"I'm sure!" she said.
I reached for the lever, gripping it tightly, looking at the payout table glued to the slot machine then looking at Stacey. It looked like her head was going to explode she was so goddamn excited. It's true.
"OK. Here I go."
I pulled the lever and the reels spun. The first reel stopped. It was the Jack of Spades. The second wheel then stopped. It was the King of Spades. The last reel stopped. It was the Queen of Spades. Sirens immediately started blaring, lights flashing like the lights on top of a cop car above the slot machine, red beams spinning around and around. It was kind of embarrassing but I won something. It was obvious. Quarters poured out of the machine, filling the metal tray quickly, then pouring onto the floor. Stacey stood back, stunned. Her hands were plastered to her face and she had a look like she had just seen a goddamn ghost. It's true.
"Oh my God. I can't believe it. You won!"
"What do you mean you can't believe I won?" I asked.
"You got a straight flush. You won the jackpot! You better give me a good tip for helping you."
Pretty soon, I was surrounded by some security guards. They were there to make sure I was the real winner and that none of the other losers were coming around trying to get my quarters. I stood there in shock. How much did I win? I guess I was going to find out. One of the guards opened the machine and flipped a switch, turning off the siren and lights. The other scooped up the quarters that had fallen out and put them into a plastic bucket. Both of the security guards were big as shit, real brawny bastards. Stacey congratulated me.
"I still can't believe you won. That's awesome."
"I can't believe it either."
"I'll help you at the cashier. Make sure they treat you right."
"OK," I said, still stunned. I guess good ol' Dr. Goodheart was right. I did have some fortune in my future. I felt bad for doubting him but what was I to do? My lucky $20 was a bust but my lucky $2 bill was a winner. I was going to have to get Sammie boy a nice gift and I was going to have to replace his $2 bill for the one I spent. I was sure he wouldn't mind. I was sure of it.
The security guards asked me to follow them to the cashier and Stacey followed right behind me, patting me on the back every once and a while. They led me to a window with bars on it. A sign that read, "Cashier" hung above the window, a portly lady sat in the room behind it. She didn't look too enthused that I had won. She didn't look enthused about a goddamn thing, actually. One of the security guards handed her a piece of paper from the slot machine. She started filling out some paperwork, doing some calculating on a calculator. It really seemed like she hated her job. I could tell. It's true. The security guards shook my hand then walked off, probably to bully some old drunk man. Stacey hung close by.
"I wonder if you won it all?" she asked.
"The jackpot?"
"Yes dummy. The jackpot."
I was curious as hell so I looked at the unenthused lady behind the bars. She was busy calculating away, filling out papers.
"Ma'am? How much did I win?"
She poked at the calculator some more then looked at me.
"Looks like you won $14,997. Would you like a check or would you like for me to do a wire transfer to your bank account?"
"$14,997?! Did you say $14,997?"
"Yessir, $14,997."
"Oh, I'll take a check then." I looked at Stacey and she smiled at me and I realized that she was waiting for her tip, the tip she deserved because she told me to play that slot. And she DID deserve a tip. I was happy to oblige because without her, I would have only $2. "Ma'am?" I asked.
"Yessir?"
"Can you make the check for... $14,977? And give me the difference in cash?"
"Yessir."
She did her thing and handed me a $20 bill then handed me a check. I looked at the check. Right on the front it said, "$14,977." It was amazing. It's true. I handed Stacey the $20 bill and extended my hand for a shake. She reluctantly took the $20 bill and gave me a limp shake in return.
"Gee, thanks."
"Well, you deserve it. What can I say? I wouldn't have won all that money without you."
"You know, most people tip 10 to 15 percent for winning advice like that."
"I'm not most people, darling."
"I can see that," she said, annoyed. She slipped the $20 bill into her pocket and walked off without saying goodbye. What was bothering her? Did she think I was going to give more than $20 of my hard earned money?! Crazy talk, I tell you. Crazy. It's true. I had the fortune of hitting it big and I wasn't going to waste it on a waitress in a casino. It was time for me to go home. It was time to head back to Austin. I walked out of that casino like I was walking on clouds.
Outside, I walked back toward the hotel. At the front, I gave the valet my validation slip and he ran off, fast as lightning. I found a bench and sat down, waiting for Clint the Caddy to come take me home. I couldn't believe it. I absolutely could not believe it. What was I to do when I got back to Austin? Should I quit my job and start writing my next book? Or should I continue to work and have a nice, fat savings account? Questions, so many new questions. I knew I would make a decision on my way home to Austin. I would have plenty of time to think about it then.
Shortly, Clint the Caddy pulled up and the valet got out and ran around to me. He extended his hand but I didn't have any cash on me for a tip. Poor bastard. He was going to have to bother some other sucker.
"Sorry, buddy, no cash on me. I'll get you next time."
"Yessir. I'll see you next time," he said. He handed me the keys then he ran back to his post by the door.
I thought it was funny that he thought there would be a next time because in my heart of hearts, I knew there would never be a next time. There would only be this time and it was time to go home. It's true. I put my seatbelt on and shifted Clint the Caddy into drive. I knew I would not be back in Oklahoma for a long time, if ever, so I waved goodbye to the valet and drove off. I drove off past the other losers walking back to their cars, their hearts sunk low in their chests, their hopes and dreams crushed. I got on the highway and headed home.
