The Lottery Ticket

The alarm clock screamed at 10:13 a.m. as the snow had been steadily falling. The room spun like a slow-motion car wreck, a carousel of bad decisions, as Frank peeled his eyes open like an onion, they teared. His mouth tasted like ash and regret, the remnants of last night’s whiskey binge clawing at his throat like his old wool blanket. What happened after last call? He must have driven home through that snowstorm because he spied the keys on the kitchen table. He remembered hearing the song, “Sky High” by Jigsaw on the radio. His house key and his car key, the only two things he ever owned since his divorce from Sheila 10 years earlier.

Frank lived in Maine and eked out a living repairing nets and old boat motors. He went for drinks the night before for happy hour at Slappy’s Saloon with his last $50 dollars. He drank Moxie, Whiskey and Brandy, a drink that Slappy called a Rusty Anchor for $4 dollars apiece. Slappy was the 75-year-old proprietor, an old lobsterman with a wooden leg who lived on the second floor of an 1830’s building that was more in need of a tear down than a rehab.

He kept his appointment with Slappy and his antonymic “Happy” hour, where he’d repeat and deny his memories like a deep groove in a record. Happy hour would be an early start for his therapy session on that snow swept day. Frank would confide in Slappy once he had enough fuel in his liver or once his pockets neared empty. Mostly, Slappy didn’t mind listening, as he might not see any other customers for days on end after the up coming storm. He never believed Frank’s explanation of how he lost Sheila, as Frank never believed him on how he lost his leg. Over the years Frank tried to hide his emotions, but as the nights always wore on, he was unable to deny them and were themselves rusty anchors.

Earlier in the week before the storm, the bank auditor informed Frank that his house would be foreclosed on before it went to auction. Monday was the last day he could save it from the bank and that deadline was looming in two days. The world outside his frost-crusted window was a blinding white void. Three feet of snow had buried his small Maine town of Belfast and cabin overnight. The radio crackled with warnings of bone-chilling cold—negative fifteen degrees and dropping hourly. Frank groaned, his head pounding like a jackhammer as he tried to stoke the fire in the wood burner with a small birch log for a sliver of warmth when “…and last night’s Mega Millions numbers are 7, 19, 26, 33, 46, bonus ball 22. Frank now froze more than his fingers and feet already were. Those numbers sounded familiar. Way too familiar. He lurched to the kitchen table, where a crumpled lottery ticket sat among empty bottles and cigarette butts. His hands trembled as he smoothed it out: 7, 19, 26, 33, 44, 22. Four numbers, plus the bonus ball. 22… 22, that was the date he and Sheila’ got married. “Holy Shit,” he muttered. Four out of six wasn’t the jackpot, but it was something. Maybe 20, 30, 40 grand? Enough to save his house, fix his truck, pay off his bar tab, or at least buy a better brand of whiskey.

The ticket was useless trapped in this snowbound shack. The nearest claim center was in Augusta, forty miles of icy hell away to the west. Frank cursed, pulling on his threadbare coat and boots. The cold hit him like a punch in the gut as he stepped onto the porch, the wind slicing through him. The snow was almost waist deep, heavy and wet, clinging to his shovel like cement. He started digging, each scoop a battle against his age and his hangover. His whole body was numb, he couldn’t feel his fingers as his breath froze in his beard, but he kept at it, carving a path to his beat-up sedan. Hours bled away—11 a.m., noon, 2 p.m.— the shovel scraping, his head throbbing, the cold gnawing at his bones. By 3:30, he’d cleared enough to reach the road, only to find it unplowed, a white desert under a gray streaked sky. His car had no heat, it sputtered but it finally started. He scraped the ice from the windshield then crept toward Augusta, tires slipping, wipers useless against the swirling snow and snowdrifts. The radio taunted him with updates on the next impending storm. He needed that receipt for proof of deposit. Frank gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, picturing a warm bar, a paid-off debt, a life less grim.

At 4:45, Augusta’s lights flickered through the blizzard. The claim office closed at 5 pm, it was a squat yellow brick building, the kind that looked like it should be the communist politburo headquarters, its neon sign barely visible. Frank stumbled inside, snow caked to his boots, his ticket clutched in his icicle claws like a lifeline. The clerk looked bored, she was a stout woman in a too tight unflattering green sweater with her gray hair rolled in a tight bun. She looked up at Frank, above her jeweled horned rimmed glasses. She then took one look at the crumpled ticket and scanned it. “Four numbers, plus the bonus,” she said flatly. “15 grand, minus taxes. Sign here. “Frank’s heart leapt, then sank. Fifteen thousand was a fortune, but not the millions he’d half-dreamed of in the snow. He signed, pocketed the claim receipt, and trudged back into the cold and snow.

The snow was still as the drive home was silent, the radio off. He’d won something—more than most ever got—but the ache in his chest wasn’t just the cold. He’d lost something a second time too: the fleeting, foolish hope that one ticket could erase a lifetime of bad nights and decisions. At least he would have a better bottle of Whiskey.