The Funny Numbers
by Darryl W.

The Circle K convenience store added little to life in the small town by way of its services, but it was where folks gathered to play the numbers. The rhythms of life in Spartasville, Georgia were so backwards and so sleepy that locals called the Circle K ‘Wall Street.’ Eight days ago, management installed a new lotto game. The sixteen year old girl who worked weekend shifts, Tosha, was almost ready to quit. Well, sometimes she felt that way. It was bad enough already; now it was worse. It was just that they annoyed her, Old Man Samms and his compatriots. Now they hung around in the Circle K convenience store, all Saturday, their eyes set on the new TV screen that only flashed lotto info. She watched them watching the screen, their eyes growing queer and animal.


Tosha tried to ignore them. She ducked behind the counter, lowering her head. You would have thought she was reading a book. Her hands were empty. She twisted her lips, a mindless habit she got from her parents, repetitiously twitching her lips like a hand sewing with a needle. She disliked the name of their new game, Quick Fix.


Money Tree, Power Ball, Gold Card, Spirit of 76, Cash 3, silly names, written across cheaply produced lotto cards. Tosha disliked touching the cards even, the colors garish, the logos spelling out silly temptations. The difference was that on Quick Fix winners were announced every thirty minutes. That was what the television, above the counter, reported: the bluish screen flashed occasional sentences and the new winning numbers. Old Man Samms and his partners already had a Quick Fix lingo. Over the past few days, Tosha listened as their slurred conversations fished for special words to describe their special itch. Shooters, they called themselves. The shooters were shabby, fiftyish men, wearing worn clothes and big, battered shoes. Three sat at a table. Though today there were just those three, sometimes five or more crowded the Circle K, laughing and sitting on old milk carts. They held shiny pennies, scratching their tickets and throwing the discards on the floor. Then they paid another dollar for another round. Old Man Samms was going toothless. Tosha didn’t like looking at him; his last two front teeth frightened her.


“Hey, Bebe.” Old Man Sams groaned. His voice was funny, neither commanding, nor whispery, just gruff. She heard his foot shuffling, his knees beating the bottom of the table. Tosha knew that meant he was becoming agitated. Her hearing was fine. She knew too that her name wasn’t ‘bebe.‛ His knees thumped the table again. “Bebe,” he said. He finally sounded plaintive. “Bebe, you think I need to quit shooting.”


“I don’t know nothing about that, Mr Samms,” she answered, knowing he couldn’t see her shaking her head in dismay.


“Come on, bebe.” Old Man Samms sounded so disgusted that Tosha looked up, and saw his face had darkened like an overcast sky. For a few seconds, she was sympathetic. She noticed saliva dribbled in his mouth. A small, half moon frown spread across her face.


“Listen up ya’ll, now it’s alright to stay in here, but I can’t babysit on ya’ll all the time."


“I wasn’t saying nothing, bebe, I just –“ Old Man Samms flung his arm out like the futility gesture of a Shakespearean actor. Tosha saw Mr. Errol reach out and touch Mr. Samms’ shoulder. His hand rested there, squeezing the flesh. Mr. Samms looked blankly into his friend’s eyes. It was some sort of secret communication, Tosha presumed, but within seconds Mr. Samms cracked a smile. “Don’t quit shooting, man,” Mr. Errol said.


Mr. Samms wouldn’t. They never did. They were just like everyone else. That was the way it was. Nothing ever changed. In Spartasville, Georgia, folks played and paid up. It was Tosha who was unusual. But she should have heard something coming. Mr. Samms sounded peculiarly gruff. There was a frog in his throat. Tosha was surprised when she saw him looming, his hands on the counter, his eyes puffed. He smelled a little. Not alcohol. Just strong, pungent sweat. The shadow of unwashed days. He blubbered nonsense.


“Na-na-na. Let me tell this here little girl something. I don’t know who – who you think I is, but I ain’t no bum, I – I ain’t no – nobody.”


Saliva dribbled down his shirt. She watched him like a virgin ogling a dancing snake, her lips pursed in disbelief.


“Mr. Samms, you ok?”


“Bebe, we all ok. It’s just bebe – what your name is?”


“Tosha.”


“Tosha, bebe, sometimes you give us a look like – like we nobody.” Behind Mr. Samms, his chorus of friends heckled him. “My buddies is fine. I’m fine. Know something else, bebe, we lucky.”


“I’m sure you are,” Tosha said.


“Thank you bebe….” He lowered his head, childishly. Tosha hoped he was finished. He piped again, his voice as low as a foghorn in the distance. “Bebe, how long fore that cash 3 number come down?”


“You can see the clock right up there, ain’t it?”


“How long before the big money come down?” Tosha remained patient. Maybe he wasn’t drunk right now, and she presumed the angels in heaven prayed for him like everyone else, but she had seen him stumbling around Spartasville on binges. Heaven help him, she thought. To Tosha, the mystery was how Old Man Samms and his ilk found dollar after dollar.


“The cash 3 number come down seven o’clock every day,” she answered, politely.


