This is the story of Gary. Gary was incredibly lucky, or maybe he was unlucky. It depends on how you look at it. Gary had a nasty habit of accidentally being in the worst place at the worst time.

Now, to clarify, Gary was not a reckless man. Quite the opposite, in fact. Gary was careful. Methodical. The sort of person who looked both ways before crossing a one-way street. He checked expiration dates on milk. He kept emergency batteries in a clearly labeled drawer.

Unfortunately for Gary, the universe did not appear to care very much about these precautions.

For example, take the incident with the chandelier.

Gary had been attending a charity dinner. Not because he was charitable, mind you. Gary simply worked in accounting for the firm sponsoring the event, and someone had decided that “staff presence” was important. Gary’s role in this gathering was to stand near a wall, hold a glass of sparkling water, and politely nod at conversations he did not understand.

Which he did.

Very well.

It was at approximately 8:14 PM that Gary noticed the creaking.

Most people would not have noticed the creaking. Most people were busy discussing mergers, yachts, and the sort of wine that tastes like a plank of wood soaked in vinegar. Gary, however, had very sharp hearing when it came to suspicious noises directly above his head.

Gary looked up.

The chandelier, a truly enormous monstrosity made of glass and poor engineering decisions, was beginning to detach from the ceiling.

Now, if you have ever watched a suspense film, you will know what happens next. The camera lingers on the dangling fixture. The music grows tense. Someone looks up too late.

Gary, however, had seen enough films to know the signs.

He quietly stepped to the left.

The chandelier fell.

It landed precisely where Gary had been standing six seconds earlier, shattering across the marble floor in a catastrophic explosion of glass and extremely expensive lighting fixtures.

The room went silent.

Everyone stared at the wreckage.

Then, very slowly, several people turned to Gary.

Not because Gary had done anything wrong. No, no. But because there is a certain type of person who appears suspiciously calm in the presence of disaster.

Gary had that look.

Gary did not stay long after that.

This sort of thing happened to Gary quite frequently.

There was the elevator incident.

Gary had entered the elevator on the twelfth floor of his office building, pressed the button for the lobby, and immediately noticed three things. The first was that the lights flickered slightly. The second was that the elevator made a noise like a washing machine attempting to digest a brick. The third was that everyone else inside the elevator appeared blissfully unaware of both of these developments.

Gary stepped out.

The doors closed.

The elevator descended exactly one floor before stopping violently between levels.

There was shouting. There was panic. At one point someone attempted to pry the doors open with a briefcase, which was not particularly effective.

Gary watched the entire affair from the stairwell landing.

He was not pleased about it, mind you. Gary would have preferred a perfectly ordinary elevator ride. Unfortunately, Gary’s life did not seem to allow for perfectly ordinary elevator rides.

After enough experiences like this, Gary began to notice a pattern.

If Gary walked into a room and there was a ladder, that ladder would fall.

If Gary boarded a bus, that bus would experience “unexpected mechanical difficulties.”

If Gary sat down at a restaurant table, a waiter somewhere in the vicinity would immediately drop an entire tray of glasses.

It was not that Gary caused these things.

Gary simply arrived early.

Very early.

You might think this would make Gary nervous.

You would be correct.

Gary developed what could best be described as an extremely refined sense of impending nonsense. It was not quite danger, exactly. More like the subtle sensation that the universe had recently sharpened several knives and was currently deciding where to throw them.

Gary’s friends found this deeply unsettling.

“Gary,” one of them once said, “you can’t possibly know that the coffee machine is about to explode.”

Gary had paused.

He looked at the coffee machine.

The coffee machine hissed.

Gary slowly put the cup down.

“I can’t know,” Gary said carefully.

The coffee machine exploded.

It was at this point that Gary began to suspect something rather troubling.

You see, Gary had seen many films.

And in those films, there was always a particular type of character.

The sort of fellow who notices the strange noise.

The fellow who says, “Did you hear that?”

The fellow who opens the door.

The fellow who walks into the dark hallway.

The fellow who—

Well.

You understand.

Gary had come to a disturbing realization.

Gary was that fellow.

Not the hero, you understand. Gary had no grand destiny, no mysterious lineage, no dramatic theme music. Gary was the fellow the audience pointed at and said, quite confidently,

“Oh dear.”

This realization did not improve Gary’s day-to-day comfort.

It did, however, make him extremely good at leaving rooms.

And this, oddly enough, is why Gary is still alive.

Because while Gary may be the man who hears the strange noise first, Gary has also learned something the films never quite account for.

Gary does not investigate.

Gary leaves.

Immediately.