Moths and Vermin

The blue screen sears into my wide, naked eyes. My enveloping focus on it shelters me from the phone ringing in my pocket and the youthful giggles of the bulbous, elderly cretin to my left.

“Ooh, here they come!” he squeals, vibrating with excitement beneath his wool coat and top hat. Beneath his vacantly pleasant expression and flannel scarf, his hands clasp a black, leather-bound journal to his belly.

The screen changes and an icy thrill grips me. My eyes dart between the printed numbers in my trembling hand and the television.

3.

3!

“Yes!”

22.

22! Two now!

47.

47! Only one more for a free ticket!

“Ooh!”

61.

Nope.

“Marvelous!”

77.

Nope.

90.

I crumple the ticket in my greedy, sweaty palm, and toss it aside.

“Free ticket, please!” exclaims the old man.

“Do you mind?!” I snarl, locked despondently on the television. An animated, smiling ball in a top hat and tap-dancing shoes marches festively onto the screen, tipping his hat as “THANKS FOR PLAYING!” glitters mockingly beneath him.

NEXT DRAW: 59 SECONDS follows.

“Excuse me?” scoffs the man.

“You should be ashamed!” I growl, taking an angry sip of my liquor. “A grown man, giddy like a child-- Pathetic!”

“Well,” he huffs, waving me off dismissively. “I’m sorry you can’t share in my exuberance, friend. I didn’t think anybody could hear me, anyway.”

“Unfortunately, I can!” I hiss.

“Forgive me, then,” he chortles, motioning to the scattered pile of wadded-up tickets before me. “I’m sure those were my fault. We can’t all be winners like you.”

I flip him off and relocate to the opposite end of the bar. I grab another ticket out of the stack and pencil-in the bubble numbers.

NEXT DRAW: 29 SECONDS

I wave the ticket impatiently at the bartender, who snatches it from me with a frown and scans it into the machine.

NEXT DRAW: 14 SECONDS

My phone rings.

“Alan?” murmurs Sophie’s voice. “Are you still upset?”

NEXT DRAW: 8 SECONDS

“Can I help you, Sophia?” I snarl.

“Why do you let my father get to you?” she scoffs. “Can’t you just ignore him?!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I tell her. “Why don’t you just make him happy and break it off with me?”

“Would that make you happy, Alan?!” she asks, unamused. “Then you could sit there and gamble every day!”

I shut out my other ear to drown out the old man as he continues to bellow his malformed inner-monologue carelessly into the ether.

“I recall the innocence of youth…”

“I can’t take you anywhere nice,” I say. “I can’t buy you anything good, either."

“Please,” she scoffs. “What about this lovely green jacket you bought me?”

“Sure,” I scoff. “You mean the one your father implied I thrifted?”

“...I, too, was always incensed--”

“Well, I love it,” she says. “Now stop being ridiculous. Come home! The snow is picking up, and the forecast says another big band is headed towards us!”

I can’t stop thinking about it. The eleven-thousand-dollar ring, gleaming tauntingly in the jeweler’s case...

“--all seemed like one damned trouble after the next, and then, the damned things began to overlap--”

“All right,” I sigh, trying my hardest to sound composed as the numbers start up again. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Promise?”

22.

22!

44.

44!

“Splendid!”

66.

66! Halfway there!

“Hello?! Alan?!”

69.

Dammit!

“How fantastic!”

Still, two more numbers, though.

“Yeah-- Uh--”

79.

81.

“ALAN!” she hisses.

“I-- Baby, listen, I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Sure,” she sneers. “I’ll call again in 15 minutes to make sure you’ve left.”

“Fine!” I say, hanging up.

“Free ticket, please!” spouts the bumbling old simpleton.

Frustrated, I storm outside for air. The black sky above is obscured in the red haze of snow falling heavy now, probably two inches an hour. I can’t even make out the other side of the street.

I really should be heading home.

<<That’s a beautiful coat, Alan. Sophie, did you know Maggie gave one just like that to The Salvation Army not two months ago-- Alan, where did you say you got it, again?>>

<<I was mistaken. The one she had was much nicer-- But then, I wouldn’t expect someone of your “pedigree” to make such a distinction.>>

<<I shudder imagining the band that awaits my poor daughter.>>

“Brutal out there!” exclaims the old man with an odd smile as I brush off the malingering cold and drape my jacket on the stool.

NEXT DRAW: 1 MINUTE 59 SECONDS

“Brutal everywhere,” I grunt.

The old man nods affirmatively. “Yes, I suppose that’s the thrill of it.”

NEXT DRAW: 1 MINUTE 30 SECONDS

“Twenty-four hours in a day,” remarks the old man. “And poor boy here uses them all to fulminate.”

The bartender chuckles.

24. Playing that next round.

“You watch who you’re calling ‘poor boy,” I hiss.

“At the rate you’re going,” he retorts, “if you’re not a poor boy yet, you’ll be one by the end of the night.”

“Easy, children,” announces the bartender. “It’s just a game.”

“It’s all a game for an old bastard like that,” I say to him. “He sits there, teetering on that stool, probably propped-up by a fat pension, having blindly stumbled his way through a dimwitted life, floating on free tickets all night like he’s being fed numbers. How many free tickets have I gotten?! How many numbers do I know?! Do you know how much time I’ve wasted, not knowing?!”

“Enough!” shouts the bartender. “No moping!”

“But!” says the old man. “Isn’t there splendor in naivete, my friend? Life’s only splendor.”

“For you, maybe!” I bark. “My naivete is the splendor of you and your rich friends, all looking down on vermin like me!”

NEXT DRAW: 57 SECONDS

The old man slides his large body out of his seat and waddles over to me. He takes a loud, grunting seat beside me, and leans upon the counter.

