So I was cleaning up old files on my computer, and came across this. I think I wrote it a couple of years ago, and well I thought it be pretty interesting so I'm posting it here. Good way to waste 10 or so minutes of your time, if you're bored. Go ahead and criticize, I wrote this when I was like 14 for some reason or other.
An aging man shuffled his way into the busy bar at five-thirty one late afternoon. He withdrew from his pocket two crumpled lottery scratchcards, the small gray circles untouched. A coin dropped out as well, and he bent down to retrieve it. The man took his usual corner seat and slammed his hand down on the dry mahogany counter. The young bartender looked up. “G'day, Mr. D.” He said with a smile. Mr. Reginald Darwin responded with a strong accent, thick with age. “Greetin's t'ya lad, gimme a pint o' bitter, will ya?”
“Right away, sir,” The barkeep was a bright blond fellow, though he had four years of bar working experience under his belt. He had been traveling from town to town, picking up jobs in pubs, but he was getting tired of moving around. There was a pretty waitress who worked the morning shifts, and he thought about settling down in Llandarshire. Earlier that day he was scouting out a house in the small village, but with little luck. He hadn't much cash, and although rents were rather cheap, he wasn't sure he could keep up, than if he continued staying upstairs above the pub. Food was also supplied, albeit boring and bland. If he rented his own place he would have to start paying for his meals too. He wasn't quite sure if he could talk the owner into giving him a bit of extra pay once he moved out, but he was hopeful and started working extra time to rake in the cash needed.
Mr. Darwin, on the other hand, was quite miserable. Fifty-three in eighteen days, he was undergoing a second midlife crisis. His first came around when he approached forty, but was happy with where he was going and brushed it away. Thirteen years later, and he realized that he had gone nowhere. He held a frantic office job at the local trading post, with just enough income to support his wife and teenage son, let alone his attractive secretary. Mr. Darwin was balding, and the hairs he still had on his head were a silvery gray. He still bought two lottery tickets for each week, hoping to win the modest jackpot that Llandershire made. He often dreamed of the things he could do with lottery money. He knew the chances, the numbers, the possibilities, but always reminded himself that someone will win. Why not be him?
Above the bottles of expensive spirits and the owner's hunting trophies, a television set was presenting the local news before the daily weather report. It was featuring a group of radical activists demonstrating at a zoo, threatening to release a number of the animals. Llandershire's so-called 'local' news was always odd, filled with all kinds of reports from sighting purple flying saucers to the temperatures of each boiler at the coal power plant. Perhaps it was the town's small population and size that resulted in random news, with nothing of great importance ever being shown. But for most citizens of Llandershire, the news was unimportant. The barkeep reached up and changed the channel to an old replay of a soccer match.
Mr. Darwin flattened out the creases of his first lottery card on the bar counter, and took a sip from his glass. A drop of thick, black liquid fell onto his white shirt, and he frantically used a napkin to wipe it off, creating a deep stain. He cursed, then refocused on the lottery card. Using his fingernail, he slowly but meticulously scraped away the gray substance concealing the first circle. Mr. Darwin had performed this careful task hundreds of times, and had perfected his method. However, the results were always unsatisfactory. He had won a sidepot once, with a measly payout of thirty dollars worth of coupons at a small candy store that had closed from bankruptcy a day before he had won. Unfortunately for him, like most aggressive businesses, the lottery corporation refused to compensate. There was still a chance at the cash prizes, at least.
“Cherry.” He breathed heavily, letting the short word out as a mere whisper. The little circle, previously covered by a thin layer of gray, now featured a bright picture of two shiny red cherries conjoined by the stem. The cherries looked almost edible, that Mr. Darwin had to take a deep sip from his glass. It was a rather bright and happy image, yet responsible for giving so many gamblers around the world false hope. Mr. Darwin had memorized the patterns and their payouts and the weekly accumulation of the jackpot prize. He knew very well that the best he could earn was a triple-cherry; fifteen percent. Fifteen percent of the £280,000 that had piled up over the weeks. That would come out to near £42,000. A good lot, nonetheless. He moved his hands over to the middle circle and placed his nail in the middle. He paused. “Maybe...” his thoughts trailed, and then he slid his greasy hands over to the right circle. The third and, normally, final circle.
