The Event

Here it is. Every one of the authors I mentioned earlier got the same story starter. They were to take that story and write their own story from that starter to see what each author could come up with. Here's the set up.

The idea to get you started is that a character is driving along with something in the trunk when they are pulled over by the police. The character, the something and what happens when they are pulled over are all up to you. The stories should not be longer than 3,000 words, though we assume many of them will be shorter.

I'll link the rest of the stories tomorrow, but if you're real adventurous, just scroll down to my "teaser" post below, and you can find them there.

So without further adieu, I give you:

"Negative Lottery"


Fucking Christmas Eve.

Harvey Dillard sat in the driver’s seat of his cruiser watching the cars fly by. Occasionally his radar beeped, sixty-five, seventy-five, every once in a while an eighty or an eighty-two. Nothing to get in a huff about.

There were three nights during the year it absolutely sucked to be a State Trooper on the New Jersey Turnpike. Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and New Year’s Eve. Dillard was six months from retirement, six months from finding some small shit beach house in South Carolina or Florida and sleeping ‘til noon and checking out sample day at the supermarket. He’d amassed enough seniority that he could have taken all three of these days off. But then he’d have to spend them with Janet. And he was going to have to spend every day talking to that bitch six months from now. Every day keeping her entertained.

Dillard pushed another burnt cookie Janet had made into his mouth.

“Take the burnt ones,” she had said before he left for his shift. “I want to save the good ones for the company. I can’t believe you’re working on Christmas Eve.”

Dillard grumbled something that wasn’t too polite in response and three hours later here he was, taking the cookies with him of course.

Three more cars zipped by. Dillard hadn’t pulled anyone over tonight, but it was early yet and the road was empty. Soon all the parties would let out and the drunks would be on the road, and Dillard would pull one or two over. Oh boy.

Times like this, Dillard wished they let the staties have partners, someone to talk to. But it didn’t happen. Wasn’t in the budget. If you thought a situation was going to be dangerous when you pulled someone over, you radioed for back-up and waited for a second patrol car to pull up. Then you dealt with the violator. Usually it was the blacks who got this treatment, and they would complain that the cops were profiling.

New Jersey State Troopers don’t profile. Everyone knew this.

So, what to do tonight? Dillard wondered. He could pull some Arab over and accuse him of terrorism. You know, check the trunk and all that. Call for back-up. It was a holiday, tensions were high, and no one would give him shit about it.

Or he could sit here and eat cookies. Burnt or not, that option sounded better.

As Dillard looked down to brush crumbs off his shirt, the radar beeped again. He looked up and saw it read ninety-eight. Scanning the highway, he saw a gold Honda flying south, already a quarter of a mile past him.

Fuck. Even he couldn't let this one go.

He stepped on the gas, flipped on the lights, and in about ten seconds he was right up behind the guy. Gold Honda Accord license G4H23F.

Dillard could just picture the guy in the drivers seat, looking into his rearview, feeling that moment of dread and cursing to himself. Harvey Dillard couldn’t help but smile.

They both pulled over into the shoulder, between Exits 10 and 9. Dillard radioed the info in, picked up his hat and got out of the car, taking one last second to make sure he’d gotten all the cookie crumbs.

The guy already had his window down when Dillard stepped up to it. He could smell the alcohol seeping off this guy, the scent mixing in with the smell of truck exhaust and spilled oil of the road.

“What’s the problem officer?” the guy asked. He had brown hair, a little bit of paunch near the jaw, and from the angle Dillard stood at he saw the guy wore jeans and a tan sweater. He was about a day overdue for a shave.

“License and registration, please.” It was cold out, and Dillard’s breath steamed as they spoke.

Another mile down the road and they’d be over the Raritan River and it’d be another three or four degrees colder. God, this sucked.

The guy passed them through the window. Dillard took them and read the information. Daniel Watson, twenty five years old, everything on both the insurance and the license up to date.

“You know why I pulled you over, Dan?”

“No, ociffer—officer.”

Definitely drunk. “How fast were you going?”

Watson looked at the speedometer like it had a memory. “Uh, 65?”

“Ever get any tickets before?”

“Parking tickets.”

“Moving violations?”

“No, sir.” Staying away from the word “officer” this time.

“Stay here.”

Dillard went back to the car and got in. Called the information into headquarters. Waited while the desk officer looked up the background on the license. A few minutes passed. Dillard reached in the backseat for his flashlight.

“He’s not lying to you, Harv,” the desk officer crackled through the radio. Obviously they were drinking back at headquarters tonight. Otherwise, dispatch would have been a bit more professional, used his car number. “No history of moving violations.”

“All right. I’m going to let him go with a warning. But I might fuck around with him a little.”

“Ha. You need back-up?”

“Nah.”

“Merry Christmas, Harv.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He put the receiver down and went back to the Honda.

Watson looked up at Dillard. “Pop the trunk and step out of the car please.”

“Oh, man, what the fuck?”

