It was hot. Sticky hot, the grossest kind of hot. Not a comforting warm that welcomes sleepiness and lethargy, but the humid, awful temperature that is so reminiscent of sweat. Lucas waited at bus stop 17, his back too sore to walk the small distance to the Casa de Waffles. Sleeping on a futon was not the way to get a proper sleep. He was bored at stop 17, so he began to think about that number. 17 was always a favorite number of his. Track numbers on CDs, jersey numbers, all his favorites fell on 17. His full name, Isaac Lucas Shaffer, had 17 letters in it, and his girlfriend’s did too. When he used to teach, he was in room A17, where he taught 11th graders who were mostly 17. It was as if everything he liked or loved involved the number 17.
The bus arrived and he rode his way to breakfast. He ordered his regular breakfast, coffee with sugar and a waffle with a side of hashbrowns. After eating, his back was feeling better, so he decided to walk back home, or his temporary home at least. Lucas was tragically distracted, and as he was crossing the street, a horn blared and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground. He got up slowly, inspecting himself, nothing was broken, and the only thing that hurt was his leg where the car had hit him. The car was nowhere to be seen. He checked his leg, and saw an imprint. Half of an “A” and a backwards “7” followed by a “1.” “17” he thought. A number he liked nearly killed him on the road.
He half-limped back to the Theatre where Margaret was taking down the sign for “The Producers.” “Oh my gosh are you okay?” she asked. “Yes, yes I’m fine, I just got bumped by a car, that’s all.” “Just bumped by a car? Are you serious? That’s not nothing! You could’ve been killed! Were you paying any attention?” “I was just walking, it came out of nowhere.” “Well we should call the police” “No. No we shouldn’t. They’ve never done me any good and they won’t now. We’re not getting anyone else involved in this...especially the cops.” “But-” “No,” Lucas interrupted, “it’s not up for discussion, they’ll just make things worse. They’ll try to pin the guy and then I’ll get my name on..on..a..a..list or something.” “Fine, we won’t go. Just be more careful.” “Yeah.”
The bus arrived and he rode his way to breakfast. He ordered his regular breakfast, coffee with sugar and a waffle with a side of hashbrowns. After eating, his back was feeling better, so he decided to walk back home, or his temporary home at least. Lucas was tragically distracted, and as he was crossing the street, a horn blared and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground. He got up slowly, inspecting himself, nothing was broken, and the only thing that hurt was his leg where the car had hit him. The car was nowhere to be seen. He checked his leg, and saw an imprint. Half of an “A” and a backwards “7” followed by a “1.” “17” he thought. A number he liked nearly killed him on the road.
He half-limped back to the Theatre where Margaret was taking down the sign for “The Producers.” “Oh my gosh are you okay?” she asked. “Yes, yes I’m fine, I just got bumped by a car, that’s all.” “Just bumped by a car? Are you serious? That’s not nothing! You could’ve been killed! Were you paying any attention?” “I was just walking, it came out of nowhere.” “Well we should call the police” “No. No we shouldn’t. They’ve never done me any good and they won’t now. We’re not getting anyone else involved in this...especially the cops.” “But-” “No,” Lucas interrupted, “it’s not up for discussion, they’ll just make things worse. They’ll try to pin the guy and then I’ll get my name on..on..a..a..list or something.” “Fine, we won’t go. Just be more careful.” “Yeah.”
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