lottery winner ✔️ h.s.

two

"Good morning, Big Mike," I say, throwing my trash bag and backpack on the ground. Big Mike is in his normal lawn chair watching Charles change some guys oil.

Big Mike looks me up and down a few times before putting his cigar out. "You're looking a little rough, Harry."

I grit my teeth and take a seat next to him. "I got kicked out last night and I had to sleep in a fucking tent with some guy who literally smells like death."

Big Mike puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder before scrunching his nose a little. "You kinda smell it now. You can sleep at my house for a night..."

I shake my head. "I'm okay. I don't want to bother your family and your kids. I'm sure your wife would be less than happy about that."

He lights his cigar up and takes a hit. Big Mike is the person who taught me all about cars. He took me in with no experience and taught me the job because he felt bad for me. And now he's offering me a place to stay because he feels bad for me. Ever since I came to Tuscon, Big Mike is the only one who has cut me any kind of slack. Everyone else has treated me like a criminal or a delinquent.

"You have time to decide, Harry. It's really no big deal."

I nod slowly, my mind blank. I'm probably not going to take him up on his offer, just because I know how annoying his kids are. Every time they come to the shop, they just talk... And talk. And they think I'm a freaking playground to climb on.  "Thanks."

Asher pops his head out from underneath the car. "Did you head about the lottery winner?"

"No," we both say.

"Sold right her at that gas station across the street. Can you believe it? This ghetto ass town? Some drug addict is swimming in almost six-hundred million dollars and they don't even know cause they're using it to do a line of coke." He shakes his head, not believing it either. He pushes himself back under the car and continues on tightening the bolt.

Big Mike slaps me softly and takes a seat next to me in his normal spot. "Son. Can you go get me a Bud Light from the gas station?"

I nod. The Arizona sun is directly above us and it makes everything feel like 2 degrees short of Satan's kitchen. Don't you dare walk barefoot unless you want to go to the hospital with third degree burns.

I walk across the street to the gas station and nearly get ran over by someone pulling into the gas station. It's a mad house. News reporters swarming and people gossiping outside. I walk to the back of the store and grab two bud lights. I see more people than I've ever seen in the store, yet no one is buying anything.

"Five ninety-six," The Indian man says, obviously focused on all the camera crew. I slide the six dollar bills across the counter. "Thanks."

As I start to leave, I notice a piece of paper that has the winning numbers for people who want to check their ticket. I pick up one out of the stack and shove it in my pocket. "That piece of shit ticket I found probably ain't got none of the numbers."

I sigh and step back out into the heat. I wonder which bastard got that ticket. What would they do with the money? Would they move? Travel? Start a business? Or just keep doing drugs and wasting their life away?

I'd make my parents proud. I'd get my GED and go to college. I'd buy a house in Portland where my family is. I'd meet a nice girl and fall in love. I'd start a business. Donate to charity. Save. Invest. Plan. Travel. Live.

"Thanks, Harry," Big Mike says, taking his Bud Light.

"Did you buy a ticket?" I ask curiously.

Big Mike shakes his head. "I have all I need here. Money just complicates things."

I furrow my brow, confused. "But you're always trying to make more money?"

"For you guys. The more money we make, the more I can help out my employees. I do it for you, not me."

I nod, a warm feeling comes over me. Big Mike really does care about the people he hires. He doesn't see somebody with a gambling problem. He doesn't see them as someone with a severe mental illness. Or alcoholism. Or a high school drop out. He sees people trying to do something with their lives, even if small. He sees a dad trying to make money for diapers. He sees somebody trying to buy a house instead of sleeping on the streets.

...What does he see in me, though? Some kid with an excessive amount of white privilege? A kid who had everything he could have at home but still ran away? Too selfish to realize with growing up comes responsibility? Someone who had... has, his whole life ahead of him but refuses to do anything about it?

I dig through my backpack, pulling out receipt after receipt. Finally, I pull the lottery ticket out of the backpack. Why do I have hope in some paper I found on the ground? Why would I have such luck to win any money? Angrily, I shove the ticket back in my backpack. It's probably already been claimed, anyways.

"Harry, you're up," Big Mike yells, pointing at the 69' Camaro parked in front of the shop. "They're loaded. Make that money, boy."

"I'll try," I say with a chuckle. The old couple spend at least fifteen minutes talking about their "baby" and how I better "treat it with respect."

"I promise your car will be in tip-top shape when I'm done, Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield." Big Mike gives an approving nod from behind them and gestures them inside towards the office.

A half hour goes by and I'm almost done with their tire rotation and oil change. Dustin has been on his phone and chain-smoking the whole time.

Dustin flicks the cigarette into a metal jar and sit backs, causing a loud squeak in the chair. "Why hasn't anyone come forward with the ticket yet? I need names."

"Maybe that's why. The whole town is waiting for their name so they just jump the dude... or woman. I'd be afraid to come forward for anything in this town, too."

It's true and Dustin knows it. The gangs and criminals hiding in every corner of town is enough to scare anyone, let alone someone with a shit ton of money. "Whoever has the ticket better pack their shit, get their ass to Phoenix, and not look back."

After a long silence, Dustin nods his head as if agreeing. "I can't wait to go home and check all my tickets."

I scoff wiping oil off my hands. I don't know why he bothers. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the crumpled up ticket in my hand and just crumple it up some more. I'm not gonna bother. Those numbers will never match the ticket in my backpack.

Hours go by slowly. Less and less people getting their cars worked on. Probably because less and less people have cars and the money to fix those cars. Besides, everyone thinks they're a mechanic if it means they don't have to pay someone to do it.

"Coming home with me, Harry?" Big Mike yells, locking the front door to the shop. A house would be better than a tent.

I sigh as I stand up. My hands, raw and cut up from working on cars all day. "Waffle House, first?"

Big Mike laughs, picking up my backpack off the ground. "Sure. My treat."