"The Last Lottery at Uniontown" by Joe Giordano
Originally published in Ishaan Literary Review in July 2014
Without a winner for six months, the Uniontown lottery prize ballooned to fifty thousand dollars. Excited hearts thumped at the Friday Ridge Academy High’s basketball gymnasium drawing. Butts squirmed on metal folding chairs and courtside stands. Kicked up dust twinkled golden from sunlight that flooded through an array of high windows, and the air smelled of sweat and the planked-wood floor. Necks craned, peering at the raised platform where the mayor and town sheriff sat. Mayor Beecher Plumley had a close-cropped beard and bulged in his vested houndstooth suit. Sheriff Johnson was clean-shaven and wore a white Stetson and a silver star pinned on his gray uniform. Plumley checked his pocket watch. He’d pick from the tumbled numbered balls in a wire cage. A microphone was set up for broadcast on local radio.
Bill and Selma Winter grasped each other’s hands in prayer. Foreclosure loomed on the house that Selma’s mother left them. If the bank threw them into the street, their four kids would be placed into foster care.
Molly Simpson twisted a handkerchief in her fist. Trembling fingers straightened a brunette wig. Her stomach was queasy from chemotherapy. Doctor Blaine, seventy with pure white hair, a few rows ahead, turned to smile and give her a thumbs up. Molly daubed a tear. Blaine told her she needed a liver transplant. A recent stroke caused his speech to slur. Molly was the first baby he delivered, and he promised if he won the lottery, he’d pay for her operation.
Scruffy Billy Skinner grabbed a seat near the front. A Ridge Academy drop-out, he bagged groceries at the IGA. He’d buy a Corvette with the winnings.
From the hundreds in the audience holding a four-number ticket, the Almighty received many silent prayers for a change in luck.
The radio engineer gave Plumley a nod, and the mayor stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to do the honors for the Uniontown Lottery today. I know you’re excited. Somebody will take home a big prize, so let’s get started.”
Plumley opened the revolving cage and plunged his hand in to grab a numbered ball. Everyone stood.
The mayor called out, “Five.”
Groans of disappointment were mixed with upbeat chatter from those still in the running. As Plumley called out the remaining three numbers, almost everyone sank to their seats. Mrs. Winter sobbed. Molly buried her face in her hands. Skinner threw his crumpled ticket aside. Plumley scanned the gymnasium for a sign of exaltation.
Charlie Hutchins, stocking cap, red beard, wrapped in a green-fatigue army jacket raised his fingerless-gloved hand. He lived in a cardboard box in the shadows of the bus station. Last month, local punks lit him on fire while he slept. He saved himself by jumping into the plaza fountain. Hutchins rose from his chair like an unfolding bedroll. People stared in stunned silence as he dragged two over-stuffed shopping bags, everything he owned, onto the stage and plunked them down next to the microphone. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. With both hands, Hutchins showed the ticket to Plumley.
Billy Skinner shouted, “No way. That son-of-a-bitch hasn’t money to buy a ticket. He stole it.”
A dozen voices seconded Billy’s allegation. Some raised fists in protest. A surge of people surrounded the stage and shouted.
“Bum.”
“Thief.”
“Cheat.”
Skinner said, “Plumley, if you give that bastard the money, your life in this town is over.”
The mayor’s face darkened. “Billy, you best calm down. Ladies and Gentlemen, the ticket held by this man has the winning number. Sheriff Johnson will need to investigate whether or not it was acquired legitimately.”
Hutchins smelled like a sewer. When he put his arm on Plumley, the mayor jumped.
Hutchins held the ticket high in his left hand and grabbed the mic with his right. “Shut up, or you’ll lose your chance for the money.”
The crowd quieted. Some put hands on hips.
“This is the first time any of you paid attention to me since I returned from Saigon.”
Skinner said, “Who cares? That was years ago. You won’t get away with this, Hutchins.”
“What did I do to deserve your scorn? I went to war.” He pointed at Billy. “Skinner, what did you do? You’re like the cowards who spat on me and called me a baby killer. All I did in Nam was try not to die.”
Some in the crowd looked down.
Skinner said, “Hutchins, we don’t want to hear your sob story. What did you mean that we have a chance for the lottery money?”
“Screw you, Skinner.” Hutchins jutted his chin at the crowd. “Yeah, I meant it. You can have the money. Just prove you deserve it more than me. Anybody want to tell me a story?”
People shifted, heads swiveled, but no one spoke.
Skinner said, “Enough of this bullshit. Sheriff Johnson, take that ticket away from this bum. He stole it.”
Hutchins said, “I didn’t steal nothing. I bought this ticket, and Harvey Richardson knows because he sold it to me.”
The lanky Richardson, proprietor of the local pharmacy, slowly nodded his head in agreement.
Skinner said, “So what? Hutchins, you’re still a thief and a bum. Johnson, confiscate that ticket.”
Sheriff Johnson moved to the microphone. “This man purchased the ticket. It’s his. No one will take it from him. Mr. Hutchins asked if there was a more deserving person for the money. If anyone has a case, come forward.”
Selma Winter rose. Bill put his hand on her sleeve, but she drew her arm away. Her voice failed her. Bill stood and embraced his wife. “Mr. Hutchins, I know you’ve had a hard life. I’m sorry for that. We’re at our wits’ end. The bank will throw our family out if we don’t come up with the mortgage money. Please help us.”
The crowd turned their heads toward Hutchins, but he didn’t respond.
Dr. Blaine stood. He spoke slowly because of his slur. “Mr. Hutchins, I know the Winters and they’re good people, but I need to speak for Molly Simpson. She needs a liver transplant. Molly’s case is dire, and I ask you to be generous.”
Hutchins lifted his chin and shifted on his feet. He scanned the crowd with bloodshot eyes. “The Winters don’t want to be homeless.” He chuckled. “I’ll save a corner in the bus station for you. If you like, the kids can sleep in my refrigerator crate.”
A cloud blocked the sunlight and the gym darkened.
Hutchins said, “Miss Simpson, a lot of boys died too soon in Nam. They fought for their country. Did you cry for any of them?”
Molly’s eyes cast down.
In the crowd, mouths tightened, and many clenched their fists.
Hutchins said, “Up until today, most of you would show a stray dog more kindness. Now that I have some money, I’m Mr. Hutchins. Shit. Once the money’s gone, my popularity will burst like a soap bubble. Here’s what I think of all of you.” Hutchins turned his back to the audience, pulled his cord-belted pants down, and flashed his bony white ass. He laughed.
Skinner shouted, “We want that ticket. Let’s get him.”
Men and women stormed onto the stage and grabbed at Hutchins. Mayor Plumley ran. Sheriff Johnson tried to stop the crowd without success. Hutchins collapsed under a crush of people. Men and women punched and kicked him. In their frenzy, some hit other attackers. Johnson dove into the pile, but the beating halted only when the mob fatigued. When the ambulance arrived, the EMTs found Hutchins crumpled like a bloody pile of dirty clothes. He died on the trip to the hospital.
No further lotteries were held at Uniontown.
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas.
Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah. His novels, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story (2015), and Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Provati Thriller (2017) were published by Harvard Square Editions. Rogue Phoenix Press published Drone Strike in 2019 and will publish his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember, in 2020.
Joe was among one hundred Italian American authors honored by Barnes & Noble to march in Manhattan’s 2017 Columbus Day Parade. Read the first chapter of Joe's novels and sign up for his blog at http://joe-giordano.com/
