· Buy Me A Coffee · Amazon Movers & Shakers ·
Benny sat alone by the door in a recently opened Asian restaurant. The laminated menu offered Mongolian, Chinese and Japanese dishes, with each written in its native language and alphabet. He had to flip it over for the English version on the back.
He was taking his therapist's advice, "throwing caution to the wind" and "letting the chips fall where they may." A sex therapist branching out to grief counseling, she was all about the clichés.
Several months earlier, she suggested he get out more. Try new things. "Socialize! Experiment! eXult!" she quoted the tag line on her business card.
The "exult" line made him laugh, but he had to agree with the "get out more often" part. It had been a year and a half since the accident, and he was becoming a hermit.
Now, he was reconnecting with the world, getting out and going to restaurants with indecipherable menus. When the fortune cookie arrived, he cracked it open. One side of the paper displayed his lucky numbers. The other side said, "You will be a great leader someday."
"Ha!" he said to no one. "Who writes these things, my therapist?" A young woman at a nearby table looked up, realized he was talking to himself, and looked away.
Once home, his cat Flaky curled up at the other end of the couch as Benny sat and watched television. The winning lottery numbers scrolled across the screen, and he remembered his ticket. It was not a regular thing for him, but occasionally the mood struck. He found his wallet, pulled out his latest – probably losing – ticket, and flopped back down into the couch.
"You can't win unless you play!" he quoted their ad campaign tagline to Flaky. "Play responsibly!" The cat briefly opened one eye, then returned to his nap.
Benny’s eyes went from the TV to the ticket as he read each number. He could not believe it. His ticket matched every number. Not the usual one or two... or none. All of them matched, including the bonus number.
Not only that, that numbers were somehow familiar. That was odd. How could that be? The machine at the gas station chose his numbers for him. Quick pick. He did glance at the numbers at the time, but would not expect to remember them.
Then he remembered his fortune cookie. Pulling it out of his pocket, he read off the same numbers. "No way!"
Was he dreaming? Was he asleep on the couch right now? A trick his father taught him as a way to keep from peeing in his dreams, wetting the bed in real life, was to do something in the dream that was physically impossible in real life, like maybe jump off a cliff and float in mid-air.
It occurred to him now that sort of advice might get someone killed, but if a person could do that, his father said, they were dreaming and needed to wake up and go use the bathroom.
As a test, he tried to touch his toes. That had been physically impossible since at least high school. As he bent over, the pain told him he was definitely not dreaming.
His breath came in gasps, not just from the stretching, but from the realization that he had won the lottery. Holy crap! Giddy and grinning despite the pain, he lurched toward the computer in the guest bedroom.
This was the room his wife had hoped to turn into a nursery but now served as Benny's office. Settling into the high-back desk chair, he hit a few keys on the keyboard, clicked a few icons on the screen, and checked the lottery website.
Sure enough, Benjamin Franklin Reed had just won the lottery!
"You don't sound sick," his boss droned the next day as Benny called in sick.
"I'm not," Benny was honest. "I think I won the lottery, Jim. I just need to go down to their office and make sure before I say, 'So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye!'" he sang a line from The Sound of Music.
On the other end, his boss choked and sputtered but no words came out. With a smile on his face, Benny hung up on him.
He finished getting dressed, ran a comb through his hair, made sure Flaky had food in his bowl, and drove downtown to the lottery office. It was the building downtown with the big purple L on top. He had seen it often enough on the news, and always thought it was a bit cheesy, but that's where he was going.
Walking across its lobby toward the attractive young receptionist, a back spasm hit him. A sympathetic look came across the woman's face as she peered over the top of her celebrity gossip magazine.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Back spasm," he gasped, thinking, That's what I get for trying to touch my toes last night. "It'll pass," he tried to sound tough. "It sucks getting old."
"I'll bet," she agreed.
She was supposed to say "You're not old!" but he let it go. "I'm here to verify a winning ticket. You might be looking at a rich man!" His attempt to project a winning demeanor was sabotaged by another flash of pain shooting through his body, making him wince.
"Please, sir, have a seat," she used the condescending tone that members of the younger generation often used with the old and infirm as she gestured toward the seats in the waiting area. "Someone will be with you shortly."
There were eight or nine people there already, and this made him feel less special than he had just moments earlier. Her condescending tone, combined with calling him "sir" didn't help. He wasn't much older than she was.
