Joe has a penchant for disappearing. This makes the employees at the places he frequents in Roscommon uneasy. He has no family and is nearing his mid-eighties. More paranoid people
fear he’s tripped over his monstrously furry cats and has broken a hip. But he always shows up to
the Sunny Spot for lotto, the Tee Pee for breakfast, and Family Fare for his Hungry Man frozen
dinners.
“I went downstate for something to do,” he smiles toothily. No one knows why he decides to take off to Detroit, but I vaguely remember him mentioning living in Hamtramck with his now-estranged children and former wife. I like to image Joe cruising the streets in his black
Cutlass, revisiting.
Now, he’s resurfaced, ready to buy his scratch-offs.
“Hi, sports fans!” he exclaims as he plods into the gas station. All the employees greet him in chorus. Joe looks like he has for years—stiff, oversized blue jeans, a faded gray shirt peeking out of a black jacket. A baseball cap with the gas station’s logo on it (a smiling sun for the Sunny Spot, of course) is smashed over his balding head. He is never seen without it. His look is complete with dirty glasses and a grin that can only be described as infectious.
The cashier behind the counter asks Joe if he’s got any winners. Despite him coming into the Sunny Spot nearly every day for lottery tickets, the Lottery God doesn’t answer his prayers. The lucky quarter he uses to meticulously reveal numbers and symbols has been drained years ago.
“Not today, but I have a good feeling about today,” he tells her. She smiles like it’s the first time he’s said that, but it’s not.
As he ponders the plastic brick housing the colorful tickets, the cashier waits patiently. All of the employees have come to think of Joe as their grandpa. He is always smiling and gives hugs to anyone who looks like they might need one.
Joe decides on a variety of tickets, one being the two-dollar Cashword as per usual. If he pays with cash, he’ll give each person behind the counter a dollar for a ticket for themselves. Today, he pays with a card he keeps in his breast pocket.
“Time for the secret code,” Joe says. He types in his PIN, hunched over and sneaking glances at the cashier to ensure they’re not watching the numbers, all while trying to hold in a laugh. “Green donut,” he says next as he presses the green circle, sending his card information into the gas station’s system.
He’s not too chatty today, though; his cats Fireball and Bambino are in his beaten-down Olds and have an appointment at the vet in half an hour. Joe loves to cruise around with his cats. They’re all he has left.
When he has time, Joe speaks briefly of the family he once had. Emotion chokes him until he can’t speak, so no one completely understands why his two daughters refuse to speak to him. Many don’t ask—they know that thinking about who he once was hurts him. They simply ask after his giant cats, his luck winning the million-dollar scratch-off, and what he’s been up to. Not many inquire as to his sudden disappearances once they get used to them.
With a smile and a grandfatherly hug, Joe bops around Roscommon until he feels the pull toward Detroit and heads down south for a little while, driving down pothole-ridden suburban streets, reliving.
Hannah Ryder is a Pushcart Prize-nominated multidisciplinary writer whose work appears in Judy Magazine, Great Lakes Review, The Turning Leaf Journal, and Tangled Lives: An Anthology, among others. She holds an MFA from the Savannah College of Art and Design. Find more at hannahryder.com.
