VII

Glenn's father religiously spent ten percent of his disability check on the Louisiana lottery each month. Each time the same pattern was repeated. He made the short drive to Delta, Louisiana just across the state line and purchased the tickets at a convenience store. For the week leading up to the lottery he existed in a state of manic optimism. Upon hearing the anxiously awaited numbers he would sink into a week-long depression, fueled by copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was for this reason that Glenn gingerly opened the front door, his new suit slung over one shoulder. He could see the back of the elder man's head in the adjacent room. His mind raced back to the time in junior high when he had made the poster for alcohol awareness week. The poster on the economic impact of alcohol abuse had been good enough for third place in the school competition. His source of pride was short-lived, however. Scooter and Harper Johnson had made sure of that, mockingly announcing to the class that Mr.Walters was mixing beer with his bee honey and the increased revenue generated from the concoction was why Glenn had been able to switch to the academy from the public school.

Alvin Walters was sitting on the couch watching the rabbit-eared television, a case of Pabst on the floor beside him. Glenn tried to round the corner and make it down the hall undetected, but his shadow against the livingroom wall alerted the older man. "Well. Whatcha got there, big spender? A Wright and Johnson bag, huh? You buyin' big time suits and here I am drinkin' Pabst. Yeah, you're in the big time now." Without replying, Glenn turned the corner and started for his room. "Say. What's the rush? Why don't you come back in here and talk to your old man. Maybe some of that good luck will rub off on me."

"I can't right now, Pop. I'm sorta in a hurry."

"A hurry? To do what? Go back there and jerk off? Come in here and talk to your old man." Whenever the elder Walters felt outdone by any of his family members he immediately tried to belittle them by attacking their weakest point. Mr. Walters invariably alluded to the fact that Glenn had never had a girlfriend and was a thirty-one year old virgin. He ran the spectrum from offering to buy a hooker for the younger man to calling him a queer. Glenn tried to maintain his composure. "Come in here and sit down, I said. I won't bite ya." Hanging his suit on the door handle, Glenn reluctantly accepted his father's invitation. "So, you went to see how the monied folk shop, huh?" The older man forced a smile as he spoke.

"Just wanted to look good for my big trip."

"Well, I don't blame ya one bit. If I was doin' anything besides tendin' these bees, I'd probably own a nice suit or two myself." Alvin Walters stared straight ahead as he spoke. "I wouldn't be drinkin' Pabst either. Here, have one." The Elder generously offered the beer to his son.

"Not tonight, Pop. I got church in the mornin'."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. I'm the only heathen in this house. That's another thing you got on your old man. I tell ya what: maybe you can round ya up some of that pious trim now that ya got that big promotion." Alvin Walters chased his words with another dose of cheap mortality.

"The girls there aren't like that, Pop. I've told you that before."

"Not like that, huh? Well, it's a diff'rent world than when I come along then. Church girls was some of the best trim around."

"Well, these aren't." Glenn's tone became more firm.

"Well, with that attitude you probably won't ever get any. You oughtta give one of 'em a try. Those girls in that singles class been bottled up just as long as you have. I'll betcha they're ready to go." Alvin Walters sat back in the chair, as if to take in fully the type of response he had solicited.

"I told ya they're not like that, Pop. These girls are lookin' for somethin' else."

"Somethin' else, huh? Well, maybe you're right, but I bet that somethin' else that you haven't had was money. Now see if they don't come a-runnin'." Sharing wisdom with his son made Alvin Walters feel more of a man.

"Well, I wouldn't be so sure about that. Besides, I'm not lookin' for that kind of girl at church."

Alvin Walters stared at his son in disbelief. Surely Glenn wanted to bag a young vixen at least as bad as he did. "You know what your problem is, son? You got no self-esteem when it comes to women. Oh, sure. You've climbed up the ladder there at Shaw pretty good, but that's a diff'rent matter. You know what you need?" Mr. Walters only gave his son a split second to answer. "The milk jug routine."

