the overspray.
Exhausted from the shift and without a place to stay, they eased their car into the back parking lot of Simonson’s Fuel and Food, a truck stop on the Minnesota side of the border along the interstate. They hid the vehicle among the rows of parked trucks and attempted to catch some sleep. The light from Simonson’s towering pink neon sign flooded the car and seeped into their dreams in which they were struggling to stay afloat in a sea of Pepto-Bismol.
A knuckle rapped on the car window, startling Eduardo. He rose abruptly from his curled position on the front seat, banged his head on the steering wheel, and fumbled to crack open the window.
“This ain’t no campground.” A rat-faced man with a moustache directed his squeaky voice through the opening.
“No problem, we’re leaving.” Eduardo yielded to the authority of the Simonson’s Food and Fuel patch on the man’s jacket.
Eduardo reached into the back seat to roust Rafie and spotted a FedEx box underneath his head. “Get up,” he growled, and yanked the box, bouncing Rafie’s head into the car door armrest.
“Hey?” Rafie protested.
The FedEx box, full of lottery tickets, had been jammed under the back passenger seat and overlooked when loading the convenience store cache into Alita’s apartment. Rafie, foraging for comfort, had dug the box out and appropriated it for a pillow. Eduardo lifted out the bundles of pink tickets secured with rubber bands and laid them on the dashboard.
“Hey, man.” Rafie rubbed the sleep out of his eyes; the revelation of the tickets was coming into focus. “Maybe we should FedEx them back to Canada.” Rafie pointed at the shipping label.
“Shut the fuck up! If you weren’t so stupid, you’d be funny.” Eduardo swatted at Rafie and continued sorting the tickets.
“Wait here.” Eduardo slammed the car door and entered the truck stop. He handed the clerk fifty lottery tickets.
“Looks like you got some winners here,” the mustached clerk, who only moments ago had tried to evict Eduardo from the parking lot, said enthusiastically.
“All right!” Eduardo high-fived the clerk, then quickly tamped down his eagerness. “Might have a few more tickets in the car,” he said as he backed out of the store, quick to seize on the opportunity. “I’ll be right back.”
“Rafie, hand me another stack of tickets.”
Rafie watched Eduardo head back into the store and flipped open the glove compartment. He pulled out the Irishman’s cell phone and dialed Alita. “Hey, Alita, Rafie. Just called to say, we’re cool. We’re living large, Eddie’s cashin’ out right …” the phone beeped three times and went dead. A battery icon with a diagonal line slicing through it appeared. “Shit!” Rafie banged the phone on the sole of his shoe in an attempt to beat some juice back into the battery. “Just wanted to share the good news,” he said to no one, tossing the dead phone on the dashboard.
“Pretty good streak of luck—$810,” the clerk said, keeping track of the winning tickets presented by Eduardo. “Newspaper says the winner of the $750-million-dollar ticket is still floating around out there. Couple of more matches and you could have been the big winner.”
“No matter, just playin’ for fun,” Eduardo said, poker-faced, trying to diffuse the attention.
“Say,” the clerk said, fingering through the till. “I don’t quite have that much cash on hand. Need anything?”
Eduardo kicked at the car door. “Rafie, give me a hand,” he said. His arms were loaded with beer, snack food, motor oil, and scratch-off game cards; a wad of cash bulged from his shirt pocket.
Rafie tore at a bag of chips and opened a beer. “You got all this from a couple of ticket bundles? Let’s go in and cash ’em all. To hell with that slaughterhouse.”
“We don’t want to call attention to ourselves,” Eduardo cautioned. “Better to take this down the road.”
“Yeah, like all the way to
Exhausted from the shift and without a place to stay, they eased their car into the back parking lot of Simonson’s Fuel and Food, a truck stop on the Minnesota side of the border along the interstate. They hid the vehicle among the rows of parked trucks and attempted to catch some sleep. The light from Simonson’s towering pink neon sign flooded the car and seeped into their dreams in which they were struggling to stay afloat in a sea of Pepto-Bismol.
A knuckle rapped on the car window, startling Eduardo. He rose abruptly from his curled position on the front seat, banged his head on the steering wheel, and fumbled to crack open the window.
“This ain’t no campground.” A rat-faced man with a moustache directed his squeaky voice through the opening.
“No problem, we’re leaving.” Eduardo yielded to the authority of the Simonson’s Food and Fuel patch on the man’s jacket.
Eduardo reached into the back seat to roust Rafie and spotted a FedEx box underneath his head. “Get up,” he growled, and yanked the box, bouncing Rafie’s head into the car door armrest.
“Hey?” Rafie protested.
The FedEx box, full of lottery tickets, had been jammed under the back passenger seat and overlooked when loading the convenience store cache into Alita’s apartment. Rafie, foraging for comfort, had dug the box out and appropriated it for a pillow. Eduardo lifted out the bundles of pink tickets secured with rubber bands and laid them on the dashboard.
“Hey, man.” Rafie rubbed the sleep out of his eyes; the revelation of the tickets was coming into focus. “Maybe we should FedEx them back to Canada.” Rafie pointed at the shipping label.
“Shut the fuck up! If you weren’t so stupid, you’d be funny.” Eduardo swatted at Rafie and continued sorting the tickets.
“Wait here.” Eduardo slammed the car door and entered the truck stop. He handed the clerk fifty lottery tickets.
“Looks like you got some winners here,” the mustached clerk, who only moments ago had tried to evict Eduardo from the parking lot, said enthusiastically.
“All right!” Eduardo high-fived the clerk, then quickly tamped down his eagerness. “Might have a few more tickets in the car,” he said as he backed out of the store, quick to seize on the opportunity. “I’ll be right back.”
“Rafie, hand me another stack of tickets.”
Rafie watched Eduardo head back into the store and flipped open the glove compartment. He pulled out the Irishman’s cell phone and dialed Alita. “Hey, Alita, Rafie. Just called to say, we’re cool. We’re living large, Eddie’s cashin’ out right …” the phone beeped three times and went dead. A battery icon with a diagonal line slicing through it appeared. “Shit!” Rafie banged the phone on the sole of his shoe in an attempt to beat some juice back into the battery. “Just wanted to share the good news,” he said to no one, tossing the dead phone on the dashboard.
“Pretty good streak of luck—$810,” the clerk said, keeping track of the winning tickets presented by Eduardo. “Newspaper says the winner of the $750-million-dollar ticket is still floating around out there. Couple of more matches and you could have been the big winner.”
“No matter, just playin’ for fun,” Eduardo said, poker-faced, trying to diffuse the attention.
“Say,” the clerk said, fingering through the till. “I don’t quite have that much cash on hand. Need anything?”
Eduardo kicked at the car door. “Rafie, give me a hand,” he said. His arms were loaded with beer, snack food, motor oil, and scratch-off game cards; a wad of cash bulged from his shirt pocket.
Rafie tore at a bag of chips and opened a beer. “You got all this from a couple of ticket bundles? Let’s go in and cash ’em all. To hell with that slaughterhouse.”
“We don’t want to call attention to ourselves,” Eduardo cautioned. “Better to take this down the road.”
“Yeah, like all the way to
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