Hope For Change... But Settle for a Bailout

By Billy Orton

SUMMARY -- "HOPE FOR CHANGE, BUT SETTLE FOR A BAILOUT" is an absurd comedy that starts with the lead character, Larry van der Bix, winning an enormous lottery jackpot, posing the question: "Does it change you?" Best friend Lori Lewis never strays from what is truly important. Nor does Miss Milkshakes, a bombshell web-diva who can't get enough of Lori. The novel speaks to the gap between rich and poor, the collapse of the financial system, and is wrapped in a lesbian love story, a tale of the London Olympics, and how one retains honor and dignity in hard times.

THE STORY -- Larry van der Bix, sole heir to a broken family, wins the lottery. Gov. Jerry Brown hands off an oversized check and off goes Larry, in a rented stretch Lincoln, a bundle of hundreds in his shorts pockets and a portable safe welded into the limo's second refrigerator.

Best friend Lori Lewis never loses sight of what's important and together they set out to bring home Larry's new-won millions. Larry recruits Miss Milkshakes -- a hypercurvy web diva -- for the drive up California's great central valley. Lori and December fight throughout the trip, until coming to blows when Lori enters their hotel suite to find Larry passed out, with a scantily-clad December straddling him. After ensuring her best friend is alive, an epic battle between jock and diva is streamed live over December’s site, winning fans and sparking a desire that grows into warmth and love.

The novel finishes with Lori putting in a gritty performance in women's freestyle swimming, trying to earn a spot at the 2012 London Olympic games. In her quest, she wins much more than medals, learning that what is in one's heart matters most of all.

FEATURES -- Jerry Brown, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Danish Dogme filmmakers, a pistol-packing open-carry crowd, a brutish and well-endowed fisherman's son, models, singers, actresses and a woman locked for decades in an elegant tower.

CAUTION -- Contains a scene in which Cheetos are stuffed up a character's nose. No junk food was harmed in the actual creation of this novel.

ABOUT THE WRITING -- The initial draft was written in seven months, on a manual typewriter. The author then spent three months editing the OCR-scan of the original 404-page typed manuscript.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR -- Bill Orton is a writer and government worker, living in southern California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billy Orton
• Release date: Apr 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476186894

Billy Orton

Bill Orton is a writer who spent 25 years working for politicians and organized labor, but, after a stroke, became the luckiest soul in America, as now his only job title is "obscure novelist."

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Hope For Change

But Settle For A Bailout

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012, Bill Orton

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One – Showdown at Buckstores

Perhaps not since the great influenza epidemic of 1918 has the flu brought a greater sense of doom to the people of London…. There is not the horrific death toll as after the Great War, but public health officials say as many as a quarter of the people in London are sick with this rare late- summer flu bug. Ask a Brit, though, and they’ll say their agony is that local girl Rebecca Adlington, one of the world’s greatest female freestyle swimmers, is so hobbled by influenza that Team GB’s doctors won’t allow her to compete in these London games. Down a dozen athletes to the flu so far, Brits did gain one reason to cheer, as moving Baljinder Gill up to Addington’s number one freestyle slot has meant that Gill’s baby sister, Jazz – who tells everyone she’d rather be home, swimming the Mersey with her best blokes – also earned the chance to compete for Jolly Old England. And a jolly time it’s been for those Gill sisters, who are spinning water into gold and silver. Only an American army sergeant in her mid-30s, in her own improbable first Olympic appearance, has been able to keep up with those fabulous Gill sisters.

* * *

L-O-R-I-! Larry van der Bix waved his arms and ran towards the tall blonde slowly riding a beach cruiser down 1st Street, towards Belmont Shore. Lori!

Hey, Larry, on my way to work, said Lori Lewis, a pair of cloth tote bags hanging from her handlebars. A multicolored sock drooped over the edge of one bag.

Can I bum five bucks from you?

