Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  He extended his hand to mine and said, "Hey there! How's it hanging? Working hard?"

  "Oh yes. Yes!" I said, the coffee in my gut churning and grumbling. "Always busy." I really needed to take a shit. Bad! But I was trapped.

  "That's too bad the Help Desk will be outsourced soon."

  "What?" I said, shocked. This was news to me. "Outsourced? What do you mean?"

  "Oh, boy," he said, straightening his tie as if to seal up a hole in the side of his neck which leaked this secret information. Isn't it funny how sometimes people do that? That distraction thing when they say something they shouldn't? Well, I think he said something he shouldn't have. "I guess I wasn't supposed to say anything about that... yet."

  "Is the Help Desk really being outsourced? When?"

  "I don't know for sure," he said, looking around as if he realized he spilled the beans about something that wasn't supposed to be spilled. Working for the government can make some people really paranoid. It's true. "But it will happen eventually, I guarantee it."

  "That sucks."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I guess I would have to look for another job," I said, exhaling a sigh as heavy as a ton of bricks. My heart just sank. The idea of looking for another job was about as nice as the idea pulling my own fingernails off with needle nose pliers--slow and painful and infuriating.

  "Another job, huh? Do you know anything about networking? We have a position opening soon."

  "Really?" I said, excited, hopeful. I never, ever thought about a career in computer networking but it sounded much better than being unemployed. Considering I worked for the Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits, I knew how precarious a few months of unemployment would be for me.

  "Do you have any experience with networking?" he said. And without blinking an eye, I rattled off this and that about whatever popped in my mind about networking computers, buzz words and keywords and technical jargon and whatever. I must have made some kind of sense because he didn't look at me like I was talking out of my ass--which was good--except that I was talking out of my ass. But sometimes, that's what you have to do to survive: think on your feet and talk out your ass. It took him a second to process the litany of terms I rattled off then he said, "Well, get your resume in order and start filling out a State app. I'll let you know the day before the position posts so you can get it in right away. I find it's better to hire from within than from the outside. Too many unknown variables from the outside. Know what I mean?"

  "Sure, I get it. Let me know. I'm very interested."

  "You got it, pardner!" he said, slapping me on the shoulder then walking away, whistling. Little did he know I was on the brink of soiling my pants. I ran all the way to my favorite toilet stall, my right-hand securing my backside as I ran. Fortunately for me, I made it to the toilet on time.

  A couple of weeks later, Mr. Healy did inform me about the position and I did apply for it. A week after I submitted my resume and State app, I was interviewed for the position. And a few weeks after that, I accepted the job offer of Network Specialist II, a position that started at $34,521 per year with a full benefits package. To me, that was all the money and stability in the world. And it was all pure, dumb luck. Nothing more. It's true.

  I wish I had the ability to see the future just like good ol' Sammie Boy. I mean, I tried to do the right thing. I tried to make the right choices that affected my future in the right ways but it didn't always work out that way. Mostly, it seemed to me, luck was either on my side or it wasn't. Little did I know that my fortune was about to change.

  ***

  ***

  On the nights when little Jessie had taekwondo practice, Sammie Boy and I didn't have anything else to do. Initially when Jessie started, it was fun watching her kick the other little boys' asses. She was rather talented at taekwondo early on and her instructor, Master Lu, saw this in her, moving her up the color-scheme of mastery rather quickly--white to yellow to green to blue to red to black with red stripes. Jessie was a black belt with red stripes, which meant she was pretty much as good and as talented as a full black belt. But because of her young age and lack of maturity, Master Lu felt holding her at the black with red stripes level was best even though she would demolish any other kid her age and up to a few years older, too--boys or girls. She kicked any kid's ass. Like I said, although this was fun at first to watch, the monotony of witnessing her mastery of everyone became somewhat... boring. I noticed that Sammie Boy and I were sighing with boredom while watching little Jessie kick and punch the other brats to the mat. An ugly glance from a defeated turd's mother was enough for me. I decided then and there that Sammie and I would spend our time outside the dojang--the Korean term for the taekwondo training hall--doing much more fun things than receiving dirty looks from the mothers of the punk-ass bitches getting their asses beat by my daughter.

