What Really Happened That Night
A few years ago, I taught English in Slovakia. One Friday night, I went out with the rest of the teachers for pizza and other, assuredly wacky, shenanigans. Eventually we wound up in this weird, underground club. Not really my scene, but whatever. I went to the washroom, and while I was occupied, another guy walked in. He said something in Slovak.
I don’t speak Slovak, so I said, “Sorry, can’t help you.” Then I heard this click, like a lighter. I started laughing and made some joke about smoking wasn’t allowed, washed my hands and left. Then we all decided to head for home. Since I can’t speak or read Slovak, I didn’t follow local news outside what my co-workers told me.
Monday morning, bright and early, I found out what really happened that night—and I couldn’t believe it. Someone had shot up that club not long after we left. Apparently his weapon jammed and it took him ages to fix it in the washroom. I think I used up every piece of luck I will ever have that night.