"Pop, we've been through this a hundred times. You know no one can do that routine," said Glenn, unable to hide his agitation.

"Hell yes they can! That's how my daddy got us ready to wrestle bulls by the time we was eight years old! If you'd just do it, you'd be fitter that any of those other pencil necks up at First Methodist and you'd feel good enough about yourself to ask out one of them young ladies." Glenn's father had tried to introduce his "milk jug" routine to Glenn in junior high so that he could take care of the brats that picked on him at Magnolia Academy. The routine consisted of filling two gallon milk jugs with water or milk (for "the advanced trainer") and holding the jugs by their handles as if they were boxing gloves. The trainer would then shadow box with the "gloves" until he could no longer hold them up. He was then to drink the fluid from the jugs until he was again able to lift them. This process was to be repeated over and over (Mr. Walters called each time a "cycle") until the jugs were empty. In junior high, the boy was able to punch with the full jugs for less than a minute in the hot Mississippi sun. Drinking the luke warm water only made the situation worse. When Glenn tried to stop, his father had threatened him with a razor strap. After five or six cycles Glenn had collapsed in a pool of watery vomit.

"I've got plenty of self-confidence and I don't need that or anything else to build it for me." Glenn's body language now mimicked what he felt inside.

"There ya go. Keep on. Keep on talkin'. You're a big man now! You don't need a routine or anything else..." Alvin Walters crinkled his lips as he mocked his son. Anger raged inside of Glenn.

"Look, if you believe in that routine so much, why don't you ever do it? You should at least have the drinkin' part down pretty good." Glenn stood as he yelled. "I bought you that goddamn beer! Sometimes the only money you have is from recycling those goddamn beer cans!"

Glenn's father sat listless, staring down at the beer in his hand. Astonished at his own actions, Glenn looked down at the helpless figure of his father. Without making a sound, Alvin Walters reached down and picked up the half-empty case of beer and offered it to his son. "Here. You want the beer? You take it. Take it all." The elder man trained his bloodshot eyes on his son as he spoke. "And the bag of cans is out back too. You take that. I know it won't mean much to a guy like you, but you take them too."

"Dad, look, I didn't mean it," Glenn said remorsefully. "I was just angry." The older man lowered the case of beer and sat in silence. Glenn rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants and sat back down on the couch. Alvin Walters sat in silence, nursing a beer. "You know I didn't mean it, Pop." The two sat in silence for several minutes.

"You know what our problem is, don't ya?" Glenn's father stared into the can of beer as he spoke. "We got too many damn choices." Alvin Walters often spoke for society as a whole when he waxed philosophical. Glenn just sat and listened. "Yep, there are too many things in life we got control over these days. We run ourselves crazy tryin' to change things- diff'rent clothes, diff'rent car, diff'rent food, diff'rent job. Life was easier in the old days. You think my grandpa ever worried about what he was gonna do from week to week? Year to year? No. His life was planned out for him from day one- just like everybody else makin' a livin' off cotton. His choices was made for him. If it rained, he didn't go to work. If it was too cold, he couldn't plant. If it was time to pick cotton, he had to pick cotton. Yeah, they had it good back then." Mr. Walters continued to stare into the can as he spoke. Glenn wondered how much of the musing he was obligated to listen to. "They didn't have to worry about lottery tickets to buy- no business trips to go to. Just had to do whatever it was time to do. The time of year and the weather told you everything. I can remember my grandmother had the Farmer's Almanac right next to the Bible. When they had a cold snap in the winter, it was hawg killin' time and thas all there was to it." Mr. Walters punctuated the statement with a big gulp of Pabst.

"Yep, they had it good back then." Glenn thought of how he could make a graceful exit. "Not a care in the world."

"Oh, they had cares all right. There just whatin nothin they could do about it. They had plenty of cares. In them days if you didn't work you didn't eat." Alvin Walters finished off his beer and reached for another. Taking advantage of the momentary break in his father's soliloquy, Glenn slowly stood.

"Well, Pop, I really need to get some rest. Just forget what I said, O.K.? I didn't mean it."