Dillard smiled. This was going to be fun. Not only did Dan Watson reek of alcohol--beer, gin, whatever--he was getting belligerent.

“Shut up and do what I say. Oh, and keep your hands where I can see them. Right hand on the door please. Use your left to pop the trunk.”

Watson did what he was told. Dillard heard the click of the trunk opening. As Watson pushed the door open, Dillard side-stepped to the right. Watson nearly fell as he got out of the car. Harvey Dillard hoped this guy wouldn’t puke all over the road.

“Daniel, Daniel. Come on, show me what you have in the trunk.”

He took two steps and had to steady himself on the door. Dillard waited patiently.

“Oh Jesus Christ, officer. Ain’t nothing in the trunk. Just some Christmas presents.”

Dillard shined the flashlight in Dan Watson’s face. One of those heavy and really bright flashlights. Watson squinted and held his hand up to shield the light.

“You can show me what you have in the trunk or I can make you take a breathalyzer.”

Watson nodded and walked back to the trunk, lifting the hood to show Dillard what was inside. Dillard shone the flashlight in.

There were a few white boxes from various clothing stores, a couple of DVDs, a book by some guy Dillard didn’t recognize, but who had more vowels in his last name than Dillard thought was possible. There was also a small holiday bag with some lottery scratch-off tickets sticking out. This would be fun.

“Where you coming from tonight, Dan?”

Watson was rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. Then ran it through his hair. “Family Christmas party,” he said.

“Have a lot to drink tonight?”

“One or two.”

Dillard nodded. That’s what they all said. “Okay, I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve had a lot to drink tonight. Don’t bullshit me, I can tell. You give me two of those lottery tickets, I’ll let you go. Scott free. Just a warning. Don’t drive drunk, go straight home.”

Six months from retirement. What the fuck did Dillard care?

“I don’t know,” Watson said.

“Dan, what do you do for a living?”

“Teacher.”

Dillard nodded. “And what do you think would happen with your job if you got yourself a DUI?”

Watson rubbed his chin. “Two of the tickets?”

“Yeah, just two. You got a whole stack there.”

Watson reached into the trunk and tore two tickets, handed them to Dillard. Dillard tucked the flashlight under his arm and said, “Got a quarter?”

“You serious?”

“Yeah.”

Watson fished around in his pockets and came out with a nickel. “This okay?”

Dillard took it from him. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

“Can I go now?” Watson asked.

“Not until I scratch these. I want you to see me become a millionare.” Dillard laughed.

The best you could win on these things was twenty thousand, and that never happened. Dillard had been playing the scratch offs for as long as he’d been on the force. At first he wanted to win enough to divorce Janet. Then they had kids and he wanted to win enough to pay for college. Now, when he played every day, he wanted to win enough to put a down payment on a bigger beach house in South Carolina or in Florida, one with two bedrooms, so he and Janet could each have their own room. And didn’t have to look at each other. He’d been with her so long now, divorce wasn’t even an option in his head anymore.

These scratch-offs were the holiday kind, little blue cards. To win the jackpot you had to get three little jingle bells in a row, a ten thousand dollar pay-off. Then you scratched the bonus box and you could double your winnings.

Dillard scratched off the first one and got nothing. Two Christmas ornaments and a jingle bell. He didn’t even bother with the bonus box.

“Nothing,” he said to Watson. “You’re not missing much with this ticket.”

“Yeah,” Watson said.

He scratched at the next ticket. The first one was a jingle bell. The next one was a jingle bell. And the third, well, Dillard knew the third one was going to be nothing. It always was. But his stomach twisted in anticipation anyway.

The third was another jingle bell.

“Jesus Christ,” Dillard said.

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He had just won ten thousand dollars. And he hadn’t even hit the bonus box yet. His hands were shaking. He scratched at the box, the scraps of the ticket getting caught in his fingernails. He had to use the flashlight to make sure. Holding it away from him, shining the light. DOUBLE BONUS.

“I won.” Twenty thousand dollars.

“What?” Watson took a step toward him.

“I won!” That house was going to be beautiful.

“What you mean you won?”

Dillard looked at Watson, who was now three feet from him. “Merry Christmas, Dan. Get in your car and drive straight home. You got lucky tonight.”

“What d’you mean you won?” Watson’s drowsy eyes shot open.

“Twenty thousand dollars!” He should have stayed quiet, but the excitement was boiling up inside him.

“That’s my ticket!” Watson said. The words ran together. “You didn’t win.”

“Get out of here.”

“I want my ticket back. Give me my ticket.”

Dillard took a deep breath and tried to control his emotions. Dan was fired up now, that extra push of anger that alcohol gives you. If this were bar, if Dillard wasn’t a cop, there’d be a brawl going on. Dillard was going to have to talk him down.

“Dan.”

Dan was pacing, fists clenched, back and forth in the shoulder. “My ticket,” he said. “You fucker. My ticket.”