Aw, man, said Lori. That’s all I got till work. Can’t you hit me up after my shift, when I’ll have some tips? Lori leaned forward and tucked the wayward multicolored sock into the bag.

Oh, said Larry, dejectedly, sure.

With a deep exhale of breath, Lori reached into her jeans and pulled out several crumpled dollar bills and a handful of quarters. Please, Larry, don’t just blow this, said Lori, dropping the money into Larry’s outstretched hand. Buy some actual food… from the store.

I will, said Larry. Promise.

I’m not giving you my laundry money so you can just drop it on the lottery.

It’s how I know I’m still alive.

* * *

As Lori approached Bucksters Coffee on the retail stretch of Second Street that cut through the heart of Belmont Shore, she had to slowly navigate a maze of police cruisers that had pulled up to the coffeehouse at such sharp angles that traffic was forced to merge left to pass. On the sidewalk, officers and gawkers – their faces glowing alternately from sunshine and the red and blue emergency lights – hovered near the entrance, as Lori locked her bike to a parking meter. Looking at the officers, she unlocked the bike and walked it to the rear of the building, locking it to a pipe. Alongside her bike was the district manager’s red convertible, parked in the sole space designated as staff parking. Around a license plate that read CA-FA-N8D was a frame that declared, It’s Good to be the Boss.

As she entered, she saw seven or eight officers looking sternly at the customers in the shop. Lori stashed her tote bags in the employee break room, tied on her apron with its Hi, I’m Laurie name badge, and approached the register. Clearly not a caffeine and starch run, she whispered to a tall, 20-something redhead standing behind the register.

When Lori turned to the first customer in line, she saw metal glinting at belt level.

Gun! Lori immediately crouched, and, with no one else showing panic, she stood slowly. Half-a-dozen other customers were also openly displaying firearms.

Hey there, Missy, said the customer. I’m here to get me a mocha latte.

Lori kept looking around, to the officers and then again to the customers carrying guns, most in their 50s or 60s, and each seemingly delighted with their day.

I’m thinking about shutting the store, said the redhead, to Lori.

You can’t do that, said Lori. I just got here. I need to work today. Lori looked at the man at the front of the line, waiting patiently. Why are there a bunch of people with guns in the store?

This is open-carry, Missy, said the customer. And I still want coffee… to go along with my Second Amendment freedoms. Do we live in a great country, or what?

Look, mister, nothing personal, but civilians and guns don’t mix for me, said Lori.

Oh, these aren’t loaded, Missy, said the customer. We abide by the law.

Lori turned to the redhead. Can I throw them out?

The redhead flinched, but said nothing. Lori turned back to the customer. Again, nothin’ personal, I was US Army, but civilians and guns don’t work for me.

The customer bristled, but stood in front of the register, glaring at Lori.

The officers stood ever-more erect, their heads moving left-to-right, eyes scanning. The customer at the head of the line looked intently at Lori, who stood leaning slightly forward, with both hands gripping the register.

We are not violating any laws, said the customer. I want my mocha latte, Missy.

Sorry, she said. No shirt, no shoes, carrying a firearm… no service.

Are you refusing service because I’m exercising my Second Amendment freedoms? The man pointed to the officers with a sweep of his hand. Bet you serve them.

They’re not civilians, said Lori, as she turned to the redhead. "Can I please throw them out? I mean, if we need help doing it, we don’t have to wait for the cops."

Missy, that’ll be a….

No! said Lori, turning and cutting the man off. She looked pleadingly to the redhead, who silently nodded. Thank you! Lori said, clearing her throat. May I have your attention? I want everyone with a gun – who’s not a cop – to please leave the store. You can come back unarmed, but civilians with guns will not be served today.

The customer at the head of the line straightened his posture and narrowed his eyes. You haven’t heard the last of us, Missy. We’ll be back, and I’ll get me my mocha latte.

As the last open-carry patron exited the shop, a couple seated in recliners clapped and the officers stood a bit more casually. Two cops approached the register, one of whom bore a star on his collar, and the other captain’s bars.

