I Don't Believe In Luck.

Laguna Beach, CA, WPPilot, (Wiki.)

Ian Cooper

I don’t believe in luck. It is true that your life can change in a moment. Sometimes it’s for the better, and sometimes it’s for the worse.

Back in the autumn of 1984, I was sports editor of a small weekly paper in southern Ontario.

Every year at the same time, they had their Harvest Festival, where they blocked off the main street, with carnival rides, attractions and food vendors. I was working that weekend, and the editor, a guy called Mark, gave me a schedule of events and some words of advice. Then he told me that Ted, our publisher, had a bit of a treat for me. His son-in-law, who shall remain nameless, had flown up for the weekend with the in-laws. The guy was going to take me up for some aerial shots of downtown.

He told me to take lots of pictures.

I ended up in Nixon, Ontario. They had a little grass airstrip running up the middle of a cornfield. We took the passenger door off the fellow’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk. It was his suggestion, and what the hell did I know?

I was in the right-side seat.

We took off, climbed out to 1,200 or so feet and I was shooting like mad. Farmhouses, fields, tobacco kilns, everything was amazing from up there. I had a five-hundred millimetre lens on the camera and we flew over the town. I changed film once or twice, shooting a good three rolls of film. I shot pictures of Main Street and everything I could see, practically, because I hadn’t been up in a plane since I was about twelve years old.

At some point the pilot suggested that I could stick my foot out onto the wing strut, bracing myself in the slipstream. I was shooting with ASA 400 film, and it wouldn’t have made that much difference. The pictures I got were well-focused going by the (eventual) results. Neither one of us was an expert.

When I stuck my right foot out the door, the hundred and ten mile per hour slipstream took my leg. It took me completely by surprise, and I had both hands on the camera. The wind spun me around in the seat so I was hanging halfway out of the plane. The worst thing was the loud, metallic clang sound of something hitting the side of the fuselage. Looking down, to my horror, I saw that the lap belt had come undone—and the wind had taken it out and smacked it against the side of the fuselage. I was back in the seat in a flash. Grabbing the belt, I pulled it back in, snapped it into place and looked into the rather shocked face of the pilot.

On the Cessna, the lap and shoulder belts were separate. Not like a car, where it’s one piece and one receptacle to click in. On the Cessna, there are two receptacles. My shoulder belt stayed on, probably the only thing that saved me. For whatever reason the lap belt hadn’t been properly snapped in. I remember looking down from an altitude of six hundred or seven hundred feet. We were flying above a swamp, with dead trees sticking up like big black knitting needles. I might not have died instantly, hitting that swamp, although I’m sure I would have made a pretty big splash before quietly drowning in the muck and the mire.

It’s a good thing that shoulder belt was properly secured.

***

In the same town, only a couple of weeks later, I was living in a motel. One day, I got off work, and in my usual fashion, headed straight for the bar and grille, where I would have a few beers and eventually, take a table, order a hot beef sandwich or whatever.

The owner had a bit of news for me.

“Some girl called here.”

I perked right up.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, and I thought I’d better give you a bit of a heads-up. I didn’t know who it was, so I said, hey, is this Alice? And she says, no, this is Jane…”

Ah.

So…

Jane calls from down home and the owner says, “Is this Alice?”

Yes, I was in trouble, ladies and gentlemen.

I lost two relationships that day. It was all over soon enough, and I ended up quitting that job and moving on.

Looking back, they were both very nice ladies. I liked them a lot. They were good people and they were both hurt and disappointed. And I did that. It was all me. There was no one else to blame, not really. This is what happens when you’re greedy, and shallow, and selfish and stupid. It didn't take too long to understand what was a pretty hard lesson...

I might have ended up marrying either one of them, and who knows, it might have worked out.

You think about that sort of thing years later, when you’re alone, you’re down and out and no one cares any longer what happens to you…

There is no doubt that in both situations, I was ultimately responsible for what happened—or what almost happened to me, or what didn’t happen to me.

This is one good reason why I don’t believe in luck.

END

Chevauchée, a Work In Progress.

Ian Cooper

(An excerpt from a work in progress. -- ed.)

The men at arms had halted at an inn, while archers and footmen, mounted and dismounted, milled in the yard and filled their cups and horns from barrels of rich red wine.

“Larkin. What’s happening?”

“The ford is blocked.”

“Oh. What ford is that?”

Larkin laughed. It really was like that sometimes, men standing around with no idea of what was happening.

“There’s a river up ahead. Vaughn and Sands were in the van and they say there are hundreds of noble pennants on the far side.”

He spat, noisily, as Thomas stood, clinging to Chestnut’s bridle and wondering where he was going to find water, fodder, and something for his own belly.

This day, the army had gotten up well before dawn. Alternately walking and cantering, the army had covered a good ten miles before the sun broke the horizon.

That was all Thomas knew.

In Old Bill’s stories, it seemed that his father was right there in the innermost circles at every council, and had a bird’s eye view of every battlefield, and had always known every little thing that was going on.

He saw now that that was not necessarily so.

Men milled in confusion in front of the doorway, and Thomas wondered if they were going in, or more likely the inn was full to capacity.

At that time, the door crashed open, men began shouting questions and several of Sir John’s captains forced their way out against a reluctant crowd of men.

“Back! Back! Make way, make way.”

The huddle of men backing up were treading on their toes, and Larkin grabbed Thomas’s arm and pulled him off to one side. There were two kinds of men in that yard, men who were talking, rather shouting, and those who would listen if only they could hear.

Sir John stepped out of the inn’s front door and the quiet descended as he stepped up on a box and spoke, in quite a normal voice.

