I whisper to her that nothing lasts, that she has work to do.
The slightest bit of apprehension pokes at her, dimpling the bubble of elation that envelopes her. She is not entirely sure she heard me.
“It feels pretty awesome,” she says, smiling over her cola-filled crystal goblet. Lois doesn’t allow Ally to drink alcohol, even though she is over twenty-one. She’d allowed it only once, and Ally had gotten so sick that she had thrown up on her bed, ruining an expensive quilt. Lois declared that was the last dance with the devil for Ally. Ally had never asked for another drink, in any case. She remembers the episode particularly vividly and has no desire to relive it.
“What are you going to do with the money?” Kevin asks through his gluttony. The restaurant seems to go silent around them, waiting for her answer. Ally feels her family’s eyes on her. She loves the attention, but it makes her face feel hot and she can feel her thoughts getting jumbled in her head even before they can tumble out of her mouth in a series of sticky syllables. Her breath catches and hitches before she speaks.
“I’m going to-to-to gi-give…it to Stry-Stryker Nash,” she stutters, grinning at her own brilliance.
Kevin’s mouth falls open, revealing a revolting grey mess of finely ground seafood.
Earl’s fork freezes half-way to his mouth, plopping a lump of crab cake in his napkin-devoid lap.
Lois looks as though someone has slapped her.
Saving Stryker has been all that Ally has thought about ever since she’d read those winning lottery numbers. She would resurrect his career, thereby restoring her own happiness and banishing the miasma of depression that has plagued her since the day he lost his job. Of course, she couldn’t articulate the last link in that chain of thought, so her family views giving all that money to a washed-up broken-down pro wrestler as a half-baked and horrendous idea. While Kevin and Earl fantasized about mansions and world tours and flash cars, and Lois assumed the money would go toward the group home and idyllic future that she and her friends wanted for their children, Ally had other ideas.
Lois should have known better than to make such an assumption.
* * *
“I bet I’ll get to go in the locker room after matches,” Ally says from the backseat, brushing Race Car Driver Barbie’s hair.
“You just want to see his schlong,” Kevin says, poking her with his elbow. “You know it’s all shriveled and tiny from all the steroids he takes.”
“Kevin,” Lois huffs from the passenger seat, “we don’t need to talk about that.” She is in no mood for childish bickering. As Earl guides the Volvo through the Pennsylvania night, she ponders the legalities of Ally being solely responsible for all that money. She is an adult, but Lois wonders if Ally’s limited mental capacity would somehow entitle her to some form of financial guardianship or something, something to protect Ally from doing something stupid with her hundreds of millions of dollars.
“Uh-uh, don’t be gross. I want to be a diva manager,” Ally says to Kevin, fluffing her hair and batting her eyelashes.
Lois calls their lawyer the second they get home, the one who had helped her and Earl draft their wills. It’s late, but she thinks this is important enough to warrant an emergency call. Ally heads to her room to e-mail Jason while Kevin and Earl settle themselves into the garbage on the couch in front of the soon-to-be-replaced television. (Earl has had his eye on one of those super-skinny LCD jobs. He doesn’t know how he’ll fit it into this pigpen of a family room yet, but he’ll find a way.)
“Hi, Tony,” Lois says into the telephone. “This is Lois Forman… I’m sorry to call so late, but we kind of have a situation here.” She speaks in little more than a whisper so her family won’t hear. “Well, my daughter, Ally, has come into some money. I mean, a LOT of money.” Not even Lois could conceptualize the amount. She tries, but she is conservative by nature. “She won the lottery.”
Tony Clifton had been drifting off to sleep when the phone rang, but the word “lottery” jolts him like three pots of coffee with an espresso chaser. He bolts up in his bed and fumbles for the lamp. “Jesus,” he says to Lois. He listens as Lois reminds him of her daughter’s Down syndrome.
“I, um,” Lois feels guilty, having such a sly conversation with a lawyer in the middle of the night, “I wonder if there’s anything I can do to keep her from…from blowing the money, you know?”