I’m Commander March, miss. Long Beach Police. This is Captain Walker. That was incredibly brave. A little foolhardy, but definitely brave.

They will be back, you know, said the captain, to the redhead and Lori.

Not to…, said the redhead.

Shoot up the place? Naw, said the captain, who looked to the commander. Both shook their heads. The captain turned to Lori and the redhead. But they’ll be back.

Probably soon, and probably with media, said the commander. We can’t advise you what to do, but this young woman is now the face they’re going to look for.

You should go, said the redhead.

I just got here, said Lori, insistently. I need these tips… c’mon, I was army.

A commotion at the door erupted, as the customer from the front of the line came back in to the shop. The officers within the shop stiffened, as Mr. Mocha Latte walked briskly to the register. He leaned in to look closely at the name badge on Lori’s apron. Laurie…. He walked out again.

Oh, shit, said Lori.

The commander pulled out his wallet and put a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. Miss, you’re brave, but army or not, you shouldn’t also be stupid.

The captain, fishing for his wallet, pulled out a five and dropped it into the tip jar. Thank you for your service. He then lifted his hand above his head and pointed towards the door. All of the officers inside the shop headed towards the entry. As officers moved out, several customers who had been watching from their comfy chairs got up with their paper cups to seek refills. The tip jar began to fill with singles while Lori and the redhead whispered back-and-forth.

With the captain and commander at the door, watching the officers exit, the redhead spoke from behind the register. I have… an… announcement, he said. As District Manager, I’ve hired a new assistant manager for this store, motioning with his hand to Lori. Two of the refill customers stopped doctoring their coffee to look up briefly, before returning to adding half-and-half and sweetener to their cups. The captain and commander each nodded, and exited.

Lori and the District Manager went back to whispering. Moments later, the redhead slid several keys from his own ring and handed them to her, with a plastic card he had pulled from his wallet. He poured out the tip jar contents onto the counter and handed the bills to Lori, who crumpled them into a wad and stuffed them into her jeans pocket. She left out the back door, carrying her two bags, which she put into the passenger seat of the red convertible parked next to her bike.

* * *

Lori lurched to a stop in front of Larry’s apartment and, attempting to back the convertible into a parking space, popped the clutch and stalled. She threw on the emergency flashers, engaged the parking brake, grabbed the keys and ran into the courtyard, where she found Larry laying in the sun on a wooden lounge chair, surfing on a tablet, two burritos on a plate on the table next to him, alongside a glass of ice water.

Thought you were working….

I need your help, said Lori, breathlessly.

Now? said Larry. I’m in a chat with Miss Milkshakes.

* * *

The distance from where Lori dropped off Larry so he could get her bike was less than a block from Bucksters and barely half-a-mile from his apartment, but twenty minutes later, when he rode the Schwinn up the slight hill to his building, he looked as though he had been riding for hours.

You look like shit, said Lori. My bike has gears, you know?

So what do you wanna do with it? asked Larry, panting. I mean, I love ya’, but there’s no way I am riding this thing to north Long Beach.

We can leave it here, said Lori. I’m not ready to go home yet.

Let’s go to my grandma’s, said Larry. My dad will be there later, but if we go now, we can blow out before he gets there.

* * *

Standing at an ornately-carved, heavy oaken door, Larry knocked for almost a minute, while Lori stood with her two cloth bags. A finely-uniformed, attractive female servant answered the door and, upon seeing Larry, smiled thinly and turned. The two walked in and closed the door behind them. Larry and Lori worked their way through a long hallway, lined with framed photographs and newspaper clippings, showing Larry’s family patriarchs with the power elite of Long Beach. They passed through a main foyer, with its massive stairwell rising to the second and third floors. They continued through a formal dining room, with its long banquet table piled with toys, children’s books and art supplies. Three children suddenly sped into the room, one of them bumping into Lori. The child fell, appeared stunned momentarily, and then sprang up and resumed running towards the opposite end of the hallway. Larry and Lori flinched at the distant sound of an object smashing onto the floor, as they turned into a dark passageway and reached a plain door with three bolts and a locked doorknob.

