Chapter Twelve (12)

Chapter Twelve (12)

The DewDrop Inn was unusually crowded for a Wednesday night. Normally, the weekly crowd of 15 or so would be in to take advantage of Lasagna Night and the increased dose of television sports at mid-week. Many of the "regulars" enjoy their most carbohydrate-based meal of the week on Lasagna Night, and hence, they saw their increased alcohol consumption here at mid-week as the reward for having eaten properly, at least between weekends.

But on this Wednesday night, the DewDrop Inn was hosting a cantankerous and poorly-planned 40th birthday party for one of the receptionists at a downtown law firm. Since Ashby Heights was a reasonably small town of 70,000, most of tonight's patrons knew enough of each other to nod hello or to know someone in each other’s circle of friends.

And since the DewDrop Inn was a non-discriminating place of alcohol worship, it regularly hosted men and women gatherings, as opposed to many beer joints where the clientele is generally all-male. So on this night of nights, over forty folks were playing pool, hoisting drinks, attempting to dance and enjoying several plateful of pepperoni-laden lasagna at the $4.95 special. The music was louder than normal and the three televisions were all tuned to separate channels, to insure client satisfaction. Even the owner of the DewDrop was in attendance, walking around table to table and booth to booth to chat up customers new and old.

Photo by andrew welch on Unsplash

Through all of the noise and all of the clatter and all of the gag birthday gifts opened amidst laughter, the televisions broadcast several game shows and preliminary sports panel shows. And at precisely seven-fifty-six p.m., one of the three DewDrop televisions aired the multi-state lottery show.

And on this show, the hostess Patty Lumpkin pulled ping pong balls from tall cylinders. These ping pong balls, fastidiously checked and rechecked for authenticity and weight, were propelled into the cylinder only to be stopped by a stainless steel lid of sorts. Their goal and purpose for the evening is to officially represent the numbers that would make someone somewhere considerably richer. Ms Lumpkin, a vibrant television personality in her own right, appeared to be excitedly professional as she took viewers through the three-digit daily winner, the four-digit daily winner, and prepared all for the drawing of the PowerDrop Lottery dramatics.

Loud conversations in the DewDrop transformed into murmurs as a few of the regulars shouted out the obligatory "PowerDrop at the DewDrop" chant that accompanied the twice-weekly drawings. The music was turned down. These somewhat unusual behaviors caused many of the inebriated party-attendees to draw their attention to the chanters, and subsequently to the televisions, now that the other two had been switched over to the broadcast on WRET-TV8. With three patrons in bathrooms, forty-two sets of eyes watched as the innocuous "magic" PowerDrop ball whirred and whirled its way through a series of elaborate mazes and loop-the-loop contraptions, as the contrived suspense supposedly built to crescendo.

Joe Sullivan sat at his normal position at the bar, with a freshly poured beer, lasagna-breath and a full stomach. He watched with no more passion than he normally did; he, like so many other citizens, he rarely took winning seriously when the actual drawing took place. He watched with interest, but the hope he held was far more about coming close than hitting all six numbers and the PowerDrop ball. Tonight was nothing special.

The numbers showed up one by one, as the final thirty seconds of this four minute broadcast closed in. Ms. Lumpkin, jogging daintily from ball chute to ball chute on the elaborate set, called out the numbers as they appeared.

"Twenty-three!"

"Three"

"Twenty"

Something synergistic about that, somehow. But more importantly, there was a pause as Ms. Lumpkin waited for the air cylinder’s vacuum to cooperate and pull up a ball for her perusal and announcement.

And more important than the misfiring of the winner’s tube was the rush of adrenaline that shot through Joe Sullivan’s body as he heard three of his six numbers. He usually played five Compu-Pick numbers and six of his "regular picks" every lottery drawing. Each ticket cost $2 per chance, the most expensive in the nation. He had become so ridiculously superstitious about the ritual, he only bought his tickets on specific nights, from the store just down the block from the DewDrop. In fact, he bought the tickets after quaffing his first beer in one gulp, exactly 23 hours prior to the half-week’s drawing.

It used to be he’d only buy them from the store’s owner, but that plan was modified when John Clarke finally found a night manager he could trust. Little good it did. In five years of playing the Regional lottery, Joe had won less than $1000 by matching as many as four numbers and no PowerDropBall. He’d won a free ticket three times by matching three numbers, and already tonight he was set for another one. In five years of usually buying $20 worth of tickets, Joe calculated that he’d spent over $5000.

Hardly a healthy return on his investment.

"Twenty-nine", announced Lumpkin.

Bingo, thought Joe. He was now standing, with his hand in his back pocket as he reached for his wallet. He wanted a look-see at this lottery ticket.

So far he had matched his birthday, his first-born child’s birthday, his anniversary date (even a divorced guy can dream), and now the day his father died. Four out of four, with two to go.

"We’re sorry for this delay, ladies and gentlemen. Our final two numbers are … thirty six … and …"

There’s my old football number, thought Joe. Oh my God . . .

"Forty-three!"

Six out of six!

Six damn lottery numbers, thought Joe. I’m rich! I’m rich, he thought.

"I hit! I hit", he shouted! Most of the patrons at the bar looked over at the well-known regular and moved in his direction.

Lumpkin hurriedly announced the PowerDrop number, as her station’s feed was about to end. This magic numbered-ball rose to the top of the TV studio set as the Drop in PowerDrop was about to come true.

