Lottery (8 page)

“Manuel, where’s my sack?” He likes to tease me.

“In the garbage.” He laughs, until Keith sneaks up behind and smacks him on one ear.

“Manuel, don’t be a jackass! Leave him alone!” Keith yells. He always calls him a jackass, and worse sometimes.

“Oww! Shit, Keith, we’re just having fun!” Manuel pulls away and rubs his ear.

“It’s okay, Keith.” I wish Keith would not yell at Manuel. It makes it worse when he is not around.

Manuel asks Keith to call him Manny for short. I think he wants to be friends, but Keith will not call him Manny.

“Manny, my ass! You only give nicknames to friends, Per! And Manuel is no friend of mine. Listen to me, Per. There are some people you just can’t be friends with. Remember that,” Keith says.

I am lonely after work. It only takes me two minutes to leave Holsted’s and walk up the stairs, but I miss Gram when I see the crossword puzzle on my table. I look for my Hershey’s Kisses, and then remember I left my sack under the counter by the register.

Gary has gone for the day and Holsted’s door is locked up tight, so I will have to wait and get it tomorrow.

The next day, the first thing I do is find my bag under the counter. Manuel throws it in the trash three more times and pours Coke on it during break. When I get home from work, I set the sack on my kitchen counter and spread the
Enquirer
out so it can dry off from the soda. It stays sticky.

Sunday morning, I go to Marina Handy Mart and buy the paper. It is heavy and full of ads. I like to read the ads. They are interesting and I learn a lot, like the Toyota Prius can get fifty-five miles to the gallon or 650 miles between fill-ups and there is a company that makes address labels with any picture you want on it. Stuff like that.

I also bought a box of powdered-sugar doughnuts, which I like better than cinnamon rolls. Gram always liked cinnamon rolls best. Keith does not wake up until late on Sundays because he does not have to be at Holsted’s early to open up or run the register.

I eat my doughnuts, read my paper, and watch for Keith to move around on his boat. I have to watch carefully. I cannot visit him unless he waves.

He waves today so I come down.

It is cool, but there is no wind. Keith sits on a blanket in his cockpit and holds a full glass in his hand.

“What are you drinking?” I ask. It looks red. Like blood.

“The hair of the dog that bit me, Per! The hair of the dog,” he says.

“What?” I ask. I do not see any hair in his drink and Keith does not look like he has a dog bite. There is no bandage on him that I can see.

“It’s just tomato juice and vodka. Healthy, Per,” he says. “Vegetables and cereal! Nothing healthier than that for breakfast! Especially if you have a hangover.”

A hangover is when you drink too much alcohol all at once. Keith is almost always hungover. He gives me plain juice without the vodka. Gram never allowed me to drink vodka or any kind of alcohol.

“Cherry says hi,” I say. It is hard to talk with doughnuts stuffed in my mouth.

“She’s working today?” Keith sounds surprised.

“No, that was Wednesday, I think.” I feel bad I did not remember to tell him.

“Thanks for nothing.” Keith uses mad words, but laughs at the same time. He is my friend.

We sit on the rocking boat together.
Diamond Girl
has white fiberglass with dark blue trim. There is gray dirt smudged on the gelcoat. “I could wax and polish her for you.” And I rub a spot with my sleeve. “Keith, you want me to clean your decks with a hose and scrub brush?” I ask. It is important to help your friends.

“Yeah sure,” he says. “We’ll get around to it one day.”

It is quiet. I can hear waves plop against
Diamond Girl.

DING! DING! DING! I look up and see Keith’s halyards slapping his mast.

“Those need to be tightened,” I say. “I can do that too, if you want,” I offer, and continue chewing my doughnut.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a peaceful guy?” Keith leans back. His eyes are squinting even though it is cloudy. “You’re like having a cat that talks. Company that doesn’t take a lot of energy to maintain.”

“No one ever says peaceful, but they call me retarded and other stuff,” I say.

“Smack ’em the next time they call you that,” Keith says.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Keith rubs one eye. It is all red and veiny.

