John Stevens pulled off the highway into the lot of the combination gas station and miniature market. He drove forward to the pumps and turned off the aging van. The silence roared loudly in his ears.
He had been on the road since just after dawn, it was now late afternoon.
He stretched and then eased his tired, cramped body down out of the drivers seat.
Setting the gasoline pump nozzle to fill his tank, he headed towards the store.
A sign pointing to rest rooms diverted him to the side and he cured a large portion of his discomfort.
Some time later he squeezed the last few drops of gas into his tank and replaced the nozzle into the pump.
Heading back to the market he noticed how each of them had begun to resemble one another all across the country. With only minor variations, such as in places that allowed gambling or lottery's. This one sported a large lottery printer next to the cash register.
He picked through this stores version of pre-made tasteless sandwiches, grabbed a bag of generic potato chips and refilled his travel mug from the coffee pot. Gathering up his selections he moved to the counter.
A cute blonde girl in her early twenties looked up from her book. She seemed to shrink back into herself at the sight of John. Another portion of John's discomfort stabbed at him momentarily.
"Is that all?" asked the blonde, looking at the gas counter instead of at John.
"No, give me a lottery quick pick too." mumbled John.
The girl poked a button on the lotto machine and it spit a ticket out the top. The girl pulled it out and handed it to John.
"That will be $24.56 with the Gas." said the girl.
John fished a twenty and a five out of his wallet and handed them to the girl.
"Oh, can I get a receipt for the gas?" he asked.
The girl frowned but nodded. She grabbed a gas voucher pad and scribbled out the receipt by hand. Making certain to exactly fill in the price of the fuel. She handed it to John along with the coins from his change and instantly went back to her book.
John fumbled with his change and selections and managed to make it back out to the Van. The girl hadn't offered him a sack to make the task easier. He got the door open and leaned in to set his load on the center console. He spilled some of his coffee in the process and cussed as he set about wiping it up. He finally hauled himself into the drivers seat and started the van.
He pulled off to the side of the lot to eat his lunch where he would be out of the way. He thoughtfully watched the girl in the store as he ate.
"One of these days, you'll get yours!" he mused to himself.
He didn't mean it.
John had never gotten along with women very well. The few he had had dealings with had only taken advantage of him and then left. He had an ex-wife and a child who didn't know him, or care to.
He pushed the thought out of his head, finished his lunch and hit the road once more.
Days later John was reclining on a motel bed several states away. He was browsing through a publication that offered surplus government property and real estate for re-sale . He'd picked it up from a free dispenser from yet another market. You could probably get any of the property it listed cheaper, but you'd have to know how.
Some of it was quite amusing.
One 50 acre plot of land with obsolete missile silo dead center, $562,000.
The ad included a general location and contact numbers.
"That would be kind of neat." thought John to himself. "Complete with High Speed Sunroof!"
He chuckled at his own joke and reached over to turn out the light. He had another long day of driving to do the next day. John fell asleep wondering what someone would want with a used Missile Silo.
At four twenty six A.M. his eyes slammed open and he knew.
He fumbled for his pack of smokes as he thought about the concept flooding into his psyche.
A missile silo... good god it must be over a hundred fifty feet deep and forty to fifty feet in diameter. Talk about room! The majority of it resided in earth that remained at a constant 56 degrees year round, talk about energy efficient! It was bound to be out in the middle of nowhere, talk about privacy! If there were only some way for him to pull it off.
John's credit wasn't the best on the planet. Several corporate downsizes and a marriage downsize had left him flat ass busted. He owed people in six different states, not to mention the IRS and several State tax commission's. His ex-wife was threatening him with hard time for his arrears.
"But what a neat place to live!" he mumbled to himself as he stabbed out his smoke and looked at the clock.....
He moaned a bit at the thought of an early wake-up call. He flicked off the light and tried to force himself to sleep as his mind raced along full of budding construction plans and ideas about solar heat and power.
The morning found him groggy as he stumbled to the shower. His mind already back working on the idea of the silo as a house.
Two days and several more states later, John was listening to the only thing a radio will pick up in the wide open spaces of the West; staticy AM.
The stations format was that of a right wing talk show. On a news break there was a story about a State lottery worth fourteen million dollars that some idiot hadn't claimed at yet. They only had three more days before they lost it.
John punched in a well worn oldies tape to kill the static.
