Chapter Three

That night, Uncle Mike bunked on Jason’s blow-up mattress wearing the cleanest T-shirt from Jason’s dirty pile. But before they fell asleep, Uncle Mike said, “The lottery ticket is yours, homeboy.”

“Let me share it with you.” Jason felt sorry for his uncle, who had never made it as a musician. He had been playing guitar since he was eleven and had run through so many bands that there were none left to turn him down. He had tried San Francisco and Los Angeles and Las Vegas. But there were too many rocking guitar players, some of whom could play eight chords in succession without messing up! How they did it, his uncle didn’t know.

“Nah, it was your birthday present,” his uncle argued. “Anyhow, money doesn’t mean nada to me. It’s my art, little homie.” He strummed an air guitar.

Jason remembered the time that he had seen his uncle playing in front of a boarded-up storefront at the downtown Fulton Mall. He spotted him from a distance and had to turn away. His uncle, dressed in a ragged T-shirt and pants dirty at the thighs, was playing guitar to a couple of pigeons that had climbed out of the gutter. One pigeon, Jason remembered, had a potato chip in his mouth and had dropped it at his uncle’s feet—the bird’s gift for his uncle’s clumsy guitar riffs?

“Come on, let’s share the winnings,” Jason offered. “It’s only fair.”

“Just take a picture of the ticket and me,” his uncle suggested. He held up the winning lottery ticket like a police placard pressed to a criminal’s chest for a mug shot.

Jason caught an image of his uncle holding up the ticket. He was all smiles.

“Now let’s get some sleep,” his uncle ordered. He lay back, a single bed sheet on his body, his hands on his chest. His uncle was as pale as a cadaver.

“You hungry?” Jason asked. “I got a couple bags of peanuts.”

“Peanuts,” his uncle repeated softly. He sat up like a mummy from a bad movie. “A little snack is just what the doctor ordered.”

Jason located three small Southwest Airlines bags of honey-roasted peanuts and tossed two to his uncle. After their salty snack, Jason turned off the light and lay back down for good. Jason thought about what he might really do with his winnings. He could help his uncle, or maybe take his mother to a nice restaurant where the napkins were white and stiff. Having so many choices was confusing—how did the rich ever know what to do with their money? He rolled his tongue around his mouth for the last of the peanut taste, and fell asleep.

Jason slept through his uncle’s snoring, but woke when his mom entered without the courtesy of a knock.

“What do we have here, a Boy Scout Jamboree?” She shoved a hefty toe at her brother’s side, poking a rib.

Uncle Mike groaned sleepily. He smacked his lips.

“And you,” she said to Jason, who had managed to peel one eye open to stare at the large figure looming over him: his mother in a pumpkin-colored running suit. “It’s Sunday. It’s time you gathered all your dirty clothes and took them to the garage. I’ll wash them later.”

She sniffed the air. “Or is that my little brother I smell?” She pressed a toe up to his throat and wiggled it.

Uncle Mike let out a longer groan. He was an even worse actor than Jason’s father. He slowly rose to a sitting position, his long, unwashed hair sticky as taffy. He rubbed his eyes and offered a yawn that displayed a tongue coated white. Crumbs of lint were caught in his unshapely beard.

“What time is it?” Uncle Mike mumbled. His eyes were bleary from sleep.

“It’s your wake-up call,” Jason’s mother joked. “Fresh squeezed orange juice? A bagel with cream cheese? Or was it homemade muffins you ordered?”

“Hey, Sis,” Uncle Mike managed. Dazed, he gazed sleepily at the Bart Simpson image on the front of his T-shirt. His look said: Whose shirt is this? He lay back down.

Mother stomped to the window and flung it open. “Ah, fresh air.” She scooped the cool breeze toward her face and breathed in deeply. “I thought I was going to die—why do boys and men stink?” She swung around and pointed at the groggy pair. “You ever ask yourselves that question?” wake.

“Is Dad gone?” Jason asked. He had yawned twice and was beginning to

“Yes, about two hours ago. He has a small job. I unplugged the phones.” She had unplugged the three phones in the house last night before they hit the sack. When she plugged them all back in, the calls started coming again, including one from a deadbeat pleading for a loan so that he could get a new lawyer. One caller said that he was from Sacramento and that he needed an operation on his middle finger—was that a nasty joke? A nosy disc jockey from a local radio station also called to ask, “Was it one million or two?”