“Gram said not to. She said it makes me just as bad as them.”

It is quiet again and I remember when Gramp tried to teach me to defend myself. I was ten.

“No, Perry!” he would say. “Don’t put your thumb inside your fist! You can break it that way!” He would put his hand in mine. “Like this! Now try to hit me! Come on, Perry!” But I could not.

“Poor hand-eye coordination,” I tell Keith. “That’s what Miss Elk, my teacher, said. She had me practice throwing foamy balls into a small hoop at the back of the classroom.”

Keith blinks several times and says, “All you have to do is hit their fucking mouths! How hard is that?” He looks me up and down. “You’re tall enough, Per, you could use a little meat on those bones, but if you swung hard, you’d sure as hell hurt somebody.”

Keith is both a fighter and a lover. That is what he says.

I cannot punch. I am not a fighter.

But I love. I am someone who loves.

That makes me a lover.

“Okay,” I say, and throw another piece of doughnut to the seagulls when I see Keith close his eyes.

12

That is the Monday-morning headline. I am happy for that person, but Keith and I have to paint underneath a boat. Bottom paint is very thick and we have to stir it with a paddle attached to an electric drill. That is Keith’s job. Opening the lid is mine.

POUND! POUND! I use a hammer and a screwdriver. SPLAT! The lid flies off and splashes blue boat paint all over my jacket.

“Shit!” I put my hand over my mouth. I did not mean to say that word. It just flew out past my tongue. I hear Gram in my head.
Wash that mouth out with soap!

“Perry, I’m surprised at you.” Keith only uses Perry when I have done something wrong. He will say, “Perry, you threw away the invoice,” or “Perry, you put the label gun in the wrong drawer,” or “Perry, where the hell did I put my Camels?”

Painting boat bottoms is hard work because we have to use a roller and hold our arms up high.

“You missed a spot, Per,” Keith says. He has to make sure I do a good job.

My shirt is dirty and stiff with paint when I get home. I am sad because it is my favorite shirt and used to be Gramp’s. It even has his name written on the front pocket.
George Crandall.
I put it in the washer right away but the paint does not come out. I decide to keep it anyway, and say out loud, “This will be my paint shirt.” I try to use Gram’s voice.

Gram never threw anything away. I decide that I am just like her, and hang Gramp’s shirt back up in my closet.

The Tuesday headline is still on the front page, but higher. It is right next to the picture of the President of the United States.

How cool, I think. Right next to the President.

Gary has the paper on his desk. I read the story while I wait for him to call the guy to fix our air compressor. It broke after I inflated six fenders in a row. WHOOOSH! And then nothing. I jump and almost wet my pants. Gary calls Fritz Dias on the phone and has him come by. Fritz repairs all our machines.

“What you do, Perry? You broke it? How you do that?” Fritz says, and laughs. He is from Spain or Africa or maybe Germany and very smart about machines. He smiles all the time and has a gold tooth right in front. That is so cool, I think.

“Just the diaphragm. Here, see?” He spreads the parts to the compressor all over the floor.

“You press the button and here, see this? That moves and then over here, see this valve and this hose? The air comes out here.”

He talks to me like a real person while he takes it apart. He never treats me like I am retarded. I help by handing him his tools.

“You’re a great helper, Perry,” he says, only he pronounces my name
Parreeee.

It takes him all morning to tell Gary that he has to order a new part.

Gary is annoyed and asks, “Don’t you have the right diaphragms with you?”

“Why would I have one with me? You’re the distributor. Cheaper for you to order, yeah?” Fritz never loses his temper and always smiles showing his gold tooth.

He stays and eats lunch with us. We all buy tuna sandwiches from Marina Handy Mart.

