Could this happen to you?

Ernie N. Puckett

By Scott D. Zachary
Copyright 2004

It began as an ordinary Thursday for Ernie Puckett—two slices of buttered toast topped with one poached egg each, while skimming the Wabash Times. Ernie extracted enormous pride in learning the art of snapping the pages of his morning newspaper full of air as he turned them. He had seen one of those high-filutin’ business types do that before he went to night school, and that’s what inspired him to get his diploma. On Thursday mornings, Ernie deftly snapped twice in order to avoid seeing the lottery numbers. He reflected that his Uncle Ned had taught him well. "One should always shit on company time. Do it at work," he’d say, "gives you that much more free time when you’re off the clock." That made perfect sense to Ernie. Feeling a glint of pride in his expansion on Uncle Ned’s idea, Ernie waited, as usual, to check his lottery ticket on the computer at work. He figured that this saved another minute of his personal time.

Ernie fantasized about matching all six numbers from Wednesday night’s lottery drawing every Thursday morning during his ten-mile drive into town. This Thursday was no different. Ernie planned for that eventuality. He and his wife, Agnes, had dined at a Chinese restaurant to celebrate his graduation from high school year before last on a Wednesday. Having lived most of his life in the hollers of Tennessee, he’d never eaten Chinese cuisine. He wasn’t especially fond of the food, but it seemed to Ernie that there was something magical about the fortune cookie. It read: "Even numbers will make you a wealthy man." All six of the lottery numbers on the opposite side of the fortune paper were even numbers. Agnes tried, without success, to convince Ernie that fortune cookies are just kids’ stuff—make believe. Ernie knew that this was too much of a coincidence to be ignored and reasoned that this was also a day on which they selected lottery numbers. Without exception, every week Ernie played those same numbers on Wednesday’s multi-million-dollar lottery.

This Thursday seemed a little different than all the other Thursdays before. Ernie sat down at his production terminal and reached for his mouse, experiencing the identical mysterious feeling that he had had at The Chinese Gazebo while reading his fortune. He wasn’t supposed to access the Internet from his computer at work, but he rationalized that this was more important than work. This was his ticket to freedom—to financial independence. It was the one minute in his job that he truly enjoyed.

"Today’s the day," Ernie thought. He clicked on the forbidden icon, which he knew beyond a doubt, would enable him to show people what he was truly made of. Ernie wasn’t a bad guy. He was just tired of being used by other people in the pursuit of their American dream, first for eighteen years in the coal mines, and now for nearly two years in this metal fabrication shop.

The system gurus claimed to have upgraded the company network. While he waited for his favorite website to materialize, Ernie figured that someone had made a lot money blowing smoke up somebody’s ass. The lottery site now takes three times as long to display as it did before their upgrade.

Ernie’s fingers froze on the keyboard, anticipating his overdue jackpot. He read the numbers out loud to himself: 4 . . . 10 . . . 18 . . . his ears twitched . . . 22 . . . he held his breath . . . 38 . . . he shivered and closed his eyes before reading the final number. Ernie rocked in his chair, forward and back, forward and back, soothing himself. He chanted, "Let it be . . . let it be . . . let it be!" He imagined the palace he would build for his mother after he bulldozed the shanty where he’d grown up.

Ernie slowly raised his eyelids, conscious of the eyelashes that decreasingly blocked his view of the sixth, and last, number. He slammed his eyelids shut again, afraid to look, scrunching his face to keep his dream alive. "How many numbers are possible?" he questioned. "Fifty-some, I think. So the odds are fifty-some to one that I’ll be quitting this dreadful job today." In a flash, he opened his eyes, narrowing his focus to that last number, the one that would enable Agnes to tell those people at the meat-packing plant to take her job and shove it. "They never did appreciate her loyalty," thought Ernie. Like a heat-seeking missile’s guidance system, Ernie zeroed in on and read the sixth, and final, number. "44!"

Ernie intertwined the fingers of his hands and clenched them tight. He looked over his shoulder to ensure that no one was observing him. His heart hammered like bass drums. He returned his focus to the computer screen. "Settle down, Ernie," he told himself. "Okay, double-check, guy; we don’t want make a fool of ourselves." He reread the numbers, not once, but four times: "4-10-18-22-38-44." His face burst into a jubilant expression. He recalled Johnny Cash’s song titled, "Hey, Oney!" Ernie wasn’t sure if that was actually the name of the song, but he remembered the tone of Johnny’s voice when he sang those words to his supervisor. Ernie’s supervisor, James, sat in the next cubicle and never came out of there except to dish out his superiority. Ernie’s predecessor had referred to James as Jimmy and was fired that same day. Now, at last, it was Ernie’s turn to do the dishing. Full of delight, Ernie chuckled as he bellowed in the direction of James’ cubicle, "Hey, Ji-i-i-i-i-immy!"