“How much money are we talking about?”
She tells him.
“Jesus.”
“So, can I be appointed her custodian or something?”
Tony thinks for a moment, looking at his thirty-year-old rumpled reflection in the mahogany-framed mirror on top of his dresser. He is only a couple of years out of law school and has never dealt with a lottery winner before. Hundreds of millions. He is going to be able to buy that new convertible he wants! He’ll have to look some things up before committing to an answer. “Can I call you in the morning, Mrs. Forman? I need to do some consulting before I can tell you anything for sure.”
Lois sneaks her bottle of Jim Beam out of the pantry and takes a swig. She feels decidedly evil. She can’t take her own daughter’s money. Or can she?
It would be for her own good
(Whose own good?)
* * *
A flurry of pounding at the front door wakes them in the morning. Kevin, who had been asleep on the sofa, looks out the front window to see what in the hell is going on. A pack of television reporters stand in a semi-circle around the front of the house, their logo-emblazoned vans lining the street behind them.
“Jesus,” Kevin mutters, letting the curtain fall back over the dusty window. “Ally!” He trips upstairs and flings open her bedroom door.
“Guh… D-D-Don’t come in!” She sits up in bed, her hair an auburn bird’s nest atop her pale full-moon face. “I’m still…” Her jaw works. “…sleeping.”
Lois ambles out of the bedroom she shares with Earl, hair in old fashioned curlers, eyes no more than slits. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a whole shitload of reporters out there,” Kevin says, as Earl joins the party on the claustrophobic landing outside Ally’s room.
Lois retreats back into her bedroom, throws a towel over her hair, and opens the window, which looks out onto the front lawn. “We’ll be with you in a moment,” she calls down, waving. It’s freezing out there. She wonders how long they’ll wait. Not long, she decides.
She flies to her closet and throws on one of her church dresses and a pair of sensible shoes, pulling the curlers from her hair. They’re going to be on TV! Then, she goes to work on Ally, stuffing her uncooperative body into a blouse and skirt, raking a brush through her knotted hair. “Ow! Mom!”
Two minutes and thirty-two seconds later, Lois throws open the front door, unbrushed smile yellow under the television lights. Ally shivers at her side, looking at the reporters’ feet with sleep still heavy on her face. She wants to be on TV, but not right now. It’s too early.
“Ms. Forman, is it true you won the lottery?” someone shouts.
“Yes, we won the lottery,” Lois says, squinting into the harsh artificial light.
“Was it the Megalomillions three hundred and fourteen million dollar lottery?” another reporter shouts.
“Yes,” Lois says, beaming.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
“Well, we’re going to establish a group home for—” Lois begins, smiling around the crowd.
“I won the lottery,” Ally yells, raising her eyes along with her voice, “and I’m giving the money…mon-money to Stryker Nash.”
Lois’s smile twists into an ugly grimace as Ally beams at the mob and flashes them the rock-and-roll horns, pinky and index finger of her elevated right hand extended.
So cool. Total made for TV drama, right here, right now.
The reporters fall silent, tendering their foam-covered microphones, holding their collective breath, pausing for an explanation that will not materialize
. Someone coughs.
Then, they all start talking at once, puffs of steam pouring from their mouths in the cold, elbowing each other in an effort to get closer to Ally, their clamor drowning out individual questions. Earl and Kevin grab Lois and Ally from behind, pulling them back into the house and slamming the door.
“Did you really think you were ready for that?” Earl asks Lois, putting an arm around her shoulders, giving Ally a tired look. The phone rings and Lois breaks away to answer it in the kitchen.
“Hi, Mrs. Forman,” Tony says on the other end. “I’ve been talking with my boss and looking a few things up in our library, and I have some news for you.”
“Good news or bad news?”
“Well, it depends, I guess.”
Tony continues to spell out Lois’s worst fear. Ally is an adult who has won the lottery, and, as such, she can legally do whatever she pleases with the money. Unless Lois wants to challenge her daughter’s mental capacity in a court of law and have her declared legally incapacitated, which could, in Tony’s opinion, be morally damaging to her relationship with her family.
