Live it Again
Authors: Geoff North
Live
it Again
By
Geoff North
Copyright © 2011
By Geoff North
Cover art by Keri Knutson
Formatted by Christine Rice
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole
or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly
prohibited.
For all those grown-ups that wished they knew then what they know
now—this is for you.
2011
Friday November 25
A warning. Metallic letters in glaring
yellow, outlined in orange. Rivets running through them vertically, covered in something
dirty and grey like ash. Hugh Nance saw the letters flash through his mind but
for an instant. A blink of his eyes and a quick shake of the head and the image
vanished. Not even enough time to register what it had said, but he knew
instinctively what it was. A warning.
He was still standing over Bob Richard’s
desk. His right hand clenched into a fist where he’d banged it down in
frustration just moments earlier.
“Are you finished?” The store manager asked
quietly.
“We’ve been friends since we were kids, how
can you do this to me? To my family?”
“If it were totally up to me I wouldn’t
have cut your hours at all, maybe a cut in salary, but you know how the economy
is.”
“The economy. Don’t give me that shit. This
is Braedon, for Christ’s sake.”
Bob reached across the desk and picked up a
handful of papers from a black plastic tray. “Take a look at these invoices. We
may be the only major grocery store in town but that doesn’t mean our business
hasn’t taken a serious hit in the last couple of years.” He plopped them down
facing Hugh. “Monday’s bill was less than seven grand. That’s everything,
Hugh--grocery, dairy, produce, tobacco…all of it. Shit, eighteen months ago if
that bill was less than twelve thousand I would’ve thought we were having a
slow week. But now? Hell, we’ll be lucky to sell half this stuff.”
Hugh backed away without looking at the
sheets. “You don’t have to show me, I set the prices, remember?”
“Then you of all people should know why I
had to cut your hours in half.”
He knew Bob was right, he’d seen it coming
for a long time. Hugh hated himself for it, but he pressed on anyway. “You can’t
do this to me. We’ve been friends for too long.”
“Please don’t. No more of this ‘friends since
elementary’ crap. We’re in our forties now. You could’ve moved on, found
something better years ago.”
Bob’s tone was soft, but the words hurt
Hugh more than the cut hours. He shut his eyes and steadied himself back against
the desk for a few more moments. What had the warning been he’d just seen in
his mind? All he could see now was the worried look on his wife’s face, the
disappointment. Again.
“How’s Cathy’s ankle?” Bob asked, as if he
could read Hugh’s mind.
“It’s healed up fine, but she hasn’t gone back
to work.”
“Well, maybe now…”
“Yeah,” Hugh finished for him. “She’s not
going to have much of a choice.”
Bob stood up and hesitated awkwardly for a
second. He was about to offer a hand out, but settled to put them both in his
pockets instead. “I’m sorry, Hugh. Really, I am.”
“Monday? Do I come in on Monday?”
“I have Mondays covered, but Tuesday just
like normal. And the other days, well, we’ll settle that up next week.”
“Every weekend a long weekend now, hey?” It
was a feeble attempt at humor, but it was a good opportunity to get the hell
out of his office. “See you Tuesday.”
Hugh strode through the warehouse in a
daze. Someone said goodnight but he was too mentally shell-shocked to see or
care who it was. He paused at the file maintenance office door, his office for
the last nineteen years. The sound of the compressor room right next to it had
been a constant reminder of how unimportant his position was. The thunderous
whir of fans and cooling machinery shook the little windowless space where he
was paid twelve dollars an hour. He’d started at nine.
The freight unloading door to the left side
of his office began to rumble open. Cold air rushed in around his ankles with a
swirl of powdery snow. Hugh nodded to the teenager waiting with the delivery
van outside without looking him in the eye.
“Winter is finally here, Hugh,” the kid
said as he began to load groceries into the back seat.
Mr. Nance, you little shit.
He zipped his coat up and shuddered. The
kid (
Tommy Jacobson? Timmy?
) though disrespectful, knew how to call the
weather. The clouds above were low and grey, rolling in quickly from the
northwest. An inch of the white stuff had fallen throughout the afternoon, but
the heavy wet crap was just moving in. The temperature had dropped at least ten
degrees since morning, and whatever fell during the night would be staying for
months. Winter in Manitoba was definitely here.
Hugh jogged over to the staff parking lot
and jumped into his car. He slammed the door and watched dust settle onto the console
from the cracked upholstery above his head. He glared back at
Little City Food
Store
and after a moment’s consideration gave it the finger. It was the
best he could do. He thought of his wife again and groaned. How was he going to
break the news to her? He pictured the look of shock on her face, then the
disappointment, and then the bitterness.
Why
hadn’t
she gone back to work
yet? She was a fucking hairdresser. They hadn’t made a lot of money in their
lives, but combined, they’d managed to support their family.
“Ungrateful bitch,” he muttered into the
steering wheel. He felt bad as soon as he said it. What kind of man talks like
that about the woman he’s supposed to love? What kind of man works at a dead
end job for almost half his life?
He looked into the rear view mirror.
Balding on top and going grey quickly at the sides. His pale blue eyes were
bloodshot and the lower half of his face was covered with stubble. He hadn’t
bothered to shave that morning.
Why bother?
He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out
a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and started the car. He undid the window an
inch and exhaled smoke out as he wheeled down the back lane. Only four smokes
left, not enough to get him through the night, not enough money in his pockets
to buy more. If ever there was a night he needed to chain smoke, this was it.
Cathy was always harping for him to quit, it was a filthy habit. Their kids
shouldn’t have to inhale his second-hand poison. They didn’t have to, he
thought. He’d been forced to smoke outside the house for the last fifteen
years. He wouldn’t be forced to quit by anyone. It would be his choice.
