powerball

I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.

It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.

The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.

Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.

I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.

My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”

The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.

But was it really ever a secret?

The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.

“It sure is sunny out?”

“Yep. Sure is.”

“Hope it stays that way for a while.”

“Probably won’t. It’s March.”

“What would you do with all that money?”

“Pay off my debts.”

“But a house.”

“Quit this place.”

All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.

I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.

But fucking then what?

“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.

I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.

“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.

“Gross.”

“What a guy thing to say.”

"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.

I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.

“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.

“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”

“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”

“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”

She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.

“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.

“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”

“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”

“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”

“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”

I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.

I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.