Wednesday’s headline is right in the top middle. I have the day off and go downstairs to pick up Keith’s dirty laundry and read the paper. Keith is working in the back office and Manuel is working the register. The newspaper is lying on the counter. Nobody is looking at it, so I borrow the front page and tromp back upstairs. I know Gary will not mind and I can give it back later. I read the story while I cook my oatmeal. It is all about the Marina Handy Mart and there is an interview with the manager, Peter Koslowski. I wonder if Peter and Cherry know the person who won. I fold the Wednesday paper and put it by the door so I do not forget to take it back downstairs to Gary. I can walk over to Handy Mart later and maybe buy a sandwich and talk to Cherry. She will be famous because she works there and they sold the ticket. That is so cool.

I have all my Wednesday chores to do. My oatmeal is too hot to eat, so I start the washer before breakfast. I hear the CHUG CHUG CHUG of the machine as I pour milk and sprinkle sugar. It is like having company. Keith’s jeans are in the first load along with two of my shirts. They are very dirty from all the sanding and painting we have done this week.

The Sunday paper is on my company TV tray and my cereal bowl is on my regular one. Sections of the paper are stacked in a neat pile. I set the comics on the floor and pick up the front page. There is a picture of a turkey farm. It is an interesting story, but sad because it will be Thanksgiving next month and the turkeys will all be dead. I decide that I will not eat turkey this year. I think about Gram. She made good turkey.

The Lotto numbers are in a line at the bottom of the front page.

I do not have to check mine because someone else has already won. I wonder why they have not picked up their money yet. If I won, I would get my money right away. I miss Gram. She would read the numbers and I would check them. I take a bite of oatmeal, then get up and look for my sack. It has flown off my counter and rolled next to the refrigerator. I pull out my Lotto ticket. One edge is still sticky from Manuel’s spilled Coke. I go back to the sofa and sit at my TV tray. I make believe Gram is next to me.

“Gram, you want to read the numbers?” I ask.

“Okay,” I say.

I pretend I am her.

“Here they are.” I set them in front of me on the tray.

There are ten rows of numbers down and six across. Two of them start with 12, two start with 11, and the others are 05, 06, 02, 04, 15, and 09. It is hard to check. The numbers have to be the same and all on the right line. I check each row for the first number listed in the newspaper. It starts with 09.

“Hey, Gram! We have the first number right! Okay, here we go.” I try to make my voice like Gram’s for
yep.

“Oh-nine.”

“One-oh.”

“One-nine.”

“Three-two.”

“Four-four.”

“Four-seven.”

“Oh! Oh! Gram! We got all the numbers!” The spit goes out of my mouth. All the numbers are there. I read them twice. I read them again just to make sure. My numbers. It was me all along. I am the winner.

I am lucky!

I jump up so high my cereal bowl flips off my tray. I can hear my feet hit the floor as I dance up and down.
Clump! Clump! Clump!
Oatmeal splashes all over and I slip.

“Holy cow!” I yell. It is okay to say cow. Cow is not a bad word.

Goddamn!
I hear Gram say.
Goddamn!

How much do I win?

Twelve million dollars,
I hear her say.

How much is that?

I sit back down on the sofa and bounce.

Perry, it is important to think at times like these.
I hear Gram’s voice in my head.

What do you do when you have the lucky numbers? I have to look through all the papers. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. The paper said no one came in to claim the prize yet. That is because it is me.

I laugh in my head.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
It is me! Then I start to worry. How long do I have before they give my money away? I turn my ticket over. There are instructions on the back.

What is excess? Where is the lottery office? I step in more oatmeal. Gram’s dictionary is on the floor. Excess.
More than. Surplus.
That is like the Army-Navy Surplus Store where Gram and I used to buy our long underwear. They have more stuff than even Kmart.

“More stuff than you can shake a stick at!” Gram would say as we walked up and down their aisles. They had big dolls dressed up as Navy and Army guys, which are very cool.

I laugh again. “Ha!”

I know twelve million dollars is way more than six hundred.

I need to go to the office in Olympia. My armpits are wet and I am hot. I open my window to cool off. I do not know where to go in Olympia. I do not even know where Olympia is. I look at my ticket.
PO Box 2167, Olympia, WA 98507.
Where is Olympia?