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| Contesting |
By:
Matthew Hostetler |
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CONTESTING
About a month ago, Rene’s Beer (no one’s first choice) launched a contest in order to boost sales. The only rule: scratch off the winning label. The only prize: a million dollars. After the contest was announced, William set aside “his” brand since high school, and hunted the winning bottle with a focused fury. His friends, especially Walter, were amused at his unreasonable élan. His wife Melody, on the other hand, was not amused. A week after the contest began, Will was forced out of their home.
He had just shaved an emptied bottle’s label, praying (of course) that it would be the one. Instead, a familiar condolence and an offer of encouragement was revealed. He sighed, put away his army knife and ordered another beer. “Can’t give up now,” he explained to Glen, the barkeeper and owner.
Walt sat on the stool to Will’s left, casually sipping his Rene’s with a slight smirk on his face. “Man. You’re obsessed with that contest. Crazy.”
“See, here’s the thing Walt: you wanna win, but I hafta win.” Will poured about a fourth of the new bottle’s contents into himself, then lit a cigarette.
“How’s the new gig? Work slow?” asked Davis from Will’s right.
Before every season, each man in their circle had to sign with either of the two contractors in town, choosing by which compromise (better pay or steadier work) best suited their temperament. Walt and Davis chose the steadier work over the slightly better pay, but Will felt a fatter paycheck, whenever it came, was far preferable. After a two week lull, Will had just started on a new project that morning.
“No way. Not at all. I earned this one today, that’s for sure.” Will held up his prize before tipping it backwards into his mouth, although the swallow was dutiful and delightless. “I’m exhausted. Not to mention this goddam...” He had difficulty spitting out the word this evening, but everyone knew what he was referring to. Anyone in the bar with Will in the past three weeks knew. Hoping to keep off of the dreaded divorce subject, Davis asked what Will’s crew was working on.
“We just broke ground on this new office building downtown. Y’know...computers and shit...a bank...some goddam lawyers...” Therefore, it wasn’t a change in subject. Will had recently been forced to retain a lawyer due to two predictable issues: money and the ten year old son.
Because both Will and Melody seemed equally fit to be the sole guardian, each parent’s bank balance was likely to become the only deciding factor. Presently, Will was earning more money at construction than Melody was at waitressing; however, if she received the “monies” she was asking for from Will , then he would be unable to take care of his son. His lawyer explained that due to Will’s infidelity, this was quite possible. “True, she may have cheated as well. But if so, it occurred only once, several years earlier. According to you.” Winning the contest initially assured a better life for his family. Now it meant he would obtain custody of the only decent outcome of the otherwise unfortunate nuptial.
So Davis pushed the conversation towards sport teams, but it failed to gain much momentum. Meanwhile, Will had emptied his bottle, lost the contest and ordered another chance.
“Man. You’ve been really pounding ‘em down,” said Walt, still nursing his first bottle.
“So? More beer. More chances. ‘Sides, yer drinkin’ too.” The last drag his cigarette had to offer was pushed through his nostrils.
“And so’s those fillies,” noticed Walt, with a nod towards three young women across the room, wasted, lost in a haphazard pool game. They were certainly underage, but because Glen’s bar needed money, anybody was always welcomed.
Will glanced over and was reminded of the girl whom Melody had found him with. It was really the girl’s fault, Will reasoned, that this divorce was happening in the first place. He felt a blurry rage fill him. He couldn’t look at them, so he hung his head and stared at his bottle.
“I should ask them to join us,” said Walt with a wicked grin. He tossed down the last swig from his bottle.
Davis felt a little uncomfortable. “Y’know, they’re about half your age, big guy.”
“Yeah. But if they want it, I’ll hafta give it to' em. Homo.”
“You’re so cavalier.”
“Whadda ya mean? I don’t watch basketball.”
“Never mind.”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t watch the Cavs. They never win.” Walt looked away from the pool players for a moment to scratch his bottle’s label with his blackened thumbnail. Then his face lit up. “But I just did!” He vaulted from his stool and triumphantly lifted his bottle. “I won! I won!”
Will looked at Walt and saw his sickening smile. “Bull. Lemme see.”
“Hell no.”
“C’mon!”
“Yeah right.” Walt crossed his arms to protect the bottle.
“Lemme just look!”
“Piss off.”
Will stood up and faced Walt.
“Let me see it. The bottle. Now.”
“No way. Loser. ”
Will swung a fist that sloppily connected with Walt’s jaw. Walt was thrown backwards and fell onto the floor, letting the bottle fall from his grip. Will scooped it up and dashed out of the bar.
He continued running down the sidewalk towards his apartment building. He heard the sound of feet behind him, perfectly in synch with his own rapid footfalls. In reality, however, no one had followed him-Davis was tending to Walt, and no one else in the bar felt obliged to chase after the drunken man. Still, when he slammed his apartment door behind him, he felt impressed at how he had outrun the shadowing steps.
He crashed down on his couch, breathing heavily. His smile was so wide, he was afraid it might crack. “So what? I’ll buy a new one.”
But his smile was unfounded, so it vanished as he read:
SORRY
PLEASE TRY AGAIN |
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