"Come seventeen, come seventeen … c’mon, c’mon, c’mon", whispered Joe, now waving his ticket straight up in the air as he walked closer to the ceiling mounted television.

"Seventeen … is our PowerDrop number for tonight, giving us the numbers … three, twenty, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-six and forty-three. And tonight’s PowerDrop number is seventeen! This is our drawing for September 9th, 1999.

"As always, these numbers come to you under the supervision of the accounting firm Soddu and Fitzmaurice, your professional bean counters since 1965! Good evening ladies and gentlemen!"

The feed was cut immediately, as they played into the national feed by over ten seconds, due to the snafu with the fourth and fifth balls.

The last two sentences of the extravagantly-dressed Patty Lumpkin were lost on the delirious crowd in this Middle America tavern. Joe Sullivan, a divorced man who lived alone, a salesman in his early-thirties, father of two children and one man who many considered one helluva nice guy, was now America’s newest millionaire. He began screaming the elongated acclamation "Ah-h-h-h-h-h!!!" as soon as the number 17 showed up on the monitor, and he managed to bellow out this release of stress for almost three minutes, using several alcohol-enhanced breaths.

Grown men were pounding on him, rubbing his hair and back-slapping him like a returning war veteran. The crowd encircled him as he paced around, both hands above his head, the winning ticket grasped tightly in his right hand, and of course, hollering "Ah-h-h-h-h-h!"

The surge of power and noise obliterated all activity, drawing an end to the pool games, the birthday party and any semblance of conversation in the bar. Every man and woman in the club seized this amazing moment as if they themselves had won the lottery and their joy knew no limits. The disbelief and incredible amazement struck the room with the impact of many life-changing events.

Joe had landed the biggest sale in his life.

Sullivan just asked the world to marry him.

This pal-of-pals, who seemed to know practically everyone in the small town, just received word that his children won appointment to a service academy, with full honors and scholarships.

In baseball, Joe drilled the extra-inning blast.

In football, it was his acrobatic catch which brought the championship trophy to this little town.

In basketball, he calmly sank the winning free throws with no time remaining.

It was his bicycle kick that netted soccer’s most important goal.

For the first time in a long time, Joe Sullivan was The Man.

Not just in his own mind. Not just in his somewhat garbled memory. For real. Right here. With a room full of people to validate it.

Someone confirmed that the jackpot was worth more than $70 million, a mere pittance compared to some of the larger three-digit figures the lottery had seen in recent years. Someone won it four weeks ago, so this was a semi-new rollover, and thus was no where near the really big, big numbers.

But $70,000,000 was seventy million dollars anyway you cut it.

And 70 million dollars, divided by twenty five years equaled $2,800,000 per annum, according to one of the receptionists in the back, after she’d checked and rechecked the numbers. She had calculated an average tax and some other rounded numbers.

One of the lawyers calculated that $2,800,000 would remit a check to Joe Sullivan of approximately $1,129,000, per year, payable on the first day of January every year, after the first check comes after the ticket is turned in.

And Wayne Ewing, owner of the DewDrop Inn and loyal friend to Joe Sullivan during the trying times of his divorce and increased visibility at the tavern, surmised that $1,130,000 divided by 12 months, and again by 30 days that Joe now had a daily income of over $3,000.

"Just enough to cover your bar tab!" joked Ewing, between teary-eyed embraces of Joe.

Of course, no one included in their calculations that there could well be more than one winner. Joe Sullivan may well need to share this seventy million dollars with some other individuals.

The ceremony went on for several hours. Philosophers and sociologists emerged from the woodwork, each offering unsolicited advice and countless ideas. Naturally, Joe bought everyone in the place drinks for all of the evening, fulfilling a fantasy he’d only dreamed about.

The one pay phone near the cigarette machine was constantly in use, as the aura of Joe’s good luck spread to everyone’s excited reports to family members and loved ones. Joe had several opportunities to call someone, but the lone somber thought of the evening came when he paused to realize he had no one he truly needed to call.

His father was dead. His Mom may not understand, at least not tonight.

His wife divorced him.

His kids could learn about it from him tomorrow; he was pretty drunk by 9pm and neither wanted to disturb them at this hour, nor talk to them in his condition.

His boss could wait until tomorrow to hear of his resignation.

He put in a call to Frank, but had to leave a voicemail.

So he basked in the incredible feeling of being the Man. He shook more hands than a Jersey politician. He slapped more high fives than a teenager and gave more hugs than Tommy Lasorda, former manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. He drank his face off.

And he spent the last hour of the evening blubbering to Sandy Davis, the most important person in the room prior to 8pm. They discussed her birthday and his good tidings. They shared each other’s favorite Good Time story before this eventful evening. They toasted to 40th birthdays and winning lottery tickets and kindred souls, and great friends, and loneliness and broken marriages. They stared deeply in each other’s eyes and they said goodbye to each and every patron and they held hands after twenty minutes.

As the DDI was about to close, and as the last customers sucked down their "one more for the road" ritual, Joe kept his arm around Sandy. Somewhat romantic, and somewhat stability, Joe only realized how many shots he’d downed when he stood after twenty minutes of chatting from inside a booth. His stomach had that all-too-familiar feeling of "I’m okay tonight but let’s talk again in the morning". His words were slurred.

His memory blurry.

All the better for Ms. Davis to drive him home, as she stopped imbibing hours ago.

Indeed. Life was taking some abrupt changes already.