Double Down

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hill, you’ll see me again tomorrow.” With those words, a placating smile etched itself onto Terry’s face. Terry Smalls, a young man from parts unknown, considered himself lucky to have wandered into the prosperous podunk town that was Freeville, and considered it even luckier to have found someone within the town that trusted him to watch their house.

“Oh, I don’t doubt I will,” said Mrs. Hill, compassionate widow. She was happy to let this complete stranger house-sit for her during extended shopping trips into town; in her eyes, the boy embodied a certain “old-fashioned charm” that made him easy to trust and was in sharp decline among his contemporaries. “Here’s what I owe you,” she offered, extending her hand. Fifteen dollars had never seemed so generous. Still grinning, Terry graciously accepted the money. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. H.” Straightening himself, Terry spun about-face and headed dutifully towards the exit. As she watched the boy’s frame shrink into the steaming summer air, Mrs. Hill felt a pang of nostalgic unease. Too much did Terry, now before her, resemble those old-fashioned boys who want beaming into the sprawling yonder, only to be swallowed whole by some combination of hard drugs, senseless wars, and two-bit, conniving redheads named Cheryl.

“Terry?” 

He was nearly out the door when the question caught him.

“Yes, Mrs. H?”

She stood transfixed. What words could she muster to prepare this boy for the inevitable destruction that awaited him? What phrase could a world-weary soothsayer like herself possibly impart to an admittedly stupid young journeyman that would make the cruelty of the world any less harsh of a reality?

“Please, take care of yourself.”

“Of course, Mrs. H.” 

He would do no such thing. After all, it was a Friday night—the kind where inhibitions died and young men broke their promises.

Such was the scene that paused, rewound, and played itself over and over in Terry’s head as several vodka sodas, an assortment of shots, and a comparatively underused glass of water swam their way through his mind. He couldn’t quite make out if he had treated himself to lunch or the now-drenched, then-new shirt first, and wasn’t quite sure if that even mattered. What he could remember, however, was the reason he had gotten plastered in the first place. 

“Lottery tickeht,” he mused to whoever passed him by, “drawing’s tonight. I’m gonna be ricsh!” 

Terry’s glorious plan for financial stability involved being employed as a housesitter for several months whilst continually playing the numbers. Today, however, he felt on the verge of a breakthrough—the button-up shirt and hamburgers were only the beginning of the luxuries Terry would enjoy on a regular basis. The sheer euphoria of it all made it hard to keep his eyes open. 

And so the night dragged on in the sleepy bar, people prattling, cue balls clacking, Terry intermittently promising a cut of the winnings to a new friend. Despite his outward drunkenness, the other bargoers did not mind the musings of this auspicious youth nor his pious subscription to a self-serving Fate. As the clock slunk closer to eleven, however, the chatter began to die down, and the crowd grew more and more invested in the night’s eminent drawing.

“I hope you’re right about those numbers, kid.” 

“Dun worry, don’t worry. ‘m’always right.” 

In the midst of the whir of the fans, the stamping of feet, the tailend of the night’s must-see TV, and Terry’s silent muttering of numbers, a jingle’s blare erupted into the bar. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m your host—” 

“Who cares?” Some laughed. 

“Now, get ready for tonight’s Crazy Cash drawing! The first ball up—” 

“Hey, kid! That number one of your’s?” 

Terry squinted. 

“Yeah.” 

A roar broke out amongst the patrons. 

“Second ball up—” 

“This one, too?” 

“Yup.” Another roar.

 “Holy shit, kid. You might’ve actually done it!” 

“Yeah...yeah, prolly.”

Another number, another fumbled “yeah”, another roar. Terry was on his feet now, stumbling and giggling like a toddler. 

“I did it! Yeah, yeah, s’right!” Four numbers now. People began clapping Terry on the back. The celebrity of it all made him even drunker. 

“And the last ball...26!” 

The buzz of the crowd barely brought itself to a hush. 

“Well, kid?” 

“That’s’th’one,” Terry said with his characteristic dumb grin, failing to contain the tears that now flanked his cheeks. 

“S’th’one!” 

A cheer launched itself into the air. Like many things in Terry’s life, he wasn’t sure if tonight was caused by some excellence on his part or pure, dumb luck. And as with many things in Terry’s life, he didn’t much care. He didn’t even care when he became aware that he wasn’t standing anymore, and was only vaguely interested in the fact that he was now falling, falling, falling. Did somebody spill something? Did he misstep? And what the hell was hurting him so much? Just as he began to think that things weren’t quite right, the pain subsided, and Terry resigned himself to newfound waves of soothing pangs in the side of his head, and the growing darkness they began to herald.