Mr. Lucky

windshield like an accelerated movie.

He’d paid extra for a carousel CD player, and he jumped back and forth between tracks of a bootleg Stevie Ray Vaughan CD recorded at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Vaughan’s screaming Fender guitar ripping a hole in Ricky every time he heard it. Ricky hadn’t appreciated the blues until after his divorce; now he listened every day. A lone, pathetic figure caught his eye, and he pulled the car onto the highway’s shoulder.

It was Roland Pew, the heartthrob of every girl in town ten years ago, pushing a rusty old bicycle with a flat. Ricky had babysat Roland as a teenager and always liked him. He pressed a button, and the window on the passenger’s side automatically lowered.

“Hey, Rolls,” he yelled, “what happened to your car?”

Roland shook his head wearily, indicating another sad chapter in his sorry life.

“You don’t want to know,” he replied.

“Don’t tell me you totaled it.”

“Worse.”

“Can’t be anything worse.”

“I can’t find it.”

“Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”

Roland had changed considerably since Ricky had seen him a month ago. Gone were his ponytail and thick yellow mustache and pirate earrings. Along Slippery Rock’s grapevine Roland’s tale had been a topic of discussion for days. As the story went, Roland had knocked up a local Piggly Wiggly checkout girl named Wanell Bacon, and Wanell had opted to have the kid, inspiring Roland to drink enough Jack Daniel’s to render himself comatose. Awakening a few days later in his uncle’s house, he had discovered himself shorn and shaven.

The aluminum bike folded easily into the trunk. Roland settled in the passenger seat and immediately began touching the upholstery. When they were a few miles down the road he said, “Mind my asking how much you forked over for this little beauty?”

“Seventy big ones. It’s fully loaded.”

“Jesus. What did you do, win the lottery?”

Ricky nearly said Where you been, stupid? Only, he knew exactly where Roland had been—sleeping it off at his uncle’s house. Roland’s family was basically illiterate, and news traveled to their part of the world slow, if at all. So Ricky told him what had happened out in Las Vegas. Roland whistled through his teeth.

“It’s about time somebody from here hit the big time,” Roland said. “I guess you heard my news.”

He said it with a trace of irony, and Ricky nodded. Roland’s father had dropped dead back in senior year, and Roland’s luck had been on a downward spiral ever since. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Roland said, “You know what’s got me worried?”

“No.”

“Not being able to provide for my kid. I haven’t had a job in two years.”

Ricky stared at the road. He nearly said I’ll help you, but people had been saying that to Roland for years, and nothing anyone had done had helped change Roland’s situation. Besides, Roland didn’t want help; he wanted a break, something that would restore his faith in humanity. True to form, Roland began to hum his favorite song, Warren Zevon’s “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner,” the baneful melody drowning out a signature Stevie Ray six-string rift over a churning rhythm accompaniment. Had it been anyone else, Ricky would have told him to shut up.

A convenience store loomed in the distance, the lot filled with boisterous high school kids. Ricky parked near the front door, letting the engine idle. Inside the store, another high school classmate, Barry Clarkson, stared through the windshield at the car, then at him. Ricky smiled, and Barry turned away to take care of a customer.

The kids in the lot were spraying each other with pop. Watching them, Ricky saw himself and his high school friends twenty years ago, the world yet to drop its thunderous weight upon his shoulders.

He glanced sideways at Roland. His friend was still pawing the upholstery. Everything had gone wrong since Roland’s old man had kicked the bucket. He didn’t deserve the hand he’d been dealt. Ricky touched his sleeve. Roland lifted his forlorn gaze.

“Last night I had this crazy dream,” Ricky said. “In my dream, I’m driving and I pick up a hitchhiker, guy about your age, nice guy, and as we get near town he says he needs a smoke. I pull into a convenience store, and as he’s getting out he says, ‘Want anything?’ So I think about it and say, ‘I’ve got ten bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Get me ten lottery tickets. If we hit the big one, we’ll split the money.’”

“Like you was partners,” Roland said.

“Exactly.” Taking out his wallet, Ricky removed a stiff ten-dollar bill and snapped it before Roland’s world- weary eyes. “Guess what happened then?”

“You…won?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Fifty big ones.”

A look that almost resembled happiness crossed Roland’s face. Ricky stuffed the money into his friend’s hand, then watched him slip out of the car and shuffle nonchalantly into the store. Roland had written the book on being cool, his one great talent.

A car pulled into the spot beside Ricky’s Lexus, the blue-hair at the wheel flashing him a brutal stare. Miss Axe, his high school math teacher two years running, the woman who’d given him D’s and ruined his young life and was still ruining young lives, got out of her car. Seeing him, she came over and rapped on his window. Whatever she had to say wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he hit the volume control on his steering wheel, the car’s eight speakers blasting Stevie Ray’s apocalyptic rendition of Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child (Slight Return).”

“Mr. Lucky, my left foot,” she said through the glass.

Ricky stuck his tongue out at her.

Shaking her fist, she stalked away and entered the store, his recent good fortune obviously not to her liking. A few moments later, Roland came out and got into the car, the ten Quick Pick Six tickets fanned out in his hand.

“Split the money,” he said by way of reassurance.

“Absolutely,” Ricky said. He saw a slight hesitation in Roland’s eyes. “Want to shake hands on it?”

“No. I just wanted to be sure.”

Ricky smelled beer on his breath, and saw an open can peeking out of his denim jacket. He pointed, and Roland pulled out a Bud tall boy.

“Have some,” Roland said.

Ricky took a long pull and felt the ice-cold suds tickle his throat and expand in his empty belly. He hadn’t had any beer in a week, one of his first resolutions after coming home from Vegas. He took another pull. It was an easy one to break.

“In your dream, which one of us had the winning ticket?”

Ricky shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“I’ve never won nothing in my life.”

“You want me to pick it?”

“It was your dream.”

Ricky pulled one of the lottery tickets out of Roland’s fist. It had already stopped being a game for Roland, and Ricky found himself wishing he had written Roland a check and told him to go rent an apartment and have his baby and get out of the rut he was in. Roland pulled a quarter out of his pocket, and dropped it in Ricky’s hand.

“You do the scratching,” he said.

Every Quick Pick Six ticket had twelve covered boxes on it; the player scratched off the latex, and if six boxes matched, the player won that amount. Ricky took his time, and on his first five scratches, he hit $50,000 circles. He passed the card to Roland and got the tall boy in return. Ricky pointed at the box in the left corner of the ticket.

“That one,” Ricky said.