I.

     "This is the one, I can feel it." Laurie sat unevenly on the stool, resting her elbows on the counter to keep balance. She had a lottery ticket in her hand and was staring unblinking at a small television screen mounted on the back wall of the bar. It was 9 o'clock, and the numbers were about to be called. She held her breath, believing it would somehow help her chances, and rubbed the card in her hand, feeling the scratch of the soft paper on her nails.

      There were people seated on either side of her, all staring at the screen with the same level of hopeful suspicion. They looked tired and dusty, and most of them hadn’t seen their homes since dawn. Some had come straight from the rock quarry that employed half the town, trailing grease and rock-dust across the floor with them. Some were gripping half-empty glasses almost tight enough to shatter. Others had forgotten cigarettes slowly burning down to ash columns.

      A laugh broke out in the right side of the bar over a joke about women and money. Laurie didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, watching a beautiful woman approach the lottery machine. The woman introduced herself and gave a presenting wave to the machine as the first ball was drawn - 17.

      Laurie's heart skipped. She knew she had a 17 - she was 17 years old when her father died from throat cancer. The next number flew out - 34, the same age she was when she was divorced. Two for two. Laurie's eyes widened; her throat burned. She hadn't let go of her breath yet. The next numbers came out quickly - 25, 57, 63, and 18. Her breath came out in a loud groan and she threw the ticket to the side.

      "Well, I didn't win." She said to a man sitting next to her. Her voice came out strained and chain-smoked, and she was quietly fighting a coughing fit she knew was on deck. She adjusted herself on the stool and wiped her hands on her jeans. "I didn't win, but I'm still a winner."

      "You’re always a winner." The man next to her said, throwing his own losing ticket to the side. "You wake up, you’re a winner."

      “Oh yes,” she said. “God is good.”

 

      Donny sat alone in the corner of the bar, peering at those gathered around the counter through squinted eyes. They’re failures, he said to himself. But they keep going, swearing to each other they’ll get it next time. But they won’t. No one ever wins here. What’d be the point? His mother called the lottery a tax on the uneducated, and he couldn’t disagree.

      It was dark in the corner but he preferred it that way. He liked the spot best because it had the only stool on that side of the flip-top counter, and he knew the light socket above hadn’t worked in years. The dark helped to ease his headaches. The rest of the bar was lit in a dull orange cut through with shades of blue and red neon from beer signs casually hung on each wall. There was a picture hanging above the bar-counter showing an old, heavyset man with a couple women sitting on his lap and a beer in his hand. A small metal placard underneath read “Victor 1943-2015 Rest in Peace.”

      The air in the bar seemed to lift and change, gathering enthusiasm as the lottery crowd ordered their next beers. Someone had played Dr. John on the jukebox, adding to the weird nature of the bar. Donny adjusted himself, feeling the rough wood of the stool push against the butt of his jeans. He leaned his shoulders back and heard a comforting crack of tired bones, then slumped forward. Tired bones….tired life, he thought. His long brown hair fell over his face and he could smell dried sweat and the earthy odor of gravel.

      He put his hands on the counter and stretched out his fingers, noticing thick layers of dirt built under each fingernail. His skin was sagged and gray; a result of long nights finding the bottom of a bottle. There was dirt caked into the lines of his face, creating a look of dark scars. He thought it over for a moment and decided it’d been at least a week since he last showered.

      “Heya Donny.” Dolores appeared from a doorway that lead to the back of the bar. She was wearing a grayed tour shirt cut off at the arms with faded blue jeans and a white dishrag thrown over her shoulder. “Whatcha havin?”  She brushed her dark hair out of her face. It was long and styled, with a loose braid on the side that made her look messy from far away.

      “Same.” he said, raising his empty glass and tapping it with his finger. He couldn’t remember if it had been Dolores who served him earlier, and followed it up with “Whiskey Ginger.”

      “Want somethin’ to eat sweetie? I just threw in some fries that should be done soon.”

      “No.” he said. “Drink’s fine.”

      “You sure?” She thought he was getting too skinny, and probably had a point - he only ate when his body forced him to, and even then it was hit or miss. He looked at her and shook his head no, moving the empty glass against the counter.

      “Sure thing, honey.” She took the empty glass and walked away. He figured that most women bartenders acted sweet on every guy to help fill their pocket at the end of the night. He didn’t mind; any attention was good.

      Donny had a lot of respect for Dolores, especially with Victor dead almost a year. Victor had been running the bar for longer than anyone could remember, and when he passed, he left it to a son that was living up North near the city. The kid rarely gave the bar a second thought, so Dolores was left handling all the day-to-day operations. As far as Dolores was concerned, it would always be Victor’s bar.