"And," she added, "please sign the back of your ticket."
"Do you have a pen?"
With a roll of her eyes, she handed him one of hers and picked up the ringing phone. He assumed it was ringing, flashing, or whatever from her vantage point, though he hadn't heard anything. She whispered and giggled with the caller a moment before she stopped and looked up at Benny. He was just standing there, halfway between her desk and the waiting room chairs. She gestured for him to take a seat.
Seeing none available, he shuffled over and sat on the floor with his back propped against the wall. It felt good to sit, actually. The pain in his back was already subsiding.
While he waited, two well-dressed men – one white, one Hispanic – worked the crowd. Smiling, handing out business cards, the men were shaking as many hands as possible. Seeing Benny sitting on the floor, they must have assumed he was a loser, for they ignored him.
He could hear what they were saying to the others. They were either lawyers or financial advisers or ambulance-chasers-turned-lottery-winner-chasers. They spent their entire day trolling for lottery winners to "represent."
Eventually, the receptionist called Benny's name. He rose slowly and followed the armed guard – a muscular young Black man – through a door reading "YOU ARE A WINNER!" in big multi-color letters.
Three lottery officials, two women and one man, sat at the far end of the conference table inside. The man and younger woman each held magnifying glasses while the older woman had what appeared to be a microscope. Benny took the only available chair, across the table from them, near the door.
When they asked him to give his ticket to the security guard, he hesitated. What's to stop this minimum wage security guard, he wondered, from taking my winning ticket and running?
Once Benny relinquished the ticket to the guard, as if reading his mind, the man smiled mischievously and made a feint toward the door. Benny turned in his chair and almost said something, but the man turned back and laughed uproariously as he handed the ticket to the younger woman official at the end of the table.
The woman smiled, shook her head, and accepted the ticket from the guard. Benny got the impression there was something between these two, after hours, but it was just a hunch. She and the only male lottery official took turns examining the ticket under a magnifying glass. After their inspection, the man placed the ticket under the microscope in front of the senior woman.
This woman openly glared at him. For whatever reason, this was apparently the wrong move. She pulled the ticket back out from under the lens, stared at it briefly, then placed it back under the lens.
Benny could only guess she was demonstrating that only she had absolute control of that ticket. Several excruciating minutes later, the three officials all nodded their heads and muttered to each other. The elder woman leaned forward, folded her hands together on the table, smiled and announced, "Congratulations, Mr. Reed! You have just won the lottery!"
Without thinking, Benny jumped up in excitement, only to hit his legs underneath the table, slamming him awkwardly back down into his chair. He cleared his throat while attempting to regain composure. "Um…" he began haltingly, "how much?"
"Two hundred and ninety-six million dollars!" the normally stern woman betrayed her excitement as she read out the amount. It was such a large number. "I think that's a record, isn't it?" she asked her colleagues, who all nodded in agreement. "That's before taxes, of course. I would suggest hiring a financial consultant to explain all that to you, Mr. Reed. There are usually several out in the lobby."
"Like sharks circling, yeah, thanks, I saw them." Benny was not going to use any of those. "Am I the only winner? No one to split it with?" he was afraid to get his hopes too high.
"Just you," the woman smiled. There was a look in her eyes now – lust? – that Benny would not have expected from a woman her age. Not directed at him, anyway.
The sole male lottery official picked up the phone and announced to the room that he was calling the Lottery Director down for the requisite publicity photo. Several uncomfortable moments passed as Benny tried to avoid eye contact with the older woman while they all awaited the director.
She came in through the back door, and Benny recognized her from local TV news stories. She was much scarier in person, he thought. Way too much make-up, obviously dyed hair, and a pained smile embedded into her nicotine-wrinkled face. Behind her, two flunkies entered the room, carrying a huge cardboard mock-up of a check along with an identically sized sheet of transparent plastic. Behind them came a graphics artist and photographer, each with their own assistant.
The artist wrote Benny's name and the amount on the transparency. Placing that over the "check" and using clear packing tape to hold it in place, everyone then posed for a picture.
The director explained the process to Benny. She then had him sign several documents, gave him a receipt – which she told him to treat like gold – and sent him on his way. He was to return here tomorrow, she said, for an actual check, press conference, another publicity photo or two, and a security escort to the bank of his choice.
He was uncomfortable leaving without his ticket or winnings, but that's how it worked. On his way out, the director smiled and advised, "Drive carefully, Mr. Reed. We don't want anything to happen to you before you collect your winnings!"