“The nerve! It’s your friend Blake’s fault.” She grimaced at sighting an empty bowl with a spoon glued to white stuff. She lifted it and sniffed tentatively. “Ice cream.”

“Sorry, Mom. I wish it had been a million. I could have bought you a house in Santa Cruz.” She had grown up in Watsonville, twenty minutes south of Santa Cruz, and had always wanted to live within earshot of crashing waves. But now she lived in southeast Fresno, in a neighborhood where the only things that crashed were cars speeding through stop signs.

“It’s OK, Jason, next time. It’s super that you won even what you won.” She pressed a finger into her cheek as she contemplated a notion. “You know what?”

Jason shrugged.

“I heard someone in Fresno won the lottery on the same day as you.” His mother became excited at the possibility that Fresno was finally a lucky city.

“Cool,” Jason said. He figured that Fresno needed all the money it could get.

His mother left the bedroom, but not before she said that she was going to face the day: she was determined to jog off two days of turkey dinners.

Jason rose and shut the window, then the door. He asked, “How do I cash in the lottery ticket?”

“Good question.”

They got on the Internet and discovered a telephone number in Sacramento. Uncle called and went through a menu of choices, both surprised that a state office was open on Sunday. Were there so many lottery winners that they worked seven days a week?

“I bought this lottery ticket over at this store in Fresno and I think I won,” his Uncle Mike stated. “How do I get my money?”

Jason could hear the state agent ask for the serial number on the lottery ticket. Uncle supplied the number and the figure on the lottery ticket. The operator didn’t seem impressed. She asked, “Your name, please.”

“My name? Why do you want my name?” Uncle Mike had gone by a number of names: Mike, Mickey, Miguel, Michael, and early on when he was with his first rock band, Metallic Mike.

“For the record, for the IRS.” She explained that all winnings were reported as income and that the winner would be subject to withholding tax.

“You mean I ain’t going to get all of the thirty-seven hundred bucks?”

“Yes, that’s right, sir,” the agent answered. “You’re going to get”—there was silence before the voice continued—“something around twenty-six hundred and fifty bucks after taxes. But that still has to be determined.”

“That’s like robbery,” Jason roared. “That’s like stealing!”

Uncle Mike pressed a finger to his lips, the sign to be quiet. His eyes were swinging left and right in their sockets as he listened to the state agent. His mouth hung open. He asked, “But what if you’re, like, only twelve years old and you got the ticket?”

The agent explained that minors could not collect on a winning ticket.

“But this is America,” Uncle Mike retorted.

The agent ignored the statement. She again asked loud enough for Jason to hear clearly, “Who holds the winning ticket?”

Uncle Mike hung up. He combed a hand through his hair, pinched his beard thoughtfully, and said, “Like, wow, that’s messed up. That’s like you’re only going to get about two-thirds.”

“That’s way messed up,” Jason had to agree. However, it was all making sense. He had heard his father rant about how much his employer held in taxes out of his paycheck, and how the government couldn’t even seem to pave potholes with all that tax money. His father believed in a strong military—you had to show force now and then—but in his mind the best way to make people safe was through smooth roads and three-lane freeways.

“That’s why I don’t work,” Uncle Mike said. “All your hard work goes to taxes.”

Jason sighed. He wouldn’t be getting all of what the lottery ticket promised. Still, he made a promise with himself to still help his mother steam off the wallpaper in the kitchen, buy his sister college books and stuff, and locate the missing parts for the 1957 Chevy in the garage. His money would be put to work right now! He told his uncle his plans.

“So who should cash it?” Jason asked.

“Good question,” he replied. “Let’s solve this over breakfast.”

* * *

They satisfied their morning appetite with a sumptuous plate of huevos con weenies, plus tortillas burned around the edges the way they liked them. His uncle suggested that maybe Jason’s father could claim the lottery ticket, but decided that, no, it wasn’t a good idea. His father would be socked with taxes.

