“Sir, this might be important, too,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. “It was taped to the screen. Have a nice day.” I close the door, wishing I had at least a half a cigarette to inhale, to help me take this all in. I don’t know how much I won, but it’s gotta be enough to buy that Ford pickup I been looking at. Burgundy. That’s my color. Whew! I can pay all my back child support—blow Donnetta’s mind once and for all. And I can maybe build my own ranch house even further away from all these crazy motherfuckers out here in the High Desert. I can start my own business. More than one! Get some of my ideas patented. Take some harder classes. “Slow the fuck down,” I say out loud. I got time to figure it all out, so I take a deep breath, trying to humble myself, but my fingers are tingling from the envelope in one hand and the piece of paper in the other. I read the paper first, sorta like prolonging an orgasm: “Lewis: Mama’s in the hospital. Do something. Get to a phone. She’s getting out of ICU today, but don’t let that stop you from worrying. Janelle.” This is the third time in two years Mama’s been rushed to the hospital. I’m just glad that Daddy’s there. But, since I’m off work, I should go spend a few days with her. Help out, ’cause Daddy’s probably busy running the Shack.

I gotta get to Vegas. But no way am I riding for four hours inside a car with Janelle. No way. First of all, she can’t drive. Her mind ain’t on the road. She don’t read signs, and she drives too damn slow. Plus, she won’t let you smoke and she likes that weird New Age music. Hell, no. I’ll take a bus. This way I can get some thinking in without no distractions.

As soon as I cash this check. No. First I need to open up a bank account. But I forgot. I don’t have no driver’s license. Can’t even get ’em for another eight months. They suspended. Two DUIs in five months. This is exactly why no more drinking and driving for me. But maybe I can get one of them California IDs. No. I got other proof that I’m who I’m supposed to be. I got bills. Maybe I can convince the bank lady that I am who I say I am when she sees how big this check is. That I got other mail with the same name and address on it. Plus, I got some Polaroids around here somewhere.

A half-empty bottle of Schlitz is sitting on the kitchen counter and I gulp it down. Then I scrounge through an ashtray till I find a decent butt, and light it. It’s burning a hole in my throat when I feel somebody’s eyes staring at me. As I turn to see if it’s Luisa, my towel falls to the floor and the brown face of a five- or six-year-old Mexican kid is peering at me from the back of the couch. He looks like he don’t know where he is.