Five miles down the road he suddenly swerved to the side and slammed on the brakes.
His hands were shaking and his breath came in gasps as he searched through his wallet for the ticket he had purchased almost a week previous. He found it rumpled and sandwiched between gas receipts and business cards.
He was shaking so hard he could barely read the numbers. He checked them off one by one as he could remember them from the news broadcast; "14, 23, 33, 31, 45 and 27 as the bonus".
John let out a holler like a kid on his first drunk; he was a millionaire!
After he screamed himself hoarse and then smoked himself relatively calm once more, he suddenly sobered.
He had a piece of paper that was worth fourteen million dollars in his wallet. He was a day and a half's drive away from the state he had purchased it in, and had about forty-three dollars and change to his name.
He reached under the seat and pulled out the old .357 python he traveled with. He had mostly forgotten about it. He felt a pang of fear over the serious trouble it could have caused him all the times he had gotten speeding tickets and had forgotten that it was even there.
He cracked it open and checked it. Live bullets in five of the six chambers. Just as it should have been. He carefully lowered the hammer onto the empty cylinder and stashed it back, but within easy reach.
He looked in back of the van at the selection of electronics equipment from his sales route.
"Fuck that shit!" he chuckled to himself.
He managed to pull back out on the highway. His mind was racing much faster than the odd car that came careening around him as he toodled along at a slower speed, safer for the old van.
John hated lawyers with a passion. He had never had what could be termed " a pleasurable experience " with any of them. Still, he was no fool. He knew he needed a good tax lawyer... and right now!
As he drove along he formulated plans on what to do, and how to do it best. He had calmed down considerably, but his driving still wasn't the best.
When he pulled into the first 100,000 plus population city on the way he stopped at the first phone booth. He found what he was looking for in the yellow pages under "Banks".
He selected a bank that was a well known chain in the West, but hadn't pissed him off too much in the past. He looked up the address of the main branch in town and scribbled it down. It never occurred to him how he looked.... or smelled. The previous night, to save money and make up time on his route he had slept in his van at a rest stop rather than a motel.
When he walked in and asked to see the manager the teller turned kind of white and half reached for the alarm button.
John's clothes were rumpled, dirty and food stained. His hair greasy and straggly. He had several days growth beard on his face and a wild look in his eye.
When the manager came out he reacted much the same as the teller.
"Could we talk privately about a serious banking problem?" John asked, almost casually.
The Manager motioned the teller with his eyes to keep a close watch as he led John to a glassed office enclosure.
"What can I do for you then, Uh.. Mister...."
"Stevens" John replied, sinking uninvited into a seat.
"So what's this problem you need so urgently to talk about, Mister Stevens?" the manager persisted. (The sooner he got this guy out of his office the better, the smell of old sweat and unwashed clothes was beginning to make him ill.)
John bided his time as he looked about the office. He was savoring the thought of the change he knew he was about to see in this asshole.
"Well... I just suddenly came into a bit of money and I kind of need some investment help and tax advice, I think that maybe your bank is big enough to handle it."
"I see" said the manager putting his hands together, "Perhaps you could be better served by one of our investment counselors. Shall I see when I can book you an appointment with one? Just how much money did you ... uh come by?"
"Uh... fourteen million dollars.. but if you're too busy, perhaps I'll just pick another bank." John said softly.
"Perhaps that would be..." The manager abruptly stopped talking. He turned half white and cleared his throat. Out at the counter the teller poised her finger over the alarm button.
Finally he said: "Excuse me, but I thought I heard you say fourteen million dollars."
"You heard right" said John, chuckling. "Now, do you have the time to talk to me, or should I pick another bank?"
"Well, no. Of course I have the time to talk to you. I try to make time for all our customers...... Forgive me, but if you don't mind my asking: Just how did you come by this sum of money?" he managed to croak out. He was still dubious, but the sum in question demanded he treat the matter seriously.
"I won the lottery..." John replied, grinning like a saber toothed tiger.
"The lottery... We don't have a lottery in this state." replied the manager curtly. He started to turn a bit red, thinking he had been led on.
"Didn't say I'd won it here." replied John looking at his fingernails. He happened to notice how dirty they were and it reminded him of his overall condition. He sat up straight and reached for his wallet.
The manager leaned back suddenly like John was reaching for a gun. The teller's finger descended on the button and all hell broke loose.
"What the hell's that?" asked John swiveling around in his chair.