25.
All the windows in Clint the Caddy were rolled down and the warm air rushed into the cabin. I drove home at top speed, zipping through all the shithole towns on the way, not stopping to eat or piss or take a break or sight-see or nothing. I was on a mission and, boy, was I ready to get home. I had plans to make. Big plans. There was absolutely no point in stopping in Ardmore or Gainesville or Denton or Waxahachie or Ennis or Waco or anywhere. I felt something big was coming around the corner. I didn't know what it was but I was sure $14,977 was going to come in real handy. It's true. There was quite a bit I could do with $14,977 but what interested me the most was the idea of quitting my job and writing full-time, at least for a while. I was going to have to figure out if that was possible. I was going to have to do some number crunching, you know? I needed to add up all my expenses and see just how far $14,977 would take me. If I could pull it off, then I could write my next book without having to worry about showing up to some goddamn job every day and pretend that I gave a shit about my menial tasks and work and work and work. What was the point in doing that? Nothing I tell you. Nothing.
I tried crunching the numbers in my head but that didn't do me any good. I couldn't concentrate for shit. I was just too excited. Plus, all the goddamn 18-wheelers were pissing me off with their road hogging and swerving and horn honking and lane weaving and everything. It was just too much to handle. It's true. Those truckers could be real assholes, the way they drove. It was enough to conjure up a severe case of road rage in me that would invite murderous thoughts into my otherwise docile mind. If I had a gun in the car, then I would have been mighty dangerous. It's true. Thankfully, the closest thing in the car to a gun was a tire iron. That's about it.
As I zipped through all the shithole towns I thought of the past couple of weeks and felt like someone had been playing a cruel joke on me. My life was comple
tely in the crapper before I bumped into good ol' Stacey, convincing me to put my last $2 bill into that goddamn lucky slot machine. I made a point to remember that I was going to have to replace that lucky $2 bill before Sammie found out it was gone. That would be the ultimate disaster. No amount of money, not even $14,977, would mend Sammie's broken heart knowing his daddy spent that $2 bill. I was going to have to get a new $2 bill the minute I arrived in Austin. But the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that ultimately Sammie would understand my situation. Little did my boy know just how hard his daddy had it. I had it pretty bad. Surely he would understand why I risked spending that $2 bill. I was sure of it. It's true.
I decided right then and there not to dwell on it too much and just get home. Like I said, I had big plans to make, the biggest plans ever, and all I wanted to do was get home and start planning.
***
I walked into the government building where I worked. The building smelled just the way it did before I left on my trip, mildewy, stale, and miserable. Nothing had changed while I was gone, not a goddamn thing. Even the walls were still that same government version of gooey tan they were painted before, decades before even. It was an interior decorator's goddamn nightmare. It's true. The same security guard sat at the front desk, bored, unassuming, useless. If a terrorist ran in with a bomb strapped to his chest and threatened to blow all of the capitalist pigs to Kingdom Come, this security guard would have been first to duck under his desk. In the halls, the same trolls limped casually around, pretending to be going somewhere important, avoiding work at all costs. As I walked down the hall, I avoided eye contact with the trolls. Eye contact would have been an excuse for them to start talking to me, another distraction from their miserable work lives, another reason to gossip about their coworkers. Unfortunately, my efforts to keep my anonymity were thwarted. I heard an annoying voice calling my name down the hall, an annoying woman's voice. I looked up and that nosy administrative assistant I helped last week spotted me. She was waving her arms all over the goddamn place like a goddamn idiot, trying to get my attention, scurrying my way. Valerie Johnson. Remember her? I was trying to forget her. I tried to find a door to escape through, quickly. I found one with a sign that said "Stairs" on it but as soon as I grabbed the door knob, she cornered me. She leaned in close, her hand holding the door shut, her cheap perfume ripping into my nose like a poisonous gas. I was trapped. It's true.
"Simon, I'm glad I bumped into you."
"Oh yeah?" I said, nervous.
"Yes. My computer is still acting up. I keep getting that darn blue screen. It won't let me work. I have to restart it over and over."
"I see."
"My boss is really riding me too. Can you come by and help me?"
"I'll see if my boss will let me."
"Please. I beg you."
"I'll see. I have to go clock in now."
"We can catch up too. I want to hear more about your sweet children."
"I really have to go," I said, pushing her arm aside. I opened the door, slipped through, and quickly descended the stairs. She kept calling to me, pleading, her voice echoing in the stair well.
"Simon! Simon! I need your help!"
I entered the basement and found the room where I worked. I opened the door and was met with smiles from some of my coworkers, not all had arrived yet. It was still early for government workers to all arrive. On my desk was a large bouquet of flowers with a little card pinned to it. It said, "Our condolences for your loss." I had to admit, it was a nice gesture on my coworkers' part, even if my trip wasn't exactly what they thought it was. But I wasn't going to say anything about that. There just was no point. I looked around and my boss Rod was sitting at his desk, his phone headset propped on top of his head, his arms crossed. He nodded at me, a sincere nod, and I smiled back. Good ol' Rod really was a good man. I could tell. I was expecting to be accosted by Snaggle but, to my surprise, he was absent. He must have been running late. Or maybe he was hiding in the bathroom, playing with his goddamn nuts. That must have been it.
