THE LOTTERY
By Kimberly Campbell
Copyright and License Statement
Copyright 2015 Kimberly Campbell
All Rights Reserved
Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is a work of non-fiction. All characters, places, and events come from the author’s imagination; any resemblance to real persons (live or dead), places, or events are coincidental.
I can see it in their eyes: people view me as an all-American cliché. I can understand why: I wear polo shirts and khakis to work, blue jeans and sweatshirts on my days off. I like baseball and apple pie. I work for a major water distribution company, where in the past eleven years I have sat in the same shitty grey-blue walled cubicle, my only decorations a Philadelphia sports calendar, an old Yellowstone postcard, and an ancient Polaroid of my dead bulldog, Sniper. Even my name – Jack Julian Jameson (JJ for short) – leads people to believe that I’m a typical middle-class American.
I dismiss all of it with an eye roll and a beer – occasionally some hard liquor. I learned to suppress the scorn I have for others a long time ago. (Not through therapy, that’s a crock load of bullshit. I should know, having gone through 7 years of it with 4 different doctors.) Once you’ve transitioned from a life of high drama to a life of extreme banality you realize that your inner psyche is too fragile to not suppress the scorn. If you don’t you might snap. Just like me.
I’m not a cliché. In fact, I go out of my way to make sure that my life is filled with as much irony as possible. But to be clear, I manipulate the irony; I have the control. Once I returned to the States and settled down (which took about ten years, I admit), I decided that this was a critical aspect of my life that I had to ensure. You might too, if some motherfucker had sent you into a jungle war at age nineteen, all based on the random luck of your birthday. Sounds comical, doesn’t it? Well, irony is supposed to be.
I have a very regimented daily routine, which I suppose adds to everyone’s opinion that I’m entirely relatable. Out of bed at 6:30 AM, hit the gym to pump some iron, drive-thru Egg McMuffin at 8, gruel through the forty-five minute commute, in the cubicle by 9. At noon I eat my Marie Callender’s and by 5:07 I’m in the car again. But only for ten minutes before I pull over to Joe’s Corner Mart. That’s where all this started.
It’s a Wednesday. August 6th, 2014 to be exact. You would think that it’s a typical day in the 9-5 world, but today is different. The office is abuzz. Everyone is chattering and there is a general and constant hum in the air. The Pennsylvania Lottery has reached it’s record high Powerball Jackpot of $623.8 million. No one can shut up about how they would spend their winnings.
“I’ve always wanted to take a cruise to Alaska!” I overhear a giddy voice proclaiming from two or three cubicles over. Kelly – accounts receivable department. A real airhead. Once heard her talking about how she thinks a girlfriend of hers has PTSD from her boyfriend yelling at her because she’s a bad driver.
“Oh the sunsets there are great, but I would definitely rather have timeshares in Bora-Bora. A buddy of mine went and almost didn’t come back he said it was so great!” Michael – procurement. Not such a bad guy, just as dull as dishwater.
“Ha! Guys you could do both those vacations, never work a day again in your life, and make sure your kids never work a day in their lives, and then keep going for a couple generations, and still be set! Me, I think I’d park some large investments in the Caymans and just use the rest to do whatever the Hell I want!” Patrick – administration. Idiot probably can’t even find the Cayman Islands in an atlas, let alone take on international investments.
“My friend’s daughter was just diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. I’d love to be able to fund research to find a cure….” The group gathered around Kelly’s cubicle composes themselves into showmanly somberness. Count on Holier-Than-Thou Brenda from accounts payable to play the kids-with-cancer-card. Whatever. It’s 11:53 and I can’t take another minute. I head to lunch, figuring I can zap Marie’s chicken pot pie in the microwave a few minutes early and spare myself any more nauseating office chit-chat.
I nearly barrel into him when I round the corner to the break room.
“Yikes! Sorry, man!” Binh Nguyen from IT briskly sidesteps my hulking figure as he shimmies a steaming Rueben back toward the center of his plate. “Had to get out of there. Can’t stand another second of that lotto talk. It’s a mad house of idiotic dreams in their, my man, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I watch Binh stride down the hall, sipping his can of coke with one hand, balancing his hot sandwich in the other.
Five minutes, two piercings of the plastic, and two extra minutes on medium later, Marie’s pie is ready. Binh was right. The break room lottery chatter is relentless. I grab my lunch and make my way to the parking lot, fully intending to chow down by myself in my Chevy while listening to Springsteen.
I lean the seat back and roll the window down, letting the balmy summer breeze brush my face. I switch to Track #3, tuning out the sounds of summer and instead filling the background with Springsteen’s American Skin. I’m all situated when I realize I’ve forgotten to bring a fork with me. “Fuck…” I mutter under my breath. I rifle through the glove compartment, look in the console cubbies, even check under the seats for anything to eat with.
In my frustration I almost don’t hear him calling out over Springsteen’s “41 shots” chant. “Yoooo…. Jay Jaaayyy!” he shouts, prolongating my nickname as if we were buddies on a baseball team. “Need a utensil?”