So, Lois has a decision to make. Could she be so heartless as to take her Down syndrome daughter to court in order to take her lottery winnings? Call it a dilemma.
Oh, God. Humans and their drama.
I am really hoping for something good to come out of this one.
Lois hangs up the phone and sags into a kitchen chair, pushing a stack of phone books onto the floor with her hip, her face in her hands.
10. Misophobia / mī'-sō-fō'bē-ə / fear of dirt or contamination
Stryker cracks open his bloodshot eyes and looks at the screeching clock. Seven o’clock. Shit. He sits up, tangled in a sheet which hasn’t been laundered in recent memory, and gropes for the down comforter. The portable heater must have died sometime in the night. Doing a total one-eighty from when he’d bought it, he wishes it had shorted out and burned down the whole damn house. At least that would make him a different kind of tragic statistic, one that was mercifully dead instead of flat broke and on the verge of homelessness.
The television remote surfaces on top of the comforter and he switches on the local news to hear how long his commute might be.
The weather guy tells him that the high temperature will be a balmy thirty-six degrees. Heat wave. The anchors say they have a real treat, so stay tuned. Stryker means to trudge into the bathroom, but it’s too cold to get out of bed, so he obeys.
After the commercial, the wanker-anchors announce a winner has been located in the Megalomillions lottery, claiming the three hundred and fourteen million dollar jackpot. A local twenty-four-year-old woman, who works as a bagger at a local grocery store, was given the winning ticket as a Christmas present. Ally’s smiling face fills the screen.
Three hundred and fourteen million dollars. Whoop-de-do. Good for her, Stryker thinks. She looks retarded, too. Stryker feels completely unlucky in the most cosmic sense. He rolls his eyes at no one in particular.
“What are you going to do with the money?” a reporter on the B-roll tape asks.
“…I’m giving the money… mon-money to Stryker Nash,” Ally says.
Stryker thinks he’s misheard. Then the anchor woman reappears.
“Did she say she was going to give the money to Stryker Nash?” the anchor woman says.
Camera switch.
“That’s right, Chris,” the anchor man smiles. “Ally Forman, the young woman from Jeffersonville, who has Down syndrome, says that she is going to give the winnings to her fallen hero, former wrestling champion Stryker Nash, who you mi—”
Stryker laughs and punches the power button.
“Yeah, sure,” he says to the broken heater. “I’m gonna be saved by a retard lotto winner. Right. And then we’ll elect a Muslim president, Brittney Spears will be sane again, and little green men will come and take us all to their leader. That’ll be the fucking day.”
He snorts and hot-foots it to the shower.
* * *
Full of shit, that weather man, Stryker thinks, pulling his knit Steelers cap down over his frozen ears. Thirty-six degrees, my ass.
I have to laugh a little. I love it when humans complain about the weather, like there’s something they can do about it. Don’t waste your time. It is what it is.
Stryker stands and hops up and down next to the ’99 Beamer convertible as a short young man with slicked back hair and a knee-length camel-hair coat kicks the tires. He’s been frozen to that spot for forty minutes while the gentleman deliberates on whether or not to even take the car for a test drive on the icy roads.
“I dunno,” the kid says. To Stryker, he looks like a little kid playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes. “Nah, I’m not ready, I guess. Thanks, though, bro.” With that, he walks away, leaving Stryker on the lot. Crap. He locks the BMW’s doors and walks back to the office, rubbing his gloved hands together. That was his third non-sale of the day.
He trudges to his desk and pulls off his hat and gloves, inwardly cursing a steady stream of hostile and dejected filth. He has not made a single sale in his two weeks of employment at In A Rush Auto Sales, “Where Pre-Owned Means Pre-Approved.”
And where writing slogans is not their forte, apparently.
But, what they lack in creativity, they more than make up for in lack of overhead, passing the savings on to…well, no one, really.
