It’s a Good Story

I was born with two gifts: rotten luck and an addictive personality. When I was fifteen, my mom took me to the dog races. I put all ten of my dollars on a greyhound named Fast Albert. He won, and so did I. I’ll never forget the feeling of that crisp fifty dollar bill in my hand. It felt like a missing piece of my soul. That was the first time I ever made a bet.

The last time I made a bet, six months ago, I lost twelve grand. Eric, my bookie, warned me what would happen if I didn’t pay up. Someone should have warned him about high cholesterol though, because a month later Eric had a heart attack and died. It was bittersweet for me. I don’t wish death on anyone, but I certainly couldn’t pay my debt.

The collectors never stopped coming, though. They mentioned something about a contingency plan, I don’t know, it’s hard to pay attention when your nose is getting busted open. And it’s hard to treat a broken nose with a pill tolerance like I’ve got.

When Ricky sent me the prompt to the competition, I knew my luck was about to change. Twenty thousand dollars for a short story, he said. I can’t believe it. No more debt. No more collectors banging on my door all day threatening to kill me. I can’t lose. And I won’t even have to write a word, thanks to my Great Uncle Larry. Great Uncle as in he’s my mom’s uncle, not as in he's a great guy.

My Great Uncle Lawrence is an established and respected author, screenwriter, and playwright. The guy has three academy awards, two Pulitzer Prizes, and an MTV movie award. Optioned over twenty scripts, wrote dozens more. Published thirty-two novels, including a collection of short stories. Wrote hundreds more that never saw the light of day. He carries around this little black notebook, and whenever inspiration hits he writes in it. My mom used to tell me there was millions of dollars in unsold stories in that little book. I’m willing to bet there’s at least twenty grand. I get my hands on that book, and the competition is mine, no question.

It’s two days before the end of the competition, and I call my mom.

She asks, “What, Gabriel?”

I returns her bluntness with “I need Uncle Larry’s number.”

“His number was up two years ago, what could you possibly need it for?”

She thinks she’s so clever with the word play. Leave the literary gymnastics to your uncle, I almost say to her.

“What do you mean ‘his number was up two years ago’? What, he’s dead?”

“You were invited to the funeral, Gabe.”

I’m sure that’s the truth, although I can’t remember. Two years ago I was so whacked out on goofballs I’d have missed my own funeral.

She takes my silence as dawning grief.

“Oh, honey, it was nothing special. There couldn’t have been more than ten people there. I said a few words, we threw some dirt on him and that was that. Buried him with that old black notebook he was always writing in.”

There’s a loud rapping on my door. I look out the window. Two mean looking mugs I’ve seen before. The bats in their hands though, those are new. They look shiny.

“Gabriel?” I forgot I was on the phone.

“Yea, yea I’m here. I’m just trying to process.”

“I never knew you were so fond of your Uncle Lawrence. Why don’t you go visit the gravesite, it might make you feel better?”

“Where is he?”

“Tenth Side Memorial Cemetery. It’s on the corner of -“

“Got it, bye.”

I hang up the phone. I know where the cemetery is. My old bookie, Eric, he’s buried there. I should visit his grave too. I owe him that much. Actually I owe him a lot more, as the two goons at my front door well know.

I duck out the back door and sneak around the side of my house. The two heavies are still banging on my door, yelling about how they’re gonna break it down, and then break my arms.

I get in my car a block down the street and close the door as quietly as I can. I start her up. The car roars to life. That gets the attention of these collectors. Instantly, they’re running towards me. I take off as fast as I can, but not before one of the guys busts out my taillight with his bat. I mentally add it to the list of things I’ll buy with this twenty grand.

Ten minutes later, I’m pulling up to the graveyard. I park my car as far away from the street as I can, and start walking.

It’s a nice graveyard, although they could’ve done better for Uncle Larry. I’m sure he had the money. I look around for maybe a half hour before I find his grave. Not a flower in sight. No epitaph either. Some writer. I light up a cigarette and take in the view.

