffee. I don't eat doughnuts. I would help myself to some brown plastic swizzle sticks. You never know when you'll need a swizzle stick. I wanted to have plenty just to be sure. Another woman watched me once as I snatched a handful. I offered her one. She went back to reading her magazine. She must have had problems with her father.

The doctor would see you in one of two rooms. Two doors along the back wall. I was always taken into the room on the right. What wonders the door on the left contained still remains a mystery. I pictured whips and chains and leather straps and medieval torture devices of dizzying complexity. All the door on the right had was a desk, an easy chair, a plush couch, and some end tables with lamps. And a bookcase/filing cabinet. Can't forget that.

The doctor would appear from behind one of the two doors and greet me with teeth and goodwill. I'd smile back. He was a peculiar sort. He had to be in his late 40s. He was Italian. His hair was gray but remarkably thick. He also had a thick gray mustache that countered his tan, sagging skin. For a doctor he didn't seem to be in very good shape. He wasn't fat. He just didn't give the appearance of health. He was a smoker. He had the skin of a smoker. There were always dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks. This from a doctor. Doctor of the head not the body. He spoke in a rich baritone. Always calm. Never excited. Even his punch lines to jokes were contained. The only change would be in his facial expression. His tired eyes would squint and his lazy mouth would stretch into a grin. His voice never gave. It was really quite the splendid voice. He could have worked in radio. He always wore a dress shirt and tie. But the sleeves would be rolled up around his heavy, dark forearms. Silver watch on left wrist. You put it on your left wrist so you don't have to stop writing to see what time it is. Unless you're a lefty. Then you put it on your right wrist. I have a different kind of reminder on my wrists.

Sometimes I would be the only patient there. Other times he'd have both doors full. And when he'd walk out the previous patient I'd meet their eyes for a brief moment to see if I could find any trace of confessions. Most would smile and walk past. I'd smile too. Let your smile be your umbrella. It catches more rain that way.

I'd go into the right office. It was never the left. He'd walk me in and make some small talk. I went along. I could have cared less what he said. The room was always dimly lit. The colors were all browns and creams. Cheap wood paneling. He'd sit in the easy chair. I'd sit on the couch. It was soft and comfortable. I never realized it then but I guess I could have lied down on the couch. It was just like in the movies. I was probably supposed to lie down. It never even occurred to me then. I always sat on the far right cushion so I could have an armrest. Lamp and magazines to my left. Also a box of tissues. I guess they were there to catch the tears of an emotional breakthrough. That never occurred to me either. I thought maybe the doctor had allergies. Crying never entered the picture.

So there we'd sit. He'd continue the small talk. Then he'd skillfully try to turn it into something more. I would just as skillfully not allow that to happen. He wanted to keep me talking. I never wanted to talk. I never wanted to tell him anything. Then again, maybe I was telling him everything by saying nothing. I don't know. I asked him if he kept a file on me. He said he kept a file on all his patients. I asked if I could see it. He said I couldn't. I told him I understood and then went back to saying nothing. But I was polite about it. I was never short with him. I'd answer every question. But I'd do it in such a way that no other questions could follow without him tipping his hand. He wanted to be subtle. I wanted to be direct. He knew what I was doing. I'm sure he had dealt with many others like me. That could be why the dark circles.

We'd talk and talk without my ever saying anything. Sometimes he'd just come right out and ask me if there was anything I wanted to talk about specifically. I'd say no. Then we'd go back to pointless banter. Some word or phrase would seemingly always trigger a memory with him and he'd go off on some story from his youth and I'd sit and listen and pretend to care while all I was really doing was killing time until I could go home and watch TV. The appointments were usually at five in the evening. I'd go home afterwards and eat dinner and watch reruns of "Quincy" as I ate.

He used to ask me if I was taking my pills. I always said yes. He must have known I was lying. He kept trying to find new ways to get me to talk. Once he suggested hypnosis. He said it was just an idea. Some patients didn't like the thought. Others were open. He said someone couldn't be hypnotized unless they were open to it and wanted to be hypnotized. I seemed interested. He even showed me this spinning wheel he used to put people under. It was maybe a foot and a half in diameter. It had colored strips of red, yellow, orange, and blue running from the outside edge to the middle that were arranged in such a way so that when the wheel was activated it would spin and create a hypnotic effect of whirling colors. It was on top of the bookcase. He held it in his two hands and sat back down in his easy chair and showed me how it worked. He switched it on and the wheel began to turn. It was slow and first and then worked into a swift, steady motion. I watched the spiraling colors fall down and vanish into the wheel's center. I guess it's supposed to trick your eyes and ease your mind. It made me think of a carnival. At any second I thought he was going to try and guess my weight. He flipped the switch again and the wheel stopped spinning. He asked me if I wanted to give it a try. I smiled. No.

