One April Morning
A BigCloset/TopShelf Story Challenge Presented By
Erin Halfelven and Authored by Jenchris

The street sign pointed only one way, the little lane met the larger street but did not continue on the other side. A large Craftsman-style home occupied one corner, converted years ago into a sort of rooming-house-cum-residence-hotel-cum-bed-and-breakfast. A big square building with gables and porches, the one-time mansion bore it’s demotion to commercial property with the dignity of a bankrupt financier operating a hot dog wagon.

A woodlot sat on the other corner, a clutter of neat stacks of firewood and seemingly random piles of jumbled logs. The randomness, the owner would say, resulted from the necessary moving and turning of the piles of curing wood. A regular array would be less efficient at the task and would have to be unstacked and restacked to be sure the wood cured evenly. Simply moving the pile from one place to another once a week with an ancient forklift turned all the logs over and assured that each got enough sun and air to turn into perfect firewood.

The lane did not continue past the end of the woodlot or the small row of outbuildings behind the mansion. The house, being the only important building facing the street, bore a singular number and the name of the lane as its address. One April Morning.

On this particular morning, a resident of the former mansion woke to a life-changing discovery....

The radio which had been the reason for him waking was announcing the lottery numbers from the draw the night before — it was a big draw — a monster draw in fact.
It had jackpotted twice and the resulting fortune had whetted our hero’s lust for cash and he’d bought a ticket — the ticket being announced was just a series of numbers, because he had ‘ticked not for publication’ otherwise they may have mentioned his name.
But as he listened, he realised that the numbers were his.
“Well folks,” the radio blared “if you have,” the DJ paused as he read out the numbers, “three, fifteen, eighteen,” Peter’s (our hero) eyes narrowed, “twenty four,” eyes a little wider, “thirty one,” mouth opening now.. “and finally, thirty seven, with supplementaries four and twelve.”
Peter lay there, his heart pounding.. thirty seven… thirty seven — yes it was his numbers all six of them — he’d won — a jackpot, a big jackpot — no, a massive jackpot — 42 million dollars — then a slight slump unless someone else has the numbers too.
Then the realization that even if there were four people which was unlikely he’d still get 10 million dollars — his mouth twisted into a grin that got wider and wider.
“And just to let you know folks the single winner lives in Northern New South Wales.”
Peter could hear the words through the blood rushing in his ears — ‘ohGod OhGod — it’s me- single winner — right here in sunny Pottsville.’

I could barely breath properly — my head hurt from the realization that I was now a multimillionaire.
I stumbled to my feet, not thinking about the day ahead, the work I was expecting to carry out — I looked out the window across the neatly mowed paddock to the road; not a car moved on that little country lane though it was a hundred years old.
No longer would I drive my little sales rep car up that little road to the hinterland to sell my wares. Those days are over. I picked up my phone and speed dialed the office.

“Carl please,” I spoke quietly when Sandra the office girl answered.
“Oh good morning Mr Bright,” I’ll put you through a click and the boss’s phone started to ring.

“Good morning, Carl here, who am I speaking to?” Carl sounded quite affable.
“It’s me Peter, I just called–“
“What do you want you bloody pansy, why aren’t you out there selling instead of bothering me?” Carl sneered down the phone, his affable alter ego switched off.
“Carl, I just phoned to say I won’t be working today–“ I started again.
“Well it’s coming off your holiday pay, and you’ll have to make it up.” Carl interrupted again.
“No Carl I won’t, I am just---“ I tried again, yet again I was interrupted.
“Are you talking to me you piss ant? How long do you expect to keep your job talking to me like that; or get another when everyone knows about your pretty underwear.” I could see his lip curled in distaste as he added the rider that explained why I was still working for him in the first place.

“It’s too late for that asshole I quit.” I put the phone down — I was going to offer to finish the round before I dropped is car off. But now I decided just to check out and drive back to the Gold Coast and drop the car off and post the keys to it up his backside with a shotgun.

The phone rang back,
“Peter, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, but if you don’t get your pantied backside back into that car, you ---“
I just told you I quit. I wasn’t joking and I’ll pick up my pay in about 3 hours after I’ve sorted myself out here.” I clicked the phone off again.
It rang again. “Peter, I’m warning you.” Click off again. I turned the phone off.