Mr. Samms nodded. He gestured with his shoulders, the way friends rub elbows, and his eyes brightened with perception.


“I knew that. I jes wanted to ask you, bebe. Cause if I had to wait no longer time was gonna kill my numbers, and the numbers sure been funny lately,” he sighed.


“It’s alright, sir. The numbers gone come down. Just like always. Ok?”


The door opened; within minutes, the store was crowded. Mrs. Frasier entered; then Mrs. Washington and a young man with an effeminate, high -pitched voice who Tosha sort of recognized. Then she remembered – Carlton, Mrs. Washington’s nephew. There were others. The door opening, shutting, the tension gathering the way that always happened after five o’clock as the clock approached seven. Tosha took the lotto tickets, and ran them through the machine, confirming their bets on Cash 3, where the real money was, and the machine hummed incessantly, maybe like God’s disapproval, she thought. She rested her head in her palm, riding the evening out. By now, the Circle K was noisy; Mr. Samms’ grouchy voice underpinned the general hubbub, and whenever she heard him she flashed on the image of his nasty, toothless mouth. Like always, folks complained about the funny numbers.


People in Spartasville wasted their money, as far as Tosha was concerned, but that was their business, while she made money for hardly working. Now and then folks interrupted her, and her eyes fluttered open; luckily, she knew from experience exactly how to handle folks. She glanced at the clock, muttered “Bout twenty more minutes before seven o’clock” or sometimes she merely estimated, or the atmosphere in the store informed her as accurately as any timepiece. Then folks left her alone again and, shutting her eyes, she lapsed into her interior visions. Her dreams, however trivial. She knew she was a simple person. At sixteen, the thought of being more or less than anyone else intimidated her. But she was picky about some things, certain things. She tried for a moment to pinpoint those things, but all she could think of were the gamblers. And she realized it bothered her in particular when old folks gambled, given that age was a quality she associated with despair.


She listened as voices around her babbled about dreams. That was how folks found their numbers. They counted the houses, and the bridges, the familiar faces and the lost highways they remembered from last night’s dream. Tosha rarely remembered her dreams. If she could find answers to prophetic questions, honestly, she would ask about the prom. It was coming soon, and she needed a matchmaker’s advice. She, too, like Mrs. Frazier and Mrs. Washington, like Old Man Samms and his chorus, Tosha also weighed future propositions that approached her ken, but kept slipping away.


“Time is coming like a horse out the gate,” Old Man Samms muttered.


Mrs. Frazier, Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Washington’s nephew stole the table from Mr. Samms and his cronies, saying they were ladies and ladies sat first.


“That boy a lady?‛ somebody asked.


“He with me,” Mrs. Washington answered.“ Wooooiiiiee, ain’t your husband gonna be jealous.”


Her nephew, Carlton, tried to answer for himself, but he stuttered so badly he made folks laugh.


“It’s ten minutes to seven now. The will of the Lord will be done,” Mrs. Frazier said.


“Ten minutes? Ten minutes!” Mrs. Washington waved her little finger in her nephew’s face. “That boy done waited to the last ten minutes! Boy, how did I get you for a nephew. I’m telling you you have done kilt three numbers.”


Carlton was busily scribbling on a table napkin, choosing his numbers. 


“You should have told me,” Carlton whined, still scribbling.


“It’s ten minutes to seven. You don kilt dem numbers for waiting.” Carlton stared at her accusatory finger like a lost child, then returned to his scribble work. 


“You still got time,” Tosha said. “Don’t worry. “ Finally Carlton gasped, scurried to the counter, looking like a child who had lost something favored. Tosha ran Carlton’s numbers through the lotto machine, and returned to her private thoughts.


“It’s true you need to get your numbers in early,” Mrs. Frazier said, while Mrs. Washington picked up her nephews ticket receipt and examined his choices, frowning. “ She putting your mind to the test, boy, live and learn, “Old Man Samms said.


“These our numbers?‛ Mrs. Washington grumbled, displeased. Mrs. Frazier straightened her hairnet. Mrs. Washington patted her dress, and straightened the lower half beneath her. She frowned at the numbers testily. “How you pick these numbers, boy?”


Carlton’s mouth was moving, but no sounds emitted. It looked as though he mouthed Mrs. Washington’s words back at her sans mental comprehension.


“How now, brown cow, “ Mrs. Washington muttered, giving up.


Tosha had three weeks to decide. She had gotten herself into this situation by going against her nature. It wasn’t too late to correct her mistake, as she would. She was surer of that than she was of which direction she would go, because there were two boys. Her nature was to decide a priori who she would go out with, and date that person more or less exclusively. She had swiveled from her intentions, like a wobbly toy she had owned as a child, and now she found herself with two boys with their own a priori expectations. She was like a wooden object, straightforward, stable, confident. That was why she rarely doubted someone she picked to like would like her back. That had proved to be true, but this time she had broken a rule. Something in her compelled commitment, but this time she had wandered, like driftwood. She would correct the situation by remembering her place in the world — a stiff, wooden object that, once given, was owned.


