Lucky

Before Lucky, there was Obama.

Obama worked at a bodega in Williamsburg. Then someone took him.

The owner filed a police report. The neighborhood posted flyers. Block by block, stapled to telephone poles and taped inside laundromat windows. Obama never came back. A month passed. The store was open, but the cat was gone. Regulars noticed. The owner noticed. The spot by the register stayed empty.

Then Lucky walked in.

A stray. Black coat. No collar. No history anyone could trace. He came through the open door, walked past the chip aisle, sat down near the counter, and did not leave.

The owner did not go looking for a replacement. He did not put out an ad or call a rescue. Lucky just showed up.

Two years later, Lucky is still there. The regulars who remember Obama know the story. The ones who came after just know the black cat by the register.

But the nickname stuck.

People still call him the new guy.

Not because he is new anymore. That is just what they started calling him when he arrived.

Lucky keeps the counter, the shelf, and the regulars who reach down because they already know him.

Customers still call him the new guy. He has been there two years.