The Catalyst

    "Here comes Joe Smith's boy again," I said, then sipped my coffee and set the mug down on the counter.

    "Poor kid. Tragic to have a father like that," Mr. Thompson responded idly as we gazed out the window into the parking lot, watching an old beat up Chevy roll in.

    I had just stopped by the gas station that morning to pick up the newspaper and a cup of coffee. Folks call it the gas station because you can fill up your truck there, but in reality, its the grocery store, bank, diner, and everything else our town needs, all rolled into one building sitting next to the highway.

    Billy Smith climbed down out of the truck and began walking towards us. He was a dusty, blonde haired, brown eyed boy. That day, he was wearing faded and torn blue overalls without a shirt. His bare feet didn't seem to notice the heat of the ground. It gets pretty warm around here in the summer, probably past ninety that day. But, it wasn't just his feet that could handle the heat. His whole body looked like he had been laying on a deserted island for years.

    Mr. Thompson greeted him as he walked in, "Morning, Billy. How are you doing today?"

    "Okay. You? Pa sent me for the usual."

    "Six pack of Natty Light and a dozen eggs?"

    "Yes, please. And a Lotto ticket. 13, 18, 21, 25, 31, 37."

    "I know your daddy didn't ask you for that Lotto ticket. He was in here just the other day swearing up and down about how the lottery was another big government conspiracy to steal people's money. Anyhow, you're supposed to be eighteen to buy these, and 21 for the beer." Mr. Thompson's lecture lacked any emotion, almost like a recording, and he printed up the Lotto ticket for Billy. After waiting for the machine to print, he took the money and handed him the beer, eggs, and the ticket.

    "Thank you, sir. Goodbye." Billy ambled back to the truck, then drove across the highway and up the dusty road on the other side of it.

    Our town's main road is divided by the highway. On one side, there's the gas station we were sitting in next door to a little church. Past them, the road drops down into a valley and runs parallel to a nice gentle stream. Pretty much everybody's houses are down there, with green lawns and split-rail fences in front. During the winter, the stream freezes over and snow blankets the yards. But in the middle of the July heat, its hard to even remember what snow looks like.

    The other direction leads further up into the mountains. Not much is up there except for old cabins. As I was saying before, Billy headed up that road. He eventually arrived at what used to be a hunting cabin for some Californians. They used to come up to the mountains each fall for elk but lost interest and sold the place off to a young Joe Smith, back before his wife died from the cancer. He made it real nice at first, I think it was even in a magazine. But, it hadn't been painted or repaired in years and, eventually, it didn't even look inhabitable.

    Folks around the town all knew about Billy Smith's sad life, but didn't really say anything. It was easier just to not think about it. We knew how he drove to buy beer and lotto tickets everyday even though he was only fourteen. Folks felt that it was best to just not get involved though. Things would eventually work themselves out, they always do. Besides, the cabin was far enough away from the highway that nobody ever saw it.

    Nobody was sure how Joe Smith ever had any money at all to go buy food. There were a bunch of rumors, but all that anyone was certain of was that he sobered up (enough to drive at least) and headed down the highway about once a month. He'd be gone a day or two and then would come back without saying a word. Last time he had gone was about two weeks ago and he hadn't left the cabin since.

    In contrast to his son, Joe was very light skinned and looked like he would wilt if he stood out in the sun for too long. His hair was matted from not being washed more than once a month. Underneath the grime, it was the same shade of blonde as Billy's. People used to always say the boy had gotten his dad's beautiful hair and his ma's pretty nose.

    Billy parked the pickup and walked into the house. "Here, Pa. Got your beer. I'll put it in the fridge."

    "Damn right. It best be cold. Why didn't you make dinner yet?"

    "I just got home," Billy replied timidly, like a dog with its tail between its legs.

    "I don't want no excuses, I want some Goddamn food. Fix me some eggs."

    "Yessir," in almost a whimper.

    "And don't break the yolks. You know I hate the broken yolks."

    "Yessir."

    The conversation was similar, if not the same, every day. Joe would start drinking in the morning and continue until he passed out. When the beers were gone, he'd start on the whiskey. During the summer months, Billy passed the time just by staying out of his dad's way. Most days he'd lay out back behind the cabin reading anything he could find to read. Folks around town, including myself, would let him borrow books and magazines. He would always bring them back as soon as he had finished reading them, afraid that his dad would ruin them in one of his drunken rages.

    The best part of Billy's day would come when Joe finally stumbled off to his bedroom and passed out for the night. Billy would come back inside, get something to eat, go sit on the couch, switch on the television and watch the evening news. That night, they talked about a murder that happened in Aurora, a new plan to add lanes to I-25 and how the Nuggets had lost their fifth game in a row.