  The dojang resided in an L-shaped strip mall across the street from Wells Port Elementary, where my kids went to school. Neighboring the dojang were a variety of local businesses--a family-owned Italian restaurant, an insurance broker, a hair salon, a nail salon, a coffee shop, a Mexican restaurant, an African-American church, a ballet studio, a Mediterranean restaurant / pizza joint, and a convenience store. The owners of the businesses were a menagerie of different cultural backgrounds and personalities. For instance, the nail salon was owned by a group of Vietnamese ladies, none of whom spoke English except for one: the youngest daughter. It seems most nail salons are owned by a similar group of Vietnamese mothers, aunts, cousins, and daughters. On the other hand, the Italian restaurant was owned by a couple who were not Italian at all but were, in fact, generic white people with a Czech background who were originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota. One time, when I was waiting for a take-out pizza that I ordered from them, I asked the wife--her name was Mabel-- why it was that they owned an Italian restaurant yet they didn't come from Italian heritage. And she said to me, with a big smile on her face, "We just like to eat Italian food so we figured we could own a restaurant serving Italian food." Well, duh. That made sense to me. Makes sense to you, right? Of course, it does.

  So one night, after watching yet another brutal ass-kicking by Jessie, destroying all the little shits in her class, Sammie Boy and I decided to wander around the strip mall and check things out. He wanted to have father/son time. As we walked out of the dojang, good ol' Sammie Boy slammed the door behind us, rattling the windows around the glass and steel door. I thought for a moment that the glass was going to shatter because he slammed the door so hard. My first instinct was to scold him for slamming the door but, after seeing the cute expression on his face--his hands over his mouth in a Little Rascals fashion as if to say 'oopsie!'--I didn't scold him. I just let it go.

  "Want to get some ice cream?" I said, holding out my hand for him to grasp.

  "You mean, you're not mad at me for slamming the door?"

  "Nah. Want ice cream?"

  "Yes!" he said, holding my hand. He held three of my fingers tightly; three fingers were all his little hand could grip. We walked past the ballet studio (which was empty) and the African-American church (which seemed full because we could hear people singing hymns loudly inside but couldn't see anybody through the tinted windows) and the nail salon (which was full of ladies and girls yakking about stuff) and the Mediterranean restaurant (also completely empty) to the convenience store. It was called Speedy-Stop. The letters of the sign above the entrance were a bright, illuminated maroon and also the home to a family of finches--the twigs and paper scraps of their nest protruding haphazardly from the "o" in the word "Stop."

  Looking at the nest as we went inside the store, Sammie said, "I wonder if those birds like living above the Speedy-Stop?"

  "They wouldn't have gone through the trouble if they didn't," I said.

  "Speaking of birds, Daddy. Can I still get a budgerigar?"

  "What kind of ice cream do you want?" I said, pushing him gently through the door and, rather stealthily, interruptin
g his pet-themed train of thought.

  Inside, the Speedy-Stop's aroma was obnoxious--a combination of bleach, dust, coffee brewed from the early morning hours, hot dogs roasting since 10:30am, and the smoke from Nag Champa incense sticks wafting near the cash register--yet we were kindly greeted by Himanshu, one of the owners and the cashier for the night, who was oblivious to the unusual combination of smells. He smiled a wide, bright white, toothy smile. His pitch-black hair was combed to the side and his light blue, short-sleeved, button down shirt was stained from dingy-brown hot dog water. His nose hairs were so long that it seemed like he had a Hitler-style moustache, one of those stumpy, square 'staches. It was hard not to stare at his nose hairs. It's true.

  "Hal-oh!" he said, boisterous and pleasant. He winked at good ol' Sammie Boy. Sammie waved back.

  "Hey, man," I said. "How's it going?"