When Jason suggested that his uncle claim the lottery ticket, his uncle scratched his stubbly chin and said, “Nah, I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” he answered without an explanation. He got up to clear the table. “But I wasn’t lying about where I could find the bumpers for your dad’s Chevy.” He suggested that they visit a friend to get away from the house and the commotion of gawkers in front yard. Jason had peeked out the front curtains a dozen times. A man and a woman were holding up a sign that read, “Help us help ourselves. Invest in our company.”

They ventured outside, onto the porch and down the steps.

“What kind of company you got?” Uncle Mike asked as they cut across the lawn toward his car.

“Thank you for asking, sir,” the man said, stepping toward them. “It’s a rubber band company.”

Rubber band company? Jason thought. Was that a joke? Then he saw that the man had a band of colorful rubber bands on both wrists. Who buys rubber bands?

“Hope you find success,” Uncle Mike retorted.

They hurried away, telling the couple holding the sign and cups of Starbucks coffee, “No, we can’t help you!” Jason was suspicious of these strangers. They didn’t really seem down-and-out. The woman had big hoop earrings and the man was toting a designer bag on his shoulder—what was in it, designer sandwiches? It troubled Jason, who was suddenly mad at Blake for telling the world.

However, Jason and his uncle did stop when a news reporter bolted toward them in dangerously tall high heels—she had been in her idling car, waiting. When she reached them, she jammed a microphone at Uncle Mike’s face. She was all smiles. Her teeth were white Legos.

His uncle joked, “I guess you recognized me. Mike Sanchez, former guitarist for Los Blue Chones.”

“Huh?” the woman reporter remarked. “We’re here to ask about the lottery ticket. Was it a million dollars? Was it purchased at Bottom’s Up Liquors?”

“No, no, we didn’t win anything,” Uncle Mike corrected, his hands up in protest. “We never win anything—that’s our family tradition.” He chuckled and said, “If we won a million dollars, do you think I would be driving that?” He pointed to his Ford Tempo, a pigeon sitting on the hood. “Or wearing this Bart Simpson T-shirt?” He pulled at the front.

“But that’s not what we heard!” the reporter shot back. She smiled, but the smile was not friendly, just professional. She pressed the microphone back into Uncle Mike’s face.

“It’s a rumor. You know how rumors are, like only ninety-eight percent truth.” He stopped and eyed the female reporter. He pulled on his beard. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Probably from my weekly news report about valley matters,” she explained. Her smile had flattened. “But you look familiar too. Did I do a story about you at the homeless encampment by the freeway?”

Slightly insulted, Uncle Mike pulled Jason away from the reporter. They hurried over to the Ford Tempo parked crookedly at the curb. When he had arrived last night, the engine had gone dead and he had done his best to maneuver the car to the curb. His uncle turned to the couple with the sign. The man had scrunched up a pleading face. “Please, sir, if you invest in our company we’ll also become millionaires.”

“You got it all wrong, my friend,” Uncle Mike said as he pulled open his car door. “We didn’t win a million or anything close to a million.”

Jason and his uncle jumped into the car. The Ford Tempo started with a blast of black smoke that made the couple step back.

“Sayonara,” Uncle Mike crowed. He put the car into gear and sped away in what he claimed was their getaway car. “Can you believe those people? Asking for money and we don’t even know them.”

Jason looked through the filmy back window. “Do you know her?” he asked.

“Who?” he answered, his eyes raised to the rearview mirror. “The woman reporter, you mean?”

“Yeah, her. Man, she had a gallon of perfume on.”

“Yes and no.”

Jason turned back and looked at his uncle, who wet his lips and said, “I just remembered. She used to like me in high school.” He looked into the rearview mirror, but she was no longer in sight.

* * *

Uncle Mike rapped on the garage door, peeked in, and said, “Boo.”

Hunkered over a workbench littered with car parts was a giant with a tattooed Raider Nation on his throat. His beard, the color of dirty mop, lay on his chest. The giant was wearing overalls stained black at the knees and a bib that suggested that the man liked to eat.

“It’s me—Mike.”

“Hey, long time no see.” The man beaded a suspicious eye at Uncle Mike. “What, were you holed up at Corcoran?”

