Divine Misfortune

14

Over the next few weeks, things fell into place for Teri and Phil.

Lucky spent less and less time at the house. His dates with Janet grew more frequent, and he usually slept over at her place four or five times a week. They spent more time with Quick than with their own god. Sometimes they would go days without seeing Lucky at all, with only rumpled Hawaiian shirts in the hamper to tell them he’d popped in for a visit and grabbed a shower and something to eat before heading back to Janet’s place.

When they suggested that Quick use the guest room, he refused. The room was more than just a closet full of Lucky’s clothes and an unused bed. It was the shrine to their god, the sacred space devoted to his appeasement. Even if he didn’t use it for much, it still counted as tribute.

Quick was stuck on the sofa, but he was quiet and a decent cook. And he was considerate enough to leave the house every so often to give them their privacy. Usually, he’d just go for a slither around the block for a few hours or sit in the backyard with a glass of tomato juice and a book. It wasn’t very godlike behavior, but he had long ago abandoned the ways of tribute and favor.

“I’m just trying to get my head together,” he’d explained. “I don’t really need to mess around with that game right now.”

Both mortals knew that Quick was just making excuses, but they saw no need to push things. He was immortal. He had plenty of time to “find himself.” It really was none of their business. They just chalked up the serpent god living in their midst to more tribute for Lucky, and as long as Quick was willing to do the dishes every now and then, they didn’t feel too put out.

Janet and Lucky’s relationship changed from infatuation to genuine affection much faster than either was willing to admit, but Teri noticed. At her lunches with Janet, she’d catch Janet smiling wistfully and wouldn’t have to guess what or who she was thinking about. More and more, the discussions became about something “cute” Lucky did or some romantic gesture or just something fu

It was hard to be negative, though, when good luck was in their hip pocket. Everything started going right. It wasn’t big or obvious, but it was noticeable. Aside from the twenty to thirty bucks of loose change Phil and Teri found every day, there were other subtle benefits. Any supermarket line they chose was always the fastest. Even the most crowded restaurant just happened to have a table available upon their arrival. They were always the twentieth caller to the radio contest, found things on sale just when they needed them to be, and rarely had to deal with traffic jams. Lucky didn’t fix their lives, but he did remove all those little a

There were still the quirks of luck. Phil stepped in gum at least once a day, and Teri found that her shower would inexplicably blast her with cold water about once a week. But these were just a

The strangest thing was the animals: the birds, squirrels, stray dogs and cats that appeared around them. Always red. Always speckled. Always with the large blue eyes.

Lucky told them it was nothing to worry about and that the animals would go away eventually. They just needed to give it some time.

But the animals kept coming.

Phil and Teri grew used to seeing them. In the end, they seemed less threatening than the daily gum on Phil’s shoe, so after a while, both mortals stopped really noticing.

And life, blessed by good fortune and serendipity, was good.

Phil had seen the Supervisor walking the office before. He’d nodded to her a few times. And once, he’d even shaken her hand while passing by as introductions were being thrown around. But she was too far above him on the corporate ladder to have any deeper interaction on those few occasions when she descended from the seventh floor. She usually appeared like a phantom from a special elevator, spoke to one of the fourth-floor department heads, and disappeared whence she came. Which was why it was surprising when she took a sharp right down Phil’s row of cubicles. Everyone kept their eyes on their work as she proceeded down the aisle.

He bent over his keyboard and squinted at the screen as if his life depended on it. It was several moments before he realized she had paused by his cubicle.

He glanced from the corner of his eye to be sure, not willing to look away from his work for fear of getting caught slacking off. In his peripheral vision, she was a blurry shadow, the living embodiment of all the nebulous dangers that lurked, barely seen and never spoken of, waiting to devour careless members of lower middle management who revealed just how redundant their positions were.

The Supervisor didn’t say anything. She just stood there.

He slowed his typing and turned his head. She wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he’d assumed, but he’d never looked at her directly before. She was a short, stout woman. Her plain gray suit was wrinkle-free, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She didn’t smile, but she wasn’t frowning either. She was inscrutable.

“Phillip Robinson.” It wasn’t a question, but there was a pleasant lilt in her voice, even if her face remained uncommitted. “I’d like you to come with me.”

He suppressed a gulp.

She gave him just enough time to save his work before turning and marching away. He ran after her. Elliot shot him a questioning, vaguely frightened glance, and Phil shrugged. She led him to the special elevator. It wasn’t different from any other elevator, but it still filled him with dread.

He didn’t ask what this was about, and she didn’t say. He watched the floor numbers light up until the elevator reached seven. Not all the way to nine, but closer than he’d been before.

“This way, please.”

He ended up in an office. A secretary guarded the door, but she made no attempt to stop them from entering. The office was more like a small apartment with all the amenities of an art deco living space. Not to Phil’s tastes, but impressive if only because he knew how others valued something like this.

The Supervisor vanished without another word. She closed the double doors behind her and left him to his fate.

A heavyset man sat behind the large desk. He was big, but not fat, brimming with physical power. His haircut probably cost more than Phil made in a month. Phil didn’t know who he was, but he assumed this was someone important.

The man stood, spread his arms wide, and offered a boisterous greeting. “Phil, so good of you to make it! Welcome, welcome!”

Phil ventured closer with visions of the giant desk rolling over and crushing him beneath it. He decided to invoke the first rule of corporate survival. Humor the boss.

“Hello”-he read the nameplate on the desk-“Mr. Rosenquist.”

“Oh, please. Why so formal? Call me Van.” Rosenquist smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth. Everything about the man, from his tan to his trimmed mustache and square jaw, was a model of the subjective perfection that so many spent thousands of dollars achieving.

Rosenquist began the journey around his desk. By the time he rounded the second corner, a nameless dread had fallen on Phil. He didn’t expect the boss to pounce and devour him, but his gut reaction was much the same as if he had. These were dangerous territories for an employee of his position, and not everyone who ventured into these lands made it out intact.