“Man knows more than he wishes to know,” he says. “This is a source of unhappiness. Yet, his only desire is to know more still. Isn’t that funny?”

“No,” I grunt, bubbling in the numbers.

“What’s wrong?” asks the old man. “What’s wrought the young gentleman with such bitter humor?”

“Shut up,” I respond flatly.

“Have you somebody at home?” asks the old man, chuckling. “For whom you reserve all that tenderness?”

“I’m warning you, pal.”

As I darken the bubble, the old man chuckles. I turn to see his porcine grin hovering over my shoulder.

“A younger man than you would be on his ass right now,” I whisper.

“Mm,” he muses. “And a luckier man than you would have picked better.”

“Piss off!” I holler. “One of these times I’m bound to win! Then nobody’ll say I’m unlucky!”

“I would imply no such thing!” mocks the old man. “I’d consider a churl of your demeanor, with a woman who cares for him regardless, to be quite lucky.”

NEXT DRAW: 32 SECONDS

“How would you know?” I scoff.

The old man grabs a card and cracks open his journal. He trades glances between the page and the ticket, filling in the numbers.

“Why don’t you listen to your sweetheart next time she calls?” he remarks as he hands in his card. “I know you’d be better off home with her than here now, playing losing numbers.”

“You wanna know something, old man?” I hiss, my chest tightening. “Wanna know what I think of armchair philosophers like you and my father-in-law-to-be, with nothing better to do than to sit around, old and rich, judging the rest of us who weren’t born into affluence?!”

My phone rings again as his printed card is dropped before him.

“Maybe I am being fed numbers,” he says. “Maybe I wish I weren’t.”

“You’re funny,” I scoff, absently pulling the phone out of my pocket.

“Perhaps,” he shrugs, leaning back into his chair. “Your call.”

“H-Hello?”

I frantically fill in random bubbles and hand the card to the bartender with my last dollar.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave, Alan! Even in this weather--”

“N-no, honey, I--”

“Enough, Alan! I am coming to get you!”

NEXT DRAW: 2 SECONDS

“I’m taking the train!” shouts Sophie.

3.

“There’s three!” exclaims the old man.

8.

“Yes!” he shouts.

“Alan!” shouts Sophie. “Last chance!”

“Sure,” I say, focused on the old man.

12.

“Marvelous!” he says.

24.

24! I knew that would hit!

The old man smiles.

39.

“ALAN?!”

“DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!” I shout, hanging up.

44.

I crumple up another loser.

“Well?!” I bark at the old man, who grins silently. “My sweetheart made me blow my last dollar! How’d you do?!”

“She probably hasn’t left yet,” he says. “You’re bound to catch her if you leave now.”

“Goddammit, how’d you do?!” I shout.

He winks at me, turning to the bartender.

“Free card, please.”

“Impressive,” I scoff. “Another free card thanks to your lucky book there.”

“Would you like to see it?” he asks.

He shows me a bizarre chart in his journal, spreading across both pages, leading down to four numbers at the bottom of the page with letters beneath them.

8 12 3 24

R I N G

LAST DRAW: 59 SECONDS

“Ooh,” he says with a shudder, turning the page. “Next one is all six.”

“What is that?!” I ask.

“Twenty-thousand-dollar jackpot,” he replies, grimly. “Only if you play it, of course.”

“You’re gonna tell me those numbers,” I tell him, “or I’m gonna make sure you don’t leave!”

“Perhaps you should make sure you leave,” he answers.

LAST DRAW: 30 SECONDS

“Give me that book,” I whisper, aching, desperate.

“Ask yourself,” he says, “Would a lucky man still be sitting here?”

I yank it from him before he can react and tear it open to the bookmarked page. Six numbers are written beneath another sprawling chart of nonsense. In my frenzy I don’t have time to decipher it; only time to copy the numbers onto my ticket.

LAST DRAW: 18 SECONDS

“Give my free play to my destitute friend here,” the old man says. “He deserves it. As for me, I’ll be going before this next storm band hits.”

Frantically, I scan the page, scribbling in the bubbles on the ticket.

LAST DRAW: 10 SECONDS

2 numbers left!

“Time’s almost up, boy,” cackles the bartender.

“Still time!” says the old man.

LAST DRAW: 8 SECONDS

1 number left!

LAST DRAW: 4 SECONDS

The bartender scans the card and chucks the printed ticket before me. I collapse onto the counter.

“Thanks for playing,” whispers the old man into my ear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice his odd tap-dancing shoes.

14.

14!

19.

19!

24.

24!

31.

31!

40.

40!

54.

54!

..........................................................................................

“Let’s have another one to celebrate!” exclaims the bartender. “On you, of course.” He pours me another glass from the top shelf. “That’ll be ten thousand dollars, ya prick!” he laughs.

“Pour another for my fiance-to-be, then,” I laugh drunkenly, sliding the old man’s book into my pocket. “She sure is taking a while, though.”

“Give her a ring,” he says.

“I plan on it!” I say. “The biggest, most expensive--”

“No, I mean on the phone!” he says. “See if the snow shut the trains down.”

I freeze.

The journal! Those four numbers hit right when Sophie called me.

8 12 3 24

R I N G

Three pages of winning numbers with that word beneath them. I turn to the jackpot page and check the corresponding letters on the chart.

“Maybe the news’ll tell us,” says the bartender, flipping the channel.

The anchor is reporting live from the scene of a train accident. Twisted wreckage is bathed in flames, flames that sear into my wide, naked eyes.

14 54 19 24 40 31

D E R A I L

“Jesus!” gasps the bartender, as the camera zooms into a fiery green jacket draped amongst the jagged steel. “Well, somebody’s gotta lose too, right?”