Only Once, Josiah!

Only once, Josiah!

The memory of that moment when he saw the notebook in the grass still lingered fresh in Josiah Guerra's mind. It looked rather shabby and its black leather covers were stained by moisture, proving it was lying there for some time, by the legs of a wooden bench near the entrance in Vigilante Bike Park. Josiah wasn't one of those bikers with fluorescent pants and ridiculous headphones gathering on Facebook. Josiah didn't even have a bike. The only reason he came in the park next to the railroad that cuts through Helena, was to enjoy his cheeseburger during the lunch break. He only had to cross the inner courtyard of the warehouse, and in three minutes he was on the Centennial Trail. On the north side there were always free benches.

He used to tell Phill Collins, his boss, that he was gone for forty-five minutes, so he wouldn't have to shout after him if a customer came in.

That day, however, Josiah left the warehouse without warning his manager. And without the usual brown paper bag from McDonald’s, where the Maxi King menu was waiting. That day Phill had summoned him into his office around 10 o'clock, and with a gloomy air, without looking at him, he asked him to take a seat. Josiah's fists clenched involuntarily and his jaw contracted. He was actually expecting this meeting for a few days, but he hoped, in the depths of his soul, that it would take place much later, at least not for the next two months.

"You know, Josiah," Phill began cautiously, "our warehouse activity has dropped by thirty-five percent in the last year. Due to the pandemic, people saved money and they preferred to repair their broken refrigerator, instead of throwing it away and buying a new one. Tourism has also collapsed, so the same for hotels and restaurants…”

Well, yes, Josiah was aware of all this. He didn't need to poke his nose into the company's records, he could see with his own eyes the almost empty three-acre yard, where nothing moved for weeks. And about the broken refrigerator, that wasn't news to him either. But Josiah, unlike Helena's other thrifty residents, had just become unemployed the next day after his refrigerator stopped working. It’s true, it had been running continuously for twelve years.

"And if I didn't have to pay the lease on this yard and the property tax, believe me, dear Josiah, I would not let you go." But no…

Visibly embarrassed, Phill stood up, this time looking deep into his interlocutor's eyes, meaning he had nothing more to add.

Josiah put his hat on and went out, muttering a barely heard "Hello, Phill." He then went to the locker room to take his things. Next week he will receive the last paycheck. Five hundred dollars he must spend very wisely. However, it will not be enough to pay the rent – this was the reason why he wanted two more months on the job. When he went out into the yard, under the blinding sunlight, he heard Phill shout through the half-open door of his office, asking if he was OK and if he needed anything.

He didn't stop to answer. Carrying his personal belongings in a backpack and the McDonald's bag in one hand, he walked looking down, dragging his feet. The burden on his soul was getting heavier and heavier. He noticed someone moving slowly between the railroad tracks about a hundred feet away. When Josiah got closer he could see that he was an old Cheyenne chief, uttering something unintelligible, in a flat tone, with rhythmic accents, spinning slowly, his eyes staring at the ground.

"Hey, old Wolf On The Hill," Josiah shouted, "watch out for the Billings Express – it is about to come."

The man didn't seem to pay any attention to him. He was dressed in a long, white shirt embroidered with horse heads. He wore a headband over his pitch-black hair, holding an eagle feather. He raised his forehead and spoke through his teeth, in that undulating rhythm, like a mountain river hoping between stones:

"Only once, Josiah!"

Josiah's eyes widened and the words he wanted to say perished on his lips. In the distance, an orange dot appeared on the rails, which soon took on a square shape growing by each second. The Billings Express was on time. Josiah put his bag with the Mac Donalds menu in plain sight, five feet from the embankment, and moved back a few steps. After waiting a minute or so, seeing that the train stopped at the signal before entering Helena station, the man lost his patience. He threw a last warning to the chief ("Hey, old Black Foot, watch out for the train!"), before starting to run back to the warehouse. He stopped in front of the small manager’s office and shouted through the open window:

"What am I going to do, Phill, with my little girl? Angela just enrolled in college. How much money can I pay for her education now? How will I go home and tell her ‘My dear, you will have put on hold your studies, I was fired’, huh?"

Phill was with his back to the window, caught in a heated phone conversation. The rumble of the passing train, covered Josiah’s voice, and that was the reason why the manager could not hear a single word his former employee said. He just turned in his chair and waved at him, smiling, like saying goodbye.