Larry drew a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked each bolt and swung the door open, to reveal a grand stairway of white marble that climbed four stories to the suite originally built as a lure to bring Larry’s great-grandmother to America. The marble, despite not having been polished in years, glowed in the sunlight that streamed in from tall, wide crystal-paned windows and a sweeping skylight.

In all the time I’ve know you, Larry, has that thing ever worked? said Lori, pointing to the electric chair lift that hugged the banister of the stairwell.

In middle school, said Larry, taking the steps slowly, puffing. Just before we met. But my grandmother is having it fixed, as the stairs are becoming too much for her.

As the two climbed, the stairs opened into a wide landing at the second level, where a single plain door was set into the unadorned foyer. Larry stood on the landing, panting. They continued climbing, passing the Long Beach elite, staring out from behind glass.

Reaching the fourth floor, the stairwell opened onto a wide, elegant foyer, at the center of which was a sculpture in alabaster, of an athletic female glancing downward. Sunlight bathed the work by Bertel Thorvaldsen so intensely as to make the figure of a dancer glow like a flesh-toned ghost. Above the door in a glass-and-wood display case was an American flag presented to Larry’s great-grandfather, Carl, by General Pershing at the end of World War One, when the head of the American Expeditionary Force visited victorious troops and gave flags to each of the aviators in Carl’s unit. Alongside it was the red-and-white Dannebrog that the artistic director of the Danish Royal Ballet had given Astrid Ullagård in 1922, before she sailed off to start a new life in California.

Larry stood next to Thorvaldsen’s dancer and panted.

Larry, you really ought’a see a doctor, said Lori.

Don’t have health insurance, said Larry.

Your family’s rich and you can’t go to the doctor?

Tell it to my dad, said Larry, pulling out his keyring and unlocking the double doors to the suite built to convince his great-grandmother, the Danish ballerina, Astrid Ullagård, to leave her ancient European capitol and the dance troupe for which five generations of her family members had performed, to come to Long Beach, California, a city then barely 30 years old. They entered the mirrored recital chamber, though long gone were the 60 matching chairs that Astrid and Carl would set out for guests to watch the ballerina perform to discs played on a Victrola. Reduced to a framed newsclipping was a report of how, during the spring of 1931, the dancer, choreographer and artistic director Harald Lander displayed in the studio works that Astrid would later perform, after she rejoined the Royal Ballet as Principal Dancer under Lander, splitting time between Copenhagen and California.

Inside the recital hall, as Astrid had insisted, was flooring of Danish oak and cabinetry in white birch, soft pine and other light woods shipped from the Baltic. Next to the main doors, standing like a schoolchild, was the Victrola phonographic disc player given by the family’s original patriarch, as a wedding gift to Carl and Astrid. Its handle hung down and the great amplifying bell sat in silence. Larry walked to the phonograph, cranked the handle and lowered the needle apparatus onto the disc on the turntable, filling the suite with the voice of Enrico Caruso.

Hi hi, said Larry’s grandmother as she entered the room with a wide smile. The three crossed the wide, mirrored studio, and passed through a pair of French doors, into a much larger main chamber, with high ceilings and panoramic windows that looked onto Alamitos Bay from three sides. The kitchen, dining room and bedroom were separated by lines of potted plants and folding Japanese screens. The late afternoon sun streamed golden through the beaded glass of French doors that opened on every wall, each leading to the wide, tiled wrap-around balcony.

The grandmother kissed both Larry and Lori, and motioned for them to sit at the covered table directly outside the kitchen, on the balcony, as she went to the refrigerator. Larry and his grandmother were soon talking loudly through the open doors in Danish, as Lori closed her eyes in the sunshine.