I’ll quit when I’m good and goddamned
ready.
There wasn’t enough money for cigarettes,
but there was enough loose change in his pockets for a couple of lottery tickets.
Two bucks turned into a few million could improve their lives substantially. He
took another heavy drag and turned onto Main Street, thinking of his old
friend, Bob Richards once again. Not a great friend, more of a constant
companion of his growing up. A reminder of how badly Hugh himself had done in
life. Bob had always been smarter, better looking, and far more outgoing. He
had a different girlfriend for every month of their senior high school years.
Hugh had one, and he ended up marrying her.
Don’t blame Bob for your situation, the
little voice in the back of his brain said. And don’t make it sound like such a
burden being married to Cathy; she’s a great gal, it added. The little voice
was getting weaker each day.
He parked the car in front of Reynolds
Liquor Mart and stepped back out into the wind. The first sleety flakes began
to pelt into his face. He’d have to pick up the tickets quickly before the
roads turned ugly. He crushed the butt of his spent cigarette into the ground
and walked toward the entrance, pulling the coat collar tightly around his
neck.
The door swung out from the inside and
smacked him on his lowered forehead.
“Oh, Hugh! I’m so sorry,” a female voice
said. She reached for his elbow; he pulled it away and rubbed his head. He had to
bite his tongue before his favorite expression spilled out.
For fuck’s sake
was what he wanted to say, but when he looked up and saw the concerned, pretty
face, he was grateful he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Not your fault Suzey, I should’ve been
watching where I was going.” Hugh had a little fling with Suzey Wilkinson a
year after he was married. It had only happened once, a
big
mistake. She’d
come out of a disastrous short marriage resulting in twins, and the night they
spent together was brought on by his own greedy desire. Marrying young and
partying hard in small towns was a bad mix. Cathy had deserved better. He
looked at Suzey and smiled.
Damn, she’s still pretty. Must be
pushing fifty.
The two hadn’t spoken of it since, and he
wondered sometimes if she even remembered. She was happily remarried and had
four more children. The twins had already graduated and moved on. Hugh still
felt a little awkward whenever he ran into her. Did she ever think about him?
He doubted it.
“If you’re buying tickets, don’t bother. I
have the winner right here,” she said with a laugh, waving a slip of paper in
front of him.
“Huh?”
“The lottery…it’s worth over forty million
tonight.”
“Right, the lottery,” Hugh finally
answered. He wiped away the sleet that was building up on his shoulders.
Suzey opened the door wider so he could
step inside. “How’s work going, Hugh?”
“It’s going,” he replied with a weak smile,
wanting to get off the subject. “You don’t mind a little lotto competition do
you?”
“No problem, just don’t pick the same
numbers I did. I don’t feel like sharing.”
“Take care, Suzey,” he said and watched her
walk out into the cold. He loved his wife. Well love is what he called it, but
he couldn’t help but think from time to time how it would’ve been if more had
developed from that one night with Suzey so long ago.
Hugh passed by the beer section on his way
to the front of the store and contemplated getting good and drunk. He had half
a bottle of rum left over from last Christmas. Tonight might be the night to
finish it off.
Gary Reynolds said hello without looking up
from his newspaper behind the counter.
“Give me three bucks in quick picks,” Hugh
said, digging through his pocket for the money.
The bald-headed liquor mart owner punched
in the sale on the lottery terminal and handed Hugh his ticket. “Looks like she’s
settling in for a good blast out there,” he muttered with disinterest.
“At least the farmers have the crops off,”
Hugh said. He hated small talk, especially small talk about weather and
farming.
Farmers have had their crops off for
weeks. He must think I’m a real idiot now.
Gary pushed the thick rimmed glasses up the
bridge of his bulbous nose and studied his customer with more attention. His
narrow, watery eyes made Hugh uneasy. The old bastard was probably drunk, or
stoned, or both. “What’s the most you ever won playin’ this game, Hugh?”
“I don’t know.” Hugh thought about it for a
few seconds. “I got sixty or seventy bucks on four numbers once a few years
back.”
Gary grinned, revealing more gum than
teeth. His thin moustache curled up above his thick upper lip. “Did it change
your life any? I mean, you been buying tickets faithfully now for more than a
dozen years or so, once, sometimes twice a week.”
“What’s your point, Gary?” He was done
being polite. The time for small talk had passed. “I’m supporting your
business, aren’t I?”
“No money in the lottery for me,” Gary
answered. “If you wanted to help support me, you might buy a bottle of booze
once in a while. All I’m saying is your money is probably best spent on
something else besides the long shot of winning a few million bucks.”
“Forty million bucks.” He looked behind
Gary and pointed to the pictures pasted on the wall. There were over two dozen
stupid, grinning faces holding oversized cheques for various big dollar
amounts. None of those winners had purchased their tickets at Reynolds Liquor
Mart, but it was good advertising. “Somebody has to win.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Gary went back to his
sports section. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”
Hugh was about to leave when he saw a
lottery newsletter near the scratch and win terminal. He picked one up and saw
more black and white pictures of recent winners on the front page. Some were
old, some were young, and they all had that same mindless expression pasted on
their faces, those big shit-eating grins.
Is that what bliss looks like? Would I
smile like that for the camera if I won forty million dollars?
He flipped the paper over and saw the
winning numbers listed in order from the beginning of January until the end of
October. Most had been won, but a few had carried over. Any one of those random
sets of six numbers could have changed his life already. Where would he be now
if he had?
Some place warm where there was sand
instead of snow.
Maybe there was some kind of formula to it.
He focused in on the different months; the neat little columns looked all the
same. The numbers three, eleven, and twenty-nine seemed to be everywhere. He
looked a bit closer. So did four, twelve, and thirty. And thirty-one, and thirty-two,
and thirty-three.