I kept going to see him for almost four months. Near the end it got to the point where he didn't know what else to do. I must have darkened those circles. He asked me why I never wanted to talk. I told him I thought it was wrong for him to charge my father $65 a throw for doing nothing more than telling me old stories from his past and busying me with small talk when he could have done the same free of charge with his wife. He took it in good humor. That was my last appointment. I told my parents I didn't feel like going back. I felt I was fine. I never did go back. I know my parents must have called him to see what he thought. He must have agreed with me.

Two weeks later I got a large brown envelop in the mail from the good doctor. My parents were both at work when it arrived. It was addressed to me. But I could only imagine trying to explain my receiving a large brown envelop in the mail. It was better that they weren't home. Inside was a plain looking file folder labeled "Stillman, Robert A." across the tab. I opened it to find a blank sheet of paper with a green post-it note stuck to it that read simply "Good luck." There was no signature.

So it was with the doctor's blessing that I returned to school for the spring semester. I had been gone eight months. Tommy was glad to see me. He said it wasn't the same up there without me. How could anyone have possibly noticed? Tommy was a good kid. He had seen enough. Our room looked the same. Except there was a patch of carpeting stained.

Everyone was friendly. Ridiculously so. They acted as if any wrong note or loud noise would send me to fits of insanity. They didn't understand. And I didn't care. I smiled and laughed and made jokes and did my work like anyone else. Good grades are important. Can't get into a decent cemetery without good grades. How could you expect to find a nice grave someday without good grades? I studied and studied and studied. I'm very smart. It says so right there on my tests. I always get good grades. Homework is next to godliness. Books open and shut. They shut just as hard as they open. I was a student among students. A scholar among scholars. I did my term paper for Art History in green crayon. My professor thought it was genius and a statement on pop art and its commercialism. I just didn't feel like turning on my computer. I turned it on every day and the thought of pressing that button again, or any button for that matter, sickened me. I never take elevators.

My name was on the dean's list. Right where it belonged. My parents would cut it out and keep it in a scrapbook of awards and honors they had kept since my birth. I have such potential. I could one day earn money before I die. You just watch and see. I'll have piles of it somewhere. Or maybe it will just be a number on a piece of paper. I'll write my own number on a piece of paper. I'll need another green crayon.

So it was after this rousing success of a semester that I returned home. I drove at night to avoid traffic. I stayed within the speed limit. I signaled when I changed lanes. It was an enjoyable ride. Nothing but silence and the road. The highways carried me until I decided to take a scenic detour through a nearby town of my youth. The pleasant neighborhoods. The perfect little houses. The small corner businesses. Four stop signs and one traffic light. It was all still there. Nothing changed. It just went on and on and on. Always the same. Nothing will change. No one even sees that it should.

I needed to get back onto the highway for the final leg of the trip. It would only take another twenty minutes. Then I'd be home. It was very late on a Sunday evening. No other cars around. I sat at the red light waiting my chance to make my left turn and head home. The highway was elevated slightly from where I was. You had to drive up a small crest and wait for any oncoming traffic the other way before you could make the turn. No one was around. I didn't have to wait to turn.

The main highway was under construction. There were large orange barrels everywhere on the right. I was going left. An enormous orange sign shaped like a diamond stood in the darkness next to the road, which ran two lanes in each direction. Solid concrete dividers split the way. The sign was dark. As I turned my headlights showed it to read "This Lane" above a section of light bulbs that were black. I turned into the left of the two lanes as I had done dozens of times in the past. The right lane looked quite devastated by construction. Large equipment stood out from the shadows along the side of the road. It seemed to disappear into nothingness. I could only make out broken pavement on its far edge. There was a strip of tiny reflector poles running between the two lanes. They cast the only light aside from my car. I took their presence to mean the right lane was closed. Work was in progress. The reflectors were there to guard from going into the wrong lane and driving into a ditch.