“Cherry.” His voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of his old heart beating heavily. Mr. Darwin was feeling a flicker of hope he hadn't felt for years. He knew the statistical chances of getting two cherries, only to be ruined by a fancy seven or dollar sign. Too high, he thought, but this was still making him excited. If he got another cherry, he could finally buy that new suit he had seen at the shop. He could buy his wife a new dress, and take her out to a fancy Italian restaurant. Or maybe to the new Spanish eatery down the road. He could take her out every week. Every night, even. He could buy his son that new computer he was always talking about. Or perhaps those shiny golf clubs down at Jimmy's store. He could buy his secretary a piece of real jewelry, unlike the glass diamonds and gold-plated copper, though she couldn't tell the difference. The possibilities of such money were endless. Not once, though, did he ever think about charity. The money would go to the needy, namely, himself. Buying things for others only increased love for himself and his own pride. Still, there was much else he could do. He even considered, for once, retiring. He was reaching his time. Sure, his boss was sixty-eight and still working, but he was getting sick of his monotonous life. He could change all that. It was all up to whether a grubby piece of paper had a tiny picture of fruit on it. Even if he didn't win this one, he still had another scratchcard next to his glass, and that had the same chance of winning than any.
“Fuck!” Mr. Darwin banged his fist onto the counter. Nothing had changed. He was still the lousy aging man with no meaning. He never understood why he got so upset over just another lottery card. Afterall, the chances were slim, and he knew it. He never expects anything, but always gets disappointed over the results. He reached for the second card, then hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a long drink, his mind ticking. Putting the glass down, he paused. His sticky mouth opened, and two syllables squirmed their way out of what little breath he had. “Cherry?”
Mr. Darwin had suddenly transformed from a miserable wreck to the happiest man in the world. His mind had not registered properly that three cherries did, in fact, add up to three cherries. He jumped into the air, fists punching the air. No one paid much attention, but to Mr. Darwin this was everything. After sixteen years of lottery gambling, he had finally won. Won. Finally. He didn't even care what was on the second scratchcard. Swinging the door open, he ran out into the streets jumping and spinning in circles.
“I won!” Mr. Darwin screamed out loud for all to hear. He turned to a young black man waiting for the bus, grabbed him by the shoulders and thrust his face forwards. “Can you believe it? I won! The lottery! I won! I won! Ta-wenty thousand pounds! All mine!”
The black man didn't know what to think. Was this old, smelly guy going crazy? Perhaps he was already insane. He certainly couldn't have won the lottery now, could he? Mr. Darwin ran off across the road, dancing with his arms up in the air, one hand clutching the lucky ticket. By now, the six people at the bus stop were all staring at Mr. Darwin, as well as a few other folks who were passing by. He was spinning around on his toes, shouting at the top of his voice, so loud that it seemed to make the ground rumble.
“I won! I' m rich! After sixteen long years, I've won! Yes! I've won! The lottery is mine! I've won! Yes! All my problems are over!”
And then it was over. Just as quickly as he had jumped out of his seat in joy, a large elephant ran straight into Mr. Darwin, immediately crushing his bones and flinging a limp body into the air. Everyone at the bus stop gasped in horror. A small girl screamed. A white car screeched to a stop. A teenager dropped his books. A tramp dropped his paper bag. An old woman dropped her handbag. A young boy dropped his ice cream. Mr. Darwin dropped. It was over. As for the young black man, he was in shock, but his eyes were not on the body on the road, but on a small piece of red card that had landed at his feet.
Two days later, at St. Andrews hospital, Mr. Darwin awoke from his dream of luxury. The doctor looked up, and greeted him back into the real world. The doctor then proceeded to give a thorough explanation of what had happened to Mr. Darwin. Crushed bones, punctured lung, ruined muscles. The number of extensive surgeries done to repair him. And the sudden discovery of a lack of medical insurance. Forty-two thousand pounds. While the doctor explained the seriousness of the payment problem, Mr. Darwin silently thought to himself.
