Luck. What is it? Does it even exist?

I always believed it did, till in a philosophy class the prof claimed there was no such thing — at least no specific, discrete, provable thing.

“So you just said what it isn’t,” I said. “Now how about telling me what it is.”

“Gladly,” he said, launching into a diatribe so long, convoluted and verbose that by the time he got done, I had no idea what he’d just said.

Since then, I’ve thought about it and came up with my own definition. It’s pretty simple and straightforward: Good luck is when you beat the odds; bad luck is when the odds beat you.

My actuary pal Jeff Dixon stated it as, Good luck is being above the median, and bad luck is being below it. Pretty much what I said, but with that mathematic term in there, it sounds a lot smarter (which when it comes to math, he surely is. And when it comes to math, compared to me, everyone is smarter).

If you think about it, there are odds on everything. It’s how the casinos and bookies win — and you don’t. And ditto for insurance companies, extended warranties, and all-you-can-eat buffets.

But let’s face it, we’ve all known those hard-luck souls who have natural gifts aplenty, always do the right thing, work their duffs off…and nothing ever goes right for them. They never cheat on taxes or spouse, are super-responsible, and floss twice a day. Yet, somehow, the Fates have singled them out for a lifelong, nonstop drubbing. They’re a loyal and hard-working employee, but get canned and replaced by the boss’s nephew, an arrogant, incompetent nitwit. Their taxes are always in order, but the IRS hounds them ruthlessly. Their wife runs off with their (at least till then) best friend. They have chronic gingivitis. And on and on the sad litany goes, till they’re dumped in some Potter’s Field — to no one’s notice, let alone grief.

On the other hand (or as the Brits would say, Like chalk and cheese), there are those loathsome rotters for whom everything goes right — without them having any particular skills, work ethic, or conscience. They cheat their way through high school and college, and receive the same degree and grades as the hard workers. They never work either a full or honest day in their lives, but still get promoted and rewarded. They cheat on their taxes, break traffic laws, shoplift for the hell of it…and never get caught.

They are the people our parents told us would someday pay for their sins, yet they never do. And why is that? Simple. It’s because Fortuna’s great wheel, which should crush them, does nothing, while Lady Luck beams down on them, full-time and with full wattage.

Me, I’ve always been a lucky guy. I had my dream job, live the only place I wanna live, and have always had great health. I’ve got great friends, family, and pets. Listen, I’m so lucky I was in the Navy and never even SAW a ship — which was a bloody good thing, since I get chronically seasick.

And of late I’ve had great luck with eyeglasses.

Can one have bad luck with eyeglasses, you ask?

One can…and one did — namely, this one.

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An unlucky break

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For years, and for reasons unknown to anyone except perhaps Mssr. Bausch et Mssr. Lomb, no one I got glasses from got my prescription right. I wear bifocals, and of the four prescriptions, one or more was always off. Why was that? The only answer I could come up with was dybbuks.

But last year my lenticular luck changed, when I happ’d upon Tupper Lake’s Raja of Refraction, Dr. Greg Gachowski. My new prescription was perfect, all around. Hooray and Huzzah!

But that was only the start, because I also got a pair of free frames.

And how did that happen, you ask?

Here’s the story: I needed new frames because the ones I had were, like me, old and decrepit. They were wire rims, on the verge of a far-from-premature demise. I like wire rims, so that’s what I wanted for my new frames, and I started to check out the stock. In the process, I noticed a display of frames with a sign that said “Free.”

Free frames? How could that be?

Simple: They were discontinued models. They were perfectly fine, but if something on them broke, like a temple, there might be no replacement parts available. No replacement available? So what? First, they were free. And second, the odds were in my favor. I take scrupulous care of my glasses and since my old pair were around 20 years old, I figured the new pair’s life expectancy was way beyond mine.

How could I lose?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Strictly speaking, I didn’t lose. Instead, as Jeff Dixon would’ve said and for the first time in a long time, I found myself below the median.

I was about to read my latest mystery, took my glasses out of the case, and — Suddenly and Shockingly — the left temple broke. I didn’t bend it, twist it, or even touch it — it just broke quicker than you could say Salvino D’Armate.

I was philosophic about it. What the hey, I’d gotten over a year-and-a-half out of them, and not only did they owe me nothing, they never had. From the start, they’d been a lucky break, so to speak, and now I’d just have to pony up the moolah for another pair. Ain’t but a thang.

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Riding high above the median

–

The next day I drove to my second-favorite town, diddy-bopped my bad self into Primary Eyecare Center and was greeted by Tammy, the Pharaoh of Frames. We exchanged pleasantries and then I took out the patient and got down to bizness.

“The temple broke,” I said, handing her the glasses.

She nodded.

“So obviously I need another temple, if it can be replaced,” I said. “But I doubt it can be.”

“Why’s that?” she said.

“Cuz those are discontinued frames I got here last year,” I said.

She nodded.

“So I’ll just look around and see what suits my fancy.”

Look around, I did. Suit my fancy, nothing did. Not that I’m fussy — in fact, I’m the exact opposite. Just is, I wanted another pair of wire rims like the ones I had, but didn’t see anything even close. Then I looked over at the Free rack. There were no wire rims there, but I figured, if the lens’ll fit and they’re free, how much time and effort did I want to put into looking?

The answer, lest you wonder, was none of either. I really don’t care very much what my glasses look like. Or more exactly, what they look like on me. To me, glasses aren’t a fashion statement, but a tool. And I feel the same way about both. In other words, I want a pair of designer glasses as much as I would a Gucci hammer.

While I was checking out one section of the freebies, Tammy was checking out another.

Suddenly, mid-check, Tammy hollered, “I don’t believe it!”

“Don’t believe what?” I said.

“These,” she said, holding up my old frames next to a new pair from the rack.

“These what?” I said.

“These frames,” she said, holding out the new frames. “They’re the exact same ones as your old ones.”

Then she added, seemingly more to herself than to me, “I didn’t even know they were here.”

“Well, now that ya do,” I said,“let’s not waste any more time on trivial chit-chat, shall we?”

And she didn’t. Instead, she worked her magic, put my old lenses in the new frames and handed them back to me, without so much as a “Voila!”

I thanked her profusely, took my new glasses and my old ones (in case the right temple on my new ones bites the dust) and walked out into the grey of day whistling the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai.

I felt on top of the world. In fact, I thought given my streak of great luck, I should take my life savings and either head to the casino or buy up every lottery ticket in sight.

Then, as quickly as the thought had hit me, it vanished.

And just in case you’re wondering, it never came back. Because let’s get real: When you’re way above the median, there’s only one way you can go.