by Geoff North
Live it Again
By
Geoff North
Copyright © 2011
By Geoff North
www.geoffnorth.com
Cover art by Keri Knutson
www.alchemybookcovers.com
Formatted by Christine Rice
www.christinericepublishingservices.com
Other Books
As the World Ends
Children of Extinction
Last Playground
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
For all those grown-ups that wished they knew then what they know now—this is for you.
Chapter 1
2011
Friday November 25
A warning. Metallic letters in glaring yellow, outlined in orange. Rivets running through them vertically, covered in something dirty and grey like ash. Hugh Nance saw the letters flash through his mind but for an instant. A blink of his eyes and a quick shake of the head and the image vanished. Not even enough time to register what it had said, but he knew instinctively what it was. A warning.
He was still standing over Bob Richard’s desk. His right hand clenched into a fist where he’d banged it down in frustration just moments earlier.
“Are you finished?” The store manager asked quietly.
“We’ve been friends since we were kids, how can you do this to me? To my family?”
“If it were totally up to me I wouldn’t have cut your hours at all, maybe a cut in salary, but you know how the economy is.”
“The economy. Don’t give me that shit. This is Braedon, for Christ’s sake.”
Bob reached across the desk and picked up a handful of papers from a black plastic tray. “Take a look at these invoices. We may be the only major grocery store in town but that doesn’t mean our business hasn’t taken a serious hit in the last couple of years.” He plopped them down facing Hugh. “Monday’s bill was less than seven grand. That’s everything, Hugh--grocery, dairy, produce, tobacco…all of it. Shit, eighteen months ago if that bill was less than twelve thousand I would’ve thought we were having a slow week. But now? Hell, we’ll be lucky to sell half this stuff.”
Hugh backed away without looking at the sheets. “You don’t have to show me, I set the prices, remember?”
“Then you of all people should know why I had to cut your hours in half.”
He knew Bob was right, he’d seen it coming for a long time. Hugh hated himself for it, but he pressed on anyway. “You can’t do this to me. We’ve been friends for too long.”
“Please don’t. No more of this ‘friends since elementary’ crap. We’re in our forties now. You could’ve moved on, found something better years ago.”
Bob’s tone was soft, but the words hurt Hugh more than the cut hours. He shut his eyes and steadied himself back against the desk for a few more moments. What had the warning been he’d just seen in his mind? All he could see now was the worried look on his wife’s face, the disappointment. Again.
“How’s Cathy’s ankle?” Bob asked, as if he could read Hugh’s mind.
“It’s healed up fine, but she hasn’t gone back to work.”
“Well, maybe now…”
“Yeah,” Hugh finished for him. “She’s not going to have much of a choice.”
Bob stood up and hesitated awkwardly for a second. He was about to offer a hand out, but settled to put them both in his pockets instead. “I’m sorry, Hugh. Really, I am.”
“Monday? Do I come in on Monday?”
“I have Mondays covered, but Tuesday just like normal. And the other days, well, we’ll settle that up next week.”
“Every weekend a long weekend now, hey?” It was a feeble attempt at humor, but it was a good opportunity to get the hell out of his office. “See you Tuesday.”
Hugh strode through the warehouse in a daze. Someone said goodnight but he was too mentally shell-shocked to see or care who it was. He paused at the file maintenance office door, his office for the last nineteen years. The sound of the compressor room right next to it had been a constant reminder of how unimportant his position was. The thunderous whir of fans and cooling machinery shook the little windowless space where he was paid twelve dollars an hour. He’d started at nine.
The freight unloading door to the left side of his office began to rumble open. Cold air rushed in around his ankles with a swirl of powdery snow. Hugh nodded to the teenager waiting with the delivery van outside without looking him in the eye.
“Winter is finally here, Hugh,” the kid said as he began to load groceries into the back seat.
Mr. Nance, you little shit.
He zipped his coat up and shuddered. The kid (Tommy Jacobson? Timmy?) though disrespectful, knew how to call the weather. The clouds above were low and grey, rolling in quickly from the northwest. An inch of the white stuff had fallen throughout the afternoon, but the heavy wet crap was just moving in. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since morning, and whatever fell during the night would be staying for months. Winter in Manitoba was definitely here.
Hugh jogged over to the staff parking lot and jumped into his car. He slammed the door and watched dust settle onto the console from the cracked upholstery above his head. He glared back at Little City Food Store and after a moment’s consideration gave it the finger. It was the best he could do. He thought of his wife again and groaned. How was he going to break the news to her? He pictured the look of shock on her face, then the disappointment, and then the bitterness.
Why hadn’t she gone back to work yet? She was a fucking hairdresser. They hadn’t made a lot of money in their lives, but combined, they’d managed to support their family.
“Ungrateful bitch,” he muttered into the steering wheel. He felt bad as soon as he said it. What kind of man talks like that about the woman he’s supposed to love? What kind of man works at a dead end job for almost half his life?
