“When you win the lottery, you end up doing a lot of stupid things,” I said to the girl at the bar. She’d asked me why I was driving a hearse, and quite simply, that was the reason I was.
“You won the lottery?” she asked, now a little too interested in me. Just seconds ago, she was creeped out by the fact I pulled up in a 1996 Lincoln Hearse. The hearse owned by the Raymer Funeral Home in Huntersville, North Carolina. The same funeral home that helped out when a certain NASCAR driver, known by most as The Intimidator was laid to rest back in 2001. For many, the second worst thing that happened to America that year.
I looked over at Rodney, the barkeep. He was used to running interference when my dumb mouth mentioned that I won the lottery. Yep, I won the Power Ball drawing on March 23, 2012. A cool $290 million. Took the cash and pocketed over $100 million that day I drove up to Raleigh.
And the first thing I did was buy that silly hearse on E-bay. Paid $1.5 million for it. Stupid? Hell yes it was. But fucking-A it was a great conversation starter. And God knows I needed help starting them.
“Listen, little lady,” Rodney said. “He won it, alright. But he paid 1.5 million bucks for that stupid hearse out there. How much money do you think he’s got left? Hell, he lives here most of the time.”
She looked at me, then looked around the bar. A bar that she’d been coming to since she was 17 years old, according to Rodney when he told me exactly seven minutes prior to her coming over to me.
“So, he’s a deadbeat?” she whispered to Rodney.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I spoke up.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she sneered.
“Oh, the horror,” I mockingly said as I pretended to take the dagger out of my chest. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a rusty screwdriver.”
“Huh?” she said.
“Inside joke, lady. Hey, Rodney, buy that girl a drink!”
“You going to pay your tab tonight, Randy? You didn’t last night…” he said to me, in a matter-of-fact voice that I think our friendly young blonde took for anger. At least the laugh she had after those words made it seem so.
“Of course I will. Here’s my Discover Card!”
I handed him my card. It expired in 2011, but I kept it around for just these types of situations. I thought about one day writing a book for lottery winners. An “Idiots for …” kind of deal. Then my girlfriend at the time burst my publishing bubble when she said “But, only a few people win each year. Not much of a market?”
Typical of her. And of me, I’d have to say. Hair-brained Randy.
I wandered over to the jukebox. Rodney months ago stocked it with albums I wanted to listen to. Hell, I spent so much money here that the customers the music selection drove away were nowhere near the cash he got from my dumb ass sitting on a stool watching re-runs of Frisky Dingo and Welcome Back Kotter.
I clicked on A-14: Johnny Thunders’ “Hurt Me” from the album also called “Hurt Me.”
Not this damn song again, the blonde said.
“For that, you get it three times!” I yelled, pushing A-14 two more times to complete my transaction at the jukebox.
“Why do you play that damn song so often?” she asked.
“Because it reminds me of a simpler time. Not necessarily a better time, but a simpler time,” I said.
“You’re weird,” she said, snickering to her just arrived out of the bathroom friend. Her friend was Rhonda. She had big 1980s New Jersey hair, but an attitude straight out of Valley Girl. She confounded me over the weeks. Every guy in this place, yours truly included, wanted to sleep with her. But no one every succeeded. It was baffling. To everyone.
And here she was, in the bar on a Thursday at 1 p.m. Hanging out with this blonde girl. It seemed too perfect. And based upon my experiences, was.
Rhonda came over to me and sat at the stool next to mine.
“Randy, why the fuck are you sitting on that God damn barstool at 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday? This is freaking Kinston, North Carolina. You have tens of millions of dollars in the bank, yet here you are. Alone and defeated.”
“Just defeated!” I pontificated.
“Ok, you’re not alone. Rodney’s here.”
“And you two lovely works of God’s master plan.”
“Fuck off.”
“You know, that’s what the last girl said to me too. And precisely why I sit here with Rodney and watch John Travolta every day. It’s so much easier.”
Showing posts with label lottery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lottery. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
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.
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.
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