"I know ya didn't, son. It's probly just the stress of that promotion eatin' at ya. I 'spect you'll be facin' a lot more of that now."

"Yeah, I guess I have let it get to me a little- with my new responsibilities and all. That's another reason I need to go ahead and get to bed." Feeling that he had mended the situation with his father, Glenn started off for his bedroom. "Goodnight."

"You get you a good night's sleep and in the mornin' I'll have your ma cook you some pancakes. We've got one of the best batches of honey you ever tasted for 'em."

Glenn closed the door to his solitary lair as he had every night for as long as he could remember. A tightness formed in his throat as he sat down at his desk. Was he really about to leave the only place he had ever know? He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a small metal safety box, then carefully set the numbers on the combination to "302". He had received the box in the fourth grade for buying the most books at the school book fair. Miss Averett, Glenn's young, shapely, homeroom teacher had announced that the person buying the most books at the fair would receive a special prize. Glenn had gone without snack and saved his dime for an extra milk for weeks in order to have money for the fair. He was certain that his crush on the young teacher was mutual and that if he were to win the contest his prize would be a candlelight dinner with her. He had carefully orchestrated which books he would buy at the fair in order to get the most books for his money and bought nine paperbacks with the four dollars he had saved plus a couple of dollars his mother had smuggled him for the fair. No one else bought more than five books. The next day Glenn proudly walked to the front of the class to accept his award, thinking that Miss Averett must be waiting until the other kids weren't around to invite him on their date. The invitation never came and Glenn was stuck with the shiny metallic box and nine books, none of which he ever read.

Glenn opened the box with great care, mindful of the dozens of baseball cards scattered throughout it. He had saved some of the best cards from the '77-'79 Topps sets in order to sell them but never had the heart. Underneath the cards were an assortment of some of Glenn's most precious possessions: the "Atlas Body" workout routine, his mail-order diploma in video repair, the "hammer fist" meant "only for strength training", a love letter from Jessica Barker, the beautiful little girl from second grade with the painted toenails, two ninja throwing stars, a silver and gold plated cross, several buffalo nickels and mercury dimes, his Victoria's Secret magazine, and his manifesto How to Drop Out of Sight and Other Covert Operations. Glenn opened the book to a chapter entitled "Living Comfortably on the Run". The picture at the beginning of the chapter showed a man dining in a fine suit in the company of two lovely women. The prospect of such a life bolstered his spirits. He placed the items back into the box and closed the lid then walked over to the door and quietly locked it. All was silent in the house. Glenn walked back to the desk and opened the center drawer, cautiously uncovering a laptop computer from a mound of old school papers. He quietly plugged in the power cord and modem. His palms perspired as he turned on the power. Soon he was online.

Cyberspace held for Glenn everything that the physical world did not. He was rich and handsome; a doctor or even a rock singer. Sometimes he was a college athlete. He drove a nice car and lived in a comfortable bachelor's pad. He was from Jackson or sometimes even Memphis or New Orleans. He had won thousands in the lottery, been a missionary to Zaire, owned his own jet, been a blackbelt in several martial arts, won the state rodeo four times in a row until "Old Nasty" broke his ribs, been a gourmet chef, had bit parts in several commercials and small time motion pictures, was an avid snow skier, had a handicap of 2, and often took cross-country flights just for dinner. He always checked his email before going to bed and tonight was particularly important if he was ever going to find true love. His heart leaped as he saw her name on the sender line. He skipped the other messages and went straight for hers. His brain could not translate the characters into words fast enough.

"Babycakes, I'm looking forward to you coming to Atlanta. I can't believe we're finally going to meet after all this time. Give me a call as soon as your plane gets in! Love Ya, TTFN, SCARLETT

Glenn read the words over and over, trying to make the reality of them sink in. He felt like he did as a child, anxiously awaiting Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. His euphoria was finally matched by his need for rest and he shut down the computer, placed it back under the mound of papers and turned back the sheets of his neatly made bed.