He looked into the rear view mirror. Balding on top and going grey quickly at the sides. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot and the lower half of his face was covered with stubble. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.
Why bother?
He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and started the car. He undid the window an inch and exhaled smoke out as he wheeled down the back lane. Only four smokes left, not enough to get him through the night, not enough money in his pockets to buy more. If ever there was a night he needed to chain smoke, this was it. Cathy was always harping for him to quit, it was a filthy habit. Their kids shouldn’t have to inhale his second-hand poison. They didn’t have to, he thought. He’d been forced to smoke outside the house for the last fifteen years. He wouldn’t be forced to quit by anyone. It would be his choice.
I’ll quit when I’m good and goddamned ready.
There wasn’t enough money for cigarettes, but there was enough loose change in his pockets for a couple of lottery tickets. Two bucks turned into a few million could improve their lives substantially. He took another heavy drag and turned onto Main Street, thinking of his old friend, Bob Richards once again. Not a great friend, more of a constant companion of his growing up. A reminder of how badly Hugh himself had done in life. Bob had always been smarter, better looking, and far more outgoing. He had a different girlfriend for every month of their senior high school years. Hugh had one, and he ended up marrying her.
Don’t blame Bob for your situation, the little voice in the back of his brain said. And don’t make it sound like such a burden being married to Cathy; she’s a great gal, it added. The little voice was getting weaker each day.
; He parked the car in front of Reynolds Liquor Mart and stepped back out into the wind. The first sleety flakes began to pelt into his face. He’d have to pick up the tickets quickly before the roads turned ugly. He crushed the butt of his spent cigarette into the ground and walked toward the entrance, pulling the coat collar tightly around his neck.
The door swung out from the inside and smacked him on his lowered forehead.
“Oh, Hugh! I’m so sorry,” a female voice said. She reached for his elbow; he pulled it away and rubbed his head. He had to bite his tongue before his favorite expression spilled out. For fuck’s sake was what he wanted to say, but when he looked up and saw the concerned, pretty face, he was grateful he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Not your fault Suzey, I should’ve been watching where I was going.” Hugh had a little fling with Suzey Wilkinson a year after he was married. It had only happened once, a big mistake. She’d come out of a disastrous short marriage resulting in twins, and the night they spent together was brought on by his own greedy desire. Marrying young and partying hard in small towns was a bad mix. Cathy had deserved better. He looked at Suzey and smiled.
Damn, she’s still pretty. Must be pushing fifty.
The two hadn’t spoken of it since, and he wondered sometimes if she even remembered. She was happily remarried and had four more children. The twins had already graduated and moved on. Hugh still felt a little awkward whenever he ran into her. Did she ever think about him? He doubted it.
“If you’re buying tickets, don’t bother. I have the winner right here,” she said with a laugh, waving a slip of paper in front of him.
“Huh?”
“The lottery…it’s worth over forty million tonight.”
“Right, the lottery,” Hugh finally answered. He wiped away the sleet that was building up on his shoulders.
Suzey opened the door wider so he could step inside. “How’s work going, Hugh?”
“It’s going,” he replied with a weak smile, wanting to get off the subject. “You don’t mind a little lotto competition do you?”
“No problem, just don’t pick the same numbers I did. I don’t feel like sharing.”
“Take care, Suzey,” he said and watched her walk out into the cold. He loved his wife. Well love is what he called it, but he couldn’t help but think from time to time how it would’ve been if more had developed from that one night with Suzey so long ago.
Hugh passed by the beer section on his way to the front of the store and contemplated getting good and drunk. He had half a bottle of rum left over from last Christmas. Tonight might be the night to finish it off.
Gary Reynolds said hello without looking up from his newspaper behind the counter.
“Give me three bucks in quick picks,” Hugh said, digging through his pocket for the money.
The bald-headed liquor mart owner punched in the sale on the lottery terminal and handed Hugh his ticket. “Looks like she’s settling in for a good blast out there,” he muttered with disinterest.
“At least the farmers have the crops off,” Hugh said. He hated small talk, especially small talk about weather and farming.
Farmers have had their crops off for weeks. He must think I’m a real idiot now.
Gary pushed the thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his bulbous nose and studied his customer with more attention. His narrow, watery eyes made Hugh uneasy. The old bastard was probably drunk, or stoned, or both. “What’s the most you ever won playin’ this game, Hugh?”
“I don’t know.” Hugh thought about it for a few seconds. “I got sixty or seventy bucks on four numbers once a few years back.”
Gary grinned, revealing more gum than teeth. His thin moustache curled up above his thick upper lip. “Did it change your life any? I mean, you been buying tickets faithfully now for more than a dozen years or so, once, sometimes twice a week.”
“What’s your point, Gary?” He was done being polite. The time for small talk had passed. “I’m supporting your business, aren’t I?”
“No money in the lottery for me,” Gary answered. “If you wanted to help support me, you might buy a bottle of booze once in a while. All I’m saying is your money is probably best spent on something else besides the long shot of winning a few million bucks.”