After I dressed and packed, I checked my lottery ticket and sighed with relief — no I wasn’t mistaken — all my numbers were there — I had burned my bridges already — I would have been on the street in a jiffy without a job. Now I’n going to get my own back.

The only reason I’m working for Carl( for minimum wages at that) was that he caught me literally with my pants down when he walked into the work toilets and the door which was supposed to be bolted opened to his push.
I was sat there in some pretty swish frillies with my pants round my ankles. I like to wear the stuff, so what?
But to him it was the excuse he wanted to get someone to work for basically nothing and work hard and all hours God sent at that.

Now it’s over.

I rang through to the office on the Bed and Breakfast’s landline and told Sandra to get my regular pay and leave-pay sorted out and put to one side, I’d be picking up my pink slip before lunch time. “Put my pay in my bank account please Sandra, don’t tell Carl until it’s already in there.”

“Peter, what’s going on?” Sandra squeaked.
“Never mind now, I’ll tell you later.” I put the phone down.
I slurped a coffee, checked out and drove into town.
The newsagent where I’d bought my lottery ticket was on the main street and I drifted to a stop in the quiet street. I was just about to get out when I realised there was a pair of guys with journalists cameras in the doorway. I backed up a little and went into the solicitor’s office three doors up.
“Is there a solicitor I can see for a few minutes?” I asked the girl on the desk out front.
“Mr Gillespie is in, and he’s just having a coffee so he’s not busy right now, can I get your name sir?”
“Peter Bright.”
“And it’s about?”
“Oh just to verify some paperwork.”
The girl looked across to the office door and buzzed the intercom. “A Mr Bright to see you about some paperwork Mr Gillespie.”
“Send him in.” came a disembodied reply.
He shook my hand as I leaned across the desk “How can I help you Mr Bright?”
He smiled and offered me a seat.
I produced the ticket and asked him to photocopy it and swear on the photocopy that it was a true copy of the original.
He leaned across the desk and looked at the counterfoil — “Oh MY GOD!”
He pointed to a copier on the sideboard. “Just lift the glass and pop it on the tray and press the button. I don’t want to touch it!!” He smiled.
After he’d made a certified copy I shook his hand again and asked him how much I owed him.
“I think we can forget that one, I’ll drink on it for weeks!”
I smiled and walked down to the newsagent with the copy- I passed it over the counter to the girl and asked what I should do with the original.
She looked at the copy for a moment until she realised what it was.. “Jeesuz.”
She picked up the phone surreptitiously and said “He’s here”
The photojournos obviously knew someone was going to pick up the prize and probably from the shop it was bought but they had seen me pass an A4 sheet over the counter rather than a lottery ticket so weren’t paying me much attention.
A door opened in the back of the shop and a nice looking guy in a business suit beckoned to me, using the door to hide from the paparazzi. The girl slipped my copy back to me and I walked over to the back door as nonchalantly as I could.

The suit grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the alley where a limo sat idling softly.
“Good morning, I’m Gerry Sullivan, I represent the Lottery Group.” He held out his hand and a wide smile. “Come and sit with me while we go over the paperwork.”
He opened the back of the limo and sat me down, closed the door and walked round the other side.
The limo softly eased out of the loading bay and we were onto the street passing my car a moment later — the Paparazzi were inside the shop remonstrating with the shop girl.
The limo stopped briefly and the passenger in the front seat turned and asked me for my car keys. “What for?” I asked frowning.
“I’ll pick it up and we can convoy up to the Lottery Building in Brisbane.”
“Oh, could you do me a favour and stop on the way at Video Land in Surfers Paradise? I’ll drop off the car at my office and pick up me severance pay.”
“My you don’t waste time do you ?” The guy smiled as I handed over my keys.
In an hour we were over the paperwork and pulling up outside the shoddy warehouse that housed the Video business.
I took the keys back and walked into the office. I smiled at the surprised looking Sandra and dropped them on the counter.
“Hi pet, you got my pay ready?”
“Yes Peter, but you’d better be sure, Carl isn’t amused and he’s spitting feathers.”
“Tell him I said hello,” I smiled again as I took the envelope from Sandra’s hand and walked out.
I waved as I got into the limo — I could see Sandra standing in the doorway with her m mouth wide open.

That part of my life was now over.