From the car next to me Binh tries to stretch across his passenger seat and pass me a fork. We obviously can’t reach each other this way, and it’s awkward. Despite my comfort I get out of my car to get the fork.
“Thanks!” I say with a friendly nod and cock of the brow.
He smiles welcomingly. “Come and join me, why don’t ya? Bring the Springsteen too.”
At first I would have been able to decline, but the suggestion of bartering a fork for Springsteen is too forward to refuse. I cut my engine, grab Bruce and the pot pie, and slide into Binh’s passenger seat.
“I can never get enough of The Boss,” says Binh as he chomps down on his hot sandwich.
I give a non-committal grunt. I’d rather eat alone, and small talk about things that I’m passionate about – like The Boss – truly irk me.
From the corner of my eye I study Binh. As far as I can tell he’s not an immigrant, and I’m usually pretty spot on with that shit. His mannerisms, use of American lingo, and Ray-Bans signal American born. He looks like he’s in his mid-forties, though he presents himself with what I hear is called the “Asian-hipster” personality of a twenty-something year old. Probably something he picked up from the rest of our youthful, trendy IT team.
“Today’s my daughter’s birthday.” He continues the small talk. “I can hardly believe that four years ago today I was in that delivery room, holding my wife’s hand and timing her contractions. Funny how to children, birthdays are all about them and how old they are, and they don’t even remember coming into this world! For parents, it’s much more significant. Like – holy shit! I not only celebrate the day and all the life that you’ve lived – I celebrate the exact moment you entered the world. Yes, your life began, but my life morphed.”
I guess we’ve transcended small talk. He takes another bite of his Rueben and chuckles.
“Hah. That’s actually why I have the extra fork.” He smiles, and then sees the look of absolute what-the-fuckness on my face. “Oh, I mean I had to stop at the grocery store this morning to prep for our Sarah’s party. Deal was that
I get the plates, cups, napkins, utensils, etcetera. Wife picks up the cake from the bakery on her way home.” He points to the backseat where Shop Rite bags are filled with various necessities for a kid’s birthday party.
“Sarah’s got a lot of friends she wanted to have over from pre-school. It’s her first party. You know, other than the kind that’s pretty much for the parents. Like when your kid turns one and you invite all your own friends and family, even though you know they don’t give much of a crap – except if they’re your parents – but you feel obligated because what parent wants to admit that they didn’t throw their kid a first birthday party? I just hope that it’s not a mistake to make it on a school night. Idea is invite ‘em over for a couple of hours to eat cake and open presents, then kick ‘em out and get a good night’s rest!”
Jesus he talks a lot.
“This is her on her last birthday.” He pulls a picture out of his wallet. Sarah’s standing on a chair, leaning on a table over a birthday cake with a big Number 3 candle on it, ready to blow out the flame. I look a little closer. Sarah doesn’t look much like Binh.
“Her mother white?” It’s the first thing I’ve actually said while inside the car. I guess a more “PC” person wouldn’t have said that.
“Yep. Rebecca’s Russian and Icelandic. A real looker. We met at a bar cause I couldn’t stop staring at her. I’ll admit it was kind of creepy of me.” He chuckles. “Now I think to myself, ‘My Sarah’s going to be such a raving beauty. I’ll have to beat off those creep-o guys from the bars with a stick!’ But I’ll keep in mind that one or two of them could be a great bar-catch like myself.”
A pensive lull falls over our one sided conversation. I don’t care enough to break the silence.
“Any upcoming plans for tonight or the weekend?” he asks me.
I never have any plans, except my routine. On the weekends I sometimes practice my pool shot at Harry’s Pub, but I mostly just kick back in front of the TV with a few drinks at home. I don’t feel like telling Binh about my routine, or about my disinterest in socialization. I play off his question as smoothly as I can: “Just playing the numbers like everyone else.” I give a wry smile and mutter something about my half hour break being over. He rolls up the windows, ejects the Springsteen CD, and we head back into the office.
“Well, good luck with those numbers.” I watch him swagger off towards the IT department. I could never say it out loud, but I find myself thinking about how I really like the guy.
***
It’s 5:09 and I haven’t started driving to Joe’s Corner Mart yet. The last fifteen minutes of my day were spent fighting with the damn fax machine, and I’m behind schedule. Time and routine are of the utmost importance to me, as I hope I’ve made clear already. I finally get into my car and drive to Joe’s. It’s more crowded than usual, with a line of starry-eyed youngsters and gossiping office women waiting to buy their lottery tickets. The mart is filled with chatter and general obnoxiousness, kind of like how my office was all day. Everyone is seriously fucking up the zen that is supposed to define my after-work ritual. Everyday, this moment is supposed to belong to me. This is what I do. Much like one might define oneself by one’s career, or one’s parenting, I channel my identity into these daily five minutes. Every day, I visit Joe’s Corner Mart so that I can play the Pennsylvania Lottery. It might be the Pick 5, the Cash 5, the Mega Millions, or the Powerball. Whatever it is, I play the lottery daily, without fail. But this is my true secret, my true source of identity: every day, I play the same sequence of numbers: 0-9-1-4-1-9-5-0-2-5-8-0-1. My birthday. The very thing that robbed me of my life as it should have been and the very thing that defines who I am now: September 14, 1950, lottery draw capsule #258, the 1st birthday selected.