    "Well that wraps up our broadcast for tonight. Thank you for watching Channel Four. Be sure to stick around for the live Lotto drawing right after this. The jackpot hasn't been won in three weeks now and is up to four-and-a-half million dollars. Goodnight."

    Two commercials later, the lady that drew the numbers was on the screen and began drawing out the balls, calling their numbers. "13, 37, 31…"

    " I got three right! That's like a hundred bucks!"

    "21, 18…"

    The first yell had woken up Joe. He responded by stumbling into the living room and smacking his son on the side of the head. He hit him harder than he meant to and Billy dropped to the ground. He never saw the sixth number.

    "Oh well. Serves him right for wakin' me up," Joe muttered and then stumbled back into his bedroom.

    Next morning, Billy woke up to a pounding headache and the noise of the television that had never been turned off. He was laying in the middle of the living room floor, fully dressed. Slowly, he sat up and looked at the crumpled up ticket he'd clenched in his fist all night.

    "My God, I can't believe I actually got five numbers. I bet that's a bunch of money I'll be getting." He sat there in front of the television in that morning time grogginess, half thinking, half talking to himself. After a long, thoughtful pause, he continued, "But, I'm not old enough to cash the ticket and Pa would be furious if he knew that I had wasted money on it. Why hadn't I ever thought of that before? Mr. Thompson would probably try to steal it if I asked him claim it for me."

    In the meantime, Joe Smith woke up earlier than normal and sent his son out to the store. The rusty Chevy rolled into the lot as usual, but Mr. Thompson's reaction was anything but that. I was sitting down, eating some scrambled eggs that Betty had cooked up for me in the diner when I saw Mr. Thompson run out side and hug Billy and yell, "You got yourself a bunch of money! I was reading the paper this morning and saw that your numbers came in! Those same ones you always pick."

    "My numbers came in? I was watching the news, but must have fallen asleep before they called them..."

    "Yes, indeed! Five of them came in! The sixth number was 36 though. Just think, you were one away from millions of dollars. You still got yourself a shiny chunk of change there!"

    "How much do you reckon I'm getting?"

    "At least a few thousand dollars."

    "Why don't you run inside and tell them all the good news and I'll fill up your truck here. I imagine its getting down around empty."

    Billy was ecstatic as he ran inside and told us the news. But, as he was standing there, the realization of what happened hit him so sudden that he looked like he'd just been hit with a brick. He felt into his now empty back pocket and turned around, just in time to see Mr. Thompson driving out of the lot and heading down the highway, towards the city.

    Billy changed colors like a chameleon, turning redder and redder until his skin was the color of blood. He was shaking, almost convulsing. He was a lion preparing to pounce on its prey. His muscles flexed. He licked his lips. In an instant, Billy Smith had spun around, sprinted, and was in his truck.

    "Where are you going? You won't find him," Betty yelled out the door, but Billy didn't hear her. He was already in the truck by the time she had finished.

    The squeaking tires flung gravel into the air and Billy drove off. I had assumed that he was chasing down Mr. Thompson and the ticket and was shocked when I saw him head across the highway instead of turning onto it.

    Billy was home before he had a chance to blink. He flung himself out of the truck and walked inside with the confident stride of a giant walking among child's toys.

    "Took you goddamn long enough. Where's my beer?" Joe asked as Billy came into the living room.

    Billy's only response was a silent stare.

    "You best answer me when I talk to you, boy! Where the fuck is my beer?" Joe put down his drink and stood up to face his son.

    Billy again made no response but began walking toward the bedroom where the hunting guns were kept. Joe ran at him, but stumbled over an empty bottle and fell to the ground. By the time he got up, his son was facing him in the doorway, holding a shotgun.

    A smile broke across Joe's face and he began to laugh. "Look at this everyone! The big Billy Smith is going to shoot his old man."

    "I will."

    "Bullshit. I remember those tears you cried when you shot that deer. That's when I knew that you were worthless. You can't kill me. You don't have the fucking balls to…"

    The empty casing and Joe Smith's body hit the ground at the same time. A pool of red escaped his father and collected at Billy's feet. He looked down at his dad's lifeless body with tearless eyes.

    Billy slowly stepped over his dad and walked out to the front porch. With the gun still in his hands, he sat down on the broken swing. His skin slowly faded back to its normal color and his pulsating legs began to relax. He looked up as a cool breeze rolled down the mountain. The bright patch of wild flowers across the driveway started swaying in the wind. Billy Smith smiled and took a deep breath as he noticed, for the first time, the beauty of the mountains.

    That same smile was on his face when I found him there, slowly swinging back and forth in the wind.