"You'd be well advised to give it up now." the manager gasped out. He didn't realize that his own action had spooked the teller. He thought that maybe the teller had seen John reaching for a gun or something that he couldn't see.
"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded John, puzzled, looking around anxiously.
"The police are already on their way. You'd be well advised to give up quietly?" stuttered the manager, rolling his chair back away from his desk and John.
"What the fuck are you talking about? I was just reaching for my lottery ticket to show you." stammered John.
Just then the police descended on the bank. The teller pointed to the managers office and within seconds, John found himself thrown roughly face down on the carpet. The carpet burned his cheek and he hit his head on the door jam as the two burly cops slapped the cuffs on his wrists.
"What the fuck is going on?" shouted John.
"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney......." one cop recited from long weary memory.
"What happened here?" the other cop demanded of the Bank Manager.
The manager was pale and speechless. His gaze rested on a lottery ticket strewn with the other papers from Johns wallet when the cops had ripped him out of his seat.
"I think that maybe there has been a very big mistake made here." he finally croaked out.
"Yeah! and you made it, fuckhead!" John spat into the carpet.
"Shut the fuck up, you!" said the cop on top of John, putting his knee on his head and driving his nose further into the carpet.
"No! No! Please let him up! He's done nothing! I think one of my tellers just misinterpreted the situation!" the manager cried.
"What?" asked both cops at once.
"MR. STEVENS is valued customer at this bank! Please let him up!" the manager said, authority returning to his voice... for perhaps the last time.
"FUCK YOU! If you think I'd do business with this bank now!" John mumbled into the carpet.
"I told you to shut up!" said the cop on top of him. Kneeling harder on his head.
"So this guy didn't try to rob your bank?" asked the other cop.
"No, he didn't. It was all a big mistake. NOW PLEASE, LET HIM UP!"
"O-kay... " said the cop on John's head, slowly getting up but putting more pressure on it as he did so. He reached down and began to undo the handcuffs, straining John's aching arms up higher on his back as he did so.
John slowly lifted his head. Six more cops now waited just outside the office, guns drawn, waiting for the slightest good reason to shoot him. John didn't give them one as he slowly got to his knees. Blood ran out of his nose and into his mustache. His head throbbed where he had hit the door jam. He slowly gathered up his papers and wallet, gripping the lottery ticket tightly when he found it. He stuffed the rest into his pockets.
"I'm so sorry about all this MR. STEVENS!" moaned the bank manager, "I hope this won't influence your decision to do business with our institution."
John slowly looked at him as he pulled out a handkerchief and applied it to his nose.
"Fuck You!" he said simply.
"Hey, watch your mouth!" said the cop who had been on John's head.
John looked at him and then looked around at the other cops who were putting their guns away, slowly, with a disappointed look on their faces.
"Who's in charge here?" John demanded.
"I am! It's my case." said the cop who had been talking.
"There is no case, so you aren't. Who's your watch commander?" John demanded.
"I am." said one of the disappointed ones. "You'll have to make any complaints through the Attorney Generals office though."
"I've got no complaints... yet . I just want your protection while I walk across the street to another bank." John said.
"Why would you need protection to do that?" asked the commander.
"Because this Lottery ticket is worth fourteen million dollars !" said John, holding it up.
There was a gasp and then a sudden silence in the crowd of police and on-lookers.
Finally the watch commander recovered himself and said: "I'd be glad to accompany you SIR."
"Yeah, I thought you would." John. mumbled.
"But Mister Stevens, this was all just a big mistake. You don't have to go elsewhere." stammered the Bank Manager.
Everyone ignored him as they followed John out the door.
Suddenly John was a celebrity who needed protection. The cops fanned out and stopped traffic for him like he was the President. Scanning the rooftops for unsuspected lotto terrorists.
John didn't care that this particular bank had once pissed him off with an outrageous overdraft charge. He walked straight up to the managers desk with the watch commander at his side and giving the manager no time to utter a word, stated: "This is the winning lottery ticket for a fourteen million dollar State lottery. I'd like your assistance in collecting it."
"Certainly Sir!" stammered the Manager jumping up. "If you'll just have a seat!".
Back in the first bank the other manager looked after the parade of police spread out around the doors and then down at the blood stains on his carpet. He could sense the upward motion of his career had come to a screeching halt.
"Shut off that god damned alarm!" he yelled to the teller.