| New Hampshire Writers |
 |
 |
 |
| Ticket By Steve Bass |
The ticket was brittle in Jordan’s cold hands. When his numbers came up, he’d turn off the TV in his street level apartment,
throw his toothbrush and some underwear in a bag, grab Julia around the waist and hail a taxi for the nearest airport. They’
d fly to Mexico and he would tip waiters with ten dollar bills. He’d wear a big hat and a shirt with the buttons open to show
his chest hair. He’d lose weight and get a tan, or maybe just get fat and burn. He’d hold Julia. They’d watch the sun set.
Her hair would get long and they would speak Spanish to the locals and the old women would sit behind tables of fruit and
point and shake their heads at young love, true love. They would never have to worry about landlords, parking tickets,
utility bills, or catching the bus.
Jordan folded the lottery ticket and put it deep in his jeans pocket. He took his cell phone out of the other pocket and sent
a text message. “Bought a lotto ticket, and today’s our lucky day :) Got a kiss ready for you when I get home.” Every day,
she stopped the planets from turning and the stars from burning in his universe. Julia was the reason he punched his
timecard in everyday and pulled on his hardhat.
When he was lucky, his road crew worked near the city and he could come home every night. But often they would get a
job on the far side of the state and he’d have to be gone for up to a week at a time. Still, Jordan jack hammered until the
blisters inside his blisters turned into hard calluses. He poured asphalt until he was nauseous, sweated until he was dizzy.
His paychecks came, and so long as Jordan kept thinking about what it would be like when he finally escaped and took
Julia with him, he was able not to stop.
He waited at the bus stop, huddling against the biting, trickling cold. Jordan made his way to the back and unloaded
himself into a seat. There were a few others on the bus, all homeward bound. There were a smattering of businessmen
hooked into their Blackberries, poking out a few more emails. There were two young ladies who could be girls, really. They
sat in their seats with their purses efficiently tucked in their laps, heads held high and shoulders square even though they
were tired from carrying a mother’s responsibility.
And sitting all the way in the front of the bus slouched a younger Jordan. His hair was long and his face was full of pimples.
The boy had his earphones in and was bouncing his knees to the beat. His eyes looked out the window, but they didn’t see
tired people walking home from work or dads taking out the trash. He saw a glorious red sunset and bright yellow leaves
and patches of green grass. He got tired of the song he was listening to and changed it. His knees faltered, then picked up
the new rhythm.
The bus nosed down the street until it was Jordan’s turn to get off. He thanked the bus driver and stepped down. His
hands in his pockets, he fingered the ticket. Julia, Mexico, sun, rest. A life of leisure. He would kiss Julia all day long. His
hands would get soft. They’d be free.
As he walked up to the step, he pulled the lottery ticket out of his pocket and let it drop to the sidewalk. It floated back and
forth on its way down, in no particular hurry. The numbers were 18, 45, 3, 7, and 78. The super pick was 67. They were
last week’s winning numbers, and Jordan had picked them from yesterday’s paper. The chances of them winning again
were next to nothing. Jordan took the steps in one stride and unlocked his door. Julia came into the hallway. She stepped
into his arms and looked up at him, and he saw his whole world.
She asked, “Got your text. Think you’re gonna win?”
He smiled. “I already did.”
See More of Steve's work at
http://basstales.blogspot.com/