I sat down at my desk and expected a long queue of support calls for me to have to slog through. To my surprise, there was only one ticket. Valerie Johnson. The blue screen of death. My only work for the morning. I ignored it and started gathering my things together. I made a small pile of my belongings, a framed photo of my kids, Jessica and Sammie, my copy of Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, my copy of Amazing Spider-Man, Vol. 1 by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, and my copy of Mad Libs, all the things I brought on my first day of work. I tossed some papers in the trash that had piled up during my week at work and a rotten shmapple that I had mistakenly forgotten to eat before I left for my trip. It was a goddamn waste of a good shmapple. It's true.
I immediately got to work drafting an important email to my boss. My resignation letter. It was going to be a glorious manifesto, a declaration of my independence. It went something like this:
Dear Rod, due to unforeseen circumstances, I'm submitting my letter of resignation to you. I have been offered an opportunity that is too good to pass up and I look forward to reestablishing my writing career in the very near future. I want to thank you for the opportunity to work at this fine government agency and I am sure that your able leadership and fine support staff will lead this agency into a future of productive employees with few, if any, technical issues with their desktop computers. Please accept my sincerest gratitude for the opportunity to work here and I wish you nothing but the best in your career as the help desk manager. Kind regards, Simon Burchwood, soon-to-be famous author.
I quickly read through my resignation letter for typos and misspellings but found none. I am a goddamn professional writer, you know? Professional writers make few mistakes. It's true. I clicked the "Send" button, closed all the programs I had open, and shutdown my computer.
I gathered my things together and placed them in a small, cardboard box. As I walked out of the room, Rod gave me a puzzled look but he was so busy with a goddamn phone call that he didn't have a chance to say anything to me. It was all for the best anyway. I'm sure his call was of an important nature. He was probably helping the Director of Public Relations or the Controller or the Director of Operations or some important asshole like that. Since he was the manager, he got stuck supporting all of the important assholes of the agency. He was good at sucking up to important government assholes. He had a bright future ahead of him. I was sure of it. It's true.
***
I have a confession to make. It's very important. Are you ready? I hope so. In reality, $14,977 really isn't that much money. It's true. After I looked at all of my expenses and added up rent and utilities and bills and child support and all of the things that weighed down on me on a monthly basis, I realized that $14,977 wasn't going to get me too far. I could spend a good three months or so writing without having to work some bullshit job but that was about it unless I wanted to rip through all of it and have nothing to show for it. But I decided that it was too good of an opportunity to pass up so I went for it.
I walked down to the office of my apartment complex and wrote a check for three months of rent and handed it to the office lady. Her eyes opened wide as she looked at it, surprised no doubt that one of her lowly tenants could afford to let go of that amount of money at one time. I told her that I was not to be disturbed by any of the handymen or exterminators or deliverymen or whoever would come snooping around. I had important business to attend to for the next three months. She understood and gave me her word, whatever that was good for.
I sent off money for all of my bills and mailed Jessica three months worth of child support and wrote a kind letter saying that I was sorry for all of the animosity that had developed between us and that I hoped she was happy and doing well. But most of all, I told her that I wished she would let me see my children more often because I loved them more than anything. To my surprise, she called me after receiving that letter and said she was sorry too. Can you believe that shit? It
's amazing what an apology can to do, even if I didn't really feel like I had to apologize about anything. She let me talk to my kids and little Jessica told me that she was singing in a choir at her little school. How sweet, I thought. And good ol' Sammie boy told me that he had a worm he found outside and placed it in a jar and had made the slimy thing his pet, except he called it a "shworm." How about that? Good ol' Sammie boy was good at inventing new words for things. Maybe he would grow up and become a writer like his good ol' dad. Maybe. It's a tough business being a writer, you know? Not just anyone can be a writer. It's true.
After setting up all of my expenses and taking care of all of my bills, I went to a used office supply warehouse and bought the biggest, most massive solid wood desk I could find. I found this monster of a desk made of solid oak tucked away in a corner of the warehouse, covered with dust and cob webs and dead bugs. I sat at it, pretending I was typing away at my computer, checking the height to make sure it would work for me. It was perfect. I asked them to deliver it to my place, along with a matching chair, and they promptly loaded it onto their delivery truck and asked for directions to my apartment. I paid for that sucker and told them to follow me in my crappy little car.
At my apartment building, the burly deliverymen struggled to carry that oak beast up the stairs to my apartment but they managed, nearly dropping it once or twice. That massive desk would have crushed them if it fell. It was that big. Inside, I told them to place it in the middle of my living room facing a window that overlooked the parking lot outside. I gave the deliverymen a $5 tip for their troubles and they left satisfied that they hadn't killed themselves bringing that desk up those stairs. They were two lucky bastards, for sure, but not as lucky as me. I was, for a small moment in time, the luckiest bastard in the world.
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 22