Chapter eight (8)

The smell of dried beer and stale lunchtime odors hits one nose upon entering the DewDropInn just after five o’clock on this Saturday afternoon. The crowd who “drinks lunch” had returned to work hours ago, but the cleaning staff in the afternoon is not as efficient as the late nightcrew. By the time the seven o’clock patrons open the entrance door, the smell of cigarette smoke—as well as the din of loud, boisterous conversation—tends to erase any olfactory influence.

Joe knew the smell as home, where his heart lay. It was here that so many evening hours waddled away beneath the servings of boasting, exaggerations and poetic license. The scent puts a smile on his face that a day in sales had managed to erase.

Joe Sullivan nodded at Steve the barkeep to confirm his need request. The beer was ready and waiting for him as he bellied up to the bar. He stood within a crowd of about 15 regulars, men and women who knew alarmingly little about each other, despite the inordinate number of hours spent together in this room.

Joe arrived by himself, which was not unusual for him, except that last night he had three house guests. Frank was off on his own, claiming to be meeting with the parents of a classmate. Joe speculated that Frank was going back for a double dose of last night’s loving. He suggested to Joe that he’d meet him at the DewDrop by 7pm.

Doug and Brian were both working the B-shift at their plant. They expected to catch up with the Posse’ by midnight. It could be another long night for these aging party-ers.

The crowd was focused on the TV for the 5:30 Lottery drawing. This was one of the state’s daily drawings, with winning numbers fetching somewhere between $40,000 and $150,000. The jackpot for the regional multi-state lottery—known as the PowerDrop Lottery—had been driven up to a healthy sum just above $100 million; given the level of reality that many of these nightly drinkers lived in, one could be certain that plenty of tickets had been purchased in anticipation of that drawing.

An inebriated old man announces to no one in particular that “winning it would never change him”. Most ignored him.

Steve the bartender rolled his eyes as his opinion is reinforced of the man’s wasted state o’mind.

Comments begin. If one closed their eyes, one might be able to hear ANY Group,  anywherediscussing this topic, whether the group was sharing a beer, an elevator, or a grocery store line.

“Can you imagine winning $100 million?”

“You wouldn’t see all that money, you know?”

“Oh really? you dumb-ass, what do you take me for?”

“That’s a leading question .. . “

“How much would you get after taxes?”

“$3 and a half million per year, after initial taxes. Then you’d still have State and Federal and local tax.”

“3 point 5 million per year, divided by 365 days, equals $10,000 per day. Not bad!”

“$10 grand a day! for twenty years! Oh man … what I could do with that!”

“Ten grand a day!? Can you imagine?”

“What would you do with it?”

“What? At first, or long term?”

“Either?”

“Quit my job …”

“Quit my boyfriend, quick as can be!”

“Quit my job AFTER punching out my boss.”

“Then you’d lose half of it in a civil suit!”

A newcomer at the end of the bar spoke slowly and drew the attention of most watching the T.V. “Have you ever heard some of the nightmares associated with winning that damn thing?”.

As drinks were imbibed, heads nodded but comments were few.

“There was a huge lottery somewhere, and one group of workers met in a bar after work. The grunts decide to play a trick on their boss and they get the waitress in on the con.

“The patrons gave her the lottery numbers their boss always played, having heard him share their significance an endless number of times at work.  The waitress came into the room, where all were gathered and calmly asked if anyone wanted to know the numbers.

“She reads the “fixed” numbers; the boss waits three minutes, jumps up and screams at the top of his lungs. Then, he hollers out that “he doesn’t like any of them, and he’d fire more than half of ‘em ‘if he could, asserts that he does not like Negroes or Jews … AND … he’s been sleeping with his secretary for almost three years.

“Then, they let him leave the restaurant.

“He learned later.

“He never returned to that job.”

The crowd exploded with frenzy, complimenting the stranger for his wonderful contribution. A female bank examiner chirped in with one.

“Then, there was the guy who played the same numbers for over a decade—the exact same numbers every week— and once, when he buried a relative, he didn’t play. The numbers hit. He killed himself.”

“Wow’s” and “OhMyGod’s” filled the circle.

She continued, amidst the circle growing with the entry of three new Happy Hour Attendees.

“Dozens upon dozens have declared bankruptcy within years of winning millions.”

“I’ve heard it to be as high as 30% . . . “.

“How about the North Carolina man, who played his and his three (other) friends numbers every week; had to drive into Virginia to do so. One day, he played a fifth number, of a fourth friend who had died. He had asked the friends and they had declared they had no interest in playing the deceased man’s numbers.

“He bought the four tickets for he and his friends.

“He returned to his truck. Waited ten minutes. He buys one separately, the one that the group had declined to invest in. The time on the ticket validates this.

“As you would have guessed, the fifth ticket hits. Man doesn’t want to share —he’d known these men for over forty years each. They sue him.

“He not only SAW NO MONEY because of litigation (he fired several attorneys, who overcharged him) he went in debt about 30% of the winnings and his family disowned him.

“Lottery did him a lot of good.”

For the remainder of the early evening—at least until the chicken wings and rabbit food was put out for some semblance of nutritional intake—the group discussed the dreams and the fantasies of being a lottery winner. Although the odds were as poor as over seven million to one, the majority opinion settled in somewhere between “hard-working stiffs deserve it” and “it’s only a matter of time before it’s won by one of them.”

Joe remained quiet, joining in only occasionally. He drank one beer more than usual, without even trying to rationalize it as thirst. Frank was a half-hour late, and their plan to attend a new action movie was scrapped. They stayed in the Drop until almost two a.m on this Friday night/Saturday morning. Brian and Doug cut out early from work and arrived before 11.

Frank visited the men’s room twice to inhale granular bits of his pocketed recreation candy.

The evening was meant to be low key and very Guy-like. Basketball games on the tube, a dance marathon masquerading as a boxing match and a surfer movie took most of the men’s attention. Even bringing up memories of the “good ole days” did little to generate enthusiasm.

Six pool games later, the boys returned to the respective homes, with Frank and Joe having spent no time at all discussing the morning’s analysis of their friendship. Frank left alone to spend the night at his retired parent’s home.

And, Frank let out a somewhat relieving bombshell when he announced to Joe that he was cutting his homecoming weekend short by a day and a half. Frank informed Joe that something had come up back at home, and he wasn’t going to be able to spend the rest of the weekend in Ashby Heights. He seemed to sound as if it was work related, but he left open the possibility it was of Julie origin. He even made it sound like he might have already told Joe he had to leave for home early.

Joe was neither upset nor relieved. He knew that Frank changed plans often. He took in this information with a noncommittal nod, and they hugged it out. Frank swore to Joe that he would work harder to stay in touch more frequently, and to “keep the pulse” of Joe, Doug and Brian better.

He was not to see the boys again until one of them visited the other in the not-so-distant future.

Photo by Carla Oliveira on Unsplash