Hank Won the Lottery

The Lottery Ticket

Hank sat on one side of the table, leafing through the newspaper.  He compared his lottery ticket to the winning numbers in the paper.  After one, after two, then after six he realized he had won seven million dollars.  He checked his pacemaker and then looked up at the ceiling and said, “Holy shit!”

He couldn’t believe his luck.  This was perfect.  He was seventy and broke, lonely and incapable, tired and almost dead.  This couldn’t have happened to a better man.

He put the lottery ticket in his wallet, careful to fold it once and insert it gently in one side of his pocket.  Then he put the wallet in his robe and went upstairs.  He put on one of his best suits and tied the tie into a Windsor knot.  Then he put the wallet in a new suit and marched out the door, saying to his neighbour, “Dangit.  I can’t believe it, but I won the lottery!”

“No way,” his neighbour said, momentarily resting on his snow shovel.

“No bullshit.  I’m going to cash it now.”

Hank got in his car and drove to the confectionary.  He went in and the man put the ticket in the blue plastic machine.  A series of sounds went by and finally the East Indian man behind the cash made a big O between his lips.  He said, “Sir, I think you won the lottery.”

“I know I won the lottery.  Now that’s proof.”

“Yes sir.  I’d better call someone.”

So the East Indian man pulled out a phonebook and called the Lottery centre.  He waited for the tone and pushed a button and said finally to the lady who answered the call, “Excuse me, Ma’am.  I think we have a winner.”

The man spoke with the lady and finally hung up.  The man behind the counter said, “You have just one seven million dollars.  Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you.  It was pure luck, no esp.  And you know what?  I am a winner,” Hank said, with a shy, triumphant smile.

“Good for you sir.  Do you mind if we take a picture?”

“Certainly,” Hank said.

The East Indian held his cell phone before himself and Hank, both of them smiling.  “Once again, thank you sir.”

Hank went back home in his car.  His neighbour was done shovelling the driveway and was inside now.  He reminded himself to call the snow boy to shovel his driveway.  He was too old for this.  And as a millionaire it didn’t hurt so much to pay him the twenty bucks to do it.

He ordered a case of beer.  This was something he used to do when he was married with his living wife.  Whenever things became too much or they had a fight he would order a case a beer to forget everything.  He needed at least twelve beer, he knew from experience, to drown his memory.  Then he was in love with the world again and his wife didn’t bother him so much.  Afterwards there’d be twelve full ones and he’d drink to forget all the wrong things he had done.  It worked like that, twelve beer to forget, and twelve beer to forgive.

The snow shovel boy came in and shoveled the driveway and Hank gave him his usual twenty dollars.

The beerman came an hour later with a two-four and Hank gave him a five dollar tip.  “There you go, fella.  Spend it wisely.”

Halfway past his sixth beer the lottery people called him.  They asked him if he still had the ticket and he said yeah.  The lady on the phone said, “We’ll come over to your place with a big check.  We’ll sign a few forms, take a few pictures, and that’s that.  You can have your money.”

“Ok, lady.  Thank you,” Hank said.

On his twelfth beer he started to forget everything again.  He was in a state of revelry.  During these moments he realized his nature of failing and forgave himself too.  He thought to himself, “I didn’t hurt anyone.  I may have been wrong, but, now I’m a millionaire, and that’s better.”

There were twelve beer left in the fridge and he thought about drinking some more.  But he remembered, “I’ve got to be presentable for those lottery people.”

He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to sober up his eyes.  The song, “Lying eyes,” by the Eagles played in his head and he smiled.  He went back to sit on the couch and watch TV.

He fell asleep and woke up that night, then fell asleep again.

In the morning he woke up and combed his hair and brushed his teeth.  “I’ve got to make like I’m a millionaire now,” he said to himself.  For some reason he was drawn to the other twelve beer.  “I got to stay sober.  This is important.”

