This happened a long time ago. It’s all different now, of course, except for the Hot-Dog cart on 15th and Larimer. Back then the state of Colorado had recently initiated the Lottery game and the concept was new to all of us. “Did you ever think about all those unclaimed state lottery tickets?” Some mustard fell onto my chin and I wiped at it with a dinky little napkin. “The ones that ‘hit’ but don’t get cashed in? There could be a hundred people walking around who don’t know what happened to the ticket they bought. Or even knew that they were carrying a winner, heh? Boggles the mind don’t it?” I was finishing my second ‘Dog with mustard only’ and was wiping my face with a tiny napkin from a pile of napkins 3 inches high on the curb next to me where I was sitting.
I was talking to an old guy who happened to be sitting next to me there on that curb outside the Terminal Bar & Grill. Yeh, you know the place. Great cold beer, lousy bad food. Terminal was the correct name for that place. “Could be somebody right here in Denver, don’t even know he’s a fucking millionaire, eh?” The old gent sitting next to me didn’t answer at first…didn’t seem even to hear me. Then with a grin that showed a punched-in mouth, he sputtered and hissed his appreciation of that outlandish idea. “Hah hah ha… a fuckin’ million”, he takes a deep breath, “inaire. Yah, ‘at’s me, hah!” He began laughing and hacking and coughing so bad I turned away. We were in one of those ‘used-to-be’ parts of town. Used to be in a vital part of Denver. Now its all drunks and empty warehouses and dive bars. Old brick buildings hardly worth the cost of insurance.
The old guy next to me was wearing a worn-smooth brown corduroy suit-coat, four days beard with long white bristles; he had dignity in his weathered face. Those eyes had seen it all. He probably knew more than anyone would expect. I do too. He was wearing an old scuffed-up pair of Wing-Tips (brown maybe) that had long ago seen better days. Shoe laces of different lengths and colors, thin nylon socks. No tie.
“Hah ha, a fucking millionaire, hah ha.” He liked the idea. After a while and after a lot of hacking and gasping, he finished it all off with a string of spittle he couldn’t quite control. It fell down onto the front of his old corduroy coat in one long, glistening stringer. I had adjusted myself so as to talk with this old gent, and so I saw all this up close almost in slow-motion. The string of spit broke from his upper lip and fell into his chin-beard and clung there, disgustingly stubborn.
Tried to make a joke about a spider in a web, I couldn’t figure out how to be nice about it, he being an old gent and all. So instead I handed him a stack of napkins. At first he didn’t understand why I’se handing him those little pieces of paper. Those little white foldy things you get from Drive-up windows. They ought to be called Barely-Wipes. Anyway, as soon as he brought out his hand to wave me off no-thanks, he got that stringer caught all about his arm and chin and shirt-front and such. He was so surprised that he snorted and a greasy dark green shanker shot out, lost speed, fell down onto his worn brown corduroy coat front. He needed all the napkins I could find
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from my pockets. That’s okay by me. We’ll all be there someday. I hope I remember to bring my own handiwipes.
Well, this conversation is off to a fine start, I thought to myself. I fidgeted around and looked around, but there was no one else to talk to out here on the concrete curb this early evening. A fine evening, with the sun a fire-ball going down over the tall horizon of the Mountains. There was still snow up there and enough dust and crap in the air down here in the city to make a beautiful yellow-orange sunset. A scarlet mustard color. Maybe only a young drunkard like me, with nothing else to do would notice a wondrous painting like this. I can see the different ridges and folds in those Mountains to the west. Like silhouettes of ghosts. As the sun slipped lower, the view changed, the colors modified into other hazy colors with no names. The snow on the distant slopes glowed iridescent velvet-scarlet-yellow.
As I sat there gazing at those peaks more than 20 miles away, I felt warm and happy and privileged. I almost never see the sun come up, but I do love to watch it in the evening as it goes down. Sitting right here on this hard old curb with my knees pulled up under my chin, I couldn’t have felt any better about life even if I had just won the state lottery. “I’ld like to have this on film,” I said half out loud. Looking over next to me I saw the old gent was looking westward too. “This is my place of worship so to speak, Mister” he told me firmly. “When I”, he takes another long breath, “…I sit here on a warm evening, well damned if I don’t feel like,” takes another gravely breath, “like a fucking millionaire. Yes sir.” We sat quietly in the fading light taking it all in. I chuckled a bit just as the sun slid over the edge, a lot of light up in the sky in horizontal colorful wedges. It fades to black so slowly.
“It’s easy on my eyes but awful hard on my ass, sittin’ here on this old sidewalk. Let’s say you and me stand up and walk in the front door of this fine old establishment.” I wave my hand towards the Terminal Bar&Grill,” here. Find us a comfortable place to sit and I’ll buy you a beer? Huh? What’ve you gotta say ?” “Hell”, the corduroy gent said as we each stood up, “I’ll buy. After a show like that one we just saw,” he leaned against the side of the brick building to steady himself while hacking and gasping, “I feel just like a fucking millionaire.” He breathed deeply a couple times and then looked directly at me, smiling and says, “Yes sir, that’s me. A fucking millionaire, hah.”
A slight breeze moved all those nasty little napkins further down the cement walk as we each got our feet under us and walked in the front door.