“Right. I need a hundred mounted archers, all volunteers.”

Larkin grabbed his right arm and lofted it in his strong and callused grip.

“Here we are, my Lord.”

Sir John turned and grinned.

“Ah, yes, the Cheshire cat, Larkin my boy, how the Hades are you, sir?”

“I am well, Sir John. The last time I saw you, sir, one of us had a head like a half-chewed pudding.” He turned aside. “Some of you may recall that particular incident.”

A ripple of laughter went through the fascinated mob, ears all a-quiver and straining to catch every syllable.

“…and one of us had a pretty good dose of the clap, as you may recall…”

The men roared, thousands of them, all jamming into the yard, streaming in on foot from all sides now that there was news.

“Ah, yes, be that as it may. I need a hundred of you good fellows. I’m offering a gold salut, for any man that crosses the ford…and lives to collect.”

There was a hubbub as men struggled, pushing their neighbours aside and thrusting themselves forward.

Sir John’s captain, William Vaughn, was there with his quill and his book of doom as some called it, all ready to take their names as Larkin dragged him forward.

“Come along lad, you’ll find this a little more to your taste.”

(End of excerpt. -- ed.) 

Taken is free from Smashwords.

Thank you for reading my excerpt.

--ian

Whole Lotta Love

Ian Cooper

Brice Catlow was just plain thrilled to drive Aunt Jane to Bismarck.

It was too bad Uncle Ed had killed himself. That sort of ruined it for everybody, but Brice didn’t get a chance to drive a car very often. Brice liked driving and wanted to be a race-car driver some day. He would take all the driving practice he could get.

Brice had always liked Uncle Ed, a cheerful wrasslin’ bear of a man. That’s what Ed had always said.

He’d always had the hots for Aunt Jane though.

Brice was sixteen, and he had his driver’s license. She needed help to clean the place up as it would have to be sold.

She was silent beside him.

Brice was only half enjoying the 1970 Duster, which he told her was a brick. It was good driving experience. 

That’s what he told her. It had a slant six and bias-ply tires. Not like a real car. It actually belonged to Uncle Dave and Aunt Marcy.

Aunt Jane didn’t have a car.

She was the youngest, the most beautiful of his mother’s sisters.

The first time he saw her, he was about five or six years old and she was fourteen. Her legs were long, smooth and white. She was dressed for ballet practice. He dreamed about her all the time after that, even as a young kid.

In his dream she was a princess. She was being held in a dungeon and he had to rescue her. In his dream she would shower him with kisses after he had suitably proven his love for her, his bravery, hacking up scores of brutish oafs on the way in and out. She was his first real innocent crush. It was just a crush, with no sexual overtones back then.

The song on the radio faded as they motored through the night. He felt like a real man. He was driving on the I-94 at seventy miles per hour. He’d already driven right past a cop sitting at the side of the road. Brice was speeding a little bit, trying to save a little time. The cop ignored them. Brice was watching the mirror, aware of the traffic up ahead slowing and eddying as it caught up to two big-rigs, the one on the left attempting to pass. He eased off the throttle. The I-94 was a piece of cake.

“Ah.” Brice reached over.

He turned up the tune on the radio.

“This is my favourite song.” He told her all about it.

He told her all about Led Zeppelin. He told her all about Whole Lotta Love. He told her about the sort of musical orgasm during the solo, and turned up the volume when it came. No pun intended, he told her.

He thought she liked the song too, which was a good sign. She smiled tiredly.

He’d thought of her a few times as he masturbated, no more than any other woman though. She was in the rotation, along with half the girls at school and a smattering of older women, teachers, nuns, and a couple of his mother’s friends. Most of his female cousins were pretty good looking. Jane was babysitting the first time he ever did it. He’d been reading some book on anthropology. Hard to believe. She was in the house, downstairs watching TV. That was the first time he ever thought of it. She’d almost walked in on him, as if suspecting something. There was this look in her eye.

He had often wondered about that. What might have been…what if I had let her catch me?

She might have been looking for just the thing. She might have had sympathy. She might have helped me out, and taught me things. They could have kept it secret.

Stranger things had happened.

That first orgasm wasn’t very good. It just felt funny. It was only after a few more times that he got the hang of it. The first really good one was revelation.

He wondered what she was thinking as she turned to the side window again, her reflection pale and forlorn.

It was too bad. To lose your husband so young. She really was a beautiful woman. She had the worst luck, thought Brice.

They would be sleeping in the place overnight. Just the two of them. Uncle Ed’s ghost would be there, most likely, if there was such a thing. His skin prickled at the thought.

But surely Ed of all people would understand. They must have done it, thought Brice.

Of course they had, as thoughts of her naked tormented him. His pulse went up.

He had to be ready for anything tonight. They might just talk for a while. Surely she would cry…

He’d help her pack a bunch of junk out to the curb. They’d take what they could, anything of value, in the car. An auctioneer might come and have a look at some of the bigger items of furniture.

Brice figured this was it. It was the first time he’d ever been alone with a girl.

Why did she ask for me? She could have gotten Uncle Steve or Uncle Ted to go. But those guys were married to her sisters.

I can keep a secret, he thought.

I know she likes me, she always did.

Maybe tonight, he thought. His pants were bulging at the idea.

Her head twitched and the chin came up, staring down the road.

“Where are we?”

“We’ve got fifty miles yet.” He sounded confident, relaying such important information.

He was right up to date. Everything was under control.

She would need some comfort, needing simply to be held perhaps. It would begin there.

They were a hundred and forty miles from home and her husband had just blown his head off with a 12-guage.

You never know though.

That’s what he kept telling himself.

It was a nice dream, and she did say she liked the song and everything.

END