The cashier is the same old Chink as usual. “Good luck, good luck,” he head bobs to each customer. I get to the counter, grab my usual pack of Powermint Tic Tacs, and get ready to play my numbers.
“Ah, hello! Today the lucky day?” He scans the Tic Tacs as I go to pick the numbers. I pause. Something Binh said is stuck in my head like a deep splinter.
I feel suddenly jarred and the old feelings of shell shock return. Before I know it my fingers are betraying me; my usual sequence of 0-9-1-4-1-9-5-0-2-5-8-0-1 is incomprehensible to my brain. In an out-of-body experience, I watch myself play a completely different string of numbers: 0-7-1-7-1-9-7-0-09-5-8-0-1. I stare at myself staring at the numbers.
“Plans for big win?” The Chinaman’s broken English jolts me from my out-of-body experience. I shudder, and compose myself.
“Buy 258 Powermint Tic Tacs a day.”
He looks at me blankly. I pay, and march through the exit without looking back.
“Friggin’ FOB should learn some damn U.S. history,” I mutter to no one.
On the car ride back, I open the Powermints and – just like every other day – throw them out the window one by one.
***
By the time I get home my routine has been so shot to death that I start slugging Jameson straight from the bottle.
Again, I can’t get what Binh said out of my head. Damn gook was spot on: a child’s birthday means a whole lot more to his parent than to the actual child. At least it should. I spend my evening hours swilling my drink and absent mindedly eating stale, leftover pizza, ruminating over my day.
I bring the bottle of Jameson into bed and flip to Channel 6. The drawing isn’t for another thirty-five minutes so I absent-mindedly watch the end of a crime drama until Action News comes on. I feel the whiskey coursing through my veins. I haven’t been this drunk in a long time. I struggle to keep my eyes open until the Powerball drawing. As the hot-ass blonde weather lady talks of more summer heat waves I bring the bottle to my lips. “Fuck it,” I whisper. My routine and entire identity have been thrown off today; starting with leaving for lunch early, to eating with Binh, and ending with choosing goddamned different lottery numbers – my entire day has been altered. Who gives a shit if I don’t watch the numbers? I’m not gonna win; I never do. I can always find them out tomorrow. For now, just another sip of Jameson, and a little rest of the eyes….
***
Carl is in my room. I don’t know how he got here. The bottle of Jameson lies empty next to my pillow.
“Look man, it just takes a second. That’s it. One second. One second of sheer, absolute bravery. Do it, suffer the pain, and go on living your life. I ain’t gonna lie, it hurts like a mother fucker, but it sure as hell beats bleeding out in the middle of some jungle, or being tortured by some Charlie. Just do it man. I swear, it’s the bravest thing you’ll ever fucking do.”
He hands me the screwdriver. The blood is gushing from his eardrum. It spatters the lottery ticket resting on the nightstand.
I’m in Eric’s house. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. He packs a duffel bag as fast as his stick-thin arms can handle. A few pairs of jeans, sweaters, underwear, Canadian bills, and some photographs get shoved into the bag.
“The scale yesterday said 122 and today it says 126. I gotta get out, I gotta get out, I gotta get out.”
We all sit straight-backed on the couch and in the armchairs. It’s the first time Ma, Pop, Annie, Rachel, and I have sat around the television together in God knows how long. The whole family is tense, but I can hardly breathe. Annie is too young to understand the significance of the broadcast, and she squirms impatiently. Ma picks her up and rocks back and forth – undoubtedly more for her own comfort than for Annie’s. We watch as Pirnie reaches his hand into the large glass jar, extracts the blue capsule, hands it to the official. “September 14…September 14 is 001.” Ma lets out a shuddering gasp, and Pop puts a reaffirming hand on my shoulder. We watch in stunned silence as the remaining 365 blue capsules are drawn from the jar, one by one. Suddenly General Hershey is standing next to me, but he also remains on the television screen. None of my family seems to
notice. The Hershey who stands in my living room dons a Vietnamese pith helmet. “Get your sorry ass to the Vietnam jungles and kill as many Cong as you can.” He puts a rifle in my hand. When I look up, he’s morphed into Binh, who holds his daughter Sarah in his arms. “Jay-Jaaayyy! That is one lousy birthday. Couldn’t hang in the womb one more day? Ya picked the wrong date, my man! Hear me? Ya picked the wrong date!” He passes me his daughter, and I end up holding Binh’s four-year-old girl in one arm and Hershey’s rifle in the other. As I look up, everything starts to blur, and all I can see are the images on the television. The broadcast morphs between the 1969 Draft Lottery and tonight’s Powerball Drawing. I can’t make out the difference between the two; suddenly the TV flashes to footage of soldiers taking cover from flying shrapnel in Khe Sanh. The television cuts to black and the living room is quiet. I clutch both Sarah and the rifle tightly.