The lottery people came at 1:00 and he smiled, sober as a cat, shook hands with a few people and posed for the newspaper with a winning smile.  They handed him a small check as well that said, 7 ,120, 480 and seven million, a hundred and twenty thousand and four hundred and eighty dollars.  Hank looked at it and knew that it was good.

He took the big cheque in and pinned it to his wall.  “That’s me,” he said to himself.  “I am now a millionaire.”  He put the small check in his wallet, planning to bank it after a few beers.

He opened the fridge and took a beer, cracking it open and looking at the swirling vapour.

During his marriage he drank himself to amnesia one day and forgiveness the next day.  If he was still upset, he drank to remind him of the current day, as it seemed his mind kept slipping into the past.

Today he thought he might finish the next twelve.  “I’m a millionaire.  I deserve this kind of pleasure.”

So he drank the rest of the beer and by 5:00 was very drunk.  But now he missed his wife, up there in heaven.  He cried and cried.  She was his cornerstone, the rod in his back.  He forgave himself for the way he treated her.  Some of those fights were awful.

Although he wasn’t an alcoholic he decided to quit drinking.  “As a millionaire I should be responsible.  There aren’t no real millionaire drunks.  Those that are are garbage.”

He put the tv on and watched for advertisements.  Soon he’d be shopping and he wanted to buy the right equipment.  But he fell asleep by 11:00 on the couch.

The next day he awoke and looked up at the big check pinned neatly against the wall.  It said seven million in letters as well as numbers.  But the real check was inside his wallet.

He combed his hair and brushed his teeth and got in his car and drove to the bank.

The lady at the teller looked at him in surprise.  He blushed as he took out the small check and handed it to her.

She smiled and made herself say, “Wow,” in a convincing way.

“That’s my money, now.  You make sure it’s all there in my bankbook.”

“I certainly will, sir.  Congratulations on winning the lottery.”

“It was my time.  I’m a lucky man,” Hank said.

The lady registered the check and put the new total in his bankbook, which he put in his shirt pocket.  He said to her with a smile, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

He got in his car and drove home.  Once inside, on his couch, he looked at his bankbook and smiled with delight.  The big check was still tacked to the wall.  But today he remembered everything.  His thoughts were like a stereo that jazzed his emotions to the point of defeat and sadness.  Before he would fight these memories and sometimes win.  But now they came much too suddenly and pointedly and he just felt shame.  “Dammit,” he said to himself.  “I’m a millionaire.  This isn’t right.”

He made a face to stop the thoughts but found nothing but rage.  “I’m a millionaire.  I should be on Fort Lauderdale, in a speedo, looking at women with a long gold necklace.  This isn’t right.”

He fought the idea of buying another case of beer.  He called 911 and they said, “Your memories being too loud is not a 911 case.  Call a doctor, set up an appointment.  Don’t call us for this.”

Hank listened to her and said she was probably right.  He hung up the phone and thought about his wife again.  She could stop the memories.  All he had to do was look in her eye.  Now this was like some ghetto and all the Negros are that stupid and he couldn’t swim for his life.

Maybe I’ll call the snow shovel kid, then passed on that.

Finally a thought came to his mind, “As a millionaire, the first thing I’m going to do is go shopping.  I deserve that right.”

So he got in his car and drove to the shopping mall that was downtown.  He realized after he should have bought a limo.  But that’s the way with millionaires, they spend it all, then they’re all pent up in debt and they can’t get out.  The first thing a millionaire should do is forget that he’s an average man and live it up, but only a thousand dollars at a time.

There were some amazing televisions for sale, some at about a thousand dollars.  The people there were nice and said they would deliver this for him.  He bought a stereo, too, for two thousand dollars.  He swiped his bank card and took the receipt and said, “Thank you.”

The drive home was quiet and he arrived at his home, the car still ticking erratically.  He kept saying to himself, “I’m a millionaire, I deserve better.”

Next week the television and stereo came.  He thanked the two men and tried to figure out the remote control.  Finally the stereo played the radio at an ear splitting volume.  “There,” he said.  “Right there.  Now the memories are gone.”