In A Rush is a throwback to another era. An anachronism. Their lack of technology could qualify them as an official museum, or perhaps a historic landmark. There are no computers in the office; instead, everyone has an ancient adding machine on their desk with curls of white tape spilling out of the top. The telephones are of the corded, rotary dial variety, all operating on just two lines. Ashtrays are plentiful and the employees chain-smoke at the comfort of their own workstations. Pay is also primitive. Everyone works on straight commission, except for Stryker, the resident celebrity, who garners an unprecedented base salary of five-hundred dollars per week.
Shit, five hundred bucks used to be a night on the town to Stryker—a cheap night, at that. Now, it represents the difference between life and death. As things stand, the bank has started foreclosure proceedings on his ten-thousand square foot Squirrel Hill home, another bank has repossessed two of his vehicles, he sold his boat for a solid loss, and his credit cards hover very near their maximum limits. Things look bleak indeed for Mr. Nash.
The antique telephone on his desk rings as he sets his hindquarters on the split leather seat of his creaking ancient chair. He covers the handset with a tissue and lifts it off its cradle.
“In A Rush Auto, this is Mr. Nash, how may I help you?”
“Yes, Mr. Nash, this is Miss Finestra from Allegheny Electric.”
Stryker swallows the lump in his throat and reaches for an antacid to quench the fire that has suddenly sparked in his gut. He feels his co-worker’s reptilian eyes on him. Craig with his record sales and his cheap polyester suits. Craig with his stupid bobble head collection and autographed Pirates ball. Nobody likes the fucking Pirates, asshole. Stryker feels inferior to this guy? What kind of world is this, where a rich and famous pro wrestler can be beaten into submission by a little creep like that?
Nausea flattens Stryker like a steamroller as he holds the phone to his frozen ear.
“Sir, this is a courtesy call to let you know that your service will be disrupted this afternoon if payment on your account is not made in person at our main office.”
Stryker slams down the phone. “Dave, I’ll be taking a long lunch,” he shouts to his boss. He prays his credit card won’t be declined.
Dude needs a miracle.
11. Tyrannophobia / tī'-ran-ə-fō'bē-ə / fear of tyrants
“And this is the kitchen, complete with walk-in freezer,” the chipper forty-something real estate agent says to Lois and Ally, leading them into a dingy all-white kitchen, lined with lopsided cabinets and cloudy windows. The dense gloom and stained and curling linoleum floor l
end the room a sinister feel, compounded by the massive stainless steel door looming at the chamber’s far end. Ally’s face remains blank while Lois’s noticeable wince prompts the agent to move into the living room. This place would make one hellacious mad scientist’s lab. But, that’s not exactly what the Formans have in mind.
The trio stands in the home’s hardwood two-story foyer, directly beneath the heavy gothic wrought-iron chandelier. “So, Ally, what do you think of this one?” the agent asks, smile firmly anchored to her heavily made-up face.
“I hate it. It reminds me of the…the…the Haunted Mansion at Disney World.” Ally rode that ride only once, with her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers in her ears, all the while telling Lois, in a loud voice, to make it stop. Of course, if the ride had stopped, Ally would have been even worse off. Once the ride had ended, Ally demanded that they leave the Magic Kingdom and move onto one of the other parks. There was no way she could live in a house that reminded her of that nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” Lois says to the still-smiling woman.
“Oh, no apologies necessary,” she says, turning her grin on Lois, then stabbing Ally with it. “I do like my clients to be honest. Honest and happy.” She pats Ally’s arm. Ally recoils as if she’s been stung. “I’ve got plenty of others on my list to show you. Shall we go?”
As they toured each property, Ally alternately a) closed her eyes and pretended that she was blind, b) poked her fingers in her ears and sang pop songs at the top of her voice, c) counted each step she took muttering “Mississippi” in between numbers, or d) sat on the floor and refused to follow along. In their own car, on the way home, Lois flips out.
“I’m doing this for you, you know. If we don’t do something now, your friends could all move away and you may not see them very often. Or ever. How would you like that?”
Ally plugs her iPod into her ears. Lois yanks the ear buds right back out.
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