      She walked over with Donny’s drink and hesitated, raising her shoulders slightly, before she put it in front of him. He took the glass and tipped it slightly to say thanks, then took a long drink, noticing that she hadn’t moved and was still standing in front of him. Her hands were on the edge of the counter and she was eyeing him with a pained expression on her face.

      “What?” he asked.

      “It’s busy tonight, huh?” she said uncomfortably. There was another break of laughter from the side of the bar, and he could see Artie Harris sitting in the middle, his face red from laughing.

      “Sure is.” Donny said, groaning slightly.

       “Yeah, it always gets this way when the numbers get called.” She leaned on the bar and moved close so no one else could hear. “Listen Donny…” she whispered. “I just wanted to know...is everything okay? How’ve you been getting on?” She frowned, attempting to look concerned. He thought she looked constipated.

      “Uh,” he said “Yeah. I’m, uh...I’m fine.” He shrugged and took a long sip from his drink, feeling the alcohol burn down his throat, and coughed into his hand. She scrunched her nose and braced herself on the corner of the counter, looking slightly nauseous.

      “Okay.” She forced out. Her concern had gone away for now. “Good. That’s good. Just let me know if you need anything else.” She walked away and he stared at his drink, shrugging his shoulders again. His head was throbbing from an oncoming migraine. He closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead, thumbing a deep scar above his right eye where the skin sunk into a small crevice in his skull; the impact point from a rock the size of a baseball.

      “Holy s**t!” said a loud voice behind him. “Look who it is!” Artie Harris was standing with a quarter-filled pint glass in his hand. He was wearing an old football jersey that was stretched over his wide gut. His hair was cut short in a military style and he had a big smile on his red face which Donny now understood was from the beer.

      “Artie.” replied Donny. He nodded his head and turned back around, taking another long sip from his drink, trying to finish it so he could leave as soon as possible.

      “Well s**t man, how’ve ya been?” Artie grabbed his arm and smacked his back roughly, leaning against the counter next to him. Donny shrugged, trying not to engage him. His head was hurting bad and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He grabbed his forehead and squeezed his temple.

      “Goddamn man!” Artie said, pointing at Donny’s scar. “That’s where you landed, huh?” Donny nodded and Artie laughed loudly. “Damn man, that sucks! You look scary as s**t, ha ha ha!”

      “Hey what’s your f****n’ problem, huh?” Donny felt hot; his heart was beating hard in his chest. He slid off the stool and faced Artie full-on. “I’m trying to finish my drink here.” Artie dropped his smile and put his drink down. Dolores walked over and placed the dishrag on the counter in between them.

      “Is everything alright here?” She asked, looking at both of them. Artie was facing Donny with his hands in fists. Donny was ready.

      Artie watched him for a moment and relaxed his arms. “Sure Doll.” He said. “Just saying hi to my friend here. Let’s all just relax, huh?” He took a long sip of his drink and the smile returned to his face. “By the way, how’s Jimmy?”

      “Don’t you…” Donny’s right eye closed from a sharp pain signaling the migraine in full power. He grabbed the counter hard enough for the skin over his knuckles to turn white. A pressure had built up in his skull that made his temples throb and his jaw hurt. “Don’t you ever f****n’ say his name you goddamn pig!”

      There was movement behind Artie and three more men were standing with him. Donny didn’t recognize two of them but he could make out Roland Moon, the town’s only Native American; 6’2 with calloused knuckles and a reputation for causing pain. He braced himself for the beating he was about to get and hoped they would lay off his face. He could barely stand from the pain already in his head; he didn’t need anymore.

      “Alright, enough of this bullshit!” Dolores yelled. She opened the flip-top and stood in front of Donny, her sweet face masked in rage. “I think you’ve had enough. Just get on home tonight!” She pointed to the door the way a mother would discipline a child just sent to their room.

Donny looked from Dolores to the four men ready to pounce and he relaxed his hands. His shoulders slumped and he grabbed his glass, taking the rest of his drink in one large mouthful. Dolores hadn’t moved; her face was sending a message of dying patience. He looked behind her one more time and turned toward the door.

      “I’m gone. I’m gone.” he said. He dropped his face as he walked past the tables, knowing the rest of the bar was watching him. Artie was smiling widely, feeling triumphant. It only took four of you, thought Donny as he reached the door. It opened into a cold night air, closing with a loud thud that was felt throughout the bar. Dolores had put her hands on her sides and was staring wide-eyed at Artie.

      “Why are you such an a*****e?” Dolores said, and walked stiffly back behind the bar.

      “What?” he said, grinning again as he turned back to the men behind him. “I was just sayin’ hi?”