James darted into Ernie’s office like Speedy Gonzales, his nose pointing disdainfully at the object of his scrutiny. James’ eyes glistened. "Surely, you weren’t referring to me."

"Yeah, bub . . . or do you prefer ‘Jimmy’?"

"Neither is acceptable if you wish to continue working here."

Ernie rose from his chair, emulated James’ petulant posture, walked directly in front of him, stuck his nose to within an inch of James’ nose, grinned defiantly, and mimicked The Bug in the movie "Men in Black." He grasped the hair on his own head and pulled it backward, contorting his face, "Is that better, Jimbo?" James’ eyes flared in response to Ernie’s outright disrespect. Ernie squared his hands on his hips and declared, "Nobody tells Ernie N. Puckett what he may, or may not, call them." As Ernie strutted out of the office, he gripped the ticket to his newfound fortune tightly in his right fist.

Ernie stopped at the front desk. With an air of utmost importance, Ernie demanded, "Shirley, the president wants to see you immediately." Overwhelmed, Shirley hesitated. Ernie barked, "Now!" She shrunk and retreated toward the president’s office like a squirrel at the sound of a shotgun. Ernie picked up the phone to call his wife at the meat-packing plant and felt pleased about the way he had finally taken charge of his life.

"Garber Meats."

"Put my wife, Agnes, on the phone."

"Who is this?"

"Ernie N. Puckett. You’ll learn to know the name after I buy Garber out and I become your boss. Now get her on the phone."

There was silence at the other end of the phone line. Ernie rationalized that he should become more diplomatic, especially since he planned to buy out all of the companies in town with his hundred-plus million dollars after taxes. He didn’t want to see all of his key employees quit their jobs like he just did.

"This is Agnes."

"Honey Bunny, don’t say a word to anyone about what I’m going to tell you, okay?"

"Sure, honey, but the office manager told me you said you are going to buy the company?"

"We can talk about that later. Dear, we won the lottery. Don’t tell anyone until we get the cash."

"Are you sure?"

"I checked the numbers five times. We’re going to buy this town, baby—lock, stock, and barrel. Tell them that you’re fed up with their shit."

"But I should give two weeks notice."

"Do it. We’re rich. We don’t need them."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I say so. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. We’re going shoppin’, baby."

Ernie picked up Agnes in his 14-year-old truck, knowing that his means of conveyance would be elevated within the week. It didn’t require more than an hour or so at Sears to max out their $4,000.00 credit card, brimming the bed of Ernie’s pickup truck with anything and everything that had filled three shopping carts. Their next stop was the local jewelry story where Ernie bought Agnes the largest diamond ring that his Visa card could buy. Agnes balked, but Ernie convinced her that she deserved an even bigger diamond. "That will come," he proudly declared.

"Our last stop on the way home is the liquor store. We need a case of that expensive bubbly for our celebration tonight."

"Are you absolutely sure that we’ve won?"

"Don’t question me anymore, pretty lady. I’m the man who’s going to buy you the world."

"Whatever you say, honey."

Ernie and Agnes walked into the liquor store. Ernie didn’t bother looking; he ordered the clerk to fetch him the most expensive case of champagne that their quaint little store stocked. The clerk knew a big sale when she saw one; she duck-walked to the back of the store, returned with an expensive-looking box, and thumped it down on the counter. She rang it up. "That’ll be $387.22, sir. Would you like to add a lottery ticket to your bill? They’ll be pulling the numbers this evening." The clerk smiled convincingly.

Ernie scoffed. "Get a clue. Today’s Thursday. The drawing was last night."

"Uh, sir, today is Wednesday."

"Don’t be stupid. I should know. I’m the winner of Wednesday, the 14th’s lottery."

"Sir, I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. Today is Wednesday, the 14^th. I should know; it’s my birthday."

Ernie’s face flushed miserably. Realizing that he had errantly read Saturday’s winning numbers, he felt sick. Ernie rushed out of the store and leaned on the newspaper rack. Agnes held his forehead while he vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach to expel. Ernie’s knees wobbled as he endeavored to stand up straight. Agnes wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. "We don’t need the lottery, dear; we’ve got each other."

Ernie hugged Agnes.

Agnes whispered into Ernie’s ear: "You're so sweet, Ernie; don’t despair. I forgot to check my Saturday lottery numbers. I knew that if your magic numbers were ever pulled for Saturday’s lottery instead of Wednesday’s, you’d be devastated. Now you don’t have to be." Agnes grinned bodaciously. "I love you, Ernie."