Josiah gave up and left. He arrived where the Cheyenne chief was just minutes earlier, only to find that he had left already. The paper bag was gone too, and that, surprisingly, made him happy. He crossed the rails and went to his favorite bench at the edge of the bike track. He closed his eyes, banishing any thoughts from his mind. When he awoke from his reverie, he noticed the black notebook in the grass next to the bench. He leaned over, took it, and browsed through it. There were just numbers, many numbers lined up on dozens of pages. Nothing else. Bored, he closed it and threw it behind the bench. Whoever lost the notebook will probably come after it, he thought.

When he arrived home, Angela was out. He began to wash the dishes. Maybe it was a good idea, however, to remarry. He'll give a serious thought about that as soon as he’ll somehow land on a job again. He had been without a woman next to him for over a year, since Emma's death, and he felt a little sour. He saw Angela's note on the fridge door ("Dad, you need eggs, milk and some chicken. Paul is coming by tonight. And by the way, see what you can do about the fridge!"). Josiah opened a can of beer and slumped on the couch, remote control in hand. He fell asleep before finishing the drink. About two hours later, the noise from the TV woke him up. For the moment he did not understand what was happening, but he quickly figured out that they were broadcasting the lottery draw. He blinked disoriented and turned off the device. But he turned it on right after, a wild thought flashing through his mind: numbers!

The owner of the notebook he found next to the bench in the park had certainly made some statistics that might prove useful. Josiah had never played the lottery - he had no idea how to do it - but the thought that the notebook had been laid right under his nose by the hand of the Heavens pulled him out of the hopeless lethargy into which he had fallen. He put on his sneakers and rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind. He lived about three miles from the bike park. He couldn't wait for the bus at the station. He took Dodge Ave, then turned right onto St. Cedar. In thirty minutes, sweaty and panting like dog after a chase, he was again in front of the bench. The notebook was still where he had thrown it earlier.

He thanked the same celestial powers who had overlooked his indifference and ungratefulness that morning and grabbed it quickly, as if he was afraid that someone else would take it first. He opened it, but the state of excitement in which he was prevented him from analyzing it lucidly for a few minutes. He sat on the bench and gradually, as his breathing slowed, he realized what he had under his eyes: no more, no less than a list of one- or two-digit numbers, grouped five by line. He flipped through the pages and found that there were no numbers greater than 54. His assumption that he had a series of lottery draws in front of him was strengthened when he noticed that next to each line of five numbers there was a check mark, drawn with a pen. The owner had checked them once, or processed them statistically. But there was no other clue. No calendar date, not even the name of the lottery. Nothing to help him in any way in solving the puzzle.

He closed the notebook and looked disappointed at the useless, shabby object thrown by who knows who. He crammed it into the back pocket of his pants and headed home, walking slowly this time. He entered Walmart and bought a fried chicken, a six pack of Bud, a dozen eggs and a carton of milk. When he arrived home and saw the refrigerator, he remembered that it was broken. He left the food on the table and threw himself on the bed, with his face in the pillow.

Two hours later he woke up, took the notebook out of his pocket and opened it. He realized something he hadn’t noticed before: all the numbers were written by the same hand, with the same ink, with impeccable handwriting. However, the check marks were inked with different colors. And he noticed another thing: starting somewhere in the middle of the notebook, the series were no longer ticked. He stared at the page where the side marks stopped, looking alternately at the last ticked series and the next after it, the first of the unchecked ones. He stared at these numbers for so long that they almost were imprinted on his retina. Then he jerked out of his chair, put on his shoes, and went out into the street. Half a mile down the road there was a small convenience store, where he usually bought cigarettes.

“Hi, Johnny! A lottery ticket, please. For whatever drawing is next. Just a cheap one. No, I’ll fill it myself” he replied when asked if he wanted a prefilled ticket.

He headed for the exit, but changed his mind in front of the door.

"Give me a bottle of Johnny Walker, too," he said with a grin. “I feel like getting under the table tonight!”

That evening, at 11:00 pm, he watched the TV show at the Florida Lottery Studios in Tallahassee, Florida. He was already wasted, but lucid enough to check the numbers. He had guessed all the numbers. The prize was $20,000.

He played in vain after that the next numbers in the notebook, he never won again. He was given the chance to win only once. A week later, he returned to the bicycle park and left the notebook where he had found it, under the same bench – he made sure to check his winning series before that. The laws of statistics said that it would never be drawn again.