Hank danced on the floor before the stereo.  The music was so loud it drowned out his memories.  He didn’t need beer anymore.  He shook his bum while dancing, looking at the big check.  “I’m a rich man, I know that I am.”

By supper time he managed to figure out the remote control and watched some television.  So long as he kept his eyes on the television and paid attention the annoying memories wouldn’t come back.

By nine o’clock he had ordered a pizza and was watching the Playboy channel from pay per view.  Now he felt like a rich boy.  Now he could dance the night away.

He fell asleep by eleven and woke up with a smile on his face.  “I’m a millionaire, I deserve better.”

He looked in the mirror and now he smiled.  Everything was going to get better, he thought.  “I’m a millionaire, I deserve the best.”

After watching the Playboy channel a thought came to him.  Maria’s dead, I cried my tears, so I can hire an escort servant.  She’ll treat him right.  So he called one in the telephone book and said that for the right price he can get anything he wants.

She came over and she was quite pretty.  She had long, curly brown hair and a nice physique.  From the top of the stairs he smiled at her.  He said to her, “Are you Brenda, the escort service woman?”

“That’s me.  How are we doing today?”

“I’m fine.  I’m a millionaire, and I know it.”

“Well.  Will you take me out for dinner?  I’m hungry for some steak and wine.”

“I am too.  Let’s just order in.  I’ll buy us a case of beer.”

“If that’s what you want,” Brenda said.

“You’re what I want, my little grapefruit.”

She hid her worried emotions with a smile.  “We can skip all the junk if you want to pay the price.”

“And what price is that?”

“A thousand dollars for a screw.  I do hand jobs as well.”

“You got any extra-large sized condoms?”

“As a matter of fact I do.  Where should we start?”

“Listen to my story.  I was broke all my life.  My wife died and then I won the lottery.  I don’t know what to do with myself but maybe you can help me.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to get my rocks off.  I’ve got so much money, but all I need is one screw.  Do you know where to start?”

“How about you feel my breasts?”

“Ok,” he said, and worked up the courage to touch them.  “They’re very nice, and round.”

“Touching the breasts costs $50.00.  Touch them all you want but if we go any further the price will go up.”

“So I just rub your breasts like this.  And that turns you on?”

“Sorta.  I like to go all the way,” she said.

“And it’s a thousand dollars.  Have I got that straight?”

“Straight as straight gets,” she said.

They made out on the couch and the voices stopped.  She said she saw him in the paper and knew he’d be there, calling for her like a man in need.

But before they got much farther Hank said, “Look, I’m sorry.  I’m not attracted to you.  I can’t pay you the thousand dollars.”

“Why?  We were getting there.”

“I just don’t love you.  I can’t do things I either don’t have to do or things that I don’t love.  I love my wife, and my beer, and my life.”

“Ok then, buster.  It’ll be five hundred dollars.”

“What?  I’ve got to pay you five hundred dollars to hug you.  That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t make me call my man.”

“Aw, you stupid bitch.  Why don’t you just go to hell.”

“Pay up or get beaten up.”

“Fucking whore,” Hank said, then went inside his bedroom for his money box and paid her the money.  “What was it, the name you said?”

“Brenda.”

“I’ll never ask for that bitch again.  Fuck you, people.”

She slammed the door on the way out and the memories came back.  He turned the television on and made a few purchases on the television.  There was still some static and noise in his mind.  He bought some hair replacement potions and an anti-fog wax you put on your bathroom mirror so it doesn’t fog up during a shower.

There was an advertisement for a Chrysler that he really liked.  He took a cab to the Chrysler dealership and spoke with the salesman guy, taking one sporty model for a ride.  Hank drove so fast and took turns so riskily the salesman was smiling but a bit scared.  But they got back to the dealership in one piece and Hank paid for a new one with all the top features.

He drove it home as if he were a stock car driver.  He drove into the driveway and screeched the brakes so the car fell two feet short of the garage.  “Damn,” he said and smiled.  “That’s one hell of a car.”