“Oh damn. Just another lottery ticket wasted. At least a story comes with this one.”
I do remember writing a second story, of the black man, but I can't seem to find it.
An aging man shuffled his way into the busy bar at five-thirty one late afternoon. He withdrew from his pocket two crumpled lottery scratchcards, the small gray circles untouched. A coin dropped out as well, and he bent down to retrieve it. The man took his usual corner seat and slammed his hand down on the dry mahogany counter. The young bartender looked up. “G'day, Mr. D.” He said with a smile. Mr. Reginald Darwin responded with a strong accent, thick with age. “Greetin's t'ya lad, gimme a pint o' bitter, will ya?”
“Right away, sir,” The barkeep was a bright blond fellow, though he had four years of bar working experience under his belt. He had been traveling from town to town, picking up jobs in pubs, but he was getting tired of moving around. There was a pretty waitress who worked the morning shifts, and he thought about settling down in Llandarshire. Earlier that day he was scouting out a house in the small village, but with little luck. He hadn't much cash, and although rents were rather cheap, he wasn't sure he could keep up, than if he continued staying upstairs above the pub. Food was also supplied, albeit boring and bland. If he rented his own place he would have to start paying for his meals too. He wasn't quite sure if he could talk the owner into giving him a bit of extra pay once he moved out, but he was hopeful and started working extra time to rake in the cash needed.
Mr. Darwin, on the other hand, was quite miserable. Fifty-three in eighteen days, he was undergoing a second midlife crisis. His first came around when he approached forty, but was happy with where he was going and brushed it away. Thirteen years later, and he realized that he had gone nowhere. He held a frantic office job at the local trading post, with just enough income to support his wife and teenage son, let alone his attractive secretary. Mr. Darwin was balding, and the hairs he still had on his head were a silvery gray. He still bought two lottery tickets for each week, hoping to win the modest jackpot that Llandershire made. He often dreamed of the things he could do with lottery money. He knew the chances, the numbers, the possibilities, but always reminded himself that someone will win. Why not be him?
Above the bottles of expensive spirits and the owner's hunting trophies, a television set was presenting the local news before the daily weather report. It was featuring a group of radical activists demonstrating at a zoo, threatening to release a number of the animals. Llandershire's so-called 'local' news was always odd, filled with all kinds of reports from sighting purple flying saucers to the temperatures of each boiler at the coal power plant. Perhaps it was the town's small population and size that resulted in random news, with nothing of great importance ever being shown. But for most citizens of Llandershire, the news was unimportant. The barkeep reached up and changed the channel to an old replay of a soccer match.
Mr. Darwin flattened out the creases of his first lottery card on the bar counter, and took a sip from his glass. A drop of thick, black liquid fell onto his white shirt, and he frantically used a napkin to wipe it off, creating a deep stain. He cursed, then refocused on the lottery card. Using his fingernail, he slowly but meticulously scraped away the gray substance concealing the first circle. Mr. Darwin had performed this careful task hundreds of times, and had perfected his method. However, the results were always unsatisfactory. He had won a sidepot once, with a measly payout of thirty dollars worth of coupons at a small candy store that had closed from bankruptcy a day before he had won. Unfortunately for him, like most aggressive businesses, the lottery corporation refused to compensate. There was still a chance at the cash prizes, at least.
“Cherry.” He breathed heavily, letting the short word out as a mere whisper. The little circle, previously covered by a thin layer of gray, now featured a bright picture of two shiny red cherries conjoined by the stem. The cherries looked almost edible, that Mr. Darwin had to take a deep sip from his glass. It was a rather bright and happy image, yet responsible for giving so many gamblers around the world false hope. Mr. Darwin had memorized the patterns and their payouts and the weekly accumulation of the jackpot prize. He knew very well that the best he could earn was a triple-cherry; fifteen percent. Fifteen percent of the £280,000 that had piled up over the weeks. That would come out to near £42,000. A good lot, nonetheless. He moved his hands over to the middle circle and placed his nail in the middle. He paused. “Maybe...” his thoughts trailed, and then he slid his greasy hands over to the right circle. The third and, normally, final circle.
