Plenty of people have written songs about Lady Luck, usually designating her chief residence as a particularly opulent casino in the heart of Las Vegas.
They conjure up an image of a woman with a tantalizing figure, thick red hair, and a devilish sense of humor. She’s coy, fickle, and derives a particular pleasure from leading balding businessmen along only to abandon them in some back alley after taking their wallets and their dignity.
Oh yes, people love to sing songs about her, because envisioning luck as a smoldering temptress in a backless red dress is definitely more enticing than writing songs about the real hand that spins the wheel of fortune.
Mr. Luck is a chronically single real estate broker who lives out of his one bedroom apartment in Berwyn, Illinois. He rarely frequents anything you might call a big city, on account of the fact that large crowds make him nauseous and tall buildings give him vertigo. His apartment reeks of Menthol and two-day old Chinese takeout. He likes to laugh at fortune cookies. His bathroom cabinet is stocked with enough sedatives to take down a herd of buffalo.
The last time he bought a new suit was Christmas, and then only because his thoroughly-unpleasant sister-in-law bought him a gift card to Kohl’s. He prefers to avoid mirrors, which do nothing but remind him of his ongoing losses in the battle against premature balding. His couch is decorated with a constellation of blackened circles from where he passed out in front of the television while smoking.
He used to have a cat, a distrustful Persian that looked like someone had once used it as a toilet brush, but it ran away, preferring the comfort of a warm dumpster to the frosty climes of his cramped dwelling.
His last real relationship was four years ago. Her name was Shelley, and they had met on Match.com. She dumped him after six dates, on the grounds that he was as interested in their relationship as he was in proper hygiene.
The only activity that sets his routine apart from the thousands of unattached, despondent residents of the lower-middle class occurs like clockwork on Friday night, when, after a long week spent trying to convince tepid couples to buy leaky apartments in the most inconvenient locations in town, he sits down on his sagging bed and opens a battered atlas of the world. He flips the pages one by one, touching cities at random, tossing out luck like lightning bolts until the delivery boy with his order of chicken teriyaki arrives.