Mr. Lucky Foot

One of my secret names is Mr. Lucky Foot. What does that mean you may ask, well let me tell you in simple, plain, clear and concise English, the language of barbarians.

It means wherever I go and pause to meet people; like shopkeepers, merchants in Venice, rest-a-rant owners and various non-descript sad, lonely, neurotic and well adjusted humans struggling to find their personal way inside the labyrinth, when I show up, because 90% of life is Showing Up, their day, life and fortune changes. For the better. It happened in the Middle KIngdom and it's happening in Asia Minor.

Take yesterday for example. I wandered through a gleaming atrium filled with your standard array of badly dressed silver bald dressed dummies fronted by glass, screaming ineffective indifferent bored mistresses out on good behavior and pram wheeled infants.

I happened into a shop hidden well behind the "upscale" zones where, to my delight, I discovered five varieties of carved chess sets; Roman, Ottoman, Egyptian, English football motif, and the Middle Ages. All the sets were realistic and well done. The game of kings. The owner also had sizable sculptures of Black jazz musicians; sax, trumpet, clarinet, keyboard, drums, singers and electric guitar. He also had a good selection of Swiss Army knives. Sharp and to the point.

Anyway, so, at first it's just the two of us, talking and drinking tea. Then a couple of university girls arrived, bought Zippo lighters for gifts and left. They were followed by boys looking for lighters. Then a well dressed man, maybe 60, in a worn beige leather jacket came in with a school boy, wanting a lighter and pen. Simple tools. Another man followed them standing nearby. He looked Russian or Tartar; thick neck, alert eyes, short hair, and stocky in a light brown suit with expensive wing tips. He clasped his meaty hands together watching the man negotiate with the owner. He was the bodyguard and he never moved.

We made brief eye contact. He swiveled his gaze back to the man and boy. There was a problem with the credit card transaction. The man reached into his right leather pocket, pulled out a cell phone and called his bank. He spoke a few words and disconnected. The owner punched in numbers and the sale went through.

Satisfied, the man took his purchase and we spoke - How do you like it here? What is your job? Where are you from? His gray eyes were meticulous and direct. We shook hands then he and the boy left. The bodyguard slid out the door close behind.

"Who do you think he was?" I asked the owner as we resumed drinking tea.
"Maybe the boss of a big organization, maybe a bureaucrat. Well connected. I never saw him before."

More people entered his shop.
"Goodbye," I said.
"You brought me good luck today," he said. "You have a lucky foot. Thanks."
"Perhaps. You're welcome."