The Lottery Ticket

He smiles at me through toothless gums. "Good service here," he says loudly near the till so the boss can hear, handing me a three dollar Super 7 ticket.
"Take your boyfriend to Australia," he says, then hedging his bets: "I get 30 per cent if it's over ten thousand."

I don't check the ticket. It's becomes this strange personal symbol of hope, and I start to tell people the story. A joke, yet you just never know. The toothless man and I start to develop a tentative friendship. One day he tells me has three stops to make before he gets to the restaurant, and after that I always make sure to ask if he's made all of them, but I never find out what they are.

Another day he puts five dollars down on the table.
"It's your Christmas tip," he says. "You're the only waitress I've ever seen who has eight fingers," he says, commenting on the handful of cups I've just carried by.

The Monday after Christmas, I knock on the boss's door after four days without work during the holidays and before that being sent home early for days and days in a row.

"Am I fired?"
"Yes," she says.
"I would have liked to have known that earlier," I say.
"I would have liked you to have shown up for work on time," she says, and that's it.

So I check the lottery ticket.
It's not a winner.

As soon as I turn the corner I start to cry.
The lights of the city are just barely starting to grow dim, and the pre-dawn chill coats everything with a sense of urgency.
I round the corner, and I'm at the temp agency and still crying as I walk in the door, surprised they are even open on the Monday after Christmas.

"I just lost my waitressing job," I sniffle at the receptionist as soon as I walk in, tears trickling down my face. "I'm sorry, I thought I would have had it together by the time I got here, I thought I could..."
"Oh dear," she says and offers me a tissue.
"What's your name?"
After I tell her I take a seat and Charlotte, the manager in charge of my file, comes over from around the corner.

"I just got fired," I say, standing in the entry way with my too short green coat and two pairs of black tights.
She offers me a cup of coffee, and initially I refuse. I don't want to owe this bad company anything but the cold numbing me forces a yes, and she says nice things as I try to get myself together. She seats me in her office, and brings the coffee. It's in a styrofoam cup, and tastes like church basement carafes. We talk about her family Christmas and skim over why I got fired, but I don't think she cares.

She has two jobs for me, and they pay eleven dollars an hour or so - enough. I scribble numbers on the back of a receipt, it's enough for rent, and only part time and I'll figure out the rest, so i just say yes, telling her I'm still looking for work, but I need this and thank you, thank you.

"If i could only show up on time, every day I'd have a job right now," I say, and tell her I just want to write books and play my guitar.

"You're an artist at heart," she says. "If I could stay home and paint all day I would."

We murmur condolences at each other over our shitty lots at life, and I'm out the door, into the piercing blue of a clear winter day.

I said toast.

"I said toast," she snarks, and throws the pale piece of bread on the table, determined to exercise the abuse her $.99 order allows.
I put it in a napkin without her noticing, and bring it back to the kitchen.
"Can I get this toasted?"
The offending bread goes back to her table, nicely browned.
One small victory.