I still have a hard time figuring out when one word ends and another begins, Lori said to Larry, as the grandmother set three frosted glasses on the table. The grandmother set a Perrier in front of Lori, and a Carlsberg next to her glass and another for Larry, who used the tip of a spoon, with his index finger as the fulcrum, to open his own and then his grandmother’s bottle.

Spanish, no problem, continued Lori. Picked that up in the neighborhood.

See? There’s an advantage to being the only white girl on your block, said Larry.

Arabic, in Iraq, hanging out between convoys with the translator, said Lori. But Danish, though? And you learned it in, what, a summer?

Living over there for a few summers helped, said Larry, pouring his beer into the glass, but moving in at 10 with a relative who only speaks one language, you have to pick some of it up. I still can’t really read it, though.... Can only speak it.

Lori pointed to her tote bags, sitting next to the table. Can I run those?

Larry and his grandmother talked briefly. Actually, she’s doing linen, said Larry. Has tablecloths and place settings running now. Maybe after the food.

A huge place with servants and shit, said Lori, and she doesn’t get help with laundry.

My dad won’t let anyone help her, said Larry, anger in his voice.

Asshole, said Lori.

Larry promptly translated the opinion to his grandmother, who replied, simply: Nej. Larry looked at his cell phone. Actually, he’s supposed to be here in like an hour, so we should be out’ta here soon. So maybe a laundramat... since you’re driving.

* * *

Larry drank from his beer as his grandmother brought out a basket of dark and white bread slices, crisp breads and crackers. Turning, the grandmother smiled and put her hand softly on Lori’s cheek and whispered sweetly. Larry finished pouring his Carlsberg, and the bottle swiftly disappeared, as his grandmother returned with it to the kitchen. Lori drank her mineral water and looked out at the setting sun.

A knock loud enough to be heard from the balcony prompted Larry to look with panic at his cell phone. He’s not supposed to be here for 45 minutes. A moment later, ruddy-faced Calvin was being walked to the balcony by Emma, who wordlessly waved with her hand for him to be seated.

You always know where to pick up a free meal, Calvin said to Larry. And look, another hungry mouth to feed. He sat, his legs apart, leaning back, and reached across to snatch the still untouched bottle of beer next to Emma’s place setting. Calvin sat back and drank directly from the bottle, swiftly draining it and setting it back next to Emma’s plate.

Pig, said Larry.

I love you, too, son, replied Calvin.

Emma swept up the empty beer bottle alongside her setting, gave a fresh bottle to Larry and collected the Perrier bottle. She set them down on a rolling tray on which were plates that she transferred to the table. She set down a platter of herring in a cream sauce, a baked liver pate, a plate of salami and cheeses, olives, pickles, mustard and an assortment of thinly-sliced vegetables. Larry had opened his fresh bottle and poured half into his grandmother’s glass and the remainder in his own. Calvin reached across for the glass half full. Larry used his fork to poke his hand away.

Don’t you poke me, boy, said Calvin, as Emma returned to the table with another Carlsberg. Seeing her own glass half full, she set the bottle down. Calvin swiftly snatched it and searched the table for an opener.

Calvin scanned the table. He reached for the plate of fish, pulling the two largest fillets off the platter and setting it back down. He grabbed white bread and spread it with mustard and piled on salami. He put cheese onto a cracker, and pate onto another piece of white bread – all without looking up to anyone – and powered his way through his plate, taking time only to hand his bottle to Larry and, after the top was popped, grabbing it back and taking a deep swig.

Lori reached for the bread, cheese and vegetables she had placed onto her plate.

What’s wrong, granola girl? Cat got your tongue? Calvin said to Lori, as he wiped cream sauce from his lips. Look like you’ve seen a ghost.

Just a bunch of people with guns, said Lori.

It’s your shithole part of town, said Calvin, belching. Everyone packin’ heat.

It was a quarter-mile from here, said Larry, in our shithole part of town.