Was that a threat? How many winners died – accidentally or otherwise – after making their claim and before cashing that check?
His paranoia, however, gave way to excitement, which eventually settled into a surprising calm as he digested it all on his way back to the car. He thought he'd be giddy. Instead, it was like he was floating, in utter bliss, as he made a mental list of everything he would buy: a new house in the country on a hundred acres with lots of trees, horses, cows, maybe even alpacas; a new car and truck; several big-screen TVs; two or three dogs; maybe even another cat to keep Flaky company.
Going back over the list in his mind, he realized these were all the things his wife had wanted, almost verbatim. That's when something inside him snapped. A torrent of grief, pent-up over the past eighteen months, then let loose at the thought of her missing out on his stroke of luck.
He was openly sobbing. He was not normally the type, but no longer cared who might see him. He would later have no recollection of getting into his car; leaving the parking lot; running that red light; barely missing and causing the driver of that gray sedan to crash into another car. His tears kept him from seeing objects clearly. His emotions kept the world around him from fully registering in his mind.
An alert homeless woman witnessed the crash and got a good look at Benny's license plate. Luckily for Benny, she had a lousy memory and nothing to write it with.
Oblivious to the cars colliding in his rear-view mirror, it occurred to Benny he could easily be kidnapped and held for ransom now that he'd won the lottery.
Get a grip, dude! he tried to stop the tears. It occurred to him he could use that security escort right about now, and that sobered him up. Nothing like the threat of physical harm to set a person straight.
Back home, he found Flaky – the last vestige of his former happily married life – waiting for him. He picked him up and hugged him, only to have the sweet moment broken when his older brother Toby showed up.
Benny's mood darkened considerably as Toby let himself in, unannounced. Benny hated that. Then again, he hated pretty much everything about Toby. The two were polar opposites. Benny tended to be a very sober, serious and responsible person, especially since the accident took his wife. Toby was a wisecracking, irresponsible jackass. Benny loved a good joke as much as anyone, but not when it came from Toby.
Because they were brothers, though, Benny could not bring himself to get rid of him. Family came first… or at least somewhere near the top. He had not planned on telling Toby about his lottery win, but the jackass somehow already knew.
"So, you won the lottery," Toby said as casually as he could manage.
"How'd you know?"
"You just told me!" Toby squealed. "Besides, I saw you there. How much?"
"What were you doing there?"
"I... uh... had a thing. So, how much did you win?"
Benny didn't care enough to ask what "thing" Toby had there, but did reluctantly reveal how much he had won. There was no point hiding it. He would soon be doing a news conference and holding up that big fake check announcing the amount to the world. "Two hundred and ninety-six million!" He couldn't help but smile and let the excitement show, if only briefly.
"Whoo-hoo!!" Toby shouted. "How much do I get?"
Benny stopped smiling. "What makes you think you get anything?"
"Dude! I'm your brother. You gotta give me something."
"No, I don't, actually," Benny shook his head. "How much would it take to never see you again?"
Toby shot him a hurt look, and then very seriously suggested, "Ten million."
"I'm calling some friends," Benny changed the subject. "Dinner and drinks are on me at the Magyar. You can invite some of your loser friends."
Benny grew somber as he drove, alone, to their father's assisted living facility. Benny hated the place, it was so depressing, but he loved his dad, so he went as often as possible. Toby made an excuse to avoid the place. He would meet them at the Magyar Café, a wildly overpriced yet still very popular hangout that Benny had always wanted to check out.
At the old folks' home, Benny found his father, Rudy, in the "great room" on a couch in conversation with another elderly man. Benny guessed the man was a fellow tenant.
Benny's father smiled at the sight of his son, stood, and met him halfway. As they hugged, he exclaimed, "Benny! I didn't know you were coming! Why didn't you call?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Never surprise an old man, Benny," his father scolded with a smile. "It might be fatal."
"For me or for you?" Benny smiled back before announcing, "I've got some great news."
"Great! What is it? Have you found your mother?"
"What?! No! Dad, she's gone." Had his father finally gone senile? "She's no longer with us. I don't know how else..."
"Just kidding!" Rudy laughed.
"Very funny, Dad," Benny grumbled, "pretending to be senile, making me think you didn't know Mom was dead. Hilarious."