“Dan, listen to me. You ever hear of the negative lottery?”

“The what?”

“The negative lottery,” Dillard said. “Let me tell you a story.”

“No. Give me the lo’rey ticket. It’s my money.”

“I had a friend. Used to work in TV. A producer. And one night, they’re about to go live with this show, some talk show or some shit. But it’s live, right? Ten minutes from air and the power goes out. So my friend, he walks around because the electrician won’t get there before the show is supposed to go live. My friend starts looking around to see if he can solve the problem. He’s not supposed to because the electrician is union and they’re supposed to handle this stuff. But the pressure’s on.

“Anyway, my friend he sees these two wires that are usually connected and they’re lying on the floor. So my buddy, he decides to plug the shit back in, see if everything gets up and running in time for the show. He reaches down, plugs the wires back in and Boom! the lights come back on.”

Watson was still pacing, but at least he was listening. He tried to tell this story to his wife once and she just tuned him out.

“So the show goes on the air, and the electrician shows up. He finds the plugs that my buddy plugged in and goes, ‘Who plugged these back in?’

“’I did,’ my friend says. ‘Sorry. I should have waited.’

“’It’s no problem,’ the electrician says. ‘Just never saw someone touch those wires and live before.’

"That’s the negative lottery. So think about it Dan. You’re getting away without a DUI, you’re going to keep your job. You’re winning the negative lottery tonight.”

“Shut the fuck up. That story’s gotta be bullshit.” Watson hadn’t calmed down.

Behind them cars buzzed along the Turnpike. Traffic was a little thicker. Parties must be getting out. How long had they been out here?

“I want the lottery ticket back. Who do you think you are? What does that badge give you? It gives you shit. You can’t just take shit from my trunk.”

Dillard tensed, he knew where this was going. And there was no way Watson was going to take his money. He slipped the ticket into his pocket, then let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol.

Watson took a swing at Dillard. It was a lazy swing, the swing of a drunk man thinking he had more strength than he actually did. Dillard was old, Dillard was tired, Dillard was slow, but a turtle could duck this swing. As Watson flew past him, Dillard tapped him with the flashlight. Watson fell straight down into a heap.

“Merry Christmas, Dan. Go straight home.” Dillard got back into the car.

As he pulled the door closed, he heard Watson say, “Fuck you.”

Dillard popped another burnt cookie into his mouth. He was going to have to tell Janet about this, as much as he hated the idea. She was going to love the fact that they’d be able to make a bid on a bigger house. He found his cellphone while putting the car in gear, not giving a shit about the new cellphone law. He could drive and talk at the same time. He was a cop after all.

For another six months. Then it would be nothing but food samples, sleeping late, and avoiding that bitch of a wife as he sat on the beach.

He was going to enjoy the next six months though. And he was going enjoy tonight. Next, maybe, he’d pull someone over and make a deal. No ticket if he could have the leftovers from dinner.

Twenty thousand dollars.

He checked the sideview mirror and saw that it was clear. The cellphone rang in his ear. Dillard stepped on the gas hard. And felt the car go up and down as if it was going over a speed bump, followed quickly by a loud, sickening crunch. He dropped the cellphone, hearing his wife’s squeaky voice saying hello.

Oh shit.

He stopped the car, lights still on. He was half in the lane, half in the shoulder, but cars were clearing the lane for him. He opened the door and stepped out, looked under the front wheel.

Dan Watson laid there, body crushed and bloody. Dillard didn’t even see him as he pulled out, the guy must have been still on his knees. Too drunk to get up. Too drunk to get out of the way, probably just crawling around blindly. The body twitched a little and Dillard had been around long enough to know the difference between an injured body and a dead one. And he’d been around long enough to know when he was fucked.

Watson was dead, and Dillard was fucked.

He got back into the car, careful not to move Watson. He radioed back to headquarters and told them there’d been an accident.

“What happened Ha’v?” the dispatcher said.

Dillard wondered how much he’d drank, but told him the scenario.

“Oh, fuck.”

Yeah, no shit, Dillard thought and put the radio down.

Dillard ran through the options through his head, pulling the lotto ticket from his pocket and holding it tight between his fingers. Best case scenario: He was fired before he could retire and lived in shame. Maybe followed by a lawsuit from Dan Watson’s family. Worse case scenario: Jail time.

Either way the lottery ticket was out the window. The twenty thousand would be spent mostly on lawyers, and he’d likely be shit up the creek in a court case. If he went to jail his wife would spend the money before he could touch it.

He stared at the ticket. Flashing lights reflected off the rearview mirror. The ambulances were here. It was his money. No one else’s. Not his wife’s. Not some bumblefuck lawyer.

Ten minutes ago he was a winner. Now, now he was a loser. He lost the negative lottery tonight. He lost everything tonight. He saw no other option.

Behind him the flashing lights were gathering, an ambulance, two squad cars.

Dillard tore up the lottery ticket.