  "It is going! Two pack Marlboro for the price of one today," he said, pointing his thumb at the massive cigarette display behind him, a mosaic wall of a hundred tobacco brands. The cash register was entombed in cigarette boxes and cigarillo packs and chewing tobacco and electronic cigarette contraptions and their nicotine oils as well as condoms, sexual enhancement "herbal" pills, stale Moon Pies, and a plastic dish filled with dusty pennies and colored paper clips. His smile stretched a little wider until he noticed my eyes darting in the direction of Sammie then back, me quickly waving both hands in a 'No, no, no, no, no, not now!' fashion, until he got my point. His smile vanished and a serene look replaced it, a venerable look of acceptance and content. "Wrong customer. I confuse you with Tom, the accountant. You all look the same. So sorry!"

  "No problem," I said, winking at him. Sammie, fortunately, didn't catch any of our awkward exchange. He was too concerned with what he was looking for, which was: ice cream! He beelined for the ice cream cooler, then he slid the glass lid open-wide. As he leaned into the freezer case--images of ice cream sandwiches and popsicles and ice cream cones and all on the side of it--his little feet raised off the ground, dangling a bit as he wiggled his way over the lip of the cooler. He knew what he was looking for and rifled through the other frozen treats he didn't want--bomb pops, push-ups, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches, Neapolitan ice cream sandwiches, Klondike bars, any frozen treat coated in nuts like Drumsticks--until he found what he wanted, a cup of Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream. He was a simple kid with simple taste. In the box with the other ice cream cups was a bundle of paper-wrapped, wooden spoons. He grabbed one of those, too, then popped out of the cooler, landing on his feet and sliding the freezer lid closed in one motion that looked too difficult for a man my age to do. I admired his agility like I was admiring a ninja--an ice cream ninja!

  "Daddy, can I get this one?!" he said, a big smile on his face, his cheeks flush from the cold air inside the freezer.

  "Of course. Where do you want to eat it?" I said, rummaging through my pant pocket for my wallet.

  "Outside in the grass!"

  "Sounds good. Do you want a bottle of water, too?"

  As soon as I finished asking that rhetorical question, something caught Sammie's attention. He craned his head around my waist to see what was behind me, then bolted for the cash counter. He jumped up and down, one of his hands gripping the counter, the other pointing to a plastic, clear, display case of lottery scratch tickets. He was so excited, it looked like his little head was going to explode. His face was all shades of red and the veins in his little head were popping out all over the place and spit was flying out his mouth and his hair was going here and there. It was a crazy sight to see, good ol' Sammie Boy losing his mind like that. I thought something may have been wrong with him but he was just being him, all excited and delirious. It's true.

  As he jumped up and down, jabbing his little index finger at the plastic case, he said, "Daddy! Daddy! Looky! Buy that one, the one with the smiley face on it! Buy it! BUY IT! YOU'LL WIN, I SWEAR!"

  I examined the earnestness of his red face then looked at the scratch ticket then back at Sammie. He was going nuts! I took a better look at the scratch ticket, which was called Smiley Face Match, with a cartoon picture of a smiley face emoticon or emoji or whatever you call them on the front of it, next to its $1 price tag and its $5,000 grand prize emblazoned on it with a red starburst and a fancy serif font. I felt my intuition ball up into a knot in my stomach, a nagging pull that I usually paid attention to if I was smart enough. I was skeptical that I had the luck to win $5,000. Who wins money with those lottery tickets anyway? Nobody, that's who. Lottery tickets were a scam to cheat poor people out of their money.

  "Really, Sammie?" I said, setting the vanilla ice cream cup and wooden spoon on the counter. I glanced at Himanshu and he nodded knowingly, his toothy grin as white as ever, his nose-hair moustache perched above his upper lip like a bird's nest.

  "We haven't had a big winner on that game yet. Today it could be you," he said, moving closer to the plastic display, extending a hand, ready to rip the next ticket from the roll.

  "Daddy, I swear. On my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye! You'll win!"

  Feeling a smile push through my skepticism, I nodded to my boy, then looked at Himanshu and said, "I'll take one of those scratch tickets."

  "The one with the smiley face?" Himanshu said.