"Oh, lighten up!" Rudy scolded him, winking at his friend. "Get a life!"
Benny rolled his eyes. His geriatric father in an old folks' home was telling him to lighten up and get a life. Great.
"Aaannnyway, Dad, that good news I had?"
"Oh yeah," his father now listened intently.
Benny looked around, not wanting to be overheard, and whispered, "I won the lottery."
"You won the lottery?!" Rudy repeated it loudly. Benny exhaled in exasperation as everyone in the room turned and started moving toward them.
"Who broke the pottery?" a half-deaf old woman complained nearby. "Dammit! Why do they keep breaking the pottery?!"
Her companion corrected her.
"Highway robbery?!?" she screeched. "It is highway robbery, the bastards!"
Corrected again, she smiled, nodded and joined everyone else in moving toward Benny and his father.
"Why do I suddenly feel like lunch," Benny wondered aloud, "and we're on the menu?" Grabbing his father's arm, Benny said, "Let's get out of here. Now."
"Can my friend Becks come?"
Benny thought that was a strange name. Was it his given name or surname? No matter. "Sure," he said and led them out the door to the parking lot, but not before Rudy stopped at the front desk and told the smiling young woman where they were going.
Becks, smiled and followed along.
The Magyar Café was a popular local brewpub downtown, not far from the old folks' home and the lottery building. Slipping a $100 bill into the maître-d's palm, Benny snagged a much-coveted corner booth. The owner himself came to their table and gave his spiel about how this was the only Hungarian brewpub in the United States.
Toby's response was a terse, "Yeah, so?"
"I don't like him," the owner said to Benny.
"Most people don't," Benny assured him. "But, I didn't know Hungarians made beer."
"Of course Hungarians make beer!" said the man. "We invented it!"
"Actually," Benny corrected him apologetically, "I think the Egyptians did."
"And who are the Hungarians' ancestors?" the owner countered. "That's right, the Egyptians!"
"No..." Benny couldn't help but reply, "I don't think..."
"I will send Glynnis," the owner changed the subject, "our best waitress, to your table."
"Thank you," Benny didn't want to argue, so he was happy to see the man go away.
Glynnis, an attractive young blonde, showed up and asked, "Will this be on separate checks?" Everyone laughed. Now self-conscious, she asked, "What?"
Nodding at Benny, Toby announced to anyone within earshot, "This guy just won the lottery! He's buying!" His gaze never strayed long or far from Glynnis's ample bosom.
She barely noticed. Men staring at her, or at least her breasts, was a cross she had to bear. She only noticed when it didn't happen. Avoiding Toby's stare, she kept her attention upon Benny.
After all orders were placed, a long-time friend and co-worker of Benny asked him, "So, what are you going to do with all that money?!"
"I don't know yet," he said. "I guess pay off all my bills. Buy a new car, a new house, some property out in the country."
"Wow," Toby replied sarcastically. "You live on the edge!"
"Well, what would you do with the money?"
"I wouldn't pay any bills! I'd fly to Vegas and put a million dollars on Red 17. Then I'd fly to Bangkok and have a week-long orgy!"
"With girls?" Benny quipped.
Toby ignored the jibe and continued, "Then I'd fly to Kentucky!"
"Ooh, Kentucky!" Benny dripped with sarcasm.
"To buy a fleet of racehorses," Toby explained.
"A 'fleet?'" Benny asked but got no answer.
"Why Red 17?" someone asked.
"That's my lucky number and color!" Toby snapped, as if everyone should have known that. "Hey, Red 17 should be the name of my stable. Stable! That's the word, not 'fleet!'" As an afterthought, he then added, "And then I'd hire a hit man."
An awkward silence fell upon the table.
"To kill your horses and collect on the insurance?" Benny guessed, confused, looking at his brother as one might look at a psychotic person. There was no answer.
"Killing anyone in particular?" their father pressed, "or just a random innocent person for sport?" He almost spat that last part. Rudy was not proud of how Toby, his first-born, had turned out. He would not put it past him to kill someone for no good reason.
"Where's our waitress?" Toby changed the subject. "Where's my drink?" After a moment spent looking around, he got and went to get it himself.
"Aaannnyway," Benny continued, "I'll give money to charity. I'd like to help finance any small businesses that people might have in mind for which they can't find financing. You know, help them with their dreams."
He wanted to hear a young person's opinion, and so turned to the teenage daughter of one of his guests. "What do you think I should do with the money?"