“Forty million bucks.” He looked behind Gary and pointed to the pictures pasted on the wall. There were over two dozen stupid, grinning faces holding oversized cheques for various big dollar amounts. None of those winners had purchased their tickets at Reynolds Liquor Mart, but it was good advertising. “Somebody has to win.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Gary went back to his sports section. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”
Hugh was about to leave when he saw a lottery newsletter near the scratch and win terminal. He picked one up and saw more black and white pictures of recent winners on the front page. Some were old, some were young, and they all had that same mindless expression pasted on their faces, those big shit-eating grins.
Is that what bliss looks like? Would I smile like that for the camera if I won forty million dollars?
He flipped the paper over and saw the winning numbers listed in order from the beginning of January until the end of October. Most had been won, but a few had carried over. Any one of those random sets of six numbers could have changed his life already. Where would he be now if he had?
Some place warm where there was sand instead of snow.
Maybe there was some kind of formula to it. He focused in on the different months; the neat little columns looked all the same. The numbers three, eleven, and twenty-nine seemed to be everywhere. He looked a bit closer. So did four, twelve, and thirty. And thirty-one, and thirty-two, and thirty-three.
Wishful thinking, idiot.
“Was that everything?” Gary asked after a few more moments.
Hugh folded the paper over a few times and shoved it in his back pocket. “Someday Gary, a guy like me, or some other poor fool in this town, is going to win big and you’ll regret being such a prick to customers all your life.”
Gary Reynolds chuckled and waved him away with the back of a liver-spotted hand. Hugh went back outside and lit another cigarette. He took a few drags as he walked back to his car. It was getting slippery underfoot and it was almost completely dark out. He put the lottery ticket on the passenger seat, turned the engine over and wheeled back out on to Main Street. The sleet was sticking to his windshield, and when he went to clear it he saw the wiper blades had frozen against the glass. He cursed and pulled over once again. A car blared its horn as he stepped out too quickly.
“Asshole!” Hugh yelled and used his middle finger for the second time since leaving work. He leaned across the hood and pulled on the blades until they ripped free. He noticed the build-up of ice above them all across the windshield. “I can’t see through that,” he muttered. The car hadn’t warmed up enough to melt it off so he knew he’d have to scrape it off before driving again.
Where had he put the ice scraper? He hadn’t used it for at least six months, so that meant it must have worked its way somewhere under the driver’s seat. He hated winter, not because of the cold and snow, but because of everyone’s inability to be prepared for it, including himself. He should’ve known better at his age.
With the door wide open, Hugh bent down on one knee and began to fish around underneath. All he could find was dirt, a flattened paper coffee cup minus its lid, a few pennies, one nickel, and a cough candy stuck stubbornly to the carpet.
There should be a mandatory week set aside in October for people to get ready for this shit.
He felt the cold wet work its way through his pants to his knee. The goddamned scraper wasn’t there. He stood up and leaned against the car as a truck sped by; it sprayed him with dirty sleet.
He cursed the ice buildup on the windshield and scratched at it with his fingernails. That was hopeless. Hugh patted his body, searching for anything with a flat edge. He found his wallet and tossed it on the seat.
Then he remembered the newsletter in his back pocket. He gave it a try, but the paper was too soft and bent as soon as he put any pressure on it. He threw it aside in frustration and watched as the wind blew it up against the back tire. From the dim light of a nearby lamp post, Hugh could just make out the rows of winning numbers getting wetter with each moment.
Was there some hidden formula to winning? He shook his head at his own stupidity and reached down for it. He put it on the passenger seat with the ticket and wallet, and returned to the front of the car. The defrost was slowly beginning to melt the ice away near the bottom.
It would have to do, he thought, settling back into the driver’s seat. He tried the wipers again and watched as they cleared away the first few inches of ice. There was now a clear spot of glass roughly the size of teacup saucer that he could see through. With his head bent down and his eyes peering through the spokes of the steering wheel, Hugh began to drive once again.
It wasn’t far to go…another half mile down Main Street until he hit Highway 16. Home was another mile past that down a gravel road. He reached inside his coat for a third cigarette. Only two left for the night. He flicked his lighter with cold fingers. If ever there was a night he would need to smoke, this was it. Maybe if he searched around the house he’d find some more, or if the need was bad enough, he could always resort to ashtray butts.
His three kids rode his ass about smoking almost as much as his wife did. Dana, the oldest at sixteen, was Cathy part two. She looked like her mother and nagged just as well. Julie was fourteen, more reserved and soft spoken. She too had the annoying ability to get under his skin, only in a quieter fashion. She could guilt with a wide-eyed stare that was worse than any verbal abuse. Colton, the youngest at twelve, was the most impressionable. If Hugh had a hundred good reasons to quit the filthy habit, his son would be number one. He’d already begun to swear like his father, and Hugh worried he may have already experimented with booze and cigarettes with his friends.