There was Roosevelt. He had so many nicknames that trailed him, like girls, like gossip. He was a loud boy at school. As nature would have it, the other boy she was considering as a prospective prom date wore glasses and was less attractive. Danny looked scholarly, and probably was, but scholarship was not something she could pinpoint or trusted her judgment identifying. As she thought, imaginary scales balanced in her mind. She was in the country of her imagination, and against a backdrop of golden scales and gated mansions, Danny looked like a brighter prospect. She knew he was going to ask her to the prom, and he had a pleasant laugh.


She wasn’t concerned about luring him. No, no such difficulties usually existed in her mental pictures, nor in the world she weaved through. She was concerned about appearances, like nasty old Mr. Samms’ mouth when it hung open. She could not forget that. Instinct told her to focus on tell tale signs, and then pretend never to have noticed, while acting accordingly. Instinct told her to look for a boyfriend as scrupulously as a matchmaker finds husbands, and instinct led her back to this image — a white flag. Once she had seen Danny walking the school corridor, his shirt tail hanging out, and his pockets turned inside out. The image pestered her. Worse, it kept growing and growing. She remembered following him in disappointment. She was concerned about his prospects in the world.


A white tail flapped against his rear end. It was demeaning, embarrassing. It was so bad that she couldn’t laugh, and that was worse, because if she could laugh the image might disperse like a spiderweb if you swept your hand through it. Maybe she saw the world through a prism of braids, curls, hairstyles and fashions mirroring folks’ self-worth back at them. Maybe she was concerned for Danny, but by the time she opened her eyes she knew she would pick the other boy. Two minutes to seven, the clock read. Mrs. Washington helped relieve the tension in the Circle K. ‘Ain’t nothing to do now but box with the devil!‛ To illustrate, Mrs. Washington marched, swung and knocked invisible devils out cold.


“it sure be the devil if we stuck with the funny numbers again,‛ Mrs. Frazier said.


“N’ who fault that be,” Samms snarled.“ Who done kilt them numbers, assuming they’s kilt!”


The numbers fell on time. Shortly afterwards, Tosha spotted Danny. He squatted on a milk cart in the rear of the room. She suspected what he wanted, and she avoided his eyes. She had too much to do to talk to him anyhow. Her place of employment had become a tiny, weird menagerie. There were a few small time winners. There was no lucky winners, and the store was still crowded fifteen minutes after the draw.


“Tosha,” Danny said, “ I woulda won if I had played my numbers.”


“That’s nice,” she said, as she cashed forty dollars for Mrs. Frazier. She tried to sound indifferent.


“Tosha,” he said, doing exactly the opposite, wanting to sound like he warranted her special attention. She thought she even heard Danny say something about ‘funny‛ numbers, but that would have been too coincidental. Tosha lost herself in her work, grinning at the two bit winners. Danny finally slipped her a note. She suspected what the note said. More than suspected: she guiltily knew.


“Mrs. Washington, can you tell me something?” But suddenly she didn’t want to ask while Danny was there. She stalled and busied herself, and flashed smiles until Danny tired, believing she hadn’t seen the note, and he slipped away. By then, Mrs. Washington had calmed down too. The Circle K emptied. Mrs. Washington stared forlornly at her ticket receipts. Tosha wondered if she still blamed her nephew. Certain folks still seemed to believe there was a lucky winner out there somewhere who would walk in the Circle K any minute. Tosha never knew how to say goodbye to the losers, sometimes she said nothing, but this evening she would have felt better if other folks said goodbye first, or maybe if she knew what they meant by the funny numbers.


It happened several times. A light beyond the Circle K windows brightened, suddenly, the effulgence almost too harsh to stand looking at, then dimmed. Cars were leaving the parking lot. Tosha recognized a few faces behind the bright car lights, the disappointed faces. Someone waved at her from a mysterious car — Danny, she believed. Tosha counted up the money, swept the floor, and walked along the aisles looking for evidence of disarray. Mrs. Washington babbled on and on, almost as chirpily as if she had won money, and whenever the garrulous Mrs. Washington ran short of breath, Tosha tried to pose her errant question.


Mrs. Washington babbled. “I shoulda played that four, honey. I had a dream few nights ago. I passed by my dead mama’s house three times, they was three windows in the front, but the fourth time I passed by Wall Street. That was telling me to come to Wall Street, honey, n’ play the number for my dead folks. It was telling me the numbers was gonna be funny a lot here lately. Dat’s why I passed by the house three times. See, the funny numbers, oh, that’s when the numbers double up on themselves. Like two three’s. Like when you have a dream, and it repeat over that same night.‛” Before Mrs Washington left, she asked, “How come you don’t never play, honey?”


“Cause I’d lose my money.”


“Sure, honey, till the day you win.”


Tosha glanced at the love letter. She folded the page delicately, regretfully, and crumpled it. Danny was like a bad bet. She printed out the evening’s total receipt, calculations from the real world. Then she stuffed a few lotto tickets into her purse, because she realized that evening that, whatever she thought of folks in Spartasville, her dreams were not very different from theirs.


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