I sped along in darkness for several moments without another car either approaching from the opposite direction or appearing behind me in my mirror. It wasn't until I reached the top of a hill that I could see a string of cars in the distance below. Seven. I thought it was funny how I was free and clear having not seen a soul in miles and there they were stacked seven deep. Their headlights were little dots lined up in a row. There's a song like that. See the little something something lined up in a row. Hey ho, hey ho, it's time to say hello. There is a song like that. Honest.

Two by two. The lights raced towards me. Actually there was only a single light in front. I could tell now that it was a motorcycle. There was no lack of speed in their progress. My going downhill, the pitch black, and their distance away messed with my perspective. I thought they were on the other side of the concrete divider. I didn't think anything was wrong. Apparently neither did they.

The column of lights was not on the other side of the barrier. I could see now they we were all in the same lane. I must have turned into the wrong one. The right lane must be open. It must not disappear into nothingness. I was convinced I was in the wrong lane. The lights were coming. I didn't slow down. I didn't speed up. I just continued to drive towards them.

They must have been as fooled as I was by the closeness of the lanes and the darkness. They showed no signs of slowing either. I wasn't scared. I didn't panic. I felt nothing really. I kept driving. I'm not sure exactly how close we came. I know the motorcycle didn't realize what was happening until the very last instant. I could see the back of his bike begin to fishtail when I swung my car into the other lane. The motorcycle was red and white. That's how close we came.

I made the move to safety with incredible precision. I couldn't have planned it better as I darted through without even touching one of the reflectors. That's a driving trick if I ever saw one considering the speed I was traveling and the abrupt nature of the turn. The car bounced slightly as it hopped over the reflector strip. I was in the right lane for two solid beats before the motorcycle and string of cars whizzed by. I never slowed. Neither did they. I watched the parade of lights, red this time, continue into the past without the slightest hesitation. The drivers of the cars had to have seen me swerve into the other lane. They couldn't have missed it. They had come very close to death. We all had. Certainly the motorcyclist had. Maybe he was the only one to know for sure I was in the wrong lane. He probably thought I was drunk. It took some skill on his part not to lose the bike. Even if we didn't hit head on he could have lost control when my headlights fell upon him that last second and caused a terrific pileup. Think of all the trouble I could have caused. There would have been blood and flames and twisted metal and broken glass and screeching tires and ferocious sounds of crashing. But there was none of that.

My life continued. Their lives continued. There wasn't even any yelling or honking. Not a single curse. We parted ways without so much as a kiss goodbye. Strangers coming together for death. I could have ended their lives. They could have ended mine. Two seconds from death. We were all two seconds from death and didn't even stop to consider its passing. We kept driving. I pictured what it would have been like if we had all collided while I continued my drive home. I saw ghostly images passing through each other. It could have happened. Nothing would have been easier. Yet it didn't. Why not? Why did I turn? Was it because I didn't want to injure anyone else? I don't think so. They were just lights in darkness to me. They had no bodies. No faces. No families. They were just lights. And I don't even remember telling myself to turn. It just happened. I watched it happen. Was it instinct? It was probably instinct. But I tell you I didn't make the conscious decision to turn the wheel. I saw those lights coming towards me and I thought of nothing. I had no sense for the weight they carried. Part of me still thinks nothing more would have happened than they would have bounced off me and I would have continued on my merry way. Or, like the ghosts in my head, they would have simply passed right through me. They weren't real. I'm not real. Why did I turn the wheel? Did I turn the wheel? I could be dead right now. If not for my turning the wheel I'd be dead. I am dead.

It was almost five in the morning when I arrived home. I let myself in with my key and was careful not to wake my parents. I slipped up the stairs to my room without the trembling limbs and anxious breath often attributed to the survivor's of a brush with death. I didn't leave a note. They'd see my car in the morning and know I was home. My room was just as I had left it. I locked the door behind me and undressed. I let the clothes stay where they fell and stood in front of my bedroom window in the darkness and looked at the familiar view. It was out there somewhere that I was still dead.

I didn't see my parents until the following evening when they got home from work. They were excited to see me. They were proud of how well I did at school. They asked how the drive home was. I said it was fine. Everything was everything. All back to normal.