The Lottery Ticket
by Bruce H. Mero
Neither
of us is a gambler, but when the New York State Lottery Jackpot hit $40 million
a number of years ago, temptation overtook her and Gretchen decided she wanted
a piece of the action. On our return
home from dinner in town, we stopped at the Quick Stop at Stokes Corners and
through a driving downpour, she ran into the store to purchase her ticket. Friend Brian and I waited in the car.
The
store was crowded and it took Gretchen several minutes to get to the checkout-counter
and to get her ticket. We watched
through the store window as she bought her ticket and chatted with the clerk.
She dashed back to the car in the rain, ticket in hand. She was such an infrequent lottery player,
she explained, that the clerk needed to tell her how to fill out the card. She wanted our advice on what numbers to
pick. We went through a series of
suggestions, she made her picks and started to go back into the store to give
the clerk her ticket. Brian’s interest
had been piqued. He decided he’d try his
chances and buy a ticket and told Gretchen he would return the ticket to the
clerk in the store for her. He jumped
out and dashed into the store. I
followed, remembering that we needed to buy more beer. The line at the checkout was a dozen people
deep, most all of them buying lottery tickets.
Brian got in line. I went to the
beer cooler to look for our favorite brew, grabbed a twelve-pack of Killian’s
and headed back toward the checkout. I
was a couple of aisles away when I heard someone rip-off a giant fart.
Now I need to pause in my story to let my reader in on a
little background. Although he will deny
emphatically most everything I am going to tell you, this is the truth: friend
Brian is a farter. He is an extraordinary
farter, a champion. If farting were a
competitive sport, Brian would medal in farting. Almost on demand, he can let billowing,
boisterous ones, or deadly silent, sneak-up-on-you, clouds of toxic gas ones
that could start fires if a spark went off.
I’ve seen our dog Webster leave the room after Brian has performed. He admits he has a special propensity for
this activity, but steadfastly claims it only happens to him when he is
visiting with us and that he never does it in public. Brian blames it all on Gretchen’s
cooking. We know differently. Over the many years of our friendship,
Gretchen has experimented on all types of fart-proof cuisine, different
combinations of foods, meal scheduling changes, food item prohibitions and menu
deletions, meal timing, fasting, take-out, eating in restaurants, bottled
water, different beer and beeno. Nothing
seems to change the outcome. He is going
to fart and he is going to let big ones, no matter what he eats or drinks. Early in our friendship he would feign
ignorance or try to blame me when the air smelled like putrefying viscera. If our dog was nearby, the poor critter got
the blame. Gradually, we came to
understand and accept the fact that no one compared to Brian when farting is
the game. Nobody. Eventually, he admitted to his special gift,
and it became a joke when he visited, though he was always circumspect in
public. Almost always.
This is our friend Brian. The expression
on his face tells the story well. Doesn't he look as though he just cut one?
|
So,
now, back to the Quick Stop. I knew
instantly that the cause of the rumble at the checkout counter was Brian. I stopped my advance toward the counter and
looked over the shelf at my friend. He
was guilty. His face was beet-red,
though his lips were tightly pursed and eyes pointed straight ahead. He was doing the see-no-evil, hear-no-evil,
speak-no-evil response we’d observed earlier in our friendship. He began looking around like everyone else in
the checkout line trying to identify the perpetrator. We made eye contact and I knew instantly what
he’d done. He also knew that I knew.
It
got worse quickly. The folks in line
started holding noses and waving hands in front of faces. I began hearing audible gasping, a series of
gags and then complaints. The two people
waiting in line behind my friend backed out of line and left the store. In front of Brian a lady dropped her loaf of
bread and ran outside into the rain.
Then the next several people in line bailed, one flailing her arms
around her head and face. Brian stood
his ground. Within seconds, everyone in
the checkout line was gone. They all
stood out side in the rain and looked back into the store to try and see what
had just happened to them. Brian was
alone in the line. The lady behind the counter had locked her register and
moved out of the smelly cloud. She returned when Brian calmly stepped forward
and presented Gretchen’s lottery ticket.
He asked the clerk for another ticket, slowly filled out the numbers on
the card and then handed it and two dollars to the clerk. Then he turned. With lips tight and face expressionless, he
marched out of the store, through the crowd and got back into the car. There was a dozen people looking at him. Brian and Gretchen sat motionless in the car
while I held my breath, paid for the beer and got back into the car
myself. I noticed when I got in that
Gretchen had tears running down both of her cheeks. I backed the car away from the store and left
the parking lot. Both of them exploded
into laughter. Gretchen had seen the whole episode through the store window and
knew what had happened as soon as I, without benefit of sound or smell. She said that she had laughed so hard that
tears had filled her eyes and she fell over in the seat.
For
a long while after that episode I had to compose myself before going into the
Quick Stop for fear someone who was gassed that night might recognize me as an
accomplice. I did, remember, drive the
get-away car.
A
few years later our daughter, Mitra, took a part-time job at the same Quick
Stop. The older clerk told her of the
night that the horrible gas cloud evacuated the store and of the two customers
who braved the terrible stink to pick-up a lottery ticket and buy beer.
Hahahahaha! Reminds me of the saying my grandfather always used to say..."I'm such a fart smeller...I mean, smart feller."
ReplyDeleteGreat memories....
Oh, Mitra, I am screaming with laughter over here!!! Written by your dad, I see - was he a journalist???
ReplyDeleteOh this is so funny. I found your blog via Another Freakin Scrpbooking Challenge. Do you tell stories every Sunday? There's a bunch of us do something similar first Sunday of every month and link up to Sian's blog: http://fromhighinthesky.blogspot.com
ReplyDeleteShe started doing this a year ago - I'm sure she'd love to have you join us.