A few plots down, a funeral is in session. The daughter of the deceased is talking about what a gem her father was. His name was Walter. Even when the Alzheimers took over, she says, he was the belle of the nursing home. She talks about how much he liked to shoplift in his senility, and how impressively sneaky he was. Apparently, when they’d go out to eat, he’d leave with the contents of their table. Cups. Napkin holders. Cutlery.

After a few more minutes of this, they lower the man down to his final resting spot. The man’s granddaughter drops a glass, clearly stolen from an Applebee’s, into the grave with her grandfather. Everyone laughs. It’s a touching tribute. When it’s time to bury him, everyone grabs a shovel and helps out. The grieving daughter is crying too hard to do much shoveling. I walk over and approach her.

“Mind if I…?”

She wipes her eyes to get a better look it me.

“So sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Gabe, I work at the nursing home. We met a few times. I was very fond of Walter…even if he could never remember my name.”

She sniffles. “Oh yes, of course. Gabe. Thank you for being here.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

She hands me a shovel. I put a few scoops on top of the coffin. Slowly, shovel in hand, I back away from the family. No one notices me leave.

I go back to Uncle Larry’s grave and have a seat, leaning against the stone for back support. It’s getting late. I shut my eyes and dream of all the things I’ll do with this writing competition money. First things first, I’ll pay off the goons. I owe them twelve thousand, but I’ll give them thirteen in exchange for hopefully not breaking my arms. With the rest of the money, all I know is I’m not gonna gamble it all away. Not again.

I wake up sometime later. It’s pitch black, and silent. The cemetery is empty. I look around to make completely sure no one is there. Then I grab the shovel and get to work.

I dig until my back hurts, and then I keep digging. Blisters form and pop on my hands, but I wipe the blood and puss off on my jeans and keep digging.

I dig until my shovel hits something hard. Uncle Larry’s coffin. I use the edge of the shovel to pry it open, and I instantly see what I’m looking for. The little black notebook sits in stark contrast to the white skeleton underneath it.

I take the book from what I think was once Uncle Larry’s right hand. I open it up, and I instantly know I’ve struck gold. On page one starts a short story about a talking dolphin. On page seven, a story about a down on his luck bra and girdle salesmen. I stand there for what feels like hours, reading through my late Uncle’s untold stories, every one of them better than the next. He really was amazing. In a way I'm carrying on his legacy. Really, the idea that these stories would never see the light of day is a slight on the man's memory. He would want this. And I will win a thousand writing competitions with this notebook. I put it in my pocket and hoist myself up out of the grave.

I get to my feet to find I’m nose to nose with one of the goons that was at my door earlier. He smiles at me. The other goon, the bigger of the two, he comes up behind me and hits me in the leg with his metal bat. I fall to my knees and plead with the men.

“I’ll get you your money -”

“Shut it.”

The bigger goon reaches into my back pocket and pulls out my wallet.

“There’s thirty bucks in here,” he says mockingly.

The smaller one frowns at me. “What are you doing out here? Robbing graves? Where’s the loot then?”

“It’s in my other pocket but -”

“Shut it.”

The bigger guy reaches into my other pocket and pulls out Uncle Larry’s black notebook.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s…it’s my uncle’s notebook. There’s millions worth of -”

The words leave my mouth in a spray of blood, as the bigger goon knocks my teeth out with the end of his bat.

“This is what you want to pay us with? It’s less than worthless.”

The smaller goon takes the book and throws it back into the grave.

“Tommy,” he says, “let this guy spend some quality time with his uncle.”

The big goon winds up his bat and takes a massive swing at my head. I hold onto consciousness by a thread. I’m laying on the ground now, at least until the big guy picks me up and throws me into the coffin on top of my uncle.

The coffin lid is slammed shut and I hear the sound of dirt being thrown on top. After awhile I hear nothing.

I manage to shimmy a lighter and cigarette out of my pocket. As I light it up, I notice the black notebook sitting next to me. I open it up and begin to read by the dim light of my lit cigarette. I read the one about the talking dolphin as I use up the last of the air in the coffin. It’s a good story.