"Oh, you can do whatever you want, Mr. Reed," she answered shyly. "I wouldn't want to tell you..."
"No, I mean if you had won it. What would you do?"
"Well," she began, looking into the distance, "I would buy land all over the world, wherever the poorest people live, and build them some apartments, with room for a community garden, and a school so they can learn a skill and get out of poverty."
Everyone sat back and just stared at the girl, some with mouths agape. They all then burst into applause.
"That's beautiful!" Benny was genuinely impressed. "I'll give you some money to do just that!"
There was another round of applause before everyone started coming up with his or her own ways to spend his money.
"I'd build no-kill animal shelters in every major city," said one woman.
"I'd donate to children's hospitals all over the world," said another.
"I'd start my own bank," said one man who didn't quite get the spirit of giving. Everyone stopped and stared. "...and make interest-free loans to the needy!" he added quickly, fooling no one.
Noticing that his father had remained silent, Benny asked, "What would you do with the money, Dad?"
"Probably buy a new house and car, like you, Benny, only I'd add a live-in caregiver. Otherwise, I don't have any bills, so..." His voice trailed off, and his friend Becks leaned in and whispered something. "Oh, right! I could take over the payments of friends at the old folks home." Everyone nodded their approval. "Then I'd donate the rest to cancer research."
"Cancer research?" Toby was aghast as he returned with his drink from wherever he'd been. "What for? You can't trust those people to actually cure cancer. They need cancer to justify their existence!"
"Do you even know what your mother died of?" Rudy snarled at him.
"Oh yeah," Toby suddenly remembered she had died of breast cancer.
Benny snorted in disgust.
"Sorry!" Toby shot back. "It was a long time ago. I don't think about it. It's not healthy to dwell on the past."
"It was only seven years ago!" their father growled at him.
"Here's what you should do, Benny," Toby joked in an effort to deflect attention, "take that money, all of it, and run for president. You use your money to finance your campaign. That way, you're not beholden to anyone. But you'll need all your money. Do you know how much it costs these days to run for president? Then you can do all the things that everyone here wants to do, with government money after you're president, which means you'll have a thousand times that amount to play with."
Everyone was shaking their head until Benny surprised them all by saying, "Toby, my jackass brother, that's not a bad idea. I should do that."
"Uh, dude," Toby explained, "I was sorta kidding."
"Uh, dude," Benny replied, "I know, but, I'm serious. I have no shot of winning. I know that, but I've got some good ideas. Maybe the so-called 'legitimate' candidates will steal them and some good will come of it in the end."
"Bastards probably would," someone agreed.
"No," Benny corrected him. "That's a good thing. I don't care who gets credit for the ideas, as long as they're put to use. This country has gotten so messed up, somebody has to do something! It might as well be me. Besides, it might be fun."
"Fun?" Toby replied. "You've got a messed up idea of fun. Besides, you hate politics... and politicians!"
Ignoring this, Benny said, "I don't know the first thing about running a campaign, or even getting on the ballot."
"I can do it!" a middle-aged man at the next table volunteered. "Running campaigns is what I do."
"Who are you?"
"Bart Strangent, president and CEO of B.S. Services," he introduced himself, business card in hand. "Political campaigns are what we do!"
"Seriously?" Toby sneered. "The name of your company is B.S. Services and you do political campaigns? Perfect."
Benny's campaign manager was now officially "some guy he met in a bar."
The next morning, Benny was surprised to awaken next to the waitress, Glynnis. "I thought you went home with Toby," he said to her sleeping naked body. He stared at her for a solid minute, not because she was naked and exposed – well, not entirely – but because he could not remember having sex with her or anyone else last night. How much did I drink? He could only remember having a few beers. He did have a slight hangover, but those were his first beers in at least a year, so it made sense he'd have a headache. Putting that aside for the moment, he got up to make coffee.
Once in the kitchen with the coffee maker started, he pulled a notepad and pencil out of a drawer and sat down at the dining room table to make a list of how much money to give everyone.
Toby was right. He would need as much money as possible to run for president. Luckily, the government gave candidates matching funds at some point. He would give that teenage girl with the big ideas $10 million; his father and brother $3 million each; and put the rest in the bank and live off the interest, if that was even possible these days with interest rates so low. It would probably also behoove him to split portions into a few foreign banks in their currency.
