Oh no, I’m good at my job. Or, How a Space Heater Used Up All My Luck

by Conor Gallagher

At a semi-recent company dinner, my boss offhandedly devastated my universe.

I say semi-recent because it’s spring and there were Christmas decorations up and I say offhandedly because she’s German and brilliant with a super chic bob so pretty much everything she says comes off cool and casual.

It was a fancy-ish dinner (read: super expensive pasta that was just fine but the service was impeccable, thankyousomuch) where I was relaying to my coworkers and somehow three different bosses that when I’d first moved to New York, my apartment didn’t have heat. I’d later come to learn that the landlord had lied to the city, telling them that not only did the baseboard heaters in our apartment work, but that we also lived in a building with an elevator, washing machine and central A/C. Explain my fifth-floor walk-up ass then, landlord! Explain it!

Quick diversion: Pour some out for my twenty-three-year-old, fifth floor walk-up ass. It was certainly a time.

Cut back to me hilariously (everyone had had a glass or two of wine (but only after we all ordered water and Chic Boss was like ‘It’s on the company. Get something.’)) recounting how I used to sleep with my space heater under the comforter, pointed directly up my legs, at full blast. Shockingly(?), this anecdote was met with horror.

 What of the building?

 What of the fire hazard?

 What of the children?!

 How are you alive?

“I guess I got pretty lucky,” said I, grinning as I chewed through another bite of too-thick ravioli.

“Yes,” said Chic Boss. “Be careful, though. I’ve bet you’ve used up all your luck.”

And everyone laughs while I sit there and sip the (just okay, but free, so, YUM!) wine and imagine a verdant meadow of four-leaf clovers withering up before my eyes like so many Sylvia Plath fig trees.  

Was she right? Was it over? Would anyone who didn’t need an SSRI be thinking this much?

I wish I’d examined her face instead of smiling along. Or at least dug deeper. The obsessive, anxious part of me just wishes I knew: Did she have a higher ulterior motive? Had Chic Boss been waiting weeks, nay, her whole life to spring this disappointing truth (???) on an innocent (eh…*wags hand in air*) young (too easy) man?

No. She did not.

What she did do was make me question if luck was finite.

Accepting that luck is real, and that at least at some point I had it, what would it mean if I’d run out? Would it have been worth it to only get partially cooked alive—ie, toasted—under a comforter in Manhattan January? Part of me would say “no,” but follow the rainbow. If the gold at the end is already gone, what would that mean?

I still have a job, an apartment, kind friends, fun enemies. I don’t have a litter box to scoop and I’m finally pretty good at cooking chicken. Would it mean I’m stuck? Would it explain why I haven’t married a billionaire by now, but like, an ethical one? Is not hating my current life, being good at my job and (god forbid!) liking it, keeping me from the life I dream of?

I don’t know. But I’ll never let that stop me from worrying about it!

What if I used up all my luck just trying to survive and now I don’t have any left to pursue what I want? What if the best I’ll ever do is what I’m doing right now? Admittedly, that’s not digging coal and I’m happy, healthy, blah blah; but surely there’s more… Right?

Only one way to find out: Keep. Going. Easy said, even easier written; but a fact. No experiment was ever solved in the ‘Ask a question’ phase. So we muddle on and through and in! That’s the real answer— No one knows until they try at least once. Or twice. Or however many times it takes. It’s true and it’s hard and it’s lonely and it’s honestly a little boring. But diligence and a stubborn delusion will get you far.

And if I learned anything during that expensive dinner where I didn’t like the food, it’s that misery and boredom love company.

“Did you enjoy your pasta?” I asked.

“No, but we’re expensing it,” said Chic Boss.

With that in mind, I give you (and me) hope. I give us a list of successful people who started out somewhere different than where they ended up, and were good at it along the way:

  • Christopher Walken was a lion tamer. He survived, ergo, evidence of tamed lions. AKA good at his job.

  • Margot Robbie worked at a Subway. Former title: Sandwich Artist. Current title: Artist. Good at her job. Also, she flat out said so on Hot Ones. "I think I was really good at it though, because I, you know, would really spread everything out to the edges evenly — the right amount of everything.”

  • Steve Buscemi was a firefighter. Last I checked, world hasn’t burnt down. Good at his job.

  • Hugh Jackman was a PE teacher. No elaboration necessary. Good at his job.

  • Wanda Sykes was a ‘government procurement specialist,’ which according to her meant she “shopped all day.” Last I checked, the government has procured a whole lot! Good at her job!

For all I know, the list goes on and on. For now, five is good. Five is great. Five out of Five is what I would give that restaurant’s wait staff. And five is how many leaves I still know I can find on clovers.

Because Luck is fake, unless it’s real. Because Luck favors the people who believe in it. And because literally what other choice do any of us have except to hope.