Distinctly Montana Magazine

d i s t i n c t ly m o n ta n a • fa l l 2 0 1 4 24 outskirts of town, sweeping across to the mountain- side "M," the large, white stones forming the character clearly visible across the wide expanse. Even in the wel- come stillness atop the mountain the woosh of traffic off the interstate some five miles distant was still audible, a reminder that there were few places left to hide from man, even in Montana. And he couldn't hide for much longer; they were bound to find him he knew. That kind of money left a trail, the scent of green which fueled the modern world; a heady mix of survival, opportunity, pleasure; but also rank with greed, corruption and, most would admit, a great deal of evil. He was on the cusp now, everyone might know it was him by tomorrow. He felt trapped, like that critter Max cornered in the crevasse. They would sniff him out sooner or later. It would soon be over. He would have to reward his accomplice of course, she of the nose ring and matchstick tattoo, the bright red head of it flicking with each blink of her eye. She had stooped just long enough to pick up a bag of chips fallen to the floor to make it happen, to make the timing perfect and...what…magical? Crazy how that could happen. Unsnapping the chipped pearl button of his shirt pocket, he reached in for the sandwich baggie, cracking the seal and pulling out the ticket, the telling barcode at bottom, numbers at the fold. He had used his mother's birthday, arbitrarily splitting the digits until he had five total, then adding the day of the month for the power play. Funny part was he had done it on a whim, just an extra buck added to his 99 cent bottle of water. A dollar ninety-nine, the extra penny put into the chipped green dish to balance transaction shortfalls. No idea what had prompted him to buy the ticket, he couldn't even call it a hunch. It just kind of happened; just pulling two singles from his wallet instead of one, something they called luck, maybe beyond luck, given the odds. How many times had he checked the ticket over the last six months? Hundreds of times at least. The numbers on- line always perfectly matched his ticket, no matter how often he checked. Tomorrow he would have to drive to Helena, taking no chances, and turn in the ticket personally to the lottery office. Then it would start. The media circus followed by a noisy parade of phone calls, emails, stark pleas for help, and veiled congratulations, all with the same goal in mind: money for donations, for generos- ity, for business schemes, for investments, for expert advice, for offers of private jets, yachts, real estate and who knew what else. Relatives would come onto him, somehow in inverse proportion to their genetic distance. He supposed he would buy a new truck, but that was as far as his imagination could take him, knowing that he could buy a boatload of trucks if he wanted to. It was as impossible to comprehend what was to come as if he was scheduled tomorrow for a moon landing. At first these thoughts had struck him as problematic, annoying; but now that the time was at hand his mood had changed to apprehension, even fright at the burden bearing down on him like one of those ominously dark coal trains heading west to the ports of Seattle. Yes, that was it, an unknown, coal-dark burden, a crushing weight of uncertain consequences. Try as he might not to change, the world around him certainly would, which is why he had chosen not to tell his wife yet. The divorce litigation was in its third year, and he couldn't imagine the added legal grief over this bit of ill-timed news. And, as much as he loved his daughter, Callie, he had kept it from her and, naturally, from all her teen friends, well- armed with smartphones and wildfire social media. Yet she suspected something. Hey dad, what's bothering you? Nothing, just thinking. Thinking about what? Nothing, really. Well, let me know if you want me to do something. What would this do to her? These were only the first of many deceptions, both small and large he supposed; and it gave him a sober- ing dread for what was to come, the hangover after the party. Would he have to move from his house to avoid unwelcome visitors? Maybe he would even have to move from Bozeman, maybe even from Montana. With only some tens of thousands of people in mere thousands of square miles he would never really escape their notice and intrusion. He imagined walking down the sunny side of Main Street toward The Cannery for a cold pint; people nudging, pointing, staring, lips moving to form his name, to whisper "luck," "millions" and "un- believable." It gave him a creepy sensation, like walking alone among shadows at twilight; and he knew at some level that he probably could never really go into his favorite bar again. He guessed the same would happen with his volunteer fireman job, and his fishing buddies. The money avalanche would simply bury his past. All gone...just like that. He had already had an inkling of what the change he couldn't hide for much longer; they were Bound to find him he knew.

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