  "Yes. And the ice cream, too." I reached into my pocket for my wallet and Himanshu pinched one of the smiley face scratch tickets--bending it up and down to weaken the serrated edge of the ticket to make it easier to tear--when Sammie Boy started screaming out.

  "Not that one!" he said, putting the tip of his index finger on the plastic display, the soft tissue at the end of his finger smashing against the clear plastic. "That one, RIGHT THERE!"

  "Sammie," I said, placing my hand on his shoulder, constraining his excitement. "That one is kinda way in there. He has one ready to tear off. Does it have to be that specific one?"

  "Yes, Daddy! THAT ONE!"

  I looked at Himanshu, totally expecting him to back me up, and describe to Sammie the colossal pain in the ass it would be to unravel the entire roll to get that one specific ticket out. It couldn't have been allowed in the state lottery procedures to pull tickets out of order. Right? That seemed right.

  But he didn't do that at all. He nodded, smiled some more with his goddamn, super-shiny white teeth and his ebony bird's nest 'stache, then said, "I can get you that one. Is that the one your dad should get?" he said, winking at Sammie. Sammie smiled back, thankful that Himanshu was his ally. Himanshu then pulled the strip of tickets out of the display (maybe ten of them), folding them at their serrated edges, into a neat stack, until he reached the specific one that Sammie wanted. He tore it free from the other tickets, then he shoved the neat stack back into the display, cramming them in a slot not quite tall enough for the stack of discarded tickets. He rang up the ice cream and the scratch ticket, told me the total, and said, "Good luck. $1.75."

  "Thank you," I said, giving him two dollar bills then refusing the change. "Keep it."

  I gave Sammie the ice cream cup and placed my hand on his shoulder, leading him outside of the Speedy-Stop. To our left, a grassy lawn stretched between the Speedy-Stop and the street. Along the side of the store was a narrow walkway with a cinder block edge. We found a place to sit. Sammie tore the lid off the ice cream cup--like a cast-away on a deserted island finding a can of food after a week without any nourishment--and tossed the lid in the grass. I examined the scratch ticket, the smiley face on the front inviting me to scratch its face off, the odds of winning a prize on the back. I leaned back a bit on my butt and shoved my hand in my front pocket, looking for a coin to scratch with. I couldn't find one.

  "Lottery tickets are a voluntary tax on the poor," I said to Sammie. He had the cup close to his face, shoveling little white mounds of ice cream into his little mouth.

  "We're not poor," he said, shoveling some more.

  "That's not what I mean. Besides, the odds of us winning $5,000 are astronomical,"
I said. "I don't have a quarter to scratch it with."

  "I have one," Sammie said, pulling a quarter from his pocket.

  "Is this the quarter from the other night?"

  "Yes, it's my lucky quarter."

  I placed the ticket on my knee and scratched the front of it, Sammie looking on with ice cream dribbling out the side of his mouth down his chin, silver dust coming off the ticket and falling into the grass like shimmery angel's dust. After the entire play area was free of its silvery covering, I examined the exposed numbers, reading the instructions on the front of the game, and examining the numbers again. It was clear we won.

  "Did we win?!" Sammie said, looking at me for a confirmation.

  "Yes, looks like you were right. We won $50."

  "$50?!" he said, jumping to his feet, throwing the empty ice cream cup into the air. "THAT'S A LOT OF MONEY!" In the grass, he danced a little jig, a dance only a boy Sammie's age could pull off without looking like he was insane. He was as excited as can be.

  I was astonished. Even though it was only $50, I was certain now that my boy, good ol' Sammie Boy, could see the future. Our future. Maybe a brighter future. Or a darker one. Either way, he could see things I could only dream of seeing. How could he do that? Where did this ability come from?

  "Will I win more if I go back in and buy more?" I said, curious.

  He stopped dancing and looked at me, examining the look on my face, then looked down at the grass. It was amazing how quickly his excitement curdled into embarrassment then abashment.

  "Would you be mad at me if I told you I didn't know?"

  "No, of course not. But how did you know I was going to win this time?"

  Sammie kept his head down, using the tip of his shoe to carve an "S" in the grass.