Corcoran was a valley prison that accepted prisoners no matter their race, creed, religion, gender, or nationality—as long as they had done something bad. It was one of the better prisons, where you could while away your time playing Monopoly, chess, and checkers. Or you could write the story of your life, provided that you knew how to write.

“Nah, not even close.” Uncle Mike strummed an air guitar. “I’ve been making music for the people. Remember?”

The man smiled. His tongue was like pink meat hanging out of a sandwich. “Yeah, I remember. I also remember that you owe me ninety bones, plus interest.”

“Really?” Uncle Mike smiled in an unnatural way.

His uncle, Jason could tell, didn’t recall the unpaid debt. He was all smiles, but the growing shine on his forehead betrayed his nervousness.

The man set down a screwdriver that had been poking at the inner workings of a carburetor. He rubbed his two beefy hands together. “OK, what do you got for me?”

“Everything in its time, Peter,” Uncle Mike answered. “Is that a carb from a Chevy? We could use one.”

The man’s smile disappeared in the bushel of his beard. “No, it’s not, and, no, Mike, I’m not a sucker. Let’s hear it.”

Jason was beginning to think that maybe his uncle should have gotten the money from the lottery ticket first, and then approached this giant hombre about the chrome bumpers, plus his unpaid debt. But he just stood at his uncle’s side.

“You see,” Uncle Mike began. He gripped Jason’s shoulders and shook them in a familiar way. He said, “This boy has the lucky touch.” Before Jason could halt his uncle blabbing about the winning lottery ticket, Uncle Mike said, “My nephew holds a lottery ticket that’s worth thousands! Ain’t that something?”

“What’s your name, kid?” the man asked as he rose from his stool.

“Jason,” Jason answered the man, who seemed as tall as a gorilla on tiptoes.

“I’ve known your uncle for years, but, you know, he just makes up stuff as he goes along.” He picked up a coffee cup. In his paws, it looked like the miniature cups girls use to play tea party.

Jason was aware of his uncle’s penchant for exaggeration—he only had to recall how he had bragged about playing guitar for One Direction! But in this case, what his uncle had mouthed off was true, “Like my uncle says, I won a couple of thousand dollars in the lottery. But my mom says that I have to save it for college.”

“That’s smart.” He hooked his thumb at Uncle Mike. “Otherwise, you might end up like him.”

“Peter, that’s not nice,” Uncle Mike chimed. “I’m always good. You know that.” He went for his wallet, opened it as big as a yawn, and brought out a hundred dollar bill. He handed it to the mechanic.

“Where did you get it?” The man turned it over in his hand.

“The bank,” Uncle Mike answered. “They got a lot more over there.”

“You sure you’re not just printing the money?” The mechanic sniffed the hundred dollar bill. He sneezed and remarked, “Don’t smell any ink, just tobacco and dirty hands.” He continued, “Most money these days smells like sweat and tobacco.” He shoved it into the pocket of his overalls.

“How true,” Uncle Mike agreed. “Now the debt is paid, with interest. What do you have in the way of bumpers?” He smiled at Jason, then looked back at his mechanic friend. “For a ’57 Chevy,” he added.

The mechanic ignored Uncle Mike. He asked Jason: “Where you keeping your lottery ticket? In a safe? In your back pocket?”

“Nah, I stuffed it in one of my dirty socks. No one would dare go near them—they’re, like, majorly stinky.” Then Jason rocked on his heels and gripped the workbench. “Uncle!” Jason screamed. “We got to go back home!”

“Homeboy, we haven’t checked out the bumpers. What’s the rush?”

“Nah, we got to go back. Like now, Uncle!”

Jason rushed from the garage. He had just remembered that his mother had asked him to gather his dirty clothes and take them to the garage. He hadn’t done that, or made his bed, or even washed the breakfast plates. But maybe his mother, fed up with the chaos in his bedroom, had gathered everything into her arms—poor Mom forced to sniff his clothes sour as old cottage cheese! He pictured the winning lottery ticket in the wash and the serial number slowly rubbing off with each chug. Or perhaps the winning lottery ticket was being torn to shreds in the tumble dry cycle?