Upstairs, he watched the Indianapolis 500 on his sixty inch TV with the sound on full volume.  His stereo was a piece of art.  The memories didn’t drive him crazy anymore.  He felt well.

Outside it was snowing again.  The TV was cranked up at full volume and Hank had a smile plastered to his face.  “This is living,” he said to himself.  “I’m a millionaire, I deserve this.”

The weather channel forecast more snow for the coming week.  Hank stared at the television and listened.  As he was drinking a cup of tea the thought came to him, “Why don’t I go to Florida?  That’s where all the old people are.”

He thought about this to see how he felt about travel.  But he realized he wanted a house, not a retirement home.  And a big home, not just some little one.  He was a millionaire and millionaires deserve big houses.  “Damnit,” he said to himself, “It’s my God given right.”

Hank got to work thinking.  How big is big enough?  How much money does the biggest house cost?  Am I going to die all of sudden, for being a millionaire?  And if I die, can I please go to heaven with my wife?  Is that too much to ask?

He looked in the phonebook for a construction company, someone to build him a home.  He talked to a guy there for about ten minutes.  “You can’t just tell me you want a big house.  You’ve got to have designs.  You need a blueprint.”

“Fucking blueprint,” Hank said.  “I’ll give you a blueprint up your ass.”

“Sir, instead of building a house, why don’t you shop for one on the market?”

“I need a big, new house.  That’s just me.  I’m a millionaire.”

“Sir, if you have a TV, just put it on channel nine and look at the houses.  Maybe there’s a new one there for you.”

“Fine.  I’m sorry for shouting.  It’s my nerves.  As a millionaire I’m entitled to this, you see.  And thanks for your help.”

Hank turned the TV to channel nine and looked at the nice houses.  There were a few new ones but were just ornamental duplexes.  An hour into watching the real estate channel there appeared a large house on the lake going for $ 119,000.  He looked at it closely and waited a half hour for the reel to come back to this house.  He wrote the number down and called the real estate lady.

“I was looking at that house on the TV?”  Hank asked.  She was a woman in her thirties and she spoke softly.  They made an appointment for the next week.

He drove his Chrysler there and parked behind her.  She saw him and smiled.  She was a pretty woman, intelligent looking, and she had a nice voice.  Hank looked at the front of the house and it was just what he was looking for.  They walked around on the nice green grass and saw the back, which held a patio and three floors up to a tall roof.  And beyond there was a lake and the sun shone on it and it was beautiful.

Hank told her he really loved the house and wanted to buy it.  The woman, Susanna, told him the fine details and Hank agreed to buy it, shaking her hand with a big smile.

Within a month he was given the ok to move in.  He sold his mattress, microwave, old TV and stereo, couch and furniture, then moved in to the new house after buying a number of things from a wholesale store.

He saw Susanna one more time before he went in the house and began to live in it.  Again, he repeated to himself with resolve, “I’m a millionaire, I deserve a life like this.”

The TV he played all the time to drown out the insistent memories.  The stereo played things very clear.  He ordered a maid to help him clean and cook and a yard boy to do the yard work.

During times when the memories came on so strong he ordered a twelve back of beer.  There were old memories and new memories and sometimes just the twelve beer helped him to escape.  And if he needed another twelve beer he’d just order another twelve beer.  It was easy as that, being a millionaire.

Sometimes, he would go to the edge of the yard and look across the lake.  The song, my Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea, my Bonny lies over the ocean, oh bring back my Bonnie to me.

One time, he drank another twelve pack of beer.  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to drain his memory or resolve in good will.  He walked to the shore of the lake and drowned in the water about ten feet deep.  They found him a month later and his body was foul smelling and his skin was green.

The newspaper printed an ad about him, before the obituaries.  He was a soldier in WWII.  He was married to a Marie Longfellow.  He died by accident and the wake was to be held at a certain funeral home.  He loved to play cards and to go bowling and that he would be dearly missed.