“Cherry.” His voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of his old heart beating heavily. Mr. Darwin was feeling a flicker of hope he hadn't felt for years. He knew the statistical chances of getting two cherries, only to be ruined by a fancy seven or dollar sign. Too high, he thought, but this was still making him excited. If he got another cherry, he could finally buy that new suit he had seen at the shop. He could buy his wife a new dress, and take her out to a fancy Italian restaurant. Or maybe to the new Spanish eatery down the road. He could take her out every week. Every night, even. He could buy his son that new computer he was always talking about. Or perhaps those shiny golf clubs down at Jimmy's store. He could buy his secretary a piece of real jewelry, unlike the glass diamonds and gold-plated copper, though she couldn't tell the difference. The possibilities of such money were endless. Not once, though, did he ever think about charity. The money would go to the needy, namely, himself. Buying things for others only increased love for himself and his own pride. Still, there was much else he could do. He even considered, for once, retiring. He was reaching his time. Sure, his boss was sixty-eight and still working, but he was getting sick of his monotonous life. He could change all that. It was all up to whether a grubby piece of paper had a tiny picture of fruit on it. Even if he didn't win this one, he still had another scratchcard next to his glass, and that had the same chance of winning than any.
“Fuck!” Mr. Darwin banged his fist onto the counter. Nothing had changed. He was still the lousy aging man with no meaning. He never understood why he got so upset over just another lottery card. Afterall, the chances were slim, and he knew it. He never expects anything, but always gets disappointed over the results. He reached for the second card, then hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a long drink, his mind ticking. Putting the glass down, he paused. His sticky mouth opened, and two syllables squirmed their way out of what little breath he had. “Cherry?”
Mr. Darwin had suddenly transformed from a miserable wreck to the happiest man in the world. His mind had not registered properly that three cherries did, in fact, add up to three cherries. He jumped into the air, fists punching the air. No one paid much attention, but to Mr. Darwin this was everything. After sixteen years of lottery gambling, he had finally won. Won. Finally. He didn't even care what was on the second scratchcard. Swinging the door open, he ran out into the streets jumping and spinning in circles.
“I won!” Mr. Darwin screamed out loud for all to hear. He turned to a young black man waiting for the bus, grabbed him by the shoulders and thrust his face forwards. “Can you believe it? I won! The lottery! I won! I won! Ta-wenty thousand pounds! All mine!”
The black man didn't know what to think. Was this old, smelly guy going crazy? Perhaps he was already insane. He certainly couldn't have won the lottery now, could he? Mr. Darwin ran off across the road, dancing with his arms up in the air, one hand clutching the lucky ticket. By now, the six people at the bus stop were all staring at Mr. Darwin, as well as a few other folks who were passing by. He was spinning around on his toes, shouting at the top of his voice, so loud that it seemed to make the ground rumble.
“I won! I' m rich! After sixteen long years, I've won! Yes! I've won! The lottery is mine! I've won! Yes! All my problems are over!”
And then it was over. Just as quickly as he had jumped out of his seat in joy, a large elephant ran straight into Mr. Darwin, immediately crushing his bones and flinging a limp body into the air. Everyone at the bus stop gasped in horror. A small girl screamed. A white car screeched to a stop. A teenager dropped his books. A tramp dropped his paper bag. An old woman dropped her handbag. A young boy dropped his ice cream. Mr. Darwin dropped. It was over. As for the young black man, he was in shock, but his eyes were not on the body on the road, but on a small piece of red card that had landed at his feet.
Two days later, at St. Andrews hospital, Mr. Darwin awoke from his dream of luxury. The doctor looked up, and greeted him back into the real world. The doctor then proceeded to give a thorough explanation of what had happened to Mr. Darwin. Crushed bones, punctured lung, ruined muscles. The number of extensive surgeries done to repair him. And the sudden discovery of a lack of medical insurance. Forty-two thousand pounds. While the doctor explained the seriousness of the payment problem, Mr. Darwin silently thought to himself.
“Oh damn. Just another lottery ticket wasted. At least a story comes with this one.”
I do remember writing a second story, of the black man, but I can't seem to find it.