"It doesn't look good," he thought aloud, "running for president but afraid to keep all my money in my own country's banks."
He did the math. Two hundred and ninety-six million split in half for taxes, minus $1 million for "sundry" items, $2 million for a nice house, ten for that girl and her parents, three each for his father and brother. That left $129 million, give or take.
Glynnis entered the kitchen, yawning, wearing one of his dress shirts she must have pulled out of the closet, and nothing else. Why was that so sexy? he wondered. Who cares? It just was.
"Mornin'," Benny said amiably, still wondering if he'd had sex with her. Seeing her now, it did not seem possible he could forget being with someone like her.
Smiling but saying nothing, she found a cup in a cabinet – briefly exposing her bare bottom as she reached up – and poured her own coffee. Sitting across the table from him, she took two sips, looked at him sleepily, then smiled wide.
Benny smiled back, confused. "Uh... did we... uh... last night... uh..."
"Have sex?" she finished helpfully. "What do you think, stud?"
"I'm sorry, and I can't believe I'm saying this looking at you now, but I honestly don't remember."
"You don't remember these?" she puffed out her chest, teasing.
"Wow..." he almost drooled. "Uh... I'm sorry, but no, I really don't..." Then he blushed.
"Oh my God, are you blushing?" she asked. "You are just too cute! Now I wish we did have sex instead of me and your asshole brother." She made a face at the thought.
"Oh, thank God," Benny was relieved. "I was really starting to wonder what was wrong with me, forgetting someone like you. But, what were you doing in my bed... completely naked?"
"Toby and I had sex on your couch. He left. I stayed. I didn't want to sleep on the couch, though, so I crashed in your bed. I'm surprised you didn't notice. You must sleep soundly."
Looking down at his notepad, he added "new couch" to the list of things to buy.
"Come on," he said as he got up. "Let's go shopping." He poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, laughed, and said, "I'm rich now. I can afford to pour perfectly good coffee down the drain!"
The "shopping" he had in mind was at the nearest Porsche dealership. It was Glynnis's turn to drool as Benny bought a brand new white Boxter, their sportiest model. As proof that he was a serious customer capable of paying cash, Benny showed them his lottery winner's receipt. When they still didn't believe him, he showed them a picture of himself at the lottery office standing next to the director, whom everyone recognized.
The funds were not yet in the bank, but the dealership let him have it on good faith, with conditions. They took his picture, made a photocopy of his driver's license, and parked his old car in back, out of view behind the dumpster.
Driving down the street in his hot new car with his hot new girl, Benny was happy to be alive. Then he remembered something he had to do. He knew he should be forgiving and magnanimous right about now, given his recent good luck, but he just couldn't help it. He still hated his boss.
Glynnis had Benny drop her off at a shoe store along the way. Without thinking, he gave her his credit card. While she shopped inside, he sat in his new Porsche at the curb and called his soon-to-be-former boss.
"Jim!" he barked when the man answered. "You can go to hell now." A woman passing by turned and gawked at him. Benny ignored her.
Jim's response was not what Benny had expected. Jim was excited. "So you really did win the lottery?!"
"Uh, yeah, I really did. But, Jim? You can..."
"Can you give me two hundred thousand dollars? I saw what the jackpot had gotten up to. You can afford 200 grand, right?"
"What?! No, I can't give you... did you not hear me? I said go to hell!"
A priest and three nuns walked by at that moment, mouths agape at Benny's choice of words.
"Sorry," he apologized to them and sheepishly crossed himself. He guessed that was what one was supposed to do in that situation. Was that really a priest and three nuns? What are the odds? It had been a weird past few days. Was it a full moon or something?
"It's just that I'm in over my head on my mortgage," Jim was still talking on the other end. "I'm going to lose the house, Benny! I know you don't owe me anything, but you can't let me be homeless, Benny!"
"Actually..."
"I've got a wife and kids, Benny!"
"You've been a jerk to me since the day you hired me, Jim," Benny growled into the phone, though quieter this time in case a Girl Scout or Brownie troop or someone equally unlikely walked by. "You never did like me. Never appreciated my work. Never gave me more than the minimum raise, if that. Never a bonus. I'm surprised you even know my name, frankly. Why should I give you anything at all?!"
"Don't give it to me, Benny. Give it to my wife and kids."
Benny hung up on him. Jerk probably doesn't even have a wife and kids. No, wait, he remembered seeing them at a company function once. Unless they were just hired actors. No, that's ridiculous.