A basic Nokia ringtone sounded from Lori’s phone, as Calvin reached for his beer. Lori stepped away from the table. Hey, she said, not out of earshot of the table. Naw, I’m still in Long Beach. I don’t like running away. She paused and listened. How many? With FOX News? More listening. The car’s fine. Sure, Asst Mgr is great. I can definitely use a better job. Benefits, if I’m more than 30 hours? I still have VA, but that’d be great.

Larry and his grandmother looked at one another as Lori returned to the table. They spoke in their familiar, foreign tone, as Larry dug a spoon deep into the pate and spread the steaming baked meat onto a slice of thin, dense, dark bread. He topped it with a wafer-thin pickle slice, cooked beet and a sprinkling of chopped onions. Speaking steadily to Larry, the grandmother motioned towards Calvin and then silently nodded.

Um, said Larry, holding the bread with steaming pate.

What is it, boy? said Calvin, flecks of fish spitting forth on the last word.

The monthly living expenses amount barely covers utilities and rent, said Larry. There’s never money left over for groceries.

Tough, said Calvin, taking a deep swig from the beer bottle. If being a trust fund baby is too strenuous for you, find a box to sleep in and starve, for all I care. Calvin drank from his beer. You inherited the family jewels. Make some money doing films, like I did. Calvin smiled distantly. That’s where I met your mother… and Candy. Calvin ate, moving food from plate to mouth in an unceasing cycle, with the only sounds to be heard being of the water, the wind, a single bird sounding a call, and Calvin – chewing, swallowing, drinking and belching.

* * *

Lori drove silently, her hair whipping in the wind, as Larry lolled his head idly in his beer buzz in the passenger’s seat. She turned into a strip mall off of Atlantic Avenue, the engine sputtering as she slowed, so as to allow a haggard man to push a baby carriage laden with everything but a child across their path. The car slowly passed a liquor store, a payday lender, a nail salon, a donut shop and a smoke shop before parking in front of Wash-A-Teria late-nite Laundra-Mat.

You wouldn’t happen to still have any of those quarters from earlier? asked Lori.

Bought real food at an actual store, said Larry.

Frozen burritos barely qualify as real food, said Lori.

Hey, said Larry, defensively, they’re as many calories as a slice of pepperoni pizza. Thirty-three cents; 250 calories. The best caloric value around.

You’re gonna get hypertension with all the salt you’re pouring in to your system. Lori grabbed her two bags and headed inside Wash-A-Teria. Larry followed, fiddling with his tablet, causing him to bump into the glass door. He didn’t take his eyes away from the screen and he kept walking. Lori dumped her bags onto a washer and began sorting colors from warms and hots. A television mutely displayed Married with Children, as she turned each garment inside out. She went to the sole change machine and fed a five from the tip jar. F-u-c-k-! she yelled, as the machine swallowed the bill and gave no change. Lori pounded on the machine as she cursed, and then turned to Larry. She held out several bills.

I need change, she said.

I got’ch’yer change, said Larry. Just call me Barack.

Lori sneered. The only change Obama’ll give me is if they put his face on a coin.

A dollar coin, said Larry. The Obama Buck.

More like the Obama Half-Penny… worthless from the start, scoffed Lori.

Anyway, my grandmother made a deposit, so I got yer hope for change covered.

* * *

Thanks for the roll, said Larry, as he set two single bottles of German beer, a bottle of club soda and a heaping armful of bagged snacks on the counter. My lady friend sure will appreciate it. Larry unzipped a pocket in his wallet, unsnapped a snap and dug out a VISA card. A folded lottery ticket was also in the hidden compartment. Also, three bucks on MegaMillions. Gotta invest in my retirement future.

The clerk printed the ticket, rang up the order, swiped Larry’s card and handed him a credit authorization slip for signature.