He spat out the window. A car had just pulled up to the stop light next to him. Of course, a gust of wind caught the expectorant and hit the passenger in that car.
Again, what were the odds? Were the Earth's magnetic poles shifting, he wondered, causing mathematical improbabilities to become probable? His head was starting to hurt again. Out of embarrassment, Benny laughed. The "slimed" victim thought he was laughing out of callousness.
"Son of a bitch!" the man shouted as he wiped his face.
"I'm sorry!" Benny apologized between cringes and now-uncontrollable laughter. There were no cars ahead of him along the curb between him and the street corner. And, as always when given the choice of "fight or flight," Benny chose "flight."
He started up the car and disappeared around the corner and to the right. He barely missed an oncoming biker who flipped him off as Benny zigzagged his way through traffic in his escape.
Pulling into another open curbside parking spot a safe distance away, he called his old boss back. In a more pleasant tone, Benny said, "Hey, Jim. Benny. I'm giving your wife and kids the money."
"How much?"
"One hundred grand," Benny growled into the phone, "half of what you asked for. I'm assuming you're asking for more than you need. And, it's a loan, not a gift. You have to pay me back!"
He then hung up and circled back to pick up Glynnis. He did a double take as she got into the car. "Is that a new dress?"
"You noticed! You like it?" she struck a pose, showing off the red, tightly fitting dress with several white buttons drawing focus to her cleavage.
"Yeah..." he struggled for words. "I mean, it's very nice." My God, she's hot, he thought. What is she doing with me? Then his wife came to mind and his lust evaporated.
"And a new purse and shoes and..." she looked around, hoping someone, anyone was looking. Seeing a group of businessmen coming toward them, she smiled, unbuttoned a couple of those buttons at the neckline, and finished her sentence, "…and a new bra, too!"
The businessmen looked over and cheered, but her little peep show took Benny by surprise. It had been a year and a half since he lost his wife, but he still felt weird about sex, or even looking at a woman the way he was starting to look at Glynnis.
It's been long enough! he berated himself. Why can't I enjoy a beautiful girl without feeling guilty?
As expected, everyone who was anyone in local government was there for the lottery jackpot photo-op. The lottery director, mayor and governor all said a few words. The director then asked Benny to speak.
"Thank you, thank you," he said to the crowd of reporters, political and lottery staff. Glynnis, beside him, hammed it up for the cameras. "I don't know what to say, really." He glanced, apologetic and helpless, at the lottery director.
"Well," she stepped in and spoke, "what are you going to do with all that money!?"
"Right," Benny forced a laugh. "I'll pay off my bills..." to which everyone nodded in bored approval. "I'll buy a new house. Already bought a new car. Oh yeah... and I'll be running for president."
Everyone, including Glynnis, laughed at that last one. It was not the response he expected. Then again, he had not really thought it through.
"President?" the governor gave a derisive smile. "Of what? Your homeowners association?" The mayor and lottery director laughed along with him.
"President of the United States," Benny replied defiantly. "Why not?"
"Whatever, dude," the governor waved him off, adding, "Good luck with that."
"What kind of grown man," Benny asked Glynnis beside him, "says 'Whatever, dude?'"
That's when the lottery director again stepped in and grabbed the microphone. "Thank you, Benny. Thank you, Governor Kartazian... dude. Thank you, Mayor Wilson. Thank you everyone for coming out today and sharing another lottery success story with us! Good night!"
Benny did not appreciate the derision with which his candidacy was greeted. On the limousine ride to the bank of his choice, he asked the security guards what was so ridiculous about his running for president.
"Nothing wrong with that, man," said one. "Go for it."
"Rock on!" said the other.
The two of them – one white, the other black, both extra large and sitting across from him in the back of the limo – then smiled at each other. It was obvious they, too, thought it was ridiculous.
"Thank you for your input," Benny replied insincerely. No one cared, but if there was one way to inspire Benny into action, ridicule worked every time. Thanks to those two security guards and the politicos before them, he decided right then and there to learn as much as he could about politics. He became a regular at the local library as he sought out every book, article or video clip – physical and digital – on the subject of being a politician. There was no How to Run for President manual that he could find, though he made a mental note to write one, time permitting, after the election.
He realized his chance of winning was slim to none and might have plenty of time for such things, but didn't want to assume.
Hey, just trying to make a living.