And can you give me tonight’s winning numbers? The clerk picked up several orange slips from a pile of narrow orange papers sitting atop the computer unit of the lottery terminal, handing one to Larry, who put it without a glance into the snapped compartment of his wallet, with his VISA card. You really ought to think about stocking Tuborg or Carlsberg, said Larry, as he signed the authorization slip. Danish beer is good stuff. He walked out with a wave.

* * *

Bought you some club soda and essential survival supplies, said Larry. I hear Hermosa Beach is pretty primitive.

Why do you throw your money away on that shit? asked Lori. Salt, sugar, fat. She took the club soda and sifted through the snacks, pulling out a bag of unsalted trail mix.

See? I know what you like, said Larry. So can I hang out with you in Hermosa? Larry opened a bag of Cheetos.

I don’t know, said Lori. It’s not my place and I don’t even know if I’m gonna go there. If I do a ‘stay-cation’ thing and just don’t show at work, I can avoid the ‘open carry’ people.

Sort’a yer call, isn’t it?

I may just stay at the beach after my swims or something. Lori pulled a narrow bottle with eco on the label from her bag and poured a capful of liquid into each of the three machines. She closed the lids and set the temperatures, fed in coins from the roll of quarters Larry had brought and started each load.

Aw, c’mon, said Larry, as he systematically moved bright orange puffs to his mouth. You’ll need company. I can be your bodyguard.

Lori laughed, as she popped a handful of trail mix, while watching the muted TV over Larry’s shoulder. The sitcom had broken away to a FOX News teaser, showing Mr. Mocha Latte and several of his open-carry compatriots, standing in front of Bucksters Coffee, one with a handmade sign reading, We Want Our Freedom... & our coffee! Mouths moved mutely to the sounds of washing machines chugging. The news teaser cut to the nodding, solemn, seldom-moving face of the redhead. Lori watched motionless as the teaser morphed into a Chevrolet commercial.

I can see what’s in it for the manager, said Larry. You, alone in an apartment in Hermosa... his keys, his raise, his vacation, his benefits. Larry licked Cheetos dust from his fingers. Sweet deal for Peter Pan.

Peter Pan is too dorky to make a move, said Lori. Change the subject.

So…, said Larry, pulling out a bag of Doritos, you stopped talking about whether to reenlist. Does that mean you’re gonna go back in?

Maybe, said Lori, hopping up and sitting on one of her three washing machines. Still talking to a recruiter. Can’t make a commitment yet… cuz… I got another big thing that I might take on this summer.

Where would they put you?

Probably Afghanistan.... Hopefully as an E6, like I came out, said Lori.

What’ta’ya think you’d be doing?

Convoys. Fuel. Vehicle repair. The stuff I was doing before.

Such a girl, said Larry.

There’s actually a lot of women in theatre, said Lori. She glanced up to the muted TV, which was showing a commercial for psychic telephone readings. "But they’re so… young… tattoos and piercings... it’s like high school, except now I’m the Old Lady…. Thankfully, I’ll have some rank. The PFCs and corporals can go way past annoying."

Larry looked around the empty Wash-A-Teria and, with no one inside or outside to object, pulled out a beer bottle, lodged his key ring under the bottletop and over his finger and pushed down on the ring, popping the cap up.

Lori watched Al Bundy slumped in sofa as his big-haired wife silently sauntered.

Larry pulled out his wallet, unzipped and unsnapped it and pulled out the two folded, orange-tinted slips of paper, with an admonition to play responsibly printed on them. Larry held the slip with the winning numbers that the clerk had handed to him in his Cheetos hand, and the ticket he spent three of the dollars that Lori had given him earlier in his relatively clean hand.

Much of the orange paste on Larry’s thumb and index finger rubbed into the winning numbers slip, obscuring the draw date under an orange-tinted slick of oil that penetrated the paper and a coating of flaking orange matter that Larry smudged into the paper with his thumb and forefinger, with which he had clamped onto the ticket as he looked